Quotations
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Touching The Keys
“I’ve had all my life a tremendously strong sense that indeed there is a hereafter, and that the transformation of the spirit is a phenomenon which one must reckon and in light of which one must attempt to live one’s life.” Glenn Gould
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Full Moon Across the Field
The almanac tells me that the hummingbirds will begin their annual southward migration this Tuesday. This starts of course in the northern climes where the air begins to cool earlier, and works it way south. We should have a few more weeks to enjoy the little wonders. A little female whom I’ve named Missy has been very busy at the feeder next to our back porch. She defends her turf with ferocity, and when she perches, she drinks deeply and deliberately. Then she zooms off to the woods where I presume her nest is hidden. What I wouldn’t give to be able to peek inside and see the little Tic…
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Small Mysteries, Large Voices, Small Mention
Behold — I shew you a mystery. We have several hummingbird feeders in our yards, some of them mounted on metal shepherd’s hooks. We’ve learned that the only hummingbird feeders worth having are the ones with a water dam in the top, a sort of cup that holds water and keeps ants from getting onto the feeder. I have to keep careful watch on the feeders, replenishing the water in the dams because it not only evaporates, but also because some of the smaller songbird will drink the water in the tops of the feeders. The other day I must have missed checking on one of the feeders, because when…
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Memories, Loneliness, and Doom
“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.” Edgar Allen Poe
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Notes From The Devil’s Trumpet
Last weekend, we went to a small town an hour north of us, one of those little places that we’ve been aware of but never explored. The main draw was a used book store, where we thought we might find some treasures. Before going to the store, we detoured to a park located at the top of a nearby mountain. The mountain has several campsites, picnic areas, and hiking trails. There is a series of reservoirs where one can boat. The day being quite hot, we decided not to hike, but took careful bearings related to all that we saw, and we determined to return at some point and do…
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Consider the Birds of the Air; Consider My Random Thoughts
The day was muggy and hazy, ushered in by rain and a good, belligerent breeze. Everything got a good watering, but by mid-afternoon, the sun pushed through the canopy of clouds and microwaved everything into a steamy glare. The breeze remained, though diminished from the morning hours, and made things tolerable. Jinx offered his opinion that the paucity of birds is due to the Coopers hawk who is still hanging around. Thinking on his approach, I realized that the non-seed eating birds like doves and robins have been as scarce as the feeder birds. About noon, I saw the hawk gliding through the back yard, about twenty feet off the…
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Kindness From a Distance
“My life itself, and the best heart of it, thanks you for this great care.” William Shakespeare — Henry VIII, Act I, Scene 2 I received a thing of beauty. A reader, whose name I will not disclose here, wrote me an email that I have read and reread several times. The care with which the letter was composed is palpable; the sweet spirit of the sender is unmistakable. Just when things are quiet and bruised, the light peeks over the heat-withered pastures and becomes again that source of beauty to which I have looked since my first day. This letter is light to me. ~ S.K. Orr Dear…
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A Wanderer Forever in the Streets of Men
Ever since I discovered him by playing book roulette at the local library, Loren Eisley has been one of my favorite writers. An anthropologist and nature writer, Eisley was “discovered” by Ray Bradbury, who read one of Eisley’s essays in a science magazine and wrote him, saying, “You need to write a book.” Eisley took Bradbury’s advice, and I’m grateful he did. Eisley’s brooding prose saturates my mind every time I pick up one of his books. My favorite of his works is his guarded, haunting autobiography All The Strange Hours: The Excavation of a Life (1975, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, NY). I want to share a portion of…
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Days and Days
The year has rolled back to the time when spider webs are more prominent in the mornings, especially with the dew hanging on the sturdy strands. This morning I saw one suspended beneath the maple in the back yard, the sun just starting to glance off the night’s architectural marvel. So much work. To be undone in so short a time. Such is the way of this world full of beautiful tragedy and melancholy art and small, fragile creatures with their arduous work and deceptive power. Speaking of the small creatures of the earth, Mrs. Orr told me something delightful last night. “Do you know what a group of ladybugs…
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The Path of July
I have a category on this blog with which I flag certain posts, a category called “I Never Thought I’d Be In This Situation.” The holiday of Independence Day is suddenly upon us, and my feelings about July 4th definitely fall into this category. Watching this country walk the path she’s on is a difficult thing for a man who grew up in the time of my youth; it’s a completely different place. This year, I will forgo watching any of the fireworks & music festivals that have been a custom for many years, like A Capitol Fourth and the Boston Pops annual concert. I won’t subject my eyes or…