Lifescapes (long)

[Roger Stouff]

Thinking about Dasboat this morning first thing when I woke up. Wondering how it is people who've never met face-to-fact can get so attached, get so mad, get so agitated, get to be such great friends.

My grandfathers used to make sure their children knew everything about themselves. A proper introduction was your entire lineage back several generations, on both sides. Those days are gone. But in thinking this morning, I tried to imagine Darryl's world, the places where his feet trod, the places he rode waves and air...his lifescapes. If I could envision them, I feel I'd know him better.

Would you all feel like sharing your lifescapes with all of us? I'd like to see in my mind's eye the world you see. Here, then, is mine, in humble offering:

From my back door, I pass across roughly three acres of land toward Bayou Teche. There, in the center of the back yard, is a huge old live oak. Botanists at USL estimate it to be 550 years old. It was here, then, before Columbus. Down to the ridge, the bayou meanders, muddy and brown. "Teche" is a Chitimacha word, means snake. If you'll come ride with me, I'd be honored. We'll board a 12' wooden bateau on this bank, the boat my father built two years before I was born.

We move southeast down Bayou Teche now, just a short ways, then take an abrupt northerly turn. If we continued on the prior route, we could follow the Teche all the way to the Atchafalaya River, or to the Gulf of Mexico. But today, we'll turn north, following a manmade channel a mile or so, until it reaches a set of locks which sever the Atchafalaya Basin Protection Levee. If we could cross the levee, into Grande Lake, we would be right at Ama'tpan na'mu, a village now used as a boat ramp.

People around here call it "The Beach" because of the millions of tons of white clamshell which the Indians laid there to form a foundation for the village.

But we'll turn to the west now, moving down the borrow pit along the levee, until we reach Grand Avoille Cove.

A little bay off Grande Lake. It was so named by the Spanish because of the flat-topped lillies which used to abound there, which they called "avoille". The south bank was Sho'ktangi ha'ne hetci'nsh, "pond lily worship place," the central religious center of the nation. In the 1930s, it was dredged for the shell, and human skeletons fell out of the dredges by the hundreds. They were tossed into the lake. My dad used to take me here, in this same little boat you and I are in now, and I'd wade around, picking up bits of pottery with my toes.

Up in the northest corner there, the two small waterways? Those are Sawmill Bayou. There was a huge lumber operation here which thrived until the Depression, when it went out of business literally overnight. An entire "boom" of timber, 1,000 logs, sank right at the mouth of Sawmill Bayou. You can still see them when the tide is low, and they've claimed many a lower unit. Down on the southeast corner, you can still see the remnants of a huge cypress barge which sank there. In the 1940s, when dad was building his house, he came here and took massive cypress timbers from the derelict, brought them home and shaped them to frame the house. Over the remnants of the barge, someone has nailed one of many, many signs to a cypress tree: "POSTED: GRANDE AVOILLE PRESERVE NO TRESSPASSING." Don't tell anyone, but sometimes I go ashore at Sho'ktangi ha'ne hetci'nsh. Possession is meaningless. My ancestors are here, and no one will keep me from it.

We'll leave the cove now, and continue north to the Lac du la Fausse Point. Lake Fausse Point and the remants of Grand Lake across the levee were once one huge lake. The levee destroyed most of the other side, and siltation has reduced it to a network of shallow, winding channels. There used to be two big islands between the Fausse Pointe and Grand Lake, called Big Pass and Little Pass. It was always said that the infamous pirate Jean Laffite used these islands as a hideout.

On the north shore, this tiny natural canal, is Peach Coulee. The entire right bank is Indian mound. I have never found a shred of pottery here, not a single sliver of flint. It's a mysterious, haunting place. The stories which come out of here! I myself have seen things which terrified me here. The locals used to build camps out here, but they always burned down mysteriously. A metal detector will not function in Peach Coulee. Notice, as we move down the canal, the trees are moving so slightly. But feel...there is no wind. This is one of the "empty places" as the old people called it. A place which was somehow...different. The signs around it are absolute now: "NO TRESSPASSING: PEACH COULEE HUNTING CLUB." I sometimes drop tobacco on the bank, but I never go ashore here.

