Catskill Ramblings

If, as existentialist Jean-Paul Sartre believed, life after death happens only when someone remembers the deceased, then my parents-in-law, Bob and Mary Ellen Traver, have been alive these past couple of weeks. Pictured here is the single flower from Mom Traver's peony, a plant that my sister-in-law, Mary Jo, and I dug up and split five years ago when the family home in Prattsville was sold. Mary Jo's plant also offers only one single bloom each Spring.


In mid-May, Mary Jo and I managed to get together for a trip to Thomas Cole's house, Cedar Grove, by luck on the first clear blue-sky day after weeks of torrential rain. In the car, heading south, we chatted about our kids, books, music, work, and events since we had seen each other last. In familiar territory, we had no trouble finding Cedar Grove.



Thomas Cole painted wild Catskill mountain vistas in the early 1800s, and is considered the founder of the Hudson River School of painting, a genre which gave credibility to American Art in the early decades of the United States. Once a farm of hundreds of acres reaching from the hills to the Hudson River, Cedar Grove now consists of only a few acres. Despite being tucked between a synagogue, a busy street, residential homes, and the Rip Van Winkle Bridge, the home and views from the wide porch drew us instantly into Cole's time and art.

A large window inside the house echoed this porch view. How often had Thomas Cole gazed upon the mountains at all times of day and season, studying the light for his next painting? Mary Jo and I were sure we could find inspiration of some kind if our livingrooms and porches faced such a scene.

Eventually Cole moved his work to a studio (below) on the property where he could focus on his work away from the hubbub of an active household. And when he wasn't in the house or studio, he would hike through the forests, playing his flute and carrying a sketch pad and pencils.

In the visitor's center, we were fascinated by an "Art Trail" pamphlet that showed many of the sites painted by Hudson River School painters. The locations were familiar to us. Mary Jo had even taken her parents on a short walk to one of the sites long ago. Over the years, Bill and I had been to almost all of them.

A bend in the Catskill Creek was listed as the Artist point closest to Cedar Grove. We had driven over the bridge past this viewpoint a hundred times, often to visit Mom T. at the nursing home in Catskill.

Mary Jo and I remembered the area as unimpressive, but, Thomas Cole's painting fresh in our minds, we decided to check out the spot anyway. We parked the car at a nondescript abandoned pub and crossed the bridge to see the view better. We were both shocked. Had it always been this beautiful? Why had we not paid more attention to this scene over the years? We both knew without saying it, that visits to an ailing parent had consumed our focus.

We decided to drive the short distance across the Hudson to Olana, also on the Art Trail and home to another Hudson River School painter and student of Thomas Cole, Frederic Church. From Olana's hill-top setting, the Hudson River curved below backed by clear blue mountains. No question, art imitated life for these artists.

On the way home, Mary Jo and I stopped at Stewart's for an ice cream cone. I went for a chocolate variety. Mary Jo ordered butter pecan, Dad Traver's favorite and a favorite of hers as well.

By now, I was pretty hooked on the Art Trail

and decided that Bill and I needed to go back to

some of the locations in the pamphlet that we had hiked before we were married.

The Sunday after Mary Jo and I had made the trip to Cedar Grove, Bill and I headed west into the Catskill Mountains on route 23A. Every stretch of this road brought back memories. Dad T. had driven a privately contracted U.S. Mail route stopping at post offices from Grand Gorge to Saugerties. Narrowly hugging the side of the mountain, the road was often treacherous. Still, its beauty was, and is still, unsurpassed.

I met Bill during our freshman year of college. The following fall, we went to Prattsville for a weekend and chose to accompany Dad T. on his Friday evening drive through Hunter and Tannersville. I was in awe of the fall foliage, the rock-bound narrow road, and rolling farmland. On the way back to Prattsville, we stopped to pick up a pizza for dinner in Tannersville, the closest pizza shop in the Northern Catskills.

By the following spring, again visiting from college, Bill and I fit in our first Catskill hike, a walk to the site of the Catskill Mountain House. I remembered a comfortable path through the woods, and a view looking down on North and South Lakes, with the Hudson far beyond. Not long after, Bill took me to Kaaterskill Falls.

Now, thirty-five years later, I wanted to see these places again, for old-times-sake, but also from the perspective of the Hudson River School painters. Our first short hike this day would be to Kaaterskill Falls. A kiosk at the trailhead showed both the pencil sketch and the final painting that Thomas Cole created from this location.

Today's weather was gray and damp. As we approached the falls, we heard the roar of water running fast from recent heavy rains. Bill and I talked about our trip here long ago when the water came down in a thinner stream and the trail went much higher alongside the falls. Our old hiking book encouraged walking on the narrow ledge that went underneath the falls for a more dramatic experience. At the time this was part of the thrill, but not today--the trail ends at the base with danger signs in bold yellow.

Back at the car, we continued on to the trailheads in the North-South Lake area, pulling into the DEC parking lot just before the state park entrance. Over the years, Bill and I had hiked in the Catskills regularly, but we had never been back to some of our early outings. It seemed amazing that we could return to these same landmarks after so many years and life-experience together. I re-emphasized to him that the Catskill Mountain House site had been our first hike.

