Saturday, September 14, 2019


My love for Soot, a dog, grew deeper as we aged, more gentle, more forgiving, and seemingly more understanding. English boxers grow not much more than ten. When I turned sixty, Soot was eleven. I remember Soot as a rambunctious puppy. Before that, I remember my son Avery’s carefully scripted presentations that laid-out his case to select and care for a dog. He did a wonderful job. Soot came from Minstrel Boxers, in Easton, Maryland. Katherine Nevius heads Minstrel. She raises champions and is a mainstay of the boxer community. We gained Soot on “breeder’s terms,” which meant that Katherine had the right to breed Soot and select pups for her ownership and care. Because Soot showed mild overbite and skittish disposition, Katherine chose not to breed Soot, and Soot became fully ours — Avery’s — at age three.

Soot’s registered name is “Minstrel Coal Dust,” Soot for short, because her color is more black than standard. We kept the name when she joined our family. I like “Soot” because it is humble, simple, and earthy — as a dog should be, a thing of nature — albeit high-bred.

As a pup Soot was vastly energetic, running chaotically and without discipline, so most often she was on-leash in our leafy, suburban neighborhood. On divorce, Carolyn moved to a one-bedroom apartment in Silver Spring. Avery hesitantly approached me and asked if I would take and care for Soot. (He was in college and could not.) I was delighted by the gift. I paid the balance for our Arlington, Virginia, home and made it my own. A year or so after, I decided to move into the city, a better location for a single man. Soot came along. I was born in DC and grew-up in Chevy Chase. I shopped many houses, from resplendent colonials on the Carter Barron “Gold Coast,” Barnaby Woods, and Cleveland Park, to old row houses on Capitol Hill, Glover Park, Adams Morgan, Foxhal, and the southwest waterfront. I sought an easy commute to work, walking distance to the subway, and something “fun” — near nightlife and restaurants.

I was a “young man in an old body” and sought a vibrant life after a not-so-fun 32-year relationship. I did not consider Georgetown because I thought it was too expensive. When my friend called and told me of a Georgetown house around the corner from hers coming to market, I asked, “How big?” It was about 1,350 square feet. I said I was not interested. Moving from my Arlington place, with about 2,500 square feet (not counting an attic and basement littered with stuff), I said I needed at least 2,000. A few days later my agent went to the realtor’s open house. She telephoned: “Jim, this is your place.” On Saturday I went and looked. It was charming, an 1895 four-level row house that was gently cared for by two aging men. (They were selling because the older had Parkinson’s and could not negotiate the stairs.) The place was like a well-kept ship, with cabinets and cupboards for everything, and twisty stairs rising from top-to-bottom. (I installed sailboat grab rails aside the stair.) In back was a walled garden, a place for Soot’s ministrations along with a specimen maple as old as the house, huge, rising from hosta, vining hydrangea, clematis, fern, and ivy. One of the difficulties in buying a place were my conflicting vectors for close-to-work, near transit, and near parks where I could walk and run Soot. I liked Capitol Hill and Adams Morgan, but the parks were small or distant. Georgetown had it all — a couple blocks from the beautiful Rose Park, where dogs run free; and near the C&O Canal, Potomac River, Dumbarton Oaks, Montrose, and Rock Creek parks. It was just a mile from Foggy Bottom Metro, close to bike paths and buses, and five miles to work. The home was steps from restaurants, bars, and music, including Blues Alley and the Kennedy Center. Price was an ass-tightener: $1.2 million. I wrote a full-price contract, and the place was mine. I sold the Arlington house to a builder who bulldozed the family home and built a multi-million dollar McMansion.

I painted my new place, selected furniture from Arlington, and moved-in with help from my Italian lawyer-professor-friend-lover. The place enchanted. Big parties ensued. Soot loved the place. Of the three bedrooms, one was hers (alternatively, a guest room); the others became my den and the master bedroom, at the top of the house, surrounded by windows, an aerie. Karen called it the “GT Love Shack.” Such fun.

Then age seven, Soot and I would walk to Rose Park, where she’d be freed from leash and gambol with other dogs. She loved to find concavities and writhe in the deeper grass, scratching her back and covering scent. Initially, Soot was more urgent and pulling as we walked the few city blocks — Olive, N and 29th — to the parks, but I trained her and we became familiar. Soon she heeled and walked untethered at my side. Now, age eleven, Soot has less energy — and usually trails behind. I stop at every corner, and we cross together when no cars are near. She wins praise from many: “So well behaved!” I love this girl. We journey together — from Chapel Hill to visit Avery, to New York, Maine, and Canada. Sometimes she joins me for classes at Hopkins or Princeton. Soot is easy, gentle, and beautiful. While not the planet’s brightest creature, I impute great intellect and empathy upon her. Such is the habit of a single male, a dog’s best friend.

At Soot’s Camp, my pup eats full, large meals — sometimes grilled steak — and she poops in tall grasses, sallies about the pond, and snores and farts before the wood stove, atop her wool mat.

Life is lovely.

Saturday, September 7, 2019


My family kept places on the water. Dad taught me to sail. Kathy and I learned to swim well, doing flip turns against slippery planks fastened to the river pier. We became good fishers and crabbers, mostly at the docks and waters of Round Bay on the Severn River. Our place was 101 Edgehill in Sherwood Forest. The cottage sat rickety atop a cliff overlooking the main pier, a sand beach, and a small harbor aside Brewer Pond, a wildlife sanctuary. My parents bought the place when Kathy and I were in third- or fourth-grade, and they sold it when it came time to pay our college tuitions. As kids, we also spent time at Boundary Point, our maternal grandparent’s place on the eastern shore on the Tred Avon, which flows into the Choptank thence the Chesapeake Bay. Boundary Point had a dock, a narrow sand beach, and a saltwater swimming pool; the five-acre parcel was carved out of soy bean and corn fields, dotted with loblolly pine, grapevine, willow, and cattail. Whitetail deer filtered in from the woods to browse grasses and lick a salt block out front. Zinnia, marigold, mint, and pyracantha circled the home. After dinner — often striped bass with back fin, local corn, tomato, and cantaloupe — my grandmother Mom Gibbons and I would walk to the swale and toss food scraps to ducks and crabs. “Here ducky, ducky, ducky, quack-quack,” she’d call, her heavy arms and my skinny sticks lobbing bits of melon and corn onto still water. Mallards and mergansers glided in, bills dabbling soft bits, web feet churning up soft mud. We’d linger and watch crabs scuttle to grab the remains. Minnows, grass shrimp, and water scorpion scavenged motes. Dinner was complete. Mom and I held hands, and we walked back to the house, sometimes alarming a cottontail. My grandfather kept a fisherman’s work boat with an inboard motor, epoxy gray deck and floorboards, and white hull, cuddy cabin, and roof. A captain’s chair swiveled atop a metal post amidst a cluster of throttle and gear levers, gauges, buttons, compass, and horn. Red and green lights showed port and starboard; a white running light rose on a small mast amidships. We chuffed downriver, docked, and ate at a crab shack on the Oxford pier. Sometimes we’d pass fare more elegant at the Robert Morris. It was a lovely, watery-warm, and gentle life.

