View from roof of Capron Street condos, Rochester, New York
I took this shot from the deck on the roof of the Capron Street condominiums downtown. A little further to the north, off to the right of this picture, is the Broad Street Bridge and beyond that the Main Street bridge. There is a plan in the works to re-water the aqueduct under the Broad Street bridge, to remove the road surface and let a portion of the Erie Canal flow over the Genesee River again as it did a century ago. Like so many European cities this center city attraction will be a year round magnet. Let’s make it happen.
Once my grandfather retired, well into his eighties, he would hold court from a green chair in my grandparents’s living room. Near the end of his life he was pretty much living in the living room. I remember helping him to the bathroom and then helping him get up off the toilet. At the very the end he was just lying in a bed in the middle of the living room, groaning in pain. I asked my mother, “Isn’t there anything they can do to help him?” She said, “He’s dying” and she said it a way that struck me as “He’s dying, you idiot.” My mom was hard core. And she made it clear that dying at home was the way to go. She said she hoped she would be able to do the same thing.
Well, you are hardly ever as lucid as my mom was when you get to the late stage. Today, she asked point blank. “Paul, what is going to happen to me?” I laughed and said “No one knows what’s going to happen to anyone. We could leave here on our bikes and get run over. No one knows what’s going to happen to them.” Sort of a cop-out on my part and not exactly what she wanted to hear but the best I could do on the spot.
She is not happy now. Her legs bother her. She sleeps to escape her uncomfortableness and she told me she feels as though this is happening because of something that she did. She says “I feel as though I did something wrong.”
I told her she did nothing wrong. “This is what happens in old age. People don’t live forever.” There was a picture of my grandparents, her parents, near where we were sitting and I handed it to her. She studied it for a bit and I said, “Your mom and dad are gone. They died. No one lives forever. That’s life.”
She worries about everything and the best I can do is to. say, “Just don’t worry about it.” I wish I was as hard core as my mom.
Our neighbor has a little project going on, one that requires a dumpster. I asked him if I could photograph their dumpster. He said, “What?” I repeated the request and explained that I photograph dumpsters. I said, “I have a collection of them.
We were maybe an hour and a half out of the city headed toward Grand Central on a Metro North train making last minute plans to hook up with Duane when he got out of work. He had some shopping to do in the East Village so he suggested meeting down there. It occurred to me that we would be in Greg Highlen’s neighborhood so I emailed Greg (he and we are some of the only people I know without a cellphone) and he said he could meet us in Washington Square Park. I was able to text Duane back minutes before we went underground and magically all three parties found each other near the fountain under the arch in the park.
It was a gorgeous day, sunny and cool, like one of those trippy Spring afternoons in Dunn Meadow on IU’s campus. Duane and Greg had never met but hit it off and between their conversations Peggi and I talked Bloomington ’69 – ’72, the years we hung together.
When I first met Greg he was an art major living not in a dorm but in his studio in one of the Fine Arts buildings. He talked of the trailer as a creative hub and despite downsizing his art collection has hung on to a copy of Rich Stim’s “Trailer Tails.” By chance we ran into Greg in the Village in the early eighties but hadn’t seen him since. Now he’s on top of the art world, living in the same fifth floor studio apartment for the last thirty eight years.
Before we met in the park I joked that we looked exactly the same. We didn’t but we sure acted the same.
Reflection on Johnson’s Pond in Durand Eastman Park
Even Spring can bring you down. The ramps are turning yellow and the Trilliums are fading fast. Life is too short. But it is only those left behind who complain. Plants go with hope for renewal. People are gone for good.
Some people give so much they leave a hole when they’re gone. It is up to us to fill it.
We picked our wild ramps responsibly, cut them at their base and left the bulbs in the woods. Made a nice green salad with them and added some grapes, halved, the way they used to do it at Peggi’s mom’s place.
The back room at Tapas 177 was the perfect spot for Maureen Outlaw’s opening last night. Dawn Carmel was pouring wine samples, the kitchen kept the tapas plates full, the conversation was crisp and Maureen’s paintings looked fantastic. The familiar scenes she paints, the bend in the Genesee River, the curve in the road through Durand, look anything but ordinary with Maureen’s luscious paint handling.