Bill studied all the trail signs next to the parking area that listed the lakes and the sites of various hotels, now long gone, and said, "I don't think we hiked to the Catskill Mountain House that first time. I think we hiked to the Kaaterskill House."

Say-what??? "But it was always the Catskill Mountain House. I would have remembered if it was a different but similar word," I blurted out, stunned. I even had photographs with the name written on them.

"Oh well, I might have said Catskill, but, back then, I was into it being Kaaterskill with a 'K.'" Clearly, my teenage charm and beauty had overwhelmed Bill's ability to differentiate details!

He added, "Anyway, you're into the Hudson River School places today, so it doesn't really matter."

The fact was, I could tell right away that we had not hiked the trail to the Catskill Mountain House before, because most of the walk was on paved state park road. We looked at the trail for the Kaaterskill House and that seemed to fit our memories better. Apparently, I was not going to revisit our youth and a destination on the Art Trail at the same time.

"It may even have been the Laurel House," Bill said, now studying our maps. In my innocence, I had trusted this guy?

A heavy layer of fog descended on the mountain as we set off walking the two miles of park road to get to the half-mile trail to the Catskill Mountain House site. One of many huge Victorian hotels offering a view across the mountains, the Mountain House, and others like it, had enticed city dwellers to come by train for fresh air, relaxation, and renewed health. Most of these vacation spots for the wealthy had burned down in the first half of the twentieth century.

Today there would be no views. I could hardly even see Bill on the trail ahead of me. Now and then we stumbled upon a sign indicating that we were still going in the right direction.

When we reached the summit, a few people sat on the rocks having a picnic in the fog. Even though it was not actually raining, water dripped from our hair and eyebrows. We could only imagine the view across the valley.

In fact, we could imagine it well because it was basically the same view we had seen from many other places in the North-South Lake trail system. And who's to say those Hudson River School painters weren't also at those locations recapturing the beauty of the lakes and valley below on canvas?

Eventually, we drove back to Route 23A, again remembering Dad T. and the mail truck. For years he had driven the mid-day route to Saugerties with his Saint Bernard dog, Holly, in the passenger seat. Postmasters at each town along the way greeted them both; and just about lunch time, they hit the McDonald's in Saugerties, each getting a Big Mac.

Today, we went by the old house, now hardly recognizable since the new owners took down the pines, adding on and redesigning its shape. Over the Schoharie Creek and up the hill we climbed to the town cemetery where we found the family stone. Bill and I pulled away a few high grasses; I would be sure to tell Mary Jo that "2010" had been properly etched into the granite.

We took the back road home, over the ridge above the valley and the town of Windham. I had never tired of this ride in all the years we had driven it regularly. Today huge lilac bushes stood in full bloom at every farm house, and blossomed profusely in fields where farm houses must have once stood.

At home, I decided that we should have some butter pecan ice cream. I make it from the Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream Cookbook. Before even mixing the cream, the pecans are browned in a stick of real butter. Wouldn't Dad Traver have loved this? I made the mix, chilled it overnight, and then put it all in my ice cream machine the next day. Rich and creamy with sweet butter and nuts.

And yesterday, Mom Traver's peony bloomed.

Walkway Over the Hudson

When the new Walkway Over the Hudson opened in 2009, I knew I wanted to check it out. A mile and a quarter in length, the walkway was built on an old railroad bridge, connecting the west side of the river at Highland to the city of Poughkeepsie on the east. I was sure that views would be fabulous from this high point above the river, but months went by, and I did not get there. It seemed like a long drive for a short outing, and never seemed to fit in with any of our trips along the thruway.




Finally, I decided that if I offered the new park as an Adirondack Mountain Club outing, other people who, like me, might have thought of going but just hadn't prioritized it, might join me. Getting it on the calendar was the first step.




I had a group of eight on a chilly gray Spring day. Only one participant had been to the walkway before. We drove down the west side of the river and parked in the lot for the nearby bike path, where parking is free. As a New York State Park, the Walkway parking costs $5. On this day, finding a parking spot was not difficult. A kiosk, with a nearby bathroom and picnic tables, provided us all with park brochures and maps.




The walkway is 24 feet wide and feels very stable. No one felt insecure above the trees and water. We took our time, looking in every direction. Clouds hung heavy, but high, and the wind blew strong and chilly. We were glad we had brought hooded sweatshirts and windbreakers.

The website had suggested a 3.6 mile loop which would take us across the bridge, south through a small portion of Poughkeepsie, back across the Mid-Hudson Bridge, and north to our parking lot. Below is a view to the south with the Mid-Hudson Bridge in the foreground, Hudson Highlands to the south, and a riverside park and tour boat on the lower left in Poughkeepsie.

On both sides of the Walkway, plaques are posted describing the history of the bridge, from its beginnings with the railroad to its current restoration for pedestrian use. The park also has a cell phone audio tour.

We stopped often to read the plaques and to talk about the views. It took us an hour and twenty minutes to walk the mile and a quarter. We studied the buildings along both sides of the river, the city of Poughkeepsie and its new train station, boats that sailed below, and mountains that tried to come out from under the clouds, as we wandered back and forth across the bridge in a zigzag line from west to east.

