How To Survive Stick Season

            Stick season is one good windstorm away.  When it comes, when the leaves are all down and the grass finally dead, the forests closed to anyone not wearing a bright orange hat, the firewood either stacked or it’s too late, the clocks fallen back into that incredible gloam, it is time to hunker down.

Baseball and Photography

It seems no one where I live gives a rat's ass about the baseball playoffs.  This fall is terrific baseball, though, and for those of us who grew up with the old division in baseball the idea of a Tigers - Brewers world series is pretty cool.  Texas and St. Louis are good too.

Another great thing about following baseball is reading about the games in the papers and the best thing about the coverage is always the photography.  This shot by David Phillip of the AP is almost perfect.  Everyone is leaning; the image is practically moving; the result -- safe or out -- is in the balance; the crowd forms a perfect backdrop, you can almost make out the beers in the fans' hands tilting with the play, about to be spilled when the umpire makes his call.  Pretty cool shot.


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

This photo of my sister Tina, niece Giulia, son Callum and me at Capalbio was so beautifully captured by new friend and photographer Fabio Mazzarella.


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

Capalbio Cinema International Short Film Festival

The short film festival in Capalbio feels much more like an extraordinary retreat for filmmakers than it does a festival.  I have met filmmakers from everywhere.  A few specific places:  Cairo, Holland, Vladivostock, Portugal, Norway, Taiwan, Palestine, Italy.  Oh, yeah.  Italy.

Not only am I making new friends who share a passion in filmmaking but I am making these friends just north of Rome, where Tuscany begins, in Maremma.  Capalbio itself is an ancient fortified hill town facing the sea.  The festival is in a village between the citadel and the sea.

The cinema is a beautiful old block of a building.  The plush seats face a huge screen and the black ceiling is so high above us I feel I am watching films under the stars.  We move from the cinema to a restaurant.  We can choose from pasta or risotto.  We are given wine.  We talk about film, cameras, actors and extras, permits, shooting without permits, editing, music, sound.  We talk about the films we've seen -- both the films each has made and the others we viewed but did not make.  The films are all good, and different, and interesting.  Some are odd and some are sweet.  Some I like and some are not my cup of tea.  They are all worth seeing.  Seeing.  It is why we are here.

And then we go to the sea.  The Mediterranian is straight ahead.  The interns drive us in the fresh, black Lancia Deltas to the beach.  They drive very fast.  We hold on.  It is windy.  The sand stings our legs.  It is cold but the sea is warm.  We swim, and dive, and talk about film.  "This is like in a movie!"  Of course.

The interns drive us everywhere.  To an artist's lair for lunch.  To the hotel.  To the cinema.  To the beach.  From the airport, from the stazione, from real life.  They are young and interesting.  Interested.

Interested.  How can you not be interested when there is so much?  Films about revolution in the Middle East; photography from the farthest reaches of Russia; film noir, comedy, farce, suspense, animation; conversation at lunch with a Sicilian; a lecture on tweeting revolution.

Whether a retreat or a festival or both, Capalbio has been a touchstone.  It is inviting, chaotic, franetic.  It is rewarding and energizing.  I will take it with me and am glad to have been invited to be here.






David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

End of A Season.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

Signs of Fall -- Half Way There

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

History In The Making

           I write a column for my weekly newspaper, the Stowe Reporter.  I wrote for a while for a big Vermont daily and was asked to write for another one.  I didn't, though because there is something very close to life about a local weekly paper.  Local papers are about layers of lives lived in one place.  I had this thought in mind as I read last week's Reporter.

After Irene: A Hometown Tour

            The Green Cup, a coffee shop nestled next to the covered bridge in Waitsfield, Vermont, is gone.  Wiped out by Irene.  It was gutted by the raging flood.  Next to it, the old white clapboard photo studio, lifted off it’s 19^th century foundation, sits slammed into the coffee house.  The two buildings are jammed together like a car wreck.  Just down the street also gone is a wonderful restaurant called Mint and a dozen or more other small businesses next to the Mad River.

I drove through Waitsfield, Fayston and Warren.  Stopping to help mop up a bit, driving all the way to Granville – usually a fifteen minute drive south of my home town of Warren but this day taking an hour over torn-up, patched up and mangled dirt roads (Route 100 through Granville Gulf is washed out).  Talking to people along the way, I found communities that had been slapped hard but not knocked down.

