Close Encounter of the Real Kind

As one travels west and north of Gillette, the landscape changes from the rolling dry grassland prairies to rugged, almost mountainous land of ponderosa pine, juniper and shrub oak. This is the western edge of the Black Hills. Several miles into this landscape one begins to catch glimpses of unusual rock outcroppings. Several sheer rock cliffs rise to the east of a dramatic 1200 foot rock outcropping known as Devils Tower. The name is terribly awkward, for this monolith would only be devilish to the superstitious and those who fear the nature of geology. The Indians call it “Bear Lodge” a much better name to go with the Kiowa legend of the five girls, while being chased by a giant bear, took refuge on the hill which began to rise from the land. As the hill rose higher the great bear clawed to get to the girls. The hill is said to have saved the girls, but it rose high, all the way to heaven, so they could not climb down; they are now immortalized in the five stars of the Pleiades.

The Routine

There has not been much to write about lately, for I am in a routine of work and return to the hotel, six days a week. High points would be the sunrise and sunsets on the 40 mile drive to and from work, the bison, antelope, deer and eagles seen daily, the walk I take on the lunch hour, and the music coming in on the XM.

A Billion Below Zero

I did not want to make this blog a weather report, but the weather here dominates what we do. Today the crew was out skirting the mobile homes, I drove out to check on them this afternoon and had to dodge a couple cardboard boxes that were blowing about in the wind. The weather report was saying 37 mph with gusts to 44. Not much snow to blow about in Wright, but the 40 mile drive back to Gill was a different story. The wind was out of the north, so we hit it head on and it whistled so loudly I thought the doors were ajar. There was just a skiff of snow blowing across the road and we thought we’d have clear sailing all the way, but about 10 miles into the drive, we had to slow for blowing snow and the occasional white out. At times we were blinded by the lights of the oncoming traffic. About halfway, the pickup ahead of us spun out on an icy hill, it crossed the other lane and ended in the borrow pit. We squirreled a bit too, but regained before far, then dropped it down to about 40 for the rest of the way in. It was difficult to determine where we were since all hills and landmarks were all obscured by the blowing snow. We passed a couple trucks pulled over, and when we finally got to town there were occasional flashing cop lights to let us know some drivers were not very lucky. Got to the hotel and my room was 55 degrees because I did not leave the heat on when I left. Out the window it looks fuzzy, like a weak TV station. The temperature says 20 degrees, but it feels like a billion below zero.

Carmina Burana by Carl Orff

Dear Reader,
This is one piece of music you must listen to before you die, really! Most of us will find the opening and closing pieces, “O Fortuna” quite familiar; it has been used for various triumphant processionals and dramatic announcements through the years. Most recently I heard a form of in advertisement for a Canadian beer. As familiar as “O Fortuna”, is, it is just a beginning of a rich and inspired cantata encompassing songs of good and bad fortune, medieval mythology, nature, love, lust, drinking, foolishness, gambling, fortune and death.
Orff’s cantata is based upon a collection of thirteenth century goliardic songs found in the Benediktbeurn Monastery in southern Germany. Carmina means “songs,” and Burana is short for the monastery where the manuscript was found in 1803. The primary textual theme of the cantata is spring with love, hope and pleasure contrasted with the indifference of fortune and the temptations of the flesh. Don’t expect to understand a word as it is performed; it is sung in low Latin and low German.

For a full transcription visit: www.buckschoral.org/programs/carmina.pdf

What makes this work so fascinating is its ability to combine the ancient and the modern in an accessible and gloriously melodic work, with some extraordinarily colorful instrumentation and richness of vocal texture.

Unlike many 20th century works, Burana does not encumber us with complex counterpoint and dissonance, nor is it filled with strange and unusual harmonies. There are some fantastic rhythms and an active percussion section that creates a flow keeping the listener involved and entertained throughout.
Although there are several recordings out there, each with their own merits, I prefer the Riccardo Muti recording with the Philharmonia Chorus and Orchestra.

The Wright Weather

I didn’t want this to be the rural weather report, but the weather seems to predominate conversations here. I guess when it is well below zero with a stiff wind it does affect what we do. Our crew skirting the mobile homes took the day off. They are having a time of it anyway. The bid was put-in in November, before the ground froze and now they have to scrape and hammer down the high points on the ground. They also are pounding stakes in, all the more difficult on the frozen ground. They thought they could do four a day, but are hard pressed to get one done. With progress going so slow they sent the big boss in from Florida to get them to work harder, but after he saw the conditions they are working under, he decided to send in another crew who should arrive today. The boss spent about 20 hours in state before jamming back south.
Had pipes freeze in about 10 of the 53 units, also some problems with insulation and hot water heaters. The crews are getting-er-done though.

Snow Day

Looks like we will be starting work a bit late today. About 6:00 this morning a storm blew in with 45mph winds making quite a howl outside my motel window. While eating breakfast, Deb at the front desk announced they’d closed the interstate and we all figured highway 59 to Wright would be closed too. I could see that the oil rig workers had started out and come back. If the weather is too rough for a well-digger, it’s too rough for me. Walked out to take some photos and find it is not all that cold, but wind and snow reduces visibility to about a hundred feet at times.

Big Trucks and Antelope

Had a short day at work yesterday and got off at 1:00. CT took me on a tour of the backroads between Wright and Gillette. Lots of wildlife out there, hawks and bald eagles, jackrabbits, deer and more antelope per mile than I’ve ever seen. This is coal country and they mine with big equipment, miles of trains and some building that look like the aliens on “War of the Worlds”. CT says the trucks they use are the biggest in the world, certainly they are the biggest trucks I’ve ever seen. Word is they have an access cover in the rear differential where a person can climb inside for maintenance.

