Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Two Moments In New Mexico

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The month was November. On the rim of the canyon, high above the Rio Grande shrubs and grasses faded into the colors of cold weather. The sky a slice of lapis, the air was calm. Dead calm. Alone in my thoughts I was hiking the trail, when a voice from some far reach of my consciousness said, “stop,” and so I stopped. It was then I realized I was surrounded by complete, utter silence. This was the first time this had happened in my life. I closed my eyes; the beating of my heart, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the pressure of my feet down upon the earth were all I had. My heart became almost unbearable to listen to. For a few moments I persevered and stood still. The experience, reducing the external world to almost nil and thus expanding the internal shook me deeply. I moved on.

[Since then, I have had one other encounter with complete silence in a remote grassland of North Dakota. That time, as I attempted to take notes the sound of the pen point on paper was more than I could take. I stopped writing.]

. . .

The month was July. The sun was going down and I was sitting on a picnic table at a campsite in Chaco Canyon. All day, exploring the ruins, the sun and heat and still air had bore intense and sharp. The temperature had hovered in the low 100’s (°F) and the relief with end of day was welcome. I was waiting for the stars. I’d heard being so far away from any source of city lights, the night sky over Chaco was spectacular.

High thin cloud cover formed as sunset turned to twilight. This was a disappointment. The curtain was falling just as the show was to begin. I continued to sit on the table. The space around me, the stillness, the clear failing light; something was building in the quiet, as a bell in the moment before the clapper hits. Hoping the clouds would dissipate I watched the sky, and it became apparent. The clouds were not clouds at all. This was the Milky Way. The air so clear, the stars so bright, they had been fully visible well before nightfall. Fantastic. This was a look back, a glimpse of something ancient. I have never seen anything like it since.

Gordon Bunker

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Fresh Air At Skinners Pond


(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

On the North Cape of Prince Edward Island, Canada there’s a small fishing village called Skinners Pond. I camped there for a few days among the dunes while on a road trip through the Maritime Provinces. Late summer was giving way to fall.

Getting back to my campsite after a day of hiking the shore – beaches free of any human development for as far as the eye can see and strewn with seaweed the locals call “moss” – it became apparent I didn’t have much of anything to eat. Tignish, the nearest town large enough that might (or might not) have a grocery store was eleven miles away and the day had been too relaxing, the place too beautiful to break the spell by getting in the car.

On the far side of the harbor was a small refrigeration plant serving the local fishing fleet. I decided to walk over and find out if anyone would sell me some fish. As I approached, it was plain to see the place was not set up to receive customers. Men were intent on operating cranes and forklifts, hoisting large square plastic tubs of fish from boats and hustling them into the building. The fellow I said hello to looked surprised, but was friendly and directed me to the boss who I’d find in the building. Inside, the place was cold and wet, and smelled of the sea and of fish. It was earthy and real. I found the fellow in charge. He was built like a brick, had a ruddy complexion and wore high black rubber boots, and bright yellow waterproof bib overalls.

“Could I buy some fish?” I asked.

“No.” He said as he started moving toward a passageway hung with strips of heavy clear plastic and gestured for me to come along. He was light on his feet. I followed him into a refrigerated room – now it was seriously cold – the plastic tubs were stacked four and five high. One sat alone on the floor. It had no top and was full of all sorts of fish. “But we’ll give ya whatever ya want.” He said.

“I really would like to pay.” I said. No one was getting rich here.

“We don’t sell fish.” By this point he had a large flounder by the tail. “Do ya like flounder?”

“Yes.” I said.

“How many would ya like?”

“Two.”

He put two more in the bag and handed it to me. “Have yourself a good dinner.” I thanked him, shook his callused vice of a hand and was on my way. Simple acts of kindness are the best. This would be a feast.

Back at the campsite I found my sheath knife and set to cleaning the fish. My mother had taught me how to do this. Her childhood was spent in rural New Hampshire on a farm in the years following the Great Depression. She knew how to hunt and fish, and clean game and taught me well. Standing at the wooden picnic table on the dunes I filleted the fish, while all around me the wind rustled and hissed through the grasses. At least for the moment this was the center of life, the fresh air, the salt smells, the sound of the surf on the beach, and here before me a generous bounty from the sea.

