Call Me a Boor, a Rube…..

 …. a heathen, an uncultured slob…. But I just don’t “get” modern art.

Last weekend we went to see the Victorian Christmas display at Fountain Elms in Utica. Fountain Elms is an 1800’s Italianate house that was owned by the Munson/Williams/Proctor family. They were quite wealthy and, as was the fashion of the times, avid art collectors. When the last of the family passed on, the art collection was made public. Eventually, it was put in it’s current home – the Munson Williams Proctor Institute, next door to Fountain Elms. (I call it “The Munstitute” for short). 

Since we were right there – the buildings are literally connected by a covered walkway – we took a stroll through the art museum.

I try to be as open minded as I can about things, particularly in matters of taste. I know that what one person finds interesting or appealing, another may not. I have also experienced numerous instances where either my tastes have changed or I learned to appreciate something that at first blush didn’t interest me.

  Over the years, my definition of “art”  - be it sculpture, painting, photography, graphic arts, music – has broadened to: “something that makes you feel something and/or something that makes you think”. If it fits that criteria, no matter what the form, it’s “art”.  If it has something to say (good or bad), then it’s art. (If it doesn’t have anything to say, then why is it wasting my time?) I like having my preconceived notions challenged, too.

  Most of the things I saw in that museum did indeed make me think – they made me think: “What the hell is this and why in God’s name would they pay so much money for it?”

To be sure, there were a few pieces that at least made me think. There was a photo of a flowerpot with some grass growing in it. The flowerpot was on its side, but the grass was growing straight up - a commentary on the resiliency of nature. Got it. Definitely fits my definition of art.  There was also a painting done in a series of three panels. The first showed two adults arguing, the second showed the man putting his hat on and heading out the door as a plate of food hit the wall next to the door. The third showed the woman cleaning it up, with a very hurt and angry expression. In each of these, a young boy sort of did the duck and cover bit. Ugly? You bet, but it conveyed emotion and made me feel something. Art? Check.

The bulk of them left me cold. There wasn’t even any hint of appreciation for the skill of the artists. I’m sorry, but throwing paint at a canvas doesn’t imply any degree of skill. If a three year old throws paint, he gets his ass chewed – if an adult does it, it’s “art”?

Instead of keeping non-working appliances and cars on blocks in your yard, and risk running afoul of the zoning folks, try keeping a bunch of rusty scrap metal instead. Just weld it together, name it “ Macular Degeneration #2 “ and call it “sculpture”.

  Of course, I’m the same guy who got thrown out of high school art class a lot. When the teacher was going on and on about how the artists who throw the brush at the canvas spent so much time figuring out where they want each color, I had the audacity to ask: 

“Well what happens if he doesn’t throw straight? What happens if he wants yellow over here and he misses and it hits over here”? 

“Get out……”. 

 (off I go - again).

Once a Philistine, always a Philistine, I guess. 

Fortunately, no one at the Munstitute made me go sit in the hall.

Thanksgiving.... A Day Late.

Thanksgiving is a holiday where we stop and give thanks for all the good things we have. 

The following day, Black Friday, is the anti-Thanksgiving, where we promptly forget what the day before was about  - and go out and participate in an orgy of "MORE ! MORE ! MORE !".

Someone had the TV on at the bike shop a couple of weeks ago. (Why? I have no idea). I tried my best to ignore it, but that's the most insidious thing about it - it's almost impossible to ignore.

One show mindlessly segued into another, on the Travel Channel. (Apparently we don't even have to actually go anywhere anymore, we just travel vicariously). I forget what the name of the show was, but this particular episode was about privately owned luxury yachts.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like the finer things in life as much as the next person, and the idea of a sailing vacation on a small schooner has it's appeal, but I was absolutely appalled at what I saw on this show. 

