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The NewBuddhist official Nostalgia thread
federica
Seeker of the clear blue sky...Its better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak out and remove all doubt Moderator
I said i'd start one....
this is an offshoot from this thread:
http://newbuddhist.com/discussion/14717/for-a-dollar#Item_30
Well, talking of chickens.. they are dumb.....
My grandmother would go down to the orchard, and sit on the lower of two upturned logs, at the side of the coop. in her left hand, she held some corn and chicken feed, and would scatter it around her feet...."chuk-chuk-chuk, chuk-chuk-chuk," she would croon, lulling them into a false sense of security, patiently waiting as they got closer....
Presently, she would favour one chicken above the others, and scatter more grain at her feet for that one, drawing it ever nearer...my cousin and I, silently - almost breathlessly - watching from outside, through the chainlink fence....we had been instructed on pain of a good wallop, to be quiet, not move and stay outside....
what was more convincing, was the great big fuck-off cleaver she held behind her back, in her right hand.....
suddenly, saw would swoop on the poor condemned chicken, grab it by the neck, swing it hard and high above her head - which broke its neck - and slam it down onto the adjacent higher log, and with an equally fast and definite move, bring the cleaver from behind her back swing it down, and cut its head off.
this all happened in the blink of an eye. it was all so fast, and almost immediate, i swear the chicken never felt a thing - and my Nonna never missed.
I could tell you exactly where "running around like a headless chicken" originates, and to my shame, my cousin and I were doubled up laughing, tears pouring out of our eyes, at this poor lifeless chicken running around everywhere.
all the others were running around in a panic too, all clucking and squawking madly, in all directions, doubtless thinking, "is it me?! is it me?!" and then they would eventually realise that, no, their heads were still connected to their bodies, so they'd resume eating the feed on the ground....
they fell for it every time, and had no fear of her at all....
my cousin and i made to chase the chicken, but my Nonna stopped us, and said, "Wait for it to drop - it's much easier...."
presently, when the decapitated chicken finally thudded to the ground, my grandmother picked it up, put it - and the head - into a bag she had in the pocket of her voluminous apron, and we all walked back to the house in the morning summer sunshine....
I don't precisely recall whether this was the same chicken, but i do remember her gutting a chicken, and extracting 9 yolks, all gradually decreasing in size... the first must have nearly been the size of a golf-ball, the last, no bigger than a pea... and she made the most wonderful, light, creamy mayonnaise with them.... it tasted like cloud......
and yes, she more than likely made her famous stock, too..... with the chicken feet.... she would burn off the outer skin first, because it was dirty and muddied.... the smell of those feet, roasting over an open flame is very distinctive, and occasionally, i still get a memory of it....
This is irrefutable proof to me that one, chickens really are dumb, as per my opening sentence, and that two, what she did wasn't cruel to the chicken at all.
Remember this is 40-odd years ago....
i'm a bit more conscious now, of the production of meat, and how it gets to our tables en masse but i know that certainly, in rural parts of Italy, this happens all the time. People raise their own animals, and they eat them.
and likewise, they kill them in their own backyards.....
it was such a long time ago, but it's a window of a snippet on what i experienced in my childhood... so long ago.... yet it's exactly like yesterday......
this is an offshoot from this thread:
http://newbuddhist.com/discussion/14717/for-a-dollar#Item_30
Well, talking of chickens.. they are dumb.....
My grandmother would go down to the orchard, and sit on the lower of two upturned logs, at the side of the coop. in her left hand, she held some corn and chicken feed, and would scatter it around her feet...."chuk-chuk-chuk, chuk-chuk-chuk," she would croon, lulling them into a false sense of security, patiently waiting as they got closer....
Presently, she would favour one chicken above the others, and scatter more grain at her feet for that one, drawing it ever nearer...my cousin and I, silently - almost breathlessly - watching from outside, through the chainlink fence....we had been instructed on pain of a good wallop, to be quiet, not move and stay outside....
what was more convincing, was the great big fuck-off cleaver she held behind her back, in her right hand.....
suddenly, saw would swoop on the poor condemned chicken, grab it by the neck, swing it hard and high above her head - which broke its neck - and slam it down onto the adjacent higher log, and with an equally fast and definite move, bring the cleaver from behind her back swing it down, and cut its head off.
this all happened in the blink of an eye. it was all so fast, and almost immediate, i swear the chicken never felt a thing - and my Nonna never missed.
