Way back in the ancient days when dinosaurs still roamed the earth (or were they just automobiles with giant fender fins?), I dabbled in a number of things. One of those things was songwriting so to speak. Having something of a tin ear, this was pretty much a challenge. I couldn't carry a tune if you loaded it on a forklift. However, in fourth grade I had learned how to read music and I played a trumpet, a-rooty-toot-toot!
I also began writing some poetry early on, being inspired by the rhythms and wordplay of Edgar Allan Poe. A lot of that early verse was parody of popular songs.
Then one day my friends and I discovered these recording booths at the Downingtown farmers market.
This was where we frittered away our time on weekends, at the farmers market playing pinball machines and somewhere along the line noticed these booths. We began to crowd into one of the things, sometimes as many as four of us, and chatter away, cracking corny jokes or insulting easy other for posterity.
But Stuart Meisel and I began making records of us singing duets. Generally we did old songs we learned at school or some of the popular hits of the day, but on occasion we just began making it up as we went.
One day at Stuart's we came across an old-time dictaphone that cut recordings into wax cylinders. Now we didn't have to spend our quarters, we could sit up in his bedroom and make all the recordings we wanted for free…or at least until the supply of wax cylinders ran out (they never did).
Our little duets and made-up songs weren't our first collaboration, nor would be our last either. We had created, wrote, printed and sold a newspaper called "The Daily Star" when we were in sixth grade. We were back writing plays and song together almost fifty years later as two old men. In the mid-2000s we collaborated on nine plays and 33 songs; songs such as "Zat Chew", "Bad Teachers", "Talkin' Termination Blues", "Bald-Headed Smiling Men", "Duck Walk Blues" and "Wad Welder Song".
One song we did back in the mid-fifties together was called "Ya-Ha-Whoey! and I used that later when I wrote a play of the same name to impress a girl right after graduating high school.
On the left is a cover I did for that play many years after the fact. It is my wife I used for the model.
On the right is the girl I was trying to impress. I don't think I
did, even though we did date for some time in 1959 and 1960.
Anyway, in those mid-fifties I wrote a song myself. Since most of the music I heard on the radio or on the old 78 rpm records at home was selected by my father, I was more familiar with Country and Western than a lot of other forms. So I wrote what I considered a Country and western song. It was a mournful love-lost ballad with death images and all. It didn't have a truck or a dog in the lyric, so maybe that is why it didn't go anywhere.
Or maybe it was the arrangement on the record.
Backup a moment; did I say record? Yes, there was a record.
I wrote the song when I was 14 and still at Junior High School in Downingtown, Pennsylvania. I sent the thing out now and again and lo and behold when I was 15 it got published on sheet music by a New York firm. By this time I had moved to Bucktown and lived in the country and changed schools. In 1957, when I had turned 16, the song got recorded by one Ben Tate.
I was somewhat displeased when I heard it because I didn't feel it sounded as Country as I wrote it.
Didn't much matter because I doubt many others ever heard the song. Mr. Tate and the song quickly disappeared into oblivion.
I stumbled upon the record this week. I decided it may be good for a chuckle, so here it is in video
along with a bunch of photographs of me at the time it was written, published and recorded. Stuart appears in a couple of photos, as does my friend Ronald Tipton. A couple of my teenage girlfriends are also included, Jeannette and Joan. The video is introduced by Frantic Frank. I did some stand-up comedy in those days and Frantic Frank was my stage persona. Back then I had to wear a bald cap. Today I wouldn't need that, nor the fake goatee.
So, for posterity or for hilarity, here is straight from obscurity, something you have never heard and will probably wish it had stayed that way, Ben Tate's version of "My Little White Lamb."
There are Great Blue Herons living in our vicinity. Very large birds that are quite graceful in flight. There is one standing on the downed branches in this photo to the left, although a bit hard to see.
Below is a video shot early this Christmas morning 2011 of one taking flight.
Frank March awoke once again determined to find the elusive waterfall, if it indeed did exist. So far it had the makings of a myth, although it made no sense that the trail map would entice people with a nonexistent marking, let alone a picture of a cataract right in the middle of the thing. Look at that representation with those rippling waters and golden fall colors; why wouldn't you want to find it?
And there on the right, just over that red line that shows the boundary between Delaware and Pennsylvania, is the word "waterfall".
Yet after several days searching, Frank had failed to find it. He had wandered up the long hill in the hot rays of this summer's sun (if there was any brownish hues around the elusive waterfall this time of year they would be the cooked and dry leaves wilting in the heat wave).
At least at the top, pausing to regain his breath, he could look out across the valley and see the stone tower that had once been a mystery to him and further along, the great castle on the hill. (The tower is visible on the upper left corner and the castle just right of the upper center.) But he had solved The Mystery of the Stone Tower, so these were no longer of interest. No, now it was the waterfall he sought.