Travel to France: Provence, Grasse, Cabris and the Perfect B&B

Here is a piece about a terrific Inn in the south of France.  But first, a disclaimer:  I am not a travel writer.  Not only am I not a travel writer, I don’t read travel magazines or guides or books or websites dedicated to explaining where people should go and what they should see.  This is because I like to discover, meaning I would prefer to find a place worth seeing by turning down a small road without even a utility line strung alongside, while quite hungry, and it being late, and we not knowing where we are headed, but having an instinct we can find something interesting along the way.  It doesn't always work, of course.  We have suffered some pretty awful nights.  We have also come upon some true and unimaginably extraordinary experiences (and meals and views and places to sleep or hike or swim or rest).  And I don’t think the experience is the same if you haven’t found a place yourself.  And if you go to the places touted in the tour books guess what you find?  People who read tour books.  And I typically take the view, well, that these experiences are interesting in part because they are private and known only to self and those with whom we choose to share such experiences.  So I’ve not written about them.  But I am not sure about my decision to keep exploration so private.

dirt road ride with Cal

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

Memorial Day, Loss and Rememberance

In the United States 30 May is Memorial Day.  It is a day for reflection, personal and public.  In the public corner, our little town marks the day well and quietly.  Each year the town hosts a small parade.  It is really just the high school marching band and veterans of wars walking at march pace from the center of the village to the cemetery on the edge of town.  The parade is managed with dignity and just enough fun.  The marching band is always prepared and poised.  The old soldiers, represented by the American Legion, take the responsibility for the day seriously.  The cemetery too is well maintained and ready for its close up.

This past Memorial Day my daughter and I barreled into town from the north just barely in time for the parade, and got firmly stuck in a line of cars just past the grocery store, the police having blocked Maple Street early, giving the marching band plenty of room to maneuver.  Antonia and I parked the car in the dirt along the edge of the pavement and raced toward Cemetery Road, she carrying the camera, me hanging on to my morning coffee.  We first saw the parade in the distance, a small swarm of figures coming our way, up the slight hill from the center of town toward Cemetery Road, band music echoing up the hill toward the blocked traffic.  Antonia began firing pictures.  She took so many they play back like an old-fashioned movie, each frame not capturing quite enough of the action but more than enough to tell the story.

A Short Film for Summer: The Brothers

Here is a link to my short film, The Brothers, which we shot last summer.  It is the film of the story, The Brothers, posted here.  The story and the film are quite different.  Some of the story just could not be told in the same way.  Some of the story could have been shown in the same way but we didn't have any money.

The actors are all local kids in our small town.  Most are from my little league team of last summer.  Great kids and actors.  Oh.  And one is my son!

The dog is our dog, Dexter.  He did a terrific job.

We shot the film on our porch, on a ski jump in Hanover, NH and on the Long Trail in Northern Vermont.  We did all the shooting in two days with a crew of no more than four and at times just two.  All the sounds -- the entire soundtrack -- were recorded live 'on set.'

There are more stories to tell about the story and the making of the film.  I will get to them but not today.

Enjoy.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

A 9/11 Flag and Losing Osama

     I was in my office the morning of 9/11. My secretary came in and said ‘a plane has flown into the World Trade Center.’ I kept working, not wanting to rubberneck. I did not walk down the hall to see what was going on until she came back, in tears, and said ‘a second plane has hit the other tower.’ So that’s how a living, decade-long nightmare starts.

     Two days later, like almost everyone else, we went out and bought a small American flag. We tied it to a fence post along the front of our field. Nearly everyone flew a flag, even those of us who are not the flag waving type. I decided then the flag would fly until the nightmare ended.
     It was a shockingly sad time but we were united in grief and horror. Not just in the US, either. I remember the headline on September 12, 2001 from Le Monde in France: “Nous sommes tous Américains,” or “We are all Americans.” Hundreds of thousands marched in support of the US. In Berlin. That unity obviously faded. Maybe now it is coming back.
     We heard the news bin Laden was dead this past Monday morning. We were getting the kids out the door for school. We were listening to a Canadian radio station so the story was first but not blaring as the CBC began its newscast. Given that understated Canadian way, it took a minute to sink in what the announcer was talking about. Jackie looked at me, and I thought for a second. Commandos, Pakistan, Obama, Osama.

