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A randomly observed act of kindness
This morning I watched in delight as an older blind woman in a hijab approached a passer-by on the London street to ask directions.
“Yes, I know where it is,” said the younger Brit (by her accent). “Would you like to walk with me?”
She offered her arm, the older woman took it, and they walked away from us down the sidewalk.
The glow stayed with me all day,
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Kendal, England
Summertime In England
By Van MorrisonCan you meet me in the country
In the summertime in England
Will you meet me?
Will you meet me in the country
In the summertime in England
Will you meet me?
We’ll go riding up to Kendal in the country
In the summertime in England.
Did you ever hear about
Did you ever hear about
Did you ever hear about
Wordsworth and Coleridge, baby?
Did you ever hear about Wordsworth and Coleridge?
They were smokin’ up in Kendal
By the lakeside
Can you meet me in the country in the long grass
In the summertime in England
Will you meet me
With your red robe dangling all around your body
With your red robe dangling all around your body
Will you meet me
Did you ever hear about …
William Blake
T. S. Eliot
In the summer
In the countryside
They were smokin’
Summertime in England
Won’t you meet me down Bristol
Meet me along by Bristol
We’ll go ridin’ down
Down by Avalon
Down by Avalon
Down by Avalon
In the countryside in England
With your red robe danglin’ all around your body free
Let your red robe go.
Goin’ ridin’ down by Avalon
Would you meet me in the country
In the summertime in England
Would you meet me?
In the Church of St. John …
Down by Avalon … .
Holy Magnet
Give you attraction
Yea, I was attracted to you.
Your coat was old, ragged and worn
And you wore it down through the ages
Ah, the sufferin’ did show in your eyes as we spoke
And the gospel music
The voice of Mahalia Jackson came through the ether
Oh my common one with the coat so old
And the light in the head
Said, daddy, don’t stroke me
Call me the common one.
I said, oh, common one, my illuminated one.
Oh my high in the art of sufferin’ one.
Take a walk with me
Take a walk with me down by Avalon
Oh, my common one with the coat so old
And the light in her head.
And the sufferin’ so fine
Take a walk with me down by Avalon
And I will show you
It ain’t why, why, why
It just is.
Would you meet me in the country
Can you meet me in the long grass
In the country in the summertime
Can you meet me in the long grass
Wait a minute
With your red robe …
Danglin’ all around your body.
Yeats and Lady Gregory corresponded …
And James Joyce wrote streams of consciousness books …
T.S. Eliot chose England …
T.S. Eliot joined the ministry …
Did you ever hear about …
Wordsworth and Coleridge?
Smokin’ up in Kendal
They were smokin’ by the lakeside …
Let your red robe go …
Let your red robe dangle in the countryside in England
We’ll go ridin’ down by Avalon
In the country
In the summertime
With you by my side
Let your red robe go …
You’ll be happy dancin’ …
Let your red robe go …
Won’t you meet me down by Avalon
In the summertime in England
In the Church of St. John …
Did you ever hear about Jesus walkin’
Jesus walkin’ down by Avalon?
Can you feel the light in England?
Can you feel the light in England?
Oh, my common one with the light in her head
And the coat so old
And the sufferin’ so fine
Take a walk with me
Oh, my common one,
Oh, my illuminated one
Down by Avalon …
Oh, my common one …
Oh, my storytime one
Oh, my treasury in the sunset
Take a walk with me
And I will show you
It ain’t why …
It just is …
Oh, my common one
With the light in the head
And the coat so old
Oh, my high in the art of sufferin’ one …
Oh, my common one
Take a walk with me
Down by Avalon
And I will show you
It ain’t why …
It just is.
Oh, my common one with the light in her head
And the coat so fine
And the sufferin’ so high …
All right now.
Oh, my common one …
It ain’t why …
It just is …
That’s all
That’s all there is about it.
It just is.
Can you feel the light?
I want to go to church and say.
In your soul …
Ain’t it high?
Oh, my common one
Oh, my storytime one
Oh, my high in the art of sufferin’ one
Put your head on my shoulder …
And you listen to the silence.
Can you feel the silence? -
Today’s beauty, and others
When I stand here, a man of some years, and reflect that today is an especially beautiful day, am I calling on memory to compare it with all the other beautiful days I’ve known? Or perhaps recalling average days, or even the many unhappy days, and contrasting them with this instead?
What makes this day beautiful to me? Do I have a memory bank of previously experienced beauty that matches today with those components and calculates the beauty of here-and-now? Have I perhaps built a composite image of beauty and now simply compare this day with that?
Since this is the only day I now experience, how is it even sensible to think of other days—days that do not now exist at all—in relation to it? If I cannot remember specific breezes that felt sweeter, or warm sunshine more welcomed on my shoulders, or a better sound of wind rustling in the tall grass is my appreciation of today’s beauty devalued or enhanced?
Today is an especially beautiful day.
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Today’s morning sunshine was irresistible so all I did was walk. My unremarkable hotel is in a remarkable neighborhood, the Old Town section of Philadelphia. Whether Ben & Betsy, the bridge at Race Street, the spare elegance of Christ Church (1695), the surprising Alaska-like paper birch or the fine Israeli-Moroccan poached eggs I had for breakfast, it’s all a feast. I’ve long loved Philly; recently I learned to my surprise that my first Weaver ancestor (then named Weber) landed here in 1711, so now I feel especially connected.
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Want to be an ME? Pull up your Big Boy pants
I had occasion as Vice President/News at McClatchy to advise a number of senior editors about hiring MEs and I always ended up emphasizing two attributes, both of which had been crucial to me.
What you need in a second-in-command is somebody, I told them, who is unafraid to come in, close your door, and say “Howard, you’re about to really fuck this up.”
If, after that discussion, the decision is to stay with your original plan, s/he needs to open that same door, walk into the newsroom and say, “Here’s our plan …”
I don’t know how Dean Baquet is on the first half of that, but we all know he’s had some trouble with the second. That’s bad form, especially from a senior journalist at the world’s most important newspaper. Dean is a smart and experienced leader and I expect he’s already aware that he screwed up.
Any high-functioning newsroom is going to be built out of smart, ambitious people. They’re tough to manage, and doing so with a visible disconnect in the top ranks makes everything infinitely harder. The first time your managing editor smacks the wall outside your office or talks too much at the bar, it’s probably no big deal. But it’s the kind of thing that emboldens malcontents, the “barking bunnies” who bitch and whine anonymously but never step up and tell you what they think.
So here’s some advice from an old hand who’s been there: if you want to be a good managing editor — the kind who deserves to have one himself some day — pull up your Big Boy pants and soldier. If it gets to be too much to take, quit. But for God’s sake, don’t make things worse while you’re there.
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My neighbor Pedro splits and sells wood. He welded the extra weight on these already-heavy mauls to make sure it can be done in one blow. He’s about two-thirds my size.
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Fast moving weather across the Sierra foothills this afternoon.
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I’m guessing 7mm.
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Our first fruit harvest at Redwing in 2012
Since the birds have already harvested our cherries, these fat plums are the first real harvest of the year from Redwing orchard.
The big juicy looking specimens are Santa Rosas, of which there were disappointingly few. They’re gorgeous, though. More plentiful (and great for jam) are the Satsumas.
We also have some good Bosc pears coming on, a good tree of French prune plums, Jujube fruit (aka Chinese dates), some figs and a plethora of apples of several varieties. The apples are by far the steadiest, most prolific and most reliable producer (not counting olives, of course).
Here’s some photographic evidence.
