Back to the Cliff

A week later, I was still reliving the whump and the dread and the coppery taste of losing Chet over the sandstone cliff. I couldn't purge them from my mind, especially at night. The only thing I could think to do was to go back to the cave with Chet and Shila and try to come to peace with it all. We chose a fine Sunday, maybe the finest Sunday left, with the leaves just coming off full color, falling everywhere. Yes. Having lived several Sundays since then, watching a fine gray rain fall on bare gray branches, I know it was the best Sunday of the dying year.

If there's anything wrong with me, a photo safari with Shila will usually help. We flash on the same things, dig the same things, notice the same things--and appreciate the heck out of everything we notice. Photography is a way of putting that appreciation into action, of saving the things we love.

Decrepitude, collapsing barns, the whaleribs of their siding jutting and folding in on themselves. Sun coming through it, rusted tin, holes, wholes, details, details.

The Tin Man, cracking a private joke


Red maple, tin roof

The back side, toward the woods. It's not a building any more; it's a ruin, an elegaic husk, a monument.

It's the perfect barn on the perfect afternoon, more shadow and space than light and wood.

And the leaves and their shadows ran together.


At last we reached the parking area for the North Country Trail and set off down through the woods toward the cave and cliff.

There: the cliff he'd fallen from.
There: the last place I saw him before he disappeared. Perhaps the worst of all, for the memory of his scrabbling paws, his suddenly frantic eyes pierces me.

There: the vine-draped lip from which Chet tumbled, the leaves and logs that broke his fall, now cast in slanting afternoon sun.
He on a leash, in my arms, safe, both of us here with Shila's healing presence, and her amazement that he suffered no harm.

Going back to a place that holds such awesome power is the only thing to do, I think. Going back to face it again and face it down.
The trees, impassive, arch overhead and I hold Chet close, kiss him, let him off the lead and then let him go on ahead, straight away from the cliff's lip, from the dark cave, from the horror.

If he is thinking of last Sunday, he doesn't betray it. He is in the moment, something the Angel Beast has such trouble being. And he is no longer a ghost, but just my dog, hoping for squirrels in these beautiful woods. And that is just a slippery cliff to be respected and avoided, and I am all right with it all. I won't need to come back again.

And this is my friend who helps me through

And this, the specific honeyed light, light that will never be exactly this golden again until next October.

My Matchday - 233 Broadwood Stadium

Clyde 1v3 East Fife
Scotttish 2nd Division
Saturday 21st November 2009

Clyde FC were founded in 1877 and hail from the Glasgow district of Rutherglen on the banks of the River Clyde .
After the club’s formation their first home was at Barrowfields Park on the edge of Bridgeton, before moving to Shawfield in 1898.
Shawfield also played host to athletics, boxing and from 1932 became a Greyhound Stadium, the Greyhound Racing Association Ltd later becoming landowners.
When the owners decided to sell the land for redevelopment in 1986 the club’s search for a new home proved difficult, the club having to settle on a controversial ground share with local rivals Partick Thistle, the first cohabits in Scottish football which lasted for five years.

In 1990 “The Bully Wee” accepted an approach by the Cumbernauld Development Corporation to relocated to one of Scotland’s five new towns, and one of the largest townships in the country without a senior football club.
Cumbernauld name derives from the Scots Gaelic Cumar-nan-Alt, meaning 'the Meeting of the Waters' due to the proximity of tributaries of the rivers Forth and Clyde which lead to the major cities of Edinburgh and Glasgow.
The new town was created in 1956 as a population overspill from Glasgow. Historically Cumbernauld originates from Roman times, with a settlement near the Antonine Wall, the wall being the most northerly boundary of the Roman Empire.Clyde ground shared again from 1991, this time with Hamilton Academicals while the new stadium was under construction, this nomadic period gave the Clyde supporters the self titled handle of the “Gypsy Army”
Broadwood Stadium opened in 1994 and is the highest ground above sea level in Scotland. Their first fixture on February 5th was coincidently against their most recent landlords, a 2-0 defeat against the Accies in front of a crowd of 5,356.
When originally constructed, Broadwood had only two stands designed by Percy-Johnson and built by the Walker Group at a cost of £6m.
The Main Stand and West Stand both have a single tie of red seats, the Main Stand slightly larger having hospitality suites, while the West Stand has an electric scoreboard and Clyde OKI picked out in white seats, although on first glance I thought it said CLYDE OK.
The open ends to the north and south made it one of the country’s coldest grounds giving it the nickname ‘Ice Station Broadwood, then in 1996 the South Stand was added at a cost of £1.7m, matching the other stands in design and size.
The vacant north end has a leisure centre, protected from wayward shots by a metal mesh wall and metal slats over the windows.
The current capacity stands at just over 8,000 with the biggest attendance being the sell out crowd which witnessed the Scottish Cup victory over Celtic in January 2006.