Prairie Life

It is a good thing we have weather here so we have something to talk about. Not quite winter, but you could fool me, 8 degrees and a 20 mph wind this morning. People say since it is low humidity you don’t feel it so much, but has to be low humidity, moisture can not exist in these temperatures. Fortunately, it is sunny and warmed to the 20’s today, so I was able to take an hour walk during the lunch break. I notice nobody else walks for exercise here, so I have all the trails to myself.

View From The Office

This is wonderful country for those who enjoy wind.

My arrival in Paris

Just to let you all know I arrived in Paris safely via SLC and DEN. Accommodations are fine but the 40 mile commute to the office is a bit grueling. This morning a couple inches of snow and wind gusts to 30 mph blew my sub-compact car around a bit, tomorrow I will be getting a big ol’ SUV. I hope it will have snow tires.

Paris on the Prairie

Looks like the Hermit will be on another winter adventure. This time to the “Paris on the Prairie”, not exactly Pasadena or Pensacola. Will be leaving sometime today and get in late tonight. Was hoping to avoid the snow, but no such luck. Will write more from the destination. The wind chill in Gillette this AM is 7 below.

Infinite Blue

“I think a movement in jazz is beginning away from conventional string of chords and a return to emphasis on melodic rather than harmonic variations. There will be fewer chords, but infinite possibilities as to what to do with them.”
Miles Davis 1958

If you have a chance this winter, take another listen to the 1959 recording “Kind of Blue”; some say it is the greatest improvisational jazz album ever recorded. Follow it up with “Sketches of Spain” for a listening experience that is said to contain the full range of human emotion.

Zenday

In the beginner’s mind
there are many possibilities,
but in the expert’s
mind there are few.

Shunryu Suzuki

The Traditional Thanksgiving Donut

G2 and the Baitgirl came over from the Dive on Wednesday. we all went to town for drinks with friends at the scoreboard. Despite the sports name, the patrons are not a particularly athletic congregation. The only sports there are pool and vicarious viewing of the numerous televisions through the smoky haze. Of course there is a bit of attempted mating strutting, but it isn’t really much of a pick-up bar since it is a place few people bother to even put on a clean shirt to visit. It is one of the few smoking-permitted bars left in Montana, I believe the smokers are making up for not being able to smoke elsewhere.

Thursday, Baitgirl went to town in the morning to help the Aimster with Tday preparations. G2 and I watched the sci-fi classic, “A Boy and his Dog,” then attempted to watch the Detroit game, looked like Detroit forgot how to play football, it was so pathetic we turned to the dog show on channel 9. That afternoon we all got together at the Aimster’s with a small group for dinner. Aimster has no television reception, so we missed the Denver-Dallas game, G2 said he couldn’t figure out which team he wanted to loose more, we talked about imaginary scenarios where both teams could loose…
I will spare you the bloody details.
Baitgirl outdid herself on dinner, the Aimster had a hand in it too. In lieu of the traditional pumpkin pie, there was a giant cream and jelly filled donut. A tradition in Baitgirl’s family, and now one I will adopt and promote.

Thanksgiving 2001

Autumn of 2001 found me in New York City working twelve-hour days at the Worth Street Assistance center for victims and survivors of the Trade Center collapse. I couldn’t call it an attack at the time because I did not want to think that something like that could happen, it made no sense to me, made me question humanity, made me question and doubt myself, my beliefs and my world view. So when I talked about it to the dozens of people I saw every day I referred to it as “the collapse”. These were days of emotional exhaustion when one heartbreaking story would be followed by another and another and everyday there would be dozens more. By the end of each day, all of us workers would be numb, we endured by following a routine: mine was leaving the office and walking the dark streets to the subway then a twenty minute ride on the number 6 to midtown, some dinner, sleep then to wake to the same routine six days a week.

I will admit feeling out of my element, being from the quiet rural, natural world of western Montana, I was the stranger in the concrete and cacophony of the city. The expression, “feeling most lonely in crowds” also applied. In my times alone I would walk for miles from Grand Central Station to the United Nations, to the NBC studios, and on Sundays up to Central Park, the Guggenheim, the Metropolitan, Lincoln Center.

Looking back now, it seems like aimless wandering as an escape from work and as a diversion from the tragic stories and realities of the collapse.

One day after walking the route from the hotel to Central Park, to the Met, to the Dakota, to the Museum of Natural History, I chose to cut through Central Park on my way back. Just past Strawberry Fields, A couple coworkers were walking from the opposite direction. We stopped, talked and I invited myself to join them. One of those people, a young lady, became my closest friend.

I know I would never have gone to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on my own because I can feel claustrophobic in a mass of people. But when asked by the young lady, I did not hesitate to say yes.
It required us finding a spot early, before 7:00 am, and standing in the cold and waiting for hours before the parade started. Despite the weather and the crowds and noise it was comfortable, amusing to hear the commentary of our fellow viewers and surprisingly entertaining. I felt, for the first time like I was part of the city, like I was supposed to be there.

After that, my outlook on the city changed, I conversed with shop keepers and merchants and felt comfortable talking to strangers as we waited in lines or stood next to each other on the subway. I started lunching with the locals from work, and got to hear their perspective on city events and life. I began doing fewer things alone and sought people to join me for dinners, shows and museum tours.

