The Kase of the Kidnapped Kitty

Stumpy is a two-legged Siamese cat that lives at an animal hospital in Keystone, near Bream Lake. He is much loved by the people in the town. About a month and a half ago Stumpy disappeared. Where he went nobody knew. Needless to say, this caused a great sensation in Keystone and, indeed, most of the surrounding area. The community searched high and low (mostly low) for the kitty but he was nowhere to be found. Approximately four weeks after he left he came back. He was left in a cage at the vets, flea-ridden and bedraggled, but none the worse for wear. There was happiness again in Keystone. Pussy had returned.

O'Bassum

If you have looked at previous blogs on this site you already know that Bream Lake is blessed with all manner of fauna. Be they of feather or fin, the creatures of the lake are abundant and diverse. Until several nights ago, I was certain that I had seen everything that Bream had to offer regarding the Animal Kingdom. Imagine my astonishment when, on a post mid-night stroll around the perimeter of the lake, I happened upon the peculiar entity you see here. It was lodged in the branches of a cypress tree and, upon the flash from my camera, immediately scurried away. I have not seen it since. One can only imagine how such a creature came into existence. A chance romance of a lonely bass and adventuresome opossum? Intelligent Design with a slight relapse? Regardless, I shall always be on the lookout for this charming little oddity that I have named the O'Bassum.

Pickup Paradise

On the road leading to Bream Lake one will pass a row of three pickup trucks. They are of different ages, models and sizes. They seem to be there for no other reason than display.They are gracefully rusting away the remainder of their time here on earth- rather like the retired humans at Bream. The denizens around Bream love their trucks. Virtually everyone here has at least one truck, sometimes two or three. The dominant brands are Ford and Chevy, but the foreign models are making an impact. The bigger the truck the better. Money seems to be no obstacle in the purchasing of these vehicles. The loan on the family wheels must surely outweigh the mortgage on the doublewide. The joke around here is : A robber meets a lake citizen and , pointing a gun at him, demands "Your pickup or your wife!" After a long pause, with no answer forthcoming, the robber repeats the question. After another lengthy period of silence the victim replies "I'm thinkin', I'm thinkin."

The Road Taken

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood"...well, not exactly a yellow wood. The roads I speak of are in the tract of land known as the Four Lakes Community and they exist in two counties of North Central Florida: Alachua and Putnam. One road is paved (Alachua) and, when it crosses the county line into Putman, it turns to dirt... well not exactly dirt. It becomes a hellish concotion of sand, clay and limestone rock that will jolt the fillings out of your teeth when traveled upon. Sadly, this is the only way to access our Bream Lake. It is our purgatorial route to Paradise.The rich banker that developed this area named all the streets after members of his family (mostly women), so we spend our tortuous transit on lanes called Ashley, Sally and Dixie. It is not until we get to the masculine Benjamin that we are given respite. To call these thoroughfares washboard roads would not give them justice. The ridges that populate these bucolic arteries are monumental. Our goal, however, is Bream Lake and the gauntlet is well worth the peril. After all "I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference".

Lewd sing

Bream is shutting down. With the cold Winter setting in, the animals and the plants are lying low. Our ducks have becone too fat to fly any further south. This, I fear, is due to my constantly plying them with whole-kernel corn. Instead, they cower under our dock at night, wondering what to do. We no longer have to worry about mowing the grass as God does that for us by lowering the temperature and stopping the rains. People from town are scarce at the lake. No one (save our Scottish son-in-law) wants to jump into the gelid waters . Wuthering Heights comes to Bream.

Christmas at Bream Lake

We believe in exercise at Bream Lake... particularly around Christmas. Seen here, from left to right, are my wife Jerre, me, my Scottish son-in-law David, and my daughter Laura. The image was captured as we vigorously cycled around the perimeter of our beautiful lake.

H.M.S. Ark Royal

H.M.S. Ark Royal is our johnboat. Normally it rests 3/4 of it's length on the shore in front of our lake house. The last two days it has been raining steadily and, instead of being safely on the shore, she has resided out on the water at the side of our dock. While it is convenient to have the boat out on the dock, there is a chance of rainwater filling the boat and sinking it. Normally, if one has a bilge pump, this is not a problem. Without the pump, however, the water can build up slowly inside the boat and...well, you can probably guess the inevitable result. My task was obvious: I had to move the boat from the dock to the shore before she sunk. For a 66 year old man this is easier said than done.The boat cannot be motored in, using the electric trolling motor, because of the distinct possibility of hitting bottom before coming ashore. The boat had to be paddled. So, paddle I did until I finally got her to shore. I then pulled her up on the ground about 4 feet and, wet and exhausted, I could sleep content that night, knowing that H.M.S. Ark Royal would not be at the bottom of Lake Bream when I woke the next morning.

The Bishop of Bream

It occurs to me that most of the images I capture at Bream Lake include people other than me. I take hundreds of photos of my assorted relatives, the dock, the house and various plants and animals. No images of Hank. I have devised a method of capturing my image in the Bream habitat. I think of myself as a gnome and a kind of shepherd of the flock at Bream. Voila! 