Later, after Kathy and I finished college, my parents had a five-acre plot on Cod Creek, a body that branches into the Potomac at its mouth with the western Chesapeake. The house was a three-bedroom rambler with a screen porch that overlooked water, dock, sand beach, and marsh. Dad built a tractor shed at the edge of the woods, which he later took as his writing den. Bald eagles, turkey, osprey, coons, deer and turtles habited Cod Creek — along with many thousand creatures neath water. Over the years, my family covered both sides of the Bay and many tributaries and refuges. These were fingers into adventures, real and imagined, times and dreams without finish.

Soot’s Pond itself is a first trickle of Goose Creek, which wanders east to the Potomac River, thence to the Chesapeake and Atlantic. As a teenager, I paddled lower Goose Creek, fished, and camped on the river. Mom and Dad loved the water. They grew up on the Jersey Shore. When he worked for the Newark News, Dad and his buddies owned a power boat named the “Alibi,” which speaks for itself, as in — “The boat broke down and I’ll be home late,” or “We caught more fish than expected,” or “I’m sleeping in the cuddy tonight.” Mom’s family had a cottage on the Metedeconk, aside Barnegat Bay in Ocean County. Mom, her mother and sister would summer there, while Mom’s father H.R. commuted from Chatham and New York City. When I was a kid, family vacations usually found us at raw and rugged places along the east coast, from Bar Harbor to Ocracoke. We often summered in a cottage beside the cliffs of Block Island, where Dad loved to surf-fish. At Black Rock, Mom caught a 42-pound striped bass on 12-pound test line, her cheap rod and push-button reel. It was a record.

Dad was larger than life. He was frequently on television. They made a play about his role in the Pentagon Papers. Sometimes people would stop and ask him for his autograph. It was tough to walk through an airport without a person recognizing Dad, and vice versa. He swelled in this context, and I had trouble relating to him, though I worked earnestly to understand his world. Dinner time was often a recitation of Dad’s daily interviewing on Capitol Hill or at the Pentagon; a phone call with Senator this or that, or a General or cabinet Secretary; or another headline-yielding exploration. He’d pause and ask Mom about her day. “Lesson-plans and two-variable equations,” she’d report, “X-times-Y.” Kathy or I would describe a geography project or the cafeteria lunch. I spoke of my second-base infield position where I’d knock down hits and tag outs; but I was embarrassed that I always struck out, and I said nothing of my batting. Dad’s follow-ups were mostly brief. He disliked math, was bad at it; and he tended to make fun of classroom education. His was a world of experience and grit, battlefield trenches, mud soldiers, and ship bellies, among those who suffered and made a difference. We felt what we did was small; indeed, we were lesser than Dad.

Stripped naked of this, on the water in a small boat with a rising breeze, Dad and I found new geography, a place of tenderness and mutuality, a place we cherished, which I loved deeply. At Sherwood Forest, Dad gave me several sailing books which I read over-and-over, Aymar’s Start ‘Em Sailing, Manry’s Tinkerbell, and Royce’s Sailing Illustrated. Sherwood Forest had a junior sailing club that raced Penguins, an 11-foot five-inch dinghy class designed by Philip Rhodes in 1938. We scanned the papers for a wooden Penguin and brought one home on a rickety trailer. We paid $400 for the boat and $125 for the trailer. Dad and I stripped and polished the brightwork, and sanded and varnished the spars, gunwales, and ribbing. We pulled and sanded the centerboard, which would swell and get stuck in its well when wet. We replaced the wood centerboard with a composite. (I delighted in using the old board to skim atop shallow water along the beach.) Growing up, probably like any child, I felt over-powered by my parents and the adult world, and I sought a place I could own and care for by myself — whether that was a hutch under the attic eaves in DC, a private collection of baseball cards rubber-banded aside my bunk bed, or my boat — the Penguin. I savored every inch of “Cheetah,” the name we gave her. (“Cheetah” was a derivative of my and Kathy’s nicknames, “Che-Che” and “Tahzee,” the best our baby tongues could muster for one another — and not coincidently the world’s fastest land animal.) I coiled every sheet and line, waxed the chines, and carefully pulled Cheetah onto rollers out of the water so she would dry and get lighter before race day. Dad taught me to race, the secret of approaching the start line, turning about with one minute to go, clocking 25 seconds headed away on a stop watch, and turning about again to sail back, luff briefly upwind, and cross the start line beating at full speed, unshadowed by the fleet. Dad’s math skills and geometry were weak, but his essentials were strong. As I got better, Dad bought feathery green and red tell-tales that hung on Cheetah’s starboard and port stays. The feathers showed the direction of the wind and helped me to position the sail so that it spilled little propulsive air as the boat beat close-hauled to the wind, reached midway, or ran downwind. We learned to put our feet under straps and hiked out over the water to keep the boat as flat as possible, so the sail caught more air and beat faster. I loved doing this, a tiny stick extending from the tiller so I could hang out far. Sometimes a hard breeze hit and we were nearly knocked flat. One time Dad and I sailed from Round Bay up the Severn into the Chesapeake, around the Naval Academy, and docked in City Slip, the center of old town Annapolis. On our sail, we lacked a horn or whistle, so to open the low bridge over the Severn we cut back and forth while Dad waived his arms. He blew a lowing “train-whistle” through his cupped hands. The keeper eventually opened the bridge and we tacked up Spa Creek into the harbor. I was at the helm, and I felt king of the world. We grabbed cold-cut sandwiches, chips, and drinks from Rookie’s butcher shop, ate heartily, and sailed back. Dad gave me a few swigs from his beer. He said, “That-a-boy.” “I’m going to take a nap,” and he lay his frame over Cheetah’s mid-thwart, his head and feet dangling over water, long nose pointed to the sun. When the wind burst and Cheetah heeled sharply, Dad’s feet plunged into the Severn. He said, “Oooo … that’s my alarm!” and hiked over the windward side to make Cheetah more stable. I smiled endlessly on these journeys. At night I lay reading my sailing books, made lists, and packed my bags with pemmican, canteens, and compass. Like Manry, I dreamt of sailing my small boat across the Atlantic. I sketched my tiny, hooded focsle, provision bins, lifelines, lights, and radio. I plotted wind and currents. I gained Mom and Dad’s trust and they let me take Cheetah out by myself and for longer expeditions. I have good geometry and navigation skills, and I was able to sail Cheetah with her sail flat, without luff and speedy. I won the Round Bay junior sailing championship every summer. Kids complained about my unfairly "fast boat.” We traded. I beat everyone again. It was not the boat. I never took Cheetah to the ocean or attempted a crossing more ambitious than the coves about Round Bay. But later when I was 23 my skill showed-up for the Great Ocean Race, where I crewed for Team IBM.

