It's been a good winter

It's been a good winter for snow; more than 7 feet of it in northern Connecticut and some great cross-country skiing.

While I was out today I flashed back to one of my first outings.  It was the winter of 1975 -1976. Marcy and I were working in broadcasting in Utica, New York. We lived north of the city, in the foothills of the Adirondacks.

One of Marcy's colleagues at a local radio station, Steve, was a member of the Adirondack Mountain Club. He invited us to go cross-country skiing with him and a group of friends for a Saturday outing. We said yes.

The morning dawned bitterly cold, 19 degrees below zero on the kitchen thermometer. Southerly winds promised warming temperatures so we set out for our destination, a state park about 70 miles north of Utica. Located on the Tug Hill Plateau, the area regularly receives 200 inches of snow per year.

The temperature moderated a bit by the time we hit the trail. Whatever trail there was lay under nearly 3 feet of white powder. We took turns leading the group. Breaking the snow was exhausting, but it was a glorious day. Great conditions, good friends and just the silence of the woods...until we heard the roar of snowmobiles. A group of enthusiasts were in the park that day and they clearly resented our presence. Maybe they thought we were clogging the trail, maybe they were just cowboys, but they took the opportunity to buzz us several times, much too close for comfort.

We were getting nervous. These were big machines and they went fast. We just had skis and poles. There was talk of calling it a day before a confrontation took place. That's when Steve really took charge.

Steve was a bear of a man. With a "Grizzly Adams" beard he looked intimidating, but that belied his personality. Soft spoken and thoughtful, Steve was raised a Quaker. But this was not the time to turn the other cheek. Hearing the roar of an approaching engine, Steve moved to the front of the group. As the snowmobile came towards him, he raised his ski pole and held it directly in front of him. Like a medieval knight with a lance, he was making a statement. "You mess with us and there's going to be trouble."

The snowmobile came to a stop. Words were exchanged and an understanding was reached. We skied through the afternoon and made our way to a local watering hole for conversation and libations.

These days I rarely encounter snowmobiles. I also stay away from unbroken powder. But sometimes when I'm gliding through the woods and hear the roar of a distant engine, I think back to that day on the Tug Hill when Steve lifted his pole and kept the snowmobiles at bay.

Something To Be Thankful For

Marcy is a wonderful cook. She subscribes to cooking magazines,  makes notes while she watches The Food Channel and relentlessly researches recipes. I'm skittish in the kitchen. I try to stay out of her way and reap the bounty of her efforts.  But with Thanksgiving approaching I began to feel the building of my usual late November trepidation.

You see, we usually "do" Thanksgiving in our home. In terms of numbers, it's a modest affair - usually 10-15 people, but typically as the holiday approaches Marcy shifts into battle mode.  She approaches Thanksgiving with the zeal of Patton preparing his North African campaign against Rommel.  Assignments are given. Menus are crafted. Menus are modified.  Markets are scoured.  Enormous quantities of food are unloaded and stored. While I missed out on military service, I've often felt that our kitchen was transformed into a command post.

This year, blessedly, has been different. Several days before the holiday we saw a documentary called "How to Cook Your Life." It features Edward Espe Brown, (author of The Tassajara Bread Book), an expert chef and a Buddhist. Brown brings a devilish sense of humor to the kitchen and promotes the concept of "the joyful chef." Work on one task at a time, focus on the moment and have fun.

Well, it worked! Marcy took Brown's words to heart. She was more relaxed, less frantic and seemed, well, "joyful."  I, in turn, had something else to be thankful for. In addition to family, friends and good health, our kitchen no longer resembled a battle zone. My stint in the military had ended. My discharge papers had arrived. Our kitchen has been full of warmth and good cheer and has truly become joyful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Grandpa Jack

Watching the World Series I thought of my grandpa Jack, who sat me at his side when I was young and taught me the intricacies of baseball.

Jack Fellers was born in 1896 and lived to be 101. I always enjoyed talking to him about growing up in New York City. He told me about a winter so cold that he was able to walk across the Hudson River to New Jersey. When I asked him about his first baseball game he talked about seeing the New York Giants play a game at Coogan’s Bluff around 1910. Incredibly, he was able to recite the entire line-up.

About 10 years after his death my father gave me a large envelope. It contained 63 pages of family history. Written by Jack at the age of 93, it was done in meticulous Palmer penmanship. He talked about  getting gas lamps in his apartment and how it changed his family’s life. He recounted going to Madison Square Garden and watching six day bicycle races. And he talked about Johnny Hayes, an American who won the Marathon in the 1908 Olympics. Hayes managed the sporting goods department at Bloomingdale’s and improbably trained on the roof of the store. His win kicked off a running craze with Jack and his buddies emulating Hayes, running through the streets of New York.

His long term recall was phenomenal and his attention to detail allowed him to paint vivid pictures of the early 1900’s. Jack saw the demise of the horse and buggy, fought in one World War and lived through another, and watched a man walk on the moon. Reading his history allowed me to understand how the 20th century both informed and shaped my family.

Wherever you are Jack, thanks for the memories.

The Laramie Project: 10 Years Later

It takes a lot to get me out on a Monday night. Especially a cold and rainy one. Nevertheless, this night was not to be missed. On October 12, The Hartford Stage was one of more than 150 theaters and universities nationwide and internationally to present a reading of “The Laramie Project: 10 Years Later”. 

The first “Laramie Project” looked at the circumstances surrounding the 1998 murder of 21-year old Matthew Shepard, a gay student at the University of Wyoming in Laramie. The play was based on interviews that members of the Tectonic Theater Project conducted with residents of the area.

Ten years later, the new play explores how the community has changed since Shepard’s death. Again, excerpts from interviews formed the play’s dialog. I was mesmerized by this style of writing and by the powerful performances. Of course, the story of Matthew Shepard’s brutal murder and its aftermath is never done. 

For me, aside from questions about whether and how the community changed, one of the most compelling questions raised by the play is about the nature of storytelling itself. 

In an interview with Elizabeth Blair on NPR on October 12, playwright Moises Kaufman, who founded the theater group that created “The Laramie Project” addresses some of the controversy over the Shepard story and the way that some people have chosen to tell it.

"Stories are malleable," he says. "History is malleable. And so we have to be doubly vigilant when we listen to history and we listen to stories."

Great advice for those of us in the business of personal history.