Finally, the sky opened up and the Catskills to the North came out in shades of blue. We watched as a mile-long freight train rounded the Western shore.














At the east side, the Walkway ends as it had begun on the west side, with a kiosk, picnic tables, a bathroom, and parking lot. With map in hand, we followed the streets into an Italian section of Poughkeepsie. Every street corner was well-marked (note the third sign down on the pole), directing our progress on the loop trail.

Just beyond the train station, we found many restaurants. Something to keep in mind if we come sometime without a picnic lunch. This area has changed considerably from ten or fifteen years ago when I used to come here to get the Metro-North train for New York City, a huge financial savings when we brought a full car with kids, and before Trailways and Megabus made travel to the City cheaper with fare wars.









From the Walkway, we had seen a rushing creek going through the city and tumbling into a large waterfall before reaching the Hudson. Now at ground level, we meandered alongside the rushing water by a stone wall in a residential neighborhood. We followed the Park Loop signs along a sidewalk where a few remaining cherry blossoms dropped petals to our feet.

In ADK tradition, we had our lunches in backpacks and were happy to find the waterfront park that we had seen from the Walkway. The sun came out in full and we soaked it up, visiting and enjoying a picnic with the Walkway Over The Hudson visible in the background.

Signs led us onto the Mid-Hudson Bridge. This bridge walk is narrow, with traffic nearby. We could feel the vibrations of the cars, but no one seemed unnerved by this, and, now with a clear sky, we could enjoy the views again.

At the foot of each tower, a speaker plays Bridge Music, percussive music performed by hitting various metal sections of the bridge with mallets and hammers. A panel lists the different pieces and we could push a button to choose a selection.

Eventually we reached the west side again, and an additional half-mile walk took us back to the park entry. We met two park rangers who offered to answer any questions we might have. Also, twice, we had seen park ATV's cross the bridge. This is a safe place with helpful staff.

We were happy to have experienced this park that we had read and heard about over the last year and a half. Since it is 80 miles from home, and only a 3.6 mile walk, I don't expect to come here often. If I lived closer, I could imagine taking an occasional stroll, especially in the summer when the breezes would be refreshing and many more boats would be on the water. Still, I recommend that anyone come here once. Check out this newest park in the New York State system.

First Hike of 2011!

I wasn't happy when I woke up Sunday morning and it was still drizzly. I felt desperate to go for a hike and this was the first free day Bill and I had had in weeks. Granted, hiking is not ideal during mud-season, but I had figured it would be worth getting into the woods if for nothing more than to smell the mud.

As some of you know, I absolutely loved our snowy winter, but now, I was ready to put my hiking boots back on. I also had just read Jackie Donnelly's blog, (http://saratogawoodswaters.blogspot.com/). Jackie had found all kinds of early Spring wildflowers in Skidmore Woods. I was eager to see what I could find in the woods.

With a forecast of sunshine as the day went on, I decided that we could still get to Monument Mountain, in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, and back within a reasonable amount of time even if we didn't leave home until noon. All of a sudden, at 11:15, a huge patch of blue sky opened up and sun streamed through the livingroom windows. I threw some fruit into my backpack, grabbed our boots and hiking poles, and we were off.

I had not been to Monument Mountain since 1998. My sister and I had brought our children to this area of the Berkshires because we had spent so much of our own childhood here when our grandparents had lived in nearby North Egremont. I have a picture of my sister on top of Monument Mt. in 1963. I don't know if I ever made it to the top as a child. My only memory is of eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at the base of the mountain and having bees swarm around me. I dropped the sandwich and ran. My grandfather always teased that I ran half-way up the mountain. No bee-laden sandwich for me! My sister, on the other hand, sat calmly eating her sandwich, flicking away any bee who happened to land on the bread.

Over the past few years, I have hiked up and down Berkshire County and back. From Connecticut to Vermont, this edge of Massachusetts is one of my favorite places. But, Monument Mt. had not interested me. It was too short a hike, 2.7 miles round trip, and has a treacherous rocky summit--a hard place to sit and soak up the view. Today, it appealed simply because it is shorter. Also, it would not be high enough to have much remaining snow, or low enough for a lot of soggy ground. Besides, my friends Herb and Gillian had told in their blog about a great ice cream shop in town (http://blog.timesunion.com/outdoors/ ).

After just an hour's drive from home, Bill and I arrived at the trailhead. The sun came and went...mostly went..., as we started up the Indian Monument Trail. The Indian Monument Trail is longer but more gradual than the Hickey Trail which also begins from the parking area. It is also easy enough for children. Little ones can still get tired, though. In 1998, my son, Thomas, carried my four-year-old niece on his shoulders. So if you have a very young child along, bring a doting teenager with you too.

Many Berkshire trails are fairly pedestrian old farm roads, giving the hiker a chance to smell the damp smells and look for wildflowers without falling over roots and rocks. In addition, literary connections abound. I never hike in this area of the Berkshires without imagining Hawthorne, Melville, Thoreau, and other Transcendentalists strolling these paths. In fact, Hawthorne and Melville met while hiking this mountain and talked about Melville's plans to write a story about a whale.

