Growing Your Own in the Bronx

One side of the turn-around in front of our house is bordered by a flower bed that rises up a small embankment. In the early spring, daffodils flash yellow, and after they have had their day (weeks) the day lilies rise and eventually sprout orange blooms like stars. There are more of them than the daffodils, so it seems almost solid orange on a bed of green.

          A month or so ago, before our trip to Belgrade, Rosamond called me over to the lilies and, pointing to a plant that had risen higher than the lilies, said, “Is that what I think it is?” Well, let’s see. Serrated leaves in clusters of five springing out from a sturdy stem. Yep, looks like. A volunteer, apparently, as nothing like it has graced our yard before. A few years ago Rosamond found another volunteer under a shrub in front of the house, a single morel mushroom. We ate it, and I have since looked in vain for others of its ilk to rise, if not like phoenixes, like fiddleheads or snow plants.

So, after our trip abroad, almost three weeks, one of the first things Rosamond had to do was check out the garden. Three kinds of beans were mounting their poles; green tomatoes were weighing down their vines; lettuce, radishes, and chives were waiting harvest. Alas, the peas had already dried up while we were gone. Then Rosamond went over to the day lilies. The plant was gone. “I guess the gardeners thought it was a weed,” I said.

I don’t mourn the loss too much because we have another kind of chemistry in our garden. As the light fades in the evening, dozens of fireflies rise from the ground flashing their Darwinian fitness to prospective mates, but for us offering a fleeting display of tiny magic lanterns. And finally, during dinner one evening we saw a skunk circumnavigating the lawn. He went about his business, and so did we.

Belgrade

We are back. (See August 12, 2013 post, Belgrade, Serbia). Instead of returning to the apartment building with the dilapidated façade, we are living in the executive suites of a nice hotel three or four blocks south of the St. Seva cathedral. Our groups’ rooms are on the sixth floor of the hotel (seventh, actually, because in Europe the ground floor is not numbered, and the first floor is above it).  We have the floor to ourselves.

From our windows and thin balcony, the cathedral dominates the skyline. And then there are the bells. The main barrage comes at noon when many bells of different pitch peal forth seemingly in competition with each other. I suspect that they are amplified as there is a tinny, clangy quality to the sound that is not as pleasant as the resonant bongs that large bells should produce. The bells are also very loud. At other times of day a single bell announces the hour—but not every hour, only some of them—and it does so by striking twenty-five times. At first we disagreed about how many times the bell tolled. Some said twenty-three, some twenty four, but this was because sometimes the bell couldn’t be heard. If, however, you counted the space where the bell should have tolled it came out to twenty-five. Why? I have no idea. There is also some multiple bell tolling at other times, presumably to get people to the church on time. There was so much ringing on Saturday that I thought that it was the Greek Orthodox holy day, but, no, there was much more clanging, pealing, tolling on Sunday.

We arrived on a Sunday, and I noticed that some construction was going on below our balcony. Behind the hotel’s patio, where we have breakfast when the weather is fine, is a one story building with a flat roof. Piles of sand and gravel and some stacks of white blocks had already been hoisted onto the roof. Eight or nine workmen arrived on Monday morning and, using a small electric hoist mounted on one corner of the building, began hauling up more supplies. Arcs of iron rod, like the handles of Easter baskets, had been welded to wheelbarrows so that when the hoist’s hook was hooked to a barrow, the load, whether more sand or more blocks or buckets of water, would remain in balance while it was being lifted up the side of the building. At one point they lifted a small cement mixer that was soon sloshing away. Workers began laying down a course of blocks over a layer of concrete around the perimeter of the building. Were they going to add a second story to the building?  It didn’t seem likely, but other purposes didn’t come readily to mind. Over three days the wall grew to about three feet high, and then they started capping it with wooden forms into which they shoveled concrete. That part of the job was finished by noon Friday, and no one showed up in the afternoon. The next morning, though, a full crew was back, some of them building a kind of wooden bridge using 2x4s that ran across the middle of the roof. Other workers ran wires perpendicular to the wooden structure about three feet apart from one side of the building to the other, nailing them to the concrete forms that were still in place. I now noticed that rolls of green plastic sheeting had been hoisted to the roof, and by the end of the day the roof was completely covered and all the tools, the cement mixer, and the hoist itself had been taken to the ground and trucked away. I should note that the building’s windows were gone and the inside contained nothing but some rubble.

