More photos from the Presby show

The good, good Presbies, sing "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown."

The crowd from behind the bar.

Gartner turns the camera on the crowd.

Photos of Best Hometown celebration and Friday Fling Nov. 20

Lauren Heaton shooting the scene for the News.

The Mellow Yellow dancers entertained in front of Open Books.

Carriage rides for the Friday Fling.

Waiting for a carriage ride in front of the Little Art.

Town at night. That's a fingernail moon at the upper right.

More photos of the "Springs" sculpture

Photos by Virgil Hervey.

More photos of the "Flock of Hands"

Olga puts the finishing touches on her work.

The hands are ready for raising.

Villagers volunteered to have their hands cast for the project.

The village crew assisted in the installation.

The village crew celebrates after everything is in place.

Reaching for the sky...

The artist surveys her work.

(L-R) Karen Wintrow, Macy Reynolds, Jenny Cowperthwaite Ruka, Lara Carlson, Olga Ziemska, Roger Reynolds and Virgil Hervey. Villagers who participated were asked to step forward and raise their hands at the unveiling.

More photos of the Paula Womacks exhibit

The artist (R) talks about her work.

Womacks has been a painter and worked with ceramics. Her works in fabric seem to reflect the qualities of both.

Street Fair - Oct. 10, 2009

The Mothman Festival, Point Pleasant, WV

This ranks right up there with the world's largest ball of twine.

Gone Fishin'

No longer needs a license...

Saturday morning soccer on the newly renovated fields

When a free sandwich costs five bucks and is worth it

I've been working on this $20 gift certificate to the Emporium for awhile now. First it was misplaced, then after it was found, I had to remember to use it. I alternate between this one and another I have to Current Cuisine. I usually only carry one with me at a time. So today, while I was waiting for the office computer to boot up (this usually takes about a half-hour), I decided to walk over to the emporium and get a sandwich. It was about ten minutes till noon when I got there, but there were no sandwiches in the case.

"They're not ready yet," the gal at the register said. "She's in the back making them now. Try back in about ten minutes."

I didn't have my Current Cuisine certificate with me and I had vowed not to spend any more money on lunch until I had used up the two of them, so I wandered over to Dark Star to pick up a paper back. On Wednesday, I am driving a friend to Miami Valley Hospital for out-patient surgery, so I thought I would pick up a used book to read while I wait for her.

Back in the paperback literature section, I was having trouble finding anything interesting until I picked up a collection of pieces by Mike Royko. The name struck a chord - a newspaper man, I thought. I was right.

The book was in a special celluloid wrapper and the price tag read $5.00. A used paperback for five bucks..? The original price was $1.75. Must be something special I thought.

I asked the girl in the store, "Why so expensive?"

"Must be a first edition," she said.

I thought it rather odd that a first edition paperback would have any value. After perusing the cover, I decided to buy it anyway.

It was now a few minutes after noon. I went back to the Emporium, but there were still no sandwiches in the case.

"She's still making them," the girl at the register said.

"It's already after twelve," I said. "Could you go back there and get one for me."

"Okay, what kind do you want."

"Turkey and Swiss with a little mayo."

She went into the back and came out a few minutes later. She was not carrying a sandwich.

"She'll bring it out when it's ready," she said.

I used the gift certificate to pay for it and waited. One of the guys that works there offered to go back and "bring it out as soon as it's ready." He came back a couple minutes later with no sandwich.

"It takes awhile," he said. "She has to wash the lettuce and all that. But she's working on your sandwich now."

A few minutes later the guy who is always on the bench in front of the Emporium emerged from the back with my sandwich.

"No wonder," someone groaned. "He was back there with her."

Eating the sandwich in my office, I read through a couple of Royko's stories. Then I realized where I must have heard the name. When I was a kid, I used to listen to Jean Shepherd on the radio late at night. Shepherd was cut from the same mold and probably was about the same age as Royko, maybe a little younger. Shepherd had to have paid homage to him at one time or another, either on the radio or in one of his many short story collections.

The title of the book is Slats Grobnik and some other friends. It is a collection of short pieces from the Chicago newpapers he worked for (there were three of them) as a syndicated coumnist. It is far from a first edition, but it is in good condition and it is a little gem.

MTFR Controlled Burn - more photos

Photos by Lisa Goldberg

More photos from the controlled burn out at Lisa Goldberg's place on Meredith Road, Sunday morning.

More photos from the hand-casting

Susan Miller - in it up to her forearm.

Roger Reynolds getting ready.

Corrine Bayraktaroglu thinks there's something in there with her.

Blog editor may be typing with one hand from now on.

More photos of Tom's new wheels

Cathy Price makes like a model on "The Price Is Right," but I doubt this prize is up for grabs!

Pedicab photos

Beijing - Pedicab ride throug the hutongs

Beijing - Street cleaner version of a pedicab

Malacca, Malaysia - Business is slow, so why not take a nap?

Wherefore art thou, Jerry Holt?

Larry was fixing the light in the kitchen.
You like beer? he asked.

Yeah, I like beer, I said
wondering where he was coming from.

