Showing posts with label Pennsylvania. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pennsylvania. Show all posts
Monday
The Rut is on
The bucks are going crazy around the property this morning. They're chasing one another through the woods and clearings. Dried leaves are crackling and being kicked into the air. Antlers are getting caught in briars as they thunder through thickets. One massive buck, the oldest and most senior, is limping as they've probably all ganged up on him. I don't think he'll make it during the looming hunting season. Younger bucks with puny antlers are trying to get in on the act but are ignored. Yes, the rut is on and it's fantastic to watch.
Sunday
Chopping Wood and return of Hornet
A tree feel near our house last week as a result of the violent storms we've been having of late. I was up in the office and heard it crash on the ground.
So, when a tree falls in the forest--yes, it can be heard, Virginia.
Spent yesterday and today cutting it and chopping it into pieces for firewood. It felt really good to do that kind of exercise as opposed to working my ass off on an elliptical at the Y.
On the subject of the Y, it's looking brilliant as a result of its multi-million dollar facelift. My old nemesis, the Hornet, continues to ride rough shod and hog the latest equipment. She's working out too hard now and is looking like one of Tom Wolfe's Social X-Rays. Still as rude as ever. As I just finished a 50 min session on fat burner mode (yes, 50 mins) on my (and her) favorite elliptical, she approached as I was wiping down the machine. She got on, opened her magazine without even a thank you and then said "The floor has a lot of your sweat on it, too." She peered down at it bug-eyed.
I looked at it, looked at her, looked at it again. "Keep your voice down," I said. "The others'll be jealous if they find out." And off I walked to the hoots of laughter of a lady nearby.
So, when a tree falls in the forest--yes, it can be heard, Virginia.
Spent yesterday and today cutting it and chopping it into pieces for firewood. It felt really good to do that kind of exercise as opposed to working my ass off on an elliptical at the Y.
On the subject of the Y, it's looking brilliant as a result of its multi-million dollar facelift. My old nemesis, the Hornet, continues to ride rough shod and hog the latest equipment. She's working out too hard now and is looking like one of Tom Wolfe's Social X-Rays. Still as rude as ever. As I just finished a 50 min session on fat burner mode (yes, 50 mins) on my (and her) favorite elliptical, she approached as I was wiping down the machine. She got on, opened her magazine without even a thank you and then said "The floor has a lot of your sweat on it, too." She peered down at it bug-eyed.
I looked at it, looked at her, looked at it again. "Keep your voice down," I said. "The others'll be jealous if they find out." And off I walked to the hoots of laughter of a lady nearby.
Monday
Sucking Up Yellow Jackets
Jeanne Denault is in my writers group, The Rebel Writers of Bucks County.
Her memoir Sucking Up Yellow Jackets has just released from O-Books and it's a funny, witty and sometimes poignant account of her raising a son with Aspergers Syndrome.
From climbing out of his cot within a few months of his birth to climbing a telephone wire hand over hand high above their terraced home in Philadelphia and then, as a teenager, dismantling a motor cycle simply because his mother demanded he had to get rid of it and he took that to mean literally, Jeanne depicts in precise, wry prose what it was like to bring up this super intelligent child at a time when Asperger's wasn't even understood by the medical community. She thought she was going mad or had spawned the devil's child.
Jeanne and her family moved around the states while Max was growing up--Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Illinois where Jeanne's attempts to fit in among the 'meat and potatoes' women of the area drew their scorn when she made a gourmet dish featuring a mild curry sauce for a block party and incited their wrath. The family relocated to Pennsylvania again after Max had a few run-ins with the local police and judges. His teachers, some of his counselors and even her husband blamed her for some of his excesses.
A fast, dazzling and very enjoyable read.
Her memoir Sucking Up Yellow Jackets has just released from O-Books and it's a funny, witty and sometimes poignant account of her raising a son with Aspergers Syndrome.