A bit further is Sandy Cove, then Taylor's Point and Eagle Point. We can wrap back around the lake, pass Cotton Canal and Cotton Point, so named for the abundance of cottonmouth snakes there. Now and then, you'll see a patch of white clamshell. These are my legacies. Stop for a moment, here. See that little bayou? That's Bayou Jean Lewis. In the Civil War, the landowner Martial Sorrell would sneak supplies for the confederacy up the Atchafalaya River, across the lake, to this little bayou, where wagons would be waiting to carry ammunition and such away under cover of darkness. While he was away doing his service to the the rebellion, he hired one Jean Pierre Stouff to manage his affairs on the estate.

There, that big cypress with the hollow in the center. Dad and I sat here one time, in this little boat, and caught enough bluegill as big as your hand to fill the livewell! If we continued farther north, we'd enter Lake Dautrieve, also part of the giant lake this once was before the levee, but we'll double back now, return past Grande Avoille Cove, back down the borrow pit, through Bayou Teche, back to Charenton, the reservation, the place we used to call Tcat kasi'tunshki, which I now call home.

Thanks for riding with me today. I'd like to take a boat across your world one day, or a walk, or a car, or a truck. I'd be honored if you'd show it me.

Regards from the Rez,
RStouff

[John R Smith]

Thank you, Roger. A great trip.

How's about some photos to go with it, one day?

smile.gif John

[Wayne Jeffers]

Life is, indeed, a journey. Thanks, Roger, for transporting us along on a snippet of yours. Beautifully told. smile.gif

A fitting tribute to Darryl.

You know, John, this may be one of those instances where visual pictures would detract from the imagery. I'm not sure any photo could do justice to the picture painted in my mind's eye by Roger's beautiful prose.

Wayne

[Alan D. Hyde]

Well said, Roger.

A good memorial to a man who merits a good memorial, and also an honor to its writer.

Thank you.

Alan

[Andrew]

Applause.

[Thad]

Most appreciated! If you come this way we could take a little cruise. Most of the ancient knowledge of this area has been pretty well obscured.

[John Teetsel]

A wonderful trip Roger. Thanks. I used to fly over that area from Lafayette on my way to and from the rigs in the Gulf. It’s a foreboding area from the air, and though you make it sound even more so, it’s also beautiful.

I was thinking about Das as I went to sleep last night and thought, “What a great man he was that so many people could love him as we do and yet know so little of him. I wish I knew other people on the forum better, because I really like so many of them.” Then you provide us with this.

My mother was born and raised in a small fishing village on the western shore of Lake Winnipeg. The name of the town is Gimli. In Icelandic it means Paradise. She was sort of in the middle of a large family of 13 children born to an Icelandic settler and his bride who immigrated in the 1880’s and managed to eek out a living as a farmer and cattle breeder in the rich black soil of the Manitoba plains. I am very proud to say that I too was born in Gimli and, though not raised there, spent almost every summer of my boyhood adventuring with my many cousins in the forests, meadows, streams and lakes of that beautiful countryside. We would hunt frogs or rabbits for lunch and cook them up in a skillet we kept in an old abandon barn out by Amma’s (Icelandic for grandma) old farm. (We also had our stash of cigarettes out there.) Or we’d fish from the pier where our uncle Gustie kept his fishing fleet tied up. Gustie was quite the fellow… fisherman, inventor, and real estate magnate. If you ever visit the Icelandic museum in Gimli, (on the site of his former fishery) you’ll see a contraption that he invented. It’s a means to pull a line under the ice from one hole in the lake to another. Once you’ve got a line strung, you can string a net. Once you’ve strung a net, you can fish all through the winter, make a ton of money, hire your brothers to build fleets of boats and make another ton of money fishing through the summer then move into real estate so you don’t have to freeze your ass off hauling nets under a frozen lake. My uncles are how I come to my interest in wooden boats. Gustie ran a fleet of twenty or so thirty plus footers and made a fortune with the fishery. My mother and aunts worked in the fishery and mended the nets while my uncles built, maintained and fished the boats. Uncle Barney built the boats in a long narrow shop. He’d have up to three boats at a time under construction and my cousins and I would wander through the shop hip deep on oak shavings until we’d get chased out and go adventuring somewhere else. The first boat I made is named, “the Spirit of Gimli.”

