OF SALAMANDERS AND DAYS GONE BY..........MARCH 2015

 


 “The walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking exercise, as it is called, as the sick take medicine at stated hours …but it is itself the enterprise and adventure of the day.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walking

The Cumberland Plateau
Photo courtesy of Jeanell Weintraub

March is here, the weather is milder and the rain is pouring. The plateau is soaking it up, overflowing, the creeks which have lain dormant are now actively running. Flowing over and under rocks and debris, the air is alive with the smell of rich decay. You can smell the forest on the wind. Busting down the trail, wind in my lungs the smells are amazing. This is my land. I am a son of the plateau. My father would bring me up to the mountain as a kid. We’d mostly go up to Morgan’s Steep or to The Cross and go for hikes, where he’d identify trees for me. He would rattle off their names like you would the names of your favorite nieces and nephews. He knew them well. We’d walk around, usually wearing identical hats of the camouflage/hunting variety. My favorite was a sporty one that was two-sided. Camouflage on one side Blaze Orange on the other, for hunting of course. I’ve never been much of a hunter, mostly just walking for me. Outside in the sun, wind, and rain. It was here on the Plateau where I learned to walk, truly walk. Walking not to reach any particular destination, but to ramble, explore to see what’s out there in the unknown. Walking in and of itself is ultimately divinely gratifying. The Domain, located at The University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee has left a strong indelible print on my life that continues to guide me to this very day.

            Today is a great day, with all the rain everything looks like it’s been scrubbed clean. 

The Perimeter Trail Sewanee TN

The forest is bright, the browns and greens are popping and the sky is blue. The temperature is mild, shirtsleeves of course. My favorite place right now is out by the Forestry Cabin, where I then proceed to tramp and tumble down the Perimeter Trail. The trail circumnavigates “The Domain” of the University of the South in Sewanee Tennessee. It’s perched in a small corner of The Plateau conveniently located within six miles of my home in Cowan. This trial in its current form has been around since the mid 1980’s, I remember them completing sometime around 1992 or thereabouts. The Trail goes for around 20 miles or so, but it is cross-cut, intersected, and supplemented with so many other side-trails, old logging roads, and foot paths. You could lose yourself for years just tramping up and down this geography. It may be laid out on the map one way, but once your boots are on the ground, your experience may be different. Maps and compass are the tools of the trade for exploration. However, they are no substitute for wander-lust and strong legs. Otherwise, all your equipment will simply gather dust. Tennyson in his great poem Ulysses writes:

“Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
it may be that the gulfs will wash us down

It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles”

  A. Tennyson – Ulysses

 The Cumberland Plateau, named after William “The Butcher” Augustus, Duke of Cumberland 