From climbing out of his cot within a few months of his birth to climbing a telephone wire hand over hand high above their terraced home in Philadelphia and then, as a teenager, dismantling a motor cycle simply because his mother demanded he had to get rid of it and he took that to mean literally, Jeanne depicts in precise, wry prose what it was like to bring up this super intelligent child at a time when Asperger's wasn't even understood by the medical community. She thought she was going mad or had spawned the devil's child.
Jeanne and her family moved around the states while Max was growing up--Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Illinois where Jeanne's attempts to fit in among the 'meat and potatoes' women of the area drew their scorn when she made a gourmet dish featuring a mild curry sauce for a block party and incited their wrath. The family relocated to Pennsylvania again after Max had a few run-ins with the local police and judges. His teachers, some of his counselors and even her husband blamed her for some of his excesses.
A fast, dazzling and very enjoyable read.
Tuesday
Hooves beating leaves
While working at my desk yesterday, I heard the loud rustle of dead leaves outside my window and looked out into the woods to see the most amazing sight. Five bucks of varying sizes were wildly chasing a couple of does.
November is the deer rutting season, which lasts until the end of the month. It's also the hunting season, but the bucks become obsessed with the does to the point of obliviousness and don't know what else is lurking behind the trees. I called Larry and we went out onto the deck to watch. They chased the does back and forth, the bucks stopping occasionally to check each other out (the size of antlers being a factor) and run the younger males off the land.
At one point, one of the does ran towards our house, stopped by a thicket and lay down. She watched the bucks prancing back and forth, her head moving one way then the other as she kept them in her sights. It was fascinating to realize she was hiding from them deliberately. The bucks sniffed the air and drew nearer and nearer because she was giving off a scent that she was in season. (The bucks actually chase teh does until they are exhausted.)
Out of the blue came the largest buck I have ever seen. He was a five-pointer (five points in his antlers which means he was five years old). He sniffed the air and walked with absolute determination toward the hiding doe. She saw him coming, rose and bolted. He gave chase. The other bucks didn't challenge him, merely watched and then fell into line and followed him. Probably hoping to learn a trick or two for whenever their turn comes to rule the woods
November is the deer rutting season, which lasts until the end of the month. It's also the hunting season, but the bucks become obsessed with the does to the point of obliviousness and don't know what else is lurking behind the trees. I called Larry and we went out onto the deck to watch. They chased the does back and forth, the bucks stopping occasionally to check each other out (the size of antlers being a factor) and run the younger males off the land.
At one point, one of the does ran towards our house, stopped by a thicket and lay down. She watched the bucks prancing back and forth, her head moving one way then the other as she kept them in her sights. It was fascinating to realize she was hiding from them deliberately. The bucks sniffed the air and drew nearer and nearer because she was giving off a scent that she was in season. (The bucks actually chase teh does until they are exhausted.)
Out of the blue came the largest buck I have ever seen. He was a five-pointer (five points in his antlers which means he was five years old). He sniffed the air and walked with absolute determination toward the hiding doe. She saw him coming, rose and bolted. He gave chase. The other bucks didn't challenge him, merely watched and then fell into line and followed him. Probably hoping to learn a trick or two for whenever their turn comes to rule the woods
Wednesday
She's absconded: You're dismissed
Today I was summoned to the County seat for jury service. Anticipating a great deal of downtime, I took the book I'm currently reading, Rachel North's, Out of the Tunnel, a riveting memoir from The Friday Project about her life and suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after she was injured in the bomb that went off on the tube at King's Cross on 7/7/05 (the UK's 9/11 equivalent).
Jury duty was an interesting experience because Bucks County has a One Day-One Trial system, which means the jury is on call one for day only unless selected to form part of a jury in which case it's for the entire trial and not for the full two weeks as they do in say New York State. It makes for a very efficient handling of both the Court's time, the jury's time and the lawyers time. Indeed, it appears that Bucks County, as a result, is the most efficient court system in Pennsylvania (and undoubtedly beyond) as as result of this system and many jurisdictions are emulating it because it has been so successful.
