Mark W Tiedemann

Category: Whimsy

Mid Life

That’s optimistic.

So recently I turned 59. It doesn’t feel much different from 58, or that from 57, but since I often still feel 35, it occasionally jars. I have little to complain about, save for a nagging sense of lack of time.

I’d been toying with getting an electric guitar for years. A frivolity I could not quite talk myself into for a long time. I have a terrific acoustic guitar which I do not play as well as I should, but which gives me a great deal of pleasure pretending to play well.

There are some things you just can’t mimic on an acoustic, though. It’s like trying to play Deep Purple on a spinet pianola. It lacks gravitas.

So an opportunity came my way and I threw common sense to the wind and bought a delightful Epiphone Les Paul. Not the one I’d had my eyes on for many years, but it’s a Les Paul. (Yeah, yeah, I hear the purists kvetching over in the corner, but it ain’t a Gibson, like that makes all that much difference. Well, it does, by several hundred dollars.)

Which necessitated getting an amplifier.

I have a good friend in Jefferson City who is something of a musician (actually, he’s a very good musician and graces me with a willingness to jam on our infrequent visits) who knows people. Sound people. I told him what I’d gotten and he said “Come on out and we’ll fix you up.”

Fix me up indeed.

I’ve been out of the music biz too long, I didn’t even recognize the name—a Line—but it’s a gem. 50 watts, all the bells and whistles (well, at least more than I’ll master in the next several years) and by pure serendipity the color scheme matches my axe. It came with a pedal board, too, which, for the price I paid, astonished me.

I have every intention of getting down to it and learning some songs. I’ve been playing it almost every day since I brought it home. It is loud. We have installed it in my office, so I can close the door, and Donna can enjoy it through the walls and floor. It’s more than I need.

I did not buy the Ferrari. I’m having a much more modest midlife, er, crisis. More a midlife ruffle, really. Despite my complaining, I’m a reasonably happy guy. Hell, I’m still alive, which after last year’s little contretemps is a very positive thing.

I’ve been finding online lessons. Stumbled on a guitar player of some considerable merit who does instructional videos, although I can barely keep up. (He tends to assume you already know the rudiments.) So I thought I’d put one here just to show you how far out of reach my aspirations go.

Till I started surfing for this kind of thing I’d never heard of this guy. (Told you I’ve kind of been out of it for a while.) Turns out he did a turn with Asia. Yeah, Heat of the Moment Asia, but an incarnation with only one original member, Geoffrey Downes. I’m trying to imagine what they must’ve sounded like with this guy.

Anyway, I’m dipping into his how-to vids. He reminds me a lot of Ian Anderson.

Anyway, I must now get back to the start-up of my second half-century. Stay tuned.

October 30, 2013
Upcoming…and Going

It’s been a week of deadlines of various kinds. I got through the initial editing for the short story collection, at least of the stories I had notes on from my editor/publisher. I had three student stories to workshop and I finished those. I had new photographs to order for the upcoming Archon art show and those are in. This morning I have to go get supplies for that from Art Mart.

And, unusually, this past weekend was filled with parties. Friday night with Jim and Maia, who are terrific people, wine connoiseurs and excellent cooks, who live in a terrific old house. Neither of us have been up quite so late in a long time. Then Saturday night over at Lucy’s new house for a pleasant evening with old friends, not quite as late. Yesterday, I worked.

This morning I’m working here, and of course what I intended to do and what I’m ending up doing are two different things, but…

I am working on a new short story. I had a terrific idea a few weeks ago and wrote the first couple of pages before having to attend to the Other Stuff in need of doing. Isn’t that how it goes? And now the dryer isn’t working right. One more thing.

But this weekend is Archon and I have things pretty well prepared for that. The only thing lacking is a Big Announcement about a new novel coming out. I’ve become so accustomed to that state of affairs now that I don’t know how I’d react anymore if I did have news.

I’ll talk about the oddments and curios of Archon next week. Meantime, an image upon which to contemplate my return. Something…enigmatic….

