Category: Life Is A Spell

I wish I had finished my soccer deep dive a little sooner. Ron would have loved it. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since one of the early reunions. I sent a link to a few of my former teammates and just a week later one of them let me know of Ron’s passing. Ronnie was a sensational goalie. His family held a celebration of his life at place in Webster called “The Filling Station.” I imagined the place might be where Finn’s Garage was, the Texaco garage operated by Andy Finn’s father that I remember for their nickel Coke machine and bicycle pump. It turned out the sports bar was right next door, across the street from Barrett Law Offices where Joe’s father and two of his brother’s worked. Ron apparently spent a lot of time in here.

I rode out to Webster with Jeff and he turned out to be the only other member of our team that was there. We met Ron’s son and gave him our condolences. Three other member of our class were there and we all stood near the back of the bar and talked about the old days. We never did get a drink or partake of the chicken wings.

I had not seen Jim since high school. He was easily the best athlete in our class, center on the basketball team and quarterback on the football team. He had told us about a crazy motorcycle accident he was involved in where kid pulled out in front of him. Jim was scooped up and flown via helicopter to the hospital where he got two new hips and long metal rod in his leg. Still bowls he told us.

We all lost a mutual friend by “friendly fire” so Viet Nam came up. Jeff had driven Rex to the physical while unsuccesfully talking him out of going. Bob had a sports injury where his shoulder would go in and out of its socket. He was able to disengage it while in line for his physical. I was classified 1A at the time, having dropped out when college when it provided you a deferment. I was saved buy a high lottery number.

Jim had the best story. His birthday was number one in the lottery. His brother was already serving and Jim didn’t want to go so he called the Selective Services office to see how close he was to being called up. The woman who answered kept trying to get his name and Jim didn’t want to identify himself but he finally he gave in. She looked up his name and told him he was 4F and he could forget about getting drafted. No further explanation.

I wish Ronnie could have been there.

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I was really enjoying “Severance” for the first season. I loved that there was snow on the ground when the characters were in their “outie” stage. The two episodes we watched each night felt like a disorienting but pleasant drug experience. More surreal than sci-fi. I loved the four primary actors and the sets were fantastic. The color choices were sensational. The plots were good enough to keep me awake but relaxing. Then came the season finale where my confusion felt frustrating. Peggi had a Severence dream that night where she was trapped in a B&B in our neighbor’s house.

Pete and Gloria came over with their brand new car, a Honda. We got in the back seat and they took us for a ride in our neighborhood. In fact we drove the same route that Peggi and I had walked earlier. We pointed out where we picked the pussy willows, the flowering Red Bud tree, the eagle’s nest and the marsh which is coming alive with irises and red winged blackbirds. In the back seat it was like we were in our “innie” stage but getting glimpses of our “outie” lives.

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I like this bird’s eye view of a house on Turk Hill Road. Us humans get to look up at it on a hill. Peggi was alerted to the sale by our friend, Kathy. She saw the listing described as a Don Hershey house. Peggi has been cataloguing the homes that Don Hershey built in this area on her website, DonHershey.com, and she did not have this one. The previous owner did this painting of his house. An $800 item, it was my favorite piece. This arrangement below was the only place in the house where I could rest my eyes.

Practical things were pretty expensive here and the unpractical items were as loud you can imagine. Lime green and purple walls, lots of glassware, a tabletop display of sun glasses you could imagine Elton John wearing, extra large tropical style shirts, dozens of unopened packages of cute cocktail napkins.

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When Peggi’s mom was living up here we used to go down to Silk O’Loughlin’s on Kentucky Derby Day. We would sit outside and watch the boats go down the river and there was always someone selling tickets for a chance to win on a horse. There was some serious green in there today when Peggi and I walked in. The owner was holding court, of course (in the wool sweater. ) We ordered a sandwich and a beer and sat in the back. Peggi found a green sweater to wear but the best I could do was an olive green Bug Jar t-shirt.

We had parked at the last lot along the beach and walked down Lakeshore to the river. We caught one of the eagles sitting on top of the big nest and watched him (or her) for a while before walking down Rock Beach past the Edic’s home. We looked at a few homes down here back in the day. Summerville is such a dreamy, funky neighborhood with easy access to the beach.