In the United States, the fact I am an attorney does not preclude me from having to do jury service, which I believe is right and proper. I think the jury should reflect society at large, so the fact I have legal training and am a litigator should not mean I can't serve the interests of justice in a case in which I have no direct interest. I'm sure I would get elected the foreperson for the jury--or would try my damndest to make that happen, as I'd like to manage the deliberations and read the verdict at the end of the trial.
In any event, it wasn't to be on this occasion. I was to be sent to a court room for 'voir dire' (selection or rejection by the attorneys) in a criminal trial, but the judge and a tipstaff (Pennsylvania equivalent of a bailiff) came into the jurors lounge at 1.45 and stated the defendant had decided to abscond during lunch and the bailiffs were now in hot pursuit of her. Much chuckling ensued. After thanking us for our time, the judge said he was letting us go as he was not a mean man and going to keep us until she had been apprehended. I guess she decided she was guilty and likely to do time.
I was rather hoping to serve in a murder trial, though one part of me was also nervous because Pennsylvania has the death penalty which is very alien to me as Ireland and the UK abolished capital punishment many years ago. It would, however, have been marvelous grist for a plot or two.
Jury duty was an interesting experience because Bucks County has a One Day-One Trial system, which means the jury is on call one for day only unless selected to form part of a jury in which case it's for the entire trial and not for the full two weeks as they do in say New York State. It makes for a very efficient handling of both the Court's time, the jury's time and the lawyers time. Indeed, it appears that Bucks County, as a result, is the most efficient court system in Pennsylvania (and undoubtedly beyond) as as result of this system and many jurisdictions are emulating it because it has been so successful.
In the United States, the fact I am an attorney does not preclude me from having to do jury service, which I believe is right and proper. I think the jury should reflect society at large, so the fact I have legal training and am a litigator should not mean I can't serve the interests of justice in a case in which I have no direct interest. I'm sure I would get elected the foreperson for the jury--or would try my damndest to make that happen, as I'd like to manage the deliberations and read the verdict at the end of the trial.
In any event, it wasn't to be on this occasion. I was to be sent to a court room for 'voir dire' (selection or rejection by the attorneys) in a criminal trial, but the judge and a tipstaff (Pennsylvania equivalent of a bailiff) came into the jurors lounge at 1.45 and stated the defendant had decided to abscond during lunch and the bailiffs were now in hot pursuit of her. Much chuckling ensued. After thanking us for our time, the judge said he was letting us go as he was not a mean man and going to keep us until she had been apprehended. I guess she decided she was guilty and likely to do time.
I was rather hoping to serve in a murder trial, though one part of me was also nervous because Pennsylvania has the death penalty which is very alien to me as Ireland and the UK abolished capital punishment many years ago. It would, however, have been marvelous grist for a plot or two.
Obese cats and doggies: some thoughts
Now we're in the throes of summer, people are walking about the streets and parks with their dogs. I was watching one couple--a young man and woman in their early thirties and their young, very fat labrador (American breed because it was taller and had the boxy head)--the other day in a town near where I live and a thought suddenly occurred to me. Do people who are overweight also own animals that are overweight? I began to look around.
Sure enough, all the dogs that were fat belonged to overweight people? I couldn't believe it. Yesterday, I was in NYC to sign my Friday Project contract at my literary agent. Finding some time to spare, I went into Central Park for a bit of research. What did I learn? I learned it isn't just a Pennsylvania phenomenon. All overweight dogs in the park belonged to overweight people. And teh more overweight the dog, the more overweight the owner. So there was a decided correlation
Another idea popped into my head. If these owners managed their animals diets and exercise scrupulously, would they also begin to manage their own diets and exercise regimes too? It's very possible. Maybe that's the way toward a more healthy society. Focus on the fat percentage of our animals, not on our own weight. Hey presto.
The only other way I think the health of a nation can be improved is if the government mandates that we go to gyms in the same way they mandate that all children must be educated to a certain grade. As part of that initiative, they could give corporations tax benefits if they enroll their employees in gyms and pay fro the indigent to go to gyms, etc. they coudl alos impose higher taxes on corporations producing junk food, food with too many calories due to too much saturated fat and/or sugar.
