Therapy from a Stranger

Rumor has it that Kris Kristofferson stumbled into a bar one night, saw a mailman with a guitar on stage – and before you knew it – John Prine stopped delivering mail and became a voice of the people.

Now, I won’t go off on a rant here and tell you that John Prine was a political activist or any pigeon-holing type of shit like that; but I will tell you that John Prine was a common man with a lot of ideas and he was happy to share them.

And people were happy to listen.

I’ve heard Prine’s music my whole life…
On the radio.
On my floor as a kid playing with toys.
On the road to somewhere I’ve long forgotten…
But the first time I really listened to him was during the grip of the pandemic.

Being that a lot of us were separated from one another, I took a lot of time to myself to explore the backroads and trails around my home and in depths of the River Valley. That’s when I really started to dig into his words; follow the trail of breadcrumbs he was leaving while living.

His music strengthened friendships and helped me speak my mind and understand what it was all about – whatever IT is, was, and will be. It was as much of a conduit as it was an influence on me.

(Therapy from a stranger.)

But the one song that grabbed me and held me down until I could see the scene with my eyes open, was “Crooked Piece of Time” off of September 78. It literally notated the place and time we were all living in while politicians and scientists went to war over what they were going to do with this virus and the people it was impacting.

(Petty things from petty people while we all irked out a living.)

The virus – COVID by name – would eventually become a tool to divide us all – people fighting over masks and vaccines. Some crying about freedom, others going with the flow. And as we’re still reaping in that stryfe, and facing another – questionable by some – variant, John has come into focus again – this time in the form of a whole album:

So here’s my bold and accurate statement about a man who I wept for as he died from complications from this ratty virus, last year:

John Prine is a staple in Americana – and not the flag waving, bible dragging, extreme right Americana – but the true grit, blue collar – “smoke some dope, who cares who you sleep with as long as you’re having a good time, and if you don’t mind – love me or leave me alone” – kind of Americana I was raised on.

– Me, right now, sipping coffee, listening to the dog bark at a deer outside,
the girls laughing in their bedroom, and “Hello in There”.

Now I don’t know John. I never knew John. But I know a lot of people like him. People in faded blue jeans, drinking foamy beers and flying their own flag – who bring hope and happiness to whomever they touch.

(Bonus points if they have a guitar.)

People a lot like me and my people – but swapping out the faded jeans for Carhartt unwashed duck double-knees, faded in the ass and knees. People who are proud to be Americans, but not those Americans who drag the Bible around behind them and use it to cover up their shame – Americans who live freely and pour love and laughter into their family and friends. People who stand for themselves and think for themselves so they can be themselves.

Anyway, there are some key tracks on “John Prine” that, if you were to dedicate the next hour of your life to listening to music, would set you on the path of a fantastic day. These are songs, when listened to in order – will present you with balance while tapping into some of those places in your inner-you that you don’t always tap into; especially all at once:

Illegal Smile
Because we all get stoned and want to be left alone, sometimes.

Spanish Pipedream
Because it’s easier to think for yourself than you think.

Hello In There
Because it’s easy to forget people, but it’s easier to remember them.

Sam Stone
Because the bad drugs are really bad.

Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You into Heaven Anymore
Because those Bible Draggers are a real drag.

Angel from Montgomery
Because we’re all looking for an angel to save us.

I’ve listened to this album twice since I started this written reflection. I even bought a copy of the album off of eBay – because maybe I’ll get stoned on the couch one night and think too much about all the things I don’t want to think about all too much?

And maybe I’ll find that those are the things I want to think about after all….

Love you, John.
Thanks for your time…

Clay

Memories…

I can remember back to when I was 2-3 years old.

Good memories and bad memories. Big family parties and a small kitchen knife that stuck into my finger when I was washing dishes in my diaper.

(I’ll show you the scar.)

But my memories are mostly good, because it was mostly good.

(And, thankfully – It’s still is mostly good.)

But memories…
Memories triggered by a sound or smell.
Memories that keep me going when I need something to keep me going.

