Tale for a Trail

Somehow we acquired a recording of Great Expectations. Complete in 14 CDs, I imported the story into my laptop and then exported it onto my iPod. For the last couple of weeks I have listened to the whole thing, mostly while taking my morning walk on the Quinnipiac Gorge Linear Trail.

I loved the story.

This is a bit to my surprise, since I didn’t expect to like it at all.

How I wish my father were around to discuss this book with me. He was a great Dickens admirer. He loved A Christmas Carol, of course, and would describe how that tale had been retold by Choate’s headmaster – in a specially redacted version – while he was a student. We made it a Church family tradition to watch the Alistair Sim version each Christmas, once it became available in remastered video tape and then DVD. Its memorable lines – “are there no prisons, are there no workhouses?”are etched in our collective consciousness.

Dad didn’t limit his Dickens to the familiar works, though. I think he loved Chuzzlewit, Drood, Twist, and others, as well as the films based on these novels.

As a kid, I had difficulty getting into Dickens. I read Tale of Two Cities – largely because my cousin Roger Squire came home from prep school able to recite its first and last two paragraphs. This was a feat I felt challenged to duplicate, and one I can still perform, almost. While I read and enjoyed the tale, my comprehension was a bit shallow at that period of my education.

Dad read David Copperfield aloud. I loved that and loved listening to him emote. He was superlative in his furious scorn when he got to the wonderful scene when Aunt Betsy chases Mr. and Miss Murdstone off her front lawn with a broom when they come to try to retrieve David. We stopped at that point. I thought it was the end.

Several years later at prep school myself, I decided to read David Copperfield as one of my elective books for English. It required a short book report upon completion and I thought this would be an easy choice, seeing as I’d already read the book. As was my wont, I waited until the last week to reread the volume. When I came to the end and read of that tremendously satisfying scene with Aunt Betsy, I was dismayed to read, at the end of the text, “David Copperfield continues in volume two and three.”

Frantically I called home to have these hitherto unsuspected volumes parcel posted a.s.a.p. and I did manage to get through the remainder of the novel. But Dickens suffered as a result. I decided that the author really should have ended Copperfield with Aunt Betsy.

Dad had tried to read Great Expectations to me, but at an age when I could hardly appreciate Pip and the convict, much less the relationship with Miss Haviasham (what in the world was she about?) and Estella. I gave it up. The same thing happened years later when I tried again.

So it was much to my surprise that I found this reading of Great Expectations to be vastly entertaining, not to mention moving and suspenseful and half a dozen other positive adjectives. It was pretty satisfying from beginning to end, and Dickens was a master of pathos. He loved to read his works aloud to audiences. He loved to make people cry. And I did.

The only unsatisfying aspect is that, having finally read this book, Dad isn’t around to share it with. So, I guess, this is my way of saying, as perhaps Dickens repeatedly had Joe Gargery say to Pip, “Dear Boy, I finally saw the light and realized, too late, old man, what you were trying to show me.”

Back to the Bank

The Bank was iconic in my childhood.

It was where my father and his father worked

It was a place of decorum, of mystery and of quiet.

The Bank was not exactly child-friendly, even by the standards of the 1940s. By contrast, when I went into the Squire Company, where my other grandfather and his brother were found, a welcome noise was generally generated to greet me. The women who worked there knew me on sight and greeted me with smiles. There was cold bottled water with little paper cone cups, and they’d help me to them. (These always leaked through before I could drink the water, threatening to puddle.) My Grandfather Squire generally interrupted whatever he was doing to talk to me. Once, he even took me outside to climb up into the cab of the last scheduled steam engine going along the Springfield Line, just behind the office.

The Bank was something else. No travel brochures or giveaway calendars: just silent corridors, quiet offices. Other employees, who clearly knew who I was, nodded respectfully but continued working. Occasionally my father took me to the area of the bank holding the vault. The Meriden Trust & Safe Deposit Company itself did not maintain a vault, since it was not a commercial bank, but had occasional business with safety deposit boxes in the vault of the Meriden Savings Bank, which occupied the other half of the building. These were the days of interlocking directorates, so much mutual business took place between the Meriden Trust and Meriden Savings, with overlap among their boards and those of the other half-dozen local banks.

