50 Lincoln Way East, Massillon, OH

With help from Googling Diane and two teenage girls walking along the wooded path (Where’s Edna’s home?) , I found the soon-to-be restored house in Austerlitz, New York, where Edna St Vincent lived from 1920 until her death in 1950. My second and last detour before arriving home today. 1300 miles and 24 hours of driving.

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I Know 100 Ways to Die

I know some poison I could drink
I’ve often thought I’d taste it
But mother bought it for the sink
And drinking it would waste it

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Lots of really good Jordan updates over at pesky’s website.

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I decided to give myself two days to drive back and that’s allowed me to stop and take photographs of the neighborhood in Cincinnnati where I grew up

(Above,the family house at 3021 Daytona Ave), and to stop in Massillon, Ohio, to see all four of Grohe’s murals.

This one, Ohio and Erie Canal at Lincoln Way West.

Heading home and thinking about stopping in Massillon, Ohio

Hu Ton, Beijing

I didn’t plan on taking any more tours of Beijing, but this morning my friend Gordon convinced me otherwise. Gordon is at this meeting with his wife Barbara, and they have been doing tours on and off this week between sessions. At 11:30, after the morning flare sessions concluded, he said, “If you go on any more tours, go on the Hu Ton tour.” So I checked the meeting book, and there was a Hu Ton tour starting at 13:20 and ending at 16:30. There weren’t any more flare sessions until 17:00 and my talk was at 18:30, so I could go. “What’s the Hu Ton tour?”, I asked Gordon. “It’s a tour by pedicab of this old district by a lake in Beijing Center, and you get to go into a person’s house and see how regular Beijingers live.”

So at 13:35, the bus to Hu Ton was underway, and I was on it. Following my map of Beijing, I saw that we were on Chegongyuan Dijie, which goes through the exact center of town, between the Forbidden City and Lake Xanhai. We passed by the lake, and I said, “That’s beautiful! But I guess we aren’t going there.” Then we went to the next intersection, made a U turn, and next thing you know, we were parking by Lake Xanhai.

Our guide told us that for a decade or so, the Beijing government had been tearing down the old courtyard apartments in the Hu Ton district around L. Xanhai and building huge apt complexes, (They’re everywhere in town–these great forests of 25-30 story buildings with 20 or more apts on each floor.) But the protests got too great, (and maybe the population pressures reduced or at least stabilized) and/or someone realized the touristic opportunities of showing off these old (100 years or so) garden courtyard complexes. So they stopped ripping them out and left a good sample for us tourists to see.

As we departed from the bus, a flotilla of pedicabs surrounded us. We were supposed to pair up and hop into the pedicabs and they’d take us into the Hu Ton. The driver of our pedicab pushed us off, and soon we were zipping down alleyways only a few inches wider than the pedicabs. We stopped at an old worn out door in an old worn out wall, and our guide knocked. A man came to the door, and invited us in. We walked under a small grape arbor opposite a decrepit shelter full of decrepit, but functional, bikes. The man put out seats and invited the 24 of us to sit down anywhere and everywhere. Our guide translated our questions and his answers. He has his two sons and two daughters-in-law living with him (not there at the time). There are 3 bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, one bathroom, and a small courtyard (with the fore-mentioned grapes and a pomegranate tree). The owner must be upper middle class, because he said that the average income is $500/month, and he pays $400/mo for electricity, gas, and water. At the question of one of our group, he agreed that the apt had tripled in value over the last few years.

As we talked in the living room, I noticed a huge Ming vase next to a very modern refrigerator in the corner. A coffee table by the bed had a built-in picture of St. Louis with the Great Stainless Steel Arch. There was also a nice photo of the owner’s daughter when she was young. An Australian asked the guide how she happened to speak such good English. She said that all students take English from 7 or 8 years on. The guide, who knew this family well, picked up a photo-audio picture from a shelf. It had the owner’s 10-year old niece in the frame. The guide pushed a button, and the niece spoke for a minute in perfect English. Proof enough.

Afterwards, we stood around in the courtyard, and I shot a photo of the front door and a set of blue and white porcelain table and stools. One of the women in the tour group sat on a stool. I gasped to myself, “I’d never do that. If it fell over and broke, was it replaceable?”
The table set seemed out of place with the rattletrap bikes on the other side of the courtyard, and with the 100-year old paint job peeling off the window trim, but not out of place with the grapes and the pomegranates. That’s China for you.