He had tried many of the trails up atop this hill and seen the wondrous sights of the Woodlawn fields, the horses and the corn, but not the cascade. On his last attempt he had wandered along the upper rim of the mount through the woods, teetering on the edge of a gorge along a narrow path and discovered another mystery, which will probably remain unsolved, The memorial to Bud's Billy Goat.
Here deep in the woods sat the broken remains of a tree, some stones piled at its base and upon a notch near its top. Carved and painted into the base the words, "Bud's Billy Goat". At the top of the object was this, a bicyclist and dates. Is this a grave of some fellow's beloved pet goat? If so, this goat lived almost as long as this Old Goat, for it would have died at 67.
Or did Bud crash his mountain bike on this site, a vehicle he called, Billy Goat? But that would have been an ancient bike. Did they even have mountain bikes in 1943?
At any rate, this did not lead Frank to any waterfall on that day.
He had asked a few he met upon the trails during his searches if they knew where the waterfall might be. No one he asked even knew there was a waterfall. Was there a waterfall? It was on the trail map. There was also the story told by a friend, about pausing from a bike ride by a waterfall and quite pond on a hot day, of being temped by the water and finally giving in to the lure and engaging in some skinny-dipping. In this he was suddenly approached by a teacher and young children on a field trip and kept submerged until they finally left and he could slip out and back into his clothes.
On top of that Frank stumbled on an actual picture of the alleged waterfall on some strangers Blog.
So it was Frank studied the trail map and tried hard to coordinate it with the satellite Google image of the area. He determined it was down a path he had eschewed on his very first hike up these hills thinking this trail simply went down into someone's backyard. Now he was convinced otherwise. Thus this morning he set off to find his goal.
He had a sudden influx of working hours and this would be his only free day this week, so despite a threat of rain he headed off, but this was an advantage. After weeks of extreme heat, he would be able to go up the long, steep hill without the beat of the sun. It was cooler today as well. He traipsed with a plan, up that hill, through the woods, down around and by the horse pastures that would bring him to the path he had never walked. Now he did, down its rutted stony way, just to the right of the house below and came to the road.
It was the spot he had noted, where Beaver Valley Road made an odd almost-U-turn off to the right into Pennsylvania while what one would think was its continuation more or less straight ahead became Beaver Dam Road. That name sounded promising, Beaver Dam, for often dams create waterfalls, unless this was an actually Beaver dam made of gnawed down saplings.
Frank crossed the road and on the other side found a trail going up another hill. He went up and up and up, on a wide track edging the woods. Once further up he spied a narrow trail to his right, which entered the forest in what seemed a promising direction.
Suddenly there was a thrashing of brush nearby and a deer ran across the path startling him. It trotted between the trees and then stood stock still between two trunks. It was amazing how an animal of its size could almost become invisible simply by standing quiet. If Frank had not seen where it had run he would not have noticed it at all. It appears in this photo as only a light patch of brown between some trees near the center.
As a boy one of Frank's favorite things in the children's magazines he got, "Jack 'n' Jill" or "Highlights" or whatever it was, were these little photos with a caption: "There are 15 animals hiding in this woods, can you find them all?" This deer was playing that game with Frank today.
There had been a light rain when he started on his trek, now he could tell it was picking up. He could hear the drops increase. The leaf cover was affording him some protection, but he knew much of his way back to his car would be open ground and he would get wet. He hurried on his way.
Now the path curved downward and entered a groove of semi-mud, more a dry wash than a trail. He had to straddle it, walk with one foot on the right bank and the other on the left bank. As he shuffled along there was a loud creaking to his right, then a sustained and violent crash as a large tree gave up the ghost and tumbled over in a dead faint to the forest floor. You see many a tumbled trees about these grounds, but this was a new addition to the corpses arriving a bit too close and fresh for comfort.
Frank continued down the rut, twisting this way and that and then he was at the bank of a stream and across it was a road. He had no intension of backtracking up that woodland trail, but how to get across to the road was the next question. The path came to the water's edge at a rapids. There was no other access across and this one was tenuous, wide spaced wet rocks in bubbling water. Well, nothing to do but risk it.
Frank made it across without so much as a wet shoe, but now what. There was no sign of any waterfall anywhere and he didn't know exactly where he was. He decided to go to his right down this road, following the flow of the stream, hoping it would take him to the Brandywine.
He walked a ways. On the other side of the road, where a hill of forest rose above him, he saw a trail, but not certain where he was he decided not to chance getting lost in a strange woods for some length of time. He continued along the road.
Then, there it was, behind some large rocks, the elusive waterfall. He had stumbled upon it quite by accident. As he stood admiring the dancing waters, he realized all he would had to have done was walk along this road where he had initially crossed and he would have come to this. The hike up the mount and through the dark wood and down the rut was unnecessary. But then where would have been the adventure in walking down a road? He would have missed the deer and not heard the falling tree missing him. Ah, much more fun this way.
