Category Archives: Memories

Weeds of Grass

Beltane                                                       Garlic Moon

Kate and I completely weeded the second perennial tier this morning, but it took both of us to finish it.

Grass.  More grass.  When the gods created grass, they forgot all about gardeners of the future.  Grass grows everywhere, many different kinds and needs little nurture.  In many ways it is the perfect weed.  Tall, it can grow up and out from within clumps of wanted plants.  Tough, it sticks to the soil with tenacity.  Wily, its rhizomes too often remain behind when what looks the whole plant comes out.  Then, in its persistent way, it regenerates and lives to annoy the gardener another day.  So, here’s to grass, a plant wonderful in its manifold powers.

Dragonflies have hatched in abundance.  Which means the mosquitoes have, too.  The dragonfly, with its bi-wing form, has a retro sort of look.  They are beautiful.  Iridescent colors, transparent wings.  Fairy like in their quickness.  Benevolent in their choice of food.  Seeing their forms darting through the air brings the great wheel round another turn.

Today the temperature felt, again, like July, but there was a fine breeze.  A warmer day, a gentle wind and the smell of lilies-of-the-valley transported me right back to grandma and grandpa’s house in Morristown, Indiana.

OK.  On sentimentalism.  Here’s the distinction that just came to me after seeing a definition of nostalgia as a sentimental yearning for the happiness of another place or time. The sentimentality I have doesn’t include a yearning for the happiness of another place or time.  I just want to recall my past, since it is mine, not wallow in it.  Just sayin’.

Alonzo Stagg Stadium 1969

Beltane                                                                 Beltane Moon

Working on tours today.  Discovered a sculpture by Henry Moore that I inhabited once, long ago, the year 1969.  Just south of Kenwood Avenue my then wife’s brother, Bob Merritt, lived in a large flat with other undergraduates attending the University of Chicago.

Kenwood marked the dividing line between Hyde Park, the upper middle class enclave gathered around the University and the South Side.  The South Side, known for gangs and poverty and community organizers began at their building.  So much so that one evening a gang of thieves with shotguns held all the students while they robbed the apartment.  Didn’t get much.  University students?  Geez.

As a guest, I joined in a big weekend party that had plenty of drugs, sex and rock and roll.  No sex for me.  Married.  But drugs?  Oh, yes, please.  Mescaline, cut at the time with strychnine for a faster rush.  We sat around on mattresses on the floor, classic college student high decor.  At one point I leaned against a bare wire and got an electric shock.

Oh. Boy.  That lit me up inside and out.

Later on we decided to get something to eat and went for a stroll around campus, near Billings Hospital.   Alonzo Stagg stadium where Enrico Fermi first split the atom.  Used to be right there.  Fermi and others under stadium.  Playing with an energy source known only to Shiva at that time.  In a container enclosed with regular bricks, if I recall correctly.

There, on the site of Fermi’s experiment sat this sculpture by Henry Moore.  Taken by the explanation of its purpose, I crawled up inside and sat there, mind altered by the mescaline molecules, imagining the splitting of the atom, down to a very fine detail.  I inhabited the split, a part of it, riding the cascading protons and neutrons and electrons.  I forgot about the food, about the evening.  I sat there for quite a while, back in Alonzo Stagg stadium, as Fermi worked his magic.

Later on I walked back to the flat.

Mother’s Day. Not A Happy Day.

Beltane                                                                        Beltane Moon

Mother’s day.  Every year.  Since her death.  1964.  A long time to be motherless.  Almost a life time.

Her stroke changed all our lives.  We went on but not well.  I often stumbled, not picking myself up and shaking it off, not turning the pain into a gift.  Instead, I experienced it as pain.

(Morristown Post Office)

She was a small town girl. Morristown, Indiana.  800 people.  Many of them our kin.  A rural town right where Indiana breaks into full on country as you travel south, the big cities and heavy industry behind you.  Lots of corn and beans (soy beans), tractors, barns, cows, pigs, a few horses.  Still that way.