I could tell you exactly where "running around like a headless chicken" originates, and to my shame, my cousin and I were doubled up laughing, tears pouring out of our eyes, at this poor lifeless chicken running around everywhere.
all the others were running around in a panic too, all clucking and squawking madly, in all directions, doubtless thinking, "is it me?! is it me?!" and then they would eventually realise that, no, their heads were still connected to their bodies, so they'd resume eating the feed on the ground....
they fell for it every time, and had no fear of her at all....
my cousin and i made to chase the chicken, but my Nonna stopped us, and said, "Wait for it to drop - it's much easier...."
presently, when the decapitated chicken finally thudded to the ground, my grandmother picked it up, put it - and the head - into a bag she had in the pocket of her voluminous apron, and we all walked back to the house in the morning summer sunshine....
I don't precisely recall whether this was the same chicken, but i do remember her gutting a chicken, and extracting 9 yolks, all gradually decreasing in size... the first must have nearly been the size of a golf-ball, the last, no bigger than a pea... and she made the most wonderful, light, creamy mayonnaise with them.... it tasted like cloud......
and yes, she more than likely made her famous stock, too..... with the chicken feet.... she would burn off the outer skin first, because it was dirty and muddied.... the smell of those feet, roasting over an open flame is very distinctive, and occasionally, i still get a memory of it....
This is irrefutable proof to me that one, chickens really are dumb, as per my opening sentence, and that two, what she did wasn't cruel to the chicken at all.
Remember this is 40-odd years ago....
i'm a bit more conscious now, of the production of meat, and how it gets to our tables en masse but i know that certainly, in rural parts of Italy, this happens all the time. People raise their own animals, and they eat them.
and likewise, they kill them in their own backyards.....
it was such a long time ago, but it's a window of a snippet on what i experienced in my childhood... so long ago.... yet it's exactly like yesterday......
0
Comments
Amazing how many memories are connected to smells, when it comes to living without modern sanatized city life. There's nothing quite like an outhouse on a hot summer day. And other sensations. There's something about the gooshy feel between your toes of stepping into a cow patty with your bare feet that sticks with you for the rest of your life.
http://newbuddhist.com/discussion/14673/favourite-words-in-any-language#Item_185
my post, just over half way down the page....
in December 2000, we were living in France.
it was a cold, snowy but beautiful day, just after christmas, and we found a card in our postbox, from america. but it wasn't for us.
it was for a gentleman called M. Jean Pilleron.
the road address was quite clear, but when i took the card to the address, the people there, had not a clue who Jean Pilleron was.
however, being the only British family in the village, because the letter had come from America, the post lady had chosen our postbox, in order to enable us to deal with it! (small village,... everyone knew everyone else, but not this Mr.Pilleron, it seemed...)
Well i did everything i could to locate the man... i asked at the village council office - which doubled as the Mayor's office, the village town hall, function room... you name it.... but nobody there had a clue.
finally, i had to open the card - and it wasn't a card.
it was a letter from a gentleman in America, attempting to re-establish contact with Mr Pilleron... the last time they had been in touch with one another, had been in 1976.... when the american gentleman, a Mr. Arthur Palmer, had been doing some single-handed research on his own war-time past.....
I then decided to go and consult the Village oracle - or as she was better known, the village hotel owner - and see what she knew. (Why i hadn't thought of doing this earlier, is still a mystery....) if you need to know anything - and everything - going on in the village - and at times beyond - she's the one to ask....
She revealed that Mr Pilleron had been a member of the French Resistance, who had been active in the area during the war. He had also been a decorated hero in WW1, but was too old to enlist during WW2, so he had joined the French Resistance fighters instead...
He had died in the early 80's, his close friend had died shortly after, and his wife, had died 5 years later.
i had the sad duty of informing Mr.Palmer that his one connection to his past, had died, and as there were no children, i thought the trail must have gone dry....
The letter had an e-mail address, so rather than send a letter, i wrote to the address.
there began a long, fruitful correspondence with one of truly the most wonderful men /i have ever met.
During this time, he revealed to me the name of a couple of local young French gentlemen, both historical researchers in theoir spare time, who were attempting to piece together the entire regional history of both world wars. Part of their research had included the events which occurred in the part of France we lived in, and i'm not sure if he found them, or they found him, but when they spoke to me, their excitement grew, because finally, communication would not be a problem.
As time went on, and we got further and further into 2001, Arthur made plans with his daughter and son, to come over and visit the area.
they booked a flight for the second week of September.
they never came.
the dreadful events of 09/11 changed the face of the planet, its mentality, and flying, for ever.
and that's when freedom Fries came into being...
the trip had to be postponed, and in fact, they managed to re-book their visit for the following April.
in fact, they arrived in Paris Gare du Nord, on the 4th.
best birthday present i've ever had....
