http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/ en-us Nucleus CMS v3.21 MD © Weblog http://backend.userland.com/rss http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com//nucleus/nucleus2.gif http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/ http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6956 I turned and rejoined my sister where she read from the Hoard’s Dairyman at my father’s side. She was just finishing an article on the proper horizontal alignment of the Jersey’s ears, and how it could be achieved through cedar ear splints, when Mrs. Crunkshank entered the room. With a large wooden spoon she scooped up a heap of the concoction and threw a wad of it down onto my father’s forearm. She smeared the brown, foul smelling stuff into the arm, then ripped off leaves from a bundle of spring burdocks and made a poultice of the leaves and mixture, finally securing the entirety with a rope of old rags.
As the evening draws close my sister and I pour over my fathers notebooks, and intend to find and implement a cure of our own.
]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6956 Wed, 03 Sep 2008 00:03:59 -0400 http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6736 ]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6736 Mon, 09 Jun 2008 21:34:55 -0400 http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6735 Then came this morning. Once again we made our way out to the pasture through the early hours of the spring day, which are, in my opinion, the most heartening of all the season’s mornings. The coolness of the passing night wafts up in searching tendrils from the frozen earth, it permeates your woolies and seeps down into your bones. Then the sunlight rises over the hills and pierces the grey, warming the back of your neck and smoothing away the cold from your reddened knuckles. This morning was such a morning. My optimism was increased when the girls ran off before me to yell back that one of the shutters had been tripped. Lucia and Lenore (the L’s) have become quite capable with the photographic equipment now and so removed the negative holder before I had even arrived into the clearing. Sometimes their talents and skills are so great that I forget that they are still little girls – but not this morning. As they ran toward me they quarreled over the plate holder, a tug of war resulted in the plate holder flying through the air and knocking with a crack on the trunk of a near by maple. The girls were suddenly quiet – heads cast downward.
My darkroom is a makeshift affair – a boarded off section of the cellar, with an old pantry table, enameled pans of chemicals – and a pane of red glass squeezed over a small basement window. The negative was placed into a tin frame and immersed, like a wick in tallow, in the developer. The problem was, however, that this negative had a sizeable crack in it – having suffered a collision with the maple tree – so the negative had to be forcibly squeezed into two holders with enough tension to hold the truncated glass, but in doing so my hands, slick with chemicals, slipped – and the jagged edge of the glass was pushed deep into my palm. I ignored the slice, but noticed dark crimson blooms erupting in developer, blood dripping off my index finger. I wrapped a rag of muslin around my hand, and continued on with the development. But these are far from ideal darkroom conditions. Moldy spiders, long dead, remained suspended from their webs in their basement catacomb. When I felt a scurry in my hair my natural reaction was to shoo away the offending beastie, but the action resulted in my muslin bandage knocking against the red glass. A shock of daylight lit the room – and, sadly, solarized my negative. The offending creature, a harmless moth, fluttered to the tray and swam in circlets through the developer – sending ripples against the edge of the pan. I removed the moth, transferred the plates to the fixative, and surveyed the results.

There was something there, despite my bungling, there was something there.
]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6735 Mon, 09 Jun 2008 21:21:58 -0400 http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6684 ]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6684 Mon, 19 May 2008 17:10:53 -0400 http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6682 We came in from the spring frost and into our dormered room to find all of our equipment smashed, our record books torn apart, and our ink bottles spilled. My precious Simmons silver stemmed pen twisted into a bow, and the nib snapped, fractured into pieces. And so, in the evening hours of these past few spring days I have been manufacturing a new pen, from the bleached thighbone of a discarded pheasant carcass and the pounded tines of orphaned cutlery. Ink was developed by the gathering of lamp black, and ground chimney creosote made viscous with the addition of half-boiled maple syrup, so readily available here. The result is a fine substitute that I keep in a bitters jar under my pillow, along with my pen and the paper I have made with the pounded husks of last years corn.
There is far more disruption here than meets the eye – and I feel there are stories and relationships long established burrowing like a mole under the smiling surface of this small family. The ravaging of our small room was blamed on juvenile raccoons, but the absurdity of this notion nearly lead me to turn my back on our endeavor. Indeed I would have done so if not for my dedication to the scientific arts. The girls too, were ready to leave, as they had spent a cold morning staring at the remaining shards of the instruments, and the ink-soaked watercolor pads.
Without our equipment, we are left to rely solely on Lenore’s intuitive “whim”, my makeshift notes, and Lucia’s ability to combine parts of the broken instruments with pieces of old farm equipment, luckily we are living in a modern age – one in which a hardware store is rarely more than a couple hours walk away and orders can be made and received by train in less than a fortnight. We were also fortunate to find all of our photographic equipment in the field left untouched and so our research continues.
It was in that fateful morning of destruction that I came downstairs to find Mrs. Crunkshaft washing the threshold. I though very little of it at the time, but I now notice that the thresholds of this rambling house are all daily washed, and a vibrant sheen combined with a distinctive scent clues me to the presence of lavender oil.
As for the old woman, she continues to sit in her darkened corner. The sudden outburst of the evening past seems to have left her tired. Her rocking chair squeaks more slowly of late, the moth-eaten ball of wool in her lap nods lazily, yarn trailing ever so steadily to her hands and the nondescript threaded mass that hangs lazily off her needles. At her current rate of production, I presume the three inches of knitting has likely taken her five years to accomplish. When her head is not slumped in sleep against her chest her eyes continue to follow us coolly as we pass through the room.
]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6682 Mon, 19 May 2008 11:30:34 -0400 http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6632
“Perhaps this has all been a little too much excitement for the poor dear” Molly said, The aged aunt coughed and spat behind the handkerchief - “feeling better now?” the old woman’s words were muffled, but became clear for a moment “…not stupid you know, you can’t…” another eruption of coughs echoed through the room and the handkerchief was placed back over her mouth.