One million dollars for a two week vacation? It takes fifty thousand dollars to fill the fuel tanks? It was supposed to be impressive, I guess, but I think my impression was not what they had in mind. I was almost physically ill at the idea of that level of conspicuous consumption. Fresh cut flowers on the table every day? Staff on duty 24 hours a day and a larder stocked with everything possible, just in case a well heeled guest might fancy Lobster Thermidor and champagne at 3:30 AM, in the middle of the Mediterranean?

That's just wrong on so many levels. It left me sad, disgusted and angry, all at once.

I guess I'm un-American because I don't aspire to that level of luxury. I don't dream of riches beyond measure, so the lottery ads are lost on me. ("The Lottery - A Tax On People Who Are Bad At Math"). Yeah, I wouldn't turn it down if someone handed me enough money to pay off my mortgage (or something) but dreams of having my house featured on MTV Cribs are just beyond my understanding.

Both times I've been to Las Vegas (for the Interbike trade show) left me feeling depressed and dirty. The whole city seems to be built on the ideas of "more" and "bigger". It's all so shallow and hollow. I left with the impression that the hookers weren't the only ones prostituting themselves.

Hasn't anyone noticed that "riches do not equal happiness"? Look no further than Hollywood. If living in "utopia" is all that, why do so many of them have their personal problems splashed all over the front pages of the NationalMidnightStar? Why are so many in rehab, plastic surgery, jail, cults.....? How many big lottery winners find that the money brings more headaches and woe than it's worth?

Maybe some of you students of sociology can tell me - where did this whole idea that one should aspire to ever-higher levels of wealth come from? When did the idea of "enough" get tossed by the wayside? When did we start measuring ourselves and others by "stuff we have" and not "the stuff we're made of "?

Am I wrong to value what I have, and not aspire to more? Am I just a bad consumer? Is it just sour grapes? Am I old-fashioned and out of date to think a quiet life of simple dignity is worth more than the opulent but empty "Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous"?

I don't think so.

Indian Summer

(DISCLAIMER: Click on the pictures to get a larger view, since Blogger is too stupid to deal with large images)

It was one of those rare autumn days. After several days of cold and wet, the sun shone, the sky was completely cloudless, and the temperatures rose - just warm enough to be pleasant, with enough of a nip in the air to let you know the dog days were history. The colors were past peak (not unlike your author), but there were still enough of the vibrant reds, yellows and golds to take your breath away.

It was the perfect day for yard work - one more chance to tidy up the yard and get those last few things buttoned up before winter or do those things you put off because it was too hot or too buggy.

Yeahright.

Some of us viewed it instead as one last chance to sneak in a ride before the weather requires much more in the way of rding gear and willpower.... Come with me, my virtual friend, as I play hooky from responsibility - again - and go for a ride. (Besides, the further I got from the house, the harder it was to see the stuff I should have been doing....)

Let's head south from the house. There's gold (and red, and orange) in them thar' hills.

After a few miles of gradual 1-2% climbing, we encounter rolling hills - short, punchy climbs that give you a choice to spin or jump out of the saddle and hammer over the top - if you're feeling like a hero. I'm feeling pretty smug about how effortless the climbs seem today, but then I remember that I'm on the Roubaix and it has compact drive.... Oh well, the ego takes another hit....



The first serious climb we encounter is "The Oxbow". I love this climb - it's the sort that makes non-cyclists go "You ride up THAT???" It doesn't look like much here, but it's about a mile long, and it pitches between 6 and 13 percent. You start here and end up somewhere above the cool house at the top, in the center. Most of the cars that pass you here are down in the passing gear and they sound a bit labored as they go by. (I, of course, smile as they go by, returning to my open-mouthed grimace only after they are safely out of sight).



Sumacs along the side of the road in brilliant shades of red make plain where Frank Lloyd Wright got his inspiration for his "sumac" pattern in stained glass:


After the top of the Oxbow, the road levels off a bit, but the trend is ever upward. Tangled shrubs and dense swamps make this primo deer country, but not all that hot for farming or housing, so houses are pretty sparse.



