Wintry Solstice

Mon-

Over the last few decades, winter solstice has been kind of a stealth arrival of winter. There would be a couple of cold snaps, maybe a snowstorm, but generally the days remained fairly benign. The shortest day of a year was a marker of the entrance to a cold season, but not an event in the middle of it.

My brain sometimes has trouble with the notion that seasons follow the sun events. It makes sense that the longest day should also be the warmest, for example, just as it seems intuitively obvious that noon should be the hottest time of day. But that is not so _ the earth continues to warm in July and August, as it does at 1pm. Likewise it cools after December 21.

This year, however, the local weather is definitely more in tune with my incorrect internal notions. This is Coindre Hall in the midst of a pretty decent north wind wintry blast.

Tue-

Although the harbor is clear, shallow puddles have frozen solid. The afternoon sun is bright, but dimmed by the atmosphere as it shines in from its most southernmost positions. Dead and dormant vegetation has not yet been broken or crushed by heavy storms.

We’ve mostly lost the abilities our ancestors had, to tell at a glance exactly what season it is. The clues are all around us, but they are clues that no longer matter as much to us as is our power on, is the gas tank filled, who do I have to please today. Perhaps our lives are just as rich or richer for the change, but every once in a while I wonder.

Wed-

Tiny bits of holiday cheer in the bright red berries. We become so used to plastic artificial excess that we discount the real thing when we see it.

Today is one of the times that photographs lie. The real joy of the day is in the bitterly cold air, the quiet breeze, the almost empty streets, and the happiness of being well clothed and warm and able to enjoy the sensation of walking and thinking. Vision is not all of existence, nor even most of it.

Thu-

As the latest snow covers the parking lot, the empty docks show that all the boats that are going to be put away for the winter are now safely on land somewhere. When you see anything like this, there has to be an assumption that the boat club has firm rules in place having to do with protecting the docks.

Everywhere else, a few boats are still in, some covered, some not having moved all summer. I always wonder what stories they tell _ death, disease, bankruptcy, old age or change of life? A motorboat is not an inexpensive toy, but there seems to be a constant stream of abandonment. Obviously, however, not the case at the Harbor Boat Club.

Fri-

Sure looks like winter _ but of course astronomical winter doesn’t start for a few days yet. I think I’ll just go with the testimony of my eyes (and all my other senses out here in a cold wind.) Whatever the actual date, this is a winter scene.

That’s one of the curses of our industrially-formed culture. We squeeze the hours and days and seasons into nifty little boxes, as precisely formed and labeled as our plastic food packaging, and ignore the fact that nature is really a bit more amorphous and ragged than that. In reality, even our own midday is often controlled by events rather than the clock. The only harm of living in categories is that we tend to observe even less than we usually do.

Sat-

This seems to be our local miniature version of Scuffy, the brave little tugboat. Every morning about this time it seems to chug out into the sound, and then chug back shortly thereafter. I would like to think the slant to the horizon in the picture adds to the drama, although we both know it is my fault for failing to hold the camera stea
dy.

Natural human reaction (and it is kind of weird when you think about it) is to wonder what the story is. Perhaps we have a drug runner in plain sight, or someone who just likes to keep the motor tuned, or an old captain who pursues memories, or a local gang dumping bodies or (what would be far worse to current sensibilities) ecologically damaging waste in deeper waters. Anyway, it can add a dash of romance to an otherwise normal day.

Sun-

Not sure about all these geese _ certainly not here all summer, maybe here all winter. A lot of them from somewhere, anyway. This little area attracts waterfowl because there is a constant spring seepage from the sandy hills providing plentiful fresh water along the shore.

I usually don’t get birds or other wildlife in these shots. Just an old camera, not nearly as capable as that on a modern cellphone. I would have nothing against a better device except that I notice that people who (in their middle age crisis or second childhood) equip themselves with expensive and showy equipment tend to concentrate more on what is available in the viewfinder than what is really around them. I guess people really seeing weed leaves for the first time and exclaiming over them as they take thousands of shots is a kind of aesthetic progression, but I have always tried to do the same thing without manufactured aids.

Weather Turning Winter

Mon-

From October until mid-December on Long Island is a confused, almost schizophrenic series of contradictory weather patterns. It may be very warm for a few days, then extremely cold, then chill down for rain or flurries. Week to week trends somewhat colder, but nothing really definitive seems to say “ok, now it’s time to stop fooling around ….”

Every year, right around now, there is a big change. The tiny waves have the color of the North Atlantic, the clouds get ominous, the temperature stays low, and every weather prediction is for maybe snow, maybe sleet, maybe rain. The dark days heading to solstice feed the gloom. Time for the winter overcoats and hats and everything else, and finally to forget about the autumn and look forward to spring.

Tue-

Low tide is beginning to have that bleak off-season look where the exposed sand bottom just kind of grades into the water, sky, and brown tress on the shore. Even the houses have lost their vibrancy, as all the flowers are gone and the festive outdoor detritus _ flags, barbeque sets, toys, whatever _ have been safely stowed away.