He rather doubted this was the waterfall his friend had swum by, though. There was some still water above you could call a pond he supposed, and certainly it was deep enough to swim in, but would one dare skinny-dip so near a public road?
It also brought his mind back to the rain or now lack of it. If it had rained hard, he wondered, how long would his white running shorts have remained opaque. Hmm, that was a consideration to spur him to move on and see if he could find his way back to his car.
He walked further on and finally came to the little park by the Brandywine. Now he knew exactly where he was and it was still a bit to where he had parked, but that was fine. He ambled beside the lovely creek enjoying the briskness of the morn and happy he had found his waterfall at last, when...
What was that white thing across the water? Could it be the Heron he had seen before?
Wouldn't you know it. He had forsaken wearing his glasses today because of the light rain. The drops would have simply clouded his vision, he reasoned. Besides, he has fairly good vision without the specs; however, not quite good enough to focus well on whatever was sticking up over there.
If only it would move, but it did not. Ah, well, another mystery.
(Turn off my music before watching this short film.)
Always rambling, always exploring, I am and I am not a creature of habit. If I do not work, and I have not worked much lately, I go for a long, early morning walk. That is the habitual part.
But walking the same trail, the same route each day, no, I like a constant variety and thankfully the good souls who have preserved our nature hereabouts have provided it.
Besides the several fine and handsome parks surrounding my neck of the woods, these parks are festooned with many trails. Not only do I take a different path each day, I look for ones I've missed before and go exploring. Sometimes they prove short or dead end and I can only turn around and go back as I came, but most present new scenery and often surprises. Sometimes the surprise is I don't know my way back to where I started and am lost for a bit. I don't mind, it is interesting being lost as long as you know ways of eventually de-losing yourself.
At any rate, I turned off on to a road less traveled yesterday. It was a totally random choice this time. I was searching for something. (I will probably make this search a Frank March Adventure if I ever find the object of my desire.) I am looking for an elusive waterfall. I had a conversation with a bicyclist I met after I had climbed hills and forded streams and had returned to a main trail unsuccessful. I asked if he knew where the waterfall was. He didn't. He didn't know there was a waterfall and thought with our dry weather it might not exist at the moment. His assumption was this mysterious waterfall only appeared after heavy rains or only at some magical time like Brigadoon.
Perhaps, but I think not. There is on the Internet at the Woodlawn website a trail map, and it indicates a waterfall up in one corner of this acreage, right over the state border I suspect. I just don't think I've walked down the right route yet or far enough.
Once a month I get together with a group of poets and we share our poetry. The latest meeting was this past Thursday and a story that was told became my catalyst to once again search for the waterfall on Friday morning. My friend and fellow poet, Dallas (pictured left), had a motorcycle accident this past week. It left him with a broken hand and broken rib. He can't work (he drives a bus) and he can't do his daily bike ride or his martial arts exercises either. This forced inability led to a story mentioning the waterfall, although it was peripheral to the tale.
The story: Dallas had gone on his regular bike ride up into the Woodlawn forest, when he came to a waterfall. Here was a nice open space beside a pond. He parked his bike and spend some time doing his martial arts exercises. It was a very hot day and that pond looked more and more inviting as he finished up his forms. Yes, it looked very enticing and there was no one around, he had been quite alone all day, he striped off to skin and dove into the water. It was very refreshing and he splashed there enjoying this cooling bath when he heard voices. A group of children suddenly appeared marching toward the spot, so he sunk himself down into the pond up to his chin. Some waved, some spoke to him and he said "hi" back. As this group settled upon the bank their teacher came from behind and began pointing and explaining things surrounding (presumably this did not include the head bobbing in the pond). Finally, the lecture finished, they waved goodbye and were gone. He, with relief and wrinkled skin, climbed ashore, quickly dressed and got out of there.
So I thought, there is definitely a waterfall somewhere out there and the next morning I set off again to find it.
I also thought isn't this always the way. When you think you are alone and safe along comes someone to embarrass you. It was just like my telling about removing my shirt in this heat while on what was to me a very unused trail. I almost never met anyone on in that place, but this time along comes a lady and her dogs. At least I had only removed my shirt.
Thus it was I wandered in a whole lot of new territory yesterday morning without finding my waterfall. I came to a choice far up on a mount after walking long. Perhaps the path going to my right would have led me to my goal, but I had been hiking long and the day was heating up, so I went left.
This took me up a narrow path I had also never been on before. It ran along the very top of the ridge and there was a fence along one side, probably electrified, for it only had three well-spaced strands of thick cable on white plastic knobs. There was a cornfield along where I first came, then later I could see a road across a meadow. Meanwhile, the path grew very narrow and all around were high brush, especially cockleburs.
This is where I saw them, a flutter of yellow here and there. There were butterflies in packs flitting from plant to plant and then around my head. It was a marvelous place to be. Cicada were singing in the nearby woods and these beautiful, colorful creatures leading me along. It was an enchanting moment of beauty and peace.
