This program used to air on Tuesday nights at 10. I don't know about you, but I'm usually abed by ten. Of course, that wasn't always the case. I think abed by 10 and up at 4 is a mid-life thing.

This really wasn't a family program - or at least not primarily. There's nothing inappropriate in it for the kids, but they're not necessarily going to appreciate it. And of course, families ate at table rather than in front of radio. This is 1941.

10 o'clock. Oy.

There was a time I'd stay up till 11 to watch "Doctor Who" when he was Tom Baker. I guess in those days I didn't need to be awake till 6.

Yes, I've got a million exciting stories just like that one. 

Fog in the morning, snow in the hills, rain in the valleys. Ah me. Here is Suspense! if'n you like to hear it, below. It's a good one.

This house looked abandoned. Turned out it wasn't. I did some fast talking. One of my goals is to get through each day without being shot. The one below is a house I have had my eye on for about a year - a simple farmhouse in the woods wanting restoration. Someone had put a tarp over the roof at some point, so it appears it is still somewhat cared for. But houses that remain vacant tend to fall down sooner than the inhabited ones do. The great tragedy of the 21st Century is the disappearance of the 19th Century, but of course the great tragedy of the 16th was the disappearance of the 14th, and on and on...

Believe it or not, this one is not for sale. Why? Because it is owned by an established Pioneer family with oodles of land. The land takes care of them. A spare house or two is a good thing to have. 

A spare travel trailer or two is also a plus, apparently. This was probably used as a deer camp at some point.

 

This moraine is typical in the countryside. The glaciers were kind enough to create some lovely cross country skiing terrain. You'll get quite a workout on these little rolling hills. They account for much of the haunted look of the area, their resemblance to Indian burial mounds. Some folks like to create cairns out of fieldstones, some of them rather whimsical. The lighting was inadequate to capture one such assembly of stones nearby, but I hope to amend that situation when the sun returns in a few weeks.

My reading of "The Man From the South" by Roald Dahl may be found in comments, by the way. I am very dissatisfied with it so I am punishing it by placing it in comments - the 'time out' chair for bungled recordings. Oh, but it's a longish story. I didn't feel like re-reading it.

I'm using a Paint program to augment these pictures in various ways, which may be obvious to many of you. When it comes to lanscapes this area is difficult to capture because what looks quite dramatic to the eye is flattened out by the rather limited camera lens, and I would have to get one with better field depth to just point and shoot and expect some semblance of representation. I'm learning instead - or, in the meantime - to set up compositions with foreground objects which may provide a little contrast.

Mountains are easier, of course. The Catskills are quite near by. I'll be driving around down there within a few weeks - when I get the chance.

Fibber and Molly tonight.

 

The scary man over the fireplace came out rather well. What is he doing? He is writing his famous recipe for lady fingers made with real ladies, yes?

 

Music is back, in this case Indiscipline, King Crimson.

 

I do remember one thing. It took hours and hours. And, by the time I was done with it I was so involved I didn’t know what to think. I carried it around with me for days and days, playing little games. Like - not looking at it for a whole day. And then - looking at it. To see if I still liked it.

 

I did.

 

I repeat myself when under stress. I repeat myself when under stress. I repeat myself when under stress. I repeat myself when under stress. I repeat

 

The more I look at it the more I like it. I do think it’s good. The fact is, no matter how closely I study it, no matter how I take it apart, no matter how I break it down, it remains consistent.

 

I wish you were here to see it.

 

 

The song. The song. The song.

 

The song speaks. I listen to lyrics. I’m a lyric listener. Some others are rhythm listeners. They feel first – then they hear. I hear first, and then decide what I should feel. One day, in the distant future, the descendants of the rhythm listeners will have one whole half of the universe portioned off for themselves, and the descendants of the lyric listeners will have the other half. Diplomacy will break down because that’s what diplomacy does, and there will be a massive war.

 

I wish I could be there to hear it.

 

This song.

 

This song in particular. I was in college. I was going to be a writer. This song describes the creative process.

 

War Pig. My son named him after the Black Sabbath song. Of course. We live in a world where everything that is said may be followed with the words of course. I feel strongly about ________, of course. I think that ________, of course.

 

And I say, “Who you are shouts so loudly I cannot hear what you are saying.”

 

 

I did not shoot this pig; my friend did. He gave it me. Why? Because his woman did not want it in the house, (of course). I gather he would rather have the woman than the pig, so naturally…

 

He is above my front door. He has such expressive eyes.

 

She has a tattoo of a murderous thug on her shoulder, a liberal hero. What is a liberal hero? Someone who hates them even more than they hate themselves – in this case, a famous Communist revolutionary. Very fashionable. Very silly.

 

Apparently, it is good to torture and kill people, but it is bad to shoot a pig. I love her. I want her to have my baby.

 

They are getting married in New Mexico. I was invited, but I’m not going. I should go. I should run into the Fellowship Non-Religious Non-Aligned Non Denominational Non Sense Church of whatever stripe and make a bold and desperate gesture, - plea, whatever. That would be amusing.

 

In typical White Lodge style I will simply say that I did. I will tell the story about how I rode my motorcycle to New Mexico. The wind was in my hair, the music was,

 

Of course.

 

I looked so sexy.   

 

I'm sorry to be absent from you for so long. I had computer difficulties, requiring repair. The repair took the form of a system wipe, so I had to reestablish a few things.

But hey, I used my camera for the first time today. The picture above is of the Hollow Hills, so called because all its place names are "this Hollow" and "that Hollow." The WT lives in one of those Hollows.

 

This one is of the frozen lake - obviously. It's a color photograph, which isn't quite as obvious on this rather colorless day. I was tempted to get a picture of the ice shanties for you, but I was too lazy to get out of the car once I was underway. Ice fishing is done here in the frozen Northeast, just as it is in the frozen anywhere.

 

This is Hinder Hollow. There was a ghastly murder here in the 30's. Ooh... Ahh.

It's difficult to photograph this area. Most cameras of the sort you and I are likely to use tend to flatten landsapes.

This does have a reputation for being a very haunted spot, by the way. The Hollow Hills are between where I live and Rhubarb Valley, the latter having more dramatic topography. As a result of that dramatic topography, however, it is almost always shrouded in clouds or fog. 

 

It is hard to believe how green all this lanscape will be in a few months. Ah - Spring!

Well, I should explain Spring is not much better round here than the dirty end of Winter. When the snow melts it's a little like taking a bandage off a wound. Of course, within a few weeks you would never know what decaying things still fester underneath all the greenery. I think mud is just like puss.

 

This is what I saw when I awoke this morning. In the background there you can see the Black Lodge Hill. You can only see it from here, though. It doesn't exist in any other view. If you were to go next door and look for it you won't find it. Kind of interesting.

And yes, I did try to catch a myphet. Alas, it was not to be... again.

 

Here we are - home sweet home. Don't be thinking that just because a house may look abandoned around here it must therefore be abandoned. It ain't necessarily so.

Well, this one really is abandoned but...

Where are the people? Where did they go? Are they away? Perhaps they are in Florida. No, I'm sorry. No. They are in the bone yard. They are in the potter's field. They are dead. They are dead. They are dead. We will find them when the snow melts in the Spring. We will find their memories. But they are dead. We miss them.

OK, I'm done.

It's nice to be back.

Fibber's questionably lucrative hobby takes the McGees on this week's adventure.