We pass through Peterboro, now no more that two rows of houses, separated by a wide village green, but at one time, this was a hotbed of abolitionism and an important stop on the Underground Railroad. Just outside of Peterboro, we take a right onto Cody Road. Cody is another long, uphill slog. It also has a bit of a nasty trick up it's proverbial sleeve - about six "false tops". Each time you THINK you're at the top, as you crest it, there is yet ANOTHER hill beyond. This may LOOK like you can see the crest of the hill, but don't be fooled:



But there's a payoff - if you turn and look behind you, you're greeted by the view of the altitude you've gained.



Also along Cody road, you pass under a stand of spectacular yellow maple trees that has a fragment of "Tai Shan" by Rush floating through my head:

"In the golden light of autumn
There was magic in the air"

After a couple of miles of climbing comes the payoff: the long, bomber descent into Cazenovia. Put it in the big ring and leave it there for about the next three miles. Speeds upwards of 40MPH are possible here.



All this climbing has made me hungry - time for a fuel stop. (Hey, don't underestimate the power of Keebler Pecan Sandies!)



From Cazenovia, we turn north on Route 13 and spin easily along Chittenango Creek as it winds it's way inexorably downhill. This road is a favorite place for motorcyclists (to wad themselves up), as it swoops and turns, following the creek on the right.



The creek passes under the road, and we start a long, fast descent. It's pretty easy to get caught up in the speed and scenery...




But wait - as the road plunges, so does the creek we've been following. Stop about halfway down the hill and look to the left to be rewarded by this view of Chittenango Falls:



Still descending, we come to the Village of Chittenango and turn west on State Route 5, shortly to be faced with the only significant climb left: Sullivan Hill. This one looks MUCH worse than it actually is, because you can see the whole thing. It's actually a mile long, but only 3-4%. On days when I'm feeling my oat ( singular -I only have one left) I do uphill sprints on this baby.



The next five or six miles pass uneventfully under our wheels and, like an old horse that can smell the barn, I pick up the pace as we turn onto the home stretch. One more mile to go.



With a mixture of regret and relief,(and somewhat knotted legs) we turn into the driveway.

By the numbers, here's what we did:

Summary Data
Total Time (h:m:s) 3:16:36 4:43 pace
Moving Time (h:m:s) 2:45:13 3:58 pace
Distance (mi ) 41.53
Moving Speed (mph) 15.1 avg. 41.0 max.
Elevation Gain (ft) +2,271 / -2,287

Avg. Heart Rate 115 bpm Zone 2.2

Temperature (°F) 65.6°F avg. 66.2°F high
Wind Speed ( mph) SE 2.3 avg. SE 3.5 max.


View Larger Map

Thanks for riding with me today. Hope I managed to show you some of what we have to offer around here. Hopefully, it won't be another six months before we can do this again....

Livin' La Vida Local...

...or something.

By chance, I happened upon information about the Madison County Agricultural Economic Development's "Eat Local" program. There were Open Houses at thirteen area farms and you were supposed to get your "passport" stamped at each one. (A minimum of two stamps scored you a t-shirt, and doG knows I'm a t-shirt whore!) Since I'd been jonesing for a long ride, - and it had finally stopped raining for more than five minutes - this seemed like a good excuse for a ride. I figured on hitting nine of the farms on the list. The route would encompass some of my favorite terrain - the rolling hills of southern Madison County. Yeah, it would be almost eighty miles, but I've done 60+ several times already this year. Piece 'o cake. The route was supposed to look just like this:

v

Insert: "Man proposes, God disposes". "The best laid plans of mice and men oft go to hell in a handbasket"....and a whole bunch of other cliches about things not going as planned. The one factor completely beyond my control changed my route - the weather.

I left at ten AM, waiting for it to warm up and the roads to dry out a bit - heaven forfend I get my new Roubaix dirty!