I pulled out my camera and began filming, following their flight, and at times they seemed to pose for their close-up.
Not just the yellow ones, but these darker flies of black and blue and silver.
I do not know butterfly types. When you encounter large yellow ones with black trim you always think Monarch, but I am not sure the markings were right and there are yellow butterflies that mimic the Monarch. The dark one on the left seems to be some kind of swallowtail. There was one that when sitting still spread its wings forming almost a star that looked metallic. You can see that one near the end of my little two minute film below.
By the way, did you know they tag butterflies out of the nature center in Brandywine Creek State Park. Imagine catching and tagging these delicate looking creatures. You do it gently, a tiny sticker on the wing that doesn't harm or hinder the butterfly. They catch them, take them to the center, feed them, tag them and led them loose. This way they can trace the migrations of the insect.
The Little Wife and I were sitting in a booth at Barnabys. We've eaten out every day this week. She isn't cooking while we are baking; that is, with outside temperatures in the 100s, we're all about keeping cool.
So we are sitting there and I say, "I went looking for that heroin again this morning."
"Heron," she says.
"What?"
"Heron, not heroin."
This is that slight hearing defect I have had all my mortal days. At least, I claim it is my malfunctioning cochlea and not some mutant synapse misfiring in my brain. Whichever, it has been a problem all my life and I often can't distinguish certain sounds or pronounce similar words. Choral, Corral and Quarrel always came out the same, for instance. I can't get my tongue around Calvary and cavalry correctly. Thus the phrase Great Blue Heron that I can hear clearly in my head comes out of my mouth as the great blue heroin. I don't know if there is such a thing as blue heroin, I don't know what its street value may be and I certainly am not interested in tracking it down.
We wrote yesterday of writers using words some might find offensive. You can certainly see the misinterpretation, misunderstanding and mischief my little pronounciation misfires could cause.
Anyway, here is the thing, I was in Brandywine Creek State park walking along side the Creek when I saw a tall white thing sticking out of the water near the opposite side. I got a bit closer and saw it was a bird, a rather large one and knew it had to be about four foot tall. It was simply standing still, straight up.
I flicked on my Flip and began videoing, trying to get further up the trail and closer. I do not know if it heard me or simply decided to move, but it spread it's wings and flew across the creek toward my side. I hurried on, around some bushes, but when I got into the next clearing there was no sight of it.
I was telling my wife at dinner that I had walked that same trail again. This I seldom do. I like variety and generally will not repeat a route two mornings in a row. However, I really was hoping for a better film of the bird. This had been the third time I saw it in the last couple of weeks, but only the first time I was able to get my camera on it.
It is a beautiful bird, especially in flight. I saw it land one day and this time I saw it take off. It spread those wings and rose, seeming to defy physics given its size. It was very graceful, and actually very fast, even though it reminded me of watching those big military cargo planes takeoff at Dover.
I'm pretty sure it is a Great Blue Heron. They are native to these parts with a known rookery over at Ashland. They do indeed reach heights of over four feet and have wing spans on nearly six.
I wish I could have gotten a closer film of this creature, but I did the best with what I had. The photo at the top of this post is the bird standing in the creek. It appears as a long white streak at the center of the photo framed by some branches of leaves. Keep this location in mind if you play my video so you can pick up the bird. The video is short and the bird is quick once it moves. I did do a slow motion sequence and a couple instant replays to try and help pick out the Heron.
Over Christmas of 1949 my family moved from the isolation of a swamp into a town. After the Christmas-New Years vacation ended, I resumed third grade in a new old school. I put it that way because I had statred in that school in First Grade, but we had moved away half through that year, so it was an old school for me, but by now also a new one. I was starting over again and was very much the oddball, the hick, the country bumpkin as far as most of the other students were concerned. That is my Third Grade picture on the left, but I am not certain in which school it was taken.
I did make a few friends in my new situation. One of the first (I did have a continuing friendship with a girl I had known since whenever we can actually know others) was a tall, gangly fellow named Ronald. That is his Third Grade Photo on the right.
Our friendship started as just an exercise in trading comic books, but quickly grew to best friend status. Ron was someone I felt very comfortable around, more so than probably anyone I have ever known. After 61 years, differences and distances, we remain close friends and I insist we do until one of us is a pallbearer for the other.
There really was a third member of this life-long friendship, another boy I counted as a best friend and who also remains so to this day. I met him around the same time as Ron, so we three desperatoes have been a group for a long time. This other guy was Stuart. All three of us were probably something of outsiders in our little town.
That is Stuart in a Third Grade group photo, the boy standing on the right in a striped shirt. Ron is standing directly behind and half hidden by him in this picture.
We hung together through Grade School and pretty much high school, although I moved from town to country in 1956 and it was as often we could get together.
On the right are we standing behind the carriage house behind Stuart's home in 1957. That is your's truly slouching on the left and Ron on the right; both of us using Stuart as a leaning post between us.