A great family day out in Glasgow, the Smudger’s making full use of our ’Friends & Family’ railcard, the four of us travelling direct to Glasgow for a total return price of only £28.80.
After heading straight to the pub for a few drinks (Just to get out of the rain..Eddy) I headed back to the train station to make the short journey to Croy.
Thanks to the Clyde supporters website Broadwood Ice Station, I managed to navigate the 20 minute walk from the station to the ground in the driving rain without any problems, arrived at Broadwood Stadium at 2.30pm.
I was looking forward to the prospect of a mouth watering encounter, hosts Clyde sitting at the foot of the Scottish 2nd Division again East Fife, one place above them in ninth.
In the space of the opening five minutes, I could tell the home supporters were in for a frustrating afternoon. East Fife looked sharper and dangerous going forward and it was no surprise when they took an early lead. Paul McManus picked up a good through ball, before turning the defender and although he was forced wide, he hit a fierce shot beyond the keepers far post.
With only ten minutes gone there were cries of “Brown must go” from the restless natives, as their team failed to make any impression on the game. East Fife continued to press forward with McManus almost doubled the lead just before half time, his half volley produced a good save from Clyde ’keeper Reidford.

In the interval I had a wander around the stand, taking a few pictures from different angles before settling down to watch the second half. As I headed back towards my seat at the top end of the stand, I was stopped by a jobs worth steward, looking a right dickhead wearing a furry Cossack hat which didn’t embellish his lime green hi-vis jacket.
“Can I have a word with you sir” he asked before coming up with the cracking follow up line of “Your behaviour has been erratic!” He mentioned that they’d been watching me and wanted to know why I was taking pictures of people! What a Tit! I obviously explain who, why and what I’m about, before he gave me permission to continue watching the match. I returned to my seat feeling like a naughty schoolboy being told off for running in the corridors. With all supporters making use of only one stand and a sparse crowd of 635, I suppose they needed something to do and someone to pick on to justify their wages.

Clyde started the second half much brighter and were giving an opportunity to get back into the game when winning a penalty on 54 minutes. A cross from the right saw a pull on Howarth’s arm, although there didn’t seem to be much of a challenge.
Sawyers dispatched the penalty, which was greeted with a blast of the Gorillaz ‘Dare’ on the PA which was quite a fitting song, considering the referee dared to award such a soft penalty.
The goal failed to revitalise Clyde instead it was the men from Methill who went on to take the three points. McManus looked dangerous cutting inside and tested the ‘keeper with a fierce shot, then within a minute a good cross from Cargill found the Fifers number nine getting in front of Reidford to stab the ball home.
East Fife wrapped up proceedings ten minutes from time with a great individual goal from substitute Bobby Linn, dancing his way through a static defence before placing his shot into the far corner.

This lead to more angry protests from the Clyde supporters, the chants of “Brown must go” now much louder, their outrage paid off, getting their wish with the announcement that manager John Brown had left his position as manager after the game.
From a neutral’s point of view I understand the fans vitriol, the performance was terrible and like I’ve already mentioned I knew within the opening minutes that Clyde weren’t good enough to beat a side only two points above them in the league.
The torrent of abusive the manager had to injure from the supporters gave him no option but go. The remarks hurled in his direction were quite abusive and obviously everyone sitting in the stand got to here every word. The language used was very strong so I don’t want to replicate those remarks within this post.
The funny thing is though, the stewards didn’t bother having a word with anyone, telling them to calm down and curb the language, if fact they probably didn’t notice. You see their attention was drawn towards someone else, a Geordie lad sitting quietly alone in the stand, all eyes on him throughout the game, ready to pounce on him if he dared to continue with his “erratic behaviour”

Matchday stats

CFC 1(Sawyers 55p) EFFC 3(McManus 9,68 Linn 80)

att.635

admission £12

programme £2.50


Ground no.233 Broadwood Stadium - Matchday Webalbum (20 pictures)

Chet's Fall

See those vines hanging down in the background? Mark that spot well.

