30 March 2009
It's Not Easy [Building a] Green[house].
Last Thursday and Friday, I helped my uncle put up this greenhouse model at his daughter's house in central CT. He got it this past autumn at a store-opening sale when it was ~$200 off that price. I'd been wanting to give him a hand with putting it up so I could see how its ease of assembly is, the durability of the design and how well it functions. I've been thinking about getting one ourselves to put on our woodlot. But I also wanted to help b/c he's a cool uncle to do things with --- great dry sense of humor, he's a great storyteller in the oral tradition, and in between it all, you learn some good construction tips. As Red Green says, "If the women don't find you handsome, they should at least find you handy!"
This model of greenhouse measures 10' x 12' and its peak is about 10'. Started by digging and leveling off the ground, which will eventually be filled with process gravel and/or bricks that will help pack the steel foundation in to secure it against winds, provide good drainage, etc. Once the foundation supports are in, the aluminum support rigging goes up, the clear polycarbonate (this is actually what bulletproof glass is made from) panels are laid in and secured by clips. That makes short shrift of what took about 16 hours total --- eight of which were in cold, off-and-on showers on Thursday. I usually wear rubber-coated garden gloves but in having to use small nuts and bolts, it was impossible. So, our fingers were fairly numb most of the time. But, perseverance is the key to almost anything. On Friday, we came back and finished up wearing T-shirts on a beautiful mid-60-degree day. If the weather was like that on Thursday we probably would have been done that day.
The directions left a lot to be desired. What pictures were included were mostly grainy CAD drawings. They didn't say that you had to slip in some bolts in the side brackets/roofing trusses until after they were all assembled. Nice, that. Often wound up having to undo bolts to add other brackets in. The door construction instructions did not say to slip in the polycarbonate panels in during assembly. We had to cut 1/4" off of some of the panels so they would fit properly at the vents. And there was one very short abstract sentence in the instructions about installing the vent brackets that was about as helpful as a hemorrhoid. Required some spatial reasoning (which is often the trick to problem-solving, I find) but that didn't hold us down for long. I was also surprised to see that this product included quite a few spare parts --- nuts, bolts, the metal clips, rubber gaskets, and plastic whatzits. Usually, you find out too late that you're missing parts and you have to mickey-mouse it.
As the neighbors sauntered over, there were the requisite marijuana jokes.... But no, none of that. I've never done illegal drugs in my life and I'm going to keep it that way. Come to think of it, I'm not too keen on the legal drugs, either.
It'd be nice to have a place to start out some vegetable and flower seeds in early spring, be able to grow some things during the winter, and maybe keep a Venus flytrap to impress the visitors. It seemed to be of good quality, but again, I'll wait a while and see what the final verdict is on this greenhouse's functioning and how it holds up to the weather.
Masterpiece in the Making
It was a farmer's holiday today (that is to say... it was raining) and I had the television on to PBS for most of the day in the background while I did some household chores. Then, I heard the Masterpiece Classic theme music trumpet and I looked up to see that David Copperfield (1999) was beginning. I missed it when it aired a couple of weeks ago (and was told then that the pledge-drive cut-ins made it almost unbearable), so I was pleased to find that it ran both parts without interruptions.
I've become a big fan of Masterpiece Theatre (now shortened to Masterpiece followed by subsections of Mystery!, Classic and Contemporary each airing at different sections of the year) in the time since we've went to over-the-air only television. PBS is nearly our only respite for prime-time shows, aside from LOST on ABC. Since getting the HDTV near the holidays, there was the fear that television viewing would skyrocket and the electricity bill would follow, but I find that I'm watching it less than ever. It may be a combination of the previously stated dearth of good programming and that standard definition broadcasts look terrible in comparison when you've seen HD programs. I've been reading quite a bit more recently than I have in a while. Reading more printed books, specifically. Dashed through the Lord of the Rings series and am starting to re-read Sister Carrie for a reason that I'm going to keep quiet for now. Oh... well... no one reads this anyway, so I will say it. I'm intending to write an adapted screenplay. There now, what do you think? I doubt anything will come of it, but I'd like to try my hand at it. There are a lot of ways scenes from this novel would be friendly to film, ways it has much relevance to today's world, and it would be nice to see Theodore Dreiser get some recognition through a continued revival of his works, and blow a little dust off of the 1940s adaptation.