Some of the boys and I
go to the Tavern
every first, third and fifth Thursday nights.
Maybe you'd like to join us.

Sounds like a possibility, I said, honored.
It isn't every day one's electrician
invites him to join his beer-drinking club.

You know Jerry Holt? I asked.

Why is that name familiar? he said.

He used to be a Dean
at Antioch McGregor.
We would meet in Peach's
on Thursday afternoons.
Then he moved away.
Yeah, I'll have a beer
with you guys.

I especially liked that part
about fifth Thursdays.
These are guys
who love what they do.

Nicky

Love bird, heh! This is one bad dude.

I'd been famous, but didn't know it or else I just forgot

Walter gave me The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry
for my birthday a year or two ago
I can't remember anymore.

I remember when it was first published
some of my friends were in it
I wasn't
I was disappointed
but who am I?

I was happy to have the book
my friends are famous
I told myself
I'm not
so it goes
who cares, anyway.

I've read from it
from time to time
A.D. Wynans
d.a. levy
Jim Chandler
Kerouac
Ferlinghetti
Ginsberg.

When I was a kid
I wanted to be a beat
On the Road ruined my life.

Today, I was looking through The Bible
while I was getting my brakes fixed.

Chandler is a pal of mine
published me
with lots of other pals
from the poetry underground
of the late eighties
and early nineties.

I looked at his bio
Thunder Sandwich published
"some of the best poets
of the last two deacades,"
it read, "including
Gerald Locklin
Lyn Lifshin
Virgil Harvey
and Cheryl Townsend.

I called Walter
from the Brake Pros waiting room
my name is in the book
I said
all this time
and I never knew
or did we have this conversation
before?

I wish they'd spelled my name right.

Lost in the woods

It's 4 a.m.
My friend from college is dead.

A professor and department head
at a large university,
married 45 years,
three children
two grandchildren,
widely published
in financial journals,
it said in the obit
in the Boston Globe.
There was a photo of him
at the helm of his yacht.

My ex and I were godparents
to one of his daugthers,
back when I was normal.
It's been so long,
I can't remember her name.

We started at the same place,
Jon and I,
fishing from a dam
upstream from the campus.
He stayed on the pavement,
I wandered down
to a path obscured
by twigs and leaves.

Special order

A lady calls up.
I’d like a special order
of white fried rice
for my son, she says.
The cook will know what it is.

Pardon me. I have
to put you on hold for a minute,
I tell her, trying to handle
three things at once.

Don’t leave me hanging too long,
she says, I’m on my cell phone
in my car and I’m about to
lose my signal.

She’s a regular customer.
Every week, it’s the same thing,
a five dollar order demanding
twenty dollars worth of service.

I put the phone on the counter.
The man I’m waiting on
picks it up.

This is a customer, he says.
Be patient. This food is so good,
it’s worth waiting for.
He sets it down again.

I’m glad he added that part
about being a fellow customer.
It lends a certain credibility
that I don’t have.

Man in Sandals

In two months
he will explore his options
under Medicare Part B.

For thirty years
he wore a suit and tie
and wing-tipped brogans.

He commuted three hours-a-day
round trip
and wrestled with judges
and DAs for eight hours
in between.

He drank three martinis
and a six pack
every night,
but he never drank before five.

He raised two kids
with one wife
and two more
with another.

He paid income tax,
social security tax,
real estate tax,
school tax,
sales tax,
commercial rent tax,
commuter tax,
medical insurance,
car insurance,
homeowners insurance,
life insurance,
malpractice insurance,
office rent,
two mortgages,
gas, electric and telephone,
car loans,
credit cards,
student loans
and medical bills up to his
…$5,000 annual deductible.

Six figures wasn’t always enough.
And there wasn’t always
the six. Sometimes it was five,
sometimes a low five.

All the while, late at night,
he wrote the kind of hard poetry
that other guys
would understand.
They’d nod
and say, “Amen, brother.”

Amen.

He doesn’t tuck his shirt in anymore.
He rarely wears long pants.
It’s not anything
he thinks about.

On the trip from New York
to Yellow Springs,
“600 miles and a lot of shit,”
he says,
he picked up
an extra thirty pounds,
thinning gray hair,
bad eyes, ears and teeth,
a slouch,
and a shuffle when he walks
down Xenia Avenue
in his knock-off Birkenstocks.

“I’ve paid for these sandals,”
he tells the boys on the bench
in front of Tom’s Market.

Washington Square Park

Independence Day

I saw Lucy today.
I am sure of it.
It wasn’t just
the flash of yellow
as she flew upward
in front of the bay window;
it was the long tail,
and that she looked in
on Baby and Nicky
in their cage.

I went outside and called her,
but she wouldn’t come down
or reveal herself in the tree,
where I knew
she was hiding.

This was a cool day
for a parakeet, after all.
If she wanted to,
she could have lit
on my shoulder
and I would gladly
have brought her inside.

But she chose not
to do so.

Therefore, she must be
alright.

I am sure she is
alright.

Scenes from around here

I was out in the field today.