My father was in the US Air Force and met my mom while stationed at the RCAF air station in Gimli. A few years after I was born, we moved to Tripoli in Libya, then back to the States, then all around the States, then moved some more. The travels of an Air Force brat. When my dad retired and stopped moving, I joined the Army to become a helicopter pilot and continued my adventuring as an attack helicopter pilot in Vietnam, the DMZ of Korea, then a trip to Iran just in time to witness the Great Islamic Revolution. I returned to the Army helicopter training center in Alabama as an instructor pilot but found it pretty boring and got out of the service. I changed careers and moved to Phoenix 19 years ago. I haven’t moved since.

Arizona's lakes can’t match Canada's but I do get to sail. My boat shop will never rival uncle Barney’s, but I make my share of shavings. I’ll never have anything like uncle Gustie’s fleet, but I am working on number two. Harmony is her name.

Thanks again Roger.

So long Das. I’ll miss you. (Sigh...)

[Roger Stouff]

No, sir. Thank your for sharing with us. I see your world, perhaps from my own perspective, but it gives the man behind the monicker on this computer screen more dimension.

I imagine Das is smiling.

[Wild Dingo]

Its hard to give a perspective of life... simply due to the variants involved.

Life around here in Mandurah is somewhat different than in Carnarvon which is somewhat different to the mission out near Gascoyne Junction, again this is different to life as a kid growing up in Adelaide and moving to small town Chidlow in my younger years, then again all thats different to life in Darwin during my young 20s Meekatharra in my teens, Alice Springs in the in between years, all have such a diverse tapestry of life that I think I would struggle to show in words... All these places are my home... Mandurah were we live is home for now, while we are here... Carnarvon my home because its where I belong, the mission is home because its where I came from... the others were home while we were there... lifes tapestry.

The waters of life move slowly over the tapestry that make up our lives, myrriad times and places, people and creatures, smiles and joys, laughter and tears, sunshine and darkness... waves of differing things come and go, ebb and flow throughout the days... till finally the ebb of the flow of life within us slowly passes and we move toward the other side into a new realm of experience... its lifes tapestry into which we are all drawn.

Yours is different to mine although tis similar in ways... its differences ours to hold, share and enjoy... expressing what it is within our lives that make it rich and whole is more difficult, than to tell a tale or story about events close to home, for in reality we are imparting a part of ourselves...

I could tell you of the wonder of life around the mission of brilliant sunsets, red glows turning to orange as the orb of the sun slowly sinks below the horizon, of the great granddaddy roo who stands sentinel on the distant dune and silluettes in the darkening night, bounding away as a noise is heard... I can tell you these things paint you a picture if you will....

I could tell you of the wonder of sitting on the shore at the estuary bank, as the sun rises in the piccinini dawn, phlorestent streaks flowing behind the small fishin fleet, as they head for home... their bows low in the water their haul complete, the sun rises warm and bright as another day begins... I can tell you a picture of these things...

I can tell you a picture of life in the bush with the kookaburra laughter echoing above in the high canopy, the sound of the leaf litter underfoot as it moves to the dance of the slithering snake or perhaps the bandicoot? I could tell of his bounding stride as he races from his hide to forage amidst the ferns and folage of the undergrowth... Pictures I could tell of such as these...

Of seeing a dingo in the distance standing proud and silent, watching, ever alert as you come nearer, till suddenly he lopes away into the desert scrub...