One time I was sailing Cheetah downwind in a run but I incorrectly had the sail close-hauled. The boom beat from side-to-side as she jibed with wind blowing-in from the rear. I looked back at the dock and saw Dad waving his arms, his hands raising over his head and pushing forward. I thought this meant for me to keep going toward the duck blind, my turn-around point. It did not. He meant that I should let the sail out, so the boat would stop jibing and run with the wind. I did not. A heavy gust hit, and pushed Cheetah’s bow starboard, while the port chine and centerboard bit the salt water. Cheetah fully caught the wind, and went up high, sharply high; I was standing on the centerboard trunk and she went flat on the water. I fell in, in between the sunk port gunwale and the now floating boom. I paddled about, mostly calm. Dad was always there for me. He asked our friend Toby for a lift in Toby’s mahogany speedboat, and soon they were alongside. Dad jumped into the water and guided me to the Chris Craft, and I clambered aboard. We tied a line between the two boats and gently hauled the mostly submerged Penguin back to the pier and beach. Dad and I bailed and cleaned Cheetah. I coiled her ropes and fluffed the drying tell-tales. I took her sail home and hosed it with fresh water. That evening, Dad drew pictures on paper of the wind angle that caused my capsize, and he pulled out two rulers and an ice cube to demonstrate the angular physics of wind, sail, chine, and centerboard. Dad’s math was not that bad. His love was great.

Sunday, May 26, 2019

R&R -- and Less

Markham, Virginia -- Soot’s Camp, Saturday, May 25, 2019. This was a hard week. Saturday I slept in. When I woke, about 7:30, I flipped on National Public Radio and cogitated. I sorted through familiar thoughts -- pulling the bowstring taut to launch what's next, my cares and obligations, those about me whom I love. Work is incessant. More effort lies ahead -- on Wednesday, an executive asked for increased velocity for a project I lead, citing her Senate testimony and newspaper headlines.

The reward for good work is more work. I do good work. But it can pile up.

I walk outside, replenish Soot’s water, and fill her food bowl with kibble and meat. I pour olive oil over top. She likes this. At nearly 11 years old, Soot is slim and fit, though she has slowed. On hikes after a first mile of dancing off the front, she falls in behind and we trudge on. I love Soot.

She connects me to my young son and she is a friend, a gentle soul at the end of each day.

Soot tromps down the deck stairs, sniffs the long grass, and rolls about, twisting her back like a flat “S” against earth and bramble. The birds are active, flitting from trees to bird feeders and bushes that ring the deck. They sing and chirp, accenting blue sky and sunlight. A train whistle alarms in the distance; a shallow echo rises up-valley towards Soot’s Camp. Baby bluebirds clamor when their parent returns with a mouthful of grubs. Cool air flows over Soot's pond, rockface, and field. It perks my skin. I could get a blanket to cover my legs and lap, but I do not. Before long, the sun will be on the deck and things will warm. I’ll get some blue jeans and head to the garden store. First, I make a pot of coffee. I drink it black, with sugar in the first cup.

Last week my lawnmower died. I about broke even on the tool, considering the cost of a $350 mower against a season of lawn cutting service. The mower had a great engine, a Honda, that started with one pull, but its air filter flew off, the blade ground to a stop, and the whole damn machine became frozen. Nothing would move. I went online, read reviews and ordered a new mower, a Craftsman. I’ll pick it up and cut grass this afternoon.


Cutting lawn at Soot’s Camp gives me a sense of order. That said, I’ve let more lawn become field than before and have planted grasses to attract deer -- red clover, chicory, rye, rape and radish. The grasses grow long and flower. In evening I see many deer when driving nearby lanes, but I see few on my property. I think hunting on the adjacent lots has kept the deer at bay. (There is a bow-and-arrow stand in a field about 100 yards off, on the other side of an antebellum wall. I’m tempted to knock the stand over but I do not.) Aside deer, nature has steadily increased at Soot's Camp -- more birds, nesting creatures, coons, turtle, frog, snake, field mice, chipmunk and fish -- bass, cat, crappie -- and bursting greenery, sedge, willow, duck weed, honeysuckle, lilies, and on.

While two of the three eight-foot weeping willows I planted last month went brown, all are now freshly fringed with the beautiful yellow-green fronds of niobe golden. In not too much time, with roots continuously moist aside pond and creek, they should grow quite large, maybe to forty feet. Like other bits at Soot’s Camp, the willows tie me back to past joy -- here, the willow grove before my grandparents' house on the Tred Avon in Easton where my sister Kathy and I would cavort barefoot entwined by leafy tendrils. Kathy and I were very young then.

I love nature. Sitting on the cabin deck, secluded with my interests and concerns, I wish to blend in, be absorbed and embraced by what surrounds me -- sights, smells, moisture, coolness and heat, echoes, gentle breeze. A healthcare friend, a past lover, told me I am on the autism spectrum. This may be true. I find comfort in being clamped, burrowing in small boxes (as I did when a child), and cocooning in bed — best, when enfolded in my lover’s arms, her breasts flattening against me. Autism or no, this is how I am wired.


Wiring difficulties? I could compete for the United States in the Olympics of neuroplasticity -- brain reprogramming, new conduits, training -- rewiring that enabled me to live, to flourish. (I was struck by a drunk driver when 17, suffered brain injury, was not expected to live, endured craniectomy, coma, paralysis, aphasia, and such.)


My generally unbounded faith in humanity took a step backward today. I bought a lawn mower at Lowes, hauled it in my BMW “farm vehicle" and assembled it at Soot's Camp. When I discovered that the mower ran on clear gas (not a 4-cycle mix), I drove down the road to get some unleaded, leaving my shiny new toy in the drive tucked behind forsythia and holly. When I returned, the mower was gone: Theft!