Rain was forecast, and I wondered if the new structure had sufficient pitch to shed the water. A little rain on Sunday left some pools in the plastic. Then Tuesday night, while we were having dinner in one of our favorite restaurants, a huge thunder storm swept through. For a while the ground was white with hail, and the rain was diluvian. Fortunately for us, the main brunt of the storm passed while we were having coffee, so we could walk back to the hotel without getting soaked.

The next morning, however, I checked on the project. The sheets of plastic had come apart where they had been fastened together, and, worse, the weight of the water that pooled in the plastic had pulled one of the walls part way over, breaking blocks and joints. The roof below the plastic was filled with water which was, presumably, just what the project was meant to prevent. I haven’t seen anyone come by to check things out, so I suppose it is possible that whoever contracted the job doesn’t know what happened. When we return next year we may find that the whole building is gone except for the wall that borders the hotel’s patio.

Meanwhile, I frequently went running in a small park a half block from the hotel. Under a tree, another laborer, a wood carver, was working on a large log about fifteen feet long, chipping out a face at one end and then a face at the other end. He worked methodically and from time to time would stop to sit on a bench and smoke and chat with other bench sitters. Eventually he would decide that his project was finished, and it would be.

Belgrade

Brewing

In the late 1960’s, I was a graduate student living in Berkeley and subsisting on the GI Bill and Linnea’s meager check from working at the Ski Hut. Making things seemed a good way to stretch our funds. I heard you could make your own beer, so I bought a large crock, some canned malt, a package of dry yeast, and a bottle capper. I don’t remember where I got the hops. Then I methodically collected a supply of used beer bottles. The directions were to cook the malt with water, pour it into the crock, add yeast, cover it with muslin and wait a few weeks before bottling. Stories abounded about the bottles of eager tasters exploding in closets. It all seemed simple enough.

I waited the full two weeks, bottled the brew, and waited another week for it to age. It didn’t taste very good. In fact if it hadn’t been for the alcohol it provided I wouldn’t have drunk it at all. It gave new meaning to the phrase, “struggling student.” I made a few batches after that but eventually gave it up. As I lifted each bottle to my lips I thought, are you really this desperate? Continue reading

A New York Weekend

In reviewing my book in the American Alpine Journal, Peter Hahn “wonder[s] what happened ‘after the Nose’ and why he [me] ended up a dedicated New York City dweller.” So do I, sometimes. The short answer for after the Nose is sex and then twice, love. A longer answer would trot out other interests and the unlikeliness of a livelihood in climbing. As to New York, it was love again (and still again), and New York City is a great city for other interests. Which gets me to recent days.

Thursday night, after dinner in a cozy French restaurant (Rosamond, lamb chops, me, a big bowl of mussels) we went to see a production of Tennessee Williams’ “The Two Character Play,” a late work not often produced. It is unusually dense for a Williams play. Continue reading

Blue Jasmine

We went to see Woody Allen’s new film, Blue Jasmine. There are some laughs, but it isn’t a comedy. Cate Blanchett plays Jasmine who once was driven around Manhattan in a stretch limo by her own driver, who was bedecked in jewels and furs and Hermes bags. Then, her husband was sent to prison for some sort of financial fraud. Now she has no money and no prospects and has moved to San Francisco to live with her sister—sort of sister since they were both adopted and couldn’t be more different from each other.

The range of Blanchett’s acting is amazing. In the New York scenes she is the epitome of hauteur whose sense of the good life includes some charity enterprises as well as support of the arts and culture. With her sister she displays her middle class roots even though she hasn’t fully adjusted to her drop in station or her sister’s life style. And then she starts talking to herself. She loses it because beneath all of her plans and patter and surface mannerisms there is no core, no center. One thinks of Yeats. “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold, / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.” She manufactures whatever she thinks the current situation demands. Even her name. She was formerly called Janette, but that didn’t evoke a glamorous Manhattanite . But regardless of the face Jasmine presents (and there are many), Blanchett is utterly convincing. Continue reading

Belgrade, Serbia

Last year, Rosamond received a grant from the NIH to run a program in research ethics for the Balkan and Black Sea countries. The structure of the program involves intensive course work (9 am to 4 pm) for two weeks, followed by a year of online courses, and then a final week of on-site course work. So we went to Belgrade.