It always seemed momentous when the guardian of the railing around the vault pushed a concealed button, allowing my father and me inside the sacred area giving access to the vault. Vaults actually held cash in those days, and on one occasion I was permitted to gaze at and even hold some prodigious amount of money.

But The Bank held other attractions, even for a child. First and foremost was the adding machine. I had no idea what it did, but it was electric: when I was permitted to switch it on, punch the buttons and pull the enormous handle on its right side, large bundles of inky fingerlike patens erupted from the machine and marked numbers on the roll of white paper coiled at its neck.

Naturally, since I had no idea of this machine’s function, I regularly entered numbers beyond its capacity, causing it to jam and obliging my father to come and unsnarl it. He was not amused.

Less accessible than the adding machine was the air conditioner. It resided in Grandfather Church’s office – naturally, since he was the president of The Bank. I wanted to turn the cool on, as it was so much more effective than any fan (especially in the winter). He didn’t much care for this idea. Nor did he really want me fussing with his Dictaphone, which I thought was extremely attractive.

But Grandfather Church’s office held the ultimate toy, which drew me like a firebug to arson. He was a pipe smoker. Both his office and his home were redolent with the scent of his tobacco, carefully stored in airtight canisters. I delighted to watch him select a pipe, knock out the dottle, ream the bowl, open the canister and stuff the bowl with Prince Albert (“Hey, do you have Prince Albert in a can? Then let him out!”)

And then, bringing over the standing ashtray, he slid the box of wooden matches out of its holder, opened it, selected one, and struck it against the abrasive on the side. Then he drew fire into the tobacco with that particular puffing sound only a smoker makes, and the distinctive smoke erupted from his mouth and from the pipe.

I didn’t want to smoke. I didn’t mind the tobacco, either the smoke or the scent of the raw, moist mixture in the canister. What I really wanted to do was strike those matches.

And of course my grandfather, a prudent man, was not about to permit me to mess with fire, not by any stretch. I never tired of matches to play with – but of course, I never was permitted to play with them.

All these elements came back to me in mid-June when Justin Piccirillo, one of the cartoonists I worked with at the Record-Journal, held an exhibit of his work. He does photography as well as political cartoons, and the show was mounted – in both senses of the word – at a place called the Sandman Gallery and Frame Shoppe (the business which now occupies the quarters where The Bank was).

Lois and I went to chiefly to support Justin, who’s a friend. But once inside I recognized the space. Ghosts indeed lingered, for only me to see. Grampa’s office was locked, but the vault, now a useless but very secure room, was open for viewing.

 Being within this space again after many years gave me double vision. We enjoyed Justin’s show, ate some of the cheese and crackers on offer with a glass of punch. Before I left, though, I had to have a quiet word with some of those ghosts.

Depredations along the Trail

This morning, in brilliant sunshine, it was time for a walk. I took one of my favorite jaunts. From one of the parking spaces along the Chamberlain Highway – Route CT 71, from Meriden to Berlin – it is possible to trek up to the level of Elmere Reservoir (constructed in 1893), following a blue blazed trail.

It is very pleasant to step out of the forest into the cleared area near the reservoir and its nearby holding tank (though most of the colorful graffiti has been painted over, ready for a new generation of spray artists). The earthen dam is very peaceful; the four-acre lake rippled with cats paws.

Once across the dam, a hiker must choose between the blue blazed trail, going straight across South Mountain and continuing down to Lake Merimere and then up to Castle Craig trail, turning left and following the rising escarpment which towers over the Chamberlain Highway. I chose the red trail. After about a mile, the trail, which runs until that point well out of sight of the cliff, I emerged at the precipice. I looked out over Meriden, in general, and Westfield Mall and Target in particular. The cliff, according to Google Earth, is 270 vertical feet. Target’s parking lot is at El. 280 ft., while the outcrop where I stood is El. 550, give or take a few.

I hate retracing my steps, so I rejoined the red trail and headed on toward the highest portion of South Mountain, overlooking Hubbard Park. Blazes in this area are newly painted and easy to follow.

The summit of South Mountain is about 700 feet offers a respectable view. Two red hawks flew out from around the curve of the mountain at below my level so I could see them soaring from above, which allows a good view of their red tails.