Both Stuart and my birthdays were this week, three days apart, so Ron remains very much our junior, since he will not turn 70 until November.
Stuart is the furtherest flung since he lives in Florida. Ron and I both dwell in the wonderful state of Delaware, me at the top and he at the bottom. Right now we are making plans to all get together in Philadelphia next month. This should be wonderful.
I supposed the years have made some changes to our appearance, but not to our love of each other.
Last week, Ron invited me down to his place and a visit to Rehoboth Beach. It was his birthday present to me, much appreciated too. We went to the Olde Tyme Photo Shoppe (not certain they actually spell it this way) and had our picture taken as the cowboys we really are at heart. Here is the result:
Don't we look like we rode with John Wayne?
Here is video of our day. (I suggest you turn off my music player by scrolling to the bottom of my blog and then turning up your speakers.)
Still noodling around with the Flip camera, I did a little monologue on the history of Joseph Shipley's Rockwood Estate. I would suggest you turn off my music and then turn up your speakers in order to hear my narrative.
There has been nothing wrong that explains my absences from these pages for so long. Perhaps I could claim in light of the imminent end-of-the-world, now put off until October 21, I was busy contemplating my fate before the Judgment Seat, but that wasn't so. No, I was just entangled in the usual knots of daily existence I suppose. I also have been writing, you know the old fashioned kind before the boom of Blogs. So one can say that writing took me away from writing, something of a contradiction or conundrum.
The rain was something of a downer, too. Those dark and stormy days, denying me walks, tended to lower my energy and flare my arthritis. But the rains have passed and in their place has come heat, up in the nineties, July and August temperatures in May and the First of June. So I walk early, which I always do anyway, to beat the heat and survive another day.
I also bought a Flip Video Camera. The videos I did before were on my digital camera, but the quality and clarity were never up to the same standard as the still photos. I decided to try something dedicated to filming. I am still experimenting and working on a more steady hand. After the words here upon, you will find three videos of my practice. The scenes were not all shot on the same day, although I arranged the sequences to be in proper order. The first takes I did still had some shake and bounce, so you will identify the earlier bits by that. I bought a tripod the next day and screwing this in to the Flip as a handle seemed to remove some of my quiver.
Anyway, if you view the videos I suggest you scroll down and turn off my music player. There is no narrative on the films, but you can hear distinctively the forest sounds, especially birdsong to the backbeat of my crunching steps upon the trail.
What you won't see in the videos are most of the distractions that disrupted my walk and filming. I have tended with age and curiosity to speak to people along the way, especially if they are puzzlements. I do not care to stick a camera in their face, however, so I generally snap it off during conversations. So here in print are the gaps and the tales of these interesting encounters.
Let's begin with Jerry the Flutist, or Flautist for any Anglophiles, who is pictured walking along at the top of this post. I met Jerry a few weeks ago, right after the floods we had. He had a long, strange object in his hand and so I asked, "What's that, some kind of musical instrument?"
Yes, it was, a kind of flute, but very different and very beautiful. It was shaped more like a Recorder than the flutes we see in marching bands. You blew in the top and played finger holes straight down the tube and it was quite long. I don't remember the name, but it was a Native American instrument, all hand carved from wood, polished up to bring out the shine and distinction of the gain. It had been made for him by a friend who does those things. Jerry said he had another, but was reluctant to bring it because of its size, fearful people would be spooked, think it a weapon, perhaps a bazooka.
He was going on a trip to Colorado and would take this flute with him. He hoped there would not be any problem taking it on the plane, but he would not go without it. It was too important to his soul now.
His wife had died last fall and this was his consolation and his spiritual connections to his love. He came to the park and wandered its paths playing music, very well I will add. I've passed him several times since, tootling and soothing away his lost in melodies played to the trees.
And I saw him as I began my filming walks these last few days. So we can start with him tooting our overture as we march upon our own way, our own spiritual journey along the creek.
Ah, the creek, the creek, the Brandywine is more river here, broad and flowing. I choose the West wood path right by its side and decided to walk this to Ramsey Road and then back on the higher, wider Piken Creek Road and finish it off with a climb up a Piedmont Hill. These are the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. They sit like humps and bumps between the sea and the higher climes from New Jersey to Alabama. They are beautiful festivals of color in the fall and bleak landscapes in winter, covered with leafless trees standing like tombstones above the carcasses of fallen brothers. Now after the weeks of rain, they are green jungles steaming with this current blanket of heat.
They run down this edge of Delaware like its spine, festooned with the hard blue rock we are so proud of and rising to our higher elevations of 400 feet or so. Not enormous, but still somewhat challenging to hiker and biker.
I start out along the flat and low lying river, following a narrow dirt path into the tangle of shrubbery, sometimes coming near crumbling edges of riverbank, sometimes twisting as if after a wandering snake into honeysuckle or thorn. You can follow my amble on this first video.