I checked to make sure the mower hadn't rolled down the hill and sunk into the pond or become lost in the brush. It hadn't. I called the Fauquier police, an officer came to our cabin, he investigated, and we filed a report.

The officer was a good man. He walked the property, and took down make, model, and serial number for the mower. We chatted about law enforcement work, his, Karen's and mine. Out of Warrenton, the officer noted he drove past my cabin several times a day. Having met us and learning the cabin was a weekend retreat, he said he would keep an eye out.


My grace appeared and we leveled our concern about humanity (and the desperado who boosted my mower) with a bottle of Markham's finest, a Phillip Carter claret. I offered a humorous toast: “May the mower cut off every toe or pinky for its new owner.” We giggled. That night, I ordered a new machine online. My friend Steve wrote: “I try to put a positive spin on this kinda stuff. Had my car broken into on multiple occasions over the years -- one time while it was parked in my driveway. Cash and radio stolen. I kinda visualized the thief as Jean Valjean. Made me feel a little better about the inconvenience.” I am sympathetic: Cosette's song stirs me, as does a ramrod-straight man caring for a vulnerable child (as I do). Another friend, a Uganda NGO chief, suggested that I turn the other cheek and set out my chain saw for claim. I will not: drug-induced thievery, which this probably was, is not rational. I'd rather give cash to the rehab shelter.

Karen, the officer, and I speculated that the theft was a quick heist “of convenience,” maybe by a substance abuser, a heroin addict. In the grand scheme the theft was little; only my second in 40 years. My faith in humanity’s goodness will resume its inch-wise progress.

I ordered a game camera to set-up monitoring for future adverse events -- or maybe to snapshot a few wandering deer or a timid bear when the camp is still. I picked-up the mower and cut the grass on Monday, Memorial Day, a day I'm drawn to George and Mud Soldiers.

The mowing went well.

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Bridge Building

I sketched the design, wrote out a bill of materials. I let the drawing sit, revised it, added detail, thought it through, looked at models. I designed a buttress of rock and rebar, one for either end, measured the gap. It was 20 feet across the pond inlet, bank to bank.

I debated what type lumber. What type stress will my bridge support? Grand kids jumping up and down? (I dream.) A lawn mower? Snow and ice … Most lumber only goes so long as sixteen feet. How to form a 20 foot truss? I work alone. How to build, then carry the bridge? I could build it in place, over the water. Maybe. Maybe not. How do I haul lumber to the site? It could be delivered. I asked an expert, a builder friend, Robert, how wide should I make the bridge? “The wider the better,” he said. I chose 32 inches, so I could cut three deck pieces from each eight foot board, about fifteen long boards in all.

It was a delightful cogitation, which I stretched and chewed for about six months. I decided to bind two ten-foot wood girders with a sixteen foot piece. I debated types of stock — 4x4” treated, or 2x6” or 2x8” — the types of bolts, binders, screws and fasteners, and the type of glue. I pulled up bridge designs for the Appalachian Trail and challenged my specs. I considered features like a toe rail, but said not. I decided on 2x8” treated pine for the truss frame, topped by 5/4x6” deck boards. I fastened the truss beams using brown-enameled carriage bolts, washers and nuts, and a finger-thick smear of all-weather glue snaked between the bolted boards.


My grandfather H.R. Gibbons was a Stevens-educated engineer, working first at Hyatt Roller Bearing and then General Motors, both jobs under Alfred Sloan. H.R. was a man of precision and standards. His wood shop and garage was immaculate and well-equipped — DeWalt radial saw, drill press, band saw, automotive tools and more. H.R. built the row boat my sister Kathy and I, my mother Joan and I, pulled out onto the Tred Avon which curled around my grandparent’s house, Boundary Point, in Easton, Maryland. We fed ducks in the swale.

H.R. and my grandmother Dot had two daughters, Lois and Joan. Joan, my mother, took to son-like hobbies with her father. She built furniture, made skilled things with wood, glue and varnish. Joan and H.R. sailed and fished Barnegat Bay. She was a lab worker at Merck early on and, later, for most of her life, a middle school math teacher. I loved her. We played baseball catch together, on the tarry pavement and on park playgrounds in Washington, DC.


I loved Dad, too, but he was different, a disorganized creative, a writer, a disrupter. He fixed the world, on a large scale, e.g., the Pentagon Papers, Vietnam War, and Iraq, a valiant embed with mud soldiers (at age 75).

Dad and I built a lot of things together. We made a soap box derby race car from plywood, lathe and fiberglass, with wheels and steering gear from a General Motors kit. We took my mother’s ironing board and used it to draw the pattern of the fuselage bottom on a 4 by 8 foot sheet of three-quarter inch marine plywood. That car, the soap box derby, was the bomb. We had it for many years, racing down neighborhood streets, and pushing it back uphill. I was about nine years old when we drew the fuselage. When I grew too big for the box, Dad and I cut away the car’s rear bulkhead, so I could squeeze in my long, lanky teenage frame. My Great Falls neighborhood buds, Russ, Dan, Jamie, Tom ("Squirrel") and others, would do crazy things in the yellow race car, skidding it across gravel and tumbling into a ditch, and worse.

None of us died, and all injuries seemed to heal in about a day. That was good. We were cool kids. Dad was a cool dad, “Jungle George.”

I built things for and with my own boys, Nathan and Avery. Some of it was good, some not quite. I remember the delight they expressed when I built a chair framed in two-by-fours, with the seat and back “crafted” from their old skateboard decks. “Dad, so cool!”

Skateboarding was a thing of their youth. We’d hunt out skateboard parks with ramps and pools where the boys would drop-in, loop, whip and hop about (far beyond any skill I ever had). They’d foregather with their friends to perform and perfect tricks. An early project I built was a quarter-pipe ramp, which the kids could roll-up, twist and squirt about — and sometimes crash and fall.

The initial ramp was a simple wedge made of three-quarter inch plywood undergird by two-by-fours and scrap wood. It rose from the driveway to about 18 inches high. Pretty good. The kids loved it. They’d roll down the street, into our driveway and cut a curve and twist across the wedge. Like many things I do, the ramp was subjected to progressive refinement. We made it taller and, using stubs, braces and flexible quarter-inch marine plywood, created a gentle curve, and a top lip, so it genuinely resembled a quarter-pipe, not some kick ramp. More kids were attracted to our house (a win in most any child’s esteem). Sometimes, we’d come home and see the ramp in full use, skateboarders training and experimenting. They were quite good.