But life as I live it I find hard to do, for life as I live it comes quickly and then is gone, a fleeting time spent doing things that needs be done... at later times this can be told, but often with tongue in cheek or a glimmer of a smile, a joke, a touch of laughter to make a story come alive...

Life... what a tapestry

Take it easy
Shane

[Bill Perkins]

Roger I like your idea of marking Darryl's passing in this way . In that spirit , here's a vignette from my life in Atlanta .

Rising early I wash and dress ; then step , waking , into the cool dawn air . I'm headed for a job in Sandy Springs so I've postponed breakfast to beat the crosstown traffic .

Where I turn onto Mclendon St. a bus is taking on passengers. Its interior glows florecently bright in the dim morning . The busy promotions of advertisers line the walls "Comfort Furniture ", beers , " Coke", " Dental World - Extractions , Fillings , and Crowns " . The people pay and take their seats as I pass . With doors pressed shut , the tight capsule of commercial wakefullness is trucked toward the sleepy city .

My mind takes in the street in a leisurely sequence of perceptions .Spring flowers and shrubs are blooming everywhere ,
their colors intensified by a lush green background. A large Spruces handsome and broody presence is temporarily upstaged . The porch and gable house fronts give way to a deep vista along a block wide park . The white posts of the bus stops calibrate the changeing scene and the commuters , waiting for the coming bus , reference my passage with their numerical decline . Small groups are secceeded by threesomes and pairs . A young boy figits distractedly beside his mother ; a single woman reads her book ; and finally , there is no one .

I rise and fall on the streets smooth inclines, a reminder of the trolly tracks that lie below . I saw and touched them once where they lay exposed by wear , just inches
down , set in the light tan pavement a few side streets still retain . The wooden bungalows of the neighborhood are mostly intact , and the small commercial centers still remain ; brick built and spaced just right , so they're not redundant , yet every household ( 1920's ) could send a child for milk or bread .


Up ahead , dreaming in the Spring fragrance , a man stands waiting for the bus . I rush by , and nearing a major intersection , think ahead of the various routes to my destination .

The atmosphere is briefly parted by my trucks blunt body , then falls back in place . The slight concussion shocks the greenery , drawing fresh petals and old leaves into the street . An eddy of wind springs up , rolls lightly against the dogwoods , then dissipates in the still morning air .

The man is roused , as if by a recollection . He turns from revery - to
Expectation . Leans Out past phone pole , tree , and flower ; to peer: down the aisle through which I've come .

[Norske1]

THANK YOU BILL, ROGER AND THE AUSSIE DINGO......AND AS WAYNE SAID...WE DON'T NEED PICTURES...THEY WOULD ONLY ERASE THE IMAGERY CREATED IN OUR MINDS BY THE "GRAPHIC WORDS".

A TV news man once commented about a young girl being asked about TV and radio..."Young lady which do you like better? She said "I like radio because the pictures are better".... smile.gif

[Wild Dingo]

I dont know but Ive been thinking again... yeah bit of a mad thing that :eek: ...

But anyways I figured I would give me fingers a bit of a go at trying to paint some pictures... My small attempt at what others can do so well, I hope the "paints" of my words are up to the task set so well by Roger, John and Bill...

Morning breaks around here at whats known as sparrow fart that is piccaninni dawn just prior to the major glow of the suns raising in the east... lifting my soggy brained matted haired head I look out the window, theres a blue wren flittering between the flowers on the geraldton wax plant between the fragrant frangipani and the yellow golden flowering roses... chasing nectar as its day begins, chrystal drops of dew on all the colors.

Raising up, I listen to the raucus noises of the morning the lilting sounds of a daughter singing in the shower as she gets ready for the new day, noise levels begin to rise as the rest of the hoons get mobile and start making their breakfasts getting clothes doing hair and making sure the smaller ones are ready for their day, I smile and make my way into the shower to begin my day.