who defeated the Scottish Clans at the Battle of Culloden Moor. It was the humble Dukes treatment of the wounded that earned him the nickname “The Butcher”. April 16^th 1746, the Battle of Culloden Moor resulted in a devastating defeat for the Scottish Clans fighting under the Jacobite banner and secured the House of Hannover to the English throne for years to come. The Scottish defeat sent many fleeing across the sea to the new colonies where they found refuge and new life in the land named after a hated foe.  Geologically the Plateau is a mighty wonder. Millennia ago, the Middle Tennessee area consisted of a vast inland sea ringed with marshes and wetlands. Over the years sediments were deposited and layer upon layer of sandstone, coal, and limestone were laid down. During this time, movement of the Earth’s plates caused this “Appalachian Basin” to rise higher and higher. Over eons, this created a plateau that stretchers from modern day Southern New York all the way to North Alabama. This became what we now call the Cumberland Plateau. This geography is home to an immense diversity of plant, animal, and recently human species.
      My life’s experience with the Cumberland Plateau is entwined like a mighty grape vine with the Sewanee Perimeter Trail.    The Perimeter Trail first appeared on the planning books in 1984 and after many spurts and stops was officially completed in 1992. A healthy donation from Albert Roberts III of St Petersburg, Florida allowed for its completion and continued maintenance. The trail had been there before any of this official work commenced, but it was poorly mapped and lacked coherence. Signs now point the wanderer to various look outs and points of interest. The trail side maps are done in bronze for longevity. However, these are looking a little long in the tooth and show their age accordingly.
     The Perimeter Trail was established as a means to identify, unite, and map existing trails into a trail system that would be maintained for generations. Much of the trail system incorporates older trails, man-ways, game trails, and fire lanes. Notably, the Civilian Conservation Corps built several sections including the Arcadian, Corso, and the Shakerag Hollow trails, during the Great Depression of the 1930’s. The trail today is well marked, maintained, and attracts not only University students but folks from all over the county and beyond.  The trail snakes, winds, and circumambulates out and around The Domain of the University of the South for 18 t0 20 miles.    
     The trail provides me with continued activity and thought. I am a devotee of its circuitous paths and trails. Running the path is a tonic for my soul. Except for the time I ran into two unleashed dogs. Not so funny, my favorite line for this is, “Oh they wouldn’t bite you.” How am I supposed to know this? I was already plotting my escape, giving them some loud shouts, staring them down, and generally making a spectacle of myself. Luckily their owners appeared around the bend. I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t say what was on my mind, because it would not have been polite at all. I kept on trucking down the path.
     Usually I park my BRIGHT RED FORD BRONCO out by the gate which takes you out to the Olde Forestry Cabin. I run down the path. To my right is mixed hard woods of varying ages and species; to the left is a pine forest of some age. Their uniformity gives rise to suspicion of something deliberate. In the middle of the Pines is a clearing. In the clearing, someone/somebody has deemed it imperative to erect a weather station. The clearing is strange, encircled as it is with tall dark foreboding pine trees. It’s obviously of druid cult origins who used it for arcane rituals to communicate with beings from beyond space and time is unquestionable. However, the Elder Gods, The Crawling Chaos, and the Black Goat with a Thousand Young (too much H.P. Lovecraft as a child) have all been banished, replaced by the gods of science, research, and technology. The clearing is now simply a weather recording station, which it does so with calm scientific efficiency.  Just past the druid circle I go left and plunge at headlong full sprint down the Perimeter Trail. Foot catches root, then I’m tumbling and rolling as I continue down the trail, righting my trajectory, checking my zeal, and slowing the pace I marvel at the creation that unfolds.  The great plateau is worn and eroded, its rock exposed like bare skin. I marvel at the sandstone veined with minerals and ore, the lichens and moss clinging tightly. Stripped Wintergreen peaks out from the leaf litter, the smells on the wind. It’s all there. It’s all so incomprehensibly vibrant, a man could spend his life exploring and learning here and still only barely scratch the surface of understanding.

 I’ve been exploring the plateau and its environs for several decades with varying

The elusive Spotted Salamander

levels of intensity. It has always provided space for refuge, camaraderie, learning, and reflection. I am forever indebted and bound to this land, that my friends is a strange thing to say. But that is the way it is. Jogging down an old fire break, White Pines gracefully towering on either side the vaulting limbs intersect creating an atmosphere ethereal, holy as one of the great cathedrals of old. Alone I run the length of the road. It’s quiet with the exception of squirrels digging and jumping. I steadfastly follow the blue trail marks, and soon I’m back on the “main” road that runs through these hinterlands. There’s a University Van parked on the side of the road. Curious, I slow down and start looking around. There a vernal pool that’s formed due to the spring rains, it’s about an acre in size. These pools form during the spring, and slowly disappear over the dry summer months. The University has seen fit to ring it with tin sheeting. Interesting, hmmm.  A woman is tromping around in a pair of galoshes, she hasn’t seem me yet. I’m tempted to just continue my run and not bother her, but I’m curious so I give her my best, “Howdy there, what are you doing?” I query. Oh hey! She says. So I ask a few simple questions, and she goes on to tell me how she is out here studying the Spotted Salamander, and that this is it’s mating season in the early spring when these vernal pools form the get their mating rituals on, and lay eggs. Salamanders use vernal pools due to the lack of predatory fish which love to eat salamander eggs. The tin ring drives the salamanders through small openings and into waiting buckets. Then everyday, students come out to count and release them. The student goes on to tell me, this is her first time doing field work, and its really enjoyable, she’s from some place up North, and hasn’t spent much time outside I learn. She is finding this work very rewarding. She digs into a bucket and pulls out a Salamander thick roped, black slimy a full hand length long, it’s marvelous. I’ve never seen one of these, I say. It’s a Ambystoma maculatum and we’ve counted well over a 1000 specimens. She goes on to tell me these are mole salamanders, living the majority of their life deep in the leaf litter emerging at night to feed, and in the spring to mate. She shows me the poison glands on the back and under the neck. I tell her that I’ve been walking these trails for a long time and haven’t seen any Salamanders before today, I tell her how glad I am that she chatted with me. Bidding farewell, I try my best to file all this away in my mind for regurgitation into story form at a later date, but I’ve got a lot of ground left to cover and miles to go before I sleep.

A special thanks to the following:

The University of the South Archives – they were extremely gracious to me.