Now, four years later, back in Montana, I am making plans to receive out of town guests and preparaing for dinner tomorrow. The cabin is dark and warm and outside a light snow falls while the morning silence is broken by a gentle breeze through the trees and a far off coyote howl.

Winter in Whyoming

Looks like a change from the kickback lifestyle I have been enjoying as of late. Last night I was asked to come out of retirement to assist in the Federal direct housing program (mobile homes and travel trailers) in Wright, WY. They suffered a tornado last summer leaving about 40 families homeless. Plans are to stay in the big city of Gillette. I will write more when I know more.

Inversion

Fog blankets daily
but in afternoon it lifts
just before sunset

FALL

The season's first snow had come in the night. Henry could see the tiny crystals swirl diagonally beneath the yard light as he pealed back the curtains. There was a light frost on the edges of the window panes, and he knew the birds would be nervous from the wind and cold and be willing to fly. He heard his son stirring from the cabin’s far room and called to him. Henry's dog, Dan the Chesapeake, followed him when he placed kindling and wood on the coals in the stove and watched intently while Henry filled the percolator with water and coffee. Dan looked intently at Henry, and Henry placed his hand on the dog’s head. He considered his dog to be the noblest of creatures on days like this. He pulled his wool pants over his new long johns and put on a sweater and Mackinaw. His son also wore the same brand and color of clothing, and before they'd gone to bed he'd remarked how alike they looked. Now that James was thirteen, he'd grown to be nearly his father's height although his build was thin and not yet full and heavy like his father's.
The night before James had started out to the outhouse in only his long johns and boots, but turned back after opening the door.
"Geeze Dad, it's cold as heck out there," he'd said, closing the door.
"Skinny kid like you needs more fat or more clothes," his father had answered smiling.
Henry was proud to have his son hunt with him this week. He'd taken time off from his law practice, and took the boy out of school against the insistant protests of his wife. But this trip he felt to be important, and no matter what the boy’s mother said, he would not relent. Just the month before the boy had been given his grandfather's Browning pump shotgun, left to him in a will when his grandfather died ten years. The men of this family knew of the rights of manhood one being the required week hunting ducks and geese while watching the ever constant ever changing force of nature. His father, grand father and great-grandfather had all followed the ritual and had all loved the smells of hunting, from the oils used to lubricate and clean the weapons, to the aroma of the dusty cabin, from the smell of wet wool and dog and sweat, to the dry grass and coffee, to the wild scent of blood and freshly cleaned birds. Today there was the smell of wood smoke and hints of winter, crisp and clean and fresh as the new day, and Henry felt more excited because of it.

After the traditional hot cakes and bacon breakfast, they filled two thermoses with black coffee and walked down the gentle slope to the rowboat as the day emerged, transforming the sky a lighter gray. They knew their roles exactly, to wait until the boat was untied from the post, to board in silence, with James in the bow, Henry second, and Dan in the stern, steady and attentive. Henry pushed from shore with an oar and rowed across the rippling water to the blind which rose from an island off the western edge of the lake. A wisp of wind brought the sounds of the geese feeding in the marsh, and Henry rowed a wide berth downwind and in the open water he felt both free and isolated.
The boat made a swishing sound through the canary grass of the shoreline, and James steeped ashore with the painter in hand pulling the boat until it rested solid on the land. Dan led the way to the blind sniffing the ground as James and Henry followed. There was frost and dusting of snow on the bench. James covered the rough hewn board with a plaid stadium blanket and sat down. Henry sat on the edge of the bench, poured two cups of coffee and placed the mugs between them. Dan sat attentively and James patted him on his head. "Good Boy Danny," he whispered. Dan looked back knowingly.
In the growing light the snow abated and they could see far into the distance where ducks were rising and flying into the wind.
"Keep you head down," Henry reminded James, "Don't let them see the whites of your eyes."
A group a mallards was closing in and Henry saw James make an impatient shuffle.
"Wait, until you see color," he whispered, "I'll give the signal."
A moment later he said "Now!" and they both stood to shoot. As the birds veered away, two fell from the sky and Henry dropped another. James shot twice more, but no more birds fell.
"Get 'em" James said, and Dan rushed from the blind towards the downed birds.
"Why'd I miss the second and third?" he asked as Dan retrieved.
"Lead 'em more when they're flying away like that, let them fly into the shot."
James tied the necks of the birds together with a leather thong from his vest and hung them on a nail to his side. He admired the smoothness of their feathers and the iridescence of the green to blue to purple to black of their necks.
Far and away they could see birds rising from the fields accompanied by the clacking, quacking and honks, but the birds stayed clear of the blind. In the open distance squalls of storms in varying degrees of gray shifted behind the swaying trees whose branches had not yet given up all their leaves.
James had never hunted in the snow, but had been told it could be the best hunting. He looked down at the Browning and felt proud to have it as his own, for his grandfather could have willed it to any of his uncles or cousins, but had chosen him when he was still a child. He hoped to be as good a hunter as the men in his family, especially as good as his grandfather had been. He wondered if with the gun he could also inherit skill. There were legends handed down, where Granddad would leave home with five shells and return with five birds, clean the birds in seconds without a knife, saving the feathers for pillows and flies. His granddad had said that waterfowl could see great distances, recognize shapes, color, movement, and James wondered if the birds could see the history of other fallen birds, and how long could they remember. He felt a chill from the an icy gust that blew into the blind and pulled tight the neck of his mackinaw.
They drank coffee and waited for the next wave of birds.
Henry wished he could always feel as he did today, where the only thing that mattered was to stay warm and hunt as he had with his father and his father had done with his grandfather, for as far back as generations could remember. He felt as if all was as nature intended, where only the basics of life controlled his actions.
"Dad, are you and Mom getting a divorce?"
The question shocked Henry, in the quiet isolation of the cold fall morning he'd put the question as far back in his mind as he had since she had learned of his infidelity. He paused long before responding.
"I don't know son, I sure hope not"
But he could not look at his boy when he talked, he just looked into the coffee cup slowly steaming between his gloved hands.
"You know It's not right. I don't want to be shuffled back and forth between two families, I've seen too many kids do that, it's a shitty thing to do, a fuckin' shitty thing to do."
Henry had never heard his son talk like that, to him it sounded like someone else's kid, someone from another neighborhood. " I've done all I can, it's up to your mother now," He felt weak, admitting he had no power make things right, no power to do what his son wanted most, no power to keep what he wanted most, to give his son the best he could.
In the dead silence between them, a sound from approaching geese drifted in on the wind, low and clear, and as the haunting honks came closer, Henry whispered, "These are yours son, you say when to shoot."