Here's what happened;
Arthur arrived with his son John, and his daughter Kathe. Arthur's wife, Kay, was too unwell to travel, having been affected by 'Alzheimer's....
i had kept in close contact with Christophe and Jaques, the two amateur historian researchers. this is an important fact to remember....
(i would say now, their names are made up, i think, because i can't for the life of me remember their names and i'd have to dig out all my memorabilia...)
the day the Palmer family arrived, i had arranged to have a meal together....
We went to the village Oracle - sorry - village hotel - for our evening meal.
Jean-Marie, the owner, had prepared a table with american flag bunting everywhere, and blue, white and red flowers in vases. they are so pro-American in that part of the world - Americans represent liberty and life!
When Arthur walked into the restaurant, it was early evening, and the tables were still not yet taken by diners...so we'd been given the best tables, by the window, looking out onto the willows, by the river....
they turned the celebration into a birthday meal for me, and gave me a beautiful book of american poetry. it's still one of my most treasured possessions...
During the meal, i told Arthur, and john and Kathe that we had arranged a light lunch - here at the hotel for the following day - with the Mayor, Christophe and Jaques, to discuss the events that had brought him to france, so many years earlier. Arthur was absolutely delighted, but very tired, so i walked them back to the hotel sleeping quarters, a little further down the village, and bid them goodnight.
the next morning, they came to our house, by the river, and we spent the pleasant spring morning, on the terrace overlooking the river, just chatting about all sorts of things... my daughters, why we had come to France, the garden....all sorts of things.
then at lunchtime, i, with arthur, John and Kathe, walked up to the restaurant for lunch.
And that's when the magic began.
Christophe and Jacques through tireless, and diligent research, had managed to locate all the people who had been instrumental in rescuing and saving arthur, and had gathered them all there for lunch, with the mayor of the nearby village, where all this drama and adventure had taken place;
Arrthur met once again, the by now elderly couple who had pulled him from his crashed plane.... the cart driver who had hidden him under a huge pile of hay, to take him to a local house; the daughter of the doctor who had tended to his wounds; the daughter of ther first French Resistance fighter - the maquis -
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maquis_(World_War_II)
who had hidden him in her room, and given up her bed for him - and the two sons of different resistance fighters who had taken him into the woods, to hide from the Germans, heading for the German border to escape the chasing allies. mr Jean Pilleron had been one of the Maquis in the woods, who had hidden him in a tent, and who had first given arthur a drink, when finally he had awoken, after a long bout of unconsciousness.
the village mayor was also extremely interested in history, and was specifically tracing the origin and history of the Maquis throughout france.
Lunch was an extremely emotional, noisy, and talkative affair.
my throat became quite sore at all the translation i was doing.
John and Kathe were stunned at the story unfolding before them - they'd had no idea any of this had happened.
Luckily, i had taken Kathe into my confidence ahead of time, so she was in on the surprise - which was a wise idea, in case of the shock being too great - but even so, she could not stop crying at the joy of the reunion....
we were in that hotel all told for about 6 hours.
Arthur had been a pilot, and was chasing German enemy convoys, strafing the ammunition trucks to prevent the germans wreaking any further damage as they hurtled up towards the german border - but he had in turn, been attacked by anti-aircraft fire, and badly hit, and losing fuel and oil, managed to safely land the plane in a field, just outside a village.
with engine oil and fuel covering the wings, and he, unconscious with a broken hand, broken collar bone and a concussive head injury, the local farmers raced across the field to rescue him. just as german trucks were coming over the brow of the hill.... but these troops had a forest and a group of houses hindering their progress....
despite the danger of fire, the rescuers climbed over the slippery oil-covered wings and managed to pull Arthur out of the cockpit.
they loaded him onto a haywain,and covered him with straw and hay, and rumbled him out of the field up the road and into the village, to the house of a member of the maquis.
the daughter gave her bed up, and the village doctor came to tend his wounds.
then a couple of days later, when it was deemed too dangerous to keep him in the house any longer (german officers were occupying the main village hall and hotel) they moved him under cover of darkness, to one of the local woods.
Impenetrable to the germans, but as familiar as the backs of their hands, to the locals....
Arthur finally woke up 2 days later, and complaining of thirst and asking for water, Jean Pilleron dismissed that idea scornfully, and gave him a good drink of local french wine instead!