My 9/11 Flag

More later, but this flag went out on 9/12.  I hadn't thought about it much until yesterday.


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

Winter Never Ending

We live where it is still winter.  Not mild wisps of the end of season winter, but full on two feet of snowpack and blowing winds winter.  We were all recently fooled by a predicted April Fool’s storm.  We were supposed to get two feet of heavy, wet snow.  We didn't.  We got three more inches of light snow.  It did not matter.  The extra layers would have been for bragging right only.  It is still like mid-winter here and absent an Old-Testament style rain we will be avoiding yard work, running baseball practices inside and enjoying skiing the sides of our mountains for a month to come.

Not only is there plenty of snow but people are out and enjoying it.  Yes, there is some grousing but, come on, six months of hard winter is not okay.  Aside from the grousing though there is skiing and boarding to be had and on this past Sunday our local hill was like a community party spread out over 500 acres.  Kids zipped through every nook and cranny.  The ample, fat line at the chair lift was like being in line to buy groceries in our small town – can’t stand there without saying hello to a dozen people.  And the bluebird day made the ride up the lift an “E-ticket,” to borrow from Walt Disney-land, in its own right.  Mountain in high relief; the Notch standing out like an Albert Bierstad painting of Yosemite; the White Mountains to the East hovering like clouds on the horizon; the lift line in front of us a highway for speed, for deep tele-turns, for snowboarders arching their trays like they are in a ballet.  The upper sections on the front of the mountain were snow-filled and bone dry.  This is April in snow country and we might as well enjoy it.

It is hard to write about skiing.  There is a feeling associated with moving downhill, at speed, on skis or I will guess a snowboard, unlike almost any other endeavor.  Surfers probably feel the joy of unfettered motion every now and then.  Maybe ski-diving.  Michael Jordan felt it playing basketball, I’d guess.  There are not though too many sports where mortals can fly.  Skiing is as close as I’ll ever come to Michael Jordan.  That sense of peace is hard to come by in life.  Here?  It is a five-minute walk from any particular point on the compass.

            I have an old pair of skis.  They are Atomic GS, racing stock.  They are 210 cm long.  The bindings crank down until the boot is secured to the ski as if welded.  I use to take them out maybe once a year.  I would take them down a famous trail here -- the Nosedive -- which starts with three hard, steep turns through a shadowy gap on the side of our mountain.  I'd take them out on an early morning late in the winter.  I would point the skis into the turns at the top of the trail.  They’d set like rails.  I leaned them over and was anchored to the ground.  As I leaned the skis accelerated.  I rolled through my turns, taking the shock of the hill in my quads.  Eventually I just straightened out and flew.  The wind roared as I slid downhill.  And then I stopped.  And then would think ‘that was stupid.’  I’m old enough not to break them out any more.  Well, maybe one more time.

            The snow this year just built and built.  It was incremental.  And then it rained.  And then two feet of snow fell in what seemed like an hour.  Where we live it is touristic but also rural.  There is not a lot to do some days.  This year, though, there was lots of snow.  It seemed many days the entire town was on our hill.   There is lots to what makes up a community.  Here, the mountain is a big part of who we are.  This year it seems we used it more, it was kind to us and six months of winter does not feel so bad.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

Time, Life, Watching Sleep.

When days are busy and interesting there is no time to write.  When quiet and settled there is time but nothing really to write about.

Today?  Stacked wood, read Wolf Hall, am now listening to opera on CBC 2.  My son is sleeping on the couch, a late-winter and late-day sun pouring onto him through the back window.  The dog rests by the door, occasionally moans, looks at me with big round eyes.  I eat too many roasted, salted nuts.  I drink a ton of water.

Next I will take the dog out, walking on the crusted top of a foot or more of old, beaten snow; make a shopping list for a dinner to be cooked (fettuccine with hot sausage, kale and cheese; slices of thick steak pan seared in oil and garlic and rosemary and then served on a bed of baby arugula and with a sauce of red wine vinegar and salt; a salad of young greens, olives, artichoke, pecorino cheese); shop; cook; drink; eat.