When I picked my dad up for his doctor’s appointment this morning he had his knapsack with him so I kind of figured he had something in mind after the appointment. Sure enough we stopped by Edmunds Woods where I took the photo above. As you can see, the trees are all filling in and the bounty of wildflowers below is closing shop.
Margaret Explosion has a bunch of new songs in the slow cooker tonight so stop on out if you’re in the area.
The parking lot at Sea Breeze Amusement Park was full last night and at first I thought it might be open for the season but I know that doesn’t happen until Memorial Day. Then I spotted a sign that read “Summer Employee Applicants Parking.”
My father called and asked if we wanted to go down to Vic’s Place for dinner. Peggi thought we were talking about Nick’s so my dad decided to go there. The place was packed. I have never seen it that crowded. “Slammed” as they say in the restaurant business. Nick never even got over to our table to shoot the shit. My parents always forget to ask them to hold the olives on their salads and that works out good for me as they both pick them out and pass them on. Peggi and I both had the Manicotti and brought half of it home.
After dinner we rode down to the bridge that has swung open for the year and my father said, “Every year Chuck Schumer and the woman from Marge’s get their picture taken out on the bridge (as they make their case for a year-round bridge) and nothing ever happens.” As we looked out at the bay he told us how strange it was that no one has ever developed this idyllic spot. As we drove by Vic’s’ new spot on “hot dog row” it looked as though they were doing a good business as well. I think people around here just like it funky.
Matt playing bassoon the Society for Chamber Music in Rochester
We used to do brochures for the Society for Chamber Music in Rochester. I’d meet with two women who smoked like chimneys and we’d use clip art of medieval instruments in a two or three color brochure. This was quite a while ago. We’re still around but I don’t think they are.
When Margaret Explosion was doing the Friday Happy Hour gigs in the nineties we’d talk to Steve Brown, one of the three original owners of the Bug Jar, during breaks and he was pretty much out of his element behind the bar. He was working at Merrill Lynch during the day and liked talking money and investments. We had very little of each but as time went on he convinced us to meet with him in the old Lincoln First Tower downtown. I’m so happy now that he prodded us into putting something away. He moved up in the company and passed us off to Todd who is now out at Wells Fargo. Todd arranged an afternoon event at Monroe Country Club where he promised he wouldn’t talk any business so we went along for the ride. It was a beautiful day, a gorgeous setting and the Society for Chamber Music in Rochester performed.
During lunch we were seated with Matt, on the bassoon above, and we learned from his wife that they have a room in their house devoted to making reeds. There is an incredible amount of effort involved in making a bassoon reed and once you get a good one you’re lucky if it lasts a few days.
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Low Rider on East Ridge Road in Rochester, New York
Our yellow Winter Aconite flowers are more bountiful than ever this year. They were stuck under the snow and about a month late but they are wide open today. They don’t last long like that. They prefer the old weather and is in the sixties today. The low riders and motorcycles are out. Our neighbor’s main water line is still frozen so it’s probably too early to turn on the water to the outdoor faucets. They went out of town for a bit and their water line froze. They have a garden hose connected to the house next door. I threw the last of the snow on our patio out into the yard and got the lawn chairs out of the garage. I’m ready for horseshoes.
Birds and Worms Clubhouse on Irondequoit Bay in Rochester, New York
My grandfather’s brother, Paul Dodd, was a local ballplayer of note. He took out ads in the paper announcing his availabilty to teams preparing for competition. He played for money. My father has been tracking down links to him in old newspapers, like those found on the amazing Fulton History site. He has found mentions of Paul playing at Sheehan’s field at 12 Corners, Windsor Beach in Summerville. a ballpark out Edgemere near where Schaller’s is today and this place called “Birds and Worms.”
At painting class last night my father (Leo Dodd), asked us if we had any idea where “Birds and Worms” was. He sent us this photo. He thought it was near us but we had never heard of it. My father continued his research last night and found it on a Google map. It turns out to be at the closest point on the bay to our house, a former Native American settlement and now home to the Newport Yacht Club. It is at the bottom of Seneca Road down a very steep hill. It is impossible to ride our one speed bikes back up it so we walk them.