We looked in the new Fifth Frame Brewing on the way back. Surprised it didn’t open til four when all the other bars were full. We ran into Diane White walking her Basset hound. When we lived in the city we would go down to Carroll’s on St. Patty’s. Once we moved we did Shamrock Jack’s for years. Then that got crazy. The monster tent in the parking lot and bus loads of partiers and then the five and then ten dollar cover charge. We moved on to the Bayside. It was a nice walk across the outlet bridge. But then Webster decided to improve that area by tearing the place down.

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We walked up Biscayne, across the bridge over the inlet, and then turned directly to the bay. We could only glimpse the water before the road turned into a bridge to North Beach. We turned around there and hugged the streets along the inlet. Every third home or so was for sale. A narrow empty lot had been turned into a park (we could tell because there was a small sign that read “Park.”) We watched a motorboat come slowly up the channel and still manage to create a wake large enough to come over the banks. The low-slung, grade-level-entry houses were barely above water.

Back at the motel we researched “art galleries.” Where were they? Doesn’t Miami have a big art fair every year? We took an Uber up to the “Design District.” Every big designer brand you can think of has an outlet here. But no galleries. We got a cup of coffee at Pura Vida, a really good “cortadito,” and walked out of that area into Buena Vista, a comfortable old school residential neighborhood.

We crossed the tracks and decided to walk by the two restaurants our nephew owns. We had not hooked up with him yet. We were on the wrong side of the street when we realized we had walked right by both of them. I had taken note of the graphic on the side of one building, line drawings of young people dancing. I took it for an old fashioned teen center. It was Walrus Rodeo. Boia De, in the same strip mall, has such a low profile it took us a few minutes to realize we were standing right in front of it. At night, when their brilliant explanation mark of a logo is lit up it looks like my photo above. Our nephew was there attending to a plumbing issue. With a Michelin star Boia De is booked months in advance but somehow he arranged for us to get a table that night.

Our server, Tamar, told us they usually recommend six dishes to share per table. We decided on two, “Confit Octopus” and “Ricotta Gnocchi Alla Norcina”and two half orders, “Luci’s Chopped Salad” and “Lamb Ribs Fra Diavola.” All four were phenomenal but the salad was the best. We couldn’t finish the Gnocchi and brought it back to our motel room. Classic R&B music set the perfect vibe. In the bathroom, Curtis Mayfield’s “Future Shock” sounded as timeless as ever.

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We hated to leave Rochester when the winter was so beautiful but the the three days of full sun in Manhattan was a suitable consolation. It turned grey on our return and winter had turned ugly, in that the ice made it tough to walk. We tackled Hoffman Road to the park and back and then out Center to the park but we had to turn around there because of the ice. Even yesterday, while we were downtown, the sidewalks were treacherous. We kept thinking of a friend who fell and broke his hip. I saved the mp3s from our last Margaret Explosion gig and put then in a playlist for our next outing.

It was a 60 minute flight to DC and we had just spotted the Lincoln Memorial when the flight attendant announced we were in a holding pattern due to “VIP movement in DC.” I can only imagine but would rather not. 

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The new snow was sticky yesterday but the same snow, in today’s colder temperatures, was perfect. Peggi reminded me that it was Martin Luther King Day when we got our first ski of the year in and we have skied every day since. The blue skies today were stunning.

Read Margaret Renki’s “Tenderness as an Act of Resistance.”

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When I cross-posted the image in my last post to IG Joe Barrett commented, “Oh man, I miss real winter.” That’s what he gets for moving away. I miss real winter too but this one works. Peggi and I were part of a group text with our neighbors that turned from the Grammys to “how are you holding up in this deep, dark winter.” We let it go back and forth and then piped in with a note that announced “we are loving the season.” That reminds me, we should check in with Brad.

My brother, Fran was loving this winter too until he got his snowmobile stuck and compressed a disc in his back trying to get the machine out of a drift. He had driven up to Old Forge in the Adirondacks where he rented a room and then drove his sled over to Tug Hill at the eastern end of Lake Ontario where they had had 260 inches of snow this season, the most in the lower 48. He spent the night in the Utica hospital. My brother, Tim, drove up and brought him home.