September 30, 2013
Coming Home

Coming Home

September 16, 2013
Alta

Final phase of our trip involves two special people whose acquaintance with us is one of those improbables that make life so unpredictably fascinating.

I do not recall when I first met Peter Fuss. I am sure it was through the agency of my friend Tom, who was taking Peter’s philosophy class at UMSL, back in the late 70s or early 80s. Time has mushed together around certain things and I can’t pinpoint occurrence with the accuracy I’d like. I’ve never been able to keep a journal (with the exception of this blog) so I have no notation anywhere of when we first met, but it was not memorable.

Gradually, however, a circle of associates accrued of which I became first a peripheral part and then later a more central element around informal discussions of philosophy, semantics, literature, and other related subjects. Peter was always an anchor member of these groups. These I can say with some accuracy that we began to attend regularly from 1986 on and they took many forms. Membership shifted as much as interest, but always there was Peter and his colleague, John, with whom Peter had been working for years on a translation of the works of Hegel.

There were artists, lawyers, social workers, writers, and students. We broke off from attending for some years, then rejoined in the late 90s at the behest of another acquaintance. At that time, the group had settled into a long and deep reading of James Joyce’s Ulysses, which at first I thought would be drudgery, but turned out to be amazing. We stayed on to do Dante—the Commedia—which we finished a couple years ago.

Peter had by then long since divorced one woman and had remarried, to Nan, with whom he now lives atop a four thousand foot hummock northeast of Sacramento on 20 acres of forested land. Nan teaches tax law. Both of them are urbane, sophisticated people, the last sorts I would have expect to embrace a rural life, but they’re thriving on it.

Peter In His Lair

They’re building a nice house, they have two terrific dogs—Billie and Rikki—and are surrounded by right wingers. This is a part of California much dedicated to a conservative view which we from the Midwest tend to think of as our own local, homegrown politics, but in some respects we’re amateurs. Peter and Nan, plus one or two others, seem to be the sole torchbearers for liberalism in the area.

Even so, they’re happy there, and it is difficult to argue. Where they live, you can see all the stars, and a drive to town takes you through great beauty. They welcomed us into this retreat and hosted us for four days. We took a drive with them down to Placerville where stands the Other Winery we loved (Boger) and spent a cool afternoon drinking good wine and eating a late lunch and discoursing. (I suspect I have never just “talked” with Peter, we have always discoursed.)

We met up with some of their neighbors for a short tour through part of the area, into more lovely scenery.

Within this roughly fifty square miles we found a variety of landscapes and climates. Donna took walks with Billie and Rikki, Peter and I caught up on whatever we found worth catching up on, and the four of us discussed everything from local foods, the economy, international law, and esoteric spiritualism I burned through the balance of the chip in my camera and I now have enough images to keep me busy in Photoshop for months.

In some ways, this trip recapitulated our first major vacation together back in 1984. We attended our first Worldcon, L.A.Con II (Gordon R. Dickson was the guest of honor and the Star Wars trilogy had finally been released in its entirety) and afterward, in order to cleanse soul of all that we went to Estes Park in Colorado and wandered around the mountains for a few days.

On our last day, as we were getting ready to go out to dinner, the dogs ran off. Nothing that unusual, but their timing was terrible and we spent an hour or more trying to get them back. They finally came to the house, Nan fed them, and we went to dinner.

Upon our return, Rikki (to the left here), the smaller of the pair, didn’t seem to be doing so well. Nan nestled the dog in her lap, but something wasn’t right.

Nan called the vet, who instructed her to keep a watch and if Rikki worsened, bring her in. Hmm. That would entail a drive down the barely-graded road, upon which there were no lights, at night. It was a bumpy ride in daylight. Well.

So we put in the movie we’d all decided to watch—To Have and Have Not—and about an hour in, Nan decided Rikki was worse. The dog really was magnificently lethargic, barely responsive to what was going on around her. Nan bundled her up and took off.

We finished the movie.