I didn't see any signs of Spring, but I had my camera ready. I was impressed to see other kinds of signs, such as these (below). Monument Mt. is owned by the Trustees of Reservation, which owns many beautiful properties not just in the Berkshires but in all of Massachusetts (http://www.thetrustees.org/). These signs were new since I had been here last.

At the junction of the Indian Monument Trail with the Hickey Trail, we turned right heading up to Squaw Peak . The intersection is marked by Inscription Rock, which tells how the property was donated to the public in 1899.

The trail gets steeper, gaining 800 feet from the parking area. Although the sun still hadn't emerged, we had warmed up and appreciated that the stubborn gray dampness accentuated the luscious Spring smells of mud and wet pine needles. In the photo, a few small mountain laurel plants (which retain their leaves all winter) looked fresh for the season. In another two months, these woods would be lush with white and pink blossoms.

Since my mind had to pay attention to a more demanding terrain, I found that I was attracted to a swath of sedimentary rock. Powerful forces first pushed these rocks into plate-like layers, and then turned them on their side.

It felt good to huff and puff a little. Although I had done a lot of walking and some biking this past month, I hadn't gotten a sturdy workout since the snow was waist-deep. Still, this was a short stretch and didn't overtax us on our first day out since March.

True to my memory, the final approach to the summit was a series of jagged quartzite rocks. In 1998, my sister and I had been very watchful of our children. Some of the rocks tower high and drop down hundreds of feet. If you bring children, keep a close eye or hand on them!

Still, craggy spots like this one where an old pine, wind-beaten over many years, with a mountainous view in the background, are a great visual reward of colorful nature.

When Bill and I arrived at the top, the sun came out. Big patches of blue popped up all around us. Bill found a perch while I took photographs. In minutes, he had taken a picture with his phone and posted it on Facebook.

We saw a few other couples come and go. This a popular spot. Everyone commented on the sudden sunshine and how good it felt to be outdoors.

I continued to clamber over boulders for pictures in every direction. Looking South and West, we could see the still-snowy ski trails of Catamount, and the rounded peaks of Washington Mt. State Forest. Soft shades of late winter and early spring would soon give way to a tender green, but, today, the crisp chilly atmosphere and changing sky added drama to the pastoral scene below.

Looking North, I could see Mt. Greylock, the highest point in Massachusetts, and Mt. Equinox in Vermont. A wetland seemed just made for migrating birds.

I was disappointed to see this view just below to the East. The high school, upper left, had always been here, with a huge new complex on the right. I did not like looking at the more industrial area in front, where construction equipment had dug up the landscape and what appeared to be a small landfill encroached surprisingly close to the school and wetland.

After eating the apples and oranges that I had packed, Bill found another rock where he could lie back and soak up the sun. I joined him, gazing toward the northern view.

Heading back down, we decided to make a loop along the Hickey Trail. This trail is a bit steeper than the Indian Monument Trail and is known for its spring waterfalls. I have two Berkshire trail guide books. One suggests making the loop as we were doing, and the other suggests going in the opposite direction. So you decide whether you like a more gradual ascent or descent.

In minutes we came upon a small stream rushing between the rocks and trees. Crossing a couple of log bridges, we followed the brook as it splashed ever-downward.

I still kept looking for wildflowers. Maybe this is why I didn't find any:

Winter had not quite let go in the Berkshires.

The little stream grew as it gathered water from inside the earth and from snowmelt. A short side trail led us to this fast running cataract as it slid down a slab of rock and over a cave.

Through a forest of tall pines, their trunks black from the previous rain, we arrived back where we had begun, and it was only mid-afternoon. Monument Mt. had been the perfect outing for this day and a good introduction to this year's hiking season.

But we still had places to go. Just where was that ice cream place Herb had mentioned? I knew that SoCo Creamery was on Railroad St., and following Bill's GPS on his phone, we soon placed it right off of Main Street.

I confess that I have come through Great Barrington all of my life, even in recent years driving down Main St., and yet I never knew about Railroad Street's charming shops and restaurants. Great Barrington has become the kind of village destination that Bill and I seek out when we travel.

We parked the car at the top of the hill, stepping out to the aroma of wood-fired pizza. Strolling down Railroad St., we passed a kitchen shop, a restaurant down a side alley, small boutique clothing stores, and yes, SoCo Creamery!

This is not just any ice cream store. This is hand-crafted deliciousness made right down the road on Route 7. Always on the lookout for some combination of coffee and chocolate flavors, my eye gravitated right to Espresso Cookie, coffee ice cream loaded with oreos.

Bill went a little more exotic and tried Earl Grey Supreme ice cream. A fan of Earl Grey tea, he pronounced this flavor having the perfect nuances of bergamot.

The "small" cones were large. We didn't have any trouble polishing ours off, given that we had only had a couple of pieces of fruit since we left home, but next time, unless I'm really famished, I would go for the "kiddie" size. And maybe I'll go for a fruity gelato or sorbet...or maybe not (http://sococreamery.com/ ).

As we walked back to the car, I stopped in the kitchen shop and Bill looked at menus outside of restaurants. Someday we'll come back and eat here. Today, we drove through the rolling hills of North Egremont to New York State. We knew that the sun would have warmed our porch at home. I had a simple spaghetti dinner planned which we could just barely fit in before the temperature began to drop, chilling the porch.