Winter is the most unchanging season of all. Oh, there are a few dramatic events like a heavy snowfall or deep frozen ice but for the most part each day resembles the last and the next far more than in the dramas of the other times of year. What I most dislike about the current consumer culture is that we have so willingly put ourselves into exactly this kind of gloomy timeless purgatory for work shopping and entertainment all year round _ one day after another, endlessly, all the same.

Wed-

Not a heavy snowfall, but enough to make a difference. The opposite shore is obscured by a heavy band of flakes, as the dock takes on a new coat of white.

A couple more of these, a week or so of desperate cold, and I am ready for spring. Ah, that’s when you know winter is really arriving. The thing about this area is that _ although not nearly as bad as say upstate New York _ the winter drags on long after you have experienced the thrill of seasonal change.

Thu-

I try not to use zoom too much, with a preferred aesthetic of art remaining within certain bounds for certain tasks. When something gets too fine-tuned it gets somewhat artificial. On the other hand, I know anything I decide to shoot is simply a fragmented selection of the real world, and as completely fake as can be. That is always one of the issues of art _ not that these photographs have much to do with art, I suppose.

At this moment the snow fell heavily, but that in itself is a misdirection, because before and after there was hardly any snowfall at all _ this was one of those long storms with bands of activity and other times of complete quiet. Nevertheless, at this particular moment, it was much like a blizzard, cold, driving, relentless and blotting out the horizon. I was happy to head back up the hill to our house.

Fri-

At this time of year it takes more than a few days of twenty degree weather to affect the relatively warm salt water in the harbor. Even here at the head of harbor, where inflowing fresh water floats on top for a while, there is no ice skim yet. The ducks, of course, never seem to notice anything.

All those boats will stay out there all winter, protected _ at least in theory _ from even the thickest ice by a system blowing bubbles all around the docks. I guess it works, but the air pumps can make an awful racket, polluting even the calmest crisp clear days.

Sat

Some snow evades the warm vapors for a while. Even where it melts rapidly, the damage has been done. Stalks are already starting to break and fray, by the summer most of this will form thick mats washed up along the shore. Well, to be fair, maybe most of it will get waterlogged quickly and lie rotting on the bottom. For now, there are lots of pleasant tonal contrasts.

Up the shore away, in a sheltered indentation, there are thousands of geese on the waterline. Surprisingly, although there seem to be quite a few birds of all kinds around, they are almost silent. Maybe they know something about what is coming that I don’t.

Sun-

Doesn’t look like much. Snowflakes barely screen the far harbor shoreline. But the strong winds and twenty five degree temperatures wake you up pretty quickly. The white coating is all new.

Only seven days until winter solstice _ at least my winter solstice, since I simplify it and always declare the sun at its lowest and shortest on December 21, regardless of what the newscasters tell us now. That doesn’t matter much, really, the nights come early enough for weeks wrapping around the actual turning point.

Open Waters

Mon-

The boat owners have mostly decided by now. They raise their left hand to test the wind and guess how hard and severe the winter will be _ will there be snow and gales, will the harbor freeze over, will it be a hard freeze with crushing ice floes. Their right hand opens their wallet and examines the cost of getting the boat out and stored and safe. Looks like everyone over in puppy cove is feeling flush this year.

Sometime this week, a working tug and dock will head out from Coney’s marina and pick up all the buoys to stack up on shore as well. Then there will be nothing but cold blue waves, and whatever goes on under them.

Tue-

No yachts on the sound today, even if you could see that far through the mist. Fog and reduced visibility are common now, with the various sudden changes in air temperature, and slower adjustment of the water. You might guess it feels warm out _ you would be wrong. For some reason, there is a real bite to the dampness.

It’s as if the world is waiting …. But no, that is just projection, a common fault of mine to throw my mood on things that have no mood at all. And one, to be honest, that is probably not at all shared by most of the population around here. December kicks off the mean season, when everyone has too much to do and is worried about family and fate. Aggravated drivers, angry pedestrians, upset children, all hiding their true feelings under masks of good cheer. Fun to watch, if I stay alert.

Wed –

Just grass and reflections with bare trees along the far shore. Off camera to the right crews are pulling up the buoys and heaping them on a barge to tow off to winter storage on pavement near Halesite. That will complete the transformation of this end of the harbor into a semblance of what it once looked like.

The grasses are a shadow of what they even were ten years ago _ might be pollution or sea level or global warming or nutrient overload or some disease _ nobody knows. But it’s clear they become less year by year, everywhere along the shore. These will remain valiantly waving beauty until the ice floes arrive and crush and cut them with rising and falling and pushing and pulling tides.