We picked and slid our way down a red clay slope toward the cave, Liam and Jake well ahead of us and racing through the woods toward the main attraction. I stopped and stared at the sinkhole and cave below. Leaf-littered slopes gave way to mossy rock. The same water that had created the cave had undermined the cliff where we stood. The rock cliff to our right simply and abruptly dropped off into space. Liam and Jake were already down and exploring the cave when Phoebe, Dave, the dogs and I arrived. “Oh my God! If I’d known how dangerous this trail was, I’d never have let Liam go ahead!” I muttered. It was so steep and slick, and what tread was on my trail runners was so packed with clay, that I was skating, grabbing for a handhold anywhere I could find it. Thank God Liam and Jake had made it safely. The ease and the hubris of little boys.

Chet was off the trail to my right, as usual, nosing around in the leaves. I called him, and he turned to come back up; he was perilously close to the cliff’s lip. He looked at me, scrabbled, scrambled, twisted frantically, and was gone, simply dropped off into space. Silence, broken only by Phoebe’s helpless scream, the scream she gives when she stumbles on a copperhead, the scream she gave once when I pulled away from the curb while Liam was still climbing into the car. We all froze. A tremendous, sickening WHUMP sounded from the bottom of the sinkhole. I never, never want to hear that sound again. Dave was already in motion, his father's instinct sliding him down the trail as fast as he could go; Phoebe was still rooted, screaming, I was screaming Chet’s name over and over again.

And here he came, back up the trail, ears laid back, wide grin, everything working, everything intact. Smiling. A little embarrassed. To all appearances, fine. He stood at my feet, panting, as I ran my hands over his compact little body. We all had to touch him, this dog we had so nearly lost forever. If the kids look like they're seeing a ghost here, well, they are.

And then he was off to join his new best friends, staying away from the cliff edge this time.

We climbed down the rest of the way, knees weak, crying a little. When I saw how far he’d fallen, and onto what, I was numb with shock. 20 feet at least, through space, onto a pile of rotting logs and large branches. A few leaves to cushion the spot where he'd landed. He'd lost his foothold right by the cleft in the cliff, and landed just above where Dave's standing. On either side of where he’d landed, slabs of sandstone the size of tabletops. I could so easily have been picking up a limp ragdoll, but here he was, smiling at my feet.

Well, I knew he’d be hurting the next morning, and he is. He tries but has trouble jumping up onto the bed, and he lies curled up, forsaking his usual frogleg stretch. He's got no fever, no obvious bumps or tender spots, but I’m taking him to his wonderful veterinarian today, because I know that this dog has for all intents and purposes been hit by a car. We shall see.

Everything works, he stretches, he runs, he leapt for sticks and toys yesterday right afterward, and he ate a huge dinner, but this morning he threw up foam and is a bit listless. As, I suppose, he should be. Poor Chet. The Little Cat Dog has used another of his nine lives (the first went when he tried to round up cattle as a pup and got stepped on).

I called Dr. Lutz and she worked Chet in at 3 PM. Here, he waits, looks out the window, hopes again to see the bundle of black and white fur that looks like a cat or a skunk, but is really a Japanese Chin. He has to settle for an old yellow Lab.Dr. Lutz felt him all over, listened to his lungs, and shook her head. "You’re a lucky dog, Chet Baker." She said she thought that whatever he landed on must have cushioned his fall sufficiently to keep him from serious injury. From any injury at all. She also said his compact build was a big help; a bigger, rangier dog could easily have twisted in the fall, landed on a leg wrong and gotten all busted up. "He's pure muscle," she said, looking at him appreciatively.

He’s sleeping at my feet, heaving those deep, rattling sighs of dog contentment. He chased chipmunks, had a big dinner with meatloaf drippings on it, begged for a tiny bite of my low-carb ice cream bar just like he does every night, watched hamster TV, and leapt to greet Bill when he got home from work. He’s probably forgotten it happened; he may not remember it until he nears a cliff edge again. I look at him and marvel. How did he do it? How did he fall twenty feet off a sheer rock lip, land on logs and live to chase chipmunks and beg for ice cream today? I don’t know. I’m just thankful, thankful that I’m able to kiss and hug this precious little dog, thankful that I’m not looking for just the right spot to lay him to rest tonight. I guess he still has work to do.

As impossible as it is for me to imagine, this would have been my last photograph of Chet Baker. It makes my heart drop into my guts just to write that.

I know, deep in my heart, that I love this dog more than I should, more than any human being should love an animal, animals being the exquisite, heartbreakingly impermanent beings that they are. But there are times when he is everything to me, when he saves me, when I think I might wither up and blow away without his kisses and the warm popcorn scent of his feet. He wants to be with me all the time, and for that I am amazed and grateful.

He has a lot of work left to do.

Into Each Life...