I guess that's why I'm liking Masterpiece so much and why many more movies/films lately are adaptations. It takes classic works of fiction and breathes some new life into them in the modern form of story. Let's face it, the only way most people will ever hear about Carrie, Hurstwood, et al is in movie version. Studios seem to be gravitating more toward adaptations for financial reasons as well --- it takes a known work, presumably with some following, therefore increasing chances of success. I would add that this pecuniary interest is also a reason why we're seeing so many remakes of classic movies in recent years. But I'm also of a mind to say that, creatively, we're running short on good ideas for new stories. Conceptually, we're hitting a dead end. That's not to say that some new work or other will be a smashing success and blaze its own path. But, original ideas for story, new characters facing new situations in unexplored territory and new things to discuss --- I can't say that's happening. This country and this writing world is largely stagnant. And in the face of that, the powers that be are frequently turning to the past.
Anyway, David Copperfield was fair enough. Big screen names, contemporary and one, Daniel Radcliff, who has become a "star" since. Then, the first part of Little Dorrit was featured tonight. I'm finding that the Dickens dramas this year (and Bleak House a couple of years back) are quite approachable on-screen. Oliver Twist (2007) started off with its first hour quite colorful with catchy accordion-like music that lightened the darkness of the goings-on (Oliver's betrayal at the hands of the Artful Dodger and Fagin). The second half went straight into the darkness, though --- Fagin essentially becomes a Jewish martyr, choosing to hang rather than "accept Christ," Sykes displays the violence he had mostly threatened while Dodger, at the end, starts on Sykes' same path. Oliver's rescue by the beautiful, unswerving Rose and Mr. Brownlow didn't leave me with a particularly feel-good ending. More like, is the point that our lot in life teeters on a small edge that can tip either way, and that we are largely a product of our surroundings. This is despite the dialogue from Oliver intending to show that gentlemanly manners are an innate quality that come through even in the most desperate of circumstances.
I've become a big fan of Masterpiece Theatre (now shortened to Masterpiece followed by subsections of Mystery!, Classic and Contemporary each airing at different sections of the year) in the time since we've went to over-the-air only television. PBS is nearly our only respite for prime-time shows, aside from LOST on ABC. Since getting the HDTV near the holidays, there was the fear that television viewing would skyrocket and the electricity bill would follow, but I find that I'm watching it less than ever. It may be a combination of the previously stated dearth of good programming and that standard definition broadcasts look terrible in comparison when you've seen HD programs. I've been reading quite a bit more recently than I have in a while. Reading more printed books, specifically. Dashed through the Lord of the Rings series and am starting to re-read Sister Carrie for a reason that I'm going to keep quiet for now. Oh... well... no one reads this anyway, so I will say it. I'm intending to write an adapted screenplay. There now, what do you think? I doubt anything will come of it, but I'd like to try my hand at it. There are a lot of ways scenes from this novel would be friendly to film, ways it has much relevance to today's world, and it would be nice to see Theodore Dreiser get some recognition through a continued revival of his works, and blow a little dust off of the 1940s adaptation.
I guess that's why I'm liking Masterpiece so much and why many more movies/films lately are adaptations. It takes classic works of fiction and breathes some new life into them in the modern form of story. Let's face it, the only way most people will ever hear about Carrie, Hurstwood, et al is in movie version. Studios seem to be gravitating more toward adaptations for financial reasons as well --- it takes a known work, presumably with some following, therefore increasing chances of success. I would add that this pecuniary interest is also a reason why we're seeing so many remakes of classic movies in recent years. But I'm also of a mind to say that, creatively, we're running short on good ideas for new stories. Conceptually, we're hitting a dead end. That's not to say that some new work or other will be a smashing success and blaze its own path. But, original ideas for story, new characters facing new situations in unexplored territory and new things to discuss --- I can't say that's happening. This country and this writing world is largely stagnant. And in the face of that, the powers that be are frequently turning to the past.
Anyway, David Copperfield was fair enough. Big screen names, contemporary and one, Daniel Radcliff, who has become a "star" since. Then, the first part of Little Dorrit was featured tonight. I'm finding that the Dickens dramas this year (and Bleak House a couple of years back) are quite approachable on-screen. Oliver Twist (2007) started off with its first hour quite colorful with catchy accordion-like music that lightened the darkness of the goings-on (Oliver's betrayal at the hands of the Artful Dodger and Fagin). The second half went straight into the darkness, though --- Fagin essentially becomes a Jewish martyr, choosing to hang rather than "accept Christ," Sykes displays the violence he had mostly threatened while Dodger, at the end, starts on Sykes' same path. Oliver's rescue by the beautiful, unswerving Rose and Mr. Brownlow didn't leave me with a particularly feel-good ending. More like, is the point that our lot in life teeters on a small edge that can tip either way, and that we are largely a product of our surroundings. This is despite the dialogue from Oliver intending to show that gentlemanly manners are an innate quality that come through even in the most desperate of circumstances.
18 March 2009
The Underwater Canoe
By James Dufresne
A whitish blob suspended just beneath the blue-brown water in the afternoon sun leads me to reason that it is the same canoe that two days ago loosed from its mooring and was filled by the heavy early spring rains and dipped down, down, down and disembarked.
