Posts tagged ‘nature’
WALT TRIZNA: GARDENING IN NEWARK
GARDENING
Have you ever stopped for a red light while driving, and gazed over at the concrete median and there, against all odds, growing through a tiny flaw in the concrete is a plant. I am amazed to see how life persists even under the most adverse conditions. As a child in Newark, I simulated those exact conditions, although I called it gardening.
The yard we had on Christie Street was quite large. Large enough to have kickball and baseball games, but then again, we were quite small. Once I was older, we would have barbecues on our charcoal grill, summer nights spent sitting on beach chairs on the hard-packed soil, enjoying burgers and hot dogs and listening to the sound of the city as night closed the day.
Next to our house was the landlord’s house, which was a small two story one family dwelling with and alley running between the two houses. Behind the landlord’s house was a garden, fenced in. On the opposite side of this small house was a driveway, which was actually quite long, and when I was old enough to shovel snow, it seemed to become longer still. Behind the two houses was our yard, large enough to hold a couple of cars, with some scraggly patches of grass growing defiantly close to the fences where the cars could not maneuver. To the rear of our yard was a three-car garage, one of which my father rented, and this was the reason I was given the opportunity to shovel the driveway. Next to the garages, and beyond the area of the yard where we were permitted to play, was another fenced area, which was also part of the yard, but an area where the kids were not allowed. There was an old glider swing back there but nothing much more. This fenced area was quite large, making up one third of the playable area of the yard. At the edge of this restricted area was another small, fenced space, about six feet by six feet, and this was fence sheltered a small garden belonging to the old woman across the hall. She had mostly zinnias and marigolds, and it was a great place to catch whatever butterflies found their way into our yard. I admired her garden. She was always out there tending her flowers, pulling weeds, tying up plants with wooden stake and old stockings, which was the traditional way of supporting tall plants back then.
Then one day the fence bordering the back of the yard came down and the restricted area of the yard was no longer restricted. I’m not sure why the fence came down, but it seems that the glider swing came down about the same time. Now a whole new area of the yard was available, an area where cars would not park or drive, an area perfect for a garden. So with our landlady’s permission, my sisters and I started small gardens.
The ground was as hard as concrete; there was a total lack of anything that resembled topsoil. So off we went in the old Chevy for some rich topsoil. We traveled a short distance to where my grandparents lived in Hillside. There was a little-used park along a stream not far from where they lived, and that is where we headed for some our soil. We parked as close as we could and, armed with a shovel and several large containers, started digging up the bank of the stream.
Once our topsoil was obtained, my sisters and I framed out small areas, one next to the other, in the newly freed-up back area of our yard. We each had an area about twenty to twenty-five square feet backing up to the fence separating our yard from the neighbor’s yard. We made a feeble attempt to turn the soil before adding the topsoil, but the product of our digging was only reddish soil and rock, so we dumped our topsoil on top of our little garden areas and started planting.
I was rather ambitious when I planted my garden. I bought tomato and pepper plants, planted carrot, beet and parsley seeds all in neat little rows. These poor plants and seeds did less than thrive in my garden for I seemed to grow everything in miniature. My beefsteak tomatoes were more like their cherry cousins, the plants barely needing any support at all. My peppers were the size of plums. And my carrots – I grew those tiny carrots that they feature in seed catalogs, ones as big as your pinky, but I in fact was going for the full-sized edition. Why I attempted to grow root crops in my concrete soil is a mystery to me now. But I was proud of my little garden, and as my sisters lost interest, the size of my garden grew. I watered and weeded the few limp weeds that dare take up residence amongst my crops and generally enjoyed the little area of green I had created out back.
Then one summer it happened, a true sign that I had truly established a growing zone in Newark, I was infested with insects. The leaves on my plants were full of holes. This phenomenon amazes me to this day. How you can grow a plant that is unknown to the area where it is being grown, an area that may have never seen that plant before, yet an insect that specifically attacks that plant will find and destroy it. And so it went for my little plot in Newark. I purchased a powder that I thought might remedy the situation, and after a heavy dusting that left my plants white under the strong midafternoon sun I read the directions. This pesticide was to be applied lightly and only during the cool of the evening, always avoiding exposing the plants to this killer during the heat of the afternoon. By nightfall, my whole garden was withered and dead. I eliminated my insect infestation and in the process eliminated my garden.
The next year I planted again with a new knowledge of pesticide use. I branched out to flowers, planting some morning glories in a corner of my yard near my garden, another small square of the yard taken over for horticulture. I have my own yard now, much larger than the yard of my youth. I enjoy my vegetable garden, and the flowers planted around the property, but there are days when I think back to my little plot in Newark where I teased life from the concrete soil.
