miscellaneous

A GPS Tempest


It may be quite a blog folly to represent my highway travel along and through a storm with handheld, geo-positioning technology. But to my mind the visuals of the highway are less interesting -the rush of vehicles, the monotony of pavement. I chronicle the birth of a tropical storm just to the southeast of my earthly coordinates -represented by the blue and white dot in the fourth image. On July three I begin my northward journey via I95, a road which coarsely follows the coastline and parallels the typical path of storms like Arthur. Humans, currents, coastlines, atmospheric pressures all following the same path. 








Outer bands of hurricanes can often fool the spectator. We expect wind, but there is little to none, yet certain quadrants develop stronger storms and in the south they often spawn tornados. It was night, heavy thunderstorms were building rapidly over northern North Carolina, just an hour or so before the Virginia line. Scanning the radar, my concern grew over two cells that were developing just to the east of I95. These aren't the typical tornado radar signatures, in fact they had little in common with those -but something about them was menacing and I pulled off at the next exit ramp to study the situation.

I had the radio on, which was then interrupted by meteorological talk, talk of tornados in this county and that county. At one point they stated that a large and dangerous tornado is on the ground, but then backpedaled, while continuing to wait for reports and issue NWS warnings. If it weren't for my handheld, I'd have to dig into roadmaps to decipher which county I was even traveling through! As it turns out, two tornado warnings (issued when there is a confirmed sighting or when radar signatures suggest a possible tornado) were issued for the region just two miles and ten miles or so to my north, both potentially impacting I95, just ahead of me.

Tension was high, the rain was heavy, and the lightning powerful. I waited out the first warning and then had to make a decision on the second: turn west toward Raleigh, then north (although storms were building fast to the west as well), or go as fast as I can on I95 and hope that I make it ahead of the the warning area. This kind of storm creates a very dynamic, unstable condition that undermines predictability but I had to do something, so I chose I95, as fast as possible, to get ahead of the warning zone. I made it, just as the storms built behind me, the lightning flashing in my mirror.





 My arrival in NYC


A Day In New York



Dunce cap or party hat -depends on you.

Starts with the exercise bike. Seventy minutes later, clean up, feed the cat, and bag the garlic scapes. Subwayed to Columbus Circle and then 45 minutes with a subway barber named Nina. Aim for the middle-of-the-block corner deli for a salad and coffee before the 12:30 phone reference interview for a former student. He never called. One peeyem, conference call with Associate Dean and other stakeholders to express concerns and problem solve regarding upcoming fabrication lab expansion. Hightail to the subway, downtown bound -Union Square. On the platform I get an email congratulating me on meeting the enrollment requirement for my summer class Landscape and Meaning at Art New England -it runs! Subway comes, D train to Herald Square, up-ramp transfer to the NQR for Union Square.

Exit among the hoard of Greenmarketeers, then enter the luxuriously cool lobby of 200 Park Avenue South, up eleven flights to the offices of the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture to aye, pick up my Carrie Moyer print, bee, drop off my alumni donation, and cee, enjoy the company of the fine women who work there. Textzz-zz. Gotta go! Down, now, back through the refrigerated front lobby, to look for Marie who had come all the way to Union Square from Harlem. Why, in such heat? It was yesterday evening's three variety scape harvest from the remotely urban corner of NYC near the ocean to this on the verge chef, definitely author, forager, gardener, blogger and taste-maker extraordinaire. Hand off complete, we shot the sh#t in the exquisitely cooled foyer of 200 Park Avenue South for ten or fifteen minutes, walked toward the Greenmarket, and then I was off to the New York Studio School to meet an old Skowhegan colleague and painter, get a tour of the facility, meet the people that needed to be met, do my sloppy impersonation of an elevator pitchman, shoot the sh#t once again, and then cross wise to the West Fourth subway station for the ride home, where I now sit typing, but no sooner than it took to photograph the opening elephant garlic in the garden, carry in a muffler and pipe for our van, and throw some onions, sausages, and tomato in a pot that may churn into something that looks like dinner.