The past few months are too full to think about let alone write about.  At least not today.  Today I am focusing on as little as possible as well as possible.  I am busy just watching my son sleep.


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

A Late Winter Tale, About Backcountry Skiing, Deep Snow, Dogs and Rescue

Brian suggested we go for a backcountry ski; the second time we would be visiting this spot.  The last time we went to the Sterling forest was with a bigger group and at least one person was not up to exploring high on the ridge.  The area is mostly hardwood forest and the snow pack this year is thigh deep or more.  If you step off your skis you disappear.  This makes a back country trip challenging but also easier, if you have the right gear and know what you are doing.

There is no brush to slog through, no marshes or swamps to worry about, no problem being off a trail.  No bugs.  A compass and a map and we could go anywhere.  Brian called and suggested we go further north on this trip, higher on the slope, to an area call Bull Moose Ridge.  We would skin up, and it was steep in places, but once on the ridge we would have an easy time and then could ski back down through steep stands of old beech and maple trees.

The last time we went we did not bring our dogs -- Brian has two and I have one, Dexter, a young Aussie.  We were out for hours and I thought it would be too difficult for the dogs.  And I felt guilty when the trip was done; the dog would have been fine.  So this time we agreed we'd take the dogs.

Yikes

Snowbound.








David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

It's Not Like This Is All I Do.

But some days are better than others.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Oops. Colorado Snow Pack.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Backcountry Breckenridge Twelve Thousand Feet.

North Shoulder, Red Mountain, 11,900'.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

There Is Nothing Like A Great Coffee Shop

Amazing Grace, Breckenridge, Colorado.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Changing the Focus in America

Politicians campaign using money raised from people, companies and interest groups.  They gain attention during the political process by riling their base, building a kindling of support and branching out to show different groups they can win and will represent them.  The most effective technique to raise money from a base is to advocate to the edges – argue to the core constituencies on emotional issues.  In presidential politics this is called being ‘in primary,’ which means staking out positions, sometimes extreme, which play to particular groups of motivated, core voters who will give money and vote your way.

As politics has become more crowded, and the paths to reach voters fractured and diffuse, the rhetoric and the tone of delivery on the campaign have grown harder.  To be noticed takes saying daring things and playing to your base.  Candidates look for ‘wedge issues’ to increase the emotional pull toward voters – or the emotional pull away from other candidates (and voters).

Wedge issues are things politicians can talk about to get people motivated.  Immigration, abortion, nuclear power, the death penalty, war.  These are issues capable of making people angry; they are issues where people might leave their logic and analysis behind them.  Anger motivates voters.

The sticky part is once a politician has motivated the base, raised tons of money and gotten elected how can they get anything done?  Once a politician has painted him or herself into a corner to be elected to Congress on – say – the issue of immigration, how does Congress then address immigration using logic and analysis?  Obviously it doesn’t.  Hence no immigration reform, energy policy, education reform, etc.  If a politician does compromise on issues to achieve results they get lost in the crowd, the party turns on them, they lose their base.  Lucky us.

Slobodan Milosevic was a politician like this.  He saw in the break-up of Yugoslavia a chance to advance his own political fortune by playing the Balkan Nationalism Card.  I wonder if he ever regretted having done that.

In America, we have taken longer to see the changes harsh wedge issue politics can bring to governance, but we see it now.  We cannot blame the vicious murders in Arizona on politics, but we can point to the harshness of the debate and admit it did not help.

I remember watching an interview with Bill Weld – the former Massachusetts and New York Governor – around the time of Bush v. Kerry.  The interviewer was trying to get Weld to bash Kerry and he wouldn’t.  He said, with a smile, Senator Kerry was a very good guy and would make a good president, even if Weld did not agree with everything Kerry said or would do as President.  I could almost see the interviewer slump.  He hated the answer.  He wanted blood, not judgment.

Cleary the media in America loves the wedge issue approach to politics.  We want our elections to be red meat and ratings – Super Bowls, not spelling bees.  That’s too bad.  But the media just serves up what we want – anger and righteousness and divisiveness, not thoughtful discord and discussion.  Sometimes we get what we ask for.

Typically, I write about what is just right in front of me.  Raising kids, planting a garden, fighting predators out to eat my chickens.  I do this specifically because it is all exactly like what everyone else experiences.  Ninety-nine percent of the people on this earth are focused on getting up in the morning, raising kids, cooking dinner, doing some work, finding some peace.  It is, well, life.

