Trees of the World

By Craig: I can remember the first book that I ever bought with my own money. It was a Bantam Nature guide book called Trees of the World. I was in 2nd grade at the time so it was probably sometime around 1975 or 1976. The book contains colourful photographs of trees and a brief description of each of them. The world, I thought, was a very BIG place to be able to contain all the tree species mentioned in this book. I was fascinated by the various types, most of which I had never seen before. There were trees with strange names like "Monkey Puzzle" and "Witch Hazel." I soon became pretty adept at being able to identify the types of trees in the woods around my house. I can remember gathering leaves of the different tree species and pressing them together in wax paper, labeling each of them and filing them in a notebook. For a while I could imagine myself becoming a great botanist that traveled the world and categorized the different genus and species of plants and trees. A modern day Linnaeus! I soon began immersing myself in history books, and the daring adventures of the European explorers who traversed the oceans in the search for something unattainable. I was fascinated by these adventures and something in the background of my mind told me that I too would one day experience a similar challenge. Perhaps a taxonomist on a great expedition to the Amazon! The years, however, swiftly passed me by and I find myself now at age 47 reflecting on the promise that youth once told me. It had whispered in my ear..."Craig, everything is attainable. Life is a storybook. You are part of it!"
Somewhere along the line I came to realize that LIFE was not a storybook. I also came to realize that LIFE also meant removing yourself from an egocentric viewpoint and attempt to immerse yourself into the collective good. LIFE was not just about YOU. Admittedly this is the hardest concept for most people to grasp. This is why there are wars. If I were to spend my existence trying to attain the highest degree of self, and everyone else followed that same path then the world would be not just hard to live in, but impossible, for the species would drown in their own egotistical cesspool. Should I have gone on to study the Trees of the World as "youth" suggested to me so long ago? Something had changed...The storybook was gone. There was a sort of futility to the dream along with the rest of my dreams. It was confusion...chaos...Who was I to be master of the trees!

So what was it about the trees that held me spellbound in my youth? The great outdoors? The open space? The fresh air? When I was six or seven I can remember standing in my backyard looking out at the forest. A large white pine tree stood tall on the periphery of my father's property line at the edge of the forest. To me this pine tree was the tallest tree on earth. I was fascinated by it. I wondered how long it took for a tree to grow that tall. I can remember thinking that it must have taken millions of years to grow that big. I was afraid to go near it. What if it should fall? Sometimes I could hear the creaking branches and trunk when the wind was blowing. It was so old and sage-like that I could almost hear it speaking to me.
" I was around when your grandfather was your age" It said to me.
That must have been at the beginning of time...nobody was as old as my grandfather.
Then there were the numerous tree stumps that dotted the landscape around my father's property. Trees that had recently fallen to make room for the new house that my father had built. I counted the rings, 47, 32, 28, 112, 76, 38 etc...etc... Each tree had a history to tell. The stumps had started to rot which made grand homes for lizards, insects and small mammals. I soon realized that trees eventually died just like humans...There was something depressing about this. They lived a lonely life, not even being aware of their Existence. I thought about this and also thought about how fortunate that I was to have a consciousness. To know that I existed!
Somewhere along the line my dream of becoming a botanist vanished, just as my other pipe dreams of becoming a paleontologist, or a major league baseball player. It just wasn't in the cards. In fact, I am not that much removed from that ancient dream of becoming the next Linnaeus. Even my knowledge of trees has not advanced much since my 2nd grade understanding of the different types of "trees of the world." I simply lost interest, just as I lose interest in most things except for the concept of "time" which lingers around me like a plague. I still have the book that first prompted this hopeful ambition four decades ago. It's glued binding has brittled (is that a word?) and snapped. At some remote time I must have taped the cover to the front page, but even the tape has yellowed and is pealing back as if the book is groaning and trying to tell me..."Nice try buddy, but like your dream, I too am getting old and want only to transform back into the elements from which I was made...Yes...that's right...a tree!"
I open up to page 31 and start reading..."Monkey Puzzle, family: Araucariaceae Araucaria araucana, In many temperate countries this bizarre conifer from Chile is planted as a curiosity remarkable for its unusual branching system..."