Thu-

Most of the floating docks have been either taken in and tied up on shore, or taken out to deeper water and anchored tightly for the winter. These float up and down on the tides, with chains or other fastenings wrapped around deeply driven pilings so they can slide freely. Unfortunately, deep cold weather freezes the spray and fresh water near the surface, coating the pilings and chains with ice, freezing the ice together. When the tide comes up, the pilings are slowly but surely ripped up with the rocking action of the waves.

Springtime a barge comes around and hammers in the pilings as necessary. But this costs a fair amount of money. And for the permanent docks built on the pilings, large damage can occur from twisting as the supports are never raised equally. Of course, it’s not all floating docks, in the winter frozen icebergs have exactly the same effect. In other words, the endless calm tourists often ascribe to the quiet cycles of nature on the bay are not quite so timeless as they might think.

Fri-

Collecting the buoys in the fog _ they lucked out this year since it is extremely warm. I’ve seen the crew out before with spray icing up the chains in a bitter north wind. I’m not really sure why these have to come out, but I like the fact that for at least of the year the waves are unbroken by artifacts.

Atmospheric effects can happen anywhere, I suppose, but near the water they vary constantly and change the landscape dramatically from day to day, hour to hour, season to season. The most difficult thing for me is to avoid the easy lethargy of looking out the window and deciding that some kind of weather or other should prevent me from taking my daily two miles. That is not only lazy, but also sets up a day when I fail to get my thoughts cleared and my head screwed on straight.

Sat-

The kayaks and small sailboats will stay stacked along the shore all winter _ unless some huge storm or tide comes along and destroys the racking, which as happened recently. I look at them less as intrusions than as interesting bits of color in an otherwise monochrome landscape. Obviously, there is not much contrast being provided by any boats.

An artistic eye has the ability to take things as they are and find pleasing patterns. If you train yourself in this way you can find beauty in rotting piers, iridescent oil slicks, and discarded roadside trash. It is impossible to make the world into something it is not, but there is always an open question concerning what it really is.

Sun-

Sort of like a vortex, the watercraft are swept off the surface from the inlet on in to the head of harbor. The outer area is cleared by December, some of the water in Halesite has active anchorage all winter. This reflects the likelihood of hard freeze and thick ice occurrence. Right here is about midway, mostly abandoned to the geese and swans and ducks that overwinter.

Baymen (as far as I can tell there are still no Baywomen) who do the odd jobs, go out for clams in the coldest months, and who are increasingly scarce, regard this time of year as calm before the storm. Well, actually storms. At some point soon it will blow hard for days, the temperature will be in the twenties, and spray will add to the misery of freezing fog even when it is not sleeting or driving snow. A hard life. Some call it rewarding, but it’s certainly not for the likes of a wimp like me.

Bare Branches

Mon-

A couple of weeks, a few big gales, some frosty mornings, all have harmonized to harmonize the vegetation and the sky. The season is now obvious at a glance, the cycle of rest and endurance has arrived. Time to pull out the winter clothes for those of us unable to simply hibernate and wait.

That, of course, is only true for anyone who still pays attention to nature. An awful lot of people, it seems, find that the roads are still passable, the stores are still open, work continues, and the outdoors continues as barely noticed background. After all, it is almost Thanksgiving! Christmas around the corner. New Year’s, Super Bowl, winter vacations line up in one long rush. Spring will arrive on a carefully orchestrated flight path which guides everyone through dark and cold with minimum inconvenience.
Tue-

Even without brilliant greens and whatever other colors flash in the foliage, a harbor is a visually arresting place. Ports along the New England coast have always shown that. The weathered old docks and the brilliant blues of reflected skies are purely elemental, in some ways enhanced by the lack of competition.

Now, of course, we get ready for the ice, which arrives later and later each year, if in fact it arrives at all. At some point, there will certainly be snow, but here the bad weather in November and December is usually gales, cold, and rain.
Wed-

The brutality of the season can make us instinctively recoil. The vegetation looks like its been murdered, and the looming clouds promise more of the same. It’s still relatively warm, but I instinctively clutch my collar tighter and hurry on.

Civilization is never more prized than now. I can visit this scene and then move on, happily back in a home that is brightly lit, warm, and with whatever food might strike my fancy. Those that wish to go back to primitive pre-industrial bliss are welcome to it _ the reason civilization exists with all its hassles is that most people are grateful to have options.

Thu-

Four hundred years ago, Thanksgiving day, this continent was all but virgin natural, unaffected by industry and the massive works of mankind. The waters were clear and swarming with wildlife, as was the land. A few tribes lived here more or less peacefully as far as we can tell, people just like us. No houses, more vegetation along the beaches, no docks, they were probably glad to see the insects leave, although maybe they grew used to the harsh winters and nasty mosquitoes.