Memories of living on Darling St. in Southington and warming up tinfoil chocolate Santa’s on a neighbor’s grill, then ripping through the woods on a moped, strapped to one of my brothers.

Who was that neighbor?
Do I ever see them anymore?
Do they ever see me?
35 years later…

Memories of being in school on the day before Thanksgiving or the day before Christmas break.

Specific memories where you can remember minute details, captured for a reason and triggered randomly in the modern moment…

First kisses..
… On a school bus.
… Thinking how I hope my daughters don’t have their first kiss on a school bus..
… Unless they can kiss that girl..
… And I know that sounds weird.

Last kisses…
… Crying in a parking lot and saying goodbye for the first and last time – and when the memory is recalled, playing out how it could have gone better or worse…

Sunsets in other states…
Sunrises in other countries…
Colorado and Vermont vying for a tie…
Sweden and Copenhagen mixed up in the fog of my mind..
My backyard beating them all..

The last time my grandmother spoke to me as I held her hand in a cold and lonely hospital room…

She could only speak Polish because that last stroke tore through her like a late August thunderstorm..

Even though I had never heard her speak Polish before.

I think my mom was there.
But that I can’t remember…

The first time Penny looked at me and said “Daddy”. Rolling over in bed and tapping me on the arm. Smiling – and letting it loose to see how I would react.

It was her first word.

That time Quinn was genuinely upset about something and I saw it in her eyes. I saw it. I could see the sadness. And I stopped breathing for just a minute. And it felt like we were one person. That connection.

We’re still connected…

(And now I’m crying…)

Some memories are pointed and some are just random – but they’re all significant in the time that we recall them.

Good and bad, they help us put one foot in front of the other – whether we need that extra push or not.

Memories are dreams that really happened. They’re the building blocks of how we get to where we are and how we avoid going to where we shouldn’t have been going.

We are the clay, and they are the warm hands that shape us..

There’s no need to live in the past – but you should never forget where you came from – because it got you to where you are today.

Memories.

It’s not too late…

The thing about fall – especially, if not exclusively – in New England is that it’s the perfect time to get lost and found – a time to immerse yourself in all of it and let it guide you through without fuss or a set goal in mind.

Whether you get into the witchyness of it, or you’re stuck on the colors, there’s so much more to do in this short span of time called “autumn” when petrichor fills the air and grounds you in the moment.

It’s a “don’t blink or you’ll miss it” scenario – but what it gives you in the gap leaves you both fulfilled and wanting until it comes around again.

Balance.

9.22.21

Summer’s almost gone – and the general consensus in this household is: GOOD!

Sure, we have a ton of fun with the longer days and hot weather, but there comes a point where you need to get your feet back under you. Get your head back in it – rely on an alarm clock until the charm wears off, etc. etc…

And seeing that most of this summer was spent at around ninety-degrees, the kids and I are excited for flannel mornings and firepit evenings.

In fact – both girls have been pushing the moment by insisting on wearing sweatshirts to school in the morning.

Now, don’t get me wrong – while I sit here with a sunburn – I like most aspects of summer: beaches, camping, open windows, and open minds – but, with the way things have been going in New England, we could do all those things – and be more comfortable – in October…

Maybe even November…

Okay, maybe not so much the beach – but, man oh man, there’s nothing like waking up in a tent this time of year. And shit, if you were a true fan of the beach, you could make an October afternoon work out just fine.

Truth is, I am much less in-tune in the summer. When I was younger, it was a time to unplug and absorb – but as an adult, I am much less productive where I want to be – like with writing. Maybe that makes me a seasonal writer? No. I don’t think so – I can write all the time – but I think I am much more aloof and a lot less detail-oriented in summer.

Which is what summer is all about – especially for my girls – but I need a point to return to in reality where my feet are firmly planted and I am dialed in to whatever I need to be dialed into – without the distraction of the smells of sunscreen and the sound of a crashing wave getting my tail to wag.

So I welcome back the deeper thoughts. I welcome back the opportunity for in-depth conversations – sipping suds socially – without our clothes sticking to us in the humid heat.

I’m already back to driving down country roads
looking for any inkling of color
on any leaf that changes color…

Wednesday is the first day of fall.