Green Shift




I do not have any pictures to bolster my observations, and long have I been aware of trees' change from bright, yellow green leaf coloration to the more deep, blue green of summer. It has happened, rather over night, and I think it was two nights ago when we had a three aye em thunderstorm that it tilted in favor of the summer coloration. Just a few days ago Greenwood's trees were still full of spring brilliance, but today they are fully summer green. I have nothing in the way of scientific observation, and I hardly think it requires a storm to push the trees to this state, but did it, can it?

I've gone on about the affect of thunderstorms on plant growth on these pages before, and so it is that the garden plant growth has also skyrocketed since Thursday's early morning storm. Right now, as a storm slowly moves to the southeast, I think again of the benefits of nitrogen fixing lightning, the boost the plants appear to gain. The garlic, given that both storms have traveled over the beach farm, should also look deep green, taller, and more turgid when I visit on Monday.

Cultivating Unlikely



Crossing Broadway, a couple of days ago, on my way to work. 

I have a job running an architectural modeling facility in an architecture and interior design department of a global college. The pay is minimum, the health benefits are decent and, as for many in academia, there is extra time to do your own thing. But as one grows older, one feels time very differently, and what felt like a lot of time before is starting to collapse as my perception of the days and weeks travel faster. Nearly seven years ago I began this blog, feeling the need and having the interest, spending countless hours constructing posts useful and otherwise, learning to edit my writing, to shop images, thinking about landscape, parks, and gardens. These days are no longer. 

My wife and I are very close to leaving this city, leaving 'NYC' garden, a blog, out of place. When we move I do not know if or how I should continue my blogging presence. It seems that, outside of the joys of telling one's story somewhat anonymously, without a professional interest in publishing or marketing, blogging is time away from less soluble pursuits. 

Leaving this city, as an artist, is a hard pill to swallow, harder still because it doesn't so much speak of my failure to succeed as much as a failure to try. So now, before that future move takes shape (although many phantom moves have shown their dark shadows), I am making every effort to pursue what can be pursued within the confines of the job and short days. This means going to art openings, spending time in Chelsea on days off, thinking and writing more about art, and generally having the confidence to participate in the discourse and social arena that makes up the New York, so-called art world.

I am confident in my capability as a painter, the depth of my experience with the land, and have more to learn and say about this in the coming months. Garden, farm, park and painting are distinctions that people want to make, but in truth are the flow of one spring only seen in different light. A gardening blog may be an unlikely venue to discuss why I paint, what I paint, or to present the art that I see, but that is okay with me.


Republican Garden Shutdown Week Two



Republican congressmen who oppose health care initiatives have shut down the government for nearly two weeks. For this reason the site of my only autumn gardening has been locked up and so for this reason these Republicans have said to me and my gardening peers -you will not garden as long as you support health care initiatives. Believe me when I say that many of my gardening peers are likely Republicans but since I do not see them away from the garden I cannot ask them how they feel about the Republican shut down of the garden.

I may have to make a covert trip. Under cover of night? Early in the morning dressed as autumnal haze? Will I be caught? Is anyone looking? It's a real shame about those last of the season tomatoes and peppers, isn't it? I know it's small compared to those who are bearing the real weight of the shut down but that is why it goads me. A fence and 30 extreme Republicans standing between me and a pepper.

I should dig a tunnel.

We went upstate on Sunday to look at properties. We are looking at work space and living space, close and afar. I'd like a more peaceful life, but then who wouldn't? I'd like to get home from work before 10 pm with more than one or two home-cooked meals a week. We work 12 hour days all too regularly. Wages at the college have stagnated since 2009. I take adjunct professor positions to make a little extra (paid for the farm). I do side projects (patio, electrical) to fix the van. I paid off my undergraduate loans this past May, but the studio rent goes up yearly by leaps and bounds.

I've decided to limit my farming to one tenth the quantity of this season. I've cultivated little taste for the driving. The hope is that we'll find space, wherever it is we go, to continue on at a slightly larger scale than this coming season. I will keep Hudson Clove alive and will sell some garlic next August. In lieu of hours of driving and weeding, I intend to refocus my energy on art making and also to say more about art. You may see that writing here (if not by another blog name).

The best news came in the form of an appointment to teach at next summer's Art New England. I will be instructing for one week on a subject of my own desire -landscape and meaning. The remuneration is good for six days' work -two thirds the compensation for an entire semester (15 weeks) and free room and board in lovely Bennington, Vermont.