I am a child of my times, and never wish to go back. I like modern civilization, although I sorrow at the stupid and unnecessary de
struction we are wreaking on our ecological heritage. I am grateful for all I have enjoyed during my lifetime, while concerned about how much our descendants will curse our name. This day, in particular, seems a moment poised between two worlds _ the Eden that once was, and whatever horrible wasteland the planet is being rapidly turned into.
Thu-

It would be nice to think the freshwater mill pond was filled with migrating waterfowl, but the birds on the water are just the local seagulls and geese who have acclimated to year round residency (although sometimes this time of year their instincts get the best of them and they fly a v formation up the harbor and back.) It’s actually already too late for most of the migrations. The small bufflehead ducks arrived from the north a few weeks ago, but they prefer the salty waves.

Nothing heroic in this picture. Just, as advertised, bare branches and brown leftover seeds. Even the leaves have already sunk to the bottom, beginning another cycle into organic detritus. You look at a picture like this and it is always hard to believe that in just a few months it will all be softening yellow and red and green once more. Most people up here, truthfully or not, will tell you they like the contrasts.

Sat-

The tide goes in and out twice a day regardless of the weather, although the moon and a big storm may exaggerate its effect. Unlike the leaves, the colorful kayaks never fall off their perches, and lend a festive note to the acid clear blue and sharply etched branches in this Canadian air.

Beauty, like happiness, is all in our heads, and not always foremost in our consciousness. There are many other cares and worries and chores that must be done. But if we need them, beauty and happiness are always there, somewhere, even if somewhat insignificant by Hollywood standards.

Sun-

Coindre Hall does look a little like a mad doctor’s laboratory, starkly rising amidst deadish trees on the crest of the hill. You almost expect bloodcurdling screams and the crash of monster feet through the underbrush. We could probably add to the drama with howling winds and tattered clouds racing across a full moon _ ah, but that’s just a story.

Humans like to slip stories into whatever they encounter. It helps us remember, and put things in perspective and just have fun where otherwise there might be none. Some would say the age of great storytelling is gone, that mass media has dulled our creativity into oatmeal but just walking around for a while can bring it all back quickly. Surprisingly, our stories often make us appreciate what is really there more than we would if we were just looking with a blank mind.

Last Leaves

Mon-

Somewhat presumptuous to pick the last leaves. They fall almost in a normal curve _ first a few, more and more, a whole bunch, less and less, and then a few singletons that may last until April. But at some point, you know they are mostly done, and the few remaining on the trees turn into curiosities.

We can ascribe all kinds of deeper meaning to this, and construct stories as O.Henry did. But you don’t really need much more than your basic instincts to realize that something has changed and the world will soon be different than it was.
Tue-

You can almost feel the leaves dropping one by one. Sometimes that is true, but often they are ripped in great bunches by the increasingly howling gales from the north as one storm system chases another. Sensible people stay inside at such times and miss the drama on the branches. The next day, we notice, there are a lot fewer up there than there were the day before.

These are the weeks of full transition, just as you get the sudden blossoming when the earth warms in the spring. The difference is in our inner perceptions _ we see this as a spiral into cold and death and tend to get depressed knowing the sun continues to go away for another month. Time grows darker, and we worry about making through the coming season.
Wed-

Summer barbeques in the parking lot are just memories, most of the boats are secured or out of the water entirely. Nobody expects good sailing days to return until spring, and for most people it would be an even rarer coincidence if they happened to be on a weekend. So the yacht club goes quiet, except for the inevitable bustle of blowing leaves and winterizing the equipment.

I like looking at boats, but I hate being on them _ the minute I am on board I feel trapped and I can’t wait to get out. It’s a peculiar form of nautical claustrophobia. Maybe like the ancients in arcadia I simply need the presence of dryads near me all the time.
Thu-

Lonely guy. Tough not to become anthropomorphic about almost anything. We have a built in sympathy that often gets in the way of reality (whatever that may be.)

So that one leaf is symbolic of _ well of whatever I want to make it symbolic of. And your story would be different. And most of the time, both of us are way too busy to bother making stories about everything we run into. I think it’s a miracle that we can ever agree on anything at all.

Fri-

Across the remnants of the mill pond, still mostly fresh water, the startled ducks and geese have just flown away. Boats loom in the salt water across the dam bulkhead.

Quiet little inlets seem worlds away from everyone else. Yet, like almost everywhere around me, I find signs of heavy use even here _ a well-tramped mud path, for example. Maybe photographers trying for unusual seasonal beauty to sell at the fairs, maybe old bearded philosophers, the imagination can insert just about anything. Simply focusing on reality of dry stalks and stripped branches against blue sky is often the hardest thing you can do.
Sat-

Bittersweet, appropriate name for the season as well. In a few weeks the berries will lose some color and start drying, but for now it’s a happy reminder of harvests that are pretty much done by now.

Now that we don’t have the agricultural cycle to ground us any more, it’s easy to remember that this time of year was a kind of respite after the long and arduous months of rapid harvest and preservation. Not yet into the salted and dried staples of winter, but very little to get out of the fields, by now even the potatoes should be safely stored. If the provisions looked adequate for the coming months, thanksgiving was surely called for.

