A Bird's Eye View

 

My younger daughter (20) is afraid of birds. She will run away if one lands near her or flies too close. It can be a weird and amusing phobia, especially now that birds are my new passion. But when I sent her this photo of a tufted titmouse at my birdfeeder in the North Country, she said, "This is not a terribly offensive bird. It has some whimsy and joy." I saw my first red-breasted nuthatches on this trip north. I wonder why you only see them in the winter? 

Most of my Christmas and birthday gifts this year were ornithological: bird books, a bird jigsaw puzzle, and of course this popular little gadget, "BirdBuddy," the voyeuristic birdfeeder that takes photos of visiting birds, and which you can even livestream to your phone.  I may never get any work done again. This is a birdfeeder that you have to charge like a cellphone. Who ever would have believed that we would see a day when you have to plug in your book (Kindles), your cigarettes (Vapes), and your birdfeeder...and when an unhinged lunatic in the White House is willing to go to war over Greenland and because he didn't get a Nobel Peace Prize?

Snowbound: Street Parking in Pittsburgh in the Snow

 

This is Highland Avenue in the Highland Park neighborhood of Pittsburgh. A snowy street scene, so what? Take a closer look, maybe click on the photo to enlarge it. People have saved their on-street parking spots with folding tables, one of which has been knocked on its side. But there's a little convertible sportscar buried in the closest snow-mound. It's buried deep, too, in heavy snow tainted with road salt.

I always think it would be nice to keep my country place up north and maybe have just a small condo in the city, probably here in the East End. But if you live in the city, you have to get off-street parking. The snowplow is like death itself; it is not impressed with your credentials. It does not discriminate, and all come to stand before it powerless in the end. The snowplow doesn't care if you drive a $50,000 sportscar or a motorized wheelbarrow; it buries all vehicles equally.  

Pittsburgh Theological Seminary Revisited

In January, 2002, I took the train out from New York to visit Pittsburgh Theological Seminary as a prospective student. I had already applied to Princeton Seminary and been turned down. It surprises most people to learn that Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, founded in 1794, is actually older than Princeton Seminary, though both institutions started out in log cabins. Our original campus was in the countryside all the way out by Aliquippa. (For an old post about that location, click on this LINK.) The current campus was built in the 1950s on the grounds of the old Lockhart estate, from which many of the beautiful trees remain, especially the grand copper beeches and gingkoes--which the Lockharts brought to Highland Park from China in the late 19th century. Mr. Rogers graduated from this school and was actually an ordained Presbyterian minister.

Much has changed here since that January day two and a half decades ago, when I first laid eyes on this place. But these snowy scenes are almost exactly as I found them on that day...at the so-called "Epiphany Event," which was an open house for people considering enrollment in a divinity school. Pictured here is the library, which is a first rate research facility with archeological specimens, scrolls,  and shards of Phoenician pottery, and ancient texts in a labyrinth of climate-controlled rooms in the basement...most of which are off limits without special permission. It also has stacks and stacks full of arcane journals in German and French that no one ever, ever touches, not to mention less academic magazines and books.

Today, business called me back to the old alma mater, though I felt strangely ill-at-ease there. I have wonderful memories of my three years in seminary, but revisiting the campus today did not cause me to feel nostalgic. I just wanted to do my thing and go. For that reason, I didn't get a lot of photos.

It's a beautiful atmosphere, very conducive to pondering the big questions of life, meaning, faith, death, mystery, wonder...all the stuff you do at divinity school, while learning ancient Hebrew and how to baptize a slippery baby without dropping it. (I've never lost a baby, but don't ask me about the divorce rate of the couples I've united in holy wedlock....)

In fact, I was supposed to return here for a Chatham Baroque concert last Saturday, but I lingered too long in the North Country and missed it. I see that they rearranged the otherwise attractive chapel for that concert and still haven't put it back together--leaving the altar and pulpit and baptismal font all pushed into corners, as if they didn't belong there...

This is a master's level institution; you need a bachelor's degree to enroll. I graduated in 2005 at the age of 35. It was common in those days (and may still be) for "second career" people to go to seminary. We had 350 students back then, and there are fewer than half that number today. In fact, a lot of rooms that once hummed with life and activity now sit silent, heated, and unused--like this place, which used to be the campus bookstore and convenience store, where they also sold clerical vestments and parish registers--the dorkiest general store of all time.