Cosmic Contradictions

Last night, Thursday August 12th, 2021, we were supposed to get a Perseid Meteor Shower of biblical proportions. We didn’t. We got a great night sky – clear as a glass – sprinkled in wonder – but no shooting stars or any other sort of cosmic occurrence. There will be another chance. There always is…

Camp Sloper was completely lawless.

Sure, there were counselors and schedules and all the formalities required to run an official, insured, camp – but the whole thing was very hands-off and very smoke and mirrors.

I once went through two sessions – that’s 2 weeks – without ever seeing the counselor assigned to my group.

I was 12.

Anyway, my first – planned – meteor shower was there, that summer.

My buddy Steve and I laid on the grass, just outside the edge of the pavilion, facing the lake – and we waited and waited to see something cosmic.

For a while it was nothing but dirty jokes, but then – those flaming buggers started streaming the sky like madness had set them on their final run.

And we sat there for a good ten minutes in silence.

Everyone was silent.

“It’s better to burn out, then to fade away.”

The Saga Of The White Faced Hornets

Saga seem like a strong word for something that only took up a few minutes of each day, for two days. But the whole idea of it – the physicality and possibilities it presented – was living rent free in my brain for a solid day – so, well – saga stays.


Saturday, Aug 7 – 2021, 9:30 AM
Ragged Mountain, Berlin CT

There are only a few things that will turn me around on a trail – but a medicine ball sized white-faced hornet nest is one of them.

Unlike a brown bear, black snake, or a raging river, these bastards cannot be reasoned with or navigated around. They exist to protect their queen, and will attack, unprovoked, in droves, without regard for their existence – or yours.

They are the epitome of “hive-minded” and their sting is incredibly painful – you can expect multiple stings from each one of these death-dealers, in rapid succession.

I considered running underneath the hive, but when I got to about 20 feet away, they emerged – ready to meet me as I scurried by.

So, lack of better words – fuck that.

For anyone out wandering and wondering on Ragged Mountain, this is off-the beaten path, but you’ll notice it once you turn on to this section of the trail.


Sunday, Aug 8 – 2021, 9:30 AM
Ragged Mountain, Berlin CT


In the summer of 2005 I had my knee partially rebuilt and it sequestered me to the second floor of our old house for about a week.

Somewhere in the middle of that, I heard yelling – followed by screaming – out in the yard. My neighbor was walking the fence line and an efficient swarm of white-faced hornets were attacking him. He was lying on the ground, crawling back to his house by the time I made it to the window.

They didn’t know he was a 95 year old World War II veteran or that he trained for months in Colorado just so he and his friends could be dropped into the Alps and persuade the war to swing in our favor. So, while they were stinging him over and over – tap tap tap – they sure as shit didn’t know that there is a whole PBS documentary about it…

It’s the only time I felt helpless – because I couldn’t help him. Though I did manage to get down and out and into the yard to blast that nest with my Mossberg full of rock salt – forever changing the tide of their war – the next night when those deathdealers were all asleep in the hive.

White-faced hornets are the least productive of the pollinators. They’re also the most aggressive and push out the beneficial pollinators wherever they build their nest – which they can do overnight if they’ve got their shit together.

Anyway.

I told my mom I wouldn’t go down the path they were on, today – but of course I did. But today I could hear them before I saw them, as I rounded the corner past the old, blue Jeep.

Karma, the Holy Spirit, or the guy on the mountain bike I warned about the nest who hit the trail ahead of me, had knocked that big paper deathsphere to the ground and its inhabitants were loud and angry; in a tizzy over their half-deflated home.

The swarm looked like an old TV you switched to a channel the bunny ears couldn’t catch – white and black snow – spinning around, trapped in some imaginary area that they wouldn’t fly out of – all to protect a miserable queen, who – because of her dedicated lot in life – was probably even more miserable than her horde.

So now this deflated house of hell lives in the middle of the trail where it will be abandoned, for good reason: how can you have an evil lair if it’s just a pile of rubble on the ground and really be feared? I have no remorse for the joy I feel in seeing destroyed. There’s plenty of other places for them to set up shop.