WALT TRIZNA: ESCAPE FROM THE CITY
There are quite a few more chapters of my memoir I want to share. Along with those posts I will occasionally post opinions, websites and the occasional story to provide some variety. I hope you will find this mixture interesting and worthy of your attention.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY
As a youngster I was a member of scouts for years, going from Cub Scout to Boy Scout and on to Explorer. Along the way I earned an Eagle Award and learned and explored many things a city boy would not normally encounter. One of the activities I enjoyed the most was the opportunity to go camping.
An hour’s drive northwest of Newark was a Boy Scout campground near Booton, New Jersey. My troop would camp there several times a year, mostly in the winter. Cabins of various sizes dotted the campground. The only source of heat was a fireplace, and cooking was done on a wood-burning stove. One winter, the weather was so cold that the pipes to the old hand pump burst, and we had to melt ice for water. It seemed the harsher the conditions; the more we enjoyed the outing. City boys were facing nature head on.
The camping trips were formal outings organized by troops. The less formal day hikes to the local Boy Scout area located in the South Orange Mountain Reservation, would be organized spontaneously, when a group of us were just hanging around with nothing to do. For a group of boys ranging from maybe eleven to thirteen, these trips were a real adventure. The beauty of these outings was that the city bus could take us to the base of the mountain. No adult input was required, once permission to go was obtained.
We usually caught the bus fairly early in the morning because once we arrived at the base of the mountain; it was at least an hour’s walk up the mountain to the Boy Scout area. Sitting amongst commuters going to work or out to do some shopping, we were ladened with packs and canteens and any other camping paraphernalia we thought we might need. We rode through the Newark downtown area, then north through some of the blighted areas of the city, and finally on to the more affluent suburbs. The bus would leave us in the shopping district of South Orange, where we would start to trudge up the hill to what us city boys considered wilderness. We hiked past stately homes with manicured lawns, a far cry from our homes in Newark. Finally, the houses were replaced with trees and the sidewalks with a dirt shoulder – we were almost there.
Our destination lay down on a dirt road branching from the main highway. The area was large and open, set aside where scouts could build fires and cook their meals. Across a stream bordering the area and up into the trees, stood a few cabins for weekend trips. The day hike area was also supplied with a generous amount of wood provided by work crews trimming trees. For a bunch of boys who thought starting a charcoal fire by themselves was an adventure – this was nirvana.
Everyone’s lunch usually consisted of hot dogs and foil-wrapped potatoes and onions. The fire built to prepare these meager meals was immense to say the least. Once everyone tired of throwing on wood, we had a fire too hot to approach to do any cooking. Either you waited for the flames to die down or had to find a very long stick to cook our hot dogs.
Late afternoon we found us journeying down the mountain to catch the bus home. People on the bus would stare at us because we smelled of smoke on our ride home to Newark.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK
The Legend of French Creek was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in January,2010.
I enjoy writing stories using actual locations. French Creek and Ricketts Glen are both fantastic state parks in Pennsylvania. Since I write mostly horror I imagine, even though it’s fiction, that the story might provide a bit of a chill to nearby residents of these locations.
The trail mentioned as being in French Creek exists as does the remains of a structure next to the trail.
Unfortunately, our dog, Millie, no longer exists but she did go camping with us on the camping trip used in this story. I miss her.
The Legend
of
French Creek
In southeastern Pennsylvania, the small towns yield to a rural countryside. Heavily timbered, with a sense of remoteness, the area has always been one of legend and mystery. The story you’re about to read is one of the legends generated by this atmosphere. For those curious enough to seek out the location of this tale, the signposts are in the story. A map of French Creek State Park is all you need.
* * *
My name is Will Trizma, and like most writers of the macabre, I am constantly on the look-out for material to weave into a piece of horror, spending time driving down back roads seeking scenes and atmosphere for my stories.
One warm October day, with the foliage a kaleidoscope of rich color, I went for a drive and chanced upon what I thought was a goldmine, but now I’m of a different mind. But, as you can see, a story was created.
My wife, Joan, and I were about to go camping at French Creek State Park on Halloween night. Our dog, Millie, would join us. Her disposition is gentle, but she is always aware of strangers or something out of the ordinary.
Joan was a high school teacher and gone most of the day. I spend my days at home writing. But when my muse fails, I drive the rural roads taking notes on settings that I may be able to use in a story. It was one such drive that inspired the tale you are reading.