I don't worry about this school's fate; it's endowed to the tippy-top of its tallest spire, which bears a rooster, not a cross. It doesn't need many students to keep on doing what it's always done. This horrific mosaic is still standing right where it's always stood, a good example of late 20th century liberal Protestant art. There's a lot more to photograph--parlors with fireplaces, lecture halls, rotundas with marble floors. It's a cool place, and most people never get to see the inside. I'm glad they've started hosting Chatham Baroque; at least the public gets to see inside the chapel.

Winter Birds

The windchimes on the birdfeeder work great: no squirrels but plenty of birds. I love seeing their tiny footprints in the snow beneath the feeder. Worrying about the winter birds recalled to mind a song that I'd heard by Loreena McKennitt back in the 90s. Turns out it's a traditional Irish song:

Oh, Bonny Portmore, I am sorry to see

Such a woeful destruction of your ornament tree

For it stood on your shore for many's the long day

'Til the long boats from Antrim came to float it away

Oh, Bonny Portmore, you shine where you stand

And the more I think on you, the more I think long

If I had you now as I had once before

All the Lords in Old England would not purchase Portmore

All the birds in the forest they bitterly weep

Saying, "Where shall we shelter, where shall we sleep?"

For the Oak and the Ash, they are all cutten down

And the walls of Bonny Portmore are all down to the ground

An Icy Calm Before an Arctic Storm

I love winter. I really do. I mean, I love all the seasons, and winter has exceptional beauties. See how the bare trees stand out against gray skies, how the sun makes a faint appearance through the clouds and branches, casting a pallid light that seems to emanate from everywhere at once. See how the snowy mist among the dark tree trunks makes the world feel...alluring, mysterious, full of possibility. You could almost picture a moose emerging from the mists...or a band of Vikings.

What I don't like about winter is the fact that this ridiculous animal that I've been left to care for--this dog--refuses to go out in the cold, and when I pick it up and put it outside, it makes a great show of limping, but it won't wear the dog shoes I made for it or the dog coat I fashioned out of a Dollar General hoody. (I was not meant to be an animal keeper.) Also, I don't like the fact that, as a people, we've forgotten how to drive in the winter. Sensationalistic weather reporting scares people and makes them drive even worse. I don't recall many subzero days when I was a kid--in the 1970s and 80s. Those are a result of climate change--polar icecaps melting and releasing arctic air, as I understand it. But winters in those days were consistently cold, in the 20s from mid-December to mid-March. All in all, I like winter. If you go outdoors, you have the whole world to yourself. The wintry woods was so beautiful yesterday that I bundled up, took a bag-chair, and went outside to sit in -4 degrees...just looking at the skies, and the trees, and the snow.

Temps the next few days will be well below zero, and we might get a foot or two of snow. Everyone seems to think it's going to be catastrophic, and it would be if you were unhoused. I worry about the electrical grid; what happens if we lose electricity? I have no other means to heat the house. We tried to reopen one of the 8 fireplaces in our Pittsburgh house, but it was going to cost too much. The winter storm is supposed to hit tonight around 7pm, so alas, I need to hurry back to the city...back to a house where Jack Frost never paints ever-changing, monochromatic tableaux on the windows. As a kid, I truly never believed in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. All it took was a December visit to a Five & Dime Santa Claus to convince me that the whole thing was a hoax. I must have been 5, and I remember it right well. (C'mon, a cotton ball beard?) But I also remember marveling and believing that Jack Frost had come in the night to make icy art on the windows. He captured my imagination in a way that the other mythical beings did not. 

Oil Creek State Park: 6.5-Mile North Loop

Oil Creek State Park seemed almost...majestic…from high up on the Gerard Trail, where it followed  the eastern valley wall in the winter.  Our aim was maybe a little too ambitious.  We were going to camp out at the Wolfkiel Shelter Area in 10 degree temps.  This time my companion was an old former backpacking buddy from previous times, a fellow clergyman who hadn’t been out on the trails in three years. As the night grew closer and the weather got worse, we found ways to talk ourselves into a simple day hike, coupled with a night at my place nearby—tucked into warm beds. It totally defeated the purpose of the trip, which was to camp out in the cold with a bright, crackling fire in our shelter. But it was good, maybe even good enough.