The Birds and Worms clubhouse, shown above, hosted meetings of the “Early Birds And Unfortunate Worms Club” and later became the Birds and Worms Hotel, serving smuggled Canadian rum. There is not enough flat land down there for a baseball game so they must have sponsored games at another location. I’m thinking of re-organizing a social club called “Early Birds And Unfortunate Worms Club.”
We were out by our mailboxes talking to our neighbor, Jared, for about ten minutes before I realized he was wearing his waders, boots that seamlessly transition into leakproof pants. He had broken the ice on his bond and he was taking inventory of the fish that survived our tough winter. There were twenty-four groggy fish in the pond before the snow came. They stop eating when the water temperature goes into the forties and just kind of float below the surface.
When the water freezes on top he has a small heater that keeps a small opening in the surface, just enough to let gasses escape. He was in New Zealand and emailed us to request that we clear away the snow from the top of the heater but when we did that the ice froze around the heater’s cover sealing the fish in for a few weeks. So far he has identified four living fish, one injured fish and six dead ones. Jared was in mourning but I am uncertain as to whether it is over the loss of the fish or the engineering failure.
Possum in snow along trail near the Genesee River in Rochester, New York
Good thing Peggi brought along the tube of “Glide.” We met Jeff and Mary Kaye at their house on the river for French Toast, “lab meat” sausage links and French press coffee. By the time we got suited up the snow was beginning to melt and stick to the bottom of our skies. We applied the blue, wax-like substance to our non-wax skis and took off around the old, overgrown harness racing track, then through the woods down to the river where we ran into this little guy.
He was in our trail but seemed oblivious to us. We all wondered if he was just coming out of hibernation or something because we thought they were nocturnal. Could he possibly be hard of hearing or sight impaired? I looked it up. “Opossums do not hibernate. The winter months will see many opossums change their foraging habits from night to day in order to try to take advantage of the warmer weather during sunlight hours. Their tails are particularly susceptible to frostbite as they have no fur covering to protect them. Neither their eyesight nor their hearing is particularly acute, but they can both see and hear.”
Back inside we were happy to assist Jeff with a presentation of his life-long project, a daily photo of himself, mostly self portraits including scans of slides, prints and multiple iPhoto libraries. It will be sensational when it is officially out of the bag.
We do groundhogs’ day a month late around here and we do it with chipmunks. This little guy, in our backyard, popped his head up and likes what he sees. He’s predicting St. Patrick’s Day will arrive on schedule, March 17th.
We are headed over to my parents’ apartment to wish my dad a happy birthday. I called to say we were headed over and he invited us down to the bistro where the Special of the Week is “Fried Bologna and Onion Sandwiches.” I have not had one of those since I was kid but I might go for one of those and a vanilla shake.
We chased a herd of deer toward the lake as we skied through the woods today, maybe twelve or so of them including a buck with a decent sized rack. And on the way back we chased the same herd back toward our neck of the woods. They must feel a lot more vulnerable in the snow. They are normally camouflaged. In the winter they take off as soon as they see us. In the other seasons they wait and check us out. If we act casual they will hold their ground and we get within fifteen feet or so. We come across their sleeping spots all the time, melted snow, indentations about a foot deep with leaves visible and of course, deer scat.
We got back from New York just in time to make a toasted cheese sandwich and head out for painting class. I didn’t even have time to shovel the roof until the next morning. The temperatures were above freezing by then and ice damning is a concern when the snow melts and rolls toward our big overhangs. The roof temperature there is quite a bit colder than it is over our living quarters so freezes, forms an ice damn and can lift the shingles and drip into the house. This has only been a problem one time so I head it off at the pass. I’m only up there a few time a year and it’s pretty easy shoveling because it is all downhill. I just have to keep my wits about me up there and that is a challenge.
Peggi cutting handmade soap at Abundance CoOp in Rochester, New York
We were members of Abundance CoOp back in the mid seventies when they located in the old firehouse on Monroe Avenue. We used to have work there for a few hours for the privilege. They might have changed their name since then but they are on the move again. Instead of being tucked away behind KrudCo they’ll have much more visibly on South Avenue. And you’ll have better visibility while you’re shopping as well because the new building has giant windows across the front. If I sound like one of the two thousand shareholders I am and we were there yesterday to take advantage of our once a month 10% off that each member enjoys.