Arthur never forgot how good it had tasted....
The Germans by now had been driven further up towards the border, but had been merciless in destroying everything that had been in their way - however, with the main danger past, Arthur was then brought to the village i lived in, to await the arrival of the
american militia, who then sent him home about a month later.
Kay had been a casual sweetheart... they had been close, but not too serious - military men didn't form too close a tie with anyone, if one didn't already exist, in order to prevent heartbreak in case of death... but it was she who stood up in their local parish church and told everyone that their 'son' was safe and sound, injured, but coming home.
Arthur had the distinct joy of knowing that the rear wheel had provided the first rubber tyre to a village wheelbarrow..... !
the day was long, emotional and highly-charged - but the surprises didn't end there...
the following day, Christophe, jaques and i drove Arthur. Kathe and John, out to a remote, green field - the exact location where Arthur's plane had crashed.
his 'rescuers' pointed out every detail of what had happened.... the trees he had just cleared, the houses he had struggled to avoid lannding on, the spot in the field where he had crashed....
these people had already been there for more than an hour, erecting French and American flags, (proper. official flags, with gold trim, the lot) and a bugler was there, to sound the last post.
i don't know why, he just did.
then we walked the route the haywain had taken, out of the field, up the ever-widening track to the village.
we showed Arthur the house he had been sheltered in.
Get this:
The house now belonged to a young German couple, with a young daughter, and they couldn't believe how everything had interwoven together, to bring Arthur back to a home - lived in by descendants of people he had been fighting against.
They gave us all a drink, and the moment was wonderful.
then, we walked to the village War memorial, where Arthur was given a hero's welcome,
and where speeches were made - which i then had to translate (luckily, i had been provided with the original french text beforehand.) the speeches relayed the entire story of arthur's original connection to the village, and his reason for returning now.
The whole village had turned out, the weather was glorious, and the constant applause deafening.
I'm sure they still speak of it now.
Arthur, overwhelmed, came up the steps of the monument, and delivered a thank you
speech, tears streaming down his face, and his heart bursting with pride and happiness.
the brass band led the way, and we all went to the village hall - where they had gathered photographs of wartime events - including the state of arthur's plane - before and after being raided by the locals ! - which arthur found hilarious.
the mayor then brought out a thick, square green hessian bag.
he explained that one of the houses down the village had needed a new roof, and under the eaves of the old one, under straw and debris, this square, heavy canvas bag had been found.
just a week before.
It was Arthur's parachute first aid bag, and he'd been dragged out of the plane, still sitting on it. it had his USAF number on it, and it still contained some items that would have been essential to him at the time.
that was a really incredible find....
we had afternoon refreshments - every member of the village had contributed something - and again, the day and hours rolled on happily... the weather was glorious, and it was all so perfect.....
the following day, christophe, jacques, Arthur, john, Kathe and i travelled up towards Alsace, to visit an american war cemetry.
i don't think i've ever been quite so moved by so many white crosses, with so many names of so many young people....there was a huge mosaic picture, depicting the movement of the allies during th closing stages of the war, and the hand-pincer movement adopted to vanquish the germans from central and southern europe.....that was a beautiful day, but emotionally draining... the evening meal was at our house, and a less chaotic affair.
on arthur's final day - he came to our village cemetery, and we located the grave of M.Jean pilleron, who had been instrumental in not only his rescue, but indirectly, in his long-awaited visit to France.
Arthur left him some flowers, and a lot of respect.
when Arthur returned to the USA, we kept in touch, but i never saw him again.
my youngest daughter has visited the family in new England and Colorado, and spent a very happy time there.
Kay died on the 30th of august, 2008.
Arthur died on the 30th of August 2011.
He was 87.
i miss him.
Kathe is the absolute spitting image of her mother....
Kay never gave up on Arthur, and they married shortly after his return to America....
Rick, Jeff and Tim were neighbor boys in a suburb of Los Angeles, CA in 1960 where I grew up. Nearby were concrete riverbeds to handle the runoff from rainstorms in this massive cement covered metropolis built in a desert. In the trestles and overpasses were pigeon nests. The two older brothers, Rick and Jeff managed to find a squab (baby pigeon with pinfeathers) and hustled it home. They fed it by hand with an eyedropper and kept it in a closet with a hot water heater. The bird thrived. They called him Clyde. Clyde thought he was part of the human family riding around on the boys shoulders and atop their heads. He would come flapping out of the sky at any moment attempting to land on the heads of neighborhood children - sending the more squeamish running and screaming for home. The boys loved Clyde too - never complaining about the streaks of white bird shit down their backs or in their hair. And Clyde was a prolific defecator too, rarely missing an opportunity to decorate his owners - or anyone else he landed on for that matter - with his signature. Maybe that was why the little girls ran screeching - pigeondungaphobia! I tried to have my own tamed pigeon, "Rebel" - a squab given me by a neighbor who raised homing pigeons. Although fed by hand this bird never became as tame as Clyde with one exception - my father occasionally provided a shower with the garden hose for Rebel who, after landing in the yard where he was "hose gardening" would raise one wing and then the other to bathe to my father's amusement.