This friend? He doesn’t impress easily. You take him to beautiful overlooks, or river gorges, or quaint little towns, all he can say is, “Huh.” He just doesn’t really take an interest in things—aside from music and ideas. How do you move to Pittsburgh from Texas and never research the place where you’re taking your young family? He took a job here, moved here, bought a nice house, and settled into the local music scene—to a degree—but he couldn’t find Pittsburgh on a map, much less the nearby places where we hike. He always, always lets me pick our hiking destination because they’re all the same to him. He looks at the beauty of this place, and all he sees is trees, and he grieves that it’s not Texas. 

Failing a winter camping trip at the Wolfkiel Shelter Area, we did a long day hike from the northern terminus of the Gerard Trail clockwise to the vista in the top photo, then backtracked to the Boughton switchbacks, took the swinging bridge across the creek, hiked up the western valley wall and took the Gerard Trail north again and back to our car. It was close to 7 miles. It was a glorious day in the winter woods. Ice cleats were very much needed. By the time we got back to the house, I was too tired to start a fire out back…so maybe it’s good that we didn’t try to camp out that night.

A Birdwatcher’s Lament

If there’s one order of animals I kinda hate, it’s rodents. I mean, I can never get enough of porcupines, though they quickly get their fill of me.  And beavers*, chipmunks, and squirrels are all pretty cool in their place, but they don’t seem to understand where “their place” begins and ends… (Actually, I love squirrels. I just wish I could hold a conference with my local gray squirrels to explain a few things, like private ownership and my desire to feed titmice and juncos, not them.) Other rodents you can keep. Mice, rats, raccoons, groundhogs. The Allegheny wood rat is endangered, and several states are trying to stabilize their populations. And while I recognize their place in the created order, I really don’t want them around. What I want is nuthatches, chickadees, downy woodpeckers. I want to feed the birds all winter. But the messy little creatures scatter the seed on the ground, and it attracts mice… The mice come into the house, which sits unoccupied most of the time. They die in traps that I set in the basement, but which I only have the opportunity to check once a week. I can often go two or three weeks without an opportunity to check the traps. (Which is gross.) Worse than that, squirrels lay waste to seed balls like the one pictured here. Baffles barely slow them down. I found an old set of wind chimes that I’m hoping will scare the squirrels away, but not the birds. Is that even possible? I guess I’ll find out the next time I go north. If this bird seed ball is still untouched, I’ll know that wind chimes work to keep both birds and squirrels away—which defeats the purpose. Wish me luck.

*See how quickly I forgive the little rodents who tried to drown my friend in an icy pond in the post below?

 

“Colonel” Edwin Drake

This is the monument to “Colonel” Edwin Drake, who drilled the world’s first oil well near Titusville, Pennsylvania, in 1859. The well still stands in a park at the southeast corner of town. The monument and grave are the focal point at the end of an alley of graceful trees, which lines the entrance to Woodlawn Cemetery in Titusville. It’s a dramatic bit of landscaping. I had gone there looking for an ancestral grave.

Look at this lovely American holly tree. Why are there not more of these beautiful trees in my life? Maybe I’ll need to plant a few. 

By all accounts, Drake was a humble and kindly soul. The engraved panels on both sides of the central statue, seen above, rave a bit much about how he had no interest in material gain, how his only interest was in bettering the human condition, how he was “the friend of man.”

There’s no reason to doubt the truth of all this. But if Drake’s motives were entirely altruistic, then why did “the friend of man” use the military title “colonel” when he was no such thing? All it takes is a single lie—just one lie!—to discredit your entire character and cast a shadow of doubt over your life’s story and achievements. I mean, I want to like Edwin Drake, but why did he use a false title that he never earned? That’s not even a single lie; it’s consistent, ongoing deception… Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation.

