Threads and traces

30 March 2013

Spring still life with sleet storm

Cottonwood, Kiplinger Road

On a whim, we left at 5:30 a.m. to chase sage grouse on the high plains. Note: if your whims routinely drag you out at that hour on a Saturday, you either have very peculiar whims, or else have stumbled into the world of birding. Those are not necessarily contradictory. We are at the edge of Greater Sage Grouse territory and have to travel a bit to see this spring display up on the higher plains where there is...wait for it...sage.

Sage grouse are normally seem as specks in the distance, and this year was no exception. What was exceptional was the closeness of the lekking we saw last year. Rather than post a picture of an animated speck, I'll refer you to this post. We were close enough to see and here the male go through the booming and strutting motions, but not nearly as close this year.

We think it's spring, but the appearance of a storm with rain, snow and sleet mid-day has us questioning that. The birds seem to have no questions.

Paired geese

Barbed wire still life

Sign, Kiplinger Road

Post office historical marker. We found three of these today.

First sign of the storm

A tiny monument north of Belle Fourche. It was worth going 15 miles out of the way to see.

Just in case you had any doubts.

Bear Butte as the clouds begin to form

Minuteman missile silo still life

Permission to trespass?

Truck memories

Sign, Orman Dam

Poser

Schoolhouse

Bear Butte as the storm builds

Storm front on the plains

Immature bald eagle, trying hard for the white head

The point at which the trip was effectively over

Bear Butte eternal

23 March 2013

Crane songs

Cranes in flight, moving north

I haven't been here in far too long. I was looking forward to catching up with a long newsy description of the annual trip to the Platte River to watch the sandhill cranes in their ancient flyways. It's a healing and life-affirming trip. relaxing and schedule-free.

Nature had a different idea.

Since we began this trip five years ago, we have seen our tiny rural bridge site in sunshine and shadow, in ice and wind..but never in the first moments of a fierce snowstorm bearing down on the region. The cranes noticed it, too. They were nervous and edgy, gazing north and testing the wind.

It is spring for them in their lives without winter. We had to leave early to miss the worst of the storm blasting across the West, but still had one of the best crane shows yet. Life is here, now. That was the message I needed, and it was enough. Happy equinox.

Facing the north

Moving on

Cabin, Nebraska

Lone crane

Yellowlegs, a bit early

Restless circling flight

Testing the wind

Our favorite car, year six of the documentation project

Rising on an early storm wind

Circling upward

Huge flocks, high wind

Close-up of flight

Catching the light

Moving away

Cranes in the Platte at sunrise as the snow moves in.

Cranes rise, snow falls. The camera is fine. This is now it looked this morning.

Visible cold pouring in

Nebraska rest area. Did I ever mention that I love Nebraska?

Nebraska road crew. That is snow piling on their backs.

14 January 2013

Steven

It used to happen every semester. I was teaching a physical geology course, always fun, and would reach the volcanoes-and-other-explodey things point. And I would realize that I had forgotten a few key points from the best story of all. So I would call Steven Utley, and, when he answered, beg him:

“Tell me about Mont Pelee again, Steve. Tell me about the cloud.”

And, chin in hands (hard to hold the phone this way, but never mind), with big Chuck Jones eyes, I would listen as Steve re-told The Story, as only he could, of that horrific event, the explosion of Mont Pelee in Martinique in 1902, which he had researched in crystalline detail for his story The Glowing Cloud. For me, it was the recounting of the first contemporary description of that most terrible and wonderful of explosions, the nuée ardente, with which I would regale my classes. For Steve, it was the tragedy, the horror, the insanity of a government that condemned its citizens to an unimaginable death rather than risk having a low voter turn-out.

I forgot key points every semester just to hear Steve tell the story again. He never seemed to lose patience with me. I am sure that my students never forgot what a nuée ardente was, even if they never remembered another word from the lectures. Steve’s story took over my lecture, every time.

We lost Steve last Saturday to a vicious and swift-moving cancer. It’s still impossible to grasp a world without his commentary, his observations, his take on things. He was one of the few people I could point to as a true Renaissance dude. Witness his blog entry from October:

20 October 2012 @ 12:37 pm

The Reading Room

Not that I needed more books in my house, not that I didn't already have sufficient reading matter in hand to last me through the winter, but I went to a Friends of the Library book sale in Murfreesboro this morning and came away with the following hardcovers:

Resistance, Rebellion, and Death -- Albert Camus
Adam Bede -- George Eliot
A Brief History of Time From the Big Bang to Black Holes -- Stephen W. Hawking
Tanglewood Tales -- Nathaniel Hawthorne
Joseph Stalin: Man & Legend -- Ronald Hingley
Gideon at Work: Three Complete Mystery Novels -- J. J. Marric (a John Creasey pen name)
Grave Mistake and Two Other Great Mysteries -- Ngaio Marsh
Photo Finish and Two Other Great Mysteries -- Ngaio Marsh
Ashenden or: The British Agent -- W. Somerset Maugham
Triple Zeck: A Nero Wolfe Omnibus -- Rex Stout

I do almost all my reading stretched out in bed, and there's nearly always a stack of books at my bedside. Currently: The Holy Terror, by H. G. Wells; House of Ghosts (a Shadow novel reprinted from the old pulp magazine), by Walter Gibson; 100 Sneaky Little Sleuth Stories, edited by Robert Weinberg, Stefan Dzienmianowicz, and Martin H. Greenberg; and The Classic Book of Science Fiction (originally published in 1950 as The Big Book of Science Fiction), edited by Groff Conklin.

