Fathers & Sons

Copies of Turgenev's "Fathers & Sons" have lurked on the bookshelves growing up. Koestler's Darkness at Noon, Mann's Magic Mountain, Doestoevsky's Brothers Karamatsov. Serious Russian or German tomes. I thought Fathers & Sons would be a heavy, but uncharacteristically, it delivered a little less than anticipated. It is good, but no rival to the others. Or is it that I am reading it with an older reader's eyes? Impossible to tell. Turgenev is a compelling story teller and his comments have the universality of great writing. Old ideas being replaced by newer, younger ones; political fads such as nihilism butting up against sentimental and romantic ones. The politics of old Russian society with its serfs and owners which will collide head on with what will turn out to be the Revolution of 1917. Science debunks tradition; a locked social structure opens up to allow matches which were formerly inappropriate; honor dueling comes to an end. I had guessed it would be more about the conflict between the fathers and sons, in the way The Brothers Karamatsov tackles the subject, but it is nothing as intense. In a way, the translation ought better to be "The Father & Sons Karamatsov" and Turgenev's "Brotherly Love," instead. About the same time Turgenev was writing in Russia, over in Concord, Massachusetts Henry Thoreau was writing "old deeds for old; new deeds for new" and warning those unable to keep up with change to get out of its way.

I Got Webs Between My Toes

It is wet. Raining nearly every day it seems. Especially on the days when there is some sort of Event taking place that requires a coat and tie, a nice pair of shoes. I like the rain, most of the time. It doesn't entirely ruin things, though it makes it difficult to paint the house. I will need to take advantage of each sunny day as the sand flows through the glass. We have about a month until we go to Switzerland, to the higher ground in the mountains. And to Provence, to the land of Van Gogh and Arles. And then only a month before we go to Maui. We have planted many things in the garden and new shrubs along the driveway. The rain is good and it minimizes the transition from pot to ground. Seeds germinate in days. Great weather for amphibians, but for people, this is a time of stinky damp feet, for rubber shoes and synthetic jackets and caps. And a time for doormats and fires inside to dry things out, or the restorative fires of reading and writing, or even a stiff drink. It is a time to give thanks for all of the blessings that seem to flow. To appreciate good fortune which shines, regardless of the inclement weather. This is the time to say I love you to people who I care about. Experience reminds me that such times are always fleet and fragile. Nothing should be taken for granted. Not a single thing.

June???

I just googled an older, former boss who I just learned, turned out to be dead, age 69 in 2006 after a brief illness.  Her name was June.  Truth is, I couldn't stand her.  She very nearly ran for Republican Governor of Alabama in the mid-1980's, employed 5,000 people, the most in Alabama at the time.  The mistake people made was to believe she was smart, when all she was, was rich.  Earned it the old-fashioned way: by divorce. My intersection with her made me aware of the illusion. I could have kissed up to her. For three years, I negotiated all of the government contracts that her apparel company obtained. One day she called me to complain that I was earning too much money, more than anyone in the company except for her, and her partner Jim, who I liked working with. "Charles, I'm going to have to let you go," she said. She never received another contract. I think she wanted to create business losses to offset gains somewhere else. Nothing else made any sense.  But I am actually thinking of another kind of June, equally as incongruous as the Belle from 'Bama. I have been sitting before the fire all afternoon at Stonepile, rained and fogged in, cold, but, it is June, dammit!  And on television tonight is the final game, perhaps, of the Stanley Cup between St. Louis and the Pittsburgh Penguins, or as if this isn't weird enough, then we have the Lakers versus the Orlando Magic in the NBA finals.  Basketball, hockey, roaring fires, the old Boss named June, dead.  Next thing?  I don't know.  How about June bugs, snow? How about beach fires, sailing, rhododendrons in full bloom, lawn parties?

Stripers for All?

First, let's deal with the word. A striper is a fish, not a woman that takes her clothes off in front of scummy men for money. And not some gooey solution you pour on old paint in order to remove it. It is a striped bass, and the bass are back after a winter somewhere else, headed north and east for summer. A striper is a desirable fish, both to catch and to eat.  Stripers may be caught off of the beach or the rocks, or from a boat, just like bluefish, a fish I like to eat but some avoid because it is too 'fishy' for them--it is more about how they are cooked than anything.  Visualize a sunset image of a surf caster, rod bent backwards, lure about to rocket some fifty yards or more to an imaginary spot where an unseen, lurking fish will strike from out of the inky darkness. Fish or no fish, complete or incomplete angler, the activity is an appealing one.  It consumes one's attention, man alone in nature by the sea.  And now, to the subject at hand. A truck parked on our private laneway. A fisherman comes after work. He has no permission to trespass, except he says he's fished here for sixteen years. He doesn't know whose land he fishes from, whose road he parks his truck upon. I have no stomach for telling him that no, he has no right to be there or to fish. Who am I to say this? What harm does he do, except perhaps to the fish? Is this land, this beach, this pool of water really mine to share or not to share?  Is ownership not transitory?  Are there enough fish in the estuary for him to take, and leave others some? Am I to tell him you may not stand here in the sunset in this extraordinary spot?  I am unresolved. I told him that I would look the other way, at least for now, and he thanked me. I want to share, not hoard. I do not operate from scarcity, but from wealth. There are enough stripers for all, for now.