Going No Place

I own a bungalow in a co-operative in the Shawangunks, south of the Catskills, just off Route 209 in Spring Glen, N.Y. The area abounds in history, that is, if you consider places like the Nevele in Ellenville or Kutchers to the north in Monticello significant. (Both gone now)  Personally, I'm not familiar with the history of resorts, but the significance of the Catskills area, especially for New Yorkers of previous generations, it matters. 

The borscht belt of old was the training ground for many who went on to be famous entertainers. Like the Coney Island of old, the Catskills was a playground for the not-so-rich. In the sixties and seventies, the Catskill region fell on hard times, and it suffered the way so many other poor areas in New York State have suffered.        

Many of the bungalow colonies, that undoubtedly did fabulous business, folded up. Most were deserted and still remain looking like small decaying ramshackle towns.  Some such as ours have been turned into co-ops and the summertime occupants have brought in telephones and TVs, indoor toilets and even baseboard heating for those cool evenings.  And today we have colony wide WiFi. We have to keep up I guess. Our colony, in addition, has a refurbished pool, a tennis court in need of repair, a decent playground and a sometimes basketball hoop.        

Initially, this was not my idea of a vacation. But after renting one summer for two weeks and seeing how attached the kids became, my wife (at the time) and I decided to buy in. That was in 1989. Then there used to be about twenty-five kids running around all summer at our co-op, and the place thrived with laughter and fun, barbecues and swimming.  So it's 1992 when this was written. Everyone is up late and they all sleep in mornings. Nothing gets locked up and you can hear the crickets and tree frogs all night, the bubbling stream not far away and the wasps warming their nests just before the sun rises. From the middle of April to the middle of October Spring Glen is our home, while the house in Brooklyn becomes a place to stay during the work week. Opening day is a wild day, mixing memory with desire, as the poet says, and on closing day, you can feel the leaves fall from your heart.        

I've made some good friends in the last three years at the co-op, but the thing I've grown most attached to is the relief from this nightmare we call living in New York City. And how does that relief come about? Mainly just from watching things grow, or hearing people speak unhurriedly, or bicycling up a mountain before the sun sets to watch the deer cavort in the fields, or just going no place at all.  But in all honesty I have lots of places to go.        

On the mornings it doesn't rain, and drought watchers know it doesn't rain much, I walk about four miles as early after sunrise as I can. There are two directions I can go and one has an alternate walk besides. I can walk past the Homowack resort (also defunct these days) up beyond Poplar Grove Cemetery or I can walk up the Mountaindale road where the trees are thick and darkening and glints of morning sun streams through, the way light streams in a cathedral. I always go by myself. And though the excuse is to go exercise, it is not my intent to succumb myself to physical exercise and miss everything that happens.  So what happens? Not much.     

  

I know every inch of my walks and can shut my eyes and replay every inch of them as well. The road past Homowack I've laid out in miles from my bungalow. At the first sign announcing the resort, I'm 9/10's of a mile away. At 1.2 miles, I've reached the telephone pole with the noisy electrical box attached to it, just alongside the golf course. At the end of a small New England style stone fence on my right is an apple tree; it's 1.6 miles.  The cemetery is 1.9, and if I go the extra distance I'd make it to the gravel pits almost 2 1/2 miles away where some flea bag hound won't stop woofing.

The way is marked by the changing seasons; in particular, there are the masses of wild flowers and the indistinguishable growths that jut out alongside the road and the stream that parallels it. Somehow the way these flowers have avoided the wheels of cars and the fumes that the cars spew, clarify for me, in some heady manner, the drift and hue of life. I don't know the names of the flowers and I guess that doesn't matter since they don't know my name either. I remember them by their shapes and their color and the time of the year that they appear. At some point all the colors appear at once, and they become flaming carpets as they sway from the road's edge into the fields leading to the mountains in the background.        

In the early spring there are the white and purplish almost onion-like looking things, prodding up from the soil like little fingers. Next as the deciduous trees burst with leaves and the flight and twitter of insects and birds in pursuit of survival takes place, small yellow balls sit on top of tender shoots. Among them white parasols of lace shoot up and bend in the breezes. As the weather warms bell-shaped fleshy blue climbers attach themselves to road signs, trees and fences, growing up out of soil looking like hardscrabble. By midsummer, everywhere the eye looks is taken over by the reds.  Amid the glow and glisten in the fields, yellow and black striped birds glide and land. The red passes on to the nodding heads of heavy golden flowers fiercely challenging the onset of the fall colors and the coming winter.        

I really don't know why this scene performs so well for me each and every season. It's not like watching my own children and their friends or even my friends who grow and change and objectively seem different every year.  Perhaps I will grow tired of it all soon, and sleep late like the others.  Maybe it's just that predictability doesn't disappoint, but instead grows weary, a little the way all relationships can grow weary.        

My favorite walk is to veer off away from the cemetery past the Homowack golf course which is seldom played and walk up Myerson road. Defunct colonies of Bungalows lay rotting on either side and the forest encases them like a tomb. Tall pines and scabrous looking hard woods with nary a distinguishing color in the depths hold fast my eye and my heart. I keep walking up the hill, the sun hidden from view, and then suddenly an open field, one a farmer had either forgotten or is letting lay fallow for years, spreads before me. It just bursts in an explosion of green, white, red, blues and yellow. And then I know why I'm there and why I'll never get tired of that scene and what it is about the wild flowers--it's so I can jump up and down and shout "whoopee" at the top of my lungs in total abandonment.