World War I:The Skeleton of My Youth

By Craig: I became fascinated by books at an early age. History books and adventure books were my favorite. I also enjoyed books dealing with the natural world. As a boy I was enraptured by the Time-Life and the American Heritage books that were chock full of photographs. These books helped my developing mind and in some ways shocked it. One of the books published by American Heritage was The History of World War I by Brigadier General S.L.A. Marshall.  I believe that I was in the third grade when I first found this book in the Hubbardston Massachusetts town library. The book was full of maps and illustrations and I can remember perusing its contents on many occasions. I was particularly drawn to one image...a disturbing image that probably first gave me pause, and time to reflect as to the brutal nature of WAR.
The image is black and white, grotesque in its finality. It is a skeleton of a man, a German soldier still in tattered uniform. The corpse is mangled, distorted and revolting. A broken arm folded across the neck. The hollow skull stares at the camera as if it knows that it is the subject of the cameraman's fancy. "Here" It says, "Come closer and get a better look for I have a story to tell!"
The shattered right arm lays casually at its side, the hand seems to want to beckon the viewer, but at the same time the left arm contradicts the right. "No! Stay away! War is Hell!" It is confused..."What has happened? What have I done to deserve this wretched fate?"




The caption below the image quotes a young French officer who was fighting on the line at Verdun. "Humanity...must be mad to do what it is doing, What scenes of horror and carnage!...Hell cannot be so terrible."




As an impressionable eight year old the image was disturbing and haunting. I kept going back to it, and would often think about it. Years after I first saw this image I found myself in the Marine Corps, and sometimes I would think about it. Would fate deliver me a similar hand? That skeleton had once been a living, breathing human being just like myself. He had dreams, ambition, and a desire for a fruitful productive life. I wondered about his past. Did he have a mother and father? A wife waiting for him to return? What were his dreams that had been snuffed out capriciously without another thought. The world did not seem to care. He was a rotting shell, but the sun still came up in the eastern sky the next morning after his death. The Earth continued to spin on its axis without him...and one day it will do the same without me... and you who reads this.

Sarge and Pringles

SARGE AND PRINGLES by Jay

I’ve worked many jobs over the years.  For a time back in the late 90’s I used to work in a janitorial position.  It wasn’t the most illustrious job I ever had, but it was money in my pocket and helped me pay for graduate school with little responsibility.  Of course, there was the everyday drudgery of cleaning toilets, vacuuming, sweeping, buffing, wiping down windows, and of course, pulling trash. 

I did my rounds at night mechanically with absolutely no stress.  There were hardly any people in the buildings I cleaned except for other cleaners and an occasional stray overachiever who just didn’t know when it was time for him to go home.  It was usually deathly quiet.  Sometimes, I would just stand in a certain spot and look up at the stars or listen to the distant traffic on the street.  I could hear crickets and the peaceful sounds other critters made, and the whole atmosphere was perfectly suited to one who was more or less an introvert such as myself.

Every night, the security guard would come on the grounds around 11:00 p.m. just as we cleaners were about to leave.  He was an overweight man of about 60 years of age with a drawn, ashen looking face and gray, thinning hair greased back and combed neatly off his forehead.  He had probably been much heavier when he was younger and healthier, but then he just looked old, tired, and worn out.  He always wore a thick blue jacket with the white letters SECURITY emblazoned across his back, and when he came in, he always had a lunch pail and a thermos of coffee with him.

I never knew his name.  Everyone called him Sarge.  I don’t know why.  Maybe he was an ex-police sergeant or had been in the military in some capacity.  I never did find out.  Or maybe he just looked like a sarge.  In hindsight, it doesn’t really matter.  Whenever I think of a sarge, an image of him pops into my mind. 

He wasn’t particularly friendly, but neither was he unfriendly.  He was just quiet – a guy who had seen the world and who just wanted to do his job and mind his own business. 

Every night it was the same.  I’d lock up the building in which Sarge would set up for the night and cordially greet him.  Occasionally, a few hollow remarks would pass between us such as, “Looks like there might be some storms” or “It’s a quiet one tonight.”  Usually, it was me who spoke.  Sarge generally seemed too withdrawn into himself to offer any kind of banal conversation, as if some inner demons were tormenting him.  Sometimes, I would just see him in profile, sitting in his tiny cubicle, staring at nothing in particular or reading a magazine or a newspaper – anything to pass the long hours he would have to while away between making his hourly rounds.  Others times, I would see him sitting on his golf cart staring up at the stars through the trees.  What was he thinking about as his gaze lifted skywards?  Perhaps he was thinking that there had to be something better than the mundane routine of this dull existence.  Or perhaps he was thinking about the unfathomable mysteries of the universe.  Or maybe I was the one thinking these things.  For all I know, Sarge was thinking of nothing at all.  In any event, what I’ve related above summed up my sole communication with this individual for over a year, and I knew absolutely nothing more about him on the last night that I saw him than on the first. 