On the way downhill, I chose to follow a different path farther to the west than the red trail. At its lower end it meets the blue blazed trail which runs back to Elmere. This route forms an elongated triangle.

It was along this path that the damage caused by ATVs was clear. This trail used to be wide enough for only a single person to pass silently along on hard-packed earth. Grass grew   tall along both sides.

Now, thanks to muggings by numerous ATVs, this trail is wide enough for two to walk abreast with ease – but the tumble of rocks and exposed roots cause people to stumble and curse. Grass along the verge has been flattened and destroyed. This trail has become a peril for those prone to twisting of ankles or knees. Since this ATV-widened trail is also lower than the surrounding part of the hill, the path has become an occasional water course, making navigation – literally – also a required skill.

ATVs are a serious problem. Nowhere in Connecticut are they street legal – or park legal either. This South Mountain property, purchased by Meriden with state help as a watershed protection, is public land. Short of fencing the whole mountain off, which is ridiculous, there seems no way to protect trails on this property (and those along the other trap rock ridges in Meriden and elsewhere). We pretend to rely on the good citizenship of ATV fans. Unfortunately, this citizenship is little in evidence. The vehicles ruin the paths for those who would walk or hike them.

It must be said in fairness that hikers and walkers probably ruin the paths for ATV users. Therein is a problem: a half-dozen years ago, an effort was made to create a compromise between hiking types and ATV types. The idea was to find public land to dedicate solely to the uses of each. A prospective agreement fell apart because it turned out that no one could speak with authority for either the hiking or the ATV community.

The conflict of uses continues. No one is very happy about it.

In any case, my round trip was completed. The walk was around two and a half miles, (plus the change in altitude): a good workout. At least for today, even the depredations of All Terrain Vehicles could not spoil it for me.

Weather -- or not

Everyone always talks about the weather, but no one ever does anything about it, goes the old complaint.
Problem: the statement isn’t true. We have done something about it.
I am not referring to global warming; we’ve done something there and we’re still figuring out what.
I refer to our constant hyping of weather and our dreadful refinement of its quirks and wiles. In the winter, for instance, it is hardly possible to turn on a TV without the dubious pleasure of watching a bundled up news person standing outside somewhere under a streetlight with a few snowflakes sifting down. The burden of the reporter’s message generally involves catastrophic estimates of possible snowfall accompanied by magma-chilling blasts of cold air pushing wind-chill levels well below zero.
Then there’s the hurricane alert: warnings of category four and five storms which might develop and which might strike coastal regions sometime soon.
This hyperventilation even afflicts the National Weather Service (weather.gov). This week, when it has become excessively hot and sticky in New England, the NWS has used a tiny drawing featuring a malevolent yellow sun in a coppery-orange sky. Keeping company with the familiar wind-chill scale is a dire and diabolical heat index. You’d think Hell was breaking out in the forecast!
Warnings are being posted about keeping hydrated, about engines overheating, about staying out of the sun.
The result of reading all these dire warnings is that we feel a whole lot hotter than we felt when we merely experienced hot weather. Knowing that the heat index is 104 is a burden: if we don’t suffer heat prostration perhaps there is something physiologically amiss, or worse. We may be suffering that direful prostration and don’t know it, a real signal of trouble!
But that’s not the worst result of hype. Whether it’s heat or cold or wet or dry, predictions of extreme conditions frequently don’t come true. How many times can we evacuate coastlines in advance of a storm that doesn’t show up, before we just blow off the next warnings?
Yes, yes, I know: given today’s serious concern with liability and safety there’s never any choice but to activate the emergency plans, just in case. A cover-our-asses policy is necessary, particularly after the fact. This I know, after all, as an editorial writer (job description: to analyze the scene of a disaster and begin punishing survivors).
Today is hot. I can perceive this without assistance from forecasters, however much I appreciate the science of meteorology. I’d like to be able to enjoy this weather – or not, depending on my inclination – and be able to wish you a nice day. I would definitely not do so, were I not concerned that today might turn out less than nice, in which case you as a consumer might bring a legal action against me for violation of an express warranty of the suitability of the day.