When I stopped out to see Fran a compressor was making a racket in his garage but I couldn’t find Fran. He was down in his basement with car parts from his Camaro covering every surface of the room. He has taken the car completely apart in order to restore it. I expected to find him in bed but this is how he rolls.

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I remember my father driving along Horseshoe Road on in our family car. It was magical then and has lost none of its charm. It is closed to car traffic now but you will still find pieces of metal hard rails on some of the curves. We walk it in the summer and we skied it today. The road really goes nowhere. It starts on Lakeshore Boulevard along Lake Ontario and it comes back out pretty much where it started. It exists for the ride.

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Kids still play hockey on frozen lakes. The world is not completely upside down yet. We skied up to the lake, the big lake, the one they used to call Lake Ontario but in the spirit of Manifest Destiny we have renamed “Lake New York.” We have just a few more days of below freezing temperatures and we’re going to enjoy every bit of it.

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We were just getting so we could remember our new neighbors’ names. Alliteration like ours and Dan and Diana across the street. They had only been here a year. We learned Chris had passed suddenly at 71 so we stopped down to give our condolences to his wife. As we walked up to their house we saw this hawk perched on a branch above. It looked right at us, posed for a photo and then took flight. Carol was still in shock and we felt so sorry for her.

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We sent out holiday cards this year, first time in years, and when we saw Kathy at the Margaret Explosion gig on Friday she told us our card looked just like one of the photos we had taken in Spain. Kathy is a craftswoman, a hands-on sort and creative. I said, “it is one of my photos.” I didn’t want to read too much into it but it was clear Kathy didn’t know we had the cards made. That fact would have been obvious if we hadn’t cut the cards in half before mailing them out.

I did commercial art my whole working life and I remember how much pressure was relieved when websites came along. If you made a mistake on a project you could just hop online and fix it unlike a print job where you had to eat 10,000 catalogs with the wrong phone number printed on it. Well, we did the mechanical files for our Christmas card, a 7″w x 10″h piece that folds horizontally to 7″w x 5″h, and uploaded it in a flash. Only when the box of cards arrived did I discover we had backed the card up wrong. When we opened the card Eduardo Chillida’s quote, (“Isn’t planning a way to steal the present’s greatest mission?”) was upside down. Considering that quote was so fitting to our lack of planning we debated whether to send them out that way and hope someone got the joke or, as we decided, to cut the cards in half so the image was on the front and quote on the back.

We did receive another comment on the card. John Gilmore emailed us. “Thanks for the card. Perplexing I must say.”

Happy Holidays!

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If you can’t make it to the Nam June Paik show at the Memorial Art Gallery you owe it to yourself to watch “Edited for Television,” a 1975 glimpse into the artist’s life at the height of his creative output. But then you would miss his works on paper dedicated to John Cage. You have until May 4, 2025 to see the show. The video looks a lot better over there too.

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You know how a retiree’s calendar can have big blocks of emptiness and then everything at once? Thursday was one of those days. It’s a First Friday now and we are staying in. We have the red lights on for an Atletico Madrid Copa del Rey match.

Years ago my father spearheaded a movement to save an old farmhouse in Brighton. He and a small group of residents formed an organization called Historic Brighton and Leo Dodd was elected as their first president. Peggi and I did the logo and the website in the early years. My sister, Amy, is now the president of the ever-growing group and they held a special event on Thursday in the now restored Buckland House where eight of Leo’s paintings of old Brighton will be on permanent display. Of course nothing is permanent as my father discovered.

Ray Tierney found donors to pay for the framing and I hung the eight paintings before the unveiling. It was fun to spend some time with them again. All were painted during a twenty year period when my father and I were in Fred Lipp’s class at the MAG. We students all worked on paintings at home and met once a week for feedback. No painting was done before Fred said it was “Done.” And it was often before you wanted it to be done. “Painting is not the execution of a plan” Fred would say.

The mayor, other Brighton dignitaries and members of Leo’s family were there for the opening of “Leo Dodd Paintings at the Buckland Farmhouse.” Leo would have been so proud.

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It had rained all day Monday and through the night. We were watching “The Terror” on Netflix and the wind outside, coupled with the rain and acorns falling on our metal roof added to the oddly cozy, marooned in the Arctic on an 1850 war ship, period piece. I was up early on Tuesday and had already made coffee. I was working on a blog post when our power went off. We made a fire in the fireplace and moved chairs to the window so we could read the paper. RGE estimated a thousand people were out of power.