Out through the village and through Clockville I went, following the creek, the road twisting and turning, just like the creek itself. I turned and headed up the wall that is Burleson Road. It's about a three mile climb and the first quarter mile or so is about a 16% grade. The arm warmers came off for this climb! For some perverse reason, I really, really like that road. It's not that I have masochistic tendencies or anything....well, OK, maybe I do, but the views are certainly worth it. (Here's the link for the full view -stupid blogger software, anyway.....)


My first stop was the Foothills Hop Farm

It was there that I found out that Hop Lemonade rocks. I got my stamp and headed south on Rt 46 climbing, climbing and more climbing. 

(Astute readers of this blog would notice I've used that picture before, but since there aren't any, I can get away with it).

As I headed south, I couldn't help but notice the rather threatening cloud cover surrounding me on three sides. I hoped that if I kept heading south, I could sort of work around it.

Next up was Heritage Farm. No one seemed to be around, except for a young boy who was busy with a goat kid. I asked if he knew anything about getting my passport stamped. He just shrugged and said "I don't know". A couple more questions elicited similar responses. With the weather getting uglier by the minute, I decided to move on. No stamp. Poop.

As I reached the intersection of Route 46 and 20, I was supposed to head east to Heamour Farms, and Drover Hill Farm but the weather was really pressing in. I decided to pass on two more stamps and two of the farms I really wanted to see ( farmstead cheeses and Scottish Highland Cattle!) I headed west on 20.

From the intersection of 46 and 20 - in an area oddly named Pine Woods - Rt 20 climbs pretty steadily for three miles. As I launched into this long slog, the skies opened up. It was here too, that I happened to hook up with a guy and his son heading the same way on their bikes. As I bridged up to them I asked "Who the hell ordered this weather?" We soldiered on, making small talk. We finally reached the top and began the long descent into Morrisville. At that point, I decided to bag it and head for home. I said my goodbyes to my companions and turned off. I stopped to put my arm warmers back on and  thought "What the hell, I can't get any WETTER...." so I jumped back on Rt 20 and continued where I left off. I actually ended up catching back up with the guy and his son, when they stopped to put the son's chain back on. (It's called "drivetrain maintenance", people.....SHEESH!)

It stopped raining and I dropped them somewhere on the climb between Morrisville and Nelson. Thanks to the modern miracle of wicking fabrics, I started to dry out pretty quickly. (Except my feet....)

 I decided if I couldn't find "fuel" in the next little town along the way (Nelson), I'd bag it and head for home, but I managed to score some cheese curds and a soda, at Nelson Farms (there isn't anything else in Nelson!) so I kept on. 

I picked up a stamp from Drover Hill Farms at the Cazenovia Farmer's Market (not as cool as seeing the cattle but, hey...). I turned north and dove into the long, bomber descent of Rt 13 as it parallels Chittenango Creek and passes by Chittenango Falls. I felt pretty good as I entered the village of Chittenango, surprising myself by maintaining ~20MPH on the flats.

I decided to skip the farm stand just to the west on Tuscarora Road in Chittenango (the name escapes me at the moment). I turned east for the last leg of my journey....and into a headwind....and it started to rain again. It was also about this time that my gas gauge dropped to "E" and my "fuel" light lit up. 

 I stopped at Henry's farm stand for my last stamp.

I put my head down and went into "survival mode" as I headed into the wind and rain, determined to endure the last ten miles (and a few hundred more feet of climbing).

A few minutes later, Della Rose passed me in the car, on her way home from her stint as docent at Gage House. She waved, I waved.... She looked back in the mirror at me......and pulled over. I didn't protest and stuffed my Roubaix in the trunk. 

I know I could have finished, and part of me wishes I had, but I just wasn't having fun anymore. 56.46 miles, 3:59, average pace of 14.4MPH and 3856 feet of climbing had taken it's toll. I only had four stamps of the nine I'd planned, but I got my "Eat Local" t-shirt, a t-shirt with a story.