We live though in a society that is one hundred percent focused on the one percent of life that is not ordinary and expected.  That is, I submit, a mistake.  Mostly, it does not matter what we each believe about religion, war, the death penalty, immigration or education.  No matter what we each think we can all just go about our day and get along.  Something about the focus on that one percent is starting to get out of hand and we need to change that.  And no one can do it but each of us.  And the time to do it is now.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Ahhh, That's Better. Merry Christmas

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Violins and Santa Claus

Here we are, barreling toward Christmas during this darkest of months.  There is the tree, which is finally up and decorated.  There is the food, which is always full of butter or cheese or cream (or all three).  There are the parties, the cards (coming and eventually going out), the gifts (given and received), The Story of the Birth of Christ and – to anyone with small children – the story and work of good St. Nicholas.  What follows is a story of almost failing to help Santa when he asked.

Ode To Joy

Kids, Wii and Christmas

You can't see it, but in the corner, in the dark, is a spruce tree; just dragged in before supper.  Merry Christmas.

The Late Great John Lennon

Thirty years ago today John Lennon was shot in NYC.  I think he was forty at the time.  Seemed old then, seems young now.

The morning after he was shot I opened the radio station at the University of Vermont.  My show was from 6 o'clock to 9 o'clock.  I started it earlier some days if I was up and wanted to be in a radio studio rather than a bed.  I started it very early that morning.  Before five in the morning, I think.  I brought the news of John Lennon's death to the few who started their day with WRUV in Burlington, Vermont.

What was interesting to me then, and has stayed with me since, is how deeply sad and hurt people were.  I remember two calls as clear as day.  One man, angry as can be, had pulled off the interstate, driven to a gas station and called from a pay phone to make sure I was right.  (This was well before cell phones.)  I know now this man was in the state of denial; at the time I thought he was just crazy.  He called to tell me I was wrong.  John Lennon was not dead.  The man was deeply upset by the loss of someone he had never known.

The second call was from a woman, also at the time much older than me (and now much younger).  She was sobbing.  Inconsolable.  It was painful to talk with her.  I had not at that point in my life broke the news of a death to a loved one.  That call was exactly the same experience.  The image in my head was she had fallen to the floor with the news. What did she want from me?  She wanted me to play "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away."  Good choice.

I did not go overboard that morning.  I realized I was waking people up with sad news.  For a nineteen or twenty year old, which I was at the time, I think I plugged in pretty well to the need to be thoughtful.  I did not play only Beatles and John Lennon songs.  I mixed them in, read from the news, gave people a chance to say something to me, which I'd then read on the air.  I played what people asked me to play.

I nailed my exit that morning:  First I played "A Day In The Life."  It ends with a strong E-Major chord played on three pianos, I think the pianos were played by Lennon, McCartney, Ringo Starr and Mel Evans, with George Martin on the Harmonium.  George Martin was able to extend the sound of that chord for forty seconds by increasing the recording levels in the studio.

The last piece I played that morning was "Mother," Lennon's most personal, direct and powerful song.   I brought "Mother" in as that E-Major chord rang out.  If you have mixing equipment and those two songs give it a try.

I exited that morning with more than two songs.  I exited that show seeing how one person could make a dent in the lives of so many.

I had been (and am) a tremendous fan of John Lennon's music.  Until that morning I took him (and the music) for granted.  I've missed him and the music for thirty years now.  Really missed him.  Like the woman who called the RUV studio that morning thirty years ago.  Like the man in denial.  Rest in Peace John Lennon.




David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Radio Blog: Road For The Holidays

Here is my Thanksgiving Road Trip post as radio, courtesy of Radio Vermont -- WDEV.

It is interesting turning a 900+ word essay into a 2 minute radio piece.  Short is not just short; it is different.  Fewer thoughts and details.  No side stories.  Nothing extra.  I know I could make the essays even tighter, but I don't want to contribute too much to the devolution of the modern brain any more than I have to.