At one in the morning Nan poked her head into the bedroom to tell us Rikki would be fine, evidently she’d gotten into a thicket of wild marijuana and eaten…too much.

Day came, time to leave. Peter took us to breakfast in town one last time, and then we headed for Sacramento.

This trip is too full. We’ll be able to sort through the memories for years without running out of the wonder and pleasure. All of which was prompted by the call to reunion at the beginning by our friends Nicola and Kelley, of whom I have written before and will no doubt write again. (Today is September 4th and we received a notice from them a few weeks back that they intend to get married today, because, where they live, they now can. They wanted us there, but it’s just not possible. We were there at their joining ceremony 20 years ago in Atlanta. So let me take a moment, as I write this, to wish them congratulations and as much joy and wonder in the next 20 as they had in the previous—more, in fact.) The reunion was tremendous and the journey after was one of our best.

Life is good.

September 4, 2013
Mount Shasta

It takes a long time to drive past a mountain. A long time…

August 22, 2013
Wine

Departing Crescent City, we headed north. As previously mentioned, we continued passing through some remarkably beautiful country. The road was a bit twisty, but nothing like the semi-harrowing drive across the mountains on 36, and we managed to make several stops to indulge my need to photograph. (Really, sometimes I think the best way to do one of these trips is to walk. Sometimes every twenty feet there’s something new, something seductively photogenic. Not all of it comes out as well as you initially thought it would, but…)

Passing into Oregon, the road leveled out, the land flattened a bit. Presently we came to a collection of buildings—gas station, shops, etc—called Cave Junction. As we neared the major intersection, a sign appeared.

Bridgeview Winery 4 miles →

Donna veered off the road, onto the parking lot of the gas station/convenience store, bounded over to the new road, and headed east.

A bit of history. Back in 2001 we did out first major west coast visit, flying into Oakland, renting a car, and driving up to Seattle, meandering along the way. It was a marvelous, magical trip. This current trip was partly intended to fill in some of the gaps of what we missed that time.

Anyway, after one particularly long day of driving (in Oregon) we stumbled into a hotel (somewhere) as twilight was coming on, tired and hungry. Across the parking lot was a Marie Callendar Restaurant. (Yes, just like the one we stopped at in Eureka.) Donna likes to tease me about being surprised that such a thing exists. Unlike me, she actually read the box one of their frozen dinners came in, so she was aware that the franchise began as a chain of restaurants on the west coast. I was surprised that first time, but no longer, but people in the midwest usually are surprised, and I like to play to that. What did surprise me about that first experience was (a) the quality of the food and (b) their house wine was superb. I mean, really good.

It was Bridgeview. We’ve subsequently added Bridgeview to our list of preferred wines when we have a chance to restock our cellar (modest as it is).

So here we were rumbling down a narrow road on the way to that (we hoped) very winery, a gift of serendipity.

Of course, it wasn’t four miles straight down the road. We turned south onto an even narrower road, and came finally to sprawling vineyards and a gate:

We drove into a lovely compound with a lake, wildlife, and a menagerie of impressive brass sculptures—eagles, mainly (though they lacked one thing to make their diving attack poses work to best effect: targets)—and it turned out we were the only visitors so far that day. We did a tasting, hosted by an enthusiastic woman who checked to make sure we could still find Bridgeview in Missouri, and waxed eloquent about their new vintages. (They now bottle a Gevurtstraminer that I think my mother would like—she prefers them sweet.)

I was a little disappointed to see that they have now gotten so big that they’re putting product in boxes. Not that there’s anything precisely wrong with that, but…

But the sampling was excellent. They have a fine Pinot (dark and white) and their signature cab was as good as we remember.

We bought a couple bottles to enjoy with our friends in Alta in a couple of days, then drove back up to the highway and continued on.

The landscape can change dramatically sometimes, but now it was a gradual shift from shady roads to higher mountain and then, finally, reaching I-5, which was pretty much near the crest of the chain.