I was driving along highway 23, just east of Elverson, when I saw a roadside store I just had to explore. It was a small building, faded white in color, and above the door was a sign proclaiming, General Store, in equally faded gold letters with a green background, looking like something out of the 1950’s. I parked in the small, graveled lot. Along one side of the store was a good-sized garden with the last tomatoes and peppers of the season. A series of vines snaked through the garden with butternut squash waiting for the first frost of fall to turn them into a golden brown. I smiled, thinking that the bounty of this garden was the source for produce for sale in the store I was about to enter.
I climbed two well-worn stairs and entered an earlier era. Behind two rows of fully stocked shelves was the counter, and behind the counter stood a man who had to be eighty if he was a day. He called out, “Hello, young fella. What can I get for you?”
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART XIV
PLUMBING PROBLMS: PART XIV
What did he do with the animals once the experiment was terminated? Worthy only studied the animals when they were young and then projected the potency and yield of the adult animal. He did not keep the animals until they were mature. I thought of how I disposed of dead goldfish when I was a kid, why there were supposedly alligators roaming the sewers of New York. My thoughts return to my plumbing problems. Thank God this house is nowhere near the ocean, and that it has its own septic system. But there must be a connection between the septic system and the pond. That’s perhaps why Jack had seen fluorescence in the pond and that is how the creatures managed to survive.
I continued to read Worthy’s lab book, absorbed with the progress of his experiments. Then I came to the final few pages and photos. Worthy had found a substance made by jellyfish of interest. He also found a similar molecule in starfish. What followed were the technical details of creating a new creature. The data was accompanied by two photos, which I found both curious and interesting. One photo showed just a mass of tissue with the caption, resting state. The other photo was that of a jellyfish, but the likes of which no one had seen before. The body of the jellyfish had a star shape, rigid with tentacles jutting from the star tips. This photo had the caption, excitation state. His notes went on to explain the two states. Resting state was when the animal was not being stimulated by the presence of food. Excitation state was when the animal was hunting or sensing danger. It appeared that the animal was covered with millions of tiny scales. The scales were separated from each other during the resting state, but when the animal was excited, the scales interlocked giving the animal a solid body with flowing tentacles.
Before I knew it, I had spent hours going over his notes and photos. Going up the stairs, I took one more look around the lab and thought of the joy Worthy must have experienced in his subterranean laboratory, free from the inhibitions of corporate society.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART XI
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART XI
It was fall now: time to harvest what our garden has produced, cut and split firewood and get ready for the winter, our first winter in the country. I wanted to get as much firewood as I could in the barn. But before I stacked wood in the barn, I would have to clear the place out, a job I’d been avoiding for as long as possible. Unfortunately, there was no avoiding it any longer.
It was a beautiful crisp Saturday afternoon, and time to tackle the barn. I began by picking up the clutter on the floor, old tools and the usual barn debris. Off to one corner I saw a stack of large wooden boxes. I assumed they would be too heavy for me to move on my own, so I cleaned up around them. Soon, I had the barn in reasonable shape.
After a few days, I returned to finish the cleaning. All that remained was that stack of wooden crates to move and I would be done. I still thought I’ll need help moving them, but I figured I’d give one a try. Much to my surprise, the boxes were empty and extremely light. Why would anyone store a bunch of old wooden boxes in a barn, wasting all that space? Once the boxes were removed, all that remained to be done was sweep out the hay that littered the barn floor. I began with the area I had just cleared when I noticed a large metal ring set in the floor. A little more sweeping revealed a large trap door. Must be some sort of root cellar or storm shelter I speculated, could be a fallout shelter. The house was extremely old, dating back to the nineteenth century, but the barn was more recent, maybe only fifty of sixty years old. Pulling open the door, I saw a set of concrete stairs descending into the darkness. Spying a light switch on the wall, I flipped it up, and saw banks of fluorescent lights coming on below.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART VI
PLUMBING PROBLES: PART VI
Jack continued, “I had spread word around the community that people should stay away from the property; there is something wrong about that place. Whenever I saw a car drive up, which wasn’t often because the place was so remote, I warned, “This place is no good. It’s strange.”
I asked him, “How can you say that?” The house is a wonderful place to live.”
Jack replied, “I know it’s a great property, but there is something wrong. I pressed him to go on. “One day, while walking through the field you now own, I found something strange near the pond,” he stated. “The first thing I noticed was the smell, a God-awful smell that made me gag; then I saw it. It was lying on the ground, about eight feet long. Been dead for some time I would say. Had a head shaped like a pipe.”
I looked at him, unable to picture a head shaped like a pipe.
