there's a magic in the sap that's all
a syncopated mystery
boil the night and water away
maple syrup it has to be
3 score trees
and then another ten
facing south
and slightly western
its just a tap in the bucket
and then another stop
40 more times makes
a single syrup drop
the thought itself is distilled by 400
but what we're left with is more
than the steam of atmosphere
or maple streams to the reservoir
sleighs bring down the mountain
precious sugar to the shack
the patterns lay in crusted snow
lead you forth and back
the table is set
the pancakes are thin
the syrup is amber
let the pouring begin
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
In Memoriam Alex Olar (Mar. 17, 1924-Mar. 1, 2009)
I can't pick up a squared timber, or a foundation jack, or a level, without thinking of Alex Olar.
When we bought our first homestead in the Wabos Valley back in 1983, there were several buildings that needed leveling or moving. “Go see Alec Olar” I was told. “He does that better than anyone else”. I soon became his apprentice on site, as we worked with small pieces of wood and steel, slowly coaxing buildings back onto their foundations. I was new to this and Alex was patient but persistent, reminding me of the details that could assure success or guarantee failure. He also went to great lengths to steer us away from folly, those building ideas that only looked good on paper. His methods were tried and true: keep it on the square and level from the footings to the rafters. Without the support and friendship of Alex and his wife Dorothy, Britta and I probably would not have survived here.
When it came time to construct a barn, we again listened to Alex. He brought us three straight 28 foot long black spruce from the swamp, “gun barrels”, he called them. These supported the gambrel roof of the second floor. The economic eight foot components of the roof allowed for easy lifting. When it came time to build a second barn, we followed the same techniques, although Alex was then retired from that type of work.
There was however, one last effort Alex helped us with when we bought this 80 acres back in 1999. Only one of the turn of the century buildings from Henri Salmi's homestead remained standing. The log design was typical of the early Finnish settlers; compound dove-tails, hand-hewn cedar logs and a cove and bead stacking system. It was well worthy of restoration, though it was mired in the soil, the lower logs rotted. We asked Alex if he could perform one more miracle. Fortunately for us, the word “impossible'” was not in his vocabulary.
The next three days were spent in preparation; lifting the building, removing suspect logs, laying track and steel pipe rollers towards the new foundation. The twenty foot transport was accomplished in an hour with Alex directing and coaxing. Together, we toasted the incredible success.
There was one bright May day some years back when I caught up with him in Searchmont. He reminded me that these days are best for “guys like us”. First of all, I was glad to be included in that category, but I knew what he meant: There's lots to do in those bright long sunny spring days with no black flies, yet!
My hat's off to you Alex, and I'll remember to take full advantage of those days as they come around each spring.
When we bought our first homestead in the Wabos Valley back in 1983, there were several buildings that needed leveling or moving. “Go see Alec Olar” I was told. “He does that better than anyone else”. I soon became his apprentice on site, as we worked with small pieces of wood and steel, slowly coaxing buildings back onto their foundations. I was new to this and Alex was patient but persistent, reminding me of the details that could assure success or guarantee failure. He also went to great lengths to steer us away from folly, those building ideas that only looked good on paper. His methods were tried and true: keep it on the square and level from the footings to the rafters. Without the support and friendship of Alex and his wife Dorothy, Britta and I probably would not have survived here.
When it came time to construct a barn, we again listened to Alex. He brought us three straight 28 foot long black spruce from the swamp, “gun barrels”, he called them. These supported the gambrel roof of the second floor. The economic eight foot components of the roof allowed for easy lifting. When it came time to build a second barn, we followed the same techniques, although Alex was then retired from that type of work.
There was however, one last effort Alex helped us with when we bought this 80 acres back in 1999. Only one of the turn of the century buildings from Henri Salmi's homestead remained standing. The log design was typical of the early Finnish settlers; compound dove-tails, hand-hewn cedar logs and a cove and bead stacking system. It was well worthy of restoration, though it was mired in the soil, the lower logs rotted. We asked Alex if he could perform one more miracle. Fortunately for us, the word “impossible'” was not in his vocabulary.