Wikipedia for photos of Salamanders (I didn’t have my camera that day)

Lance Brock – For running around in the woods with me.

Jeanell Weintraub - photograph

The University of the South Dupont Library – for books on Salamanders and 

providing information about the archives.

Happy Thanksgiving Ya'll...................................

November 21, 2015

 

The fall colors are fading and upon gossamer wings the holiday of turkey feasts approaches rapidly approaches. Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving, is a word that warms the heart of many an American. However, Fall Harvest festivals are known throughout the land, so I feel that Thanksgiving is a holiday that can be easily appreciated across the culture spectrum.

That notion is especially poignant this time around, as I am sitting in an abandoned Boeing airplane hangar in Iraq, Southwest Asia that is. For starters, let’s be thankful for the weather. At this moment I am not being cooked in the infernal oven that is Iraq, I can sit outside comfortably and engage in pleasant niceties with folks, all without the fear of bursting spontaneously into flame. Like a drunk pinnate doused in kerosene and lit on fire with a bunch bottle rockets in neighbors back yard. Never happened, I wasn’t there.  So I’m thankful, to not be subjugated to 125F heat, and when people tell you, “Oh it’s a dry heat.” At 125F, it’s hot so hot your eyeballs are cooking. That argument holds no water when its 125F.

Seriously, I’m thankful for my Mom. I love my Mom. Growing up she was the best Mom you could have ever hoped to have. She spoiled me, really spoiled me growing up. I wish I had appreciated it more, and understood things outside of my own selfish needs. I wish I’d given her and Dad more attention, but that’s water under the bridge. If I could go back in time and spend more time with Mom and Dad I’d do it in an instant, but I can’t. I miss my Dad every day, and I miss Mom to0. Soo I call, and chat her up. It’s great, and I’m thankful for the time I’ve gotten to spend with her. My advice, spend time with your folks those connections are worth more than anything you could ever buy or yearn for.

I also, have absolutely wonderfully sisters, brother, and various nieces, nephews, cousins, and in-laws. They’ve always been great to me. They treat me way better than I deserve. It’s nice to have family members you mostly get along with, sure there’s been some rough spots, but that’s part of life.

Our CF instructor Jence prepares for class.

I’m thankful for Denmark, they are Vikings. Vikings are bloodthirsty, war crazed barbarians, that once upon a time struck fear into the heart of Europe. The ogre Grendel met a Viking once, and got his arm ripped off in the process. They make Chewbacca look like a lap dog. The Vikings are fun. I’ve recently had the good fortune to be stationed with the Danish Army. They are some of the nicest most professional soldiers I’ve met. Truly, nice people, but they are also Vikings. The Vikings are fun. They have embraced the circuit training regime known as “Cross Fit” with gust-o. Three times a week they hold their ritual. I and my colleague Jerry are allowed in because my Danish Counterpart Thomas the Nurse vouches for our character, and desire to murder and pillage.  Every Wednesday we have a special happy time known as “Viking Raid”.  I am thankful for “Viking Raid”. Jence, a Viking/Certified CF Trainer describes the circuit. First, we will do 100 rows (lifting a weight or your choosing from the floor to your, shoulders) then we will run to the City, and stop at the Farmhouse (run, and do 10 burpee push-ups). Then we will run back on to the City. We will then do 200 Hammer Swings (hitting a tire with a hammer) and climb over the wall and into the houses. This necessitates 50 box jump burpees. Then we will grab our loot (weights of your choosing) and run, run, run back to the boats. Yes, we have to stop at the farm house and do burpee-pushups. Then it’s load your loot into the boat with 50 overhead presses and complete the evolution by doing 100 more rows……………….I love this, it keeps me sweating.

I’m thankful for my family and friends without them life would indeed be a bleak monotony punctuated with flashes of grotesque boredom. Not only am I thankful for friends I’m glad to be a friend. Being a friend is not an easy task. I rate my friends and family on the inconvenience scale. Essentially, how much can you inconvenience someone is directly proportional how dear they are to your heart. If someone ever says, “I can’t be bothered with that now.” Be concerned about the depth of your friendship. If they say, “Sure let’s do this, and grab some Senor Taco when were done.” Then you have found someone that is “True Blue”, well worth keeping. That’s my two cents on the subject of friendship. I can honestly say to my friends and family, you treat me better than I deserve, and I’m grateful.