The warm smell of fresh brewed coffee wafts toward me as I walk down the hall, hoons yelling "gidday day dada" "hiya dad" "hey dad" and other aknowledgements of their "old man" again the smile as I sip the coffee and make my way out the glass sliding door onto the patio that I built with my own hands I run my fingers along the solid timber pole and look up into the canopy of the grove of tuarts that tower high above some 30 or 40 feet there comes a cocophony of sounds and flutterings of wings as a gaggle of 28s (lorrikeets) begin their happy, playfull day, bright greens, blues and yellow feathers displayed brilliantly among the leaves and branches of these fine old trees.

Eldest son comes walking out, holding in his hands the plastic container that holds the beef mince for our morning ritual, he whistles and I hold the mince between my fingers as we wait. Then with a flash of blue and silver grey the kookaburra flys down and sits on the perch I made just above eye height and sings his laughing song as I present him with his morning feed we laugh along with our cousin the kookaburra as this new day begins.

Suddenly the time has come for the elder kids to head of down the road heavy bags on their bent backs to spend another day at the grind of education, a wave a smile a laugh and they turn the corner and gone for another day, I smile at the kookaburra and he lifts his head and laughs as he takes to the wind.

I go to listen to the younger ones as they do their morning reading while the wife brushes hair and tidies the small, eager faces talking at a mile a minute, as I try to hear the words so hard won as the child reads the story that the teacher has set for her to do... finally its time for them to jump in the car and for the wife to drive them to the school to begin their new day... kisses hugs and a laughing wave and they have also gone.

Resting again against the pole on the patio, I try to take in the beauty of our "yard", wondering how to put it into words to paint a picture for my friends far and wide... a single frangipani stands to one side, its pure white and glowing yellow flowers, glistening with dew, colors bright in the fresh morning light, I look further and see the tangle of vines and ferns that we have begun to create for our "lower canopy", a small skink races across a large quilted leaf of some obscure named fern, jumping down it starts its morning search, as a line of ants marches ever onward across the rocks pebbles and braken that we have cultivated so hard over the short time we have lived within this space, the ancient blue tongue a decendant of the dinosour lays flicking its tongue as it ponderously moves around the garden looking for its morning breakfast.

Lavender, grape, grapefruit, passionfruit and orange trees flower brilliantly, soon to turn to fruit for all to enjoy, I notice the last of last years plantings of mango seeds have finally shot, and a small stem with double leaves now poke their heads above the soil, I know it shall take about 5 more years before a decent crop will be ready but, we are patient folks and for a mango will walk far and wide.

Today we decided to head out for a picnic at the waters edge so readying the basket with many things, chicken, bread, butter cucumber and tomatoe, a cheesecake that was made in the dark of night and a small bottle of white wine to enjoy in the shade of the eucalypts that line the banks of the slow moveing waters of the estuary. Getting the elder girls awake and off to work is more a chore than the small ones were but finally they also are gone and the day is finally ours.

Driving along the roads we travel the short distance to the waters edge for today we have no need to travel into town we go for the quieter spaces of the area known locally as Nairns.

Parking we look over the waters from bank to far off bank, the blue crystal waters move slowly along, no sign of pollution in the waters just glistening, ebbing flow from ocean to steam and back... one day it is my goal to sit upon a boat of my own making, weather sail or row I mind not, and just meander all over that water from one end of the inlet through the Pinjarra streams to the high far of waters of the Dwellingup dam... but today it is enough to be seated here with the sun shining, the waters glistening quietly and my lifes love beside me.

We head in for a swim and the water covers us in its cold, crisp, wet blanket, we swim for awhile and then slowly walk back toward the shore, looking down through the clear glass of the water, I see the rapid sideways movement of a blue manna crab and slowly following, I stop when he does until finally he sits at my feet, lowering myself slowly down into the water I keep my eye upon his blue back and then swiftly I reach under his back and lift him high out of the water, the sheer joy on the face of my beloved is a joy far more to behold than any other ever told, for she revells in this ancient way of my people to catch the crab, she brings the small bucket that lives in the car, and I put him in and start to seek out others of his kind in the area, when we finish we have 10 of these tasty morsels to cook and eat upon the fire I now light, the chicken now all but forgotten as the anticipation of the sweet succulent white flesh of the now perculating crabs.