We hiked up to the old Bell Tower nearby and got a terrific view of Beijing. Then we went to a Chinese tea ceremony, and had 3 different teas. (I used their electricity to charge my worn out camera battery and bought some flowery tea to take home.) Our pedicab drivers showed up and we raced back to the bus. I managed by pure luck to catch some fleeting shots of the lake as we sped by.

Very educational tour, which I highly recommend if you happen to come here.

–rakkity

Michael,

On Tuesday I took the Tiananmen Square and Forbidden City tour. It was a surprisingly long ride in the bus to Tiananmen Square, which is in the center of Beijing, and our hotel is also in the “center of Beijing”. But this is a huge city. Along the way I noticed an extensive shanty town that was mostly hidden by billboards. What I saw of it was an expanse of crowded tin-roofed shacks, with the roofs weighted down by rocks so they wouldn’t blow away in the wind. The shacks receded a long way into the distance. I suspect the govenment was trying to shield the eyes of tourists from the bad parts of town–as part of their attempt to spruce things up for the 2008 Olympics. They could put up one more billboard, and no foriegner would ever see that shanty town.

Tiananmen Square is huge, and full of people, both tourists and locals. There were a number of parades, gatherings, and people flying big colorful kites. Hawkers kept coming up to our group trying to sell us their kites. Or maybe they were just renting them to fly them? Hard to tell.

Down at one end of the square is Mao’s Mausoleum, and down at the other end is the Mao Government Center with a big picture of the Chairman facing out onto the square. We walked about a mile down to the Mao picture and past his building into the entry area of the Forbidden City, now known as the Gugong Palace area. We waited in the hot sun while our guide bought tickets for the group. A little lady with red baseball caps came by selling hats for 5 yuan ($1), so I bought one. It says Beijing 2008, and fits fine, keeps my head from getting fried. What a deal. You couldn’t get one that cheap even at Walwart.

Finally we entered the Forbidden City, which contains 9999 (said our guide) palaces, all looking much alike. This is where the emperors of the Ming and Qing dynasties lived. The palaces differ only in size and shape, and they are all the same style (my pictures are on film so you’ll have to wait), some of them better restored than others. As far as I’m concerned, once you’ve seen one Ming palace, you’ve seen them all. After about 2 hours of walking around and through about 4444 palaces, we exited into the Royal Gardens and back into the city. There we encountered the first and only beggars we have seen in Beijing. Some had amputated feet, or were deformed. So much for the Chinese health system. That’s the only time I’ve been “spare changed” in Beijing, although I did see one homeless person sleeping on a bridge near our hotel a couple of nights ago.

After lunch we stopped at a Silk factory, where we saw how they stretch out the egg casings into silk strands. We even got to try it ourselves–a hands on experience. I recalled that I have seen similar small casings under old boards back in Maryland. Next time I see one, I’ll stretch it out into silk strands and see how much I get.

Our last stop was at a cloisonne factory. What an intricate process that is. Workers were transferring drawings onto paper, others were using the drawings to lay out arrays of metal strips, and still others were putting paint into the spaces between the strips. The objects the strips were laid out on ranged from small pots to huge sheets. Finally, the painted cloissone objects were coated with glaze and fired. They all turned out quite beautiful.

Labor is cheap and plentiful here. The number of people doing different kinds of jobs is staggering. The department stores and shops have 2 or 3 times as many clerks as our stores have. I haven’t heard what the average wage here is, but I’ll bet it’s only about $1 an hour. And I hope those silk, cloissone and jade artisans get somewhat better than that.

–rakkity

Jeff tells me daily that I need treatment for my computer addiction. This time I’ve buried my head in Matt’s laptop, and I’m checking on my audible.com credits, when I hear Karen say, “Michael’s missed all the excitement.”

I’m hunched at the dining room table with my back to the kitchen and I keep tapping away until then I think, okay, let’s see what she’s yapping about. I turn around to see Jeff slouched in a chair, his skin four shades of weird, scary red. Karen is staring intently at him and next to her, on the counter, is a used EpiPen.

I get up and ask, “What happened?”

“Jeff had an anaphylactic reaction to an insect bite, and I gave him a shot and some Benedryl,” Karen answers.