Sun-

We still have a patch of woods here and there _ this happens to be an obscure bit of Mill Dam park _ accessible to the public. In my youth, you could take off into the woods and go for miles in any direction, but nowadays on the East Coast you get about three hundred yards at most before you hit someone’s property.

Fortunately, this being an old town, a lot had been preserved in parks and public spaces. I feel sorry for the newer suburbs, often planned with nothing more in mind than endless similar houses on zoned plots of land, and the only way to get away is to drive a pretty good distance.

Brown Harmonies

Mon –

Whistler painted a series of works he called “Nocturnes,” using muted restricted colors. Nature in the fall and winter does the same thing, reducing the full range of colors to produce equally subtle masterpieces. What is left, after a while, are only the infinitely varied shades of brown of vegetation, and the striking blues of the sky and its reflection in water.

We are used to spectacular displays in art, so most of the photographs of the season skip right from the dramatic brilliant foliage of early fall to the harsh crispness of deep cold and snow. But the world doesn’t work that way. Shifts are often subtle and less theatrical, but deeply dramatic nevertheless.
Tue-

Brown shades vary tremendously but _ well _ they are all still brown. Kind of like our individual personalities, I guess. The boats have thinned out a good deal, all being put up safe on land. Soon the harbor crews will be going around to pick up the buoys.

The last of the green in the spartina will fade soon, but otherwise it remains almost the same until ice in the harbor flattens it and breaks off some of the blades, to wash up on the various beaches for cleanup in the spring. My particular joy in this time of year is that I get such scenes almost entirely to myself, either because they are at work or because they haven’t learned to discover the beauty of bundling up and spending time with colder nature.
Wed-

Seasons help us see the familiar as strange. This is a trait we should always cultivate. There is little more rewarding than a fresh eye, which makes the common world ever wondrous.

So this is just a driveway at Coindre Hall, caught between Halloween and Thanksgiving. Nothing special, and yet very special; just a moment in time and yet portending bit changes. Not a whole lot of brown here, I guess, but I always regard yellow and dark red as honorary browns anyway.
Thu-

The first snow lightens the dark sky, as the trees rapidly darken with each colder night. Many of them by now have been stripped of foliage anyway. It’s always surprising how quickly this all plays out, after what seems an endlessly long interim period of green and gradual coloration.

Dark and pensive folks will relate the story of the grasshopper and the ant, neglecting the inconvenient fact that the grasshopper dies sooner and more certainly. The sad truth is that if you have saved all summer to have a picnic on this lawn today you need to dress warmly, and come with a different set of aesthetic expectations.
Fri-

Last rose of summer, eh? Maybe a novel in that somewhere, if I could just find the appropriate vampires, adolescents, or mad artists hanging around. Anyway, since it actually exists it is not an anomaly, and the ragged trees on the opposite shore show how late the year is growing.

In not much more than a week the muted and varied shades of brown have darkened and lost most of their glow. There are also a lot less of them up there, which means the ones that remain are even more susceptible to the wind gusts frequently spilling in from Canada. Nature is a constant pageant, although whether we consider it a tragedy, comedy, or ongoing adventure series is pretty much up to us.
Sat-

Ducks presumably happily floating on the Coindre Hall pond. You couldn’t have a more traditional mid fall picture if you composed all the elements in a studio. Soon enough this may be ice covered and certainly the area in the back will be nothing but dull brown branches _ but that is a wholly different and equally beautiful aesthetic.

One of the nice things, at least when you’re retired as I am, is that the onset of poorer weather means the exit of fair-weather crowds. The people taking their dogs out, for example, falls off dramatically with wind and temperature, and tends to jam into a few hours on the weekends when it is more a duty than a pleasure. I’m a crotchety old gent and selfishly enjoy having the loveliness to myself.
Sun-

This neighborhood used to be a summer colony, back in the 1920’s, where the not quite rich would come to rub elbows with the wealthy of the gold coast. Glen Na Little trail is a remnant of that time, although many of the tiny bungalows have been winterized and expanded or torn down.

Water is not required for there to be beauty. In some ways, water is a bit too easy. One of the great things about the modern digital era is that so many people have opened their eyes and constantly practice seeing their environment, if only to have something to send to friends every few minutes.

Weeds and Seeds

Mon-

Successful flowers become fruits or seeds, and November is their time of display. These goldenrods are almost as handsome now as they were when bright yellow a month ago. The white puffs, the various methods of making sure there is adequate dispersal, the pods left behind are all fascinating.

Our tendency is to look at the very short run or the very long. We see that it is getting cold and soon winter will be here and we brace for it, ignoring this immediate day. We plan ahead to the warmer summer to come and years of what might be. But nature just cycles on in a rhythm of sprout, grow, flower, seed, spread over and over in a way that would calm us immensely, if we only take the time to contemplate it properly.

Tue-

So many seeds are produced from one plant that, as Darwin realized, they would soon fill the world with offspring if not destroyed by being eaten or otherwise fail to germinate. Yet such wasteful ways are what the world is filled with. A terrifying concept, really, which nonetheless informs our aesthetics so that seeing all these doomed little bits of potential future life is somehow beautiful.