What is a Hum?

My risky business on the “Hum” happened couple of weeks ago now. It was an excursion on the last remaining wooden operating steam-powered vessel in the United States in the company of about 60 other gents of approximately my age whose express purpose was to sing choruses in public.

As promised (or threatened), I obtained further information about the origins of this fairly unusual expedition from Bob Hall, who has been organizing them annually in recent decades. His information, in turn, comes from a three-page epistle called “A Short Sketch of the Hummers” by Bryant Tolles, written in February of 1983.

Per Tolles, Hums began in December 1936 when a large number of Yale alumni couldn’t fit into the Hartford Club to attend an appearance by the football team captain.  They wound up in larger rooms downstairs and began singing Yale songs, which Tolles says they did for “several hours,” enthusiastically. “This is some hum,” some wit remarked, and the name stuck.

For many years this activity continued with a varying group of about sixty, led by a core group. They met in people’s homes and in clubs and other venues. Hums were not limited to Yalies but welcomed college singers from many places. Tolles’ described energetic singing:

One of these non-Yale singers was Ted Hansen who stood up at the start of the Hum and sang the Norwegian National Anthem in Norwegian while he also directed the Hummers while accompanying him by one-third singing ‘Boo-a, Boo-a,’ another part ‘Lit-em, Lit-em,’ and the last third singing repetitively ‘Ile-Buscum.’ Each third sang in a different pitch.

This singing was done without music, since the repertoire was apparently commonly known, perhaps the way most people today know Happy Birthday to You or the Star Spangled Banner. Actually, I bet they knew their music better than folks today. Most birthday groups now make a terrifying cacaphony even on Happy Birthday. Many cannot carry a tune at all much less match someone else’s pitch.

I digress.

The Hummers never had regular meetings, getting together apparently on impulse yet still drawing good ad hoc crowds. They did a broadcast on a Hartford radio station (this was before the advent of TV) and filled the Bushnell Hall in that city with a crowd to hear the Yale Glee Club.

By the early 1970s, though, many original members had died or moved away, and there were no Hums for several years. In 1974, though, a new tradition was begun featuring an annual late spring gathering at Mystic Seaport on the Sabino, and it has continued that way.

In Tolles’ listing of early members, I noted the name of my college roommate’s father among the others, as he would have been a new graduate in 1936.

Tolles, I think, is now 92 and living in West Hartford. He concluded his piece with the hope that Hums would continue: “Hummers never die,” he says, “but sing on into eternity.”

Good philosophy.

More than satisfactory

Friday, I achieved a goal I’d eyed for over fifty years.

Friday, Lois and I went to the beach again.

No, the goal was not going to the beach. Yes, we did go Monday as well; twice in a week could seem like overdoing it, I know. But given Lois’ teaching schedule during July, it makes sense to grab as many good days at the beach as possible.

So Lois and I gathered our rosebuds while we could. Friday was very beautiful and although when we reached the East Beach location the temperature was still about 70, the air was clear and bright and remained that way. Only the constant wind made conditions less than ideal.

I tired of sitting and decided to walk. Lois elected to remain where she was, working her way with glee through the volumes she’d brought with her, as I set off eastward along the sands.

I determined to walk all the way to the end of the beach, to the breachway through which Charlestown Pond drains into the ocean. Since my family began vacationing in Quonochontaug in 1959, I have wanted to walk the length of the beach (which, to be fair, is only 2.5 miles each way), but, for one reason or another (all of whom are now adults), I could never do. Someone’s legs would give out or stomach need filling, the day would end or turn cold or rainy.

None of these conditions was present on Friday. Walking was about as comfortable as it can ever be. I had a hat, I was slathered with sunblock, I carried a shirt.

And I walked and I walked and I walked. The beach, I observed, was not a perfect crescent as I’ve always thought; it undulated here and there so that the whole is not continuously visible.

I saw piping plovers and least terns. They are protected in a roped off section of beach back towards the dunes along this whole sector with only a few designated passageways for humans. The piping plovers are those little birds that follow the water as it washes in and out along the sands, the plovers’ feet moving so fast you cannot see them. There used to be groups of dozens that would rush up and down before and behind the waves. Now, sadly, the largest group I saw was only five.