All except one thing.  He liked Pringles.

Yes, if there was one thing in the world that Sarge liked it was a tall can of Pringles.  For every night when I would go in and take up his garbage, there was a can of pringles to be seen in the basket.  Usually, this was the only object in there.  Occasionally, there would be other items as well including napkins or tissues.  But usually, it was just a single, solitary empty can of pringles.  Yes, indeed, Sarge liked his potato chips.

And then one night, I went to lock up the building and there was another security guard in Sarge’s booth.  He appeared to be an unwelcome intruder.  After all, this was Sarge’s domain.  It was as if this other guard was a blemish who had appeared in the night, corrupting the peaceful world of Sarge and his long hours of thoughtful, introspective solace.  I casually asked this invader where Sarge was…  Why wasn’t he at his post?  It was as if some unnatural corruption in the universe had violated the sacred sanctuary of this quiet individual.  I was told with an intrusive flash that Sarge had died of a massive heart attack after his shift had ended.  His wife had found him sometime in the morning lying peacefully in his bed.  

Though I did not know Sarge, not even his name, I felt sad.  And as I stooped to remove the bag of trash in the wastebasket, I was met with the familiar sight of the long, red can of Pringles for the final time.  I stepped outside into the night and gazed up at the stars right where Sarge used to sit in his golf cart doing the same, pouring a hot cup of steaming coffee from his thermos and putting it to his lips or munching a Pringle or two. 

       

Elements of Time: The Chimney

By Craig: Sometimes it is the simple things in life that are remembered. They might exist in the distant past... hazy, foggy images, perhaps distorted somewhat by the passage of time that sit on the periphery of a persons mind. They are impressed there like stone...or in one of my cases, bricks. It is a chimney, perhaps 70 feet tall. I am 7 years old, and I am lying on my back on the grass looking up at the blue sky. I am at my grandfather's house. My brother is with me and we roll down the hill like logs until we get to the bottom of the hill. There are grass stains on my knees, but I don't care and neither does my brother. We climb back to the top of the small hill and repeat the process, until we are tired and merely lie there looking up at the clouds. I see a face with a bulbous nose, and a pursed mouth and watch it become distorted so that it resembles something else entirely. Why does it change? Why do things have to go away never to return? I see a great castle with a knight and a raised sword. It too eventually dissipates into nothingness. I tilt my head back and see the world upside down including the giant smokestack across the street that was built for the boilers that operated the hospital. It stands there towering up into the sky and seems to reach for heaven. Indeed, nothing on the planet could be taller than this chimney. If I could somehow get to the top I would be high enough to see God...If I stare at it long enough in relation to the clouds I can see it moving...falling! I get dizzy and sit up. My mother is calling from the house. She will not be pleased with the grass stains. My uncle leaps down from the steps on the front porch...A porch that no longer exists...he snaps his fingers at us as he hops in his car...a car that no longer exists...except in the guise of a distant memory...from a time that continues to recede farther and farther into the past.

The Dream of Bartolomeu de Gusmao

By Craig: For as long as I can remember I  have always had the same dream. I am flying over a field. Below me I can see the roof tops of houses, and the lush green foliage of tree tops. It is a serene, quiet dream with no elements of surprise, or abrupt deviations that turn and twist a dream from one location to another by means of the minds fragile and whimsical ability to skim the periphery of varying thoughts. No, it is always the same; the dark green grass, the tree tops and roofs of the houses with their open chimneys looking like dark cavities. I might have the dream once or twice a year, perhaps more, but the mind is a very forgetful instrument. In fact, I believe that I have written about this dream in a previous post on this blog. But anyway... I want to fly like the birds, and so too have others throughout the history of the world. Daedalus and his son Icarus created wings like a bird which were held together by wax. Their flight from the labyrinth, however, came with a warning. Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun or the wax of his wings would melt. Needless to say the warning went unheeded as the impetuous youth soared into the heavens and met his fate. The story of Daedalus and Icarus has been relegated to mythology, but needless to say it is proof that people were thinking about manned flight in ancient times.