This time of year is prone to meditations on death and birth and cycles. After all, the leaves fall, the ground cover dries brown, cold arrives and these seeds _ the hope of the spring _ are everywhere. How I fit into all this, if at all, is the most natural question there could ever be. Yet, its implications are so frightening that it is easier to head off to the mall and shop a bit more.

Wed-

Scarlet rose hips and dry brown ragweed, not even that well composed, in front of the brilliant blues of an autumn sky reflected in the cooling seawater. I’m not sure words add anything at all. If you have been there and seen this, it makes sense, and if you have not, you wonder what’s the big deal.

The trouble with photographs and descriptions and all virtual reality is precisely that they are not reality. No matter what their claims, they cannot deliver the experience of being present. All I am giving here is an incomplete witness of what I enjoyed on my morning walk.

Thu-

Pokeweed purple just about all gone now, soon to be nothing but brown stalks sticking out of coming snows. Whatever remaining fruits there are have been pretty much eaten by wildlife or stripped by winds, and what hang on all increasingly shrivel. Nothing really profound here, except that everything can be worthy of notice and produce beauty.

In another month, a shot from this same hill would show the harbor clearly though bare trees. The joy of knowing any place well is the glory of its changes over time and the memories of those transformations.

Fri-

Nothing special _ just the bare remnants of lives lived_ but isn’t that something? Most of the day we flash by in cars or thinking about abstractions and never notice the fabulous decorations always
available. There are those who will spend hours in a museum, oohing and aahing at the work of master craftsfolk, and fail to open their eyes to the masterpieces around every day.

Ragweed as one of God’s masterpieces. That is an unusual enough thought with which to end this conversation.

Sat-

Some seeds bleach out to near white rather than brown, and to a casual eye seem to be incongruously in bloom in the cold breeze. In fact, there are an infinite variety of hues, for those with the patience to spend some time and see.

The immensity of the world can be stunning. This is one tiny corner of one tiny lot in one tiny town. The world for all practical purposes goes on forever at such scales. It is our loss if we lose local perspective by getting overwhelmed by the grand narratives of the evening news or twitter twaddle.

Sun-

Beauty seeps in all around us all the time, if we only try to see, even in the most unlikely places. We have been shaped over billions of years to select and appreciate whatever fragments of the “real” universe we inhabit, and as we experience those patterns we become happy.

It is always easy to find beauty in nature, for we are part of nature. Usually, we can also find beauty in the works of humans as well. Part of the appreciation of our world is to be able to find how lovely our existence can be.

Cemeteries

Mon-

Graveyards are an appropriate topic for Halloween week, and at this time of year they are often particularly attractive. I should confess that I have always enjoyed walking through cemeteries, reading some of the tombstones, and meditating on life. Something I picked up from my Mom, long ago.

We have four cemeteries that I know of within walking distance. This is St. John’s, next to Hecksher Park. Our town may be unusual in not having a church attached to any of these sites, but many of the places on Long Island are like this. In the case of St. John’s, the congregation is now in the center of town, and this area, still maintained by them, also memorializes the original site of the church back in the early 1800’s.
Tue-

Huntington was founded in 1653, and some of the markers in Huntington Historic Cemetery at the end of town on Main Street date from shortly thereafter. Not long ago this was a neglected and sorrowful place, full of weeds and fallen trees and irreverent litter, stones occasionally broken for some ill-conceived midnight prank by local drunken kids. It has cleaned up a lot now, for the better.

Sometimes neglected graveyards are fun, but more often they are sad reminders of how even the most glorious lives sink into oblivion. The more pretentious the memorial, the more ironic the setting. But at some point, it is nice for the present to connect to its past, and for people to feel the weight of past generations and centuries and the deeds of those here before us. That’s the meditative mood I want to achieve as I walk through the falling leaves here.
Wed-

I suppose it’s appropriately ghoulish to visit your own grave occasionally. My wife assures me that we have the plot right here, next to her parents. Since I will spend so much time at “rest” here, I feel it is only right that I walk around it occasionally as well. Besides, who knows if we actually rest or not or if instead we chase rabbits for all eternity.

St. Patricks’ cemetery is about a half mile from our house, on rural Goose Hill Road. It was the original location of a small church where the only catholic priest for Long Island in the very early days would make his rounds and have services here ever week or so. Like many others, the church has moved upscale into the town.
Thu-

By far, the place with the best view is the Huntington Rural Cemetery rising high on sand hills on the south side of town, between to naturally carved routes into the interior of the Island. This looks north, over the sound to Connecticut. The graves are more recent _ mid 1800’s on _ and some of them, such as this figure, quite extravagant. There is also an early naval admiral _ a local celebrity _ with an old iron anchor on his stone.