Now I can assemble all the pieces of visual information, none of which make sense in the context of this happening ten feet from me. There’s the how can I be so out of touch with the world, and how can one couple be so casual about something so life threatening.

Jeff is holding a paper towel over the puncture wound on his thigh and complaining about feeling disoriented, and I’m pushing future world without the EpiPen out of my mind.

“Look, I’ve got to understand this. Jeff almost dies, you administer some ad hoc home remedy and then you call it a day? On the one had I’m staggered by your frontier spirit, but on the other I’m alarmed.”

“Oh, this has happened before,” Karen answers. “I gave him the epi early and neither the epi or the Benedryl can hurt him.’

My stomach settles on that point, but I wonder if this is enough. We’re going to let this hivey, rudy-red hulk carry himself up to bed?

At which point Jeff stands up and says, “I’m going upstairs to read a book.”

Karen asks for reassurance that he’s okay, and he says he is, but about two minutes after his climb up the steps he lumbers back down alarmed by the swelling around his pelvis.

“We’re going to Deaconess,” Karen states firmly. “Jeffrey, should we call 911?”

Jeff says “No,” and I think I didn’t listen to my father the other night, why should we listen to Jeff now? I guess because he’s always right and he and Karen are Epi-veterans.

My truck is parked a few blocks away on Bellemeade, and as I climb into the back of their truck Jeff says, “You don’t want to get stuck in the emergency room. We’ll call you from the hospital. ” Again, I take his advice and climb out of the truck. As Karen and Jeff drive off I think to myself, You’re right, Jeff, I don’t want to get stuck in the emergency room, but I’m damn good at CPR.

In the emergency room I learn about the time Jeff had a similar reaction on a long bike ride. He needed two shots, and then, because he didn’t want to disturb anyone’s recreation, Jeff drove himself home. “I could hardly keep my eyes open,” he said.

Perking up.

*Note to all: Jeff’s ER doc said, “If you need a shot of Epinephrine, you need to come to the hospital.”

In the center of Jeffrey’s basement floor is a drain. Like the one in the center of mine, it works fine when, say, the washer overflows. However, during hard rains the drain regurgitates. My floor and walls are porous so the drain contributes minimally to my then wet basement. Jeff’s single leak is that drain, and yesterday we drove to Home Depot in search of the square nut we needed to lock the drain down, to keep water from backing up.

Jeff doubted we’d find anything but your typical hexagonal nut, but I remained convinced we’d have our pick of sizes. I was wrong. Long metal shelves of every conceivable size of nut and bolt, but not a single square one. I sidled up next to an older gentleman, tall, skin like tanned cow hide and a John Deere hat.

“You know where we can find square nuts.”

“On the other side of this aisle.”

“Been there and there’s not a one.”

“Rural King. They sell them by the pound.”

I thanked the guy, happy that we’d end our search at our next stop. As Jeff and I wove past backed-up stop lights he asked, “Do you think Rural King will have them?”

I could hardly hear his question. I’d picked out a man with THE answer. In my mind, I’d climbed that snowy peak in Tibet and prostrated myself in front the shiny-domed cross-legged guy with the beatific smile.

“What do you mean, ‘Do I think’? I’ll bet my truck on it.”

Rural King reminds me of the old Spags in Shrewsbury. They have everything and everything is cheap. I stopped in the jeans aisle first, tried on a single pair of jeans to make sure they fit and bought four pairs at 9.99 each. We then found our way to the hardware corner where all the square nuts would be lined up in bins.

“Look, that thing I said about my truck… .”

Embarrassed, I found another customer, this one with an Allis Chalmer’s hat, glasses and hands permanently curled from a lifetime of tractor driving. I asked him where I might find square nuts.

“Not here,” he said.

“I don’t get it, “ I said, “When we were growing up square nuts were everywhere.”

He laughed and said, ”And all you needed was an adjustable wrench.’

At that moment Jeffrey walked up to us with two sizes of square nuts in his hand. He’d found them in a specialty bin three aisles away.

On our way home with square nuts in a plastic bag sitting between us, and my new jeans resting in the bed of the truck, I said, “I have trouble finding jeans my size. The labels often mean nothing. Now I’m happy to have four pairs that fit.

Jeff answered, “No, you have one pair that fits. The one you tried on.”