Might have been a small town girl her whole life, except for WWII.  Signal Corps.  Mom was a WAC.  She went to Rome, Naples, Capri, Algiers.  After, she married Dad.  She had an A.A. degree in teaching, elementary.

Never learned to drive.  Can you imagine?  A midwestern country girl who never learned to drive.  Didn’t stop her from an active life. In our small town, Alexandria, Indiana, there was no spot you couldn’t reach by walking.  So Mom went everywhere on foot or riding with Dad.

Warm and quick, kind, loving.  Compassionate.  You know, the mom you see on the cover of Saturday Evening Post drawn by Normal Rockwell.

Since 1964, she’s been a memory.  At times she almost seems to slip away, a murmur, a rumor from the past, like an imaginary place I used to visit as a small boy.  Then I recall the garden spider at our kitchen window.  Her taking insects in a kleenex to release outside, something I still do.  Her voice breaking as she learned her father, Charlie Keaton, my namesake and grandfather, had died.

So, mother’s day has not been a big favorite of mine, not for a long time.  Not a happy day with dinner out, flowers and a big hug.  No, “remember when?”  No, “you’re just what I hoped.”  No, “oh, you.”  Just not. Absence.

Beltane 2012

Beltane                                                          Beltane Moon

May Day.  Brings up cold war images for me.  If you’re of a certain age, you remember black and white television with Kruschev or Brezhnev in the reviewing stands as long flat bed trucks pulled even longer missiles, whole large squares of soldiers trooped after them, some tanks, armored personnel carriers, probably some air displays, too, but I don’t recall those personally.

This was the worker’s holiday to celebrate the successful revolution, the now sad story of a mad man who killed millions and used a centralized state to justify it all, and those who came after him, company men with broad shoulders, craggy faces, phenomenal eyebrows and bad tailors.

If, however, you’re of a certain ethnic heritage, or inclined to join us on certain holidays like May Day, I can conjure a different picture.  Fair maids dancing with ribbons, winding them around and around the tall May pole.  In other spots women and men jumping over bonfires to quicken their fertility.  Herds of cattle driven between two bonfires to cure them of disease.

On a mythic plane the goddess as maiden takes the young greenman for her lover, offering their fertile energy to the fields, to the animals  and to the people.  Villagers take to the fields at night for bouts of lovemaking.

A fair, running perhaps a week, finds persons contracting for field labor, trying out handfast marriages, and surplus goods being traded. This was a joyous time, the long winter lay in the past and the fields had seeds in them.  The air was warm, there was milk and meat.  A good time.

A mood much different than the other great Celtic holiday, Samain, or Summer’s End, which marks the end of the growing season, the final harvests before the fallow and the cold time began.  In that holiday the dead got gifts of food and spirits in hopes that they would at least not do harm.  Those of the fey might cross the barrier between the worlds and snatch a child or even a grown man or woman, taking them back to the sidhe.

These two, Beltane and Samain, were, in the oldest Celtic faith, the two holidays.  The beginning of summer, or the growing season, and summer’s end.

In Beltane we have all the hope of fields newly planted, cattle quickened, perhaps wives or lovers pregnant, warmth ahead.  This is the holiday of hope, of futurity, of anticipated abundance.

No missile laden trucks, no marching soldiers.  No, this was a festival for rural people celebrating the rhythm of their world, a highpoint in the year.

Just Another Miracle

Spring                                                         Bee Hiving Moon

Polio in the news.  This month’s Scientific American has coverage on the bid to eliminate polio.  That this can be a serious discussion represents a literally unbelievable leap from 1949 when I had polio to now.

(I was a March of Dimes baby.  March, 1950, I think.)

Polio before Salk and Sabin created even more generalized fear than H.I.V.  It devastated millions.  Some of us, like me, had it, recovered and moved on.  Others still wear a brace, have a withered limb, a curved spine.