We spent some beautiful quiet hours at the waters edge today... I dont know the history of the region that is called the Peel although it is rich in adventures, murders, intreague (sp?) and other things from the past... I know them not for this is not my land, but it is the land upon which we live and it is beautiful...

As a member of the Yamitjii tribe it was necessary for me to get permission from the elders of the local Noongah tribe before we could come to live among them, we could have just come and not said a word as we know others have done, but we sent the message and I met with the men and the wife with the women, and we were accepted to share this land with them... It is a fine land, a good land and a pleasant land. Noongah land.

My story of my land, Yamitjii land, is for another time for now this is enough, the story of a day spent awake, alive and free... I share it in memory of our friend das, and to share it with you all so you may have some idea of where I live, and a small picture of life here with me.

Take it easy
Shane Jody and the hoons

Valle Das and thanks for this posting my brother

[ 03-08-2002, 05:32 AM: Message edited by: Wild Dingo ]

[Ed Harrow]

In the spirit of Roger's piece…

I check my pockets and step out the side door into what I hoped would be gathering twilight. I walk across the asphalt driveway, the asphalt replacing the prior crushed stone that mixed so poorly with winter snows. To the northeast is Our Lady of St Phoenix, but my path leads me more to the southeast, across the front of the garage that we added, and around the once perfect spruce tree. A tree so perfect that we couldn't bear to cut it down when we added the garage, so instead we gave it a "mohawk". Tucked partially underneath, over on her belly for the winter, is our JY-15, Defiance. The luck of the draw made us Fleet 66, and Ft Defiance, on the Arizona/New Mexico border was on the original Rt 66. Last year she only got wet when it rained, maybe this year we'll do better. Her trailer is to the east, tucked under the row of white pines that we found out a few years ago, only approximates the dividing property line.

I continue walking, in a generally southerly direction, past Amanda's sandbox that is tucked under the protective maple. Her Uncle made it for her 15 or 16 years ago. He should have made it higher, but we never did. It is about here one steps across the amorphous boundary between "our property" and that of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. There is a path, just to the right of a small cedar, a diminutive reminder of the giant cedars that met the first white settlers in these parts. The path narrows, and pitches down a fairly steep slope, covered with pine needles from the white pines that populate this northwesterly corner of Whitehall State Park. To the west is the remnant of a vernal pool. When we moved here twenty years ago, a chorus of spring peepers serenaded us every spring. The pool was enshrouded by a number of oaks that sprang from acorns when, perhaps, Lincoln presided in the Whitehouse. The state and town allowed this pool to be used as a recipient of storm water run-off. The peepers are mostly gone, and most of the oaks are dead. The former drowned in silt, the later in water.

Descending the path, I step over the odd branch that has tumbled from overhead over the winter months. In another month or two lily of the valley will begin to show, and a month or so after that perhaps we'll be blessed with the lady slipper again. Down now, to the edge of the lake, surprisingly low for this time of year, I gaze out upon Weedy Cove. Given summer's prevailing winds much of the lake's flotsam and jetsam end up here. Several cedar stumps that have drifted in over the years lay hard aground. Not little twigs like their descendent referred to earlier, but 2.5 or 3' diameter trees, cut down nearly 400 years ago for the colonists' shingles. Raising my eyes, I see what appears to be the opposite shore, but is, in reality, a cluster of islands bearing names no more official than the cove before me. Beaver are out there now, possibly a fisherman or two, but the season is still early and the water, though unfrozen, is too cold for a dip, planned or otherwise. I could turn to the left, and if I did so, I'd eventually find myself in Rice's meadow, a large open expanse by the lake.

