This Summer I Hear the Drumming

Four Dead in Ohio.
Photo: John Filo (c) 1970 Valley News-Dispatch
Song Lyrics: Neil Young (c) 1970 Cotillion/Broken Arrow

Other people remember where they were when JFK was shot, or when the astronauts landed on the moon, or other events. This is the one I will always remember. At least Gov. James A. Rhodes, the man who compared the students protesting the April 30 expansion of American combat troops into Cambodia to brown shirts and night riders who were "the worst type of people that we harbor in America," and sent the National Guard in with loaded weapons, was subsequently thrown out of office and publicly vilified...

As if.

In reality, he was re-elected two more times, and this statue was erected in front of the state office building--the city's tallest building-- named for him in Columbus.

What if you knew her and found her dead on the ground? How can you run when you know?












(c) Dania Hurley; obtained from Flickr

Houston, Tranquility Base

The Eagle has landed.

(Not my photo.)

Wildrose Charcoal Kilns

I haven't switched political parties, driven into a crowd assembled to see the Queen, declared bankruptcy, or caught the swine flu (although I have had some iffy days health-wise lately), which may explain why you haven't heard much of my doings lately. I'm just not newsworthy. Of course, I've spent the last few days holed up at Death Valley National Park, where there is no limelight--although the starlight is more than abundant. Even though it is still April (barely), it's already too hot for me to do much more than cross the valley floor; consequently I spent most of my time in the upper elevations, as well as doing what most overnight tourists in DVNP spend hours each day doing--driving to Nevada for gas. Now I'm safely back in California, and tomorrow I set my sights on Eureka, expecting to drive through rain all day and arrive in the late afternoon.

Bill Ferny

Where you have fog and mist and tall trees with a solid canopy, you're going to have ferns. And in Humboldt and Del Norte Counties, there's a riot of ferns.

Final preparations for Wednesday's liftoff are well underway. The launch vehicle has been fueled and tested. The payload is being assembled for loading, which is expected to take place over the next 48 hours. Final flight plans have been filed and confirmed, and the recovery crews are waiting at the splashdown area, where a special reception will be held on May 3 to celebrate what one hopes will be a successful journey. The major cable networks are not expected to cover Wednesday's launch, however, since there's too many kooky Texas politicians and moronic "tax protests" and White House puppies for any real news to slip through.

High Country

It's stretching things a bit to call this a Eureka-area photo. It's a view from Page Mountain in the Siskiyous, looking north into Oregon. It'd take me a couple of hours or more to get there from Eureka.

Still it's a good representation of my current stress level. If I make it to the 22nd without having a stroke, I'll be fortunate.

Cool water

As the day draws nearer, I get a little more nervous. It's not in my character to take blind leaps like this; throughout my life, I've consistently taken the safe choice. I have to keep reminding myself, however, that there is no safe choice available to me anymore. Even if everything goes as wrong as possible out west, I'm not exactly sure what the outcome will be, but I am sure that it won't be materially different from the outcome I'd get by not taking this risk. And by taking the leap, I'm creating the possibility that something may go right, a possibility that doesn't exist in this basement (or, at least, in my basement frame of mind.) It scares me that I've made this decision at exactly the worst moment in my lifetime, and I'm very worried about finding a job once I get out there. But it doesn't scare me so much that I'm having any second thoughts. What I'm doing may or may not be the best choice for me, but I know that it's a better choice than doing nothing.

Pictured: the stream that wends through Fern Canyon.

Three Weeks Left

I leave for my new life three weeks from today. The other night, I watched 'Ornamental Hairpin,' a magnificent film made by Shimizu Hiroshi in 1941. In it, Miss Emi, a Tokyo 'kept woman' played by the incomparable Tanaka Kinuyo, has taken refuge in a mountain spa. When confronted by a figure from (what she now considers to be) her past, she explains:
I don't want to go back to that gloomy life. That's no way to live. I didn't want for money. I could sleep when I wanted, get up when I wanted, wear what I wanted, eat what I wanted, see what I wanted--but that's all. I want more meaning in my life.

[spoiler] She doesn't go back. And neither will I.

Three weeks.

Today's photo is of Hidden Beach, mentioned in last Saturday's post.