Smoke and sparks rose into the sky. The fish sizzled and sputtered in a pan of hot butter over the open fire, quickly turning opaque almond white. To sit at the table, to eat this meal, the fish sweet and rich with a grind of pepper, and a piece of bread and a cucumber and a cold beer, it was one of the most satisfying I’ve known. Low sunlight swept across the sea and dunes, dark was on the way.

After cleaning up and taking a good long look at my surroundings, I got into the tent and for a little while read by the light of the candle lantern. Nodding off, I blew out the candle and felt good and warm and safe. Listening to the sounds, feeling the tent flap, sleep came easily, a deep quiet dreamlessness.

Gordon Bunker

Photo: Vic Brincat

Thursday, April 14, 2011

It Does Happen


(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

There may be an unlucky Brit who, albeit from a very different perspective knows this story. To this individual and to all the English, really and truly my father had nothing against you.

My father was a pilot in the U.S. Army Air Force and during World War II flew B-17’s on bombing missions over Germany. Flying back to England from one such mission he had to, well, relieve himself. These aircraft had a crew of ten and toilet facilities amounted to a thunder bucket in a corner, the cleaning of which was relegated to the first crew member who used it, regardless of rank. So of course everyone would wait and wait and wait. Then after the fellow who couldn’t wait any longer went; everyone went. Once back on the ground, cleanup was a terrible chore.

On this particular occasion my dad waited as long as he could. When he got to the thunder bucket he found it clean as a whistle. He was the first. Considering this unfortunate circumstance he had an idea. Homing pigeons were also on board (although not considered crew members), to fly reconnaissance data back to England. A capsule containing film or notes would be attached to their backs and prior to being dropped out of a hatch in the belly of the plane they would be put in a paper bag. This would protect them from the slipstream of air rushing past the fuselage and once dropped, the bird would flap it’s way out of the bag and fly to base. He took one of the bags, relieved himself in it, opened the hatch and let it go. Clever! After all, he was not captain of the ship for no reason.

On his way back to the pilot’s chair and no doubt feeling satisfied in more ways than one, he shouted above the din asking the navigator, “Where are we?”

The navigator responded, “Over London, Sir.”

Paper bags regardless of, contents, may or may not whistle like bombs when they fall through the air. My dad often expressed his regrets. “My only hope is,” he said, “if the poor bastard looked up, he at least kept his mouth closed.”

Gordon Bunker

Monday, April 11, 2011

TV


(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Years ago we were talking about traveling by motorcycle and the relative merits of camping and staying in motels. Schmidt said, “My idea of roughing it is a motel with black & white TV.” I was a proponent of camping and thought he was a wuss (discretion being the better part of valor, I kept this to myself). I also love to mention I have never owned a TV as it always gets a rise out of people, so probably sprung that one on Schmidt. The truth however is that I am not pure.

Many summers ago I took off on das motorrad to visit Kipper who lived near Lake Tahoe. I’d never been there, and we had some girl chasing and beer drinking to catch up on. There was primo southwestern countryside to explore between here and there, so I packed my tent and sleeping bag and all my camping paraphernalia.

After getting the usual crack of noon start I rode well into the evening and ended up somewhere in southeastern Utah. It was getting on toward dark, I was whooped and the prospect of sleeping on the ground didn’t strike me as enticing. So, I decided to stay at the mom & pop motel which handily presented itself on the horizon. Lo and behold, in the room was a TV (color no less). I turned the thing on and watched the first episode of a Masterpiece Theatre on PBS. It was a good show.

The next day dawned sunny and warm and after some breakfast, I got on the road. It was a glorious day of riding, covering some amazing country across Utah and heading for Route 50, “the loneliest road in America.” By the end of a full day in the saddle I was tired and the thought of sleeping on the ground wasn’t any more appealing than the night before. And there… was a little motel. Well, what the heck… plus there was the next episode of Masterpiece Theatre… I pulled in and checked in and after some dinner got myself settled in front of the tube. The second episode didn’t disappoint.