On October 31 I will leave my studio of the last three years. They say it will take six to eight weeks to return my deposit. Of course it will. My studio mate of the last sixteen months will have to find a space. It's really nice having a friend where I work so I am sad that we will part ways. Believe me when I say that the era of artists renting industrial studios is near its end in NYC. Oh, yes, for the few it will still be possible via personal wealth, financial success in the gallery system, or the pitiful acceptance of renting a windowless 120 square feet for $500 and up a month.

As for our apartment, we are hanging on -for now.




The Pinch


If I were Rex, a jungle gym named after me would come as a great insult. Me, I can't stand being pinched. 

Our van is in Ohio, at an Aamco station receiving a used rear end from a Georgia junkyard. Today came the inevitable phone call from the mechanic, the one
where he states that they broke something additional (something hard to break, something they probably just cut to save time), and then offers to replace this part for 400% of the street cost but no labor charge because, after all, they had to come off anyhow to fix the original problem. I balk, I felt he was taking advantage of us. 

He demands that he needs to make money! Ha! I know what the cost of the used transaxle is! I know what you are making on that! I didn't go and break the shock absorber and how did that happen anyway? Now I view your whole operation with distrust. What? You were doing us a favor by taking our van in for repair? Seriously, you just said that? For two thousand dollars? And now you want to charge us one hundred and six dollars for twenty dollars worth of cheap, crap shock absorbers all the while you pretend to not charge us labor for the install? Maybe you should get back on your turnip truck. 

Look, I don't like to have adversity and confrontation with anyone, certainly not the person who has my vehicle on a lift 1000 miles away. But please, extend me this favor next time you want to take more of our money -make me an offer that respects my experience. Offer me two good shocks for 50% markup, not the worst available for 400% markup. I've never replaced the rear shocks and would have accepted that, might even have seen it as an opportunity. But I get it, your business is selling to ignorant technophobes, and you're in the habit of selling crap to locals to keep them coming back. We have to eat the transaxle job, but not your bullshit. 

He acquiesced and offered the cheap shocks for cost, but I still would have preferred higher quality. And he told me not to come back. No worries, just as he calculated before he made that call,
we're not coming back because we're not from around, just passing through. 

People, if you fear visiting a mechanic, get to know your vehicle. The Internet has made finding parts and prices simple and quick. The Aamco proprietor did not want me to take 5 minutes to "think" about it and he groaned when I said so. Get on the Internet and see what it is they're trying to sell you. Allow them a markup, but don't get pinched! Labor is labor and I never begrudge the mechanic on this, but ensure that they're using reliable, quality parts and that they're charging you fairly for them. 











Flowers For Fabio


Years ago, at night, me and my long blonde hair were in the shower, which abuts the stoop just outside the little, frosted bath window. With the bath light on, one could make out from the stoop that I was in the shower. A woman calls, then knocks on the window, "Fabio?" "Fabio?" "Fabio!"

The only Fabio that I knew was the one from romance covers, and me a vision of long blonde hair and all, what romance-minded woman wouldn't call for Fabio from our stoop? What could I do but slide the window open, dripping, shirtless. "Fabio?," asks the woman. No, no, Frank, says I. "Oh, is Fabio there?" No, says I. She didn't speak much English and appeared to be blind. That's how I learned that someone named Fabio, a Columbian man, lived on the second floor of our building.

Fabio and I became fast friends when I started gardening the sliver of soil outside our building. He enjoyed getting out of his steaming hot apartment on summer days, choosing instead to stand in the shade of a telephone pole on our sidewalk, moving slowly with it as the sun slid east to west, until the Yew tree cast its own shadow onto the sidewalk later in the afternoon. He spoke as little English as the blind woman who once knocked on my window, the woman I later learned was his sister in law.

He enjoyed the garden, most of all the flowers, and could often be spied from our windows with his nose buried deep in a rose or lily. I cut stems for him to bring up to his place and sometimes introduced new scents, like the pungent freshness of a geranium leaf or sweet fragrance of the native honeysuckle. We offered tomatoes, basil or cilantro from our pots when the side yard became our little vegetable patch.

Almost every day Fabio headed down Ocean Parkway on his very serious bicycle, all the way to Coney Island. Another opportunity to get out of his hot apartment, and be physical. Fabio was a vigorous, healthy man, a little over 6 feet tall, and lean. He would carry his bike down from his apartment, full riding gear on, head out and return a few hours later.