Clouds were just beginning to return as we pulled into our driveway. Rain was predicted for the next day, but I was pleased with my rediscovery of Monument Mt. and Great Barrington.

Sad Pants

First, I want to thank all of you who read and shared my previous blog post about New Orleans' Lower 9th Ward. As of this writing, I have had an impressive 250 hits.

(http://nooksandvales.blogspot.com/2011/03/new-orleans-lower-9th-ward-today.html )

This week my father was in the hospital. His simple outpatient, half-day, procedure turned into a five-day event. While the original surgery went smoothly, his heart rate was all over the map. At 87 years old, he landed in the Cardiac Critical Care Unit.

My mother thought she would be at my house just from Thursday evening until Friday afternoon, but her stay extended through Tuesday. I ran between my house, the hospital, and a daunting schedule of orchestra rehearsals and a concert. Both of my parents often expressed their gratitude for my help, but these are my parents--this is what family is all about.

My mother's stress level mounted, especially when we arrived at the hospital on Saturday to find that my father had been put on oxygen and that his mood was running the gamut. At first, he had joked with the staff, then he became angry. We were all exhausted.

In the end, all he needed was a simple ablation procedure (beyond the earlier minor surgery), and by Tuesday, he was ready to go home. He looked like his usual ruddy self in his plaid flannel shirt, corduroys, and Irish cap when I drove them back to their Saratoga home.

Independently, we had just received a letter stating that exemptions on my parents' home had not been filed, and absolutely had to be taken care of this day or my parents would have to pay an additional $500 in school taxes. I hoped to resolve the problem in the brief time between leaving my parents at their house, and getting back to Albany in time for my French class (some readers may remember my January post about taking French http://nooksandvales.blogspot.com/2011/01/le-francais-madame.html).

Pressure mounted while, on the sneak as my father ate his lunch in the kitchen, my mother and I scoured the kitchen, office, and basement, for the papers I would need. It would not do to have my father worked up about money in his first hour at home. I took a variety of forms, none of which looked official, to the Saratoga Springs City Hall Assessor's office. All I have to say is, if you live in Saratoga and you ever have a property tax issue, you could not find a nicer assessor than the woman who helped me. Within twenty minutes, the problem was solved.

I was excited about my success, but I had only fifty minutes to get from downtown Saratoga to the College of St. Rose in Albany, and to find a parking place. I love my French class. It is fun and different from anything else that I do. Getting there today became my whole focus. Checking the clock as I drove, I figured I would be late. I rationalized, "A few of the students arrive late for every class. It won't kill me if I'm not exactly on time."

I had ten minutes left when I pulled onto North Main Ave., and there was a spot just waiting for me. I parallel parked and walked the couple of blocks to the class building, getting to my seat with a few minutes to spare.

My French professor has created a participatory experience, giving the students many opportunities to speak in French. Our class is relaxed and the professor appears to love his job. He went through the homework assignment asking each student to read a sentence and pick the appropriate picture on the paper that fit the sentence. He asked me to read one that said, in French, " This is my grandmother. She is a widow..."

After I read the sentence, the professor said, "This is actually quite sad. What is sad in this picture?" I looked at the picture of the old lady, standing a bit bent, leaning on her cane. She did not look sad to me. After all, I had spent the last five days visiting the Cardiac CCU at Albany Med. She sure looked a lot happier than any of the folks there.

But, good heavens, what was she wearing? If there is anything worse than an old woman wearing capri pants, it is her wearing capris with a loud floral print. While some of you know that my sense of fashion does not stray far beyond L.L.Bean, if you see me someday wearing pants like these, please pull me aside and find me something else!

When the professor asked what was sad about this picture, it took me only seconds to respond in a clear straight-forward voice, "her pants." He looked up. Apparently, this was not the answer he had expected, so I qualified my statement, saying, "her pants are saaad!" At this the entire class, including the professor, began to laugh.

I realized how absurd my answer had been, and could barely stop laughing as he brought the class back to order, and began to describe the fact that the woman was a widow and had to use a cane, ending by saying, "and she's having a bad pants day." I was in stitches again. I had what my mother would call "a jag on," and it crossed my mind how close laughing is to crying. I pulled myself together, and remained quiet for the duration of the class period.

To add to an already crazy day, I had to be in Schenectady for an evening orchestra rehearsal, and only saw Bill in passing until nearly 10 p.m. At last, I proceeded to tell him my sad pants story. I could hardly get it out, choking with laughter as I stood in the livingroom while he sat in a chair with the laptop computer. Finally, I ended the story by reiterating the professor's words that the old lady, otherwise sad from being a widow with physical problems, was also having a bad pants day.

My story finished, Bill suddenly played a woman's voice coming from the computer, rattling off a sentence in perfect French. With his customary black humor, Bill explained that the voice was saying, "the old lady is happy that her husband kicked the bucket, but her pants are sad." He played it a couple of times over with the impeccable school-teacher voice making my original statement even more hilarious. The next evening, while he dried the dishes, Bill stated, sotto voce, "her pants are sad." It would take a while for me to live this one down.