I can't wait to do it again! (But maybe next time, I'll eat more than a bagel, a gel and some cheese curds....)

I Blame It On The Broccoli.....

...No, no, not that... that was the dog....honest..... 

 I'm blaming the broccoli for being the gateway drug to the whole "Eat Local" thing.

Like everyone else, I've been beaten over the head with the "food pyramid". (I think they're starting that in utero now.....) As we get older, we tend also to pay even more attention to what we eat, perhaps trying to undo some of the excesses and indiscretions of youth. (As if!)

With that in mind, I promised myself to include more fruits and veggies in my diet. The fruit I did pretty well on, but the vegetable group was kind of hit and miss. At best, I drowned some broccoli or cauliflower in cheese sauce or green beans in butter and toasted almonds and choked them down, unenthusiastically. I endured vegetables in atonement for previous sins. Stoically, I bore my penance.

Last spring ('07) I once again began my annual attempt at gardening. (My previous efforts were such disasters, my garden probably qualified for FEMA aid - at the very least, I should have hit up Ag & Markets for a subsidy to NOT plant anything...). One of the items I apathetically sowed was broccoli. Why? I don't know....probably because I thought I was supposed to, I guess... In spite of my best efforts, the broccoli thrived. I even managed to harvest some before it bolted (unlike the previous year) and took it in the house to steam up and have with dinner.

I liked it.......and I wanted more..... 

Was there really THAT much difference? 

Further confirmation came a few months later. My sister came over for dinner and brought some mixed berries for dessert that she'd picked and frozen the previous summer. I admit to being somewhat underwhelmed when she brought them. Shortly after I began picking halfheartedly at them, I realized they were delicious. I snarfed mine down and started surreptitiously eyeballing the serving bowl, hoping no one wanted more. I began trying to come up with a polite way to eat the rest of what was left, without appearing rude. Is Coveting Thy "Neighbor's" Berries a sin...?

Ok, so maybe it's NOT me..... Maybe the fruits and vegetables being offered in even the best stores are but pale imitations of the "real" thing. I knew that it was a pretty sad day in our household when we ran out of the tomatoes we'd canned ourselves and had to resort to buying them, but I began to realize that produce that's chosen for it's ability to survive shipping and picked before it's ripe is a very poor substitute for the real deal. I'll leave the argument whether or not there's a nutritional difference to the experts, but damn.... there sure is a difference in taste. 

I admit, when I first heard about the whole "Eat Local" thing, it smacked of  the "New Age California Air-Head" mentality. That's all well and good when you live somewhere that doesn't have that "winter" thing, but what the hell is a Central New Yorker supposed to do? Live on bark and twigs? 

Fast forward a couple of months, and I read this. The die has been cast. We are now up to our ears in canning and freezing and scouring the local food scene for sources, determined to eat as "real" and as local as possible.

I even now have come to understand how sensible (and old-fashioned) it is to support your neighbors in your community, rather than some nameless, faceless corporation, God-knows-where.

The whole Eat Local thing even inspired a 58 mile long, rainy bike ride (with almost 4,000 feet of climbing!). But that's my next post.......

YOU RODE YOUR BIKE TO WORK????????

Wish I had a nickel for every time I've heard that. Heard it so often that I have a ready-made smartass answer: [deadpan]"Well, yeah..... I've found that to be much easier than pushing it....[/deadpan]"

Why is that so inconceivable? It's only seven friggin' miles! We're not talking the Tour de France here! Thirty five to forty minutes. (Twenty eight-ish if I'm really kicking ass, like last Friday morning - gloat, gloat ). They think I'm some kind of god because I rode my bike seven miles down the Erie Canal Towpath???? (Think about what that says about them.... )

 I like telling them " I saw deer, and rabbits and herons this morning.... what did YOU see; the back bumper of the car in front of you?"  Or, "I actually enjoyed my commute this morning and am looking forward to riding home... How 'bout you"?