I saw my own possibility for fun and elevation. I didn’t do skateboards owing to my poor balance, but I rode bikes. I had bought a used ten speed for $15 at a garage sale; it was my commuter bike.

I called attention to my boys, put on my cycling helmet, pedaled hard and launched off the ramp. I had a vision of Evel Knieval on his motorcycle, soaring over a stack of cars or across a river gorge, landing triumphantly, throwing his arms up in victory as he rolled smoothly out after his daring leap. My weight distribution and speed were wrong, so as I came over the ramp my bike nosed-down and dropped away. I continued in the air, at about six feet altitude, and then belly-flopped down to the street pavement. I wasn’t dead. It hurt like hell. I moaned. My wife Carolyn came out; the boys said, “Dad are you okay?” I said, "No." “Should I call an ambulance?” Carolyn asked. “No,” I groaned. “Just hot bath, hot tub.”

After about five or ten minutes of inert groaning and injury self-assessment, I lumbered-up, aided by family members, made my way into the house, had the bath, and medicated with pain pills and smears of ointment. I was pretty bruised-up, kind of like a soap-box derby crash of yore. Otherwise, I was somewhat pleased with myself. This is how we Wilson boys played.

Old fool was I. Cool dad.


Friday, July 6, 2018

Soot's Pond

Soot's pond is shaped like a tear, with spring and rain water flowing in across the top, the southern end, and flowing out a rocky bed due north, the direction John Mosby and his raiders famously advanced. At maximums, the pond is about 75 yards end-to-end and 25 yards across. They say it goes three-to-four yards deep, but I haven’t yet swum it and touched bottom. I will.

On still days the pond water can be clear to near five feet. On rainy days, it is opaque, the color of tobacco spit. Floating in the pond middle, on a sunny day, we may see the swamp monster, a mossy snapping turtle about two feet from snout to tail. He could bite off a toe, or another tender bit. But I think him all-timid — Give me my daily mash of detritus, perhaps a young fish or frog, and move on. Life advances, says the swamp monster, sometimes slow and phlegmatic, sometimes sparklingly fast. There are dozens of black bass and catfish a foot long or so, and hundreds more fingerling, crappie, frogs and whatnot beasts. It is a lovely place. I set there and think, or imagine, or imagine I’m thinking. Sometimes I’m just sating my curiosity with a local whiskey or ale. I watch thoughts and writing snips come in and out, across my brain’s imperfect stage. Great words appear, and they disappear before the laptop is cracked. Writing is best, I guess, when not air drawn, but with fingers on keyboard, or pen to paper. At least it is not lost.

The pond flows out a small vee in the berm, a shallow channel lined with smooth stones and flagellating mosses, and falls into a swale below. When the water flow is high, after a rain or during most of springtime, a second pond forms in the fen, bordered by the stone fence, and shot through with fallen tree, ferns, mosses, other ancient plant and rot. The lower pond is the more scary place, home to snakes, cottonmouth vipers, thick poison ivies, and cutting bramble. In spring it is a thrumming orchestra of peepers — leopard, bull and tree frogs. Raptors and herons fly in and swoop to dine at Soot’s Camp’s ponds, probe the fen, grab and guzzle a small beast, and fly off.

Hummingbirds and bluebirds are constant companions on the granite flat, the house and homestead above the pond. My guests and I tend to stay there, lounging in Adirondack chairs or benches I built. Dogs run here and there, slipping into the pond for a drink or swim. They may return mucky, so we soap their coats and hose them down, pulling out an errant tick or bramble when we can.

A family of coons lives by the pond. I see one or two on occasion, pawing at the algae’d surface from a big rock, maybe grabbing a small turtle or crappie to eat. A large heron swoops in late in the day. She sits in the tree, silhouetted by the gloaming sky. Maybe she’ll swoop down and pluck dinner from Soot’s pond.

A train whistle blows in the background, a mile off, down Leeds Manor, aside Goose Creek. The wheels thrum over the rails and cross-members.

My whiskey is soft.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Poolesville Road Race

Saturday, May 12, 2018, was magical. I rose early and drove from DC north into Maryland, having volunteered to serve as the medic for the National Capital Velo Club’s (NCVC) Poolesville Road Race. When I arrived about 7:15, there was a purposeful bustle of the race getting organized — police officers, race officials, club members setting-up registration, a bicycle repair tent, port-a-potties, food truck — all told, a crew of about 50 preparing to stage six races ranging from 32 to 74 miles for several hundred men, women and junior cyclists.

Poolesville is a unique and, for some, most favored race. It traverses country roads for a ten-mile loop in upper Montgomery County across farmland, woods and aside the Potomac River and C&O canal. One section along River Road is hard-pack dirt and gravel. It elevates riders’ thoughts to the cobblestones of Paris-Roubaix, one of the greatest and most grueling races of the European classics. It is also where, as riders quickly descend the paved Edwards Ferry Road and turn right onto the dirt, we see a lot of crashes.


There was an immense warmth as I stood amidst the race-prep action. I held back tears of joy and nostalgia.

From 2004 to 2011 almost every weekend morning from March to September I was at bike races with my boys, Nathan and Avery. I served in a number of capacities. Initially, as a flummoxed parent trying to do things right — from pinning the race number on my child’s jersey in the right spot, cheering riders, filling and handing out water bottles in feed zones, to taking photographs as a race photographer, to being trained and working as a race official, to performing medical duties (I was trained as an emergency medical technician).

It was a full and joyous life. In about 2006, I was named Team Director for the age 18-and-under NCVC squad. We became quite good, winning a national title for the best developmental team, and preparing talented riders who later rose to compete as professionals across the United States and around the world.

When my children went on to college and beyond, I stopped my intense involvement in the bike racing scene. At Poolesville this day, dressed in my medic garb (purple EMT gloves, gauze sponges, and bottles of saline solution poking out my pockets and backpack), dear old friends came and hugged me. Myron, the lion and long-time president of NCVC, Mimi and Jim, distinguished national race officials, Claudia, Tom, Marc, Bill, Ryan and dozens, racers and friends. Almost all had been captured in my photographs over the years and worked side-by-side with me as a volunteer. Some I had tended to after race crashes. I was “Doc Willy,” my moniker from elementary school, where I cared for buddies who got busted up in the DC schoolyard. This was a nest and community where I raised and supported my boys.