The Price of gasoline

So we've had cheap gasoline, relatively speaking, since the end of summer 2014. Instead of the $3+ per gallon which I believe people had grown used to, I know I had, and by getting used to I mean that people used various strategies to offset the costs associated with more expensive gasoline. My belief is based solely on logic and not with facts that when something costs less than what you've been used to paying for it that you will buy and use more of it than you did when the cost was higher. That extends to any consumable and gasoline is a consumable. So what does this mean that more gasoline is being consumed? It means that more carbon is being put into the environment thereby raising the prospect that we are adding more greenhouse gasses, that it is anti-environmental and ultimately global warming is costing us more economically than any savings due to the energy efficiency efforts that have been made over the years, damaging any good efforts towards slowing global warming. So what is the answer? One possibly is (and I'm sure many will think impossible) raise the price of gasoline so that it is never below $3.00 making the cost when it is cheaper to be offset with an added tax. Develop regulations for the oil markets so that the predictive price of refined gasoline on the market stays far more consistent and doesn't fluctuate from day to day due to the gamblers in the commodities market. Whether that will work is way beyond my knowledge of economics, governmental regulations and market forces but I still believe that when something is too cheap people will buy more of it. And as of this writing we would have to rely on the voluntary efforts of people to not use more gasoline because it costs less. And that in my book is not a win win, but a lose lose.

 

Seasons of Awards

We are entering the season of awards programs. Each week until the Oscar ceremony, there is a similar ceremony each with any number of categories and each category most of the time has five nominees to choose from. Some more, a few less. And of course each ceremony has in the days and hours prior to the ceremony, a series of little ceremonies oft times called "the red carpet." In this ceremonial atmosphere both nominees and associated non-nominees dress in their finery and parade benignly before adoring fans with cameras and phone devices along with the professional camera jockeys amid squeals of delight, pleasurable gushes, and much outpouring of emotion. Back in the studios of the broadcasters, the commentariat hired for these events, gather in numbers of two to five both male and female and talk about what the viewer has just seen proffering approval or tut tutting less than approval so the viewer herself can make the appropriate judgment so desired by the broadcaster whose advertisers are paying for it all.

But everyone is in on the act so that in the hours before and in the hours after judgment upon judgment is heaped, sifted, sorted and presented and the comments by the anonymous and non anonymous both are also part of the event. And commenting upon commenters comments both for and against rage hour after hour oft times overlapping with the next set of awards, thundering along in tweets and Facebook postings and whatever else as if there is actual thundering and not the sound of keyboard clicks.  Did I mention that these ceremonies are accompanied by so much snark that it is impossible to hear one honest expression?

And why is everyone in on the act. It's cold out? Nothing to do? There is a need to be heard? The human psyche likes to root for favorite things? Well it's that last thing rooting for something that I think is the crux of what I am trying to say. Because it's not just the awards ceremonies going on for this window of time, but every season seems to bring some kind of award need. Let's examine sports, for example.

We are in the process of finishing up the college football awards. The "fifty" odd bowl games if you tried to watch them all and each with a rooting interest on your part might just drive you mad. Except everything is already decided for the big one in a week or so. The endless sports interview programs. More broadcaster commenters commenting. The secret knowledge that you, yes you, know for sure how the win will be achieved. And you fearlessly comment yourself on these matters. And then there's the thundering keyboard clicks of the Twitter and the Facebook.

This week the MLB hall of fame nominees are in and thus much speculation about who will be awarded the honors are being bandied about with associated like and dislikes not to mention statistics gleaned from a myriad of sources.

Now the professional NFL awards games have begun and it will roll in like a gathering storm and ultimately spin about like a cyclone and end in a hoopla of everything I've just said. And on and on and on. March madness. NBA finals. The NHL. Then baseball. Ultimately everything ends with an award. Or maybe it ends with turned over cars, fires, shootings and arrests.

And then we start all over again.

And did I leave out politics? Tsk tsk. The Presidential race awards are coming up in less than two years and so far we've had a few teasers to get our juices flowing or our tweets tweeting and our Facebooks defacing in those moments when we're not engaged in the other associated award shows and events.

And of course we do have liberal/conservative endless debates that never end, never provide an award and ultimately never have a result. Yet there we are rooting for one POV or the other. Yes there we are once again rooting for something.

What is this fundamental need that we who do not directly participate in these endless games and shows and presidential elections (remember that little thing called the electoral college?) must glean from them some kind of joy or thrill as if the award itself is a badge we wear? Is the award itself on our mantle? Because our candidate has won does that mean we are now in control? Do we have that Super Bowl ring? That player who has five World Series rings are those rings ours too just because we rooted for the player?

What is this "rooting?" Wishful thinking made real for the moment? The fear of being by oneself with one's thoughts? The worries and concerns that up till now everything you've done is wrong? Your death. . .which will come?  Maybe death can be postponed while you root? Or maybe we're just looking for a fight. Or maybe we just want to say: nyah nyah I'm better than you, you who rooted for a loser. I rooted for the winner.  

Oh fan. Oh fanatic, contemporary life has come down to this: either we're the lonely man/woman in the desert raising our fist and cursing the stars or we're the sideline chorus egging on the performers. In every case we suffer for our inauthenticity. We have lost all meaning and our own true experiences are nothing.