To my readers: I try to keep this blog a happy place, a place you can go to get away from everyday life. As Chekhov said, "Any idiot can face a crisis; it is this day-to-day living that wears you out."

But into each life some crisis must fall. I'll tell you now, it all works out OK in the end. But it wasn't any fun, no fun at all when it was happening. It's taken me awhile to arrive at the right spiritual place to post it, so these photos will look lush to you, now that the trees have given up all their leaves. Here it is.

I guess I should write about this now, since it woke me up at 2 AM and keeps replaying in my head.

Yesterday, my friend Dave called and suggested we take the dogs for a hike. He’s got a cattle dog named Cooper and a huge blue Weimeraner named Phoenix.

Though they’re nice, calm dogs, Chet has always acted like a jerk to them. Even the perfect dog has flaws, and Chet's Achilles' heel is his Napoleon complex. I hoped that if they were on neutral ground, things would go better. I want Chet to be able to interact with other dogs without being such a little putz, always posturing, hackles raised, trying to dominate a dog four times his weight and volume. Thing is, the little cuss gets away with it. His bluster usually works. Which would be fine, if he would ever stop blustering. No. He has to prove his superiority over and over. I find myself wishing sweet, timid Phoenix would open up a can of whup-ass once, so Chet will stop all the foolishness. I hate being on tenterhooks, always keeping an eye on my uppity little dog, hoping he doesn’t get himself in trouble with the others.

These thoughts and others in my head, we drove about 22 miles into the Ohio backcountry, and the autumn leaves were blazing, so beautiful, whirling up in a fairy sparkle wake behind Dave’s car as we followed.

One of my favorite barns, for its deep maroon patina.

The church at Dalzell.

The gaily-painted general store and canoe livery along Route 26.

Phoebe, an erstwhile Twilight fan, making a quizzical face as I force her to pose next to an evocative headstone. This one's for Zoey and Trixie.

Delicious country curves.

The hiking spot has a big sandstone cave, a sinkhole, really, and a natural bridge, and it sounded like something we all ought to experience. Note the back of Liam's pants. It was very steep, and there's little my kids love more than going down steep slopes on their butts. Ehh, that's why they call them playclothes.

As we passed the first covered bridge on our route, there was a Canada goose, just hit, lying in the road. It was such an odd, odd place for a Canada goose. Its neck was bent in a C, and it was gasping hard, and there were feathers everywhere, and I found myself thinking, “Oh, God, I hope it’s dying, because I don’t want to pick it up and deal with it; I don’t want to have to wring its neck, because that’s a really big bird and it would be hard to do.” These are the things that run through your head when you are compelled to help; when you can't look the other way. Hard to do, both physically and emotionally, to wring a neck like that. We turned in to have a look at the bridge and by the time we got out the goose’s neck was slumped and it was still. I thanked the gods of nature and death that I didn't have to intervene. I just wanted to go for a hike with my kids and my dog today. We drove on.

We parked at the trailhead and the dogs leapt out of the car and, as I’d barely dared hoped, became instant friends on this neutral ground. Chet tried a couple of times to muscle Phoenix and Cooper but there were too many interesting smells and too many miles to race, so he gave up presenting his not-that-impressive profile and brought up the rear as the bigger dogs galumphed up and down the trail.

His wide Boston terrier grin told me he was having fun.

Tomorrow: Chet's fall.

Bedtime for Bonsai

Here's what's involved in Bedtime for Bonsai. First, you knock them out of their pots.
Then, you wrap the trunks in foil to keep voles from girdling them over the winter.
You load them on the garden cart.
And wash and store their pots inside.
In another session, you've already dug out the bonsai pit, pulling out armloads of spearmint that you've used all summer for mojitos and fruit salads. Spearmint comes back.

The pit yawns like an open grave, which gets a little larger every year.

You tote the wrapped, potless trees down to the pit, which is under the deck, on the west side of the house.
You say a special good-bye to each tree as you layer them into the pit, heeling them in on their sides because they're too tall any more to stand up. You cover their roots with soil.
Chet Baker has kept you company this whole time, running the bunneh route and periodically checking to make sure your back isn't too sore, which it is.
He checks for chiptymunks.

Finally, you straighten up, for the only thing remaining is to water and wash the glass shower doors you'll use to cover them when the weather gets really cold.

And you notice the last rose of summer, blooming bravely against a deadened landscape
and you stop to inhale its fruity apple scent, and remember that that's what gardening and bonsais are all about: stopping to appreciate these wonderful things that we have made. If you just do the chores without sitting down to marvel, you won't have replenished your spirit with what you need to keep doing the chores.