Michael,

One of our stops on the way to the Ming tombs yesterday was a jade factory. I had no idea what to expect, thinking it would be all solid green statues, but I was wrong. The jade factory guide showed us yellow, white and red jade. A yellow jade buddha was translucent, and seemed to glow from within. Then she showed us a soccerball-sized sphere with 12 holes where you could see that inside there were 8 other nested spheres. I’d seen these things in wood and ivory before, but jade? Must be hard getting the little dremel drills, or whatever they use, inside the outer spheres.

But then we were directed to watch the artisans at work. Two of them were sitting at lathes, picking their way into the innards of nested spheres. The other artisans were also using lathes to make horses, buddhas, necklaces and jewelry of all sorts. The artisans didn’t seem to mind having us peering down at them (through a glass wall). They paused often in apparent contemplation between drillings and cuttings. One slip-up, and a day’s or a week’s work could be ruined.

The factory walls and floor looked like a museum of Chinese art. Some of the jade pieces, like a giant eagle, and a herd of galloping horses, must have weighed a ton. The nicest piece there was of variegated colors (jadite)–gray, red, green–of a great cat with the natural rock colors matching the coloration of a real cat. And his feet were cunningly embedded in the niches of a piece of polished driftwood.

The 9-fold nested spheres are pretty expensive ($hundreds) but I was able to pick up a nice 3-fold nested sphere for $10. I also got some gifts to bring home.

–rakkity

Michael,

The first stop on our tour yesterday was to the Ming tombs. It’s an hour bus ride west of Beijing in a national scenic area bordered by green hills. On the way there, our guide told us the history of the Ming Dynasty. Ming I (14th century) had 20 sons, and he chose the first son to be his successor, but the son died before him. So the old man had to pick another inheritor of his throne, and rather than one of his other sons, he picked the oldest son of his first son. (At that time, the custom of the first son automatically inheriting the power was not in effect.) The grandson was only 6 years old at the time, but his grandfather trained him in the arts and guiles of emperorship for 11 years. In the mean time, he appointed the other 19 sons to govern distant provinces of the kingdom and keep them from meddling with his affairs. By the time of his death, the grandson was capable of taking over the kingdom. Ming II ruled for about 50 years, and his successors continued the dynasty for over 250 years. Only 3 other Chinese dynasties were as long lived as 200 years.

In the late 16th century, a huge burial complex was built to accommodate all of the remnants of the Mings. A rumor came down to the 20th century that the builders of the grave complex were all killed and buried there to prevent the location of the burial entrance from becoming public knowledge. In any event, for 3 centuries, no grave robbers or archaeologists ever succeeded in finding the way in. It was reputed that there were Indiana Jones-style traps and misleading entrances in the complex. Finally in the 20th century, the government succeeded in finding the entrance, and reconstructed tunnels for public access. Most of the actual coffins, remains, and artifacts are now in Beijing museums, but some of the original Ming vases and thrones are still there.

Although archaeologists have excavated the entire area, no remains of the original workers were ever found, and it is now widely held that the rumor about their execution was false.

The current Chinese must revere the ancient emperors, since there are heaps of modern Yuan notes strewed everywhere around the coffins, presumably to bring good luck. Funny cautioning signs in fractured English are displayed here and there–“Don’t scribble”, “Luxuriant grassland please don’t trample”, “No smoking. Fireproofing caution”.

–rakkity

(Blogmeister’s note: I’ve fallen way behind prolific rakkity, and I’m posting out of sequence though I don’t think it diminshes his transfixing travelogues. )

Something poetic or is it ironic (third option offers hold your tongues) about venturing out into severe weather to retrieve a death certificate. The storm wound down as I returned to the Ruthenburg’s, but stupidly I followed the very street that had flooded in an earlier storm, the photos of which I’d posted linked to the newspaper story. Jeffrey even commented that he always detoured away from Bellemeade because it was often under water. I guess I had to find out for myself.

I stopped before the intersection to see what kind of vehicle could plow through and not stall. While I waited a lightning bolt struck awfully close by (you’ll see the camera shake – it scared the bejeesus out of me and sent the local teenagers running indoors), and then a fire truck responded to the subsequent call. If you look closely you can see a father carrying his child out of his flooded car. Jeff asked why I didn’t help the poor sap. I said I didn’t have a rope long enough. “You chicken shit, “ he said.

Travis: In case you don’t recognize the intersection it’s Garvin and Bellemeade.

The movie