1995 KEH

Moonlight walks

Full moon and snow light
silent early morning walks
A coyote howls

The Political Hermit

For today's post, click the link to "The Political Hermit".

Weather Report

Every year we get a warning that winter is on its way, and it comes in the form of a mid-November snow. This year is no exception. Monday morning Northwest Montana woke to snow falling at a rate of about an inch an hour, it kept up until noon before subsiding, temperatures in the 20’s followed for the next day. Those of us who have lived here a while know this snow will not stay in the valley, the warmer air and rain will come and melt it to a muddy sludge on the roads and soon the ground will once again be bare.
But this is just a brief and mild precursor to the inevitable real winter. Just a notice to make certain we check the tread on our winter tires, that the radiator has the required amount of antifreeze and the crankcase has the proper winter oil. For those of us who drive the back roads, we need to have our emergency travel kits prepared. We know now the necessity of the propane tank being topped-off or wood pile stacked and out of the weather, that the winter clothes are close at hand, the boots sealed, and the snowshoes and skis taken out of storage. We need to have the garden tools and hoses put away and the snow shovels and broom placed continently next to the porch.
For those of us who live far from town are reminded that we could get snowed in and we need to check the supply of lantern oil, batteries and staples in the pantry. And maybe most important, that we have a new, fresh and wondeful supply of diverse and interesting books.

White Trash Magazine

With so many magazines on the market, I wonder why there is not one for us white trash folk. There are many articles just begging to be written.

Under the Decor Section:
Used appliances vs. automobiles: which is superior lawn art?
My neighbors shun me because I ain’t got no hound dog tied up in my yard.
Arraigning automobiles: is random best?
My neighbors is high fallotin,’ why they wanna go paint their trailer house?

Under the Communication Section:
Is pronunciation overrated?
Two negatives sure nuff don’t not make a right, but I ain’t never been sure.
If it ain’t a broken, hows come we’s a fixin’to do things all the time?

In the Cooking Section:
It all tastes like chicken: creative uses for rodents
Adding variety to the menu by using the long neglected road kill, “here kitty, kitty”.
He warn’t never a good dawg till the end.

In the Romance Section:
She’s pretty nuff, but her eyes just ain’t crossed nuff for me.
Third cousins, too far from the family tree?
The truth behind, “Squeal like a piggy.”
And my favorite:
She said, “Don’t kiss me here, my mama’s a watching”, and he says, “Oh it’s all right, that’s my mama too.”

I know you can think of more, Maybe a hygiene section: “Ah’s so big, I wash myself with a rag on a stick.” Or a government section. “The truth about right to work laws, why ain’t there a right to not work law?”

Well this is just a start, what are your ideas?

A Real Montana Hunting Story

This was told to me by the Glendive Guru.

Back in the early 60’s there were few people living in the rugged lands of Southeastern Montana. Two guys from Glendive were out hunting south of Miles City and had gone that entire morning without getting off a shot. They’d seen plenty of deer but since they were road hunting, they’d not taken the effort to get out of the pick-up truck to track or wait. It was early in the season and the weather was hot and dry, so the guys decided to give up and stop by a little bar near Volborg to have a beer before going back home.
As they headed north towards Miles City, they came across a terrible car wreck where a sedan had rolled a couple of times and smashed into a power pole. There was a highway patrolman waiting outside the vehicle when they stopped and asked if they could do anything to help.
The patrolman said there was one fatality, a guy thrown from the vehicle, and a woman who was still alive, he’d called for an ambulance which was on its way. He asked the guys if they could take the man’s body into the funeral home in Miles City, so the heat of the day would not cause further decomposition. The guys said they’d be glad to and loaded the body into the back of the pick-up and put a blanket over it.
As the guys approached the town of Volborg they discussed stopping for the beer as they had planned. With little debate, agreeing there could not be much harm in that since their passenger was already dead, they pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of the bar.
When they ordered the beers and sat down to the bar, a regular patron, already quite drunk, asked how hunting had been, seeing they were dressed for the field.
“We only got one, a small one,” one of the guys said.
“Well, ya mind if I take a look?” the drunk asked.
“Be our guest,” the guys answered.
The men walked out side. The drunk shuffled behind the hunters, leaned against the pick-up bed to support himself, then lifted up the blanket in the pick-up bed.
The two guys from Glendive heard the drunk beginning to stutter and gasp, but didn’t say a word, just got in the truck and headed out of town.

