Five Seven Five

With the energy and optimism of youth, a young man here in town organized a poetry night at our local library. It sounded like something different and fun to do on a cold February evening. I wouldn't call myself a big fan of poetry, but at times I find resonance in the work of some poets like Robert Frost, Donald Hall or Gary Snyder. There were six of us, and I thought that was a pretty good turnout for a place where everybody is always too busy. It was fun and stimulating. I met a few new people and got re-acquainted with some old friends.

I didn't want to go empty-handed, and since the closest thing to poetry I had to offer was a handful of haikus that I've put in this blog in the past, I went through my old posts and jotted them down. About all I know about haiku is that, in one form, there are three lines, the first and last lines have five syllables and the middle one has seven. That length is appropriate for my attention span, and I like to have some simple rule to follow.

These little poems brought back memories, both fond and bittersweet, so I decided to collect all of them in one place. Each one is accompanied by a little background about the moment they came to me. The dates refer to the blog posts where they first appeared.



May on the Deck
May 2007

I like to think about the cycle of seasons and how it affects the natural world around us. Every summer on May first, the chimney swifts return to Sharon to zoom and twitter overhead all summer long. On September first, they are gone. Also in May, the catbirds return to nest in the overgrown and unruly clump of forsythia in my backyard. I love to sit on the deck on a warm May afternoon watching formations of swifts flying their patrols over the house and listening to the catbirds mewing from the green depths of the shrubbery. It makes me feel like the world will be OK for at least one more season.


chimney swift catbird

sky above forsythia

good to have them home



Running to Another Place
June 2006

One of my regular runs takes me from home, through the town center, and over the tracks to the road up Moose Hill. On a good day, my body will feel efficient and my stride will be smooth. As the pumping blood washes over my brain I can get lost in dreams and, at times, I feel like there are secrets in the forest and that maybe a little bird - like the wood peewee - might be trying to share them with me.

Warm summer rain run.

Endorphins bathe open mind.

Pewee calls from woods.

Cold Blood
June 2007

Often times on these Moose Hill runs, roadkill is a reminder of life and death and the way we can crush the natural world beneath our feet and machines. One warm, damp late spring morning, following an overnight thunderstorm after a long dry spell I came across a big bullfrog that had me wishing we could all slow down and be more careful when we drive.

Rain lets bullfrog move

Warm road feels good to cold blood

Driver does not care.



How Quickly We Fall
June 2007


In 2007, I was trying my best to recover from prostate cancer surgery. (Everything is fine now, thanks.) My recovery was not going well, and in fact, I was feeling sicker and weaker all the time. What I didn't know at the time was that I was coming down with a nasty case of Lyme disease, totally unrelated to my surgery. I was confused, frustrated and depressed.

Having had almost no exercise for about seven weeks, I decided to hike to the summit of Moose Hill. While I was reaching for life, once again it didn’t take long to be reminded of death by roadkill as I turned onto Moose Hill Parkway.

Shagbark hickory.

Squirrel tempted by crushed nuts.

One last fatal bite.

Walker sees squirrel.

Maggots dine on rotting flesh.

No life is wasted.

This brought to mind the writings of Gary Snyder where he reminds us that all death nourishes new life.

As I climbed, I felt sicker and weaker. It was hot and dry and trees were dropping leaves prematurely. I was thinking of seasons - and lives - ending before their time.

When does youth turn old?

Like summer turning to fall,

We want to hold on.

How will we turn old? Will it strike overnight like a sudden hard freeze? Or will youth slip away gradually like summer slipping quietly, barely noticed, into fall?

Thanksgiving Traditions

It has been my tradition for the past several years to work on my firewood supply on Thanks- giving morning. I like to go out in the late November coolness and take stock of the wood pile. Depending on what needs doing, I might move some wood around, say from the outdoor rack under the tarp into the shed, or I might split some logs, or cut up some small stuff with the bow saw. Out of respect for the neighbors on a holiday morning, I wouldn’t fire up the chainsaw.

In the past I would run an extension cord from the garage and turn on the radio. A local station used to play Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” ever year, but I didn’t find it this morning. It seems many good things are coming to an end these days. Anyway, my decrepit little woodshed was an old chicken coop that came with the house that I’ve remodeled into a shelter for my hoard. I take satisfaction in stacking wood in the shed, thinking of it as money in the bank, its interest compounding every week as the logs dry.

The bending, lifting and chopping is a workout more satisfying than a visit to the gym. I recently read In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan. In it, he comments on how much exercise by Americans is really so much pointless expenditure of time and energy and if we would spend more time doing things like gardening, we would get more exercise and have something to show for it. Now, as one who loves a good bike ride or the occasional run up Moose Hill, I’m inclined to think there is no such thing as totally pointless exercise, but I understand what he’s saying. I can still remember many years ago when my parents sold one of the houses my father built almost single-handedly to a family with a couple of young, strong weight-lifting sons. He watched in dismay as his carefully-tended lawn went wild. “Why don’t those guys try pushing a lawn mower instead of lifting those weights?”

