I am a writer, photographer and artist. This blog will be a running commentary on country living, gardening, cooking, history, people, folklore, writing, reading, art, flora and fauna, photography, music, movies, traveling and whatever else I might be pondering off the back porch.
I recently finished an excellent book by Stephen E. Ambrose titled: Crazy Horse and Custer, The Parallel Lives of Two American Warriors.
The opening paragraph of the Introduction to the book reads thus:
“This is the story of two men who died as they lived – violently. They were both war lovers, men of aggression with a deeply rooted instinct to charge the enemy, rout him, kill him. Men of supreme courage, they were natural-born leaders in a combat crisis, the type to whom others instinctively looked for guidance and inspiration. They were always the first to charge the enemy, and the last to retreat.”
This book was a fantastic read for me, following both men through their youth and early adult years until the battle that ended them both, one on the battlefield and the other later killed while in custody.
There is, of course, no photographic documentation of the Battle of Little Bighorn while it was occurring. My family visited the battlefield several years ago. It was a running battle. The tombstones are laid out along the way, marking where the dead fell. Around a small hill are the last ones.
However, this painting (above) is so full of energy and action and battle that you might guess the artist was a witness. You can hear the gunfire, Indian screams and yelps, Calvary horns, horses galloping. The painting shows ponies riding full speed, Indians killing and going for the kill and Calvary holding out and shooting back to the very last man. Titled “The Custer Fight” it was painted in 1903 by the extremely talented Charles Marion Russell.
The following quote is from a magazine article about the actor William Hurt. Younger folks will remember him from some Marvel movies late in his career playing the role of General Ross. I would encourage them, and anyone else, to travel back to 1980 and watch the movie “Altered States.” Then make your way through the rest of his movies from the 80’s and 90’s and continue as far as you are still interested. He reminds me of Dennis Hopper and Philip Seymour Hoffman in that you might not like everything they were in, but you would watch it just the same because if they were good, they were usually outstanding. Hurt died in 2022.
Make no mistake, Hurt was dedicated to his craft. “I never explain my movies — it just ruins the emotion,” he told the Post. “I love saying that line. There is a point to explaining what I do, but at some point you just have to do it. The work is the best that I have to offer. That’s what I want to be eloquent at.”
Once a month I highlight a piece of art I have created and posted on my Fine Art America site. This one is titled Dopville from the Abstract Art Collection.
Recently I had a most fantastic day. It was during late March, the temp in the upper forties and the sunshine coming down at mostly full force through a few strands of clouds. I had been raking leaves and doing other small clean-up jobs around the acreage when I eyed the poor, weather battered homemade chimes hanging limply among the trees and poles, some broken on the ground. For some reason collecting and fixing them became my instant focus. I gathered up some thin wire, needle nose pliers, some S hooks and a few other things I might need and sat on my bench in the sun, facing the south. I laid out my materials and tools around me and got to work. Two of the chimes needed to be completely rebuilt. There was a light breeze from the east, but not enough to bother or chill me. I took my time, cutting out old, disintegrating material and replacing it with new. Occasionally I would stop and lean my head back, eyes closed, and feel the early warm spring sun on my face. To do something enjoyable, without knowing beforehand we wanted to do it, might be one of our most rewarding experiences. That was how I was feeling. It was a bliss, after such a long, cold snowy winter, to be sitting outside in sunshine working on something.
The birds have been gradually returning to our place. So far I have seen mourning doves, sparrows, crows, finches, cardinals and of course the ubiquitous robins. There are some hawks in our area, and we will occasionally see a bald eagle. I have not heard the coyotes much so far this spring, nor have I seen the usual explosion of baby rabbits, but those could both change at any time.
Our road is starting to get a little busier with the farmers trucks and tractors coming and going, with planting right around the corner. We are coming to the time of year, as my Dad says, “when it’s time to start taking care of things again.”
Sometimes, during a winter night, I will step out on the back porch and look around. I can see Highway 20 to the northeast. A low spot in the landscape allows me to observe vehicles traveling east and west for about 10 seconds before they are hidden by a rise on either side. The ones going west are only two bright headlights, like yellow saucers, while the eastbound show a long beam of white light stretching ahead of them into the darkness. I don’t walk out to the porch and watch the highway traffic a mile away because I am sad or happy. I do it just to observe. Watching motion in this world has always fascinated me. Waves rolling in and out, little birds flitting from tree to tree. Shadows starting long, getting short, then long again in the other direction during the course of a day. A steady summer rain splashing on a slow flowing river, geese flying right over your head while migrating, dogs playing with each other, a campfire burning nicely in front of you surrounded by friends. Back to the highway. There are some semitrailers outfitted with exterior lights that outline the whole truck, dozens of bright lights, making them look like they are ready for some mission in a superhero movie. I asked my son-in-law what was up with all the semi lights and he said none of them are required or necessary. They do it just to stand out in the night, to show off. But once you decorate your truck with them you better keep them all lit, because if any go out and you are caught by the state, you will be fined for faulty lights. Back to the porch. There go a couple more brightly lit semis, through my little viewpoint, off to the east and west. The wind is kicking up from the south, so I stand back against the house, looking again to the northeast and the highway. I feel the temperature dropping and turn to go inside. It is warm in there. Outside the wind blows and trucks keep passing by.