Garry Shores 2010

I’m thankful to serve, growing up I was always fascinated by Dad. He had all these uniforms, and once a week he went to this place where they had a tank! (The local National Guard Armory). And he had all these pictures of him when he was in Germany, out in the woods. All my uncles served in WWII, in various positions. My Uncle Clifford was with the 1^st Marine Division and fought on Guadalcanal and Bougainville. . Where he was wounded in a mortar attack. My Aunt Rena served as a WAC Nurse and cared for the wounded returning from the Pacific Theater. I idolize my Father, Brother, Uncles, and Aunt who served. I joined the Navy in 1991 and was discharged in 1995. Rejoining as a Naval Reserve Officer in 2005 has been a life changing experience. People are always thanking for serving. Honestly, it makes me nervous. But I don’t mind, I truly enjoy serving and am thankful to have the good health to do this. Also, the support I get from my family, friends, and church is remarkable to say the least. It seems like I’m always running off leaving you guys and you’re always supporting me. As a nurse, the finest thing I’ve had the privilege to do is care for our wounded, and I couldn’t have done it without everyone’s encouragement and steadfast loyalty.

Greg Shores in the cockpit of an F18

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving ya’ll

Garry W Shores

THE CHURCH OF TYPE....................FROM THE SOUTH TO SANTA MONICA

THE CHURCH OF TYPE YA'LL

                   

 

        Sometimes the best move is too just leave. Pick yourself up and head for uncharted territory. The difficulty is in realizing your dilemma, like the frog in hot water not realizing you’re being boiled alive. This probably happens more often than you think. Blessed are those with insight into their station. Not everyone is able to read the cards on the table, fold their hand, and move on with it. Picking up your life and moving on is no mean feat. It requires a great deal of sacrifice, loss, and loads of self-esteem. My friend, Kevin Bradley did this. He left a successful business in Knoxville and set out for the uncharted lands of the West. If Los Angeles is the city of angels then Santa Monica is the Valley of the up and coming, the soon to be. Pico Boulevard in particular contains a bizarre assortment of businesses and activities. All of which is a feast for the imagination. Kevin has a unique ability to find original and authentic urban cultural landscapes. He did it in downtown Knoxville (before there was such a thing) and he’s done it again in Santa Monica. This area has been thriving for some time, but the presence of the Church of Type adds significantly to its bohemian atmosphere. 

          I’ve known Kevin since my glory days in Knoxxxville, land of vice – land of opportunity.  The year was 1998, and I, Garry W. Shores was living in Fort Sanders, a magnificent college ghetto. I had a humble apartment at 1537 Laurel Avenue. A large white and yellow wedding cake styled Victorian home built in late 1800’s. I lived out back in the carriage house while attending the University. It was filled with rowdies, college students, bands, and other such ne’er do wells. Living above us all was Mark Sarhoff, his wife my landlord, and he. Well he was a legend in the making. Mark owned a row of four or five buildings on Jackson Avenue. The problem was they were in deplorable condition. He showed me around, telling me I could live in one, but I couldn’t tell anyone, or have visitors as nothing was up to code, and people up the hill were hitting golf balls through the windows. I passed on the offer, but then he got me into the carriage house, and I started doing odd jobs for “the man”. He had me driving up and down the interstate in the middle of the night looking for Orange Barrels and Traffic Cones for his construction projects. I managed his parking lots till 4AM on the weekends. I sold cars, and did some insurance work for him. It was more like an underworld career than just a job. Weekends at four in the morning were spent huddled over kaa-bobs and shwarma’s at the Ali Baba Deli on Kingston Pike. Me, Mark, and my squeeze Dea, laughing and cutting up at four in the morning at a Middle Eastern deli in Knoxville, chugging beers in the parking lot. Life was strange.

One morning in around 1998 or there abouts, I awoke to find a street fair in progress, rising with difficulty, my head still thick with libations from the previous night’s I rallied, and out I went to the “Fair”. It was a typical Fort Sanders event. People shuffling around nursing hang-overs or drinking Bloody Mary’s a few tables set up with hippies selling hemp jewelry and glass pipes. The odd skate-boarder, a few randoms standing around smoking cigarettes, all standing around waiting for something to happen that never will. A few tents lined the street, to hawk their varied wares.  Armed with only a cup of coffee in hand, I ventured forth into the unknown. It was at this “Fair” I met Kevin and his Yee-Haw Industrial Letterpress. From that moment, I was on board. I stood transfixed and transcended, like Paul of Tarsus struck blind on the road to Galilee I was hit with the great and mighty thunderclap of Industrial Letterpress. The weather was cloudy, overcast but not too cold or windy. Kevin had just bought the infamous building on Gay Street. I used to take naps on the couch in the display window, next to the giant Piggly Wiggly Head. I know, it makes no sense. Kevin had a couch in the display window an old Victorian Couch with the stuffing coming out and it smelled like your grandma, but it was I a really long couch and sleeping on it was pretty nice.