A Report and some Advice

There are reports of firewood thefts in Kalispell, police suspect a splinter group.

A bit of advice, if you have a hard time holding your liquor in the winter, maybe you should take off your mittens.

The Political Hermit

For today's blog, please visit: http://politicalhermit.blogspot.com/

The Political Hermit

Here is a link to the blog for today: http://politicalhermit.blogspot.com/

The Bears among us

It is not uncommon to see the occasional bear in this neighborhood. I have seen them meandering through or pulling service berries from the shrubs ever since I moved here. But this year I suspect there may be a black bear denning close by. Usually the bears are only seen moving through in the autumn. But last spring I saw two across the lake and one, a cub had been hanging around the empty bird feeder, and this fall I’ve seen at least one, an adult, about 150 pounds, on a regular basis over the past few months. By now I would have expected the animals to have moved back into the mountains in preparation for winter, but this morning I found fresh sign along the trail not far from the house.

Is Television The Antichrist?

"Rev 13:11 And I beheld another beast coming up out of the earth; and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spake as a dragon."
The television is the ugliest appliance in the cabin. Its dark square body suggests no style, no class, no imagination. It takes up space and I am always looking for a way to hide it. If I were an apocalyptic person, I would consider it a candidate for the antichrist, for what else brings so much worthless blather into one’s space. Currently a sheet covers it when not in use. When not it use it is like a plastic and artificial, oversized, useless cube of coal. I have tried to remove it many times, and am successful in the summer, but eventually the long winter evenings beckon I bring it from its hiding place. Now that the sun sets about 5:30, the TV has once again found its place in the living room.
My primary winter viewing is “The Simpson’s”, and it is possible to see three episodes between 6:00 and 7:30 (it is full of metaphor and satire, something I need). I am also a “Law and Order” fan, I don’t know why, it is the only cop show I watch. Then maybe some “news” but I have a hard time believing the reporters, when the line between news and entertainment is commonly erased. Besides, the national and world news is such a mess, I prefer the online papers, something without the graphic and disturbing images. Sometimes I watch the Spokane news, just to make me glad I don’t live in that city. And at times there is something to catch my attention on PBS.
There is the occasional Montana Grizz game I will catch on Saturday if the weather keeps me inside, and maybe a Seahawks game on Sunday.
There is no cable available here, and satellite TV is too expensive for all those commercials. So the stations come in the old fashioned way, off-air. The four or five snowy and at times nearly abstract stations (depending on weather) are more than enough.
The main use of the TV is for DVD’s. A good friend introduced me to “Six Feet Under”, and I am now watching the fourth season. I don’t rent movies, because of the infrequent trips to town, but have a supply of borrowed movies. The other thing the TV is good for are lectures from “The Teaching Company”, I have watched a 24 part series on the Impressionist Painters, and another on the life and times of Mark Twain, and now I am watching a fascinating course on argumentation.
Either way, the “box” does eat time, And I know I use it as an excuse for not reading. But on those long evenings, what else is there for a hermit to do in the cold dark nights of winter?

Maroon Moon Tune

The maroon moon in June swoons my heart to thee.
And makes me croon a tune on my cartoon bassoon.
Soon my over strewn picayune tune will ruin rough-hewn blues
and I will dance a rigadoon unless noon’s cold monsoons
scatter over Brigadoon lagoons.
Please do not ruin nor impugn nor lampoon my buffoon tune
for I am not immune to critical harpoons.
Rather attune and boon this silly little rune.

© 2000 KEH

Great Music of the Last Century

For those of you who have asked for recommendations on great 20th century music, here is an abbreviated list of some of my favorite CD’s:
Samuel Barber, Adagio Symphony No.1, Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, David Zinman on Argo Records. There are wonderful melodies in Barber’s work. This recording has the Adagio for Strings, School for Scandal, and much more.
Various Composers, Latin America Fiesta, New York Philharmonic, Leonard Bernstein, on Sony Classical. This music contains lively, fascinating and interesting new rhythms, with a couple Copland, a Chavez, and my favorite recording of the breathtaking Villa-Lobos Bachiana brasileria No.5.
Ralph Vaughn Williams, Orchestral Works, Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, Neville Marriner. This is a 2 CD set of Vaughn Williams’ greatest hits. I love the full, rich, warm orchestration and great melodic lines, you really can’t go wrong with this one.
For something new and a bit heavy, The Gorecki Symphony No.3, Polish National Symphony Orchestra, Antoni Wit, on Naxos Records.
Piano Concerto No.1, By Demitri Shostokovich is a piece of music with so much going on in it that it can sound different with each new listening. There is a recording by Riccardo Chailly and the Royal Concertgebouw called “The Jazz Album” with the really fun Jazz Suites 1 and 2.
There are some great recordings of the Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No.2, I like Helene Grimaud’s recording with the Philharmonia Orchestra, but some like the forcefulness of Andrei Gavrilov, with Riccardo Muti conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra. This is the one piece of music that can make every listener a richer person.
For the pure fun of musical imagination, listen to Stravinsky’s Firebird and Petrouchka. There is a wonderful recording by Claudio Abbado and the London Symphony Orchestra.
If you want something different in Piano music, you really should hear Francis Poulenc, the Complete Solo Piano Music. I find his music inspiring and remarkably beautiful, a real eye opener for anyone who has not heard him before.
In order to keep this from being too overwhelming, I will stop with these few, but there is so much more out there for those who just take time to listen.