I was at Woodlawn Cemetery by mistake anyway. I read that my great-great grandfather was buried in Union Cemetery in Titusville, so I made for the only cemetery I’d seen in that town, which turned out to be the wrong one. Ever notice how cemeteries usually have one of the following names? Union Cemetery. Woodlawn Cemetery. Melrose Cemetery. Oakwood Cemetery. Fairview Cemetery. Why do cemeteries have such predictable names? How about Shallow Pond Cemetery? Or Blooming Crocus Cemetery for a change? Fern Hill Cemetery? Pumpkin Vine, Song Sparrow, Virginia Creeper? Sunny Hill? Woodsedge? Owl's Nest?

The chapel at Woodlawn Cemetery was added in 1998, which seems like the day before yesterday to me. It’s a sterile little structure under bleak skies—third photo from the top. I tried “entering that place to wait upon the Lord and renew my strength,” but it was locked tight as a tomb… 

Anyhow...I truly see no use in embalming and burying bodies, then keeping them filed away for future generations. What are they gonna do with them? Cremation, baby. Cremation is the way to go. But cremation does complicate tasks like the one that took me to Titusville, searching for a grave.

The Old Family Bible—Or Maybe Not So Old…

Until about the middle of the 20th century, most homes in the English-speaking world had a family Bible—often the old “King James Version” of 1611 with its poetic Elizabethan speech. It was often the only book in the house. In theory, it would be read aloud during morning and evening family prayers, which usually consisted of a Psalm, a passage from one of the gospels, and the Lords’ Prayer, followed by a sung doxology. In reality, it was not read very often, but it remained a place to keep genealogical records and important documents, like marriage licenses, birth certificates, and certificates of baptism, as well as deeds, important letters, and contracts. Barnes & Noble sells this cool-looking family Bible pretty cheap on its “classic editions” table, along with other culturally significant works like Aesop’s Fables and the Complete Fairytales of the Brothers Grimm and…the Star Wars Trilogy. (Do you see a common thread here? Pick your meaning-making meta-narrative!) I bought this one a few years ago because I liked the look of it, and also I wanted a place to keep a brief record of our ancestors… 

Another thing I like about this B&N Bible is the classic illustrations by Gustavo Doré. If you want a Bible for actual reading, this is probably not going to be your first choice. Of course you could read it, but it’s huge, and the language is outdated, and there are no footnotes, or glossaries, or appendices to help with historical contexts and cultural interpretation. (People misunderstanding the Bible is how you get fundamentalists and haters, as current history is proving.) Mostly, this edition is for show—a family heirloom for occasional reference, and perhaps a place to hold documents, and most especially a place to write out your family tree. Like all the big old family Bibles, it has a few pages at the front where you can make note of births, marriages, and the names, dates, and locations of grandparents and great-grandparents. 

That was mostly what I wanted: to write my family tree out in cursive and to have a place to keep it. (I always loved my own handwriting and still do—even though it’s less elegant and practiced than it used to be.) The trouble was, I really only knew my lineage as far back as my grandparents. Do most people know the names of all 8 of their great-grandparents? I do now! But I didn’t until I decided to write it all in this family Bible. What do we really know about the very people who made us who we are, whose DNA we share, whose life-quests, and preoccupations, and personal choices undoubtedly still shape us, even though we’ve never met them? Get past grandma and grandpa, and most of us know very little about where we come from. This was certainly the case with me. So, I had to do some digging, for which the Internet was far more helpful than my parents, who are in their early 80s.

This is my father's paternal grandmother.  He speaks of her fondly--even though her son (the grandfather I never knew) was a drunkard and a rogue. My father describes her as a tiny little woman, thin as a broom, who suffered from tuberculosis and was always happy.  Her husband left her when they were both young, which may have contributed to her sunny disposition; men in that family have always been louts--till my generation, of course. I found her grave very close to my place up north--like 3 miles away. He loved his paternal grandma, but his maternal grandmother was maybe his favorite human being. She died on Christmas morning when I was 8, and she's the only great-grandparent I remember. She loomed large in family legend. My father and his sister absolutely worshiped her. She would come to stay with them for a few weeks at a time when they were children. I remember her as a frail, withered old lady with a single long silver braid wrapped like a crown around he top of her head. She looked ancient, older than water. Turns out, she was only 75 when she died. A 75-year old in the 21st century Pittsburgh suburbs probably has a TikTok account and kick-boxes for exercise. Why did people look so much older back then than they do today? The actors who played Archie and Edith on “All in the Family” were only in their 40s! By modern standards, they looked to be in their 60s.  