Bream Lake at moonrise. Incomparable. 

The duck problem is simple: we like the ducks...we don't like what they do to our dock. We feed them corn on a daily basis. After eating the corn they immediately swim out to our dock and let nature take its course. Note the results of their endeavor just to the right of the assembled trio. This is a problem that is easy to bear. Harry, Bess and Margaret are far too charming to resist and so the cycle will continue.

The Sounds of Bream

The sound that came with this image was the boyish squeal of pure joy at being momentarily suspended between the sky and the cold waters of Bream. We hear these kinds of sounds a great deal on weekends when we visit our grandchildren and their friends at the lake. On week days the sounds are much different. At Lake bream there is a default absence of sound. When nothing is happening at the lake nothing is heard. This, however, is usually not the case. There is often the sound of dogs barking in the distance. At Bream one can see sad little country dogs all over the place. They are often flea- ridden, rather emaciated, pathetically forlorn little mixes of dachsund and...you name it. There must have been, at on time , a terribly lusty and determined dachsund sire roaming Bream and impregnating very other bitch in sight- usually not dachsund. As a result there seem to be innumerable little clones all over the neighborhood. If the dog is not of this variety, then it is usually of a pitbull-mix type. Pitbulls are much coveted by the denizens of the Bream and Hawthorne area for reasons that should be evident. All of these dogs bark at the slightest provocation and they continue to bark through much of the day and night. There is a sound that comes to Bream as regularly as that of a Big Ben in London: that is the sound of the CFX freight trains in the distance. There are two rail lines that run within a few miles of our lake house and the trains have regular schedules, bringing them through several times in a day and night. This is a good sound. It is even better if the engineer feels the need to blow his whistle. There is a timeless and nostalgic quality to a train whistle that never becomes tiring. Another type of sound emanates from various critters in and around the lake: the slapping of the water by bream and bass that punctuates the daytime hours; the various bird sounds, including the clarion shreik of the hawk, the sweet singing of the mockingbird, the comedic squaking of our duck family, the indescribable noise of the various waterfoul, and the obnoxiously intrusive calls of the crows. In the late afternoon and early evening the insect world begins to contribute to our Bream symphony: the cicadas and crickets join in, a few at first and then building to the thousands. The last to enter the chorus are the frogs and the occasional nocturnal avians, such as owls and whipperwills. There is one sound that can occur anytime day or night. It is a sound that I absolutely despise. The ugly, jolting sound of gunfire. It seems that the folk around Bream love their weapons and everybody has some. The noise of weapons being fired- pistols, rifles, shotguns- is prevalent throughout the 24 hour cycle, in and out of hunting season. It is is a sound , at once, of insecurity and desparate bravado. A pitiful cry of "Look! I really am somebody. I've got a gun and I know how to use it." The first part of that statement is patently true...the latter part is seldom the case. Bream is laden with sound and most of it is heavenly with only a tiny bit of hell.

The Trumans

Harry, Bess and Margaret: the Trumans. Ducks all. I have managed to quack like a duck (somewhat in the manner of Donald Duck) and call these three ducks when they show up on the lake in front of our Bream Lake retreat. They seem to recognize my feeble attempt at ducksound. They come to the shore and I cast whole kernel corn at them. Most of the time they are quite grateful. Sometimes they simply quack disdainfully and paddle away. This is my first real experience at animal husbandry and I must say I am immensely fulfilled. I fear, however, that we have misnamed and mis-sexed the poor birds. We witnessed the discouraging spectacle of Bess mounting Harry a few weeks ago. To us they will still be Harry, Bess and Margaret. 

Sean or Gabby?

I have recently grown a beard. My wife likes it. I have mixed feelings. My wife thinks the beard is Connery-esque. I say it makes me look more like Gabby Hayes (Roy Rogers' old sidekick). Beards are definitely a vanity item. If you don't have it on top you can certainly grow it on the face. I tried a beard in my younger years- specifically when I played Henry VIII in the Florida Players' production of A Man For All Seasons. Back then it sprouted dark and robust: a youthful and manly beard. Imagine my surprise when I sought to grow that same beard in recent days. It made its appearance, a wizened and hoary brush, fit for Methusalah, but not for one of my years on this earth. Beards are for peacocks, narcissists and old men. I guess I belong to the latter group.

