August 2019

Dear Friends and Family,

Prompted by the 50th anniversary of Woodstock, I’ve been writing a short story based on what I could remember Kenneth said about the time when he hitchhiked to the iconic music fest in August 1969. He had graduated from high school in June 1968 and was trying to put himself through his first year of college by working three construction jobs in the mountain communities of Sylva, Cashiers, and Cullowhee. He couldn’t keep up his grades and was terrified that his draft number for Vietnam would come up. He had no money, no car that didn’t need a high hill to start coasting from—he didn’t even know how to take a bus—and had never been away from his home state.

I did not remember him showing me any photo from that time, but I went back through his old photos and found that there was, indeed, one that showed him at Woodstock with friends—and the sea of hundreds of thousands of concertgoers in the photo’s background. His grandmother had also kept newspaper clippings of the music fest because she knew he was up there and his grandparents worried about him.

It is startling to look back at a music fest unlike any other, before or since, with nearly a half million young people, that included a biblical rainstorm and a huge field of mud, as well as some of the greatest musical performances of the era—and no violence. Somehow they all got along in peace, freedom and love—words that are, today, difficult to hear without irony. There were only two “security” officers for the entire site, from the Hog Farm commune who called themselves “please” officers. There were also drugs—mostly pot and LSD—that would, sooner or later, give way to even worse drugs and doom the dreams of many erstwhile hippies and veterans of that time.

We still have the belt buckle that Kenneth is wearing in the photo at Woodstock. For that matter, we may still have the pair of jeans he was wearing—always calling them “dungarees”— unless they’re out in the sheet composting ravine here at Blue Note Garden, where I’m letting a lot of his oldest pairs of boots and clothes work their way back into the earth. He did not like to part with anything, no matter how ragged. I’d guess that it’s a loaf of bread in front of him, along with a pack of cigarettes, and that he is slathering peanut butter on a slice—always one of his favorite meals. (When family and friends first view this photo they immediately assume he is checking his phone. Not hardly in 1969, but he certainly had the characteristic gesture down early.)

It is sad to think I probably cannot find anyone from those days who could identify the two friends in the photo with him. I don’t know whether they went with him to the festival, or he met them there. Most of Kenneth’s friends from his graduating class are long gone. There is only one left that I know of who went all the way through school with him, beginning in kindergarten but not going on to college. Kenneth’s brothers don’t seem to have existed in the same world with him.

If any of you remember any detail that Kenneth may have shared with you about Woodstock, I will be grateful if you will let me know.

Theresa

Owl at Home

 

In a wild, woodland garden, there are times when nature bumps gardening—and nearly everything else—off the daily time-clock, like yesterday:

This morning I catch sight of one of our owls on the railing of the garden porch. He so clearly contrasts with all the fresh green of this morning’s landscape—a mere few feet outside the large sliding glass doors—that he stops me in my tracks as I work quickly through early chores. He sits there for a long  time—nearly an hour—while I get nothing done inside the house because I am either watching him or taking his photo from half a dozen angles, trying not to startle him. Several times he clearly sees me and follows my careful movements but it does not seem to affect him in the least. I’ve seen signs before that the porch is a favorite roosting spot. Nearby, we have put a laundry basket high up in a tree and are hoping he and his mate will nest there.

Yesterday morning I remember seeing him swoop-off the roof on the west side of the house above the kitchen window and disappear into underbrush. Today he seems to be watching a spot on the ground and another further up on the garden walkway. A hummingbird is plumbing a deep purple salvia’s blooms in a window box but does not seem disturbed by the owl, who is less than a dozen feet away.

My guess is that he measures about 18” from the top of his head to the tip of his tucked-up feathers. He is stocky—perhaps 10” across in diameter at his widest point. He is able to crunch himself further down in his body, making himself seem even more stout.

It is amazing to see at close range what he can do with his head, everything from preening and cleaning feathers all the way behind him to watching me and several other spots intently. The crevices of our large rocks on the uphill side of this old, played-out marble quarry—our house was sunk into it mid-century—shelter legions of chipmunks, voles and moles. I’d warrant this owl knows that well. From some angles, he almost seems to have a hump on his back. 

I had not appreciated that owls blink. I do a fast Google search to learn more and quickly find both a Winking Owl wine and a Blinking Owl wine—not exactly what I was hoping for but close enough. From time to time he closes his eyelids completely for long seconds. At one point he seems to take a deep breath and then settle back into an entirely peaceful stance. He raises one foot to scratch himself and then sets it back down, sometimes rocking from side to side. A few minutes later he seems to close his eyes entirely and nod his head slightly, as though bored with the day and his surroundings already. His eyelids seem nearly as dark as his eyes, which are black. Finally, it appears he might be sleeping.

He is beautiful, with spots on his back and streaks on his front—mostly brown and beige until the morning sun in the east hits him and gives off a golden glow. He seems to hoist his shoulders, toss his head back, and look directly into the sunlight. Tucked in, his wings appear barred with the spattering of spots becoming more definite and numerous down his backside. There is a disturbed spot on his feathers that appears puffy, perhaps a small injury of some kind or just normal wear and tear for a creature that speed-sails through trees and branches with outspread 4-foot wings. Occasionally, he raises one or the other folded wing partly and drapes it over the crown of his head.

Our summer mornings feature an ever-shifting scattering of the sun’s rays through the tall trees—striking their targets in what can seem random but that prove to be, after persistent observation, a slowly changing pattern. The beams of light seem to seek-out our owl this morning and it is as though he knows he is nature’s star in today’s showtime for the hapless human indoors. He seems to say: “We should give her what thrill we can on this fine morning. Make her day!”

When I finally decide I cannot spend the entire day watching an owl who is watching me, I go downstairs to put on my gardening hat and gloves and the owl peers down at me on the ground floor through several of the many floor to ceiling windows in the house. He seems almost disappointed when he realizes I’ve gone outside from the other side of the house to start working, but he moves up to the next higher level of the railing to keep lookout. 

A couple of hours later, he is still there, his gaze calmly surveying all before him. I go into the house when my work is completed and he watches me closely when I sit in front of the glow of the computer screen in my office to write this story. As if he takes it personally that I am ignoring him, at last, he spreads his wings wide and silently takes off.

In the evening I am out on the garden porch eating my dinner when he shows up again on the railing. I don’t know whether he can smell as well as I know he can see and fly, but he cocks his head to check out my vegetarian meal. It is found wanting—just as my husband and my cat would judge, too. Moments later, as he takes off in a gentle swoosh over and up behind my head, I could swear he winks at me.