“And yet our struggles are intrinsically meaningful, and perhaps more important than our goals. Speaking for myself, anyway, I generally find that the satisfaction I get from an accomplishment—whether it’s a good piece of writing or winning a basketball game—is relatively brief and somewhat anticlimactic. The process, the striving, the struggle—that is the main thing, for that is what fills up our days and gives them a forward drive, something to live, to fight, and even to die for.”
Our college age daughter brought the dog down to us overnight. She left a note on the kitchen table that there was a surprise waiting for us outside. Shelly and I woke up the following morning, read the note and went outside to the fenced backyard. A beautiful black lab, about one year old, was waiting to greet us. She immediately ran away from me when I walked out. I sat in a chair on the deck and coaxed her over to me. After smelling me I petted her a bit, then she jumped up and put her paws on my shoulders, looking me straight in the eyes. I had passed the trust test.
Our daughter has named most of our dogs, and this one she named Marley, because the dog was black and chill, just like Bob Marley. Turned out Marley had a fine black coat, but was definitely not chill. Labs as a breed are produced for energy and stamina, to run and hunt for long amounts of time. Not so much to just take a leisurely walk around the block. Marley did not really start to relax and slow down until around 6 or 7 years old. After struggling for several years with different leashes and even a full body harness for walks we decided she was just not built for the city and we would take her out to the woods or lake where she could run free.
I don’t think I have had a dog with so many aliases: Marley Maples, Marles Barkley, Girly Girl, Ooooold Lady, Marley Girl, (and along with our other dog Steve: Thing 1 and Thing 2, Marley being Thing 1) Honey, Sweetie, Baby, The Marlinator, Pooper, and I imagine some I have forgotten.
When we were finally ready to move to the country Marley was right there with us, riding along in one of the packed vans in the little empty space I left for her, trip after trip. She took to country living very well, chasing the rabbits around our acreage like she had the squirrels in our backyard in the city.
During the last couple of years her age began showing, her muzzle getting grayer, loosing teeth, going deaf, skipping meals, having accidents in the house and, during the last six months the onset of some kind of dementia. A few mornings she would wander off, with Steve following, clear down to the acreage to the east, about half a mile away, slowly walking back home when she was good and ready. She was almost 15 when we decided to put her down on February 21. She took it well, always trusting us, up to the end.
I remembered a touching little essay about a dog from years ago that ran in an Ann Landers column. I found it online:
A DOG`S PLEA
Treat me kindly, my beloved friend, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.
Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I might lick your hand between blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me learn.
Speak to me often, for your voice is the world`s sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when the sound of your footstep falls upon my waiting ear.
Please take me inside when it is cold and wet, for I am a domesticated animal, no longer accustomed to bitter elements. I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth.
Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst.
Feed me clean food that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life, should your life be in danger.
And, my friend, when I am very old and I no longer enjoy good health, hearing and sight, do not make heroic efforts to keep me going. I am not having any fun. Please see to it that my life is taken gently. I shall leave this Earth knowing with the last breath I draw that my fate was always safest in your hands.
Once a month I highlight a piece of art I have created and posted on my Fine Art America site. This one is titled The Planeter from the Faces and Beings Collection.
It’s been one year since I wrote on this blog and I decided to start it up again. We have been doing well, riding out the ups and downs like everyone else.
During last summer I noticed one of our big ash trees had a huge, old wound in the trunk, which was obscured by lilac bushes growing around it. The wound penetrated at least two-thirds through the trunk. Looking at the lilt of the tree it appeared that if it were to fall it would most likely hit our house and then possibly crash down on our septic system. A tree trimmer we hired took it down for $2,400. While walking around our acreage we noticed most of the other ash trees were dead or dying. Emerald Ash Borer has hit our part of Iowa hard and most of the ash trees in our area are dead. There are around ten or so on our property, and all need to come down, except the biggest one, which I paid to have treated. For right now that was much cheaper than having it taken down.
Our garden last year was about the worst we have ever had, very few tomatoes or peppers, but gigantic zucchinis for some reason. It was a hot, dry summer.
Fall was very short-lived, turning cold early. Shelly and I were feeling pretty ill just before Thanksgiving, and we both tested positive for Covid-19. The worst of it continued for a couple of weeks, and we both experienced lasting effects such as headaches, weakness, coughing and shortness of breath. Things have mostly cleared up by now.
Winter came on strong and windy and snowy. I had never experienced a three-day blizzard until just before last Christmas. When it was over, on Christmas Eve day, there were some snow drifts 6 feet tall along the east side of the house, across the driveway, and two in the parking lot. The west side of the machine shed was buried up to the roof. Farmer Johnson drove up that day on his tractor equipped with a bucket loader on the front and a double auger snow thrower on the back, and he was able to scoop and blow out the driveway and parking lot for us. He is a generous man who never asks anything in return. We give him and his wife baked bread and goodies, as well as produce from our garden when we can. He always says “I don’t help you to earn goodies!” and we always reply “We know! This is just what we do!”
We are really looking forward to spring and warmer weather, which should be right around the corner…as could be another snow storm.
This month marks three years I have been posting to Off The Back Porch. It has been fun, but I want to take some time off to write, draw, take photos and sharpen the old saw. Thank you for reading so far and if you are a subscriber you don’t need to do anything, the next posts will arrive in your mailbox when I start up again. See you later…
Off The Back Porch 