When I first went out, I was greeted by Hobbes sunning himself on the ramp to the bike shed. This is the cat that killed a couple of young red squirrels in the yard a couple of weeks ago. He’s a friendly and pretty little guy and I find it difficult to stay mad at him, especially now that the squirrels are even more aggressively invading the house. They’ve actually found a way to get into the walls and ceilings. I’m happy to report that “Calvin,” at my request, outfitted Hobbes with a new and larger bell. Maybe now I can enjoy his company more and worry about the local wildlife less.

Much of my firewood is a random assortment of wind-fallen branches from here and there and lumber scraps from my carpentry projects. Recently, friends have been kind enough to let me clean up some big oak and beech branches that came crashing down in their yards during heavy storms. One of my favorite things about this Thanksgiving tradition is using the time to daydream. I like to think about a day when I have a woodlot of my own and can use my saws and axes to do a little timber stand improvement and cut some real firewood. Although I’m closing in on an age that used to qualify one for senior citizenship and my dream account has shriveled along with the rest of the stock market, some dreams die hard. I imagined myself walking through the woods, deciding which trees to cut and which to favor, and stoking the stove in my little tight cabin at the end of the day.

It was a fine, crisp New England November morning. I had about two season’s worth of wood stacked and ready to go, and I could look forward to many evenings of dozing by the woodstove. My arms and back had that comforting ache that is the reward for earnest effort. I went back into a house warmed by a fire in the living room and a turkey roasting in the kitchen. I was looking forward to the annual family feast and was thankful that, even in hard times, life can feel pretty good.

Slow Run, Slow Food

Winter approaches. The clocks have changed. It gets dark so early now. It’s time for slow food.

I have Wednesday evening mostly to myself these days. The nest is empty and my wife works late. My natural tendency is probably to grab something quick for dinner and waste the evening by flipping mindlessly through the TV channels or surfing the web aimlessly. There are times, though, when I find myself in a Moose Hill state of mind and I plan to prepare some slow food and go for a run up Moose Hill while dinner is cooking.

Tonight, it was a veggie bake. When I prepare dishes like this, I like to make a lot. I figure I already have the ingredients and tools out and I have to wash the dishes anyway, so I might as well make plenty so there are leftovers. I coat the bottoms of two big covered casserole dishes with olive oil and fill them up with chopped potatoes and all kinds of other vegetables; usually lots of carrots, a few onions and something green. For protein, I throw in some chick peas and edamame if I have it. I liberally sprinkle on salt (Possibly too much!), cumin, a dash of hot pepper, dill, paprika and any other seasonings that catch my eye. The dishes go into the oven set at about 300 degrees and I head out the door. (If this post sounds familiar, it’s because I wrote about this before. See “Moose Hill Moosewood,” January 16, 2007.)

I set my stopwatch and walked down the street. I had to run across Main Street to avoid traffic, so I kept going at a slow jog. I was feeling good. I had the usual aches and pains that age and mediocre conditioning provide, but there were no health issues to blame. There was a long line of cars creeping up Depot Street, commuters returning home from the train station and the highway beyond. As always, I was glad I can stay close to home and don’t have to face that battle every day.

The evening was warm for November (In the low 50’s.) so I knew I might be slightly overdressed. The evening always feels colder than it really is when it’s dark and my metabolism is already slowing down so I tend to wear too much. By the time I had walked and then jogged for ten minutes and was half way up Moose Hill Parkway I was ready to shed my light fleece top. I hid it behind a tree at the beginning of the Kettle Trail and continued on my way, leaving jacket and cell phone behind. I checked my heart rate monitor as I passed beneath the street lights because in my own casual style of training regimen I try to keep my workouts aerobic this time of year. That means I like to keep my heart rate between about 120 and 140 beats per minute to build an aerobic base for harder training as spring approaches. This sounds good, but what it really means is that runs and rides this time of year can be slow and lazy.

With the surgery and sickness of the summer behind me, I’ve been feeling stronger, so on this night I decided to extend my usual run to the top of the Parkway and press on to the summit of Moose Hill itself. If the moon was up yet, it did me no good hiding behind the overcast that blew in after a beautiful sunny day. The Summit Trail was dark and a fresh blanket of fallen leaves obscured the details so I had to slow my jog to a walk. This was fine because when the trail turned up the flanks of the hill a fast walk was all the workout I needed.

When I reached the summit and passed under the fire tower it was too dark to read my watch, so I don’t know what my time was. I wanted to compare it to the time this summer when I struggled through heat and illness to get to this place, not knowing I was carrying Lyme Disease. No big deal. I was feeling strong and happy and that’s all that mattered.

As I turned to head back down the rocky trail, my workout took a back seat to safety. I had visions of breaking a leg in the dark and having to claw my way along on my belly because my cell phone was half way down the hill in my jacket pocket. I went slowly until I was back on smooth ground.

