My Retirement Dinner

Now that my retirement nest egg has gone completely rotten, thanks to those Wall Street Masters of the Universe and greedy CEOs, I've had to throttle back my plans for a lavish, festive retirement dinner. Here's a photo from our local paper's society section, taken at a downtown welfare soup kitchen. Now I've taken up residence in a stove crate under a nearby railroad bridge. Always dreamed of retiring to a place near the water.

A New Year's Greeting

THE CURMUDGEON’S SON SITS IN THE SUNSHINE ON NEW YEAR’S DAY AND GRIPES ABOUT THE HUMAN CONDITION (REPRISE)

At this time of resolutions and good intentions to reinvent our lives, it’s interesting to ponder why this impulse tends to strike only once a year. It’s like opening the windows on the first balmy, breezy day in the spring. The Solstice is past. The days begin to lengthen, however imperceptibly. The urge to shake off the shackles of the past peeks out like the sun from behind a dark cloud. Freedom! Why are we so afraid of it? Why do others get so anxious and disapproving when we talk about it – or, God forbid, actually practice it? In every social environment I’ve ever experienced, it’s been the same: whether they’ll admit it or not, people don’t want other people to start acting too free. I think it’s why New Year’s Day is a holiday for so many of us. It’s how society lets us get this “I’m free” nonsense out of our systems for a day, before we slip back into the warm quotidian bath of quiet desperation in which we’ll soak for the next 364 days – unless death or insanity grabs us first. That’s more than just a little bit gloomy, isn’t it? You’ll have to decide for yourself whether you find a kernel of truth in it. This New Year’s Day of 2009, my take on it is that freedom is for the very young, the very old and the very crazy. So have a crazy new year! I intend to. Unless I slip and fall back into that warm quotidian bath... Clem.

To You All at Christmas

THE GLOUCESTERSHIRE WASSAIL Wassail! Wassail! All over the town, Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown, Our bowl it is made from the white maple tree, With the wassailing bowl, we’ll drink to thee. And here’s to our horse, and to his right ear, God send our master a happy new year: As happy new year as e’er he did see, With my wassailing bowl, we’ll drink to thee. So here is to Cherry and to his right cheek, Pray God send our master a good piece of beef: And a good piece of beef that we all may see; With the wassailing bowl, we’ll drink to thee. And here is to Dobbin and to his right eye, Pray God send our master a good Christmas pie, And a good Christmas pie that we all may see; With the wassailing bowl we’ll drink to thee. So here’s to Broad Mary and to her broad horn, may God send our master a good crop of corn And a good crop of corn that we all may see, With the wassailing bowl, we’ll drink to thee. And here is to Fillpail and to her left ear, Pray God send our master a happy New Year. And a happy New Year as e'er he did see, With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee. And here is to Colly and to her long tail; Pray God send our master he never may fail. A bowl of strong beer! I pray you draw near, And our jolly wassail it's then you shall hear. Come , butler, come fill us a bowl of the best; Then we hope that your soul in heaven may rest; But if you do draw us a bowl of the small, Then down shall go butler, bowl and all. Then here's to the maid in the lily white smock, Who tripped to the door and slipped back the lock. Who tripped to the door and pulled back the pin, For to let these jolly wassailers in. ---Traditional English

Lancaster (PA) Craft Show 2008

Over Labor Day weekend, we visited the Long's Park Craft Fair in Lancaster, PA on a beautiful late-summer afternoon. Some of the exhibits were so clever and whimsical I couldn't resist photographing them. I felt like something of a freeloader in doing so, but our house has too much stuff in it already and could not hold any more (even if we could afford it). So, where there were no conspicuously-posted signs forbidding it, I snapped away and here are a few of the results.

My Beloved Anthracite Coal Region II

Here's another shot of the Reading Coal & Iron Company's Saint Nicholas Coal Breaker in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania. This may well become a bit of history because, as you see, the destruction is already well under way.

My Beloved Anthracite Coal Region

Here are some views from the Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania Southern Anthracite Coal Field (as it looks today), which formed the setting for my novel series Up Home. This is the Old Saint Nicholas coal breaker, between Shenandoah and Mahanoy City. Compare it to Windstorm's wonderful cover art for Book One of my novel (look to your right). Here's another shot of Old Saint Nick: The Saint Nick was built in the 1930s by the Philadelphia & Reading Coal & Iron Company as a regional breaker, to process coal from a number of mines in the area. It's long-since out of operation, and may disappear before too much more time passes. So, you may be looking at a bit of history here. The Russians were only one of the numerous eastern European nationalities to immigrate to the Pennsylvania anthracite fields. They've left their imprint in the form of beautiful Russian Orthodox churches, such as the Church of the Ascension in Frackville: The old coal towns were famous for having a taproom on every corner that wasn't occupied by a church. Here's a typical street scene from Frackville:

Farewell, Sweetheart

I gave up my sweet little stand of Highland parlor pipes for adoption today. She's going to live in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, with a chap named Joe Jordan. I wish her many hours of lively music, now that I've released her from mothballed captivity in an old Samsonite briefcase in the back of my now-incrementally-less-cluttered closet.