Yes, I admit it. I’m the man who put the shinny Obelisk in a Vermont stream. I conjured it in ten minutes, out of a spruce two-by-six, some tinfoil, a little duct tape and a ten-inch spike. Then, as the sun was getting low and I wanted to catch the last light on the valley floor, I walked quickly down the long driveway to the bottom.
I got there in time to climb down to the water’s edge, move out into the current and poke the Obelisk spike into the stream-bed. I took two convincing photos of the relic in the “Godlight-at-the-end of-the-day” light. And, that was it. Oh, and I didn’t drop my phone in the brook as was reported in the article; that was fake-news. I took the obelisk from the brook, climbed the steep bank to the road and staged a few more photos in the hilly meadow on the other side of the brook. After that, it really was the end of the sun for the day, so I walked back across the bridge, and up the hill to the house. I needed to post a photo and write some fake-news. I left the Obelisk standing in the woods along the driveway.
Another Obelisk, echoing the recent find in the Utah desert and another deep in a Serbian forest, was found today in a rural Vermont stream-bed. The location of the stream, and the finder’s name, have been kept from the media to protect the local flora and fauna, including the man, and his concerns for privacy.
The man, a local musician, sculpture-artist, furniture-maker, cyclist, blogger, said he saw the strange object standing in the brook when he was out taking a walk. He took this single photo on his phone, sent the image to his wife and promptly dropped the phone in the freezing brook. He had to walk back to the house to get another camera. When he returned the obelisk was gone.
I have been working on the Travelingfrontporch blog now for just a month. My goal was to get it up and running by the turn of the year, so I have a good start. Today my desk is deep in, hand written, paper lists and notes of all sorts, detailing stories and ideas, and I have photos…so many photos. The future of the TravelingFrontPorch blog looks fun and fascinating and satisfying and full and luscious and…Wait, I have to upload a what? From where? How do…, But, I don’t… I… I just want a bigger font on the header…Utt…did I just delete that paragraph? Again? Scheesh!
Oh, I can get this but…right now, the blog is not how I intend it to look. I’m struggling a bit, like I am in grade-school again, and I forgot my homework and the quiz is today and I don’t have clothes on, and…
For now, picture my infant blog as a nice, little store, down in the village that has lots of cool stuff in the back, and a friendly clerk at the counter trying to figure out how to put the shelves together, longing to show his wares and fully open the door. For now, here is quick peek though the front door.
Standing in the warm, intermittent, late afternoon sun,
Saying goodbye to the grey meadow grass,
The dark circle of garden soil,
And this last, sudden burst of open, rushing water.
Soon they will be the color of birches.
Once, years ago, I signed up for some account on the Internet. I don’t remember what it was, a shopping account maybe, or a music site. Whatever it was, it has long since disappeared; replaced with something else I’m sure, something better, just like all the phones and computers I have left behind.
The first thing you need when you sign up for any account is a “user name.” The blank, flashing bar waits… Username? Password? Who am I this time? What is my secret?
That one, particular, special, now even historic time, I entered, “Fiddler,” fully expecting it was already taken by some, first-comer fiddler, but worth a try. I hit return. Just as I prophesied, “Denigned!
Then I took an inadvertent, lightning-quick, mental trip back to ‘70’s Television and the Waltons, and wrote, “FiddlerJoe.” Nope. Also taken!
I took this second denial as a challenge. I found myself prepared to fight; to create a monsterlongname, if necessary, if it was my true destiny, but when I wrote “FiddlerJoeBob,” it worked.
If you turn up the sound you can enjoy the Vermont FiddlerJoeBob Echo.
Some of you will remember I hosted a jam session for many years in the old railroad Freight House in downtown South Royalton. It has been ten years now since we ended those sessions. I have much to say about that and those days, but for now, a quick review of the rules.
At some point, early in those dozen years of weekly Thursday night sessions, I thought it would be handy to have a small list of rules. There was hardly ever a need for rules, but still, I wanted to know how to keep the jam on track for the long haul, so I did some quick Internet research on jam etiquette. I can tell you, most of what I found was developed by people who were already pissed off.
I thought the lists sounded angry, demanding and most rules seemed to be written with particular offenders in mind. I found rules like, “You’re not God’s gift to music so play your tune, take your axe and get off the stage,” and another, “Don’t puke in the sink, we have to use it too.”
So, instead of developing rules to correct what had already gone wrong, I made a list to help keep things great. Here is the short list; positive and welcoming, yet able to apply a gentle nudge towards the ultimate goal of full enjoyment for everyone. They worked.
The whole family got together for Thanksgiving this year, although certain new rules were in effect. There were some dear, old friends, and some new, and some who hardly ever see each other. It was quite the gathering. Some of the oldest members have been right here with us, sharing, ehh, taking over, our living spaces for years. Normally, I try to maintain rules about where they can hang out, like “never in chairs,” a rule that is constantly in effect at our house, to protect the innocent. There is also a small, comfortable, dedicated room, mostly for them…and me. We all try to keep it down in there, somewhat, and we never all talk at once, unless there are other friends over. Those times can be noteworthy.
Oftentimes we go out together, lately, far less than normal. Anyway, it’s usually the same crowd that takes to the streets, but sometimes others will join for the night. It can be a challenge to decide who is going and then to get them all settled in the car. Even getting “to” the car has its concerns. One, um…rather boomy member, in particular, I hate to name names, will take up most of the car if you are not careful. Then the others have to suffer and squeeze into smaller spots. Once we arrive at the venue there is more discussion, about big ideas and priorities, who goes first, who has to wait for the second trip and even, who might, “just stay in the car for now.” I’m sure it can be very disappointing, and it’s not pretty. But, then we go inside, the music starts, and we forget everything.
Then, oh, so much later, arriving back at home, it is assumed that we all will go back where we are suppose to go, but sometimes…perhaps often, when I come downstairs, the morning after, I find a crowd, looking sleepy and forlorn, just lying there, blocking the mudroom door like they can’t decide whether they should come into the house or call a cab and head off in search of a gig. At that point I usually let them sleep it off for a while longer before I help them out of the way, at least ‘til I have my second cup of coffee. Which I need to fetch right now…
Anyway, Turkey Day, and here we all are. One big, happy family. I love them all.
Oh, should tell you, I made an exception for this reunion. I don’t usually have pet names for any of my instruments like Thumper or Squeezy or Bob, nor do I anthropomorphize them in any other way. They hate that.
Heather and I baked mincemeat cookies with grandchildren yesterday. It’s an odd year, 2020 …some of the last cookies were a little freaked out. No matter! They were eaten first. Everything is fine now.
The “Traveling Front Porch” is an idea, a dream, even a plan, soon to be a project, but currently a pile of rudimentary sketches and a sizable heap of building materials, all over a hundred years old, waiting in my barn. In time, perhaps by next spring, all of these things will take form as a simple stage, built on a trailer frame, designed to look like a comfortable and friendly, old-timey front porch. I intend to haul the Traveling Front Porch behind my car to anywhere that seems right, tune up my fiddle and guitar, kick back in a comfy porch rocker and play tunes all day.
In the meantime…there are other adventures to be had, projects to be completed and enjoyed, and tunes to be played. Stay tuned.
The Traveling Front Porch 