The power came back on around noon and we went out for a walk. We were almost to the park when someone on an eBike stopped near us. He told us his battery display was acting up and he wasn’t sure he could make it down to the lake and back without running out of juice. God forbid he’d have to peddle. He told us he had passed a huge, fallen tree somewhere after Walgreens on his way down Culver. We changed directions and walked through the woods and out to Culver to see if we could find that tree.

A few blocks south of Titus we spotted the scene above. I remember how we felt when one of our trees fell across the road and blocked in or out traffic for twenty five neighbors for most of a day. We have talked to the woman who lives in this house on our walks up to Wegman’s and I feel her pain. The fallen tree cut the power line as it fell and luckily it did not fall on their home.

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I don’t remember giving Dave copies of the cd compilations I did back. . . when was that when we got our first cd writer? I remember hiring Kevin Condo to come over to our house with his equipment and we watched him write a cd of graphic arts files. It seemed like magic. I did the compilations as “Sam Patch,” because I dj’d a few times under that name, and I named the cds alphabetically but only got as far as the “F Word” before cds were passé. I submitted the Sam Patch series to Apple Music but only 37 of the 89 songs were accepted.

In our time on this planet we are lucky to meet someone who is larger than life, out of the ordinary, like a rich, well developed character from a novel. It just happens. It is a gift. Carrol Hall took care of Dave Ripton near the end and she sent some pages Dave wrote for us. He framed the passages around the two Sam Patch cds. (I made one redaction.)

“(for Paul & Peggi)

Apostle-Pt.1
Collection of dead faces beneath acrylic varnish, begging.
Within slow montage, rack-focused edits from face to face, soundtrack 
Of Apostle recalibrates time and tries to repair the damage that MTV 
Has caused with the disease of jump-cut it thoughtlessly spread.
When Sun Ra makes his 2cd Coming, I have faith, the both of you will 
Be pulled up from this terminal planet and spared from disintegration.
If Death gets to you first, I beg of Christ that you die together.
My concept of True Love is based upon the example that you’ve set.
Your wise smiles ever-floating just slightly out of focus in me.

Birdbrain -Pt.6-13
I am guilty of spousal abuse. I confess this sin to you because I need 
To feel deeply ashamed, your opinion of me matters, I have to tell you.
My partner lied to me many times. Fear of getting older, combined with 
Drug-induced impotency, used my growing distrust of her to fuel episodes 
Of jealous savagery against her. I believed she was fucking around on me 
And it caused me to explode into psychotic rage. I thank God she wasn’t 
Injured, physically, at least. The spiritual toll is unmeasurable.

Birdbrain Pt.4.0
Your hands are like two shovels/ digging into me…

Apostle Pt.2
Dark Bug Jar circle of Margaret Explosion orbiting wildly as Ginsberg 
Was dying in NYC. Grass brownies dropped me into visions of an unlit 
Foreign jail cell where I screamed loud and long enough to summon you 
All for protection, and ultimately, for escape. Later I drove home 
And smiled upon hearing the bad news.

Birdbrain-Pt.3
I force myself to believe in a peaceful afterlife where the secret 
Roots of my sins will be explained and forgiven. I will see you two there

Apostle-Pt.1 1/2
I have tasted your disappointment in me. Addiction, like Love, cannot 
Be explained or experienced second-hand. I have sacrificed everyone and 
Everything of value in the dead pursuit of intoxication. No degree of 
Respect or acceptance ever came close to the rush of shame or the high 
Of alienation that I’ve wrapped around my carcass for its thin warmth.
I have fought myself, tried to be as honest as I could. Truth is the 
First fatality of addiction, knowing that, I’ve struggled to be truthful, 
Even though it has cost me dearly. As a young teenager I was asked what 
My future goals were during a conference with a guidance counselor.
I answered his question saying I wanted to be the lead singer of a band 
And a heroin addict. Gratefully, I never abandoned my Dreams, not very 
Many people can claim that, which is nice.

Apostle-Pt.1969 (Rochester, NY)
When, and if, Jimi paid his visit to Son House- I bet he felt like a 
Fucking poser. Stretch limo sliding through Niggertown to pay respect.
I’d feel like an asshole; wouldn’t you?