It’s still active _ the latest area is dedicated to small children. I love coming over here all times of year. In spite of the motorcycle repair shop in the valley below, near the entrance, and the constant parade of trucks and cars on New York Avenue it can be calming and quiet and nearer heaven than the bustle below. A good place to think and enjoy the trees spread out as if humans were hardly here at all.

Fri-

Around here, cemeteries are about as close as we get to public sculpture gardens. Of course, the mythology is somewhat more restricted than it is in Europe. Still, it can be a nice stroll in various seasons.

Our town has two other public statues, on Main Street at each end of the five block central area. Up on the hill coming in from the west is a fairly bizarre bronze statue of Columbus, erected when the inhabitants went heavily Italian the middle of last century. On the other end, more traditional near the historic cemetery and in front of the soldiers and sailors memorial is a clunky cement or granite carving of a civil war infantryman. The local art museum is too sophisticated to allow anything representational near its grounds, of course.

Sat

The Rural Cemetery still has the old winter cold vault, where cadavers would be stored when the ground was too frozen to dig with picks and shovels. This was common, of course, before back-hoes made the seasons irrelevant. We take an awful lot of the power we command for granted, and forget how recently it became inexpensive enough to use for just about anything.

I try not to romanticize the past too much. I doubt it was ever grand fun to be a pick and shovel grave digger, even if you ran into Yorick. I am certain I myself would rather be sitting in a warm back-hoe cabin than out in the nasty wet mud of March thaw. Much too easy to pick and choose what we think it was like in other times, as we still do when we consider the ways of other cultures.
Sun-

Looking to the west from the top of the historic cemetery, the whole town is laid out in the valley before you. Back in the old days, when most of the trees were cut down for farming, you could command a fine view all the way to the harbor.

Count Rumsfeld, on the British side, certainly thought so. He knocked down the rebel tombstones and used them as the platform for his cannon “defending” the town. This feat is well documented by all kinds of markers nearby, always ignored by the heavy traffic on 25A. Some would say he had no respect for the dead, some would say he was just a practical man, but probably he was just ticked off at the locals.

Curiosities

Mon-

Hard to make out the snapping turtle on this magnification, but its nibbling on leaves below the 15 foot high dam at Hecksher. About two feet head to tail, I guess. I’ve seen at least one above the dam all summer, but hard to believe this would be the same one. A few years ago, there was another a few miles away on the harbor beach.

So I guess it could be a breeding colony, or it could be a few here and there dumped in by lazy hobbyists. Certainly it’s possible that this one-time native species is following the deer, foxes, river otters, and osprey and recolonizing. Anyway, the first of a few curiosities.
Tue-

How, you ask, is this bucolic scene in any way a curiosity? Because it is almost the last of such formerly numerous places tucked anywhere around the harbor. Somehow, this small slice of private property _ deeds dating back to the Revolution _ has escaped being leveled for a road or a marina, or turned into a private beach, or otherwise destroyed. It is just about as it was fifty or so years ago, perhaps with different chairs.

Sadly, I know it will also go soon. Neighbors complain about the fishing smell, the town covets it for a park, the owners rub their hands in anticipation of a sale. It’s not that what follows will necessarily be bad, just that I miss an occasional undeveloped patch here or there.
Wed-

Some future marine archaeologist might snorkel upon this and think it a primitive alter on which sacrifices were offered to the gods. Alas, it is only an alter to upper middle class pretensions, burning wealth to the god of appearances. Nevertheless, it is a cute little thing, around for many years now, from the prehistory of our own little neighborhoods.

Part of the fun of life is to sometimes take note of the little odd things rather than the most magnificent, whether for example fungi in the woods or the ornaments that folks put on their lawns. Anything can be astonishing and lead to interesting mediations on life, meaning, and happiness. But only if I work at it.

Thu-

The green structure is the Ezra Prime Octogon House, built back in the mid 1800’s. Apparently there was a craze for eight sided structures, which fairly quickly subsided after people found out have difficult it is to maintain a structure without right angles. This one manages to hang on along Prime Avenue on one side of Hecksher Park.

We may not have the deep history of Europe or Asia, but there are a few centuries of history all around for anyone interested in it. Fortunately, we seem to be realizing it and preserving some of our heritage not so much to know who we once were, but as a relevant and living extension of who we are today.

Fri-

This is Huntington’s own version of a crooked house. Built as a public training school, it has its handsome front squared up along Main street, but the walks wander back at an odd angle possible aligned with true North (I haven’t bothered to check.) So from an angle like this, the side seems to disappear, leaving just a kind of old west façade surprisingly made of brick.

There obviously used to be a certain joy in architecture _ octogons, crooked walls, all kinds of turrets and gingerbread and towers _ that was all but erased in the boom from the fifties through a few years ago. Hopefully, some of that playfulness will now return _ but for right now the homes are all boring boxy McMansions and the public centers are all monotonous heavy concrete and brick.