The Den

Growing up, we had a room in our house that was designated as a catch-all: a place to store things forgotten that you weren’t ready to forget, a place to iron clothes, and a place to hide Christmas presents from prying eyes…

It’s also where a majority of our houseplants, in varying stages of their lives, were kept and fawned over…

There were a bunch of cacti – dry and pointy, stoic like soldiers, in old hand-thrown pots my mother had made. Some with needles that were easy to remove, others with needles that got under your skin.

There were a couple of dusty, egg-shaped moss terrariums, in various sizes – with various gnome figurines sitting, in humidity, inside. Mossy contents suspended in time with the same air from the day they were made.

There was a beautiful Geranium, that always seemed just far enough out of reach so it could remain undisturbed. Captivating in obscurity. Plump and curious. My favorite of all of the curiosities.

And then there was Coleus.
Little pots with cuttings…
Big pots with impressive plumes..
My grandmother loved Coleus – indoors and outdoors.
In gardens, and in pots – Coleus.

And so it went; so it was – growing up at 1509 Kensington Rd., with my mother and grandmother – who was a professional gardener.

This Coleus is brand new to me.

Just a week old, and hanging happily in front of my bedroom window. Purchased on a whim, without any intention of triggering these memories – but here we are, in the middle of childhood, wandering in wonder…

Yet again…

Pileated Maple.. Maybe

There’s an old, dying tree out back that was old and dying when I bought this place a few years ago.

It’s upright and alright –
but this tree has decayed
to the point where it can’t be identified.
However, I would assume
it’s in the maple family
based on its size and what’s growing around it.

Though it’s not exact on a land survey, this relic of a tree represents the eastern most corner of my property – and, if we’re anywhere out back, in the winter months, when the trees are bare – it makes for the perfect landmark to help us find our way back up to the house.

I assume it would serve the same purpose in the warmer months, when the trees are plump with pride, but we don’t head out that way too much then as it’s a haven for Copperhead snakes.

But don’t let me dissuade you from heading out there if you’re ever here. All it takes is me charting a course through there with an industrial brush cutter and we’ll be on Golden Pond; or – in this case – the banks of the Hubbard Brook.

My industrial brush cutter
is up at the cabin in VT
and is going to be a bear to bring back down
unless I can revive it.
Which I most certainly can.
It’s just a
want to do
and not a
need to do
right now.

Anyway…

My view from my bed through my bedroom window is quite fantastic – the focal point of which is this rotting tree. It’s a pin. It’s a geographic center about 150 feet from where I lay my head and dream my dreams.

And there’s so much going on around it and on it, but I rarely get a chance to catch any of the action during the day, as I am up and about with the sun and back to the pillows after sunset.

But this past Saturday, I had done enough for the day and hopped into bed somewhere before 730pm. So – if anything was going to happen in the yard, on that tree – or anywhere out there, in the beyond – I had the perfect view.

And as if were planned, the Pileated Woodpecker who had made that tree its canvas, returned within minutes of me paying attention.

I had first seen this bird – on this tree – last fall – from the top of the yard, where I only saw its back and assumed it was either bear cub or some sort of other something I had yet to identify – as it’s too large to be a bird, by design; the pileated woodpecker.

Anyway…

These birds, have the ability to remove a considerable amount of material with each peck. So, as I lay there, I watched as sawdust was kicked up, and large chunks of layered, dying, and drying wood fell to the ground.

This went on for about an hour – around the tree, up and down – in and about – all in search of some sort of worm or grub. Meanwhile, mere feet away, were probably a nest of snakes laying in wait that would have made a much more fulfilling meal.

It’s quite inspiring to watch this massive bird goto work. It’s not so much a path of destruction, as it is a dance. I mean, there has to be a level of finesse to it, right? This big feathered creature has to have a plan in order to be so exact.

I could go on wondering for days, but I’ll just wait for my next opportunity to observe.

And at that,
I’m thankful I was done with my day
and got to experience all of this,
in proximity.