After entering and traipsing deep into the woods I come to a cross trail. Here a kind of marsh has formed on one side and there is another pool of stagnant water right next to the creek on the other side. I stepped into this area and was immediately a buffet luncheon for a batch of mosquitos. Every time I glanced down some bug had its straw-like mouth in my flesh happily slurping away.
I swatted my way through this thicket of bloodsuckers and then forded a little run by crossing a fallen log. If you look in the video you will see this run is festooned by brown, flat material. This stuff is cornstalks, carried and trapped at this place from the cornfield we will soon walk beside. The cornfield you see was a few weeks ago under water from the flooding of the Brandywine. You have to realize how high the banks are here to appreciate the amount of water that overflowed them and its power to pluck the field clean of last years empty and dead stalks. Now the field is all planted with the sproutings of this years crop. It was also aswarm with circling clusters of gnats. These tiny insects swirled about in the air, tiny dervishes of constant motion.
And while I watched this dance, a large splash from the creek caught my attention. I thought perhaps some large fish had jumped or perhaps a goose had landed. In a moment a large, soppy-wet, oddly furred hound bounded from a small side path before me, shaking droplets in all directions. Ahead came a couple with another large dog I easily recognized as a Yellow Lab, much like the Tucker we lost last spring. The two dogs came rushing to me, tongues lollying and tails wagging. The soaked beast was a Golden Doodle, part Golden Retriever and part Poodle. This was Melvin and Maxine. The owners explained there was a third dog, a Chihuahua and Jack Russell Terrier mix, but he was at home.
I actually learned most of this on my second meeting with Melvin and Maxine, but I give it here anyway.
Continuing on past the corn, I hook up with the Piken Creek Road, the wider main path through this side of the park. My plan is to come back along this dirt road after I turn around at Ramsey.
Piken Creek Walk One
As I started down Piken Creek Road toward Ramsey Road I spoted someone standing in the middle of the trail. Not only is he standing there, he is staring up toward the tree tops. You know how it is, you see someone looking up, you have to look up as well.
"Something interesting up there?" I ask him.
He explains a certain bird hard to spot is in these trees. A bird tweets and he asks, "Hear that. That's its song."
This is Don, the bird-watching mailman from West Chester, a Pennsylvania town not far from the Delaware border. He tells me he grew up in the country and took a notice and interest in the birds. I grew up a good bit in the country myself, but I'd be hard put to name many birds by sight, let alone by their call.
I wished him happy bird watching and continued out to Ramsey where I turned. Don was still there when I returned and now he joined me on my jaunt, pointing out various birds as we went. I had intended to follow the Piken Creek Road, but now we sauntered back down the cornfield path, once again encountering Melvin and Maxine and their jolly owners, where we paused for a lengthy conversation.
I told Don he might be interested in a bird-watching group that wanders through the park regularly. It is led by guides from the Delaware Natural History Museum. I had run into a group not long before this popping out of this very trail, older people like me, all with binoculars dangling about their necks. I wondered if this was the best way to watch birds, trotting through the trails in large groups, but Don seemed interested. I hope I meet him again, because I gave him wrong info. I thought this group met every Saturday morning, but on getting home discovered it was a monthly meet, not weekly.
I split from Don back in the midst of the mosquito infested portion of the woods. I took a side trail to get back up on the Piken Creek Road and then to the Piedmont hill I intended to crest.
As I walked along this winding passage, a horse suddenly appeared before me, a lovely creature of white with large patches of brown. A lady was amount. She probably had come down the Piedmont herself, from a horse farm up atop it. I stepped aside to let them pass.
"Walk early," she said (the lady not the horse) "so you don't die."
This was in reference to the high heat we were having. It would be up to 94 by afternoon. Just as they passed by me, the horse stepped either in a small hole or skidded on a hidden rock and stumbled.
"Don't fall on me, buddy," I said.
"He won't," said the lady.
I wasn't really worried about myself, but concerned the horse might get injured. He righted himself and they went their way and I went mine.
Piken Creek Walk Two
I came back onto Piken Creek Road just below a bridge. I let a bicyclist zip by and then I filmed myself standing on the bridge gesturing like an idiot. I look as if I am telling you what is over there and what is over here, but actually I am not saying a word, just waving my arms about and dithering in silence.
From there I walked up to a couple of rocks along the trail and looked down. A month ago some bicyclist tried to ride his bike up this incline and flipped over on his head. I wish I had filmed that.
Now I begin the long climb up this Piedmont hill. It goes up and up and up for quite a ways. As I start there is another path to my right, which is where I will return after cresting this hill and heading down the other side, a complete circle.
Not far past this point I am struck by movement ahead. A big tan dog is racing -- alone -- toward me. He is woofing. This is always a nervous situation. I don't like meeting a strange dog in the woods. Who knows what it will do. Much to my relief its master, a young woman, and another dog soon appear. Both dogs are Labs, one a Yellow very like my late Tucker, meaning it is kind of plump. They pass me by and I hear the young woman direct them off on what will be my return path as I continue my climb.