On a beautiful spring day, Fabio was outside, and we were pulling our bikes out of the apartment for a commute to the studio. Excited by our ride, he went up to get his bicycle. But he didn't understand that it wasn't a round trip for us and apparently he needed company. Demoralized, he returned his bike to his apartment as we rode off, a vision of harmony in the face of his own internal anguish. We often asked his wife, who we call Mrs. Rojas, how Fabio was doing and she would always say that he was okay. We had noticed he wasn't riding his bicycle as much, or at all. When Betsy would speak with him in Spanish, she could gather that he wasn't feeling as well, but had a hard time pinning down the problem.

Within a year's time, Fabio went from a vigorous, athletic man to a shaking, weeping, screaming man unable to dress himself, unable to care for himself, unable to communicate anything but stuttering gibberish. Out of fear and dementia, he would find himself on the landing without any pants on, as we tried to talk him into returning to his apartment. He would try to escape his apartment, or our building, half dressed, and upset. One evening, as I spoke on the phone with an artist friend, there was a knock on our door. It was Mrs. Roja's sister, who in broken English tried to explain that Fabio snuck out and because she was blind could not go to find him. I told my friend that I had to go.

Betsy went one way, and I went the other. There were kids on the street and I asked them which way did the old man go, to which they responded that way, hands pointed in opposite directions. I chose the path given by the oldest, a girl, maybe 13, and made my way to Church Ave, where I stood on the corner, looking in all directions. There! Across the street, trying to get on the B35 Eastbound, but he had no money. I called Betsy and she ran the few blocks and we lured him away from the bus stop. He remembered and trusted us (for a reason unknown to us he raged verbally about his wife). Taking his arms, we crossed the street, slowly walking him back to the building. We stopped in front of the garden, lilies in bloom. I plucked one for him, held it up to his nose, and he buried himself in it, orange dust now all over his face as he smiled.

It was easy to imagine a bad situation on the street, a raving man without pants (he simply could not lift his legs into pants any longer), a tazer, or worse. We weren't always around to help, nor could we be there because of work or otherwise. Sometimes he was cared for by a health aide, sometimes his blind sister in law, sometimes his wife, but there were times when he was left alone out of some necessity or a late train. This is when the police would be called, an ambulance arrived, and although we did this with some hesitancy, most often they were helpful, and sensitive, although they rarely had a Spanish speaker in the group despite my insistence that this was necessary.

Mrs. Rojas, a health aide herself, asked us not to call the police, and we could only presume this was because there was no health insurance available, or possibly for reasons of immigration, but there were times that we simply had no other options as we tried to convince Fabio to head back up to his apartment, tried to lift his legs into his his pants, his feet into his shoes, to calm him down. He appeared to like the ambulance, always relaxing within its box, under its oxygen, soothed by its questionnaire. His part-time aide was late in one instance, and she pleaded for his release from their care. I had to sign a form, holding the EMTs free of responsibility for his release. That was last spring.

This summer Fabio's son was getting married, and so came up from Florida to visit his father, to fit him into a tux. He told me he would get them out of NYC, move them to Florida as soon as he could. I hadn't seen much of him in ten years and wasn't sure if this was just bluster. Fabio couldn't make it to the wedding, it was in Columbia after all, and the day before we were to leave for Minnesota, Mrs. Rojas asked if I would look in on him while they were in Columbia. I wanted to help, but I had to tell her we were on our way out too, and wouldn't be around to look after him. His son was there, in the hall at that moment, and maybe that is when he realized that this arrangement, a hodge podge of aides, family, and neighbors doing their best was untenable.

We continued to listen to Fabio's wails from the apartment upstairs, opposite. Often Mrs. Rojas would come down to ask that I help lift Fabio off the floor, onto a chair or couch. It was sad, upsetting, but okay. And life went on like this for the months of autumn, through Sandy, through garlic planting and school finals. When we returned from Minnesota after Christmas, a trip mired in our own family's health and age issues, we learned that the apartment upstairs and opposite was empty. The Rojas had moved out, down to Florida. I felt terrible that we couldn't say hasta luego, Fabio. And we would do anything to have him upstairs, wailing and demented, over those who live above us now. A true neighbor.