The next night on the road, somewhere in Nevada… yep, you guessed it. My tent and gear, all the way to Tahoe and all the way back never came out of the sacks. And I don’t even bother bringing that stuff any more. I got some TV to watch.

Gordon Bunker

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Subscribe

Hello Everyone,

The “Follow By Email” gadget you see to the right works wonderfully. Just enter your email address, click submit and follow the steps in the confirmation email Google will send you. Voila! You’ll receive an email version of new posts as they become available. No junk mail, no advertisements. Very cool. Thank you Google.

And as always, thank you readers.

Gordon Bunker

Monday, April 4, 2011

Concerning The Teabag


(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Uncle Horace, my dad’s brother who he affectionately called “Brother Rat” for reasons which remain obscure, had impeccable manners and being a proper Bostonian there was no fooling around with them. My dad also had impeccable manners, but he was a playful trouble maker. And so begins the story of how the two of them parried on how to squeeze a teabag.

Horace loved tea. Dad usually drank coffee but welcomed a cup of tea when his brother offered one, mainly I think, for the opportunity to irk him. When Horace’s tea had steeped sufficiently he would put the bag in his spoon over the cup and wind the string around it. He would then give the string a little tug and when the bag had drained he would then set it on the saucer. He would do this with particular care, maybe even pomp and circumstance and then look up and smirk, all as if to say, “that is the proper method, so there.”

My dad would then yank the bag out of his cup, look at Horace, grasp the hot dangling packet with his fingers and squeeze it for all it was worth. He would then let go of the bag, hold it up and inspect it. He might squeeze it again if he thought there was another drop to be had. I always expected he might then fling it across the room if a trash basket was in sight, but instead he would delicately place it on the saucer. For added effect, he would take his first sip of the tea with a good loud slurp.

Horace would sit there, repulsed and seething with disdain.

The apple does not fall far from the tree, so while I know it is bad manners, I squeeze a teabag like my dad. Years after my dad died I was visiting the northeast. Horace at the time lived in a suburb of Boston and we made a date to meet at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts to wander around a bit and have lunch. It was a Sunday and Horace showed up wearing his usual uniform, a Brooks Brothers suit. I had dressed up for the occasion in a newish pair of jeans and dress shirt, and might have even gone over my shoes with a damp sponge.

We had a fine time touring around the galleries, and then headed for the Upper Level Galleria restaurant – the downstairs café was not an option. The upstairs restaurant offers, “seasonally inspired, artfully prepared cuisine marked with an emphasis on sustainable, local ingredients (in a) casual-contemporary atmosphere.” Indeed, this is Boston, this is the MFA, and make no mistake the clientele bleed blue. Hoity-toityness aside, the place does have class, it provides a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle and the food is delicious. So, Horace and I gave each other a look acknowledging our mutual appreciation of the hostess’s withers, obediently followed her to a table, took our comfortable seats and dined. Interesting salads and entrées arrived, empty tableware got whisked away; serve left take away right. Then it was time for dessert. And tea.

We each got a little stainless steel pot with the teabag’s string and paper tab hanging out from under the cover. Horace opened his pot, pulled out the teabag, placed it in his spoon, wound the string around the bag and with satisfaction plain for all to see, gave it a little tug. All was right with the world. His at least. I watched him carefully but because I like strong tea, let mine steep longer. I opened my pot, pulled up the bag and was about to give it a squeeze… and then the whole thing came back to me. I started to pick up my spoon, but reconsidered. I then grabbed a hold of the bag and with obvious glee gave it a thorough squeeze with my fingers. I didn’t look at Horace directly, but I knew he was watching me like a hawk. He winced. Nevertheless he was still good enough to pick up the bill.

Gordon Bunker

ps.

One Thanksgiving I was setting the table, all in heirloom linen, silver, china and crystal. The whole thing was quite an affair and those tables were beautiful. Horace was watching me and when it came to the butter knives he asked, “Do you know where those go?” He was twinkling, just itching to point out the correct position and teach this wayward spawn of his heathen brother a lesson.

I looked him in the eye and said, “here,” as I placed the butter knife transverse to the setting between the bread and butter plate and glassware. With the handle pointing right, of course. The poor guy, deflated, slumped into the saddest picture of disbelief. Ha ha!

GB