DEV has a terrific engineer, Amy, and she tightens my essays even more.  I'll write an essay, edit it, decide it'd be good for the radio.  I'll sit down and edit it more -- rewrite it even -- and think I've polished it to dust.  I'll then go to the studio, talk for two minutes, and then Amy will burn me a cd.  She'll write my name and a summary comment on the disc:  A long, nuanced essay about late summer gets labeled "politics."  A ramble about a birthday at Fenway Park becomes "older", etc.

This one, which to me is about a disconnected country too much on the move, Amy labeled "home for Thanksgiving."  Nice.  Her view led me to change the title I'd originally given the essay to "Road for The Holidays".

If you click below you can read the radio version of the longer essay.  The longer version is here.  I like both versions but think the radio version is a bit better.

Highway Thanksgiving

We drove to Washington, D.C. for Thanksgiving.  Well, not for Thanksgiving exactly.  Given the kids had the entire week off, we decided to drive to the Nation's Capitol for the first part of Thanksgiving Vacation.  We planned to drive home on Thanksgiving Day, thinking the roads would be empty of traffic.  The trip was great, and we learned a bit about road trips along the way.

Old Fashioned Theme Parks and Timeless Joy

            Maybe it was the time of day, maybe it was the mood.  Whatever it was, I shocked my wife a few years ago when she casually mentioned she wanted to take our kids to Santa’s Village in northern New Hampshire.  I shocked her because I said I’d go.

Little Things, Big Things and Nothings

Sometimes things don’t fit into a narrative or story.  They are just sketches.  This is one of those times.

Stick season.  Just like everyone, we pulled the last of the garden, stacked more wood. The carrots came out of the garden bright orange, striking a rare note of color to the otherwise browns and grays.  Pulled in the lawn furniture and, maybe not like everyone else, stuffed a friend’s Mini Cooper into the barn for its long winter hibernation.

Daylight savings kills the day by 4 o’clock.  It will be a week or two more before the Christmas lights go up.  Can’t wait for that.

So we have long, dark nights. It is always hard to get used to being inside, hunkered down, so early in the day.  Fires and more food are the answer, I guess.  Hibernation for us too I guess.

Hunters are out in force; their orange vests and rifles a welcome seasonal site along our small town roads.  The blast of rifles in the distance signals venison on a table somewhere.  I wish here.  

There seems to be a lot of deer this year; I have not researched it, but last winter was probably not so bad for the herd and we’ve had more deer in our fallow field than I can remember in a long time.  Hopefully no hunters will blast away behind our house.  And hopefully the hunters will have a good season without the annual mishap involving ‘I thought she was a deer’ or bullets zipping through walls.

Driving through our town Saturday night we noticed some pretty quiet eateries.  Okay, it is about as off-season in this resort-like town as it gets, but on any given Saturday night it should still be bustling.  

Kids are busy in school; classes, music, dance, sports, play, chores, life.  Fun to be a kid.  I also notice kids in our town work hard, have fun, are good and do well.  Maybe America isn't going down the drain after all.

As we get ready for another season, as we go through the motions, as we raise our kids, as we eat too much or drive to fast or work to much or oversleep, as we just go on with every day of our lives, this was a week to realize this life is not permanent:  A good friend left us November 10 after a long and courageous battle with cancer.  A great conversationalist, curious and active; an optimist, an artist, an extraordinary skier; Gary leaves behind a loving family and a wide community. 

The celebration of his life this past Sunday was a truly awesome display of friendship and respect.  I know him through ski patrol, but there I was talking with friends I haven’t seen since high school, friends from town, the dance academy, work.  All good people, all friends with Gary.  He touched us all.  I am a better man for knowing him.  Here is to Gary Sudol, 1957 – 2010.  Rest In Peace.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

The Subjective Season: Winter Is What We Make It

Where we live, winter is the subjective season.  It rolls in with the potential to be all negative.  It is dark.  It is cold.  Most things outside die or sleep for months.  Water freezes.  Local food stocks grow scarce.  (We eat turkey, for God’s sake.)

The other seasons, the objective seasons, carry with them specific and obvious signs of joy.  Spring?  Need I say anything?  Summer is warm and life bursts forth from every corner.  Fall brings bounty and harvests and sharp, blue skies; long (enough) days of crisp walks (no bugs!); starry nights; our famous fall foliage; wood fires and snow tires and first frosts.