The day was hot and although our air-conditioner functioned admirably, a few hours constant driving under cloudless skies wore on us. Also, long sections of the highway were paved in such a way that the road noise penetrated our bones. I could barely hear anything Donna said. It gnawed on our nerves and by the time we got just north of Redding we were frazzled. We paused at one more rest stop before the final leg into Redding, and there Donna made a special moment with the seabirds that came this far inland for tourist forage. She had a bag of Doritos and conducted a gathering flock in an elegant little dance.

We drove the rest of the way into Redding. Between the road and the heat, we weren’t going much farther. At the first exit with a hotel sign, we pulled off and found a Fairfield Inn squirreled away in an industrial court. Donna wanted a room and food, the sooner the better.

I walked up to the counter and inquired about a vacancy. “Absolutely. We have a king.” She looked at me. “You aren’t a member of AARP, are you? No, of course not.”

“I’m not, but I qualify.”

She blinked. “If you were, I could give you the senior discount. But…you aren’t even fifty, are you?”

“Fifty-eight.”

“No!”

I produced my ID. “Well, you sure take care of yourself! Tell you what, I’ll give it to you anyway.”

I unloaded the car quickly and asked about food. Dill’s Deli was right across the road. I ushered Donna into a very open space that was more cafeteria than regular dining, but it smelled good and the portions were ample.

Sitting there, however, I became aware of the signage. Even the napkin holder at our table boasted a very pro-NRA affiliation. FOX News was on the monitors and it just felt like a somewhat right of center place, but when you’re tired and hungry, what’s the difference? It was barbeque and it was good.

That night was the first time since we’d landed that we watched any television. I channel-surfed and found a local show, guitarist Ed Ballantine hosting a blues pianist in discussion and some jams. In some ways it felt like we’d experienced a good weekend all in that day.

“Good night, Donna.”

“Good night, Mark.”

August 21, 2013
Northward

After driving out of the redwoods, we continued north to Crescent City. Coming in, evening fog roiled off to our left, along the coastline. We passed a wood art shop on the right that looked intriguing and we promised ourselves a visit after we found a place to crash.

What we found was the dubiously-named Bay View Inn. I say dubious because, while theoretically the bay was within sight, the mist was so thick you really couldn’t see it. I asked for a room with a view and we got one, but it wasn’t what we expected. Ah, well, it was a spacious room for a reasonable price.

What most occupied our minds was food, which we found within walking distance. A local place, with good basic grub, and pleasantly informative waitress who told us which the best route would be to get back to I-5.

“Don’t do 299. Not unless you like stop and go and lots of waiting. Take 199.”

Which would take us into Oregon. Ah, well. In the morning we walked around a bit, waiting for the gift shop next to the hotel to open.

Which had this bizarre feature. We could see it from the hall window in the hotel and speculated on what it might be. Finally, after buying some gifts for friends, I asked.

The original building had been a barge that offered a traveling water show. That tower gave light into the on board aquarium. When they established it permanently on land, they kept it as a landmark.

It made for an interesting image, at least.

After a pretty decent breakfast, we headed back out to the wood art shop. A lot of it was the standard fare you find in many places—birds, cute plackards, bears, a lot of it obviously mass-produced even though lovely in execution. But out front was a striking and motley collection of original pieces done by a local artist whose name we failed to get. (Duh. Val Polyanin.)

Several of the pieces were social commentary of some sort, a few with obviously cosmic import. The style was impressive and in some ways repulsive at the same time. You would need a large space in which to display some of them, as they would wholly dominate any modest space.

After that, we hit the road again, north. And once again we found ourselves driving through lushness.

A short way into Oregon, we stumbled on a treat. Stayed tuned, the adventure continues!

August 14, 2013
Messing With Landscape

Warning: experiment below. I’ve spent the last hour learning a new technique. This first result is perhaps a bit crude, but I like it and it’s definitely going into the Archon art show.

The foreground is somewhere along the coast of California, in Crescent City. Delightfully foggy morning and the towers in this field just struck me as alien machines. I already knew when I shot the image that it was destined for something a bit more.