          Soon, I began pulling down letterpress posters wherever I found them. I still have a few from those days. My favorite all time is the haunted pie social at the 11^th Street Espresso House. I acquired this one from the “Old Food Co-op” on Broadway. At the old food co-op you could hang out on the front bench and have a cold one with whoever was on break, like my good friend Sandi Walker. On the back of the 11^th Street Espresso House Poster it says “Save for Lark” then next to it is written, “Claimed by Garry W. Shores”. Possession is 9/10 the law my friends, my Dad taught me that. It reminds me of better, simpler times. They weren’t innocent by any stretch, but there was much less worry than there is now. Everyone didn’t have a cell phone, the internet hadn’t gotten so dumb, wireless didn’t exist (except for clunky phones), and nobody was “jihading” anybody. We were still fighting in places, but folks weren’t getting their heads sawed off at the grocery store either. They were good times.

          However, nothing stays the same, stagnation is inevitable and if we don’t keep on trucking then we’re done for. For good reason Kevin needed to move on, and he did. To Santa Monica California, and he has made it his own. Rising from the ashes like the phoenix of old - his creation, the mighty ziggurat of communication the indomitable CHURCH OF TYPE is the gold standard by which all letterpress is measured. I was in California, doing some training with the Navy, and I hadn’t seen Kevin in some time. We reconnected via social media, as people are want to do in the modern age. I found Pico Boulevard, Santa Monica. This Temple of Typeface is hard to miss, and all day I witnessed a stream of parishioners, penitents, and reprobates coming and going as the spirit took them. The space, though smaller is filled with old memories, and shelf upon shelf of ancient letterpress type. Kevin has the largest letterpress in the Los Angeles area and is making good use of it. I arrived Saturday morning, first thing after catching up we meet the neighbors. Pastry Chefs! They make the best croissants and everything else that’s yummy. His other neighbor is a Vietnamese lady that serves up Asian delights for lunch. Across the street is Trader Joes.

          The Church of Type is filled with Art, Letterpress taken to newer and more exalted heights of creativity and inventiveness. The Robot Series! The Robot Series breaks into the building blocks of type. Turning them literally into the circuitry boards of machinery creating a combination of robotic-mechanized-monster-machines that will expand your notions, and make you feel childlike with wonder once more. Vibrant hues, poetry, and robotic imagery combine to challenge your imagination. The robotic nuance has been advanced ten-fold. They speak, with magic eyes – it’s hard to believe two dimensions can move in such a manner. The Robots are on the whirly-gig march, it’s time to join their parade. Destructor, Voltor, Lovtron, and Transistor accept no substitutes, these are 100% original and 110% Kevin Bradley at his finest. Destined for fame and good fortune get yours today! Words are just words, to truly appreciate Church of Type seeing is believing, and you won’t believe your eyes brothers and sisters when you feast your eyes on the Robotic Mayhem of Pico Boulevard.

It lunch time so me, Kevin, and his intern jump into my tiny-small car and head out he gives directions. I follow directions. We go to the Apple Pan and order burgers, thick Spanish accents, “Do you know what you want?” I order a burger, this place is famous for its burgers. The Apple Pan is a classic LA Diner. It’s owned and operated by some 2^nd and 3^rd generation Mexican-Americans, and to say the place is crowded and vibrant would actually be an understatement. A “U-Shaped” Linoleum countertop with the masses crammed elbow to elbow and line almost out the door. The humidity is palpable there’s no AC in LA it’s California weather, which is typically low on the humidity and filled with cool breezes, but not today. The lady sitting next to me, starts talking me up. We get on well, she’s a music teacher and singer. For some reason, she keeps telling me how married she is. I share my pie with her. She orders me a to go pie, all for me. It’s not weird, I’m in California land of the strange. Meanwhile back at the shop………………..

The Church of Type - Brothers and sister is worthy of praise and stands high on the mountain. Guaranteed to Illuminate, Educate, and provide Revelations deeper understanding of the profound questions that vex mankind. To Paraphrase Mr. Kevin Bradley, “When in doubt make art, be nice to people, and you’ll be just fine.”  

 

THE CHURCH OF TYPE

                        3215 PICO BOULEVARD SANTA MONICA
                                                            CALIFORNIA
                                          310-310-3951
                                               WWW.CHURCHOFTYPE.COM
                                      CHURCHOFTYPE@GMAIL.COM
                            all photos used with the kind permission of K. Bradley