While we were there we picked up a copy of their newsletter, the “Rutabaga Rap,” and learned that at the monthly board meeting they discussed what to do with all their new space. The most popular item on the expansion list was beer. Winter enthusiast, Jack Bradigan Spula has a great article in the newsletter about the subnivium, the vital ecosystem under the snow.
Matthew’s company car, a hybrid, lost its charge in Syracuse so our bowling date was cancelled or rather postponed until last night. But the eight lanes at Park View Bowl were all occupied with a women’s league when we got there. The idea contained in the name of a view of the park (Durand Eastman) while you’re bowling is crazy. We had a drink at the bar and I returned Matthew’s “Speaking of Art: Four decades of art in conversation” book. I wanted to show Louise this quote from Nancy Spero, Leon Golub’s wife and one of the artists in the book, but there wasn’t enough light at the bar for her to see it.
“There’s a basic risk in the practice of art itself, in that it’s something that’s not wanted particularly by society. Only a few understand the need for this innocence in a culture, and yet it is the artifact of a culture in the final sense of the word.”
And I thought this one from Ed Ruscha was nice especially because he found common ground between his work and Morandi’s. “One of my favourite artists is Giorgio Morandi, and he painted the same picture for all of his life and did it very well. He fulfilled his destiny without doing any of this pushing into new frontiers. So pushing into a new frontier is not a necessity for any artist. But unless it’s done by someone, things end up at a standstill.”
The night was young so we moved down the road to the Reunion, another bar we had never set foot in. Sea Breeze apparently used to have a small shop that supplied the word with clown shoes and sure enough there was one over the bar. They have a print of Goya’s “Naked Maja” in an ornate frame and a sign that looked vintage but used contemporary jargon. “Wine. How classy people get wasted.” We pumped dollar bills into the juke box and played three games of 8-Ball on the pool table. We were both good and bad.
Peggi skiing on golf course at Durand Eastman Park in Rochester, New York
We were hiking through the woods the other day when we spotted some cross country ski tracks. We had not considered the few inches of white stuff a sufficient base. It’s just not enough for us. Too many roots and fallen branches to trip on and not enough fluff to cushion our falls.
But skiing out on the course where they groom trails on the fairways is something else all together. For the last few days we’ve driven the car down to the lake and parked on Horseshoe Road where we take off on our skis. It is as cold as hell in the open but somehow you get in the zone and it is always quite astonishing to run into other skiers out there.
We set aside the afternoon to make a labor intensive recipe from our new “Mexico: The Cookbook.” Chopping shallots and grinding peanuts, soaking guajillo chiles and straining them into a sliced mushroom mix and wrapping hammered chicken breasts around the contents, tying them up with string and rolling them in flour before browning them on the stovetop and then baking the whole thing. We started at four and didn’t eat until after eight.
Like Noam Chomsky said, “I love the cold weather. That’s when I get my work done.”
Mute swan (invasive species) Lake Eastman, Rochester, New York
Did the day really just zip by or did I miss something? I read the paper while Peggi was at yoga and we took a long walk around Lake Eastman when she came back. We stained the old door we bought at Rehouse. It is solid wood and maybe a hundred years old. It was labeled an exterior door but we cut it down and hung it in our bathroom. We’re waiting for some foggy glass to come from the glass guy.
We caught the early show of “Wild” on Louise‘s recomendation. It was kinda of hard to watch Reese Witherspoon in shorts and no hat as she walked through the California desert but by the halfway point I had suspended the whole reality thing and took in the beauty of life lived without regrets.
Big tire bikes in Durand Eastman Park, Rochester, New York
The older I get the more inconsequential I feel. And that is both sobering and liberating. At least that’s the way I felt when these big guys came up the hill on these big fat tire bikes. They look like they are intended for riding over really rough terrain like the surface of the moon or something. I’m afraid to google them.
I get this same feeling when I watch a FKA twigs video