The more is Mount Shasta, well toward the centerline of the state. It’s fairly close to what I had in mind, but I think I’ll be playing with it for a while

August 4, 2013
Updates and Bothers

I received another of those pesky update notices for my blog theme. When finished, I didn’t like it nearly as much as the one it replaced, so I’ve chosen a new theme. This has taken more time than I liked, but there it is.

In the meantime, a cryptic image from the trip, to keep you wondering till I get around to the next post. (Yes, those are boots and shoes atop those posts…I don’t know…)

July 29, 2013
36

Having turned away from the traffic jam on 20, we drove back the few miles to I5. We’d intended to skip this highway since we’d driven it before and wanted to take new roads. Well, we figured, we’d still take a new road.

Just up 5 is the town of Red Bluff. Heading west from there is highway 36, which goes through the mountains. Or over, depending on your point of view. We looked at a map, thought “sure, we can stop atPlatina for the night and cross over in the early morning.”

Heh.

We should probably have stopped in Red Bluff, which seemed to be a charming little place with hotels, restaurants, local color, all on display as we cut through it and boldly set out on 36.

It was just too early to check in, there was plenty of sunlight, and our final destination on this leg was supposed to be Eureka. So we rolled along the two-lane, which began winding. And winding.

And winding past some terrific scenery, which at the beginning we gleefully stopped often to photograph.

We rolled into Platina, though, only to find a general store, a gas station, and one visible blacktop lined with houses. Stopping for cold drinks, we asked about accommodations. The woman behind the counter looked at us in a combination of amazement and pity.

“Nothing here. But up the road about eight miles or so is Bridgeville, they got a motel. But really, you got plenty of daylight, you might make it all the way over before dark.”

With those encouraging words, we drove on. Bridgeville was a bit further than eight miles. We almost missed it. We drove over a bridge, yes, but aside from the sign for the town all we saw were three people out walking their dogs and pushing a strolled.

“No, the hotel closed down last year some time,” one of them told us. “Best bet is to head for Fortuna.”

Fortuna lay on the other side of the range. We stopped to assess.

The entire winding drive on highway 36 had been an exercise in frustration. Speed limit signs told us we could go 55, but twenty feet on was a warning to take the next set of curves at 25. On top of which, instead of the Corolla which we’d requested, we’d gotten a Mazda 3. (I know, rental agencies cannot guarantee a specific model, and they use car type as a rough guide, assuming all cars of a certain size and engine capacity are the same. They’re not.) Donna wasn’t familiar enough with the Mazda to ignore the warnings, so a two hour drive turned into three-plus, and by the time we descended into Fortuna we were both a bit weary and eager for a straight road.

We tanked up and asked for directions to a motel. Vague handwaving took us down a road that led to a motel in the classic sense—a long row of rooms attached to a glass-fronted check-in. As we pulled in, though, I note a number of semis and several doors open, the guests socializing, beers in hand, and music playing from either a truck or one of the rooms. When I was told the price for the night, I spun around and went back to the car.

“We keep going.”

Road-toasted as she was, Donna continued on. We ended up on highway 101, where we’d originally intended to be at the start of the day. “Let’s just head for Eureka,” said.

She nodded. At least the road was straight.

As we pulled into Eureka, we found ourselves on motel row. A buffet of options.

“That one!” Donna said suddenly. “The Best Western.”

“Okay. Why?”

“There’s a Marie Callendar restaurant next to it.”

We’d found Marie Callendar on our first trip to California in 2001. In the midwest we know nothing of this. Here, Marie Callendar is no more than a selection of frozen dinners at the supermarket. Out here, though, there’s a chain of restaurants. And pretty good ones for a chain.

The Best Western room cost more, but it didn’t matter. Clean room, comfortable bed, and by quarter of ten we were sitting in a booth in the restaurant for basically our first meal of the day since breakfast.

After that, bed. Just…bed.

July 20, 2013