Serving as medic is like sailing — hours of boredom mixed with moments of “terror and chaos.” I rode in a car that followed the race packs around the course, traveling about 120 miles across the day, at an average speed of 15 miles per hour. I watched as a woman racer, "Marilyn," tried to move up in the peloton of about 30 racers and, by mistake, edged right off the road. She tumbled and flipped over the top of her bike. Her left-side skin, jersey and shorts were shredded, shoulder, arm, and hip. Marilyn’s alertness and level of consciousness was normal. She was in pain. I assessed her as stable and gave her gauze sponges for immediate self-care and returned to the medic car (my duty was to attend to trauma, to save lives, and stay with the race pack). Marilyn returned to the race start area. I later cleaned and treated her with saline, povidone-iodine, and occlusive bandages. I gave her supplies so she could also wash and treat her injury in private areas in a private room.

While following the later “Pro 1/2/3” race our radio crackled and my cell-phone rang. A rider was down and needed assistance at Corner 5, the start of the dirt section. We pulled in and parked out of the way. A young man, "Thomas" was standing unevenly near his dusted-up bike; other volunteers and officials stood about. I looked at Thomas and sat him in a chair. He was alert and oriented by four standard measures (AO4). Thomas had come fast into the gravel section and, it seemed, flew over his crashing bike in superman position, landing predominantly on his front right-side. He had abrasions and lacerations from head to toe. My assessment indicated that an ambulance was not needed. (None was called.) Most serious, Thomas had an avulsion of skin and tissue on his chin and jaw that exposed a spot of underlying white tissue, which I surmised was bone. Thomas initially reported little or no pain, “just a numb feeling.” Later, he said, as the adrenaline wore off, the injuries hurt. I performed an initial saline wash and povidone-iodine clean of Thomas's wounds over about 20 minutes, checked his symmetry, palpated his thorax, re-checked alertness, and had Thomas transported back to the race start.

After the race concluded, I returned to the start area and further cleaned Thomas's wounds, applied 4 or 5 occlusive bandages to the larger wounds (excluding his chin, which was not amenable to bandaging, given Thomas's beard), and applied Neosporin ointment to Thomas's unbandaged abrasions. I had him self-clean and treat his chin, given the tenderness of the injury and confusion of flaps of skin and exposed tissue. He salved his chin generously with ointment. I gave Thomas additional gauze sponges, occlusives, saline, and Neosporin, and advised a soon visit to a hospital emergency room or his doctor. His chin would require stitches, and likely debridement and cosmetic surgery.

We joked that while he did not win a race trophy today, Thomas would have a trophy on his chin for a long time.

Thomas was very grateful for this care. I learned he is a third-year medical student at Temple University in Philadelphia. I noted that I was honored, a basic EMT treating a doctor, a balancing of skills and need.


I got home a bit late, 5 PM, and washed and shaved myself thoroughly. (Though I wear medical gloves and protective gear, I always feel a bit tainted by blood, body fluids and medicines after duty.) I put on my good suit, white shirt and blue tie, spritzed with after-shave, and headed to a charity event with high society in McLean, with my love.

Life is fine.

Ed. -- patient names are changed to respect privacy.

Race photos by Claudia GM --

Monday, May 7, 2018

Soot's Camp

Soot’s Camp is Open – Time to Visit
3596 Leeds Manor Road, Markham, Virginia 22643
571.239.6772 –

Lots to do – read, walk, enjoy a cup or glass, gaze at the pond or a fire, visit with friends, build something, ride thy bike, paint, write the Great American Novel ... Nearby highlights –

We’re out most weekends – Call or text to confirm

Soot’s Camp Directions
3596 Leeds Manor Road, Markham, Virginia 22643
571.239.6772 –

From DC/Beltway (about 45 minutes) –

• From Beltway (I-495), take Route 66 West to Markham, Exit 18
• At bottom of exit, turn left onto Leeds Manor Road, Route 688
• Stay on Leeds Manor Road (cross John Marshall Highway / Route 55 just south of I-66 … do not turn left or right on Route 55 … even if your GPS says to …)
• Cross small creek and turn right; continue on Leeds Manor Road over railroad tracks and about one mile to Soot’s Camp, at top of hill on right
• Park where convenient on driveway
• If driveway is full, continue up Leeds Manor Road about 75 yards and turn left into gravel road and park where convenient; walk back (be careful)

From Northern Virginia (e.g., Dulles Airport) –

• Take Route 28, Route 15 or Route 17 south to Route 66 West, directions as above

Cyclists –

Bike pump, water, tools around back ...

Monday, April 23, 2018

Ricalton Research -- 4.2018

James Ricalton in his study, Waddington, NY

Roger Bailey, a retired art professor from Saint Lawrence University in Canton, New York, reached out to me a year or so ago because he is interested in my great grandfather and namesake James Ricalton. James was a great but largely unheralded photographer and explorer. James’ photographs are in many collections, including the Library of Congress, Smithsonian, and Metropolitan Museum of Art. He did much work for Thomas Edison.

Roger saw this and wanted to explore who Ricalton was. I have a pretty good trove of Ricalton writings and artifacts, from the chest he packed to carry material down the Saint Lawrence, to his diary from his 1909 walk from Cape Town to Cairo, to various photographs, Edison notes, and Kikuyu carvings. I also know Ricalton and his stories through his daughter, Mary, a beloved friend, my paternal grandmother.


We hit off easily. I picked Roger up at the GWU Metro Thursday evening and we came to my Georgetown townhouse, and poked through various papers, boxes and troves, discovering stuff of which even I was unaware. Then we went to a local pub, Sovereign, for dinner and beer. On Friday, Roger spent the day at my house reviewing material, with a trip to the Library of Congress to meet with a curator. The curator, Josie, was wonderful. She showed us various references and, most fantastic, moving pictures Ricalton had made — in Cairo, Egypt, and most likely Canton and Shanghai, China, c. 1897. (Specific provenance of these old but now digitized films requires further research.) My father George had always said we should go to the Library to see Ricalton’s films, but we never did. (Dad, a writer, was much more a man of “should do” than “do.”) So this visit with Roger felt a bit warming for me, akin to a lost father-son activity.

On Monday, we visited with the senior photography curator at the American History Museum, focusing our insights and interests. In a couple weeks I will meet with a noted antique and old-book expert to gain more knowledge, and perhaps learn other references. Roger and I surfaced a few new Ricalton materials. I am continuing my research into Ricalton’s Africa journeys, in particular, his responses to adversity that ranged from technical inconvenience to medical trauma and death of a young tribesman, to the loss of Ricalton's son Lomond by typhoid pneumonia in British East Africa.

