My grandson, Shane, will have his third birthday in January. He says Good morning to me this morning and only then yells to his mother (my daughter) that there is a monster in the house. I comb my hair at the bathroom mirror above the hand basin. Shane decides that I look less of a monster and demands that I play piggy with his toes:
This big piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed at home.
This little piggy ate pastrami.
This poor little piggy had none.
And this little piggy cries wee wee wee wee as it runs all the way home.
Shane prefers to play piggy on the carpet. Grandpa finds getting down onto the carpet comparatively easy. Getting up is tough. Shane pulls, I groan...
Showing posts with label Pine Plains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pine Plains. Show all posts
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
PINE PLAINS
PINE PLAINS: APRIL 8
Pine Plains is a few blocks each side of a crossroads. Houses are white weather-board in lawned yards, upstairs and downstairs, a few pillars, shaked roofs, sash windows and dormer windows - cute to an American - and to me. The brick restaurant on one corner of the crossroads is French owned. The food is reasonable.
Nothing much happens in Pine Plains (nothing much happens back home in Colwall). They are good sane places in which to sink roots.
I ride in sunshine. My hands are warm. The Honda purrs contentedly as we coast the country road. In my early youth this was a land of small dairy farms. A hundred or so years of toil won fields from hillsides. Dry stone walls protected the fields. Agro-Industry has put the farms out of business. Hill fields have surrendered to second generation birch woods spotted with weekend homes. Valleys are given over to hobby farms and horse farms. White painted post and rail fences enclose horse paddocks, white houses, white painted stable blocks. Even the dirt has been deodorised.
Why so bitter?
Not bitter, sad.
Sad at the waste of labour dedicated to future generations, a cold funeral pyre of dreams for a better life.
Such was New England...sacrifice to avarice.
Pine Plains is a few blocks each side of a crossroads. Houses are white weather-board in lawned yards, upstairs and downstairs, a few pillars, shaked roofs, sash windows and dormer windows - cute to an American - and to me. The brick restaurant on one corner of the crossroads is French owned. The food is reasonable.
Nothing much happens in Pine Plains (nothing much happens back home in Colwall). They are good sane places in which to sink roots.
I ride in sunshine. My hands are warm. The Honda purrs contentedly as we coast the country road. In my early youth this was a land of small dairy farms. A hundred or so years of toil won fields from hillsides. Dry stone walls protected the fields. Agro-Industry has put the farms out of business. Hill fields have surrendered to second generation birch woods spotted with weekend homes. Valleys are given over to hobby farms and horse farms. White painted post and rail fences enclose horse paddocks, white houses, white painted stable blocks. Even the dirt has been deodorised.
Why so bitter?
Not bitter, sad.
Sad at the waste of labour dedicated to future generations, a cold funeral pyre of dreams for a better life.
Such was New England...sacrifice to avarice.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
CAN I MAKE IT TODAY?
ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
I speed (potter|) north through Harrisburg before turning East onto Route 209. 209 will take me through the Pennsylvania Valleys to Kingston, New York. Cross the bridge over the Hudson, ride through Millbrook and Pine Plains, turn left onto Johnny Cake Hollow and right up the track to Duchess Views Farm and the Metropolitan Stud. I shall hug my daughter, admire my new grandson, park the Honda in the stables – Bliss. How far? 270 miles. Can I make it today? Maybe...
I speed (potter|) north through Harrisburg before turning East onto Route 209. 209 will take me through the Pennsylvania Valleys to Kingston, New York. Cross the bridge over the Hudson, ride through Millbrook and Pine Plains, turn left onto Johnny Cake Hollow and right up the track to Duchess Views Farm and the Metropolitan Stud. I shall hug my daughter, admire my new grandson, park the Honda in the stables – Bliss. How far? 270 miles. Can I make it today? Maybe...
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