Blog-azic

a few days ago i took a shower, the first shower in, oh, three months ... if you don't count showering in the rain storms (which have been precious few). bramble is a dog after my heart. she swims in the hocking river. i've walked across that piece a few times. today i chose a deep spot. the water was up to my waist. derek and i run in the same pack. we're kin. he likes to chill and bark at birds. he also likes to walk through tall grass. when we walk in the woods, i don't hold his leash. he'll run ahead, then turn around to make sure i'm following. he likes to sniff but not as much as bramble. when i went to the woods yesterday i met two boys about my age. they were on a rock at the shore of bur oak lake. we chilled for a bit. i told them about an easy way back to their camp. it's a shorter way, too. we left each other. i went into the woods, built a fire, cooked some fish (wrapped in burdock leaves) and walked back to the car. when i got back to the car i ...

You may have thought this blog - this Blog-azic - had fallen victim to that long, cold oblivion that is the fate of many web pages: a page on the web not updated since 1997, viewed only by chance of a random Google search . In fact, I have taken a sabbatical. I traveled to the mist-shrouded mountains of the Far East where I bartered my shirt and pants for a tunic of finely spun silk. Garbed in that manner, I did climb to the peak of the Mountain of Blue Flame and there did I build an alter of uncut stone. Upon the alter I placed a bundle of bones and feathers, wrapped in the skin of yearling lamb, and mingled with dried sage. I fasted and prayed, and sang and danced, for thirty days and nights, and after I had spent my energies (when I was on the brink of exhaustion) upon the alter appeared Sacred Blue Flame. It consumed the bundle and lifted up a sweet fragrance to Heaven. And, lo, the clouds rolled back and the sky was cleaved in two, and I saw descending from the Void an angel cloth...

From The World of the American Indian published by the National Geographic Society, 1974: "Although social position was inherited, an individual could begin to use his titles and privileges only after they had been validated in the public ceremony called 'potlatch.' ... The work potlatch comes from the Chinook trade jargon and means 'to give.' The giving of gifts to guests at a potlatch made them formal witnesses to the titles and privileges." 1 You may draw a connection between the potlatch and the modern potluck, but such a connection is erroneous, or so claims a reputable source . 1 page 228, "Fishermen and Foragers of the West," Robert F. Heizer

Of late have I done wonderful things. For example, let us consider my last weekend. I went to Camp Wyandot near Clear Creek Metropark . I went to teach youth the way of the wood. I led a field class about wild edible plants. We ate dandelion greens - eventhough we had no hot sauce. We cooked sassafras tea, and it was delicious. My students were all from a school in Columbus* . They reflected to me at another learning session - that session about nature observation and writing. "This weekend is the first time I've been away from the city," said one young woman. The children (11th graders) called me "Nature Guy." I first learned this as we sat around the fire at night. The adults urged the children to positively reflect upon their days at camp. One student did thank me. I was very pleased to be respected and welcome. I found myself surprised by frequency-of-meal at Camp Wyandot. Three meals a day plus an evening snack! To boot, the meals were high energy: grilled...

One day ago, as I returned home after work, I thought that I might like to journey up the hill, which overlooks Athens from the east. I grabbed my pack (a wool blanket, poncho, sweater, small pot, rope, ground spikes, jacket and water), jumped on my bike and rode across the river, along the highway, past a police man, up the hill, right by the carcass of a deer. Its chest bones were white and clean, but its head was still with flesh and fur. Its eyes were dark. I left my bike by the carcass. Up the hill, I climb briskly. Soon I look out over the highway and across the river to Athens. Ahead to the right, I see my porch. Is Liz still lying there reading her book? Behind me a group of people. We exchange stares. Then, I put down my pack and go introduce myself. Soon, we're all friends. Dive into the woods. Looking for sticks. I find a few from the Sycamore. Shall I build a bed? Shall I pitch a tent? Let me just explore. Taking specimens from the field: a dried grass, a couple dried w...

Doc, a lively old woman, preacher and professor who lives next door, covered her flowers last night with bed sheets - protection, no doubt, from the chilly air. I suspect the temperature dropped somewhere between 35 and 45 degrees Fahrenheit. From a couch on my porch, I looked for my breath in the early morning air, but as the sun had not yet begun to rise, I could not see it. Later, I awoke and looked northwest. The sky was pastel purple and the clouds were pink. The horizon was orange. The coldest part of the day is early morning, just before the sun rises. There are deep hollows among the hills that are untouched by the sun's rays until mid-morning. As I ride through these on my bike, I feel the cold air sitting as if heavy, and I see the dew holding onto blades of grass. When the sun touches the grass, the cold dissipates.

Dandelions first flowered many weeks ago. Today I gathered the flower-heads of a few plants. These I will dry and brew into tea. A few days back, I ate dandelions steamed in burdock leaves. I also want to brew beer .