I remain in search of Ricalton photographs or writings from Abyssinia, what we know today as Ethiopia (where I do charity work).


Ever to learn. -- James Ricalton Wilson (Jim), 4/24/2018

Sunday, April 15, 2018

The Post (the movie)

Steven Spielberg and Amy Pascal’s movie The Post is a compelling depiction of the decisions made by Katherine Graham (played by Meryl Streep) to publish the Pentagon Papers in opposition to the Nixon administration, against the advice of her lawyers and investors, and in support of her news staff led by Ben Bradlee (played by Tom Hanks). Two themes stand out: Freedom of the press against an ill-motivated government and the courage and insight of a very impressive woman, Mrs. Graham.

Like many documentaries, the movie was selective to fit a complex event into a two-hour film – to paraphrase Mrs. Graham’s husband, Philip, it was a rough draft of history. What was missing included the decisive Bazelon appeals court scene between Pentagon officials with a “top secret” supposedly contained in the Pentagon Papers, which the Administration forcefully argued supported non-publication, and the Washington Post lawyers and experts, highlighted by George C. Wilson’s decisive testimony. This deeper investigation of prior restraint and rule-by-facts is covered by Geoffrey Cowan’s 2008 play Top Secret: The Battle for the Pentagon Papers and described by CBS's interview with George.

I had an insight from George, my father, that fit nicely with Spielberg’s movie, which I submitted to Pascal’s creative executive early in 2017. It fit nicely with movie scenes portraying the tension between Mrs. Graham and Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara – though it may have been over-elaboration, given the already effective screenplay.

Here’s part of the bit I offered: “Every time Robert McNamara saw Katherine Graham, Secretary McNamara would jab his finger at her (I imagine at a high society Georgetown cocktail party) and say: ‘George Wilson is the worst reporter in this town.’ Mrs. Graham would turn, smile and say, ‘I know.’ (We like it that way, she'd convey.)”

Dad had a strong track record taking on the military and Pentagon on many counts, wrote sharply and critically about the Vietnam War, sometimes covering the front page of the Post with three stories of breaking news.

An amazing thing about Mrs. Graham, Dad later reflected, was that she never told Dad or others about Secretary McNamara's criticisms. She kept the newsroom from this undue or tilting influence. Mrs. Graham was extraordinarily decent.

In any case, please see The Post, an enlightening and hopeful film. You can purchase a copy of Top Secret: The Battle for the Pentagon Papers play on Amazon or learn more from this USC Annenberg web site.

-- Jim

-- originally published on Facebook on January 1, 2018

References --

-- The Post movie --
-- Top Secret (play): The Battle for the Pentagon Papers -- (USC Annenberg)
-- Top Secret (play/docudrama) on Amazon:
-- CBS New article about George C. Wilson and Bazelon courtroom scene --

Sunday, November 15, 2015

Time to Cry

11.14.2015 -- Why do I cry? I am very fortunate. I was walking my boxer Soot in the woods and fields at Langley Forks, adjacent to the CIA. A soccer game had mustered in the lower field. Soot ran and leapt with joy, cavorted as we walked about the upper field and through the woods. The day was beautiful, crisp air, blue skies, and puffy white clouds -- cliche. We walked about the soccer game at the lower field. The grass was damp but crisp. The players were good, very good; a mix of men and women in their twenties and thirties, I surmised. Cheers and lacing teamwork, as they cut and pushed the ball back and forth, quick stepping in corners or about an opponent. About two-dozen spectators sat on benches and folding chairs at the side of the field. Young children ran about, dodging in and out of spectators, between blankets and coolers. Meadow, woods, and a bit of marsh surround the field. Soot was in heaven, nuzzling the crisp, dried grasses, golden-hued, rolling and gyrating on her back. I was crying.

This was the field some 40 years past where I had run joyously, running laps for fitness and playing rugby with many beloved friends. Age and injury had taken away my athleticism. But I cried because of the gap, the missing joy of this experience, for my boys. In the restricted and constrained lives that they were given, I felt they missed some of the careless joys I had. And I missed holding them; I missed their happiness and love, which was somehow abrogated in a broken relation. I walked further with Soot and sat in the tall grass at a meadow, out of sight. Soot rolled joyously. I began to sob.

The night before I was at Blues Alley with Adriene, an artist and creative, a journalist, friend of Barack and Michelle, and many. We were listening to Jonathan Butler, a South African, who sang and played deeply, soulfully. His work includes a tribute to Nelson Mandela, which I had listened to earlier this week, and cried. My seat and table had me twisting to watch Jonathan, about eight feet away on stage. Various lights shined. Tears flowed on my face. It was the beauty of Jonathan’s music, the close scene, Adriene, and my release from Ethiopia.

When one walks about the impoverished, the destitute, and as much or more, the givers who make things better, much comes to the soul. I was heavy with emotion. Joy, yes, because we made things better. But trouble and sadness because things are so bad. “Shee-shee-shee,” replayed for me. I wanted to go back, to help more, and give comfort.

I was also afraid. Adriene did not know until I told her. Nor did the band. (I told the keyboardist, Arlington Jones, after the show.) More than 100 people had just been killed in Paris, victims of coordinated terrorist attacks. Many were youth attending a concert, inside the Bataclan, slaughtered by submachine gun. Others were dining in a couple popular Right Bank restaurants. Others were incised, avulsed and compressed by suicide bombs. Paris was littered in blood.

The event was live, as we listened to soulful music in a nightclub in Georgetown. I checked the exits, my path there through people, tables and chairs. How I would pull Adriene down and cover her if something happened. The blood, death, trauma, and injury in Paris were alarming, but I don’t think I cried because of it. I cried because of the beauty of the human response. Those who care, those who ran in to aid (and some thus killed), those who opened their homes to the injured and displaced. (“#Porteouverte” was the social media hash tag -- Our door is open if you need.) I cried because of the innate beauty of the human response, like those who gave me care, those in Catalog.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Those We Serve -- Liver Cancer

Liver Cancer

10.27.2015 – I had dinner with Dr. Alemayehu at Rodeo, a cowboy-themed open-air restaurant in Bole, Addis Ababa. It was lovely; wood fires burned ambitiously in large pits about the patio. I had steak and beer; Alemayehu, chicken and rice and mineral water. We coursed over many topics, from the deeply personal to operational matters for our charitable healthcare program, EHN. We spoke of the larger framework of governmental health programs, charity and NGO management, including work by the Gates Foundation. I said I understood that the government’s model is to provide a healthcare worker (a nurse) or two for every 100 households, and one clinic for every 1,000. I thought this was good, and hoped that it would put my small non-profit out of business.