He continued, “Had fins too, so I think it was some kind of fish. Damndest thing I ever saw. The fins at the bottom of its body were huge. I thought – what the hell is that doing here and what the hell is it. I buried the damn thing to get rid of it and the stench. There was also one night I couldn’t sleep, decided to take me a walk. I was at the edge of my property and looked over at your pond and saw the damndest thing. There were things in the pond glowing and swimming around. I said to myself, “That’s it! This place is no good. Then when I heard the owner had gone missing, I just tried to keep people away. Did a good job too, until you came along. Be careful in that house, something just ain’t right.” With that he walked to his tractor and continued his work.
I thought about Jack’s description of the strange occurrences on my property. A head shaped like a pipe, that was the part that made me think that Jack had a libation or two before he made his discovery, or maybe forgot to take some medication.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: EVERGLADE’S JOURNEY
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Mirrors of the Wistful Dreamer in 1980.
EVERGLADE’S JOURNEY
Propellor spins,
And engine speaks a staccato song
To water and tree,
Sawgrass streaks by
In a maze of wildlife and nature,
Animals scurry,
Alligators lift their horny heads
And lacking patients with mankind
Move on,
Free,
Gliding along a filmy surface of life
Where nature exists as a power
Not as a tool.
THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: PART II, THE DISCOVERY
THE DISCOVERY
John and Paul had hiked the Alps of Switzerland for most of their lives. Friends in England since their youth, they both chose to seek employment in Switzerland to be near the mountains they loved. Both enjoyed the solitude, hiking the mountains high above the point where novice hikers would stop. As they hiked that June day, they would have an experience they would never forget, an experience that would alter mankind’s perception of his place on this planet.
While on the lower levels of the Alps, they drank in the fragrance of the sentinel pine. And as the winter ice retreated, they had to climb higher and higher to enjoy the solitude they cherished. This June day, they hiked into an ice-shrouded valley that was new to them. Paul was the first to notice a dark mass protruding from the ice halfway up the valley wall. It stood out black against the pristine ice.
“Do you see that, John?” Paul pointed. “I’m going to check it out.”
As Paul approached, a slight wind ruffled Paul’s quarry.
“John, come up here! It’s hair.”
The two men approached. They could make out a shape in the ice beneath the hair. They peered into the ice, and both came to the same conclusion. Buried in the ice was the body of a man.
* * *
The two police officers responding to the Englishmen’s call were used to this sort of thing. Hikers were often lost in the Alps. When egos outdistanced skill and training, along with a lack of preparation, the results were often disastrous. And when the weather became unforgiving, they weren’t found until the first thaw. The two officers worked to reveal more of the body by chipping away some of the ice. The face was revealed along with other details. The more ice they cleared from the body, the more both men knew they were not uncovering an ordinary hiker.
“We had better place guards and call the university in Zurich.”
* * *
Dr. Hans Bueler looked down on the body. He could not hide his excitement. As he examined the corpse, he talked to the policemen protecting the site.
As his investigation proceeded, he said, “Gentlemen, I do not know if you appreciate the magnitude of this find. This is, by far, the greatest discovery in the study of our ancient ancestors to date. You will notice the prominent brow, wide nose and lack of chin. Also notice the muscular shoulders. I will require further study, but I am positive this is the body of a Neanderthal.
“I am sure you also have noticed the cause of death. I refer to the spear point protruding from this individual’s chest. Gentlemen, this is a crime scene, a murder. However, you will never apprehend the murderer, for this crime took place thousands and thousands of years ago.
THE CATBIRD SINGS HIS SONG, LIKE NO OTHER
Nearly every morning this spring, and I’m sure the trend will continue into summer and fall, with the windows open to welcome the cooling night air, lacking AC, I hear the rambling song of a catbird. Hearing him sing brings a smile to my face. He sounds so happy.
Years ago, when I first heard his song, I thought someone’s parakeet or canary had escaped as I listened to his ever-varying song. Then one day, while doing outside chores, I followed his song to a bush. There he was, a plain-looking gray bird singing his heart out. His appearance was nothing like what his beautiful music led me to believe he would look like. He sat in the bush singing for all he was worth. Going inside, I referenced one of my many bird books and found he was a catbird.
He has no constant song, just a series of unrepeated chirps. There are times I think he should be called the ‘happiness bird’, for his song is a song of total joy, like no other I’ve heard.
Catbirds range over most of the U.S., so listen for him. And for those with AC, open your windows, when the temperature permits, on spring and summer nights. You’ll be surprised at the sounds of nature’s world right outside your window.
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