Foxglove and Daylily: A Tale Of Two Sisters

In the fall, my daughters will take on the next scholastic chapters in both of their young and wonderful lives.

Penny, eight this coming August, will go into third grade – which I hear is a real doozy in modern times. It’s probably even more-so being that half of this year past year – and half of the last year – was spent distance learning, a situation that forced kids to get acclimated with technology with a quickness, and probably took something away from the organic learning experience.

Though it could be argued that they were instilled with a powerful dose of forced-independence, and there’s merit in that feat.

Either way, she adjusted to both scenarios like a champ.

Quinn, who just turned five and proudly tells everyone so, will take the leap into Kindergarten – an all day commitment at a new school.

Our hometown only hosts the PreK program she was in at one of the three elementary schools in town, and she’ll be heading on up – to the east side, at another elementary school – for the next 6 years of her life. Three of which will be spent with Penny – so she’s excited – Penny is excited – and so am I.

That said…

Today, being the final day of school for the girls, I decided to pick them each something from the yard to give them as a sign of love and congratulations.

In a yard full of flowers, I picked the Foxglove for Penny and the Daylily for Quinn. There was no precognition, no planning – I just picked them because each flower drew me to their personalities.

And man, I wasn’t far off…

“Foxglove” represents intuition and creativity – both things which Penny is renowned for. In fact, she was awarded for her creativity both last year and this year in school. Beyond that, she has an uncanny understanding of everything – generally with little introduction. Penny either gets it, or asks why and how something is the way it is or works – then gets it.

The orange “Daylily” represents courage, which is uncanny seeing that Quinn will be entering a new school, with new people, and new routines – and she’s jazzed for it. It also represents love, and – though both girls are incredibly emotional and caring – Quinn is a healer, in all rights. She wants people to be alright in life – and she’ll do whatever she can to make sure people feel that way.

I won’t lie – I’m a little in awe of this connection. Yes, they’re my daughters. Yes, 50% of their DNA is shared with mine. And yes, we spend an incredible amount of time together – but this is on another level. Our yard has more than a dozen flowers in bloom right now – but I was drawn to the ample Foxglove and the newly bloomed Daylily.

This is some kind of mix of stardust, glitter, and paying attention.
Just goes to show, you don’t even know what you know….
And what you do could really mean…

Anyway…

All of my love ladies. I am just as excited as you are to see what’s around the next bend.

Love,

Dad
aka “Captain Ryan Pooperson”

Jam On (Recipe At The End)

There’s always been a plan to plant things to grow things to sustain us here at our little homestead – and throughout the course of the pandemic, we made some serious headway:

8 Apple Trees (6 that are a sure thing).

10 Blueberry Bushes (8 that are putting out an impressive amount of fruit.. 2 that may end up on the burn pile).

Too many Wineberry and Raspberry Bushes to count – but I did buy 3 for posterity in April and are letting them thicken up a bit before I put them into the ground.

6 Hop Rhizomes that have turned into 5 intense bines that gave out 1 ounce of hops last year – and could give out a pound this year.

And a cherry tree that has yielded a snack time favorite in the last couple of weeks alone.

But no strawberries.

So, yesterday, to celebrate the end of the school year for the girls, we hit up Lyman Orchards yesterday and picked about 5lbs of some of the most amazing strawberries you ever have seen or eaten.

1lb went straightaway to Strawberry Shortcake to celebrate. And the other 4lbs. went to making jam – which I knew I would always make, but didn’t certainly plan on making.

I put all their tops in a shallow hole up near the apple trees – adjacent to the wineberry brambles and shoots in hopes to grow some plants for next year; after all – that’s how we got all these damn raspberries.

Anyway. Here’s the jam recipe. I have a feeling it’ll translate well to all the other berries in the yard as well. This recipe gives you 12 just about perfectly filled 4oz jelly jars – as well as a few generous spoon licks.

Anyway…

Strawberry Jam Recipe

4lbs of strawberries
2 cups of cane sugar
1/2 cup of lemon juice

Cover over low heat.
Stir randomly
Bring to boil
Mash lightly

Remove from heat
Jar
Let cool
Refrigerate overnight

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