I wondered what my fellow students thought of me. I could do worse than be viewed as a middle-aged nut case. Now a few days later, I am going to go with Charles Dickens, who once said that it was better for people to "wrinkle up their eyes in grins" at someone else's expense than to have "less attractive forms." Besides which, I have been back to French class, and so far have managed to behave myself.

New Orleans' Lower 9th Ward Today

When I told my friend, Rosemary, that I would be accompanying Bill to New Orleans where he would attend a conference, she asked, "Would you like Herb to introduce you to his NOLA contact?" Herb Wang, her husband and our good friend, had been taking University of Wisconsin, Madison, students down to the Lower 9th Ward every summer since Hurricane Katrina and the flooding in 2005. I was excited that I could get a morning's tour of the area with Darryl Malek-Wiley, Sierra Club Environmental Justice Organizer for New Orleans. A college student during the Vietnam War era, Darryl had stretched out his education to avoid the draft, at the same time joining in Sierra Club outings. Becoming an environmentalist has defined his life for decades. Darryl picked me up at my hotel promptly at 8:30 a.m. and said, "I have to get some students started on a project and then I'll show you around. We've got a few weeks here with lots of help over college spring breaks." My first view of the Lower 9th Ward was at the hub of Historic Green, an organization commited to sustainable design and historic preservation. Students grouped in a former warehouse received instructions for their day. Darryl would be taking a few to Bayou Bienvenue at the end of Caffin Avenue. He explained to me and the students, using a kiosk created by University of Wisconsin students a few years before, how the bayou could be restored. Before 1965 when the levees were built, natural bayous and wetlands cut the force of hurricanes and diminished the effects of flooding. Older residents of the Lower 9th could remember fishing, crabbing, and boating in the bayou. Now salt water had killed the cypress trees. The goal of Historic Green here is to restore the bayou back to its previous ecosystem. Today's project would be to work on the stairs that previous groups had begun building from the levee to the water. If residents could get to the water, they could fish for crabs, and take small boats from here. This group of six students from Minnesota would take rocks from alongside the levee and throw them into the water at the base of the steps, making a more solid area for the final steps and a beginning location for a dock. We left them throwing rocks. Back in the van, Darryl began describing the neighborhood where water had risen to the rooftops and homes had floated away, taking everything, including many people, with it. "When I first came here after Katrina," he said, "I couldn't drive down the street because it was full of debris." I remembered pictures of the wreckage of broken houses, cars, and trees. Many residents had not even been able to find where their homes had once been. Today there are no piles of debris and trash, but for every reconstructed house, there are at least three empty platforms with driveways that go nowhere. Some of the reasons that people have not returned are: the dissolution of an effective public transportation system; older residents did not qualify for new mortgages; even now there are no food markets in this area; and besides losing their homes, family, and friends, they have lost mature gardens that provided oranges, pecans, and kumquats, as well as vegetables. Some evacuees also became re-established in other towns and cities. Occasionally a charming new home has risen where an old one had been washed away. Not only are they built on concrete platforms as they had been before, but now the federal government requires that they be built a few feet off the ground on blocks, for high-water protection. Unfortunately, next door to attractive new construction, properties like this, with FEMA "x" markings still exist, continuing reminders of a painful past. Darryl seems to know everyone, calling out through the open window of the van. "What are you working on today?" a neighbor calls back. "I've got some students down at the bayou," he responds. "We're working on securing the steps so our flight of stairs won't float off into the bayou." The neighbor answers with a laugh, "Sure don't want that!" And we continue down the street. "These were not desperately poor people," Darryl tells me. "Seventy percent of them owned their own homes. They had gardens in back and flowers in front. We work with the neighborhood associations to see how they want to rebuild. Still, we have the unique opportunity here to build green, but we also have to recognize the original historic context of this area. Right now we have the greatest concentration of LEED Platinum homes in the world." Residents will live with fear for the rest of their lives, however, as evidenced by this new home (above), designed to float. I had never seen a LEED Platinum building. In Albany, we have been thrilled to watch the College of St. Rose build LEED Gold new construction. Some of the construction options that help these building qualify for platinum certification are solar panels on the roof, eco-friendly insulation, cement fiber board walls, and high energy windows. While some of the houses' non-traditional design may seem odd, they are doubtless very comfortable inside. Also, homeowners receive a reduction in their mortgage for every year that they stay in the neighborhood. In the Lower 9th, Brad Pitt has been instrumental in rebuilding part of the neighborhood to the highest environmental standards. (Note the steps going to nowhere in this yard, above. The owner lost both his sister and his mother to the flood.) Residents have a choice of different home styles, all of which aim to be carbon neutral. The Brad Pitt homes also are an entire story above ground. Homeowners have found this space handy as a car port, or for storing lawn accessories. Because some people may not be able to negotiate stairs, non-electric elevators have been installed as an additional outside entry.

Some rooftops have turf gardens (right) that absorb water and sun.

Very few trees remain, but those that are here are very dear to the people who survived the floods by hanging tight to the upper branches, inches above rising water below. The owner of this house (left) was told that he would get more direct sun for his solar panels if he took the tree down. He refused--this tree has become a member of the family.