I hear the sport is dying out now, along with the old folks who had the time and inclination to do it.
..........................
“It smells like puke in here.” My nose turned up in instinct as the pungent odor wafted through the room.
“Probably because someone puked.” My best friend laughed beside me, swaying slightly as he did so.
“Whatever. This beat sucks anyways, let's get out of here.” I felt my way towards the hallway by means of strobe flashes. Between the smoke machine, the black walls, and the new DJ, I really wasn't feeling this club anymore. My buzz was disappearing fast and inebriation wasn't just a recommendation for Push, it was a requirement. Dodging between moving bodies I felt my shoe skid slightly in something wet. Ugh. That better not be what I think it is.
“I've gotta pee, I'll meet you at the bar,” I said, motioning to the bathrooms.
There was no door to open. No door on the stalls either, for that matter, although there was a nice dirty curtain that closed halfway. Most people in this club weren't in the mind state to notice though.
“Can I help you with anything, babe?”
My eyes were too busy reading the graffiti to notice the guy leaning casually against the wall to my left. In the women's bathroom. Right.
“No man, I'm good.”
He shrugged and gave me a quick wink. I looked away quickly, eyes eagerly waiting for the curtain to open. I knew it was going to be a hot mess inside, but I couldn't help it. I really had to pee.
Inside, I was all military efficiency, figuring the less time I spent in this cesspool of filth and toilet paper, the less chance I'd have of contracting something. Drunk or not, I still felt the need to scrub my hands extra well, even if they were out of soap. Still too sober to stop being neurotic.
“Hey girl!”
I felt a quick slap to my ass. Whipping around, I was relieved to see it was just Rachel. I glanced discretely at the crowd around us. I wouldn't mention to her that I was looking for her boyfriend, Matt. He just gave me a really weird vibe sometimes and I wasn't sure why. Well, no, scratch that, I knew exactly why. The fact that he may or may not have caught her flashing me her underwear in the kitchen earlier actually wasn't the worst reason. ...I really need a drink. My eyes met J by the bar.
“Is it seriously last call already?”
“Yeah...” I realized J's attention was elsewhere as his eyes trailed a cute boy's ass through the crowd.
“So, is your friend working? You know, your cranberry-extra-ice-I'll-serve-you-until-6am-friend?”
“Nope.” J shook his head, his eyes still roaming the room. I was starting to wonder if he was on something.
Glancing at my watch, I wasn't sure if I'd make it, but figured I'd better try anyways. There's nothing worse than sobering up when you're in the mood to be obliterated. Plus, there was no telling how long I'd be stuck here.
I checked my watch again: 1:98A.M. The guy in front of me slid over and I propped myself up to gain a little height for the bartender.
“Sorry. It's 2, no more alcohol.” The bartender turned away from me, not sounding the least bit apologetic.
“Hey! I still have two more minutes!” I shouted after him.
“Bar time!” he called back. Shit.
“Here.” The guy waiting before me slammed a shot down in front of me.
“What is it?” I was not a fan of shots. I observed it skeptically, but at least it was clear.
“Fuckin' Bumblebee.” He smashed his glass into mine before raising it up.
“What?” I watched as he knocked his back. I scrambled, trying not to be rude. I took a sip off the top, just enough to feel the burn as it slid down my throat, and threw the rest on the floor behind me. He didn't notice.
“Thanks.” I nodded to him, turning away instantly to track down my friends. He better not have expected anything else for a shot I didn't ask for. What the hell was Bumblebee anyways?
I slid back through the swaying bodies to my group. The room smelled of smoke, sweat, and cologne: the typical smells of horny twenty-somethings everywhere. Rachel linked her arm through mine.
“I'm cool leaving whenever,” her boyfriend shouted over the noise.
Back at the car, I found myself fumbling with my seat belt. Maybe I was drunker than I thought.