The teaching faculty was Dan, Henry, Nada (a native Serbian), and Rosamond from Mt. Sinai Medical School, and then an assortment of doctors and professors from Balkan medical schools. Nada stayed with her mother, but the rest of us, including Henry’s wife, Jill, rented apartments in a building across the street from the St. Seva cathedral. It was only after a day or two that we realized that the façade of our building looked like it was slated for demolition, but the apartments had been recently renovated and even came with bottles of Scotch and gin and assorted liquors left by previous renters. Continue reading

Paris in the spring

No news is not good news. As if only bad news was worth the three-cent stamp it cost to mail a letter when I was young.  Good news ought to be worth a lot more than three cents. And if you merely want to have a say you can for two cents. Whatever it’s worth. No, no news is no news.

All of which is a way of saying I have been absent from this site for too long (for me, if not for a reader). Toward the end of May I broke a few bones in my left foot. The foot guy was in Scotland, so I had to wait a week until he returned, looked at the x-rays, and then operated to put the ice cream back on the cone as he quaintly put it. Ten days after the surgery an assistant took out the stitches, and two days after that Rosamond and I flew to Paris. Two days later I found that the incision had opened up. It looked rather ugly, a gaping maw surrounded by dark and swollen tissue, but doctors (who were also friends) were attending the conference that was our reason for being in Paris, and one of them determined that there was no infection. “It’ll fill up,” he said (and it has, mostly). Granulation, they call it.

We had rented a funky garret kind of apartment on the Ile Saint Louis. Across the street was a church whose bells tolled from time to time (but not for me). A bakery with Continue reading

Sleeping in Seattle

We polluted more skies (see previous post) flying from San Francisco to Seattle to see my son, his wife, and their year-old son. They are all doing fine, thank you very much, but this isn’t about them. It’s about domiciles. Let’s start with theirs.

A few years ago, before Jason and Robin got married, they bought a house boat on Lake Union. The price was right, in part because it was small, in part because the housing market was down, and also because it needed work. Jason looks good with a tool belt on. He started by taking out the wall facing the water and putting in large windows and glass doors. Light is good, especially when reflected off the water. That was it for quite a while, but when Robin became pregnant it was clear that the interior needed to be reorganized to make good use of what little space they had(about 700 square feet, the size, or a little smaller, of many New York apartments). It was a rule in the house boat community that the footprint of the existing house could not be expanded.

A friend down the dock drew up some plans, Jason and Robin moved into a another friend’s place, and Jason started gutting his house—walls, ceilings, floors, all the way down to the logs that floated the whole thing. The floor had to be reinstalled and leveled (it hadn’t been level). Then he bought seven closets from Ikea and installed them at strategic locations. He then framed in the interior walls and installed new plumbing and wiring. Sheetrock, appliances, kitchen counters and cabinets, book shelves, bathroom fixtures, flooring, lighting fixtures and outlets and switches. Paint. Continue reading

Friendly Skies and Real Friends

Rosamond had business at the American Philosophical Association’s meeting in San Francisco, so we had to pollute the friendly skies. Odd phrase, that. It looks like a metaphor, but metaphors usually have nouns or verbs as their ground. Skies just aren’t the kind of thing that can be friendly. Neither can sties, pies, fries, ties. Lies, maybe, as something between friends. Flies no, but since dogs can be friendly (one wonders about cats), perhaps the friendliness of other animals is an empirical matter, not a conceptual one as is the case with friendly skies.

So what are they trying to say? Airlines can’t be friendly either. People can be friendly, so it must be the people at the ticket counter, the pilots, the flight attendants (but not necessarily the guys who load your luggage onto and off of the plane). But are these people friendly? Or, more to the point, more friendly than their counterparts at other airlines? Possibly to the first, doubtful to the second. Continue reading

A Short Walk with Terray

March 1963. I am living with Linnea in an eleven room apartment in Barcelona. The apartment is on the fifth floor, and at the front a small enclosed balcony overlooks the street below, overlooks the lamplighter as he comes at dusk to light the street lamps. He turns a gas valve at the base of the lamp and then reaches up with a long pole that has a flame on top to bring the light to life. Gas light has a soft but warm glow more conducive than electric light to walking quiet streets, especially if your life is suffused with romance. Linnea and I are not usually up when the lamplighter makes his rounds in the morning to turn off the gas.

Royal had written me, giving me the address in Barcelona of Manuel Anglada, one of the better Spanish climbers. Anglada and I got in touch, and he invited me to go with him and some other climbers for a weekend trip to Montserrat, an area north of Barcelona with many conglomerate domes, spires, and faces. As it happened, the great French climber, Lionel Terray, was also in Barcelona to show movies of his climbing and skiing adventures, and he would join us. Indeed, the trip was organized for him, not for me, but Anglada was a good fellow, and we got along well. Continue reading