At the top of the hill I come out in farmland. There is hay as far as you can see. The path, barely discernible, goes through the hay and reenters the woods on the far side. The hay is very high. It actually comes to above my hips. I came through this field a week ago, before our hot spell and everything was still wet from all the rains. By the time I crossed this field my shorts, legs and shoes were soaked. This was a situation best avoided this day, since I discovered the particular shorts I was wearing this time get quite transparent when wet.
I met the young lady and her two dogs again part way across this field, a situation which could be awkward in transparent shorts to say the least.
Finally it is back into the coolness of the forest. I was beginning to perspire in the field, caught directly in the morning sun. Now I snake my way back down the mount on a narrow, steeper trail and end my first practices with the Flip.
Frank first heard the legend several years ago when he moved into Delaware. Even though he had grown up to the North in Pennsylvania not far from the center of the stories, he hadn't heard them before. In Northern Delaware trips to "The Valley" were something like teenage rites of passage. Frank's own kids experienced this. Frank never had.
Now Frank is a curious fellow, much like his cats, but it took a long time to ever act on these mythos. Decades in fact, yet lately he felt compelled to see for himself.
It isn't that he believed any of it. He doesn't believe in ghosts and such and he felt these things were easy to shrug off. Strange growing trees and mystery vehicles could be easily explained. He'd seen many odd and spooky trees in his life, especially along the banks of the Brandywine and the narrow country roads thereabout. And mystery cars could be teenagers playing pranks on more gullible teenagers.
So on this April morn Frank decided to find the so call "Devil's Road" and take a look. You will notice despite all his professed skepticism he did decide to make his drive on a Saturday MORNING rather than a Saturday (or any) NIGHT. It wasn't he had any apprehension about the tales he had heard or fear of things that go bump in the night (or morning as this case was), but only the road was in unfamiliar territory and he needed to have good light to find it.
At this point you probably should hear the basic details of the legend.
There lies up in the wooded hills in Pennsylvania, just across the Delaware border a place called The Valley and the Cult House. The rumors persist this was yet another duPont Estate, but a sinister one, where malformed children from family inbreeding were stored away from public view. Other tales speak of Satan worship being conducted in this house, thus the name Cult House, as well as stories it was also a gathering place of the Ku Klux Klan. Dead animals, warning signs and the usual accoutrements further surround these fancies. The M. Night Shyamalan film "The Village" was supposedly shot in the woods about the Cult House, although from scenes Frank saw, it could have easily been shot in the Brandywine Creek State Park where he often hikes.
Two other persistent aspects of the legend are the Skull Tree and the Mystery Vehicles. The photo on the right is the Skull Tree as taken from Weird Pennsylvania by Matt Lake and published by Sterling Publishing Co., Inc. Frank had hoped to see this tree and photograph it if he could.
Allegedly, a mother left her baby at the base of the tree to die and the roots absorbed the child and formed the skull face. Claims are made that if you stop here in the night you will hear a baby crying. If you look you can see the form of a skill in both the heavy root structure at the base of this tree and also within the large hollow on the right. Frank did not find the tree or the Cult House for reasons explained later.
The Mystery Vehicles are another commonly reported feature of Devil's Road. If a person drives down the road too slowly or lingers in the area of these legends, a black (in one reported instance, the vehicle was red) pickup or SUV will suddenly appear and chase the loiterer down the road. No matter how one tries, though, the face of the driver can never be seen.
And so with these rumors and tall tales in mind, Frank decided to investigate. The first trick was finding Cossart Road. This did not seem too challenging. It was said teens went out Montchanin Road to where it intersected. Montchanin Road is Old Rt. 100 and actually passes right by Brandywine Creek State Park then runs to Baltimore Pike at Chadds Ford. So after his morning walk, Frank headed down Old Rt. 100.
Old Rt. 100 is a narrow twisting road following along the Brandywine. In Pennsylvania, where Frank grew up it was called Creek Rd. It also has a plentiful share of spooky misshapen trees along it's twisting route.
However, the entry to Cossart Road was not found and Frank ended up in Chadds Ford. So thank heaven for Google Maps, for he knew Cossart ran from Old Rt. 100 to Rt. 52 where it ended just below the Fairview Inn from studying Googles overhead shots. (The portion of map on the left shows the area where the cult house is to be found.) Otherwise, Frank would have never found the road. It has no street signs, not at either end or along its length when it crosses roads. An oddly, unmarked byway, even though there are homes here and there along it.
Thus Frank now entered from Rt. 52. The road was very narrow and soon seemed strange. Now long after turning in, he saw something black in the very center of the street. As he came nearer, this black object raised a head and he saw it was a very large black bird. It stared at him a bit before it finally flew from his path. Certainly this was a foreboding omen.