I ran back down the road and was mildly proud of myself for remembering to pick up my jacket and phone. Along the way I started thinking about the Quakers. Every Wednesday night since the beginning of the Iraq War a small group has been standing on the street corner in the center of town to remind us that people are fighting, killing and dying in our name. On the news today we heard more about how our State Department is outsourcing the killing to Blackwater. In another story, I heard that a carpenter’s union is outsourcing their strike picketing to homeless people and others hard up for a few bucks. When I stopped for a few minutes to chat with a lone protester, I was happy to see he was still doing his own vigil-keeping. We still have heroes, unsung though they may be.

When I got home I was happy to see the front porch light on, even if I had left it on for myself. Dinner was done to perfection with the chick peas just slightly crunchy. The kitchen was warm from the oven. For a few moments in the quiet house, it felt like I was able to bring a little bit of Moose Hill home with me.

How Quickly We Fall

Having had almost no exercise for about seven weeks, I decided to hike to the summit of Moose Hill. While I was reaching for life, it didn’t take long to be reminded of death as I turned onto Moose Hill Parkway.

Shagbark hickory.

Squirrel tempted by crushed nuts.

One last fatal bite.

Walker sees squirrel.

Maggots dine on rotting flesh.

No life is wasted.

This brought to mind the writings of Gary Snyder I recently discovered where he reminds us that all death nourishes new life.

I pushed on up the road and at the steepest stretch near the top my heart rate approached 150 beats per minute. I’ve decided I needed to get more realistic about how long it will take me to fully recovery from my surgery. After all, less than ten days ago I was in the emergency room for a chest CAT scan for still-mysterious chest pains. I promised myself I’d stay in my aerobic zone – 140 bpm or below.

I left the road and started up the trail to Moose Hill Summit. On the steep, rocky trail near the top, it took great discipline indeed to go slowly enough to keep the heart rate down. I reached the top and was not surprised to see the fire tower was occupied. We’ve been in a nasty drought and any spark could ignite a conflagration. It took me over 49 minutes to cover the distance from my house to the summit, a trip that I did in a little over 23 minutes a few months ago. Of course this time, I stopped along the way to jot down a few lines of haiku and to make a few stops to accommodate one of the less pleasant side effects of my surgery, but mostly I’m just weak and out of shape. Not wanting to be too hard on myself, I thought of the dancing bears. We shouldn’t criticize their dancing but be amazed that they can dance at all. My evaluation of my next hike will benefit from low expectations.

As I turned at the summit and began to walk back down, I saw drought-dried leaves littering the trail. I thought of the wonderful recent blog post by Julie Zickefoose (See sidebar.) called “Letting Go” about how summer can slip away before we notice she is going. I thought about how my chimney swifts left – as they always do – on September first, and I wasn’t paying attention and never said goodbye. I thought about other things that slip away, too.

When does youth turn old?

Like summer turning to fall,

We want to hold on.

How will we turn old? Will it strike overnight like a sudden hard freeze? Or will youth slip away gradually like summer slipping quietly, barely noticed, into fall?

"The Moose"

One of the anchor points for my week is the Sunday morning bike ride. We have an informal group that meets every Sunday at 7:30 (8:30 in winter) in the town center. We ride road bikes and try to go fast. Since most of us are in our 40's and 50's, 'fast' is a relative term, but we do OK. We typically ride about 25-35 miles and the group ranges in size from just a few when the weather is bad to nearly 20 in the summertime. We had 14 today, which is great for early April.

I like bicycles and bike riding of all kinds. I have a shed full of bikes. One aspect of riding that gives me the biggest kick is a spirited group ride. I won't try to describe how much fun a group ride can be. Like many things in life, you just have to be there to understand. It is simply exhilerating to be with a bunch of strong, fit, like-minded riders working as a team to go fast. Over about 20 mph, aerodynamics begins to play a big role in a ride. At high speeds, it's much easier to ride behind another cyclist, so we take turns 'pulling' and 'drafting.' When all the stars align, we might have a pace line where a long string of riders goes single file, each taking a short turn at the front, then pulling off to the left and drifting to the back of the line as everyone else slides forward. On a flat, smooth road it's possible for us to cruise along at 25 or so mph. The speed and endorphines provide a real rush. Needless to say, this has its risks. Should one cyclist fall, everyone behind might go down too. Luckily, we haven't had any such pile-ups. It's important to ride with experienced bikers you can trust.

Most of our rides finish by going over Moose Hill. It's one of the biggest hills we have around here, and the light car traffic and forested setting make for great riding. In this context, Moose Hill is more about gravity than nature. By the time we start the climb after a long, hard ride, the legs are rubbery and the lungs raspy. There is usually a mad dash for the top. Since I carry too much weight to be a good climber, I usually get to watch the race from a few spots back. But, I always try hard and give an honest effort as we scale "The Moose."