The terns, with lovely forked tails, are the swallows of the beach. They’d swoop across the beach and out over the water, skimming and swooping as if they really enjoyed themselves. They’d find a certain height above the sea, slow until they were almost hovering, and look down. When they spotted what they wanted, they’d drop straight down into the water, wings not closed as I’d have thought, but partly open. A moment later, they’d emerge and take off, most of the time with a tiny wiggling fish in their beaks.

And I walked and I walked and I walked. And finally I reached the breachway. The near side of the channel, inaccessible except by paying a serious camping fee or by walking the 2½ miles as I had just done, was deserted. On the further breakwater, a few guys with fishing gear cast their lines. That side is easily accessible from adjacent Charlestown Beach. As at other breachways, water rushed energetically through into the ocean. A cormorant was enjoying riding the current upstream.

The walk was beautiful, both ways, and altogether long enough.

It was time to return to Lois. Our spot on the beach was a long, long way away. It did seem much further going back, and as I stumped along I could reflect that I had not really expected astonishing revelations when I reached the breach and therefore had not been disappointed. And, as I said, a beautiful walk on a beautiful day.

Sound the Trumpet – Train that is!

Lucy Cowles Butler was a lass of five when the first train came through Meriden in November, 1838. I suppose it blew some sort of a whistle, an air whistle or steam trumpet, as these were invented as early as 1832.

Lucy, my great-great-grandmother, lived in Meriden as I do. Her father, Henry Cowles Butler, according to family history, brought her to the center of town to witness the passage of the first steam locomotive, which he saw as an important event. She told the story to her grandson, Robert Allan Squire, who told it to me over a century later—I am his grandson. He also brought me downtown to see the last scheduled steam engine pass through town around 1948.

My family has been enjoying the sound of train whistles ever since, and we have lived within easy earshot of them. It’s a sound that connects to the past when railroads were the stuff of romance on the cutting edge of technology.

I bring this up because some people in Meriden today actually object to the sound of a train. These are people who live in homes fairly close to the tracks; they don’t like being startled or woken by a passing train’s blast on the whistle. Stuff and nonsense: trains were here first. Not that such a logical condition seems to deter modern objectors. Any number of people have built or purchased houses near Meriden-Markham Airport, yet complain that planes fly overhead, even though planes were using the airspace before residents were breathing it.

Some of these folks are petitioning to make our town, and neighboring Wallingford, too, “quiet areas.” In a quiet area, trains would not sound their horns as they approach grade-level crossings. Instead, flashing lights, bells, and gates would be installed at two of the four quadrants of the intersection.

Given the mass of a train engine alone and the propensity of modern drivers to ignore plain warnings, this proposal seems to me to be a very stupid thing. I would hate to count how many times I’ve seen antsy drivers go right around warning gates near the station downtown. On the other hand, it’s been suggested that cars and truck cabs are so well insulated today, or so noisy, that drivers can’t hear train whistles. The sound is apparently louder inside at least some nearby homes so perhaps a quiet zone doesn’t really matter.

Go figure.

I happen to enjoy the sound of the whistles.

But in any case, this train question has assumed some importance due to plans, which I completely support, to create a commuter service on the New Haven to Springfield line, which might bring as many as fifty trains a day (plus freights) through the center of downtown Meriden. Given the number of grade crossings in Wallingford and Meriden, that’s a lot of whistle-blowing.

A problem far more challenging than whistles comes with this increase in train traffic: congestion.

In both Meriden and Wallingford, trains pass directly through town center. Naturally, each passing train causes the gates to go down and traffic to stop until the train moves on. Now, downtown Meriden isn’t what it was in 1950 when trains regularly caused traffic to jam up all the way up the hill past St. Andrew’s and City Hall. But 50 trains a day could become a real problem.

When I was first writing for The Record-Journal in the late 1970s, there was talk of building an overpass at the East/West Main crossing so that car and truck traffic would not be interrupted with every train. It seemed expensive and improbable to officials at the time; although it seemed a reasonable solution to me, train traffic declined and a one-way circulation system—still in use—was devised for street-traffic.