Idle Day

Took advantage of “the injury” to take the day off from the logging project, and besides, it was time to take a trip into town, after all, it had been nine days since I’d been out of the neighborhood. After such a time, there is a unique sensation to driving; it seems so fast and smooth after walking everywhere for over a week. It is also nice to get out and see the view from the valley and see how the mountains were socked in with snow clouds. The supply run was quite modest, various types of rice and tea from the natural food store, some fresh vegetables from the market, and the luxury of a couple new Carhart t-shirts from the farm supply store.
After that, it was a day to idle by, so took the Barley dog for a walk around the lake and to clean up the ski-trails. It turned out to be very windy, but no rain or snow, and the sun was out in long blue segments.
After an idle day like that, I always feel refreshed, so spent the evening in the studio making new and interesting discoveries.

Of Working in the Woods Alone

Spent yesterday taking the logs I cut earlier and bunking them to get them off the ground. They will likely be firewood for the winter of 2007. There was also slash from years of thinning that needed to be piled. I don’t know when I will get around to burning it; it still needs to be taken to an open area, I am cautious of fire getting out of hand and the steep hillside is no place for a fire. While disbranching, I had my back to the a pile of doug fir logs, these were about twelve inches in diameter, and about 15 feet long. Something I did dislodged the pile and one of the logs started rolling. I had the chainsaw running and didn’t hear it come, so before I knew it, I was pinned to the ground.
It didn’t take much to get out from under the log, but It did give me a dang sore ankle and lower leg, some handsome bruises, but nothing feels broke.
I don’t think too much about the danger of working in the woods alone, or hiking alone, or doing anything out here alone. I try to be safe, and until yesterday that seemed to suffice.
It just started snowing here, after a night of light rain, and there is a good wind. It may still be a bit above freezing, but the morning walk was the first one where the cold was noticeable.
Glad to be inside today.

Heil, North Dakota

A little at a time
they emptied these prairie home
now deserted
first the dishes, clothing, beds,
then linen, appliances, boxes unmarked,
kitchen table, and last the cabinets,
leaving papers marking dates.

Then the endless wind, bleaching sun, enduring time,
loosened panes of glass
which fell unshatterd
to the unmown golden summer grass.
Beneath the silent sky
swallows seeking shelter,
find protection for their nests.

Ya ever been driving cross country

late on a summer Saturday night?
and ya drive past a road house a few miles outside some strugglin’ little farming town,
and the parking lot is full,
so ya turnaround and find a place to park, way in back,
and when ya shut off the engine you can hear them screamin’ guitar blues,
and ya can’t keep yourself away.
So you scuffle with road weary legs across the dusty, crunchin’ gravel to the big front doors,
and the bouncer lets you through for free, ‘cause it’s late and the band is on its last set.
The joint is open, dark and boozy, and sweat mixes with a dozen perfumes drifting
in the smoky air.
Ya bum a smoke, a camel strait, from a woman who doesn’t look at you,
but hands you the pack she holds in her slender hand.
Then ya see that everybody has stopped dancin’ to listen while some kid
is stranglin’ the neck of a baby blue Stratocaster, and the place, breathless as the dawn,
revels in disbelief.

© 2005 KEH

City Dogs

(from those cold Missoula days)

They sleep on frozen ground,
the city dogs,
and chained to bark-bare trees,
across this fenced-in pavement land,
but they keep howling through
into this world we share.
Mornings when I walk,
bundled from the wind,
I hear them cry with a bark and a whimper
out from the worn yards of dingy snow.
I pass by free in my life,
bitter at the masters
sleeping in warm beds
ignoring what they know
not feeling what they see.
Run free, run free!
I shake my head
And walk into the dawn.

© 2005 KEH

First Snow in Ekalaka

The sky was thick and dark over that quaint Montana town,
when Hogg rolled in mad as hell from sleeping on the ground.
A cold rain fell the night before, and he was mighty wet,
but what made him so damn mean was it soaked his cigarettes.
He rumbled up to the Buckhorn bar and spit on the sidewalk,
the Harley taking up two spots, but that’s the way he parks.
Now Lilly May was tending bar, watching football on TV,
she’d just told Mel, the regular, the Eagles, were too goddamn sissy.
Everybody, meaning just the two, turned when Hogg stomped in.
Lil looked back at the tube, “Them Steelers gonna win.”
“A pack of Marlboros, red,” Hogg yelled out at the room,
and if I had whisky now, it wouldn’t be too soon.”
Lilly say’s “Too bad cowboy, all we got is lights”
And Hogg says, “God damn you all,” like he was achin’ for a fight.
“Here’s your whisky,” Lilly slammed the shot glass down,”
Hogg says, “What the Hell you call this here god-forsaken town?”
Lilly didn’t say a thing, just turned up the TV.
“I asked you a question, bitch, or didn’t you hear me”.
When Lilly looked back she squinted with a scar across her face,
A cut from many years ago when she worked at Harold’s place.

Now outside the wind got to howlin, and snow began to fall,
then some tin slammed by real quick, like it been hit with a wrecking ball.
“It’s gonna be a rough one,” Ol Mel said, adjusting in his seat,
and out the window he couldn’t see the buildings across the street.
“Not a good day to be a biker,” Mel looked across the bar,
But Hogg was thinking he recognized the barmaid with the scar.
Hogg then got to thinkin’ “With this snow like buckets falling down,”
that he’d best get a move-on or he’d be stuck in the god-forsaken town.
He put a ten spot on the bar, “A pint of Jack to go.”
If you drink it here, it’ll be on me,” Lil said, kinda rough and slow.
Hogg took that bottle and knocked it back like he’d done so many times before.
He belched and smiled a nasty grin, then headed for the door.