I’m left with the fading memories of a forgotten terror, a time when a child’s chill could be the precursor to paralysis.  As it was in my case.

It’s strange to have been a victim of a plague most don’t even know ever happened.  Think of those high school seniors I toured last week who were born in 1994.  1949 was 45 years before they were born.  When I turned 18 in 1965 45 years before was 1920.  And 45 years back from my birth date of 1947 was 1902.  It’s as if I had the Spanish flu during the great epidemic and survived.

A miracle, really.

 

Melancholia

Imbolc                                                         Woodpecker Moon

In what is, I suppose, a good sign, I’m getting fed up with this latest round of melancholy.  As I tried to do my Latin today, my ability to focus just wasn’t there.  The holding of one idea in my head while tracking down another seemed too hard.   I shook my head–ridding it of the annoyance I felt–and went upstairs for lunch.

I have begun a look back and now find that my melancholic episodes probably started in high school and have continued, largely unnoticed, until now.  I say unnoticed because they were usually not incapacitating, though in one instance around 1975 I can recall sitting in a chair for days on end, unable to stop unraveling the patterns in the wallpaper.

I believe I have experienced them as periods of slowing, waning interest or perhaps an unusual run of irritability, but not as episodes cycling through my life, a constant dysthymic hum, sometimes in the background and other times dominant, changing the course of things in my day to day world.

Of course, these cycles interlaced with my drinking, my failed marriages, my occasional angry outbursts.  Perhaps they only reinforced these troubled times or, perhaps, they created some of them.  I don’t know.

If this is right, and I’m pretty sure it is, it also means that I dealt with the death of my mother in 1964 influenced by these cycles.  It is my belief now that the charged, dark feelings of that difficult time still come along for the ride, packed in a baggage car as the melancholy train pulls into the station.

These complicated threads make these cyclic turns difficult to sort out, place in perspective.  It also makes them difficult, as a direct result, to get any particular treatment for.

Anyhow, out there, tomorrow or maybe the next day or if not then soon, the heaviness will lift and I’ll be able to get back to the incredible lightness of being.

The Wide World and Beyond

Imbolc                                                  Woodpecker Moon

A friend, who, like me, recently turned 65, said to me, “I just realized there’s so much to learn.  For example, I don’t know anything about China.”  This is an intelligent, well-read guy.  Hard to imagine someone waking up to the amount of things they don’t know at age 65, but I guess this is a true instance of better late than never.

For some reason this makes me recall those little orange biographies that used to sit in the library, though whether the public or school, I don’t recall.  Not too long, they offered a quick glimpse into famous american’s lives.  The content has either been absorbed or long forgotten, but the world they opened up, a world of people and places I had never experienced, remains.

I mention them because there were so many side streets on the boulevard of learning, some of which I knew well, most poorly, but they were in my consciousness from a very young age.

Another guy, also a friend, said recently that he’d decided if he hasn’t learned it now, he doesn’t need it.  Following that thought he went on to say that he was “giving up introspection.”  In the ensuing explanation it turned out he was really throwing away self-help books, other peoples ways.

In fact, what he was doing was allowing himself to start introspection.  Only when we go into ourselves without a guide, no training wheels, just you and the you you carry along, can we begin to make progress.  The Delphic Oracle said it best, “Know thyself.”

I’ve read people recently who say this is a bad idea, though I forget the arguments right now, but I’ve found it a very good idea.  A project still underway here at chez Ellis.

 

 

Yeah, You Betcha

Samain                        Moon of the Winter Solstice

Went out on an errand this afternoon as the sun began to set.  At 4:00 pm.  When I hit Round Lake, I saw a car in the rear view.  It had something on top.  A Christmas tree.  We have one of the metro’s favorite cut your own tree places about 6 miles north of us.