The next three days were spent in preparation; lifting the building, removing suspect logs, laying track and steel pipe rollers towards the new foundation. The twenty foot transport was accomplished in an hour with Alex directing and coaxing. Together, we toasted the incredible success.
There was one bright May day some years back when I caught up with him in Searchmont. He reminded me that these days are best for “guys like us”. First of all, I was glad to be included in that category, but I knew what he meant: There's lots to do in those bright long sunny spring days with no black flies, yet!
My hat's off to you Alex, and I'll remember to take full advantage of those days as they come around each spring.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
strange yet true continues
It's not so far fetching as it might seem, big blue baleen and the mighty pine.
One spouting in the brine, the other sprouting towards the sun.
Divergent species sharing a similar fate.
Leviathan. The very name itself rises from the depth of our shared language, to sample the vapors. Blue whales, the unknown “sulfur bottoms”of Melville's book, are perhaps the largest living creatures ever to travel this earth. Diving for hours, living for a century, and reaching a length improbable, a width gargantuan. From the crow's nest, Ishmael cries out “there she blows!”, betraying an awe that transcends his time and circumstance.
Strobus. A name first given to describe the unlikely bundle of five soft needles. White pine, by far the thickest and tallest vegetable in eastern North America, questing for the light. An super canopy platform, living four hundred years, gathering a height of 150 feet and a circumference of twelve. Pine captures our attention, as we look 3 times to see the top and then to a point beyond our perception. We tromp the woods on the lookout for a stick nest. “Timber!”, perfect for eagle or osprey, raven or broad wing.
The fibre and blubber was easy plucking for the plunder. It was a massacre unexamined, a genetic and geographic separation, inevitable. Masts of pine were required for the sailing ships, lights of oil for the towns. And so the shouts went out: “Lower the boats/repair the sleighs/sharpen the harpoon and the crosscut/haul on the bowline/there's daylight in the swamp”. And no one paused, or it was not recorded amidst the pining and the wailing.
Hiking among the last remaining old growth we hug and release the giant stems. We bury the treasure in our arms.
Tacking among the whales, the tourist boats tilt, our penchant for the photo trophy remains.
We need some reassurance that the ocean itself has not drowned.
Oil and greed. Stupidity and the saw. The targets shift, old attitudes remain.
Now whole systems crash.
One spouting in the brine, the other sprouting towards the sun.
Divergent species sharing a similar fate.
Leviathan. The very name itself rises from the depth of our shared language, to sample the vapors. Blue whales, the unknown “sulfur bottoms”of Melville's book, are perhaps the largest living creatures ever to travel this earth. Diving for hours, living for a century, and reaching a length improbable, a width gargantuan. From the crow's nest, Ishmael cries out “there she blows!”, betraying an awe that transcends his time and circumstance.
Strobus. A name first given to describe the unlikely bundle of five soft needles. White pine, by far the thickest and tallest vegetable in eastern North America, questing for the light. An super canopy platform, living four hundred years, gathering a height of 150 feet and a circumference of twelve. Pine captures our attention, as we look 3 times to see the top and then to a point beyond our perception. We tromp the woods on the lookout for a stick nest. “Timber!”, perfect for eagle or osprey, raven or broad wing.
The fibre and blubber was easy plucking for the plunder. It was a massacre unexamined, a genetic and geographic separation, inevitable. Masts of pine were required for the sailing ships, lights of oil for the towns. And so the shouts went out: “Lower the boats/repair the sleighs/sharpen the harpoon and the crosscut/haul on the bowline/there's daylight in the swamp”. And no one paused, or it was not recorded amidst the pining and the wailing.
Hiking among the last remaining old growth we hug and release the giant stems. We bury the treasure in our arms.
Tacking among the whales, the tourist boats tilt, our penchant for the photo trophy remains.
We need some reassurance that the ocean itself has not drowned.
Oil and greed. Stupidity and the saw. The targets shift, old attitudes remain.
Now whole systems crash.
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