A skiff of snow blew in as Hogg left that place.
“He won’t get far,” Lilly said, a smile across her face.
The Harley roared to life, the sound muffled by the snow,
Mel and Lil looked outside, glad to see Hogg go.
As the motorcycle headed to the darkness of the West,
the snow did blind and sting, but Hogg, he did his best.
It wasn’t too much further on the bridge that lead from town,
Hogg, he missed the curve and laid that Harley down.
The crash was loud, awakening the sleepy little burg,
and even in the barroom, the smash, it could be heard.

Mel and Lil, they heading out, not knowing what they’d find,
and they came across Hogg and the bike in just a little time.

Blood mixed with snow and gas and oil splattered on the bridge,
and Hogg he breathed a shallow breath, “Please, I want to live.”

“Should we call the cops?” Mel said, “We need to help this guy.”
“Well, if you couldn’t tell,” Said Lil, “I think he’s gonna die.”
“I met this bastard long ago, he drank at Harold’s place,
he beat the girls with a tire chain, and put this scar across my face.
Sure, we could help him out, give him a chance to live,”
but instead she spit on Hogg’s bloody face and kicked him in the ribs.

They walked slowly to the bar, Lil, with a curious smile.
“If the bastard wants to smoke,” She says, “he can smoke in Hell.”

© 2005, KEH

Another Building?

This past weekend found me on the north part of the property thinning trees. The border and been left “natural” as a buffer from the county road, and a little thinning to improve forest heath and diversity was warranted. There are a number of lodgepole pine that have survived both crowding and the bug kill of recent years, and it was long past time to clean up their competitors. There were also dozens of small Douglas fir that have little chance of survival; those too had to come out. After a couple hours of cutting and dragging and piling slash, I noticed an almost level spot of land and decided to take a break and look at it more closely. From that spot there was an inspiring view of the lake, and being higher than the surrounding land, one could see the mountains through the trees. Not really intending to go any further I set rocks to mark the corners of a theoretical building, A perfect place for a studio, I thought.
After more cutting and piling I returned to the spot, this time admiring the view even more and standing at various points imagining the best place for a porch, windows and doors. I finished the thinning project as the sun set, but I continued to think about the potential for another building there.

The next morning I was out with a mason’s line, a bucket of stakes, a hammer and a thirty-foot steel tape. My intent was just mark a rectangle, to see what a good building orientation would be. But before long I had the grub hoe in hand and was digging away the high spots and filling in the low, the shovel and rake followed, then the pick and palansky to cut tree roots. I worked for a couple hours, and stopped when the land was level enough to get an idea how a studio would fit there. I walked it and looked at it from every angle, both close and far, and know it to be a perfect place to build.
Now the problem, I don’t need a studio, or guest house or any more outbuildings there is already plenty of room in the main house that meets all my needs perfectly. I certainly don’t need the expense of putting up another building and then there are the taxes, I certainly don’t need that increase, and then there are a few things that will requre expensive equipment. In summary, I don’t know why I am starting this project now with winter coming. Could it be some basic urge man has to continue to build, to progress, to envision, create and make manifest? Must be, because I am on my way back out with a chain and come-along to pull stumps.

Tipi Living

The original home budget was tight, for my entire savings was spent on the down payment to purchase partially logged strip of forestland. Economics and weather forced the decision to save money through the winter and start building a cabin in spring. I rented a house in town with four other people, and when spring came, I moved onto the land.
After a few weeks of sleeping on the ground under a tarp, with the only heat from a smoldering fire, taking baths in the cold lake and using my car as a closet, it was obvious to those with whom I worked that I was “roughing it”. A close friend noticing my problem offered me his canvas tipi. On a sunny Saturday afternoon that spring, several friends gathered to erect the tipi. One friend, who was Indian, had brought drums and rattles and sage and decorations. He blessed the shelter with burning sage and chants in the Salish language. He told of how a to set the tipi so the opening was away from the prevailing winds, how to adjust the flaps for ventilation, where to place the sleeping area, of what size the fire-pit should be. We had a fine time drinking and talking and playing a stick game he showed us. The friends left as the day cooled and the sun began to set.
I welcomed the spaciousness of the new dwelling and felt enveloped, warm and secure. The top opening provided an oval frame to watch the sunset colors fade and stars emerge. Late that night, I awoke to movement on the top poles; silhouetted in the faint milky light, a flying squirrel pulled at the decorative cloth ribbons we’d put up earlier that day.
That summer of sleeping close to the earth far from the lights of town, within the realm of the wild animals, made me feel natural, as we all are, truly part of the earth.

Music is an experiment in the most abstract of all the arts.