As the blob continues on its path midway through the islands’ strait, the mind daydreams about the currents being navigated through the underwater, icy cold after a winter in deep freeze. Who are its paddlers? Who provides the strength to complement the steering?
The sunken canoe makes no noise as it glides, even when beaten upon the underwater boulders forming the foot of the island. Fullness muffles the clunks an empty boat on the surface would drum and echo for all the summer cottage owners who rake their pale lawns.
Afloat, occupants would wave to these laborers and slightly judge neighbors by a yard’s appearance. The condition of the lake bed spoke of lazy tenants --- leaves not raked, the soil swathed with freshwater elodea, fishing gear and dog poop left on the ice that sunk as litter and waste.
The canoe slips past all with no destination, no purpose that people contrive for making such a voyage in a thin vessel. It swims past redds that will soon house bass eggs, silent now as a Great White that lake children imagined lurking behind them as they swam, zigzags of Brownian motion in the liquid clear.
As the blob continues on its path midway through the islands’ strait, the mind daydreams about the currents being navigated through the underwater, icy cold after a winter in deep freeze. Who are its paddlers? Who provides the strength to complement the steering?
The sunken canoe makes no noise as it glides, even when beaten upon the underwater boulders forming the foot of the island. Fullness muffles the clunks an empty boat on the surface would drum and echo for all the summer cottage owners who rake their pale lawns.
Afloat, occupants would wave to these laborers and slightly judge neighbors by a yard’s appearance. The condition of the lake bed spoke of lazy tenants --- leaves not raked, the soil swathed with freshwater elodea, fishing gear and dog poop left on the ice that sunk as litter and waste.
The canoe slips past all with no destination, no purpose that people contrive for making such a voyage in a thin vessel. It swims past redds that will soon house bass eggs, silent now as a Great White that lake children imagined lurking behind them as they swam, zigzags of Brownian motion in the liquid clear.
14 March 2009
A Special Stone for a Special Friend
My dog, Sammy Whoopka, died last 29 June (just about a week after my grandfather), and at the time, I wrote a short eulogy to send by email to inform some of the people who knew and loved him. I will include the text of my email below. It has been almost 9 months since that time and the loss still feels fresh at times. I miss my little boy terribly.
There is a show running on PBS with Dr. Daniel G. Amen titled "Magnificent Mind at Any Age" where he mentioned that people suffering from grief can have "crushing chest pain." When I saw this last week, I was relieved that there wasn't anything abnormal with the pressure I'd felt for some time afterward but which seems to be gone now. The grieving process has moved at its own pace. Just after the holidays, I finally brought myself to wipe off his nose prints on the glass door. I've done small tokens, like putting his collar around the fireplace mantel picture of him and Mack (not explained above, b/c it was directed toward those who knew... Mack is Sammy's sire (father) from the first of three litters of German Shorthaired Pointers my family raised).
This week, I placed a headstone on his grave. After picking out a nice stone from my collection --- a rather large (about 70 pounds, as a fair guess) piece of black-flecked granite from Maine, we gave it to an engraver that we know and got it back several weeks ago. But the weather hadn't been very good until this week where the snows seem to have finally melted for good this year. Below is a picture of the stone in the back of the Jeep:
As for the quote, it is from the song passage quoted above --- the song I have most linked to Sammy (YouTube link to the Eva Cassidy definitive version). When I try to get a mental picture, I think most about the closing scenes of "Gladiator" with the main character waving his hands over the golden field and re-uniting, through death, with his wife and son. If I had a choice, that is the exact afterlife I would desire.
I walked it in by myself (don't worry about me, I'm quite used to carrying large stones) and laid it on Sammy's grave, tilted upon the large boulder under whose foot we buried him. To the poets, I guess this act is kind of metaphoric for carrying the burden of my loss and now being able to lay it down. I wish it were only that easy. People who say, "It's just a dog" just don't get it. I still carry the memories I shared above, and so many more that didn't make it for the sake of brevity. There's no setting them down and simply walking away.
Sammy Whoopka20 June 1996 - 29 June 2008
We had to put my Sammy Whoopka down on Sunday.