In the early 18th century an inventive Portuguese priest named Bartolomeu de Gusmao appeared at the court of King John V in Lisbon. He had a startling proposal to make which, in 1709, seemed preposterous. Gusmao claimed that he could invent an airship that could take to the heavens and fly. He presented the king and his court with a sketch of the craft along with a detailed description. It would be shaped like a boat, with a massive sail to catch the wind. The ship would be held aloft by tubes from which air would be pumped through by way of a bellows. Powerful magnets inserted into hollow metal balls would move the craft through the sky. To today's readers this seems like something from the pages of a 19th century Jules Verne novel. However, Gusmao was totally serious.  It is not known for certain whether a model of his lighter than air craft was ever constructed. According to one account published by a London newspaper decades after the alleged event there is evidence that at least one of his experiments was attempted. Sometime around the year 1720 it is written:



A Brazilian Jesuit, named Bartholomew Gusmao, possessed of abilities, imagination, and address, by permission of John V. fabricated a balloon in a place contiguous to the Royal Palace, and one day, in presence of their Majesties, and an immense crowd of spectators, raised himself, by means of a fire lighted in the machine, as high as the cornice of the building; but through the negligence and want of experience of those who held the cords, the machine took an oblique direction, and, touching the cornice, burst and fell.

It is said that the Inquisition got wind of Gusmao's experiments, and believed that he might have been experimenting in a sort of wizardry.  He fled to Spain where he died at a relatively young age in 1724. Gusmao had a dream that one day mankind would take to the skies and soar through the clouds like birds. These days the dream of Gusmao is realized and people have even been into space. There has even been talk of a manned mission to Mars in the near future. What might Gusmao think of this? It is hard to say. The Inquisition is no more, but there is still the age old threat that keeps science and progress from attaining the evolution of Gusmao's dream ,and that is the inability of people to get along. There is a cultural divide that slows the advancement of technology due to the distractions and resources that are needed to fight them. Maybe one day reason will prevail over the petty squabbles of nations that inhibit the growth of Gusmao's dream.



I find myself standing in an open court. There is a slight breeze as I mingle with the crowd that has gathered in front of Ribeira Palace in Lisbon. I gaze to my left and see the harbor filled with merchantman and caravels. A large man-o-war with 56 guns sits idle, its crew also mingling with the throng of people that are here to witness a marvel never before seen in the annals of time. A raised platform covered by a large canvas canopy holds the young king and his courtiers who are here to witness this unprecedented event. In the center of the court is the magician himself, wearing a chocolate brown robe made of the finest eastern silk. He stands next to his machine that is bedecked in a material known only to the inventor. It is shaped like a large bird the bow carved into the likeness of a hawk. He salutes the crowd and then the king, and climbs aboard with two assistants who are similarly clothed. Gusmao bends down and does something to the large magnets that causes a humming sound to burst forth from the craft. There is a startled emanation from the crowd as fingers point to the object of interest. Suddenly it is aloft! The two assistants work the bellows as the unfurled sail catches a northerly breeze from the harbor and the airship is soon moving slowly higher up over the palace and into the sky. The inventor can be seen working the sail, his soft hat askew. The crowd is shouting with mixed emotion, some of them cheering, others laughing and crying, while the most pious of the lot are on their knees praying to their savior for the wizardry that they have just been witness to. A man screams and flees the palace yard in terror taking a horde of the superstitious rabble with him. I watch in silence until the mighty airship disappears behind a cloud. When it emerges again it is but a speck in the sky...drifting...sailing into the dreams of an unknown future.

Classics Ilustrated # 141: Castle Dangerous

By Craig: There are three types of people. There are those who live for the present, while others live for their future. The ones who live for the present are usually of the hedonistic variety. They live for  pleasure, and for the most part do not think of the future or ever reflect about the past. They typically are the television watchers, bar patrons, and fine dining epicureans who attempt to find ways to make their lives more agreeable in the here and now with superficial tendencies. The people who live for the future are more apt to live an ascetic lifestyle, or at least one that consists of being economically sound. They shun the extravagant lifestyle and engage in frugality with the hope of a more comfortable and secure retirement. Finally there are the people who are always looking behind them. They may also belong to one of the former types, but are different in the sense of sentimentality. I could give a flying leap about climbing the so-called ladder of success that is typically associated with the first group. I also do not care to live a life that abstains from life's simple pleasures. This removes me from the second group. After all, life may end tomorrow or the day after. There are no guarantees. This leaves me with the unenviable position of being cast into the third group. A group that consists of poets, dreamers, procrastinators and people who would rather watch the world from a vantage point far from the center of activity, or the hub of popularity.