Alemayehu lamented the quality of care at the large health centers, and said there are still large gaps that EHN and NGOs fill. In fact, today, he said, he saw a man [1] who had terrible stomach pain. He had been to multiple doctors and health centers. He paid 1,700 ET Birr (about $90 USD) for an invasive endoscopy. They had given him medicines and many tests. Nothing improved. Alemayehu touched the man, palpated his abdomen. He felt a mass on his liver. He conducted ultrasound. There was a large mass, a tumor. LeAlem’s lab analyzed the patient’s liver enzymes and function. The numbers were very high. The man had liver cancer, and was going to die. Alemayehu respectfully and kindly gave the accurate diagnosis and prognosis. The man was comforted, thankful, after months of stress and wrong diagnosis and treatment.

We discussed the patterns where the large health centers perform the function, but do not treat the patient, and as a result they miss things. I’ve seen this in the United States, for example, where my father was on needless chemotherapy (Neupogen) for months, and my mother’s amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease) went undiagnosed by esteemed practitioners. (Even the suggestion of ALS, by my father, was laughed at by our family physician, my wife’s doctor.) So nothing is perfect. But my base sense is the medical care provided by a patient-focused doctor, who seeks to understand the full context, is better. More, I think a community-based physician in a developing country like Ethiopia may be more skilled because he or she has to cope with a broader array of affliction, with less technical intervention and support. In the main, a third-world community doctor, like Alemayehu, is very closely connected to those he treats.

[1] The subject is a private patient, not an EHN beneficiary.

Those We Serve -- Kittens


10.27.2015 – A few doors down our next beneficiary lived in a similar one-room hovel, a bed, a couple of boxes as chairs, and a box of kittens and mom-cat. She paid about 35 cents US (7.5 Birr) per month in subsidized rent. For the prior four years she had lived on the street under a plastic tarp. She was about 50 years old, clothed in bright colors and beautiful. I insisted she sit next to me, atop her bed, legs trailing down towards the room center. She had suffered so much, but was thankful for the medical care we gave. With the health care, she was now able to get out of bed and go to work, where she could make money to help support her daughter (who had lived under the plastic tarp with her). Her deferential sensitivity struck me. I wrapped my arm around her back. Her husband, her daughter’s father, had died several years ago, of AIDS. She and her daughter are HIV positive. I gave 200 Birr, about 2-year’s rent. Better, I hope, a good meal.

Those We Serve -- Maggot Head

Maggot Head

While Kneeling describes recognition and a compassionate response, other recognitions did not yield such kindness. There are many poor, begging on the streets of Addis. Some with grave deformity, young children pressing out before their mothers, old thin women pointing a finger into their mouths, ‘give me food.’ My one-kilometer daily walk from the Jupiter hotel to LeAlem Higher Clinic passed perhaps a dozen sad cases. I did not take pictures. In the first block, a higher sidewalk in front of construction sites, I’d walk past men sleeping on the cement, splayed like fish on a dock. One fellow’s head, face, and neck were crawled over by hundreds of white maggots. This was shocking. I knelt; I thought, should I bring him to the hotel room and have him bathe? Part of me considered buying a bottle of disinfectant alcohol and swabbing and cleaning his head, then bringing him to the clinic for de-lousing and medication. I did nothing but let him sleep. There are limits and one develops filters in such situations. When I was trained as an emergency medical technician (EMT), we learned ‘scene safety’ as a first, most important rule. You have to protect yourself. An ill or dead caregiver is a greater loss than one person’s suffering, than to go forward with an unsafe incident. With maggot head, I considered my own susceptibility (and that of the next person to sleep in my hotel room). Also, I thought about the general structure of the problem. A man without employment, sleeping on the street, covered with maggots. There are many contributing problems that need repair to make a durable solution. My conscience was also eased by the fact that I give so much already, to mothers and children in need, in Addis. Alas, though, it is an important question and urge. We wish we could fix many more things. There is no shortage of need, of the compelling and grotesque that may be improved. But we are mortal, and cannot cure all.

Those We Serve -- Kneeling


10.27.2015 – We were at Meseret Humanitarian Organization, a women-focused NGO in Addis Ababa, sub-city Kirkos, to see their tour of capabilities and accomplishment. After, we visited several beneficiaries. The first was a mud-walled, tin-roof home about 12 feet square, with a rear niche that was for cooking. A man, about 46 years old, sat rocking on an upturned bucket for his chair. He was crying gently, “Shee-shee-shee,” as he rocked back and forth. With the oncoming of three social workers and me, his niece, a beneficiary, turned and relocated him to another chair (an upturned box with a towel atop), more in the corner, out of the way. He complied. We learned he was mentally retarded, deaf, and blind in one eye. Assembled in the dark house, we talked our normal business with the beneficiary: How have you worked with Meseret, what has been your experience with healthcare provided by LeAlem? Do you have children? How are they? Are there areas we can improve? The woman answered steadfastly and appreciatively. She had had right leg pain and diffuse stomach pain, epigastric pain. She had been treated well at LeAlem, with respect and good results. (This wasn’t her prior experience at other centers, she said.) Her children had scalp fungus, which was treated with antifungal cream and antibiotics provided by EHN/LeAlem, and cured. We spoke for about 15 minutes. These things passed through. I took a couple pictures. Four healthcare workers. We’d ignored the man. I asked, “Can I touch him?” I kneeled on the mud floor, and reached my right hand to the man’s back, and stroked. I reached and held his left hand, and squeezed gently. I drew a bit closer, and held for a few minutes. His crying and rocking stopped. The man’s older sister, also disabled, had hidden herself behind a dingy curtain in the kitchen. She started to cry.

We stepped out of the house to the alley. I lingered. The sister came out and hugged me. “Thank-you-thank-you-God-Bless,” she said. I touched her face and said, “Thank you.”

Sunday, October 25, 2015

On the Stoop ...

I love the city ... flat-faced old row house, I was leaning against the wall (my stoop), watching the traffic -- people on different paths, edgy car drivers, big trucks -- like a child obsessed with train tracks, parking spaces filling and emptying. When Nobue arrived, we coursed a mile to the market, for a baguette (or not), Belgian beer, and tarts. Dinner in the old basement, new industrial kitchen, warm spaghetti and absinthe for the soul ... hugs and dessert ... so much: I love the city ...