We went out to WNY for my grandfather's (Pakka, as we called him) funeral. That was enough to cope with in itself, and now it comes as a triple blow. Sammy seemed fine the whole time up at the farm --- we walked through all the fields Monday before last, something I’d never done before, and with 300+ acres of corn fields, alfalfa and cut hay drying on the ground it was no small jaunt --- and right when we got back home, I put his brown memory foam bed down for him, he plopped down on it, and after that it was a devil of a time for him to move his hind legs to go outside. I thought he was just fatigued by the trip or that his hips were sore from the car ride… it's happened before and he was back to himself in a couple of days. I called the vet on Friday afternoon and couldn't get in until Saturday morning... and at 3 a.m., he was whimpering, breathing hard, couldn't move and could barely open his eyes. I felt so helpless while he was in so much pain. Took him to the vet and the bad news came in small steps over the next day, culminating in X-rays showing a grapefruit-sized tumor near his bladder and the course they tried did nothing and he was still not responsive and needed pain medicines. And then on Sunday afternoon, I had to do right by him and be there just as I was when he came into this world. We said our last goodbyes, I cried my eyes out, opened his eyes so he could see me, pet his head, massaged his ears and told him he was a good boy and he could go see Mack and Sara and Pakka, and I stayed with him as the vet injected the barbiturates. Jerry carried him to the car and we buried him right close to Mack on the property.
The name Sammy Whoopka was a creation of my grandfather's that he named his dogs since he was in Holland. When asked what it meant, he simply said, "Whoopka is Whoopka." I’m not sure if that meant there's no translation for it from Dutch… or my thought, since I’ve always come up empty in searches, that it's an original word. And boy, did that original word describe an original dog! I remember the time up in Maine when he thought he was running into tall brush that was on level ground at the side of the road. He dropped off into the culvert, and bounded right back up in a flash, soaking wet, looking backward, with that look on his face as to say, "What the $%&@ was THAT!?!?" I tested it later, and that water was butt cold, even though it was summer. How he would leap into the water stretched entirely horizontal like Superman (pre-accident, as he couldn’t do that with his ‘special’ foot). Or how he would nudge the bathroom door open to peek that earned him the "Sammy the Pervert" nickname. How he'd sometimes “go out walkin' after midnight” when we let him out to do his final pee of the day. How he didn’t like people rough-housing, even for play, and would bark until the fighting stopped. That you didn’t need to call him twice (or even once) to eat something that had fallen on the floor, to go along with his expectation of cookies. Being the only dog I’ve ever seen that would allow himself to be vacuumed. Or the time when he caught a Canada goose in his mouth down in the boat launch and his eyes said, "Got it!.... What do I do now?!?" I've been trying to think on those kinds of memories... but then there are those brief flashes, like when people have been setting off fireworks (which, along with lightning, he got really worked up and panicky about) when my inner monologue is thinking "Oh no, Sammy's going to..." and then it's just a hot rush of tears. This house feels so empty now.
I'm not one to read into coincidences carrying great meaning, but my worldview has been changing. I think that the last Whoopka stayed here on earth just long enough to know that Pakka was properly taken care of, and then he called all of his Whoopkas to him. And then, how curious that Sammy had to leave us a year to the day --- nay, the hour --- that our Mack was relieved of his pain. I had been thinking of it relating to my Pakka and Beppa, but Sting’s song "Fields of Gold" has just as much relevance to Sammy and our walk last week: "You can tell the Sun in his jealous sky that we walked in fields of gold .../... We’ll walk in fields of gold." I'm so glad we made that last great memory.
There is a show running on PBS with Dr. Daniel G. Amen titled "Magnificent Mind at Any Age" where he mentioned that people suffering from grief can have "crushing chest pain." When I saw this last week, I was relieved that there wasn't anything abnormal with the pressure I'd felt for some time afterward but which seems to be gone now. The grieving process has moved at its own pace. Just after the holidays, I finally brought myself to wipe off his nose prints on the glass door. I've done small tokens, like putting his collar around the fireplace mantel picture of him and Mack (not explained above, b/c it was directed toward those who knew... Mack is Sammy's sire (father) from the first of three litters of German Shorthaired Pointers my family raised).
This week, I placed a headstone on his grave. After picking out a nice stone from my collection --- a rather large (about 70 pounds, as a fair guess) piece of black-flecked granite from Maine, we gave it to an engraver that we know and got it back several weeks ago. But the weather hadn't been very good until this week where the snows seem to have finally melted for good this year. Below is a picture of the stone in the back of the Jeep:
As for the quote, it is from the song passage quoted above --- the song I have most linked to Sammy (YouTube link to the Eva Cassidy definitive version). When I try to get a mental picture, I think most about the closing scenes of "Gladiator" with the main character waving his hands over the golden field and re-uniting, through death, with his wife and son. If I had a choice, that is the exact afterlife I would desire.
I walked it in by myself (don't worry about me, I'm quite used to carrying large stones) and laid it on Sammy's grave, tilted upon the large boulder under whose foot we buried him. To the poets, I guess this act is kind of metaphoric for carrying the burden of my loss and now being able to lay it down. I wish it were only that easy. People who say, "It's just a dog" just don't get it. I still carry the memories I shared above, and so many more that didn't make it for the sake of brevity. There's no setting them down and simply walking away.
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