It’s time to trot out the overpass idea again. If we are serious about railroads, we need to avoid creating congestive heart failure of our city streets every time a train comes through.  If we are really serious, like the French and the TGVs, we’d build a whole new line between New Haven and Springfield, sinking it thoughtfully below grade so that motor vehicle and pedestrian travel would not be impaired.

We’re not that serious, of course: when the “high speed” line was being created New Haven to Boston, every grade crossing closure caused issues for communities along the way.

One overpass in downtown Meriden and one in downtown Wallingford would go a long way to alleviate concerns over a serious commuter rail service between New Haven and Springfield.

 I wish I lived closer to the tracks, like my cousin Dan. His home for many years has been a former carriage house which stands just above the busy rails in downtown Bethlehem, PA. Nights there are wonderful, trains and all.

In case you'd like to hear a 19 second clip on steam train whistles, just click: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79ST2Z_AQdc

Cat contretemps

Nobody owns a cat.

This may not be a strict legal rule but as far as I can tell, that’s what cats seem to think about it and it’s how they behave.

So here’s a little story.

In the fall of 2010, we encountered some young cats – hardly more than kittens, really – in our neighborhood. They were apparently on their own, travelling from house to house in search of meals. Several friends and acquaintances in the area had noticed them and put food out for them. They were clearly not feral, but seemed to have been left to their own devices.

On Christmas Eve, word came of a pending blizzard and one friend called to tell us that she had found one of the cats. My wife, Lois, always with a tender spot in her heart for a cat, went over to the neighbor’s house. The cat came to her, and Lois brought her home.

Then came the blizzard. How the smaller cat managed to shelter, we have no idea, but after the storm was over, this little creature was discovered and Lois went to bring her home as well.

We fully expected notices to be posted about lost cats, but nothing was ever tacked to any telephone pole we saw, nor did we see any ad amongst the free “lost and founds” in the Record-Journal. The larger cat came into heat within a week or so of when we brought her inside – we thought perhaps a steady diet might have helped. A bit of investigation on the Net suggested that heat would be a semi-permanent condition.

So, since it appeared they’d be remaining with us, we made appointments, took them to our veterinarian to be checked out, and, since both were of an appropriate age, we had them both spayed. All shots were given, and they both were reported as healthy. It was out vet’s opinion that they were not mother/daughter and not litter mates but perhaps from successive litters of the same mother. The larger one, he said, was a few months the older, but she showed no sign of having given birth at all. Nor, when we looked at her, did she seem to have nursed kittens.

We wondered for months what the back story could have been. How could anyone have abandoned these excellent cats to fend for themselves? What had happened to their mother? Were there other siblings? If only cats could speak, we mused.

They became regular members of our household, gradually becoming familiar and acclimated with our other five cats. We took them to the vet as needed, which was not often for indoor cats, and we came to love them to pieces. They’re polydactylic: both have six toes on the front feet and five on the back, twenty-two in all, four more than is usual.

And so it continued for 18 months until this week, when a mother and daughter appeared on our front step asking how they could get their cats returned. They were crying. Lois was crying. The mother said she’d missed the cats all this time and that she wanted them back. We were not prepared to make any spur of the moment decision, and we said we’d call them after we’d had a chance to discuss the situation. I looked online for the legal status of cat ownership and Lois called the vet and the police with the same question. We found no definitive answer, even from the city’s animal control officer, who told us that the question is clearer if dogs, rather than cats, are the “property.”

Soon enough, a police cruiser pulled up and a pleasant but reluctant-seeming young officer walked up to the house. Our crying visitors had gone home and directly called police.

We did not and do not want to be mean. We discussed this reasonably with the officer, and, as we spoke about it, made it fairly clear that unless it were legally required, we would not part with these cats. We have made a major emotional investment in these animals which, so far as we were concerned, were abandoned. The officer went to speak to the other folks with that – but also with our suggestion that we would find other cats or kittens for them and contribute to their veterinary bills.

The officer returned in a while with a flat out rejection of our offer and with the further comment that they had no energy or time or money to pursue any such idea. The officer told us that according to such legal precedents as existed, since the cats had been with us for over a year, there could be no question of property crime, even if he had concluded we had stolen these animals (which he had not concluded). Hence, any further dispute would be up to parties to pursue in civil court. And he very politely said goodbye and went away.