Sat-

The Valencia Tavern is one of the few remaining landmarks of a distant time when many of the town’s inhabitants went out for lobsters, fish, and clams for a living. Which is to stay it dates from before the 1950’s suburban sprawl and population boom that transformed everything. Nobody knows how long it can hang around _ some forlorn baymen still end (or sometimes start) their day here, but there are no crowds and the regulars are sparse.

The fiberglass bull statue is an affectation of the owner put up sometime in the last three decades. It is cute, and out of place, and has an affectionate place in many hearts, but it is fighting a losing economic battle. Only some miracle fad of young people suddenly deciding for some reason it is a interesting place to be could save it now. Like most of the old town, it will soon be gone, torn down or repurposed. Nobody yet thinks of landmarking a bar.

Sun-

An obscure and neglected little park tucked in among the ramshackle Knutson’s boat works, built on what was formerly (and well before my time) a pottery factory which used local clay deposits since the time of the Revolution. Once upon a time there might have been grand plans for it _ as this picnic pavilion now completely unused indicates. Even this shed on the waterfront _ and concrete along the waterfront it faces _ is ready to go one winter or another.

No doubt, as at the end of the harbor, these picturesque old friends will soon be leveled for something shinier and more in keeping with what the town lawyers think is appropriate for avoiding lawsuits. Most lawyers seem to pass Anti-Aesthetics 101 easily, so my guess is that the inevitable results will be pretty awful.

Nautical Procrastination

Mon-

With the cold season closing in, you might expect the boats to be thinning out a bit. But it is just the opposite. Some people suddenly realize they have not been out on the water all year, and try to squeeze in any few moments before the snow starts. Those with boats already out keep hoping that there will be at least one more Indian summer day to cruise in warmth and sun.

So instead of fewer vessels out there, there are sometimes more. The boatyards get ready for the rush _ the first hint of a fall storm or late hurricane will bring everyone at once. In the meantime there is nothing they can do but wait.

Tue-

An awful lot of boats seem to be purchased in a fit of enthusiasm and then lie unused forever. There are fads, sometimes sailboats, or canoes, or these kayaks, or lately stand-up-paddle boards. But they all share a common element of being taken out every day for a while, and then just stored somewhere along the shore as the weeds grow. At least they provide some color.

By the time you get to mid October most folks around here _ not having Eskimo blood nor fortitude _ never venture out on small craft. A few hardy souls will be there even in December, when the water temperatures actually start to make it dangerous. But generally, it seems, pleasure vessels are mostly to be admired rather than take up too much of anyone’s valuable time.

Wed-

An assortment of craft used mostly by the town summer camp. Pretty soon they’ll be collected by trucks and carted from the beach to some indoor storage facility. Like the turning of the leaves, these seasonal changes work to their own rhythms. Like leaves also, they have outlived their usefulness for this year.

Thu-

Cabin cruiser heading out for a late season spin. Boats equipped this well, of course, could go out all year if they wished _ probably have TV and showers and who knows what else on board. Usually, however, the only time I see a real parade is on holidays, not even weekends are very busy. Maybe it is good enough to just show folks they want to impress what it looks like from the road, or maybe they hang out at the yacht club admiring their prize.

I’ve never developed boat envy _ I like my feet on dry land, thank you very much. Easy touches of seasickness when I was young play a part in this, but mostly being cramped in a small place for hours drives me stir crazy. A long cruise is one of my visions of Hell.

Fri-

Can’t resist a pretty picture, whether it fits the theme or not. Life should be a bit chaotic; one of the worst faults I fall into is getting so wrapped in a train of thoughts that I ignore wonder. That of course is very helpful in “real life” and work, but dulls and limits our experiences.

So there are no boats here, unless you squint, and not nautical themes except that any body of water is a potential nautical theme. Sorry.

Sat-

Dingys are used to reach the clammers’ working boats beyond the tideline. These are pulled up and tied to the guardrail along the shore road _ which results in a constant political battle between the town road department and the fishermen. Sometimes there are annoying signs, sometimes chains around the struts, sometimes neon stickers screaming “this vessel will be removed!” . Eventually an accommodation is reached, usually around elections, and things settle down for a while.

It used to be that nearly all the sailboats would be gone in November _ they are certainly never used in the winter _ but lately people have gotten somewhat lazy because the harbor rarely freezes thick enough to damage hulls. No doubt the forest of masts will thin a bit, but it no longer vanishes completely as the snow begins to fall.

Sun-

Not everyone waits. There can be a long line to get into the dock and have something as large as this lifted out of the water, cleaned with pressure hoses, covered in white shrink-wrap, and slowly driven across West Shore Road to the large sand pit where it is safely stowed row on row. Unless, of course, a tree falls on it, but that’s a different story…

This marina stays busy throughout the year, even in the dead cold of winter something is going on, if only to clean the machinery in readiness for the next summer. In some ways, these are the new fishermen, working long, cold, wet and dirty hours in all weather _ unfortunately with a lot of the romance and beauty stripped from their jobs.