I first became acquainted with the works of Sir Walter Scott when I was a young boy. At sometime my brother and I  acquired a tattered copy of the Classics Illustrated comic book Castle Dangerous. I have forgotten where and how we managed to obtain it but it was probably at the flea market that we would frequent every Sunday. The comic was 20 years old when it came into our possession and had not been taken care of. Not that this mattered to us. We were intrigued by the story that was told inside. The cover shows a fierce looking knight in black armor standing on a siege ladder. His sword is raised behind him as he is getting ready to slash at his adversaries while attempting to break over the castle walls. The story takes place during the English-Scottish border wars in the early 14th century. The black knight depicted on the cover is the Scottish Douglas. Sir James Douglas (1286-1330) also known as the "Black Douglas" because of the colour of his armor was one of Robert The Bruce's chief allies in the Scottish war of Independence. The story in the comic book is of course semi-fictional. It takes real historical personalities and mixes them with fictitious ones to create a fluid tale that culminates in a small battle between the English and the Scots outside of a church. This eventually leads to a single combat between Douglas and his English counterpart Sir John De Walton which ends in a mutual truce.

Every few years or so I pick up this comic book and read it. It is the epitome of the days of chivalry. Knights defending the honour of a lady... single combat between knights, and the solid walls of an impregnable castle. It takes place during a time of adventure and romance. Of course, in reality, it is all hogwash. The reality of the times that this romantic adventure took place were quite different than what most folks see in books and movies. It was for most people a time rife with disease and pestilence. Life was short and harsh. The only solace coming from the monks and priests who spoke of another life in the hereafter. But I don't give a damn about the reality. I deal with reality everyday. Sometimes I choose to live in the land of illusion...the land of the distant past. For a short time I become the all powerful Black Douglas possessing the strength of 10 men climbing to the top of the castles ramparts and delivering mortal blows with my broadsword to usurpers that have stolen my ancestral home. A damsel locked in a tower beckons from an airy window for my protection which of course is forthcoming. When I first read this comic book nearly 40 years ago I imagined that the future held an unimaginable amount of goals and achievements none of which were insuperable. There was a castle waiting for me, an army of knights in my employ that would do my bidding, and a lady love that was provided with all the finery of life. Today, the illusion is gone, but somehow remotely persists in the inner chamber of my mind where it resurfaces time and time again amidst the insipid  reality of what is now.

Danny's Sunset

By Craig: The other day a good friend of mine passed away. It was a shock because he was in such good shape physically for a man who was nearing 70 years old. We were in the same running club, and he was the type of person who would give you the shirt off his back. When I was attempting to qualify for the Boston Marathon a few years ago, he gave me some good advice that helped me to succeed in my endeavor. We ran an Ultra-Marathon together in South Carolina back in December. It was a 24 hour race that turned into a mud fest on slippery rain soaked trails. The course was along a narrow path that crossed creeks, and it seemed that every lap around the trail I would encounter a new root that seemed to have sprung up like some target in an arcade game. It was a mess! My goal had initially been to finish 100k, but after assessing the conditions I quickly adjusted that. About mid-afternoon I was seriously beginning to think about quitting. Because I was 20 years younger, and faster than Danny I turned a bend in the trail and saw him in front of me. I had lapped him, but he was plugging along with his head down,  and I came up beside him. He had a big grin on his face, and was thoroughly enjoying himself! We had a lengthy discussion and after giving me encouragement my attitude quickly changed. I no longer felt like quitting, and ended up finishing 40 miles that day! That was the type of person he was.

I found a photograph that Danny had taken a few months back, and because I really like it I saved it on my phone. It is the sunset over a lake. A simple image. There it is... a leafless tree with its outstretched arms that seems to beckon the sun as it disappears on the horizon in the western sky. The serenity of the lake is captivating and surreal. The image is poignant because it captures the truth that we will all one day face. A sunset...A simple sunset... This sunset belonged to my friend.