It probably wouldn't go down well in the US where many people are hypersensitive about governmental interference in their private lives. But hey, we allow the government to set the rules for school kids attending school and we monitor their attendance. We do so because it's a legitimate benefit to society to have an educated population. So why can't we do it in this area. It's a legitimate benefit to society to stamp out obesity. It would produce a healthy population and we'd save billions of dollars on medical bills for heart disease, diabetes and a raft of other ills. And we'd have healthy dogs and cats, too.
Sure enough, all the dogs that were fat belonged to overweight people? I couldn't believe it. Yesterday, I was in NYC to sign my Friday Project contract at my literary agent. Finding some time to spare, I went into Central Park for a bit of research. What did I learn? I learned it isn't just a Pennsylvania phenomenon. All overweight dogs in the park belonged to overweight people. And teh more overweight the dog, the more overweight the owner. So there was a decided correlation
Another idea popped into my head. If these owners managed their animals diets and exercise scrupulously, would they also begin to manage their own diets and exercise regimes too? It's very possible. Maybe that's the way toward a more healthy society. Focus on the fat percentage of our animals, not on our own weight. Hey presto.
The only other way I think the health of a nation can be improved is if the government mandates that we go to gyms in the same way they mandate that all children must be educated to a certain grade. As part of that initiative, they could give corporations tax benefits if they enroll their employees in gyms and pay fro the indigent to go to gyms, etc. they coudl alos impose higher taxes on corporations producing junk food, food with too many calories due to too much saturated fat and/or sugar.
It probably wouldn't go down well in the US where many people are hypersensitive about governmental interference in their private lives. But hey, we allow the government to set the rules for school kids attending school and we monitor their attendance. We do so because it's a legitimate benefit to society to have an educated population. So why can't we do it in this area. It's a legitimate benefit to society to stamp out obesity. It would produce a healthy population and we'd save billions of dollars on medical bills for heart disease, diabetes and a raft of other ills. And we'd have healthy dogs and cats, too.
Friday
Happenings in the American countryside
This is a pic of the house.
As you can see, I live in the countryside and it's teeming with wildlife at this time of the year.
There's a doe 'breakfasts' on the lawn every morning and the other day we came out to discover she'd had triplets during the night. I'm going to try and get a photo when they're less scared.
Early yesterday morning we had a bit of drama. Police and ambulance sirens shrieked in the stillness and a chopper arrived and began to hover above the house. We ran out to discover it was the news chopper from our local NBC affiliate out of Philly. Turns out our neighbor and a friend had decided to go on a fishing trip to Canada (only a couple of hours away by air) and his plane crashed within seconds of taking off from their house. Turns out his friend was a surgeon and he called 911 on his cell phone but the emergency rescue couldn't find the whereabout's of their plane because it was so foggy. An hour later they found it (and them) hanging upside down amid some dense trees. Both escaped with minor injuries, but the plane wasn't so lucky. Don't think it'll be flying ever again.
Sometimes we just sit on the front door steps drinking spritzers and listening to the bluebirds (beautiful bright blue with red breasts), chaffinches, red wing-tipped blackbirds and wrens some evenings. Occasionally a hawk will soars high in the sky and the birds go ape-shit.
This is a view of the iris beds. Fantastic this year, though they're now done for the season. Next come the lilies.
Tuesday
Turning it over
Yesterday afternoon after a marathon session--and it was a marathon session with no interruptions permitted and the imbibing of lots of cups of rich, fragrant Puerto Rican coffee, no switching over to the internet at the flick of a button (the peril of having high speed) to check pinging emails or surf fav' sites--I finished the first draft of what is still called America and Me:The first two years.
(I've decided the title stays until I come up with something I feel is the publication title, which will in all probability be in the US first as it's set mostly here. I know. I know what you're thinking. Publishers acquiring the work change working titles all the time. However, I lucked out with A Son Called Gabriel because my US publisher loved it and didn't consider anything else. My second novel, Unusual Steps, will also get to keep its title, but more about what's been happening when I have something concrete to relay.)