Instead, I turn right. The path leads by a small drumlin to the north, clothed in immature white pines, and still other victims of the state and town's stupidity, maples and an oak. The oak, though dead, is still standing. The lower ten or so feet of the maple are again upright, after I harvested the upper portions. The path, too, is a victim, having been washed out by the flooding stormwaters. It is now a crushed stone highway, being eroded by people riding dirt bikes and ATVs illegally in the park. The state appears disinterested in apprehending them. There is another very small clearing on the shores of the lake. Ruth Ward's house across the street, now empty, once stood here. Another few steps to the south and there, just to my right, is the well pipe that once serviced her house. Ruth is now living in a nursing home, her son selling her treasured history. We all wonder if Ruth knows, but she had become so cantankerous that we avoided her for years; no one is about to tell her.

Another step or two and there is a hand-dug gully. This ditch was dug long ago, presumably to control the water level in another lakeside pool. The path now heads up the side of an esker, a natural, high, levee that meanders along the westerly side of Lake Whitehall. Again I step over large branches that have been deposited across the trail and pick my way to the point where we used to go for a dip on hot summer days before the weeds encroached too close to the shore. Across the lake is the point where a doctor is alleged to have had romantic trysts with women other than his wife. There was a bunkhouse there, but I don't know who built it, or if it still stands. Beyond that is the eastern shore of Lake Whitehall, paralleled by Winter St, which once hosted the infamous Rattle Snake hill, but which has since been tamed by our over-ambitious highway department.

Hoping for a dark sky, punctuated by Saturn, Betelgeuse, and Rigel, instead I'm greeted by gray haze, softening the silhouettes of the islands and distant shores. I guess life is like that, hazy and not crisp. There is the faintest of breezes, just enough to rustle the odd remaining tree-born leaf. Out of my lrgy pocket I remove my saluting piece, unscrew the breach collar, and remove the "T" shaped breach. From my other pocket I remove the shell, insert it into the bore, carefully, and replace the breach and tighten the retaining collar. I pick my conch shell out of the bag I carried, and gave a blast that, I hoped, would get the god's of the heavens attention. I replaced the conch shell into the bag, and took out the ceremonial leather-covered mallet, not the rubber mallet that I usually use. I aimed the barrel skyward and struck the cascabal with the mallet. There was a small report, and flickering yellow flames, like those that sometimes pop from the ashes of a dying fire that gets a reprieving breath of oxygen, tickled the cannon's mouth. I watched the twinkling orange trail left by the shell as is streaked towards the heavens. For once, I think I have an understanding of the ancients' mystical visions of the evening sky's inhabitants. The orange trail ends with a brilliant flash, and the large boom that follows proceeds to reverberate across the lake, again, and again, and maybe, yes, but faintly, one more time. Perhaps you heard it?

I do a silent toast with port, a special bottle I've kept sequestered away for over twenty years. Oh, it's been out before, but not for the birth of our children, nor for funeral toasts, nor even for SWMBO jr's graduation after four arduous years at BUA, or Phoenix's arrival, had this bottle been opened. Only once, when I received my Master's, has the cork been out of this bottle. (hmmm, looking at the level there must have been another occasion)

I return the equipment to my pockets and bag and hurry on my way back along the trail. Knowing that the police department's switchboard is lighting up with every step, I smile, knowing that if Das was with me, he'd be laughing…

[ 03-08-2002, 08:12 PM: Message edited by: Ed Harrow ]

[Roger Stouff]

Ah, thank you all. I mean that. With every word, the canvas grows...my grandfathers were right. This is how we know one another. I am so grateful for these perceptions.

[Bill Perkins]

Shane I definitely got the picture . I urge you to start a stripper canoe Now .A tandem If your wife will come with sometimes . A couple can really move one of these , especially with double bladed paddles .You can ponder grander and more convoluted building projects as you work .

[Donn]

skiffs:

What are the huge nests in those trees?