We continued across a couple of four-lane roads to the Holy Cross Parish nearer the Mississippi, stopping at the Sierra Club headquarters here, and at the construction site of the new offices for Historic Green. Being in Darryl's company made everyone interested in meeting me. I was very glad that I could tell them that I am the Chair of the Sierra Club in upstate New York (Hudson-Mohawk Group). The Sierra Club is such a strong presence here that no other explanation is necessary; even the students we had at the bayou were Club members and had a familiarity with environmental issues in their home areas.

"Holy Cross is a historic area that the city of New Orleans has been more interested in restoring. Also the flooding here, while devastating, did not rise as high," Darryl told me. I could see that there were many shotgun houses and Creole cottages that were in the process of being restored. Still, even here a newly rebuilt house could be next door to an abandoned one.

We passed a group of students working on a rain garden. Designed with native plants, these gardens absorb water between the houses and the streets. Another group painted a nearby building. "We could not have gotten as far as we have without the help of volunteers," Darryl said. "We still have not received the help from the government that we have hoped for."

This house (above) is a "Katrina Cottage." I remembered fund drives and ad campaigns, in 2006 and 2007, for these small homes that would help replace those lost in the flood.

Eventually we returned to see how the students were doing. Darryl had brought more water for them to drink, as the sun got higher and the humidity rose. The students were pleased to show him their progress in filling the base of the stairs with rock.

Darryl looked at the sections where posts held up the stairs and cement would be poured to connect the steps to the rock. Some spots needed a few more rocks--I admit to helping throw rocks. I wasn't much help, and I came in when the hardest work had already been done, but I helped try to fill in the empty spots and enjoyed chatting with the students.

Buying cement mix was next on the project's agenda, so we left the students again. The students remained sitting on top of the levee in the breeze, eating their lunch. "You must meet a lot of great kids," I said to Darryl. "Every day," he replied, nodding.

On the way to the hardware store, Darryl dropped me off in a neighborhood where I could find my way back to places that were familiar to me and eventually to the hotel. I thanked him for giving me so much of his morning, and he said, "I want people to see what it's like here and what we are doing. Then they will go back and tell others."

To this end, I am telling you here in my blog about the Lower 9th Ward in New Orleans today. Feel free to share this blog post with people that you know. If you would like to help, there is still much work to be done. Donations can also be made to The Sierra Club Foundation, c/o Environmental Justice and Community Partnerships, 85 Second St. Suite 750, San Francisco, CA 94105, with the words New Orleans EJ on the memo line of your check. Thank you.

Musical Notes

I spot my parents sitting next to Bill in the audience. I'm not sure they will like the selections of this concert, but they are here, as they almost always are. At intermission, I have a few minutes to talk to them.



"I don't know why you didn't think we would like this program," my mother says. "It's wonderful and very lively." That was true. Brahms' Festival Overture is fast, loud, and full of life.



My father adds, "I was watching your bow and the bow of the man sitting next to you, and I would say that you were going in the same direction about 94-95% of the time." This was a compliment. With multiple snow days before this concert, our sections' bowings were thrown together at the last minute.

For 45 years, my parents, who have never been students of classical music, have attended my concerts as often as they could. Besides Bill, they are my biggest fans.


Sometimes it is good to look back and see who has influenced us to become the person we are today, and what situations came together and gave us opportunities. I was fortunate to have parents who encouraged me to try things in school, then paid for my private lessons, and bought my first violin.


But there were others who influenced me as well. My grandfather always lamented that he didn't have more opportunities as a child. He struggled to play hymns and turn-of-the-20th-century show tunes on the piano, and described trying to teach himself to play in the unheated front room of the Catskill farmhouse where he grew up.


When I said that I was going to take violin lessons, Grandpa told me that the violin was the "most beautiful and most difficult instrument to play in the world." He impressed on me how lucky I was and always asked me to play for him. He was also patriarchal. Since I was the second grandchild and did not look like his side of the family, I had to work harder to please him. His approval meant that I could never quit the violin.



I soared ahead of my peers when I began taking private lessons in the summer with Peggy. Peggy lived down the street and came to our house during her summer breaks from college. After the first summer, my parents agreed to give me year-round private lessons.


Very short with a pear shape, Peggy always arrived late for my Saturday morning lessons. Sometimes we had to call her house and ask her mother to wake her up. Peggy would hurry up the sidewalk full of apologies with the aroma of a quick cup of coffee on her breath. We loved her bubbly personality, easy laugh, and the comfortable way she would poke her face into the kitchen to see what my mother was doing, complimenting each of us and our home with every step.



The violin seemed so easy when Peggy played it. She would demonstrate how I should sound and I knew that I wanted to sound just like her. But sometimes she became frustrated as we labored over my Handel Sonata, trying everything she could think of to help me stick to the beat. Still, as she went out the door, her parting words were always ones of encouragement.



Since we didn't have a piano, occasionally Peggy would invite me to her house so that we could work on my sonatas with accompaniment. What an adventure! Her mother's upright piano was piled high with music books. Stacks of papers topped by a pot of earth and a long-dead plant stood leaning at the end of the piano. Peggy's six siblings' instrument cases stood at odd angles or lay within tripping distance on the floor. One time a nearby carton provided a nest for new kittens.

I watched Peggy's hands glide effortlessly across the piano keys. "Oh," she would say, "I'm not a real pianist. I only had twelve years of lessons!"