This morning I woke with a compelling desire to listen to Samuel Barber’s “Overture to the School for Scandal”. Even before dressing I put the CD on, loud. Then let the sounds permeate the cabin as I built a fire, washed my face and made tea. As the water boiled I sat on the floor in front of the fire watching the flames start their burn and thought not of what the sounds represent, but what the sounds are, not looking for words to explain them, but accepting them as absolute.
So few people I know have the gift of accepting 20th Century orchestral music. I remember the struggle I first had with Stravinsky and Shostakovich, Poulanc and Rachmaninoff. But after a few listens I began to recognize the patterns, to transcend the search for an easy-to-whistle, catchy melody, to not be overwhelmed by the dissonances, to find rhythms unlike what we are accustomed to in more popular music. But what attracted me most was how the elements of melody, harmony and rhythm combine for a newness of listening. How these sounds are fresh and enlightening, a break from the 4/4 rhythm and three chord songs on the radio. When people tell me they can’t get it, I think of how difficult it must have been for postclassical Parisians to accept the radical art of the impressionists. Didn’t Manet’s “Olympia” shock the public as much as Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring”? Didn’t the unenlightened critics dismissed Van Gogh’s use of thick paints and distorted light as a manifestation of insanity.
The same is true in music as it is in the visual arts. Often we dismiss what we don’t understand, or we try to make it conform to our own (often limited) view, and when we realize it will not conform we reject it and return to our comfortable world of the familiar.
Remember the shock of Jimmy Hendricks’ “Purple Haze” or “Star Spangled Banner”, when you first heard it, how you could not classify his work, how you had a time trying to understand what he was trying to do? But now after subsequent listenings his music has become increasingly comfortable and familiar and now with each play it still brings that rich and satisfying smile of enlightenment.

Zen and the Art of Living Alone

“Brown rice, green tea and meditation build patience”, the master once told me. “Each breath is a lifetime,” he said on another occasion. These things I contemplate while listening to the stream flow past the Jade-colored Buddha statue in the garden. Maybe there is a Haiku or Tanka there; I’m certain there is.
I once introduced a sweetheart to the Way of Zen.
“All this organic gardening, sand raking, tai chi, meditation and asking about the sound of one hand clapping or the color of the wind, I just don’t get it, what’s the point” She said one day.
“It may take time,” I responded, then read a quote from D.H. Lawrence:
“Life and love are life and love, a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets, and to drag in a point is to ruin everything. Live and let live, love and let love, flower and fade, and follow the natural curve, which flows on, pointless.”
As it turned out, she must not have understood, for she moved back to the city before the end of summer.

Firewood

Among the most essential elements to the hermit’s independence is his woodpile. He may spend weeks falling, hauling, cutting, splitting and piling his wood. Some say firewood warms you twice, but the reality is it warms you every time it is handled. There is cedar for kindling, pine for quick, hot burns, Doug fir and larch for the long burns, and the occasional birch round for the coldest of the winter nights. When he saws the logs to length, he notices the annual rings of alternating light and dark and thinks about his life and history, the bark and cambium just a few years past when there was drought that killed the tree, then the seven drought year rings tight together, then the wet years of the 90’s when snow was so abundant that snowshoes became the favored mode of travel. Deeper into the wood he finds the rings of the 80’s, Regan and parties, college, drinking, wild, fun times. Then into the past when he bought the land and started clearing for the cabin; the trees put on quick growth those years when he culled the weak and diseased. The next set of rings indicate the time before he came to this part of Montana; close, tight rings from overgrowth and neglect: the Nixon years, the cold war, Eisenhower, Truman, Roosevelt, World War Two, Hoover, Depression, then larger divisions from the homestead days when the first logging took place. A few trees go older than that, past the days of the first settlers, to the days when Indians roamed the valley and few, if any people came into these woods.
As he cuts and splits the wood, stacks it in neat piles, he wonders if there will ever be another to share the warmth with.

Stocked Up

The Hermit avoids too many trips to town in the winter; he may blame the ice and snow, the chance of accidents, the inconvenience. But his nature is to avoid people. The first signs of winter has him stocking up the cellar, freezer and pantry. This year the cellar contains twenty pounds of red potatoes, and twenty of russets, ten pounds of yellow Spanish onions and ten of red. There are fifteen pounds of carrots packed in sawdust, and two boxes containing a variety of apples. There are canned goods, corn, beans, peas, and ten pints of a fine salsa with a chipoltle flavor. On the shelf there are a variety of squash and one pumpkin. Oh, and not to forget, nearly sixty bottles of wine… The freezer is near full with two turkeys and five chickens from the Valier Hutterites, part of a custom cut beef hind quarter and a half hog from Farm to Market. There are also the vacuum-sealed garden produce, beans and berries mostly and five pounds of Sumatran dark roast coffee. And in the pantry, a world of teas, barley, rice, lentils, beans, and spices from the garden. Space remains in the freezer for venison. There is satisfaction in knowing that despite the worst winter could throw, he would not go hungry.
In order to survive as a hermit in the northern Rocky Mountains, the woodpile is essential. This year there are four cord in the shed, another seasoned cord and a half under plastic in the woods, and a green cord stacked seasoning itself for the next year.

Socked In

The fourth day of thick fog here in the Flathead Valley, inversion, cold air trapped in the valley by the stillness of warm air above. When it is like this, the sun does not rise, only a gradual lightening of the sky from black to gray then back to black for the evening. There are not even shades of gray. Fortunately the fall colors are seen in the larch and birch providing a brightness the sun does not. In this dull light the yellows of the season seem to be self-illuminating.
I try not to be trapped inside and get out for the daily dog walk. Yesterday we found a new trail, got a bit lost, came upon a deer kill, blood and a gut pile. It is hunting season for whitetail. The dog got his face into it so I threw sticks into the lake to get him to wash off. We sometimes forget the animals we share our houses with are descendants of the Asian wolf.
Deer are plentiful this year, yesterday there were seven browsing through the yard, does and yearling fawns, with only one spike buck. Last week there were three five-point bucks browsing across the lake, but now that the hunters are out they hide. The does and yearlings are small here, not much meat if I were to shoot one, even the bucks are not very big. Maybe their density here in the woods keeps them small. The biologists are saying the mild winters have increased the numbers and if there is an especially hard winter this year many will die off being there is not enough forage to keep them going.