We absolutely do not want to start some neighborhood feud, but we don’t think these folks, however sad their situation, should have these animals, particularly if they let them outside to wander the neighborhood again.

End of story? Well, perhaps. The daughter – high school aged? – came up the street walking her dogs a half hour later or so, three or four times back and forth in front of our house, and allowed them to make their deposits on our lawn. Somewhat later, she returned with a friend, and they stood in the street, stared into our windows, and did little dances. After another while, the mom drove by in a large van and paused in the street and stared at our front windows for a couple of minutes.

This is preposterous. While we can cope with a certain amount of such folderol, we hope they see this soon and either approach us with some sort of compromise or move on with their lives.

The Hum

Some people embark on terrifying cliff-climbing expeditions, which require them to stick their hands into cracks in rock faces and employ these unfortunate limbs as hoisting tools. Ouch! I’m not naming names, now.

Others face classrooms jammed with inquisitive or indifferent lumps of studentia with the task of molding them into educated beings. Still others find themselves in foreign airports past midnight chatting with cleaning staff about the likelihood of finding fitting flight desks and timely transportation.

My own brand of risky business is, as Gilbert said, “singing choruses in public.”

On a steamboat, to be precise.

Yesterday evening I went on a “Hum” on the Mystic River from the docks at Mystic Seaport.  To those who may not find this word particularly descriptive, not conveying, as it were, a clear idea of any particular activity beyond making a sort of buzzing sound in the throat, it is a floating choral festivity.

That’s a lot clearer, right?

Once a year, a gathering of male singers – no credentials necessary – gathers at Mystic Seaport’s dock for a sunset cruise on the Sabino, the oldest or last operating wooden, coal-powered steamboat in the US. Yesterday evening, in the wind (with occasional gusts of rain) and with temperatures in the 40s, about 55 men boarded the Sabino. Each received a sheaf of songs, words only, six sheets stapled andprinted on both sides. As we got underway, someone with a pitchpipe gave a note for song #1 and various brave souls began with “The old songs, the old songs, those good old songs for me . . .”

Not many of us appeared to know this tune, oddly enough, though many were repeat participants from last year when the same song occupied the top spot on the playlist. And so it went. Songs such as “Let me call you sweetheart” and “the Battle Hymn of the Republic” were familiar, while numbers such as “I care not for the stars that shine,” and “Pull your shades down, Mary Ann” seemed to leave most sailors in a thorough fog.

Sequence on the song sheets was broken as we passed the raised bridge of U.S. Rte 1 breaking into “God bless America,”  and again as we passed the railroad bridge which had swung open for us (what else but “I’ve been working on the railroad”?).

As the ship reached the far end of its excursion and swung around to return upriver, the spot where I had been standing was suddenly directly exposed to the wind and rain. No stoic I, I discovered that the coal engine had an exhaust stack which rose through the ship’s midsection. It provided a welcome warmth to help me through the return trip.

Once on shore, we walked over to the restaurant – currently called Latitude 41 – where, after some further singing, this time music with words from the Yale Song Book, we enjoyed a buffet and were entertained by members of the Manchester chapter of the Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America, Inc. (SPEBSQSA). That was pretty much the evening.

Bob Hall, who is chief organizer of each year’s event, told me he will send a summary he prepared of the History of the Hum, and when I get it I will share it on the blog.

At the moment, though, a pertinent observation: not counting the barbershop quartet contingent, the men on the Hum were almost all in their 50s, 60s and 70s. The same age characteristic may be observed in choirs, choral groups and similar organizations. Younger people, male or female, do not give voice in the same ways. This means that within a decade or two at the most these organizations and all their traditions will be no more. Since we won’t be here either, I guess that’s not much skin off our noses, but it is sad to reach the end of traditions of this kind, a cultural sadness.

Thinking about said musical decline, as I’ve done fairly often, I realize how many members of my family, immediate and extended, have enjoyed singing in groups. Proof of madness, I suppose, as William Gilbert would have it, but a marvelous madness.

Will anyone miss us when we’re gone?