“Well,” Molly continued – “I suppose it’s time we all said goodnight, we all have plenty to do in the morning. “ Molly let out a yelp as the old aunt’s remaining two teeth sank deep into her index finger. “Goodnight…. Goodnight everyone”

The girl’s did not have to be prompted again – they grabbed a candle and pulled me along up the stairs to the second floor. The moon had grown even fuller – the cold rays were vivid and harsh, illuminating the planks of the floor with a crisp edged light. In the light of the window the girls needed no candle at all – but slipped into their night things bathed in the moon’s light. I moved to the glass and watched the cold disk of light slip in and out of the wispy clouds, snow was melting fast – patches were left isolated the fields below me, the icicles had let go their hold on the edges of the house. I noticed, staring out the window, little white balls on the outside on the window sill, glowing in the moonlight, almost luminous, forming a little line along the edge of the window. I tried to force the window open, but it was either nailed or painted shut. We crawled under the sheets, but the night was restless, the floorboards expanded sending creaks through the room – the girls once again abandoned their bed for mine, and I found myself staring at the cracks in the ceiling waiting for sleep to find me as Lucia kicked of the covers.

I drifted in and out of sleep, but slowly woke to a light tapping on the old glass of the window. Unnerved, I slowly made my way to the sill – the night’s cool light was shining in and I expected see some specter, some apparition’s finger imploring me into the night, or pleading to come in. But as I made my way across the floor I found the tapping was made by the bull headed persistence of a grey sphinx moth knocking against the glass with a rhythm as regular as a pendulum – drawn, seemingly. to the light of the moon beyond. I cupped the creature in my hand, and watched closely as it slowly unfurled its spiraled proboscis. In college I had read Darwin’s study of the sphinx moth of Madagascar and how he presumed the existence of a long necked orchid to be pollinated by twelve inch length of the moth’s galea. This specimen’s protuberance seemed equally impressive, for as it sat cupped in my hand it searched with its appendage the furthest reaches of my forearm. I wanted to show the moth to the girls, so I placed the creature in an overturned cobalt drinking glass on the nightstand. I fell asleep watching the moth flutter toward the light- rising and falling inside the blue glass. My dreams were filled the images of a body struggling for air in the icy blue depths of the winter river.

When I woke I found that the girls were already up – Lenore was leaning into the window sill – making a watercolor sketch of the spring landscape outside, Lucia sat in the corner – reading an article out of the Hoard’s Dairyman praising the Alderney breed of dairy cattle for its dainty form and high butterfat content. Glancing at the table I found that my nighttime quarry had vanished. The water glass lay broken on the floor, shards of blue mixed with small drops of red, the moth had escaped somewhere into the morning.
]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6632 Thu, 01 May 2008 13:00:20 -0400 http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6595 ]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6595 Wed, 16 Apr 2008 12:22:25 -0400 http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6591
Out in the night the great spring thaw had begun in earnest, the drip of the melting snow off the roof joined the constant rush of the river breaking free from the hold of winter. We sat in the darkness the only light provided by the dancing flames, As the music died down we listened as Molly told us a story:

When my ancestors, the Wampanoag. lived in these northern woods, they knew that there were some places intended for them, and there were lands that were intended for the Others. The Others, to my people, were known as the Oonahgemessuk or “Oonah”, the little men, the dwellers of the rock. Their territory was not to be entered by any of our kind, they dwelled in the land of the headwaters, and their homes were in the ancient maples. Man has adapted to live in many surrounding, be it the frigid white of the Nordic snows, or the steaming heat of the tropics. But the Others are far more finely tuned to their surroundings and are slow to adapt to change. The Oonah live within a small eco system – their own “family tree”. The great northern cathedral maples of the headwaters are the Oonahgenassuk’s home, and they cannot live without them, they cannot survive much further out than the shadows thrown from their heavy branches. My ancestors have known for hundreds of years not to disturb this woodland world; not to follow game into the headwater woods, not to camp on the river shores, not to cut the sacred timbers.