Current Music: Mozart, Don Giovanni (Overture), Salzburg Festival Orch.

They don’t make guys like that any more.

I hardly know where to start with Utley stories. Steve was the master of the unexpected grace note, the bombshell comment. Years ago I was packed off from Austin for a summer in the UK. It felt much like being packed off for summer camp. I was the only American, never mind the only Texan, in the crew, and was feeling a bit lost in the mix…until I got a huge box from Austin. Don’t ask me how it cleared Customs. It probably shouldn’t have. Inside was a Technicolor selection of every kind of Tex-Mex comestible ever canned by Clemente Jacques. It was the fixings for a Southwest dinner for 8. Tortillas. Frijoles. Salsas of several kinds. And weapons-grade jalapenos. It was literally a piece of home. 20 years later, it still ranks as one of the best gifts ever. That the jalapenos were too hot for the alleged curry-immune Brits was a bonus. Texas won that one, thanks to Steve.

I saved tales from the fossil front for Steve, who appreciated them more than anyone else I ever knew. He wanted to know what made paleontologists tick. Many people would like to know that, especially before the statute of limitations runs out. Steve wanted to know what it was REALLY like—including the tedium, the precision, the search for an elusive truth, the hunt for clues to a past that we can’t really imagine. His choice of the Silurian for his stories was inspired. As he said, it was a time when, standing on land, it looked as if nothing ever happened. No screaming dinosaurs here. Just people, out of their time, ceaselessly monitoring a world like no other, and on our own planet. No gimmicks leaping out of the trees. No trees at all. What was the unbelievably distant past really like? Steve went there, and made it real.

And then there was the plesiosaur in Austin. A sharp-eyed citizen spotted fossil bits in the bed of then-dry Shoal Creek, threading its way through a residential area. Once we started to retrieve it, we could not leave it unattended without risking theft or vandalism or just well-intentioned tampering. That meant staying at the site in shifts around the clock. Sleeping bags. Tents. Staying awake in the extremely small hours.

That was fine, until the rain started. And lightning. And cold wind. And more rain. Let’s hear it for the glamour and adventure of paleontology. Better yet, let’s find shelter somewhere out of what is no longer a dry stream bed.

So there we were, huddled under the bridge, soaked and muddy, hating the site and plesiosaurs and all fossils, and the whole planet and each other, in no particular order, when Steve Utley showed up, nicely dressed, with a bottle of good brandy, and joined us. We were oddly short on fine crystal, and wound up passing the bottle around. Kids, this is what a good graduate school education can do for you, too—sharing a bottle of booze under a bridge, listening to the thunder and the cars, and laughing for hours. It took Steve to drag us out of a fine slough of self-pity that night, and he did it with great class.

I never knew where the stories would go. An encounter I had with a fervent creationist somehow wound up as the center of an Utley story, The Dinosaur Season. I was stunned and flattered. The near-eponymous professor in the story, who didn’t even find out about it for a few years, was not so much amused. In fact, just not at all. He demanded to know who wrote this. “A friend of mine,” I said. He walked off without a word. Clearly he thought my friend and I deserved each other. Clearly he was right.

http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue246/ghost_seas_ex.html

Tonight the soundtrack is a stack of tapes Steve sent over the years, mostly blues. The memories are crowding back. In her tribute to her late mother, Steve’s correspondent Molly Ivins said “…if someone truly wanted to memorialize my mother, that person would eat a piece of fudge today, hug someone he or she loves and be blindingly pleasant to a total stranger.” To me, if someone wanted to memorialize Steve, that person would take time to save a stray cat no matter what, pull up a stack of seriously good books, and take time to write a note—WRITE a note—to someone too long unseen.

And then go stand on the shore of a wild ocean and wonder what is going on in there that no one can see.

Thank you, Steve.

02 January 2013

Ghost towns

House, SD

Many of the structures I document are part of ghost towns. For many reasons--loss of railroads and employers, agricultural disasters, economic downturns, greener pastures elsewhere--settlements and towns flourish, wither and are reduced to clusters of brittle structures. Their stories are not always well known.

Today in family history: Emma Nellie Keese Kelly, who had just turned 19, died in Kellyville, Marion County, Texas, in 1880. She was the daughter of my great-great grandfather George Washington Keese, who was born in Georgia and migrated to Caldwell, Texas, with his family by 1850. Somewhere along the way, in Tennessee, George married Harriet Adeline Perkins, who according to census records was born in Vermont, whose story is uncertain. Emma Nellie was their youngest child.