Saturday morning

You’ll be delighted to learn that I approve of Saturday morning. Today, with no urgency to dress and depart anywhere, we strolled leisurely through a breakfast of cottage cheese pancakes with genuine maple syrup from Vermont, graced in my case by a modest but delicious helping of bacon.

(I bought an intriguing, non-preserved bacon from Whole Paycheck and divided that three-pound package into single-serving portions for freezing. With these rashers, I know I am eating real bacon. But I digress.)

The photo isn't of pancakes and bacon, just what was left after we finished them: roses from the front yard. It was lucky I picked them when I did because this morning's rain has stripped all the petals from the remaining blooms.

Pancakes with syrup accompanied, gracefully and appropriately, with excellent and succulent bacon. “It was (you may say) satisfactory.”

Smoking Wallingford

I would like to speak about smoking. Tobacco, that is. And I want to speak about it in Wallingford.

I am a former smoker. My last smoke was over 29 years ago. In fact, ending my use of tobacco was my wedding present to Lois. Although I still dream about cigarettes from time to time, my urge to light up is not particularly strong -- although I am sure that if I ever weakened and did so, that first cigarette would lead an unending parade of them, marching me to the grave.

Perhaps I should add that for a couple of years before I stopped, I had found smoking unpleasant and messy. I dropped ashes everywhere, including on my son; I burned holes in my clothing while driving (talk about your distracted drivers!); I woke up mornings with a mouth like flannel. Quitting was a good thing.

So that's where I come from regarding smoking. Oh: one further fact. My mother, an occasional smoker, died of lung cancer at the age of 86 which was too young.

Everyone should give up tobacco. That is simply good health advice.

People can be nudged in this direction by a number of legitimate means. Employers have moved to smoke-free workplaces; many businesses have declared their premises off-limits to customers while they are smoking, either with posted signs or by removing amenities like ashtrays (although that did carry a certain risk of having butts ground out in carpeting). Health care programs can include cost incentives to encourage non-smoking.

Governments have outlawed smoking in almost all public buildings, and the same is true of most spaces in which public transportation occurs. Many homeowners and car owners maintain smokeless cars. Meanwhile, taxes on cigarettes have climbed to stratospheric heights: a pack of 20 now costs $8.25 and can go for $14 or $15 in New York City, with its higher levies. Cartons become unimaginably expensive. Imagine spending $100 a week for ten packs. That's $5,000 a year.

 Yet there are still many smokers, though more and more they smoke at home or outdoors away from others.

But now, thanks apparently to a federal circular received by Housing Authorities, Wallingford is considering banning smoking in its public housing units.

 I've been expecting something of this sort for years.  Smoking is now being seen as such a public nuisance that most people will go along with a proposition to limit how people can indulge in their own homes. The rather spurious reason is that apartments contaminated by smoking cost more to clean, which is certainly true. That's no real justification for making this rule, though.

We just seem to go all absolutist when it comes to bad habits, especially if we can tie some moral factor to these habits (such as second hand smoke).

I suppose Wallingford will move forward with this plan. Several other towns have already made no smoking rules for public housing. They will probably grandfather in existing smokers.

But I can see the writing on the wall: "we will not rest until we have rid the world of this filthy habit, no matter what it takes and no matter how extreme we must become."

Venus sighted

     It's now only 5 days until the last transit of  Venus in the lifetime of anyone living today. Venus is approaching that point in its orbit which will place it directly between earth and sun, an arrangement of no particular significance to any of the bodies involved but of interest to those intelligent and quasi-intelligent beings on this planet who have used these transits to inform themselves about the nature of the celestial environment and mechanics.
     This being Connecticut, Meriden to be more particular, there is always a cloud risk which makes any sky viewing a chancy thing. And indeed, the forecast for next Tuesday evening is insalubrious.
     So I made do with today. It's been, indeed, a good week since the western sky was clear enough to allow a sighting of Venus after sunset. The last time we looked, Lois and I could barely see a disk for the planet and, with imagination, detect a sort of partial crescent.
     Tonight, though, through a light cloud, we could both plainly see a fingernail crescent shape. The planet was several times the size the same glasses had shown last week, and it was most satisfactory. Sometimes our cloudy skies actually cooperate and let us glimpse the elegance of the spheres.