A bit further and now a white van sat motionless in the road. Cossart is very narrow, barely wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass and Frank wondered whether he could get around this van. He also wondered why it was sitting there in essentially nowhere. But then it began to drive away and he was able to continued unimpeded.
As strange as it seems, Frank was getting a bad vibe from the area around him, an unease. He was getting nearer the enchanted area and here and there were objects narrowing the road. First a small evergreen, like a Christmas Tree cut in half appeared. One half on the left and the other on the right and both intruding onto the road surface. Then there was a long canvas-like bag, perhaps six feet long, filled with something and also lying on the road.
Beyond all this Frank came to his presumed destination and snapped the photo seen at the top of the post and turned on a video. At this point the rain began streaming down and after a half minute his camera batteries died ending any filming.
On normal days if such a thing had happened, Frank would have pulled over briefly and reloaded the camera. Why didn't he this morning?
Because at that moment a black pickup suddenly appeared behind him, even though this was daytime, not night, and it followed him all the way out of Cossart to Old Rt. 100. Frank recalled the stories and he wondered if it would continue behind him on 100. At the dead end of Cossart, Frank turned right. He looked in his mirror to see if the pickup followed, but it seemed to go left instead, except it didn't go left afterall, it was simply turning around and going back into Cossart Road.
It makes you wonder, doesn't it? It certainly made Frank wonder and someday he will return and explore further. Someday...when he can take some friends along.
The short video Frank shot before his batteries died is below.
At the end of the video you can see the white van in the distance. It turned out to be a Verizon FiOS truck, obviously lost.
Okay, so I've been reading some others talking about why they Blog. It's their therapy. It's their relaxation. It's their addiction. Yeah, well it may be all of that, especially the last. I have always claimed writing was a curse or disease with no cure. And sometimes it is just plain hard work.
I mean, there are things you need know and don't. For instance, I don't know if the word is blog or Blog. Is Blog a proper noun or just some generic thingamabob? I'm always capitalizing the word, but maybe I shouldn't. A writer is supposed to know such a thing, is he or she not?
Why don't we have a neutral word for he and she. See, there is another style book question. Do you stick with he or stick with she when making general statements or must you alternate? On the other hand, must you always use both? It'd be much easy if we had a pronoun like hesh or something. A writer is supposed to know such a thing, is hesh not?
I writer ought to be writing, too. Have you noticed my production was down these last few days. There are a couple of reasons. One has to do with writing. I joined a writers' group and got self-conscious about my grammar or lack of it. I bought a new book for the purpose of brushing up on such things as whether I sat that book down or I set that book down. I did this because some of my time has been taken up reading and critiquing eight other writers' work for the meeting this Friday.
And then I took a walk. Yes, I know, I am always taking walks, but in this case I decided to do another taping. Now I had some video snippets of my stroll to put together. Ah, ha, I said, I will make one big film this time. So I worked at stitching these snippets together, adding special effects, music (something that would come back to haunt me) and a narration. Beautiful, it came to just 30 minutes and some things timed out just perfectly and I felt I nailed the ending. All that was left to do was the upload to YouTube to finalize the effort. This is when I learned YouTube limits videos to 15 minutes.
I had to cut my opus up into three parts (I was afraid splitting it in half was cutting too close to that 15 minute barrier). It took more effort that you can believe. I basically had to start all over for there was no way to slice and dice my finished epic. I had to reassign the strips, re-add the music and redo the narrative. This took time, a lot of time, but at long last I finished and all three sections uploaded to YouTube without a hiccup.
Except I got an email notification saying one of my videos may contain copyrighted content. I try my best to not use any such animal. The only thing it could be was the music. The pictures, the film, the narrative were all original by me. When I looked at my playlist on YouTube, I saw several marked as possiblily using copyrighted material. Now I had used classical music as background and figured that was written before 1922 so would be public domain. However, I guess the performance of the music was what was copyrighted.
I went in and deleted all my videos where I used music. I then removed all the music from my masters and loaded the altered films back to YouTube. Bingo, any warnings went away, but so did some of the spark. I felt the videos needed something beyond my dreary voice and shaky filming.
Once again I deleted all my videos from YouTube and once again I reproduced them, this time using bits of music supplied by Apple, supposedly in the public domain. If I receive any notice on these, then I guess music will not be in the background of my tapes, unless I start composing my own and pluck it out on my son's guitar.
At any rate, below is my latest effort. It is called "Cauffiel in the Wind". (And you need ask yourselves, did "hesh" capitalize the correct words in that title?) And, by the way, you set the book down on the table next to where you had sat to read.
Oh, and I suggest you turn off my music player so you can hear the videos.
CAUFFIEL IN THE WIND
TO THE PIKE
TO THE BOULEVARD
TO THE HOUSE AND BEYOND
It isn't easy Bloggin' with a lap full of cats, either.