It really is so satisfying to enter that final period (full-stop elsewhere) on a manuscript and gaze at the screen and say 'I've finished the first draft.'. It came in at 87,872 words; 31 Chapters and 313 pages. It's also split into three sections--the first and tiniest dealing with London followed by New York and Pennsylvania in a more or less equal split. I'm pleased with it, but know from my experience of working on 'Gabriel' that scenes will be added and deleted. The difference is that I have lots of material to work with.
I am now turning the project over to my subconscious--which'll work behind the scene as I focus my attention on other things--editing, chopping, analyzing and rewriting so that when I take it out again I'll be able to start writing immediately. It took me a while to trust that this is a necessary part of the creative process. I look forward to it, though I'm sometimes accused of being too distracted or 'far away', not enjoying living in the present because my mind is indeed working out issues, toying with alternative words and improving descriptions,etc. and can tune out. One thing I do know is that, during the rewrite, I will give the chapters titles rather than plain old numbers, something I've never before done.
It's been a tremendously positive experience writing about how I came to America and my first two years here. I highly recommend writing about your past to everyone. Life moves so rapidly today, I think we forget to take stock and see where we've been and how people coming into our lives and experience has affected us. I'd forgotten so many of the downright whacky and funny things that have happened to me here and the struggle to assimilate and it's shown me how American I've become.
(I've decided the title stays until I come up with something I feel is the publication title, which will in all probability be in the US first as it's set mostly here. I know. I know what you're thinking. Publishers acquiring the work change working titles all the time. However, I lucked out with A Son Called Gabriel because my US publisher loved it and didn't consider anything else. My second novel, Unusual Steps, will also get to keep its title, but more about what's been happening when I have something concrete to relay.)
It really is so satisfying to enter that final period (full-stop elsewhere) on a manuscript and gaze at the screen and say 'I've finished the first draft.'. It came in at 87,872 words; 31 Chapters and 313 pages. It's also split into three sections--the first and tiniest dealing with London followed by New York and Pennsylvania in a more or less equal split. I'm pleased with it, but know from my experience of working on 'Gabriel' that scenes will be added and deleted. The difference is that I have lots of material to work with.
I am now turning the project over to my subconscious--which'll work behind the scene as I focus my attention on other things--editing, chopping, analyzing and rewriting so that when I take it out again I'll be able to start writing immediately. It took me a while to trust that this is a necessary part of the creative process. I look forward to it, though I'm sometimes accused of being too distracted or 'far away', not enjoying living in the present because my mind is indeed working out issues, toying with alternative words and improving descriptions,etc. and can tune out. One thing I do know is that, during the rewrite, I will give the chapters titles rather than plain old numbers, something I've never before done.
It's been a tremendously positive experience writing about how I came to America and my first two years here. I highly recommend writing about your past to everyone. Life moves so rapidly today, I think we forget to take stock and see where we've been and how people coming into our lives and experience has affected us. I'd forgotten so many of the downright whacky and funny things that have happened to me here and the struggle to assimilate and it's shown me how American I've become.
Monday
My bleatin' neighbors
I've been noticing an intriguing and welcome phenomena in Bucks County of late. It's to do with goats. Yes, goats.
First I should explain that, although I live in a rural area that's easily commutable to both Philly and NYC, there isn't much farming done here any more. In fact many of the old farms have been purchased by wealthy New Yorkers for the most part and they use them as their weekend getaways. (My township historical society is currently on a mission to find photos of Dorothy Parker at her old farm which lies a stone's throw from my house for a book they're doing--it was a humble place rich in the aroma of its Quaker roots then but through the years has metastasized into a multi-million dollar mansion that's hardly recognizable though the grounds are stunning. It's said she wrote Big Blonde there, which is one of my favorite stories of hers.) Of course, there are still some old families here who still own their farms, but they are now the exception to the rule as opposed to the rule. Sad, but true.