Birdbrain-Rows: G-W(Mezzanine Level)
I had attained invisibilty through strenuous spellcasting and various
Nauseating and dangerous potions. “Look here/To what I’ve wrote on my 
Shirt:.” I watched you perform at the ’83 Grammys- front row, center.
I assumed, incorrectly, that Peggy played a clarinet. I had to be unseen, 
Due to outspoken contempt for New Wave bands- I was a rabid Dead Boys fan 
And risked getting killed if any another scumbags spotted me there.
I enjoyed PE, in spite of myself. Those five Grammies were deserved, kids.
When I realized I was materializing back to visibilty- I panicked and 
Quickly dropped to my knees, …pretended to blow a couple of A&R guys.
I think one of them was Xxxxx Xxxxxxx, but I’m not 100% positive.”

Dave, We’ll see you in “the peaceful afterlife.”

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The timing of the Paw Paw Party at Coleen’s could not have been better. The morning was warm and sunny. So warm in the sun that we hung around the pool watching the Tulip tree leaves collect on the winter cover after we covered the flower pots, piled the tables and chairs under a tarp and turned off the heater for the winter. Peggi and I took a walk that finished at the garden and brought home a sweater full of peppers, arugula and salad fixings and then headed downtown. Colleen had three paw paws ready for us to sample.

We started with the dark skinned one. It was especially softe and overripe. The fruits sweet but tasted like it had starting to ferment. The second brown skinned specimen, also the consistency of custard, tasted like passion fruit. Delicious. It surly was at peak. The third was still firm so we brought it and the seeds home with us. The party was short as Coleen’s dog had to go out. The clouds darkened and It started to rain as we said goodbye.

The fruit came from a tree that grows near the public market and Colleen and Hucky got them from a vendor there. They gave us some seeds last year and we have a paw paw tree growing in our backyard now. We sang the song in grade school but never came across one. A lifetime later we discovered a tree in the park. Peggi submitted a photo to iNaturist and an Associate Professor of Geography at SUNY Geneseo contacted her to say even though Pawpaw is native to our area it is quite rare in NYS. It is classified as a threatened-species designation. Pawpaws produce the largest edible fruit of all native tree species in the United States.

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Earlier this month the Landmark Society conducted a tour of the Gibbs Street, Selden Street and Grove Place neighborhood just a few blocks from the Eastman Theater. Along with six spectacularly renovated apartments we toured The Center For the Study of Civil and Human Rights Laws, a civil rights museum in what was once Susan B. Anthony’s lawyer’s (Samuel Selden) home.

The 4,000  square foot building located at 18 Grove Place serves as the office of Van White, currently a Monroe County Assistant District Attorney, formerly School Board President for the Rochester City School District, Chair of the Council of Urban School Boards Association and Director of the National School Boards Association.

Motivated by his father’s experiences of discrimination and his participation in the March on Washington in 1963 White embarked on a journey to preserve his father’s memory by collecting books and photographs from that pivotal time. His thriving civil rights law practice allowed him to build his collection with memorabilia like Martin Luther King’s pool table, a recreation of the lunch counter at Woolworth’s and a bus from the same fleet as the one Rosa Parks sat on.

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The last time we visited the 1821 Brighton Cemetery was with my father as a guide. We placed our order at Canaltown yesterday and while Pete was packaging it up we walked over here. The cemetery is two hundred years old and with the help of the “Leo Dodd Fund,” Brighton Cemetery is now a designated landmark of the City of Rochester.

Just steps into the cemetery, at the end of Hoyt Place overlooking the Eastern Expressway and the former Erie Canal bed, you’ll spot names that are very familiar to locals. Penfield, Blossom, Watson and Hungerford. William Bloss, a tavern owner turned temperance advocate fought against slavery and for the right of women to vote. There is a monument to him and his wife Mary near the entry gate. I love the inscription below Mary’s face.

“Oh blessed harvest yet to be
Abide thou with the love that keeps
In its warm bosom tenderly
The life that wakes and that which sleeps”

The owners of the former brickyards in Brighton are all buried here with their families. Abner, Leonard, Amos and Hobart Buckland. Although we have no photos of these. In retirement, my father unearthed the history of Brighton’s brickyards and created portraits of the former owners.

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