When I entered high school, Peggy moved to Boston to pursue her Master's Degree at New England Conservatory. I no longer had a private teacher. Lack of consistent practice, a competitiveness with other students, and high school insecurities played out in orchestra, despite the efforts of a dynamic young orchestra director.


My mother tried to soothe my battered nerves by telling me that I should not expect to compete with other students who came from musical families, and that violin would always be a nice hobby for me. This did not make me feel better. I wanted to be taken seriously.

If I ever had to play in front of anyone, my hands would begin to shake, sending my bow bouncing in uncontrolled scratching across the strings. One day Peggy stopped by while visiting her parents. She could see that I was struggling, and said, "Just stay with it until college. You'll love playing in a college orchestra."



She was right. In college I took lessons, quartet, string ensemble, and played in the Catskill Symphony. I had friendly stand-partners and relished the symphonies that we played. I corrected bad habits, and, once again, considered the violin part of my identity. Still, if I had to play alone, nerves made the bow jump around on the strings. Ensemble playing was where I belonged. My parents drove out for the annual "Cabaret" concert, sitting at cafe tables with drinks and snacks, listening to more casual music that they recognized. They stayed at the Holiday Inn and took Bill and me out for dinner. In the end, I took so many performance credits that I graduated a semester early.

After getting married and moving to the Capital District, I played in the RPI orchestra, then the SUNY Albany orchestra. I stopped when Thomas began private violin lessons at age 6 and Meredith began the same year, beginning piano at age 4. I was intent on having a musical family, and Bill added his support.

Now I play in Schenectady Symphony and at Union College with excellent music directors. In addition, my friend, Cathy, and I have spent more than twenty years rehearsing weekly, and have worked through the entire piano and violin sonata catalogues of Corelli, Haydn, and Mozart, with a sprinkling of other composers along the way.

In the 1990s, we began playing at Barnes & Noble in Colonie where I worked. Bill brought Thomas and Meredith, and my parents came down from Saratoga. For fun, we added Irish ballads performing entire St. Patrick's Day programs for ten years. My father would say, "That other music is good, but this is my kind of music!" My mother said, "I like everything."

Nerves no longer make my bow jump across the strings, but, yes, sometimes Cathy and I still deal with my occasional erratic rhythms. I continue to learn about music wherever I play, even picking up tips from my musical adult children. I like to think that I get better every year.

Snow, Snow, and More Snow!

Dylan Thomas wrote, in 1954, "I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve, or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six."

What are we going for--twelve days and twelve nights? thirty days and thirty nights??? And how do we remember our childhoods?

(Photo: A white Christmas, and a whiter New Year's!)

I remember my childhood much like this winter. We have not seen grass at our house since mid-December. Granted, our "white Christmas" was only a couple of inches, but the day after Christmas, we got our first big snow and it has been snowing ever since. Every few days, another four to six inches.

Here in Albany, we have not had just one or two 20-inchers. Instead regular fresh coatings have kept the streets and sidewalks white, and the snowbanks have been growing ever higher.

(Photo: Every few days a fresh coat of white)

Not only that, Winter 2010-2011 has been cold. Winters were cold in my childhood too. I remember walking to school, in my miniskirts (pants were not allowed for girls until I was in 8th grade) in subzero temperatures, my knees purple.

(Photo: "As long as the bird feeder is full, I really don't see a problem.")

We expected cold from mid-December until at least mid-February, when my mother would say, "There won't be much skating after Valentine's Day when the sun gets high enough to soften the ice."

And groundhog day? I was always confused. I thought six more weeks of Winter meant Spring would come soon. In Saratoga, Spring never came as early as late March. There were always piles of snow left at the corners of the yard at Easter. We expected Spring in late April.

(Photo: Anyone for a picnic?)

Like Dylan Thomas, I might not remember things exactly as they were, but I know we in Northeast sure have had an old-fashioned winter this year, and we're enjoying it. There have been snowshoeing opportunities galore. We're going cross-country skiing this week and conditions should be some of the best ever.

(Photo: Destinations like Shippee's Ledge can't be beat.)

I even spent a day in New York City, where watching residents enjoy their city was all the entertainment I needed.

(Photo: Families sledding in Central Park, New York City's back yard.)

(Photo: Perfect day for a sleigh ride.)

Oh, the day will come when the thermometer hits fifty degrees, and the sun will make us say, "it feels like Spring!" Someday, we will see grass at the edge of the driveway, and sniff the smell of wet earth. Early flowers will begin to bloom. But for now, those little Spring bulbs are sound asleep under a few feet of snow.

(Photo: Is there really green under there???)

Last Wednesday, when the Northeast shut down due to extreme weather, Bill and I began the day with pancakes. After shovelling, we made Castillian Hot Cocoa. Bill said, "Hibernating could have its drawbacks!" But who cared?--an extra pound or two would be tomorrow's problem.

Our new gas furnace kept us comfy, the view out the window was white from top to bottom, we had a list of indoor tasks, and the library had provided us with good books to read.

And, if there are six more weeks of winter, we'll be thrilled when the earth begins to awaken and Spring makes its appearance. In the meantime, Happy February to all my readers!