One family near us has a sign out that says "Organic chicken, beef and pork." And the township or County gave them a problem about their hanging the shingle for a while instead of giving them a whopping big bloody tax break. It'd surprise me if it was the township because, all in all, they are in favor of preserving rurality and its traditions. Many residents here are not in favor of cookie-cutter development of the kind the Toll Brothers and others like them do throughout the US, which is the erection of McMansions or tract housing. Oh, you can call these places enticing names like "Summer Meadows" or "Pastoral Mews at Bluebell Farm," but they're still McMansions or tract housing at the end of the day. In addition, the damned school taxes always jump horrendously when these houses get built in country areas.
Anyway, back to my goat observations. As I drive through our County I'm seeing more and more herds of goats at some of these farms. And some of the farmers have constructed interesting climbing and play areas for them because goats are intelligent and love to explore. One restaurant in the area also has a herd of goats, right beside their own organic vineyard--and their wine's (red and white) drinkable which might surprise some because we're stuck in Pennsylvania. An old llama and donkey and a flock of guinea fowl and turkeys live there, too. It's wonderful, refreshing, a tonic for the eyes.
I'm very very happy to report it's a growing phenomenon because I'm spotting goats grazing on farms in New Jersey, too. Maybe the Federal government has given these last remaining farms a subsidy to make goat cheese or something, I don't know. But if they have, kudos to the Federal government and the USDA.
First I should explain that, although I live in a rural area that's easily commutable to both Philly and NYC, there isn't much farming done here any more. In fact many of the old farms have been purchased by wealthy New Yorkers for the most part and they use them as their weekend getaways. (My township historical society is currently on a mission to find photos of Dorothy Parker at her old farm which lies a stone's throw from my house for a book they're doing--it was a humble place rich in the aroma of its Quaker roots then but through the years has metastasized into a multi-million dollar mansion that's hardly recognizable though the grounds are stunning. It's said she wrote Big Blonde there, which is one of my favorite stories of hers.) Of course, there are still some old families here who still own their farms, but they are now the exception to the rule as opposed to the rule. Sad, but true.
One family near us has a sign out that says "Organic chicken, beef and pork." And the township or County gave them a problem about their hanging the shingle for a while instead of giving them a whopping big bloody tax break. It'd surprise me if it was the township because, all in all, they are in favor of preserving rurality and its traditions. Many residents here are not in favor of cookie-cutter development of the kind the Toll Brothers and others like them do throughout the US, which is the erection of McMansions or tract housing. Oh, you can call these places enticing names like "Summer Meadows" or "Pastoral Mews at Bluebell Farm," but they're still McMansions or tract housing at the end of the day. In addition, the damned school taxes always jump horrendously when these houses get built in country areas.
Anyway, back to my goat observations. As I drive through our County I'm seeing more and more herds of goats at some of these farms. And some of the farmers have constructed interesting climbing and play areas for them because goats are intelligent and love to explore. One restaurant in the area also has a herd of goats, right beside their own organic vineyard--and their wine's (red and white) drinkable which might surprise some because we're stuck in Pennsylvania. An old llama and donkey and a flock of guinea fowl and turkeys live there, too. It's wonderful, refreshing, a tonic for the eyes.
I'm very very happy to report it's a growing phenomenon because I'm spotting goats grazing on farms in New Jersey, too. Maybe the Federal government has given these last remaining farms a subsidy to make goat cheese or something, I don't know. But if they have, kudos to the Federal government and the USDA.
Sunday
An interesting spot
Feeling like eating some good ribs, we went to a local restaurant we don't frequent a great deal last night. It's very basic, owned by an Irish-American, and they stock excellent beer from all over the world including a number of Irish beers (Beamish, Harp and Bass) as well as offerings from some good American microbreweries. (At the moment, I'm very into hoppy beers and one in particular--Victory's Hop Devil--really fits the bill. They also don't rip their customers off with outrageous prices fro imported beers.
Unfortunately, they'd already sold out of ribs even though it was only six o'clock. As one enters the cavernous room (to the unfortunate smell of stale cigarette smoke because Pennsylvania still allows smoking in the bar areas), many might walk out for fear they'd entered a redneck joint. And the barmaid, though slim of figure, in her early forties, has done a lot of living and suffered hardship because it's written on her face.