What makes it sadder is that many of the incredulous people live only a couple of miles from the hellhole where I work. For the record, it only takes me about fifteen minutes longer to ride than it does to DRIVE. For most of the people who live in the village, the "time savings" would be almost nil, yet they can't even conceive of riding a bike or - doG forbid - WALKING to work.....

In  a very similar vein,  when I ride either my motorcycle or bike and the weather is sketchy I must get told a hundred times a day "You're gonna' get WET!". Why is that so terrible? Because I don't have dry clothes and a shower at home? (Never mind that the fairing on the GoldWing diverts about 99% of the water around you....). When you were kids, getting wet and dirty was FUN! Why is it when we get older everything has to be easy, clean, dry and climate-controlled????  

That's just sad.

Welcome To Pine Acres!

Pull up a glass and a chair on the screened porch and hang out a while.

This is my home.

Yeah, I know, there's another place where I spend most of my time, and it's my official mailing address, but this is my home. I'm not sure that it's possible for an innate love of a place to be passed down genetically, but since the early 1800's this land has been in my family and it just feels like I belong here. This was always referred to my grandparents as "The Old Place". I'm not sure they meant it in the Celtic sense, but to me, that fits too. My grandmother grew up here. Her childhood home burned in 1935 and the hole where the foundation was is still visible near the southeast corner of the property.

The cabin itself was built in 1929 by a gentleman named Vann R. Law. Mr. Law wasn't a relative but he obtained part of the fifty acres after one of my deadbeat ancestors lost it for taxes. The property was important enough to my grandparents that my grandfather made a standing offer to Vann Law that, should he ever want to sell, he wanted right of first refusal. The property was made whole again, sometime in the 60's.

The cabin consists of three rooms, all stuck in the 1930's.

The living room (which was actually the entire cabin, before the addition of the bedroom and kitchen):

The bedroom:

and the kitchen:

You notice that I said "living room" "bedroom" and "kitchen" but not "bathroom". Ok so it's a bit rustic... It has electricity (though it's quite possible to get by very nicely without it ) and a hand pump. (A bathroom is on the short list of the improvements to be done, since it's the biggest hindrance to us spending more time there. In the meantime, the ladies room is a camp toilet and the men's room is fifty acres in size).

As charming as it may be indoors, that's only half the story. This is what it looks like out the back door....and for at least a half mile straight back:

People often ask what body of water my camp is on, because, apparently there's some sort of mandate that camps be on water. When I say "none" they look rather nonplussed. " Well what do you do?" is the usual reaction... So what DOES one do with three rooms and a crapload of trees? NOTHING, if you don't want to. Sit and read, talk or just listen to the wind and watch the birds. Listen to the rain on the roof. Basking in the timelessness of the place and sloughing off all the "go-go-go" we all subject ourselves to every day can be a little disconcerting at first, but eye-opening and relaxing in the long run. A conscious decision has been made to exclude modern technology as much as possible. No TV, no radio, no computer, no phone and no clock. You get up when you feel like it, eat when you're hungry and go to bed when you're tired. It can be jarring but enlightening to reset ourselves like that, considering that music is my constant companion and my entire working day is dictated by a clock. 

When the relaxation gets too much for even me, there's woods to be walked in, trails to be cleared or ridden on the bike, firewood to be cut - funny how when I'm up there, what would be "work" at home isn't. In the winter, there's snowshoeing and skiing.

I was telling a friend about how when I'm up there, I can go out in the woods and work for most of the morning but usually, when I stop for lunch about 2 o'clock, that's it, I'm usually done for the day. I said "It's kind of like when you're at the dentist and they put that lead thing on your chest to take X-rays; I find it hard to move". He said "It's probably all that "stuff" you let go of and leave behind".

I think he nailed it.