Oh, they were scoundrels, my ancestors. Scoundrels, and scallywags, and rascals—if you’ll pardon the strong language. Both of my parents failed to recall the names of their own grandparents, aside from their maternal grandmothers (which is an interesting commentary on the American family). My mother and father both grew up in homes without cars, so it’s not like they drove to grandma’s house each year for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was only able to find them by looking up my own grandparents, whom I knew quite well (with one roguish exception, mentioned above), then finding the names of their parents in their old online obituaries. It was fun connecting the dots, filling in the old, half-remembered stories, as best I could, and writing it all in the family Bible. Oddly, 2 of my 8 great-grandparents are buried very close to my place up north. That’s a quarter of them! I knew they were from that area originally, but I enjoyed whizzing about the January countryside in search of old cemeteries and graves. It was especially fun to make the grave-searching excursions in our oldest car, which I sometimes call “the wheelbarrow,” pictured above. It’ll be an antique next year.

Actually, I call it a wheelbarrow, but our 2002 Honda Accord might be the best car I’ve ever owned, even still at 270,000 miles. It often sits unused for weeks at a time, but it always fires right up. And it’s got that great old car smell inside. Down in Pittsburgh, people look at you judgmentally for driving such an old and unsightly car. Up north, these old Hondas are in demand because they run forever. When our mechanic offered to buy it off us, two weeks ago, I decided it’s time to start taking better care of the thing, maybe even get it repainted. 

The Appellation Mountains or the Apple-atchan Mountains? Discuss. (Plus Link to an Insane Winter Camping Trip in the Seneca Creek Backcountry)

Are these the “Appellation” Mountains or the “Apple-atchan” Mountains?  Traditionally, here in the northern reaches of the geographic region, it’s the former.  But call it whatever you want.  These are just the foothills anyway.  Each year, when I go to my father-in-law's house for Christmas, I take a photo or two of his property.  I’ve been doing this since my now-adult daughters were toddlers, and I took them outside at grandpa’s house on Christmas Day to play in the snow—only to find two eviscerated deer dangling from the swing set by their hind hooves, with a puddle of blood and vital organs on the cold ground beneath them.  Grandpa’s backyard is an ever-changing display of old appliances, rusted out vehicles, and discarded belongings.  One purpose of the annual photos is to show them to my wife (his daughter) as a cautionary tale against hoarding tendencies.

I also like to have a record of how much things have changed here down through the years. My purpose is not to make fun of anyone.  The rural poor are still considered fair game for mockers, but I do not mock them.  I hail from their ranks, and I’m sensitive to their plight.  (You don’t dare throw anything away because it might come in handy someday.)  But also, as I’ve done some very limited genealogical work on my side of the family, I’ve found myself wondering, “Hmm, where did these people live?  What was their place like?  Was it that farm that I vaguely recall from when I was about 6–where I lost one of my church shoes in the crook of an apple tree while climbing it?”  And so, if the world of blogger stands into future years, here are some photos of a certain place in Northern Appalachia that’s significant in my children’s lives…and my own.

By the way, I pronounce this region and its hills in the less fashionable northern way, exactly like the word “appellations.”  The “Appellation” Mountains, and “Appellatia.”  The more fashionable southern pronunciation is “Apple-atchan” Mountains and “Apple-atcha,” which I have to admit, has a better ring to it.  The southern pronunciation is more popular because they’re more likely to embrace the word and use it.  There’s no correct way of saying it; all pronunciations are just part of the vast cultural richness of the American empire—as multilingualism itself ought to be.  I've heard a few other pronunciations as well, including an AI voice that called them the "Apple-latch-EE-ans."  So…these photos are more for my own records than anything else.  In fact, this whole blog is a selfish endeavor, just a photo-journal of my life and travels, where everyone is welcome, but no one is really expected.  I just like to have it all documented and available for future reference.  

For photos of a completely insane winter backpacking trip into the Seneca Creek Backcountry of West Virginia, click HERE.