It has the feel and ambiance of a redneck bar. However, a closer inspection reveals an assemblage of an entirely different clientele. There's a healthy flock of gray-haired 'early-bird special' folks, the snowbirds who've just returned for the summer from their condos in Florida. They perch at their tables, yakking among themselves while sipping from their glasses of water (always from the faucet), deliberate on the specials of the day and question the waitress to death about them, and then after ordering launch into grandchildren comparisons, yada, yada, yada. There's also the sophisticated New Yorkers, the ones who drape their Saks Fifth Avenue jackets casually over the cheap chairs and order a baked potato sans butter and cream instead of chips yet tuck into the Prime rib au jus like it's the last to be had on the planet. Of course, they also order the special wine (that's what it's called in this place) at a $1 extra instead of the common garden Chateau Box. And there is a smattering of friendly rednecks and their families. While not meant to be judgmental though it will appear so, it is noteworthy how so many of their wives and girlfriends are obese (as are their children, though I must confess their choices of food undoubtedly cause the condition because it's always fried and apple sauce appears to be the consistent vegetable of choice.
The waitresses themselves are all in their early to mid-fifties, with 'smoked for many years' faces, a little butch-looking though they're straight but I think I'm correct in concluding they're no longer interest in men for sex. They exude the slightest hint of dangerousness, a sort of 'don't even think about giving me trouble and don't ask for food substitutions.' I like it. You know where you are with them and they can crack a joke. They also sit beside the customers at their tables when they feel like it--only the regulars and even when they're eating--and share the latest gossip, which always seems to be most welcome judging by the commonality of paused heaped forkfuls before mouths thrust open with surprise and/or shock.
All in all, a very interesting spot.
Unfortunately, they'd already sold out of ribs even though it was only six o'clock. As one enters the cavernous room (to the unfortunate smell of stale cigarette smoke because Pennsylvania still allows smoking in the bar areas), many might walk out for fear they'd entered a redneck joint. And the barmaid, though slim of figure, in her early forties, has done a lot of living and suffered hardship because it's written on her face.
It has the feel and ambiance of a redneck bar. However, a closer inspection reveals an assemblage of an entirely different clientele. There's a healthy flock of gray-haired 'early-bird special' folks, the snowbirds who've just returned for the summer from their condos in Florida. They perch at their tables, yakking among themselves while sipping from their glasses of water (always from the faucet), deliberate on the specials of the day and question the waitress to death about them, and then after ordering launch into grandchildren comparisons, yada, yada, yada. There's also the sophisticated New Yorkers, the ones who drape their Saks Fifth Avenue jackets casually over the cheap chairs and order a baked potato sans butter and cream instead of chips yet tuck into the Prime rib au jus like it's the last to be had on the planet. Of course, they also order the special wine (that's what it's called in this place) at a $1 extra instead of the common garden Chateau Box. And there is a smattering of friendly rednecks and their families. While not meant to be judgmental though it will appear so, it is noteworthy how so many of their wives and girlfriends are obese (as are their children, though I must confess their choices of food undoubtedly cause the condition because it's always fried and apple sauce appears to be the consistent vegetable of choice.
The waitresses themselves are all in their early to mid-fifties, with 'smoked for many years' faces, a little butch-looking though they're straight but I think I'm correct in concluding they're no longer interest in men for sex. They exude the slightest hint of dangerousness, a sort of 'don't even think about giving me trouble and don't ask for food substitutions.' I like it. You know where you are with them and they can crack a joke. They also sit beside the customers at their tables when they feel like it--only the regulars and even when they're eating--and share the latest gossip, which always seems to be most welcome judging by the commonality of paused heaped forkfuls before mouths thrust open with surprise and/or shock.
All in all, a very interesting spot.
Wednesday
A blog carnival
Why don't you consider heading over to Bridlepath, a horse lovers blog, because they've got their blog carnival and have some brilliant posts celebrating the great Barbaro--including a link to the blog I wrote about him.