That Glorious Rag

It is good to live in Gainesville. So far it is just the right size. It is, however, poised on the cusp of a disaster. People keep moving in and the people already here are living longer and, understandably, refuse to depart this lovely place (I'm a prime exemplar of this group). Presently our cultural, communication and service entities are a perfect match for the community in which they exist. By this I mean that our theaters - professional and amateur- are perfectly sized for their audiences, parks and athletic venues are just right (except for the southeast part of town which has never been treated fairly by the powers-that-be), our roads are strained but holding their own, our health facilities are superb and in such a robust state that they can export their services, our educational institutions are adequate and, largely, above average, our museums are extraordinary...all-in-all a good match for our size. Even our newspaper is more than sufficient. It tells us most of what we need to know about our town , our county, our state and...that is where it seems to stop. If a reader wants the bigger picture, the images and news of the world outside Gainesville he (or she) has to seek elsewhere. My elsewhere is the New York Times. That glorious rag is a window on the whole world. It helps to keep ones brain from descending into a state of habitual and narrow provencialism. Having said that, the op-ed views of the NY Times are not of particular interest to me. Virtually everything else about the paper is. Particularly the Arts section. I have been striving for the better part of three months to have the NY Times sent to my door each Sunday. I have been getting up before the break of dawn each Sunday since we ordered the paper, hoping to witness the arrival of that blessed event. Each Sunday morning I would eagerly search the front yard for the paper and each Sunday I would be bitterly dissappointed. Yesterday, I approached the window by the front door and peered blearily out , expecting only the Gainesville Sun to be resting on the lawn. Low and behold I saw two plastic wrapped parcels. Two! I scampered out the door in my evening attire (a tee shirt over jockey shorts) to find the Gotham Fishwrapper nestled lovingly next to its country cousin Gainesville Sun. The NY Times had finally come through. This occurence precipitated a hallelujah moment. My wife and I can take the nearly one pound of newsprint to Bream Lake and we don't worry about having anything to read for the better part of a whole week. Selah.

In the bathtub with Artur

On certain mornings, during these retirement years, there is nothing more pleasing that to loll around in the whirlpool bath and listen to good music.The computerized world of today has got me hooked and I love to listen to music on the internet. There are applications that put most of the classical repertory literally at one's fingertips and before I jump into the tub I grab the artist of the day (on my PC) and then commence to get lost in the gently pulsating waves of water and sound. Most of the stuff I listen to is music that features a piano. And there is nothing finer than a proven master (or mistress) of the keyboard. Jump in, the water's fine!

Fridays

Fridays are always tremendously enjoyable for me. It is on these days that I get to talk, on the radio, with a writer who has written a book. Today was no exception as I talked with Michael Connelly about his latest book, The Lincoln Lawyer. It was a chat I was eagerly anticipating for I had the pleasure of conversing with Mr. Connelly on a previous radio show. The show went swimmingly and after it was over I had my usual letdown, to the point of becoming rather depressed. I have enormous respect for people who can write down words and make money doing it. I know that this is a rather callous description of professional writers, but that's the way I feel. Coming away from an hour long chat with such a talented individual leaves me absolutely deflated and yearning for something that will never come to me. Alas...

Nightmares

My wife Jerre and I have noticed that in our older ages we tend to have different types of dreams. Call them "retirement dreams". In my younger days I did a lot of discjockey work at various commercial radio stations and the the Armed Forces Radio and Television Service. No matter where the work the routine was generally the same. You grab a bunch of records (no digital world then), you cue them up and you play them. My recurrent dream -actually more a nightmare- is that I am slowly running out of records to play and I don't know where to find more. The anxiety increases until I get to the point where I have no music at all to play... and then I wake up. I think the Freudian implications of this might be fairly obvious. My wife also has dreams relating to her former occupation: librarian. She is in a huge library and is faced with the task of organizing and cataloging many volumes. The work becomes increasingly more burdensome and harrowing until she feels she will burst. She then wakes up. What happened to the beautifully sensuous dreams of yesteryear? The dreams of making huge amounts of money and becoming enormously successful and, even, famous? Apparently the physical and conscious worlds of the retiree are not the only parts of those worlds subject to erosion.

The Ideal Gainesville

It is Saturday and there is no home game for the University of Florida Gators. This a day that is coveted by many people in this town. It means that the student population is reduced by at least half and, subsequently, so is the traffic. People that have chosen Gainesville as a town in which to spend the rest of their lives can experience a relaxed ambiance that does not exist when the Gators are playing football in town. There are no drunk alumni stumbling and vomiting their way to their cars. There is no cacophony of sophomoric obscenities bombarding one's eardrums during a drive around town. There are no long lines at stores and restaurants. It is the ideal time to be in a college town and, as a direct result, away from Bream Lake.

Irony

That's the only way to describe this blog. It is my first at this site and I will not be at Bream Lake for at least two weeks. Our little house by the lake is our bolt-hole, our retreat, our spa, our Golden Pond. The reason for my not going to Bream for the next several days is that we are hosting an evacuee from New Orleans and the destruction wrought by that god-awful hurricane. Our guest will be staying at Bream until he can safely return to that poor ravaged city. We are very lucky in this North Central portion of Florida. We have yet to experience the ferocity of a really strong storm. Having said that I expect one to blow in momentarily. I will try to give you, on a more or less regular basis, my thoughts on this fantastic part of our world. It could be of use to someone not able to access such a place on a regular basis and perhaps, if only vicariously, give him or her some of the marvelously therapeutic aura of the place. I interview writers about their books (on a radio program) and I talked with a wonderful man today. His name is Monty Roberts and he trains horses. he is probably one of the best horse trainers in the world today in that he is able to take a horse from a virtual untamed state to one of complete docility in 30 minutes or less...and he does it in a superberly humane fashion. If you want to find out more about this man go to his web site at www.montyroberts.com .