Hasta luego, Fabio. 




It's Not The Blog...


...That's the problem. It's everything else. I'd rather not have this place, a good place albeit full of critical thoughts, skepticism, and occasional melancholy, bear the weight of pure malcontent.

I simply won't write when all that is on my mind and plate is trouble of one kind or another. But there are a few good things and they deserve mention:

My wife. It isn't said nearly enough that she is the best part of my life. My friends and family whose support over the last 20 years has made everything possible. My art has kept me thinking and focused (in two exhibits currently). The garden, any, where lessons on how to live are masterfully rewritten.


Memory Lane


After a short visit to the garlic farm last week I finally had time to head to my old neighborhood. I wanted to know what has happened to what anyone I grew up with would simply have called the farm. 


On a wedge of land between Oxhead Road and N. Washington Avenue, this property and the neighbors around it were largely a mystery to me and most of my friends even though it was only a half-mile away, as the crow flies. Sure, we went by it all the time, but never set foot, never interacted. I didn't even know, or do not remember that I knew, that the farmer was a black man, Long Island's only African American farmer. 


I was relieved to see that the triangle wasn't filled with new, plastic-sided homes, but something was different.


I rounded the pointy tip, the most acute corner I know, to read the sign which did its level best to explain. Hobbs farm, I had now recollected the name, was no longer in the family. 


The old barn had me thinking a church was involved. I could see that there was a a segmented garden -maybe a community-type plot.


And so I left it, glad to see the farm was still there, but sure that it was no longer as before. And since I was but a half mile from my childhood home, I decided to pass on by to see how it has changed since my mother was forced to sell it as part of her divorce settlement.


Maybe there is a German word for the feeling one gets when they see the shape of their childhood house dressed in different clothing. I know those oak trees like I know the back of my hand, I can walk around them in my mind, isolating lichens and patterns of bark. I know the scent of the thin soil, the patches where only moss will grow, the colonies of black ants. I do not know those cars, or those new shrubs, or how they've changed the orientation of the drive.  I don't know who is inside my room.


My school bus stop, down the road, between those pines. Remember the anxiety of your first time, wondering whether or not you're in the right place, or worse, that you had missed the bus entirely. Running for the bus, yelling wait! A bus from the south was always better than one from the north.


On our road, we lived at the pinnacle of what we called a hill. The drainage was poor here, so that after heavy rains, a large puddle would form. It seemed that all the town could do was to place what we called cannon balls on either side of the pond. I was fascinated by these sooty black orbs with flame atop. I cannot believe I never tried to take one home (or did I?). Standing water was not common to our stretch of the woods, so I was also in love with these puddles, several inches deep, which we had to skirt by passing through the yards in order to get to or from our bus stop. I was disappointed when a formidable puddle in the morning had drained by the end of a school day.

To the left I jumped a ramp on my bike and went over the handle bars. To the right I passed through at night, jumping the fence to get to friends. This is where we trick or treated until we switched to eggs. The house at the top of the hill, on the left, belonged to a man who burnt his trash. The house on the top to the right had a free-roaming dog named Randy who always managed to visit our barbecues. The house at the top belonged to a man who died in his driveway as he worked his chainsaw on trees fallen by hurricane Gloria.


Just a few doors down, behind this house, I rode my first horse. Led by a brunette in riding pants and boots, three times around, it cost only a dime. I may have been five or six. 


Daft



These are some daffodils growing in our side yard. It's an exceptionally warm garden, even with the cold temps of the latter half of January. So, you could imagine my surprise...

...when I drove by these daffs on my way to the Food Co-op on Cortelyou Avenue yesterday. Scooby says eeuuuh? Now that's too early in a winter that isn't particularly warm! As I was driving, I couldn't stop to make sense of it all, but was taken by the few people milling around the flowers. They must be confused by the display too -it was so paranormal. Look at the placement -who plants bulbs like that? And only on this corner, only in the public lawn?Though I was late for everything ahead, I made sure to double back on my return from the co-op.

As I wrapped the corner, I rolled down the window to take the photo. Shutter hardly pressed and a minor army of stand-arounds approached my vehicle. I heard ROLLING! Then I understood -they didn't mean me. Movies, right -that's why they look so wrong. Springtime in New York.