Here's the link to Bridlepath
Here's the link to Bridlepath
Tuesday
Barbaro
The first horse that entered my consciousness though I was too young to have appreciated his greatness was the magnificent Irish racehorse, Arkle, a champion and legend. Another very famous Irish steeplechaser was Shegar, though he was stolen in his prime from his stable and never recovered--presumed shot when the thieves (many theories abound as to who they were) could not get the owners (a consortium) to pay the two million pound ransom they were demanding.
The next legend was the diminutive Stroller (14.2 hands), a show-jumper ridden by Marion Coakes who was famous when I was a boy. God, I loved watching the spellbinding beauty as the pair of them soared with ease over the jumps at various competitions including the great win at Hickstead. (He died in 1986 of a heart attack at the age of 36.)
Captivating me after that was Red Rum. I was still a teenager and he won the Grand National three times and all of Britain and Ireland loved him. I wagered for the first time in my life on him and won a tenner. (He died at age 30 in 1995 and is buried near the starter post at Aintree.)
And then came Pennsylvania's Barbaro. How we rooted for him to win the triple crown and how we watched in agony as he sustained a terrible injury during the initial stages of the race and had to be withdrawn.
I was filled with respect for his owners, Roy and Gretchen Jackson, who did not bow to the call of greed by having him destroyed as so many owners do in order to cash in their multi-million dollar insurance policy. They knew their horse. They knew his indomitable spirit and will to live. They loved him.
And he improved, thanks to the care of his wonderful vet Dr. Richardson and the team at Penn's veterinary medicine department, and we all believed he was going to win his fight and retire to the meadow, retire just as Smarty Jones did the previous year, retire as is the right of all good racehorses.
It was not to be. Another infection came and he tried to overcome the odds. But it was not to be. On this day of first snow in the commonwealth, Pennsylvanians learned at ten o' clock in the morning from a sad yet resigned co-owner and from an emotional vet that it was 'enough' and they'd put their beloved horse and spirited hero, Barbaro, to sleep. He'd fought but in the end could not overcome this new infection arising from that complex fracture he'd sustained on that fateful day at The Preakness. He'd had good days during this extended eight months of life, but he'd also had much pain and enough was enough.
Farewell trusty Barbaro
The next legend was the diminutive Stroller (14.2 hands), a show-jumper ridden by Marion Coakes who was famous when I was a boy. God, I loved watching the spellbinding beauty as the pair of them soared with ease over the jumps at various competitions including the great win at Hickstead. (He died in 1986 of a heart attack at the age of 36.)
Captivating me after that was Red Rum. I was still a teenager and he won the Grand National three times and all of Britain and Ireland loved him. I wagered for the first time in my life on him and won a tenner. (He died at age 30 in 1995 and is buried near the starter post at Aintree.)
And then came Pennsylvania's Barbaro. How we rooted for him to win the triple crown and how we watched in agony as he sustained a terrible injury during the initial stages of the race and had to be withdrawn.
I was filled with respect for his owners, Roy and Gretchen Jackson, who did not bow to the call of greed by having him destroyed as so many owners do in order to cash in their multi-million dollar insurance policy. They knew their horse. They knew his indomitable spirit and will to live. They loved him.
And he improved, thanks to the care of his wonderful vet Dr. Richardson and the team at Penn's veterinary medicine department, and we all believed he was going to win his fight and retire to the meadow, retire just as Smarty Jones did the previous year, retire as is the right of all good racehorses.
It was not to be. Another infection came and he tried to overcome the odds. But it was not to be. On this day of first snow in the commonwealth, Pennsylvanians learned at ten o' clock in the morning from a sad yet resigned co-owner and from an emotional vet that it was 'enough' and they'd put their beloved horse and spirited hero, Barbaro, to sleep. He'd fought but in the end could not overcome this new infection arising from that complex fracture he'd sustained on that fateful day at The Preakness. He'd had good days during this extended eight months of life, but he'd also had much pain and enough was enough.
Farewell trusty Barbaro
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