But, when the men of Europe first came here they did not read the native trees, they did not heed the warnings from my people and entered the forest as if they owned them. For the first time the sounds of saws and axes rang through the woods. The Oonah were not pleased. The Englishmen’s compass spun uselessly when in the headwater woods, The frontiersman and mapmakers became easily confused and lost in the dark forests, many trappers and lumberjacks entering the forest and were never seen again, Only boots or camp packs would emerge from the forests, washed down the river with the spring thaw. Surveyors marks were shifted and moved by the little men, making early maps of the region inaccurate, leaving the region off the charts altogether, establishing the boundaries vaguely as “the headwaters of the Connecticut River” in the Treaty of Paris.

One spring a northern explorer named Luther Parker canoed north up the river and approached the Indian tribe making a friends of tMassasoiy the Wampanoag chief. Parker asked for a guide into the dark area. Pleased with the respect shown by the explorer the chief told him of the inhabitants of the forest, and agreed to take him to council with the little people. After long negotiations a treaty was made between the chief and the little men. A band of Europeans lead by Parker agreed that they would protect the Oonah and create an independent republic in exchange for use of their lands, in this way the little people could live in their forest independently, under the authority of neither the French or the Americans who had earned disdain for their disrespect and arrogance.

In 1832 the borders of the Republic of Indian Stream were established and for three short years the Oonahgenassuk and the human inhabitants of the new republic lived in peace. Travel and trade was restricted to protect the little people of the Northern woods from a nosey outside world. But, before long, many of the people longed for an organized religion and a Catholic Minister by the name of Reuben Sawyer came to preach to the “Streamers” but learned of the agreement between the settlers and the Oonah. The priest was convinced that the agreement was paramount to a contract with the devil; the little people were Pagans, in league with the savage evil forces of the woods. He secretly arranged for the arrest of the small republic’s president by the forces of British Canada on trumped up charges of bad debt.

At the urging of the priest, elders of the community formed a posse and invaded Canadian territory to retrieve their friend, shooting up the home of a judge where their comrade was being held. In the absence of the sheriff and town elders the priest convened a truncated congress and took charge of the local government by convinced the citizenry that the evil influence of the Oonah had brought them to the brink of imminent international incident and possibly war. For their own safety he convinced the “Streamers” to join the young nation of the United States under the auspices of state of New Hampshire. By the time the Elders had returned the seeds of division had been planted, it was too late to turn back. The priest constructed a lumberyard and supervised the felling of great swaths of the Northern forest, Timbers from the old trees were used to build a church on the stumped roots of one of grandest and oldest of the Cathedral Maples. The following year the building was consecrated with enormous fanfare. But in the night, after celebratory dances and feasts, flames welled up and burned the church to the ground. The citizens immediately set about rebuilding only to see maple seedlings push up through the floorboards; tilting the pews, buckling the alter, and finally collapsing the structure in a great heap of timbers. Not to be deterred the priest organized yet another rebuilding of the church during the winter months with enormous stones of granite quarried on the west side of the river and pulled across the ice of the frozen headwaters. Near completion of the church a rare January thaw saw the river grow soft. As a team of oxen pulled a massive capstone across the river the ice gave way with a thunderous crack and groan, the chains around the stone snapped and lashed the ankles of the priest, pulling the him down into the cold blue depths of the Connecticut river. Without the Priest the men and women of the North woods turned away from the religion and left the building unfinished. The skeleton of the church still stands, with a congregation of young maples soaring up to heaven within roofless walls.

The loss of so many trees saw a decline in the Oonah, they faded into the shadows, until there were only stories handed down from father to son, mother to daughter. But willed and deeded with the old farmlands are stands of forest. Old farmers keep these groups of old maples untouched deep within their properties, on angled hillsides and in dark forest. There remains an understanding of times past and promises made by the fathers.

Silence filled the room – embers popped in the fireplace and outside the clear night echoed with a boom of cracking ice on the river.
]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6591 Wed, 16 Apr 2008 00:03:34 -0400 http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6581 ]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6581 Thu, 10 Apr 2008 22:37:10 -0400 http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/?itemid=6580 ]]> General http://drgalubrious.blogcadia.com/index.php?itemid=6580 Thu, 10 Apr 2008 22:35:51 -0400