For the curious reader of science fiction (scifi) and fantasy
I took the Mothership out for a spin today, just to run it. I had no real destination in mind—maybe Wegmans, maybe Costco, maybe nowhere. Instead, the road led me to Walden Pond. What a beautiful end-of-summer day for it.
Magical. Almost supernatural, and yet Nature at its most astounding. In an instant, the world was turned inside out. The blazing corona around the darkened sun took my breath away. (And this was viewing through a thin layer of cloud. I can only imagine if the sky had been clear.) Just before totality, the horizon glowed with a 360-degree sunset. The air turned cold. Transcendent might not be too strong a word for the feeling when the sun winked out and the corona appeared.
This was my first-ever experience of a total eclipse. (Once, in the 70s, I was on the wrong side of a half-mile band of ocean separating me from the view of totality. Sorry, man, what a bummer.) It made totally worthwhile getting up at 3 a.m. to drive—ahead of the rush of thousands of others from Massachusetts—to Burlington, Vermont to watch the event. We arrived plenty early and found parking. We had the Mothership, and our dog McDuff, and we relaxed in comfort while we waited. Well, aside from shortness of sleep. But you can sleep when you’re dead, man.
The closest I have come to this in the past was our viewing in person of the launch of space shuttle Atlantis, in 2010, along with a group of fellow SF authors. In that event, the most memorable single element was the nova-like blaze of fire under the tail of the spaceship. That, like this, could not be conveyed by a photograph, much less my amateur video. In this case, I couldn’t even get a picture that registered what we were seeing at all.
Here’s a NASA photo from Dallas, TX, that did a better job (NASA/Keegan Barber):
When I watched the shuttle launch, I was in spine-tingling awe of the power of human striving against the bonds of the Earth. In this case, I was in transcendent awe of the majesty of our life-giving sun and our moon, and the stupendous coincidence or design of our Earth/Moon/Sun system boasting the perfect geometry of lunar size and distance such that the moon precisely covers the disk of the sun. What magnificent art is that astonishing corona, if art it is. Either way, it is breathtaking. And humbling.
I now understand why people say once you’ve seen a total eclipse, you want to keep on seeking them out. Even after surviving the two-hundred-mile traffic jam returning home (oh, for a flying car!). The next one on U.S. soil won’t be for twenty years, so maybe I have some international travel to look forward to! Zounds!
Ironically, this event was visible from my hometown of Huron, Ohio. If I’d been in the house I grew up in, I could have stepped out into the backyard. Same for my mom, God rest her soul, who grew up on a farm in Wooster, Ohio. Sometimes the spacetime continuum is in need of a little tweaking.
With Allysen, I drove the Mothership to western Massachusetts and the Berkshires this past weekend. We stayed at the Mt. Greylock Campsite Park, somewhere near the base of Mt. Greylock, the tallest peak in Massachusetts. Before taking on the mountain, however, we set off for Stockbridge and the Naumkeag Public Garden, to view a collection of kinetic sculptures by George Rickey. The sculptures were fascinating—all stainless steel, and (I think) most of them in motion from wind energy. This is a double-triangle, slowly twisting in the wind:
The grounds were beautiful. This is a great place to visit if you are in the area. Here’s Allysen and the moving circle sculpture. Except that it’s a still photo, and you can’t see it moving. Use your imagination.
And a tree-lined lane with a shifty-looking writer trying to be inconspicuous:
After the garden closed, we hightailed it back to Mt. Greylock, in hopes of driving to the summit on the scenic parkway. Alas, we arrived at the gate to find a sign prohibiting all vehicles over 22 feet in length from the parkway. At 24 feet, they were looking at us. Undeterred, we parked at the visitor center and set out on an easy walking trail loop on the lower part of the mountain. Easy, my aching feet! Easy for the young’uns. In truth, it was a beautiful hike through the woods, maybe four miles or so; it didn’t feel like more than ten, what with the uphill slopes. (Note to self; buy some decent hiking shoes.) Here we are, cheering ourselves on:
Oddly, we never did get a view of the mountain. You know, as a big, well, mountain rising up before you. Its 3,489-foot height, from where we came in, was pretty much obscured by a sea of forest. Nevertheless, it is the highest point in Massachusetts. Next time, we’ll have to come by car, so we can drive to the top. Yes, I know you can hike it. You can hike it. We’ll pick you up at the summit.
Here’s a lovely fern meadow:
Next stop, Tanglewood.
We wanted to do something fun this weekend, and we had not yet tried taking the dogs with us in the Mothership (campervan). So we decided this was the time. We threw together some things for a day trip—mainly just food and dog supplies—and hit the road.
Hah! First of all, it took two hours longer than we expected to get ready (although part of that was going online and picking out a destination). We chose one of the loveliest beaches we know—Wingaersheek Beach in Gloucester—propelled by the discovery that April 30 was the last day that dogs were allowed on the beach before summer rules kicked in. That settled, I needed to implement an untested arrangement of harnesses and cushions to let the dogs ride safely strapped into the third and fourth seats of the campervan. (Mixed results on that one.)