Attitude Adjustment


No one knows more than my wife that I am in need of some attitude adjustment. That's why she eagerly put my new exercise bike together while I was at work yesterday, the long day (7am-11pm). I am happy to report that it works. It took some effort to break a sweat, finally reaching my target heartbeat of 160. The first twenty minutes or so I could only feel the warming tingle of blood coursing through my extremities  -working, but not exercising. Then it hit, after twenty minutes but before thirty, at mile 6, resistance level 3, 19 mph, the sweat began to run. The final ten minutes, the cool down, were oxygen fueled euphoria -or the closest I've come to it while sweating. The readout can not be trusted, but I was entertained by the idea that my 40 minutes on the exercise bike burned 1/5th of my calorie intake for the day. If it were true, I'd ride for 2 hours in a vain attempt to shed 1700 calories every day, eating whole pizzas for lunch.

The best thing about exercise, and this is nothing newsworthy, is its ability to adjust attitude. It magically cleans up all that garbage I am capable of finding within. I wasn't sure if this foldaway bike would become just another piece of furniture to hang a sweater on, but after today I feel reassured. I used to go for fast walks in the park, but I always felt repelled by the morning rush traffic between here and there -somehow more intolerable in morning than evening. And then I was always distracted by the park itself, I could never stick to my practice, and time passed, and then it was late. The bike -I just get into the sweat gear, get on for 40 minutes, then jump in the shower, all in an hour.






Courage and Cowardice



It's been a busy week at school, with late nights and no time to post about my most recent trip to the farm. I intended to do so today, but now I am just too wound up about the shooting I heard minor mention of as I drove into work this morning. Now, of course, as we all do, I see how the worst has come to pass. I cannot possibly write about my pastoral experiences while the innocent lives of children are mourned, made even more devastating by the proximity to the holiday.

I cannot pretend to know what was in the hearts of brutal men, but it is ever more clear that there are those without courage, those who cannot take their own lives without first extinguishing the lives of others; witness to a horror of their own making, they can  finally commit to taking their own.

I could say more, but I haven't the heart. Take courage.

The Stepford Seed


Is it just me, or has someone else shuddered at the Baker Creek Seed homesteading nostalgia? The wholesome youth of its proprietors, the relentless use of their own family in marketing images, and the explosive growth of the company into nostalgia-based, thematic retail outlets coalesces into enough discomfort that I shy from buying.


I suppose there is little more American (Americana?) than this strange concoction of business, entertainment, and family. The Times mentioned the weirdness of Baker Creek a few years back, but came around by the end. In fact, I only found myself looking at their website after a link was given to them in the excellent NYTimes story on the vegetables of East New York (no weirdness there). In this article they mention the hybridizing going on in some of these gardens. And isn't that a point worth pondering? I don't see us going forward by selling backwards. In fact, although I grow mostly heirlooms now, I often drop varieties because they do not stand up to disease or are generally unproductive. Hybrids that reap the taste and texture benefits of heirlooms while improving health and vigor of the plant wouldn't be turned away by this gardener.

Finally, don't get me started on banjos, fiddles, and harmonicas at farmers' markets. I like Blue Grass as much as the next, but I don't need it with my cabbage.


Poly Nose




When I was a kid these were called polynoses. Of course, now adults, we call them samaras (really, who does?). Maybe the reason they were called polynoses then was what we did with them: peeled the flat end into two, placing the sticky out-folded ends onto the bridge of our noses, giving us multiple noses -polynose.



Rain Date



Today I am heading out east with dual
purpose. I am handing my mom, who has been sharing our small apartment for the last month, to my brother, where she will stay for the next week before returning to Florida. We will sit in memorial day traffic, we will pick up my brother, we will stop for lunch, and then we will visit the Amagansett farm where I expect to be growing next year's garlic.

I want a soil sample for testing nitrogen (the only significant nutrient for growing garlic in generally good soil), organic content, and pH. I would also like my mother to have an image of where I am when I am not answering calls.

I used to be a better tourist. I used to go to the country to see the country, or to look for it. In recent years I've begun to need a purpose in the country, some kind of work. Something to do gives me vision, helps me see. In the sun, between two waters, fingers in the earth.