There was some chatter in the car, I think. I guess people were talking around me. Matt was sitting in the middle between Rachel and I, which I was happy about. I can only take so much flirting in one night and I currently felt very introverted. I tried to listen to their conversation but it just felt too far away.
“What's wrong with you?” Matt leaned over.
“Huh?”
“You haven't said a word since we've left. It's not like you.”
“I don't... I don't know. I feel weird,” I said, flexing my hands. Yeah, my hands definitely felt weird. Kinda slow, or tingly, or something. Come to think of it, so did my face. I touched my lips experimentally, kinda numb. Was I going to be sick?
J stopped to get gas and I took advantage of it. Stumbling slightly out of the car, I made my way to the curb, sliding my back down the cool concrete of the building. That felt better. Maybe.
Rachel had apparently followed me. I hadn't even noticed. I was touching my nose, which was totally numb. It was strange and interesting. It was also mildly terrifying.
“What's going on? How do you feel?”
“I don't know, kinda numb? Kinda sick? Tingly... Tired.”
“Did you take anything?”
“No... Well, not that I know of. A shot. From a guy at the bar.”
“You idiot.” Rachel leaned her head on my shoulder. “Everybody gets drugged at Push.”
“Now you tell me. You too?”
“Yeah, a few years ago.”
“You're only 19, Rachel...”
“But I've had a fake since forever. Come on, can you stand? Let's get you home.”
“I'm never accepting another shot from a random dude.”
“Yeah yeah, you're lucky it was us that took you home.”
“No kidding!”
probably a mix of rohipnol, neat vodka and maybe even a bit of antifreeze.....
I should probably mention that at this time, I was still a little bit of the wide-eyed country girl who moved to the big city and was so shocked and interested by everything, I just pretended not to be.
My father was a boxing promoter and handyman who worked for a pair of notorious London crime brothers during the late fifties and sixties. My mother was a singer, very naive, who had small parts on stage and aspired to something more. She was charmed by my father's urban insider street-smarts and sharp suits. In part to defy her mother, she married him and was disowned by her middle class Yorkshire family. When we were small, my brother, sister, and I lived a tough life in London of sudden plenty and sudden hunger. Eventually my father’s business and connections caught up with him, and he fled England for Canada , bringing us along, bewildered. After being rootless for some time and bouncing from one place to another, we landed in a bungalow, apparently with an absentee landlord, in the middle of farm country north of Oshawa Ontario. I was maybe 9 years old at the time. My father was not a lazy man and always worked, but he always had big-deal pretensions and dressed like a gangster from 1950. He was not outwardly violent, but had some very dark shadows. He constantly reminisced about Burma during the war, but would not talk about the killing part. He would not talk about his work in London. He also had a (later fatal) gambling habit that kept us in poverty. I remember him showing up late, and quietly trying to slip in the front door. My mother would be waiting, drunk and bleak …. “well… look who’s here…. Misssssster wonderful” . She would follow him around “misssster wonderful” . Sometimes she would try and make an escape, running screaming into the cornfield … there would be this confused trail of falling corn moving around the huge field. Me and my brother would go and find her when it stopped. ..so many stories. For a long time life before the age of 16 was pretty blank, but about 15 years ago I set about de-mystifying my childhood and making friends with it, contacting people and getting it straight.
A memory...
My refuge was walking the fields and watching the skies, and going to the little library on Townline road, where I read about a world that is diverse and interesting. I found art history in that library. At about age ten I got a summer job at a potato farm. The farmer paid cash…it couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen dollars a day, but at the time it was big deal for me. The day looked something like this ….A tractor would first go up and down the big rolling fields turning the potatoes. Then the job of the farm workers was to move along the rows and dig up the loosened tubers, collecting them in baskets that we pulled along as we went. Stationed at intervals were flatbed trailers for the full baskets, and carrying a supply of empty ones. I remember the feeling of open space, of the fields starting low on one side and rising up toward the long windbreak on the other. There was summer sun drenching everything, clouds flowing across the sky, and a steady rhythmic thrum of cicadas in the big trees at field’s edge. I just spent the day picking, moving along on my knees (not much trouble for a kid) and picking… just doing this simple thing all day, bathed in the bright golden white summer air, the sights and sounds and smells of the earth. It was the first time in my life that I did something completely without daydreaming, or insecurity, a feeling of want. There was just doing, and peace. Later, as an adult, images of fields and windbreaks and clouds would be my preoccupation as an artist.... and I think it is poetic that my first experience of peace, on my first job, would go on to provide the imagery of my livelihood so many years later..