Finally, though, we really did hit the road. Ten minutes in, Allysen realized she’d forgotten her glasses. Should we turn around? No, not that important. Five minutes more, and I realized I’d forgotten my wallet. Should we turn around? Yes. So we circled back, and I got my wallet. Also, Allysen’s glasses. Also, I shut the garage door that someone had left standing wide open. Back on the road.
Without further delay, we drove to Wingaersheek Beach. It was late in the day, uncrowded and gorgeous. There were some dogs there, off leash, so we let our guys run, too. Captain Jack had a ball, racing around, swimming in the tide waters, playing (peacefully!) with other dogs. He did steal one dog’s ball, but he gave it up and I threw it back to its owner. Even shy McDuff reveled in trotting free of the leash, though she never strayed far from us. By the end, they were exhausted. Or no, wait—that’s in the other universe. In this universe, they were ready and raring for more, and continued that way for the rest of the day. (Jack, you will recall, is an 11-year-old cancer survivor.) When we got home, they absolutely had to be bathed, so we did that. By midnight, when they should have been totally zonked, they were still jumping around, Jack squeaking a toy in his mouth, looking for someone to play with. Who are these dogs, and where does that energy come from? Zero-point energy from the quantum flux?
Unanswerable questions. But that’s how we do a trip to the beach at the Star Rigger Ranch.
Last writing retreat of the year, this time in the Falmouth/Mashpee area. Little cottage in the woods, little man by the laptop stood. Close to a marine estuary, very quiet.
It’s not far from here to the Shining Sea Bikeway in Falmouth, which I was looking forward to exploring for fresh air and Nature and exercise. I got three minutes into my ride when I realized that the whup-whup-whup from my front wheel was not bumps on the trail, but a bulge where the tire was getting ready to blow. Gahh. Good news: lots of bike shops in the area. Bad news: none of them carries the odd size tire my eccentric recumbent uses. So… no bike riding this trip.
On the other hand, I’m on the edge of a big wildlife refuge area, so there are lots of trails and whatnot. Also, the ocean, where Vineyard Sound expands into Nantucket Sound. Beautiful! In the second photo, you can just make out Martha’s Vineyard on the horizon.
Also, words are being written. Actual words. Of a novel. Yay.
Captain Jack and I went for a little bike ride yesterday, to enjoy the pleasant evening. I found us riding straight into a breathtaking view of a slender, crescent moon, and bright Venus just above it. This picture gives just a hint. (What is it about stunning views of the sky in real life, and what you get on your phone camera—even a good camera?) Let’s zoom in…
Here’s the captain, wondering why we’ve stopped.
A day or two ago, our house started to be attacked by moths. Not swarming out of closets, or out of the food pantry, but beating against the windows from outside, trying to get in. What is this, Hitchcock’s “The Moths”? Those that did get in were beating against the windows, trying to get back out. I guess the view wasn’t all they’d hoped for. We dispatched dozens of them, using our handheld Dyson vacuum with wand attachment.
Our first theory was that they (these are big moths) had turned up to see what we were doing to their smaller cousins, the grain moths. (Answer: trying to kill them.) My next theory was that they were baby Mothras. Worse! NO KILL I!
Further investigation led us to the news that there’s a big outbreak of gypsy moths in the Northeast this year. And worse, that they are an invasive species first introduced by a scientist in Medford, Mass., just one town over from us. Aughh! Go away!
Doesn’t look like much, but it was six inches of wet, gluey, sludgy, icy snow to move. It’s what I spent a good part of the day doing.
The Ponce Chronicles will resume tomorrow. Assuming we don’t get more of the same.
Here’s kind of an eerie view that I got while walking Captain Jack in the evening. The trees were cloaked with heavy layers of snow, a little unnerving to walk under.
Here’s a fellow I found pecking away at a mulberry tree stump at the corner of our garage. He let me get pretty close. I’m wondering if he’s carving out a home for the winter. I hope so! It’d be fun to see him stick around.
Based on pictures on the Mass Audubon site, I’m guessing he’s a Downy Woodpecker.
A conch is a kind of snail, right? And snails don’t jump; they ooze, right? Well, not always, it turns out. Here, from Science News, is a story about the motion of Gibberulus gibberulus gibbosus, aka hunchbacked conch.
To quote: “The sea snails save their jumping for conch emergencies, such as when they detect dissolved body odor from the deadly cone snail Conus marmoreus. Cone snails glide rather than jump. But if a cone snail gets close enough, it harpoons the conch with a long, venom-delivering proboscis that is as agile as an elephant’s trunk. Then it reels in the paralyzed conch like a fish on the line. Such threats favor epic jumping in spite of the conch circulatory system…” [more]
Watch this conch jump. (It’s small in the screen, so click in the lower right corner to maximize.)