This triggered two memories.  The first, which you’ve encountered if you’ve traveled in the tropics during Christmas, is the jarring sight of Christmas trees, wreaths and lights all atwinkle at 80+ degrees.  In Rio they have applied to Guiness for certification of their floating Christmas tree in the big lake near the funicular for Corcovada (muy grande Jesus).  It’s supposed to be the biggest.  Among a crop of how many floating Christmas trees, I wonder?

An oddity I realized in Rio was that most of these Christmas decorations have a fir or pine as their exemplars.  That was the trigger with the Christmas tree on the car.  When I took my trip to Southeast Asia seven years ago, I was in Singapore at this time.  Same strange thing.  Christmas trees, wreaths, Christmas tree decorations all sprouting from vertical shopping malls in the air conditioned nation.

The second memory triggered by the car with the Christmas tree was the sight of golf carts all loaded up on flat bed trucks headed south for the winter season.  Soon we’ll have the rickety trucks coming to town piled high with cut wood sold door to door for fire places.

We do have a very distinct culture here and it’s visible to me right now, with South America so present to me.

One guy on the cruise asked me about ice fishing.  Seems the word of our palatial fish houses has spread to the larger world.

Yeh, you betcha, we’re our own culture up here.  For sure.

Where Have We Been? Where Are We Going?

Fall                                                                 Waning Autumn Moon

“Trying to determine what is going on in the world by reading newspapers is like trying to tell the time by watching the second hand of a clock.” – Ben Hecht

Keyhole history.  A standard assumption among historians.  Decades, even centuries, must pass before we can determine the relevance of particular events in the flow of human history.  Anything said, for example, about the George W. Bush presidency, relies more on bias and hunch that on historical context.

We judge poorly when we judge matters in which we have had some part, even if the part were only reading newspapers.  Hecht’s comment tells the story with a great metaphor.

 

(This picture of the Earth and Moon in a single frame, the first of its kind ever taken by a spacecraft, was recorded September 18, 1977, by NASAs Voyager 1 when it was 7.25 million miles (11.66 million kilometers) from Earth. The moon is at the top of the picture and beyond the Earth as viewed by Voyager. In the picture are eastern Asia, the western Pacific Ocean and part of the Arctic. Voyager 1 was directly above Mt. Everest (on the night side of the planet at 25 degrees north latitude) when the picture was taken. Voyager 1 was launched September 5, 1977 and Voyager 2 on August 20, 1977. JPL is responsible for the Voyager mission.)

Having said all that, let me give you two instances in which keyhole history does not have wait.  These photographs, amazing images, show historical moments that need no time to pass before their significance becomes clear.  

Here humanity achieves a perspective never before possible.  Ever.  Not in the entire history of the human race.  A view of earth from the surface of the moon, the famous 1968 shot by astronaut William Anders, and a God’s eye perspective, looking at our home and its sole satellite in one and the same moment.

Around 60,000 years ago or so homo sapiens left Africa, bound for other continents.  Over the next 45, 000 years this African animal had made its way onto all the continents of our planet and many of its islands.  Since then, we have populated these land masses.

(World map of human migrations, with the North Pole at center. Africa, harboring the start of the migration, is at the bottom right and South America at the far left. Migration patterns are based on studies of mitochondrial (matrilinear) DNA.  Numbers represent thousand years before present.  The blue line represents area covered in ice or tundra during the last great ice age.  The letters are the mitochondrial DNA haplogroups (pure motherly lineages))

Over the last 60,000 years our species has explored the planet’s nooks and crannies (at least those above the surface of the ocean), but in all that time we could never look at our planet whole.  We saw only parts at any one time, we looked at the second hands of earth’s totality.

We could see the moon whole, sort of, but we could never see our own home in the same way.  With William Anders earthrise photograph and the Voyager shot of the earth and moon, our human perspective could position earth and its satellite in the cosmos not through abstract conjecture but by simple visual observation.

Not only were we finally and truly out of Africa, we had gone beyond our planet’s comfortable precincts and into the unimaginable distances of space itself.

No, there is no need to wait on the historical significance of these photographs, we knew it the instant we saw them.