Emma Nellie married Lewis Dennis Kelly, whose father George Addison Kelly was a founder of the industrial settlement known as Kellyville or Kellysville (originally named Four-Mile Branch). The Kelly Foundry, Furnace and Plow Company manufactured and reapaired agricultural equipment, and during the Confederacy produced ammunition as well.

According to the Texas State Historical Association, "By 1880 the Kelly Iron Works was listed as the state's outstanding producer of agricultural implements, the Kelly Blue Plow being its most popular finished product. However, due to the loss of cheap water transport following removal of the Red River Raft, a fire that destroyed his furnace, and a joint-stock arrangement with the state Grange not suitable to him, Kelly closed his foundry and moved his plow production operation to Longview in 1882. Kellyville rapidly declined." Kellyville and its decline is discussed in T. Lindsey Baker's Ghost Towns of Texas.

Emma died before the foundry moved and Kellyville became a ghost town. Her infant son, George A. Kelly, born just before her own birthday in November 1879, died in February 1880, less than two months after her own death. Lewis died in June 1880. Kellyville was abandoned in 1883. It's not often that so much is so thoroughly lost in one small family. I do not know what happened to Emma Nellie; there is so much that could have happened, but we can only speculate.

So I slow down for ghost towns. Someone has to. They are memories captured in structures, not words, and the images are all we can keep.

01 January 2013

2013 is in the building

Shelton, Nebraska

Having once more taken care of that peculiarly Southern ritual of serving black-eyed peas, cornbread and green leafy stuff for luck in the New Year, we are looking out on a somewhat snowy landscape and watching the sunset in tones of blue. A little later today; we've passed the solstice and are heading into longer days. The light slants just a bit less today than it did yesterday, and will ease up another notch tomorrow. You notice these things up here, just as you notice the scent of snow. Yes, it has one.

The family genealogy project now includes records for over 16,000 people, on both sides of the family. Cousins continued to marry cousins, so the intertwining can be dizzyingly complex. I am finding that I am most interested in the ones who kept looking for the next frontier, the next promised land, the next homestead. There is so little left of their hard work, which is why those small structures on the endless prairies stop me in my tracks every time. They were not always so silent.

Today in ancestral history: Ambrose Cobb, 10th great-grandfather on the Brooks/Honnoll side, died in 1605 in Kent, England. He was 42 years old and didn't get out of Kent during his lifetime, as far as I can tell. At this remove of time, there is so little that we know about people who just lived their lives without fanfare. His descendants made up for it, though. His son Ambrose emigrated to Virginia, eventually patenting 350 acres on the Appomattox River. There is speculation that he first built an English-style small thatched house, followed by a mansion known as the Cobbs Hall. Ambrose and his line are ancestral to the Savages, Moons and eventually Nancy Ellinor Honnoll; Cobbs Hall is the burial place of Col. John Bolling, only great-grandson of John Rolfe and Pocahontas, to whom there is a whisper of a connection on the Shelton side of the family. I think I am related to everyone in the world at least twice at this point, and have just started calling everyone "Cousin Cousin" for simplicity's sake.

Ambrose's descendants didn't stay in Virginia long, not all of them, anyway. They moved onward, south and west, from Virginia to South Carolina to Hardeman County, Tennessee (named for, again, a family connected to the Shelton side of the family), and on to Mississippi, Arkansas and Oklahoma. They lived in structures far more like the thatched house than like Cobbs Hall, including half-dugouts on the plains. There was always some kind of roof made out of the materials at hand, it seems.

Starting this week, I will be part of the city Historic Preservation Commission, which I hope will help me put these tiny architectural stories into a good context. If I have a philosophy about all of this, it's that one should learn everything possible about the immediate vicinity and the recent ancestors, while those stories can still be saved, so that we have images and sounds and accounts of the people themselves, not just the structures they left.

Forward into the past.....

27 December 2012

Solstice count

Early morning light on the formations

So it's been a few weeks. This semester (I will spend my life dividing the year into semesters, which, when you think about it, is Not Normal) was the most hectic yet since we loaded up the covered wagon and moved to this prairie outpost. Sometimes it's difficult to know where, if anywhere, the fixed points of our orbits are.

The constancy of change is nowhere clearer than in the drylands and flatscapes of the prairies. We have shifted our annual Christmas Bird Count focus to Badlands National Park and surrounding areas, and this is a lovely and somber region indeed at the winter solstice. The light slants low; it blazes up and dies down quickly, like a small fire on bone-dry wood.

It was a day for deep, peaceful silences, cracking ice, a light so brilliant that everything seemed illuminated from within. It was not a day for flocks of birds. This is South Dakota. In winter. Birds aren't stupid. Most of them headed out over a month ago, late this year. Everything that could hide or hibernate did so, leaving us to the colors of winter grasses, tall formations, and ice. The bighorn sheep joined us all day, moving down to marginally warmer grazing.

In short, it was prairie magic.