And the door then shuts.  The leaves blow away.  The skies darken.  Damp, wind-blown air chills bones.  The snow comes, the clocks fall back, we lock down 'til May.  Do we simply fatten up and sleep for six months or do we embrace the barely habitable habitat of northern Vermont in winter?  Here is a six-step approach to the season.

All Saint's Day

Took the dog out at 4 o'clock this morning.  Jack O'Lantern's still burning bright, keeping us safe as Halloween becomes All Saints Day.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Sunset, Sunrise ....

Occasionally we get hard mists.  It usually happens when a cold snap is burned away by warm fall days.

Last night we had a misty sunset.

And today we had a misty sunrise.

It is hard to capture in an image how weather like this feels.

I expect ghosts.


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

The Hinge Season: Fall, Winter and Thanksgiving

A radio version of this essay can be downloaded here.

It is the black-and-white season.  The leaves on our trees and the touristic crowds are mostly gone, blown away by the same cold northern rain.  The last of the farmer's markets are done until spring.  Farm fields are getting workouts before being fallow for a winter's rest.

As some things are shutting down, others are just opening up.  The snow on the mountain that is our backyard is a clear sign of work and play to come.  Town crews are checking on salt sheds, hunters are breaking out their orange vests, and winter recreators can be heard in every coffee shop from Burlington to Hardwick debating whether to get new winter toys for the woods and slopes or make do with the old.

We also face an election in a few weeks; a biennial addition to the hinge season, and it's been ugly at the top of our races.

It is interesting to see how political campaigns warp and distort much more than they amplify and explain.  Vermont's republican candidate for governor is a good guy who has done a lot for his state, especially in promoting small businesses; he does not come across that way in the hard edges of the campaign.  The democratic candidate is coming across far more an ideologue than I ever thought he was.  Attempting to advertise 'the product' of each candidate -- and run down the opposing product -- hopefully doesn't work in Vermont.  We all know each other still.  But then again maybe it works more than I think and that's why no one can stand politicians.

But back here on earth, where we have lives to live and kids to raise and lawn furniture to bring in, I am getting my head not around the election but around Thanksgiving.  We had a head start this year.

The head start was a dress rehearsal:  Canadian neighbors stuffed two turkeys and twenty friends for their version of the holiday, which took place over Columbus Day Weekend.  The food was the same as what we are all used to, but there was more daylight during the meal and no football after it -- nothing to lie down to as we tried to digest the big feed.

I wonder, is it illegal for Vermont to break from the American late-November date and join our northern neighbors to celebrate our harvest early?  Can we do that?  Isn't it the same as opting out of daylight savings?  Well, it's a thought.

But Thanksgiving is the real sign we've reached the end of one season and are in the next.  It is a line in the dirt:  a delineated opportunity to celebrate endings.  I suppose it should wait until the cold, hard days are settling in.

Whether we abandon the late-November hunkering down day or not, one thing remains true.  It is time to hunker down.  It is time to throw straw over the garden, vote (or not), get the skis out of the basement and eat six times more than average on a cold, dark day.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Dogs, Skunks and the Wisdom of Children

(To listen to the following essay, click here.)

Nothing clears out a room faster than a skunk and a dog fighting on a porch. 

There we were, sitting around in the kitchen after dinner and someone let the dog out.  Within a minute the room was cleared and the dog was a mess.  The skunk escaped.  A later search of the barn and there she was – a big, fat, hungry black and white demon.  I grabbed the ‘have a heart’ trap, slathered organic peanut butter on the trigger and set it. 

Radio Post: Yard Sales and Memories

If you click here you will be able to download and listen to the radio version of my essay about yard sales.  Thanks for listening!


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Hiking In The Dark; Talking To Owls

There is a mountain across town from our house called Mount Worcester.  It is small by global standards -- just over 3,400 feet -- but it is steep and wooded and interesting to climb.  North of Worcester along the ridge is a knoll called Stowe Pinnacle.  It is just that; a pinnacle of rock looking across the valley where sits our town.  The Mansfield Range is to the west.  It is a beautiful spot.

The Pinnacle trail meanders and climbs aggressively to the ridge of the Worcesters.  When our son, Cal, was five, as we were lying about in the back late on a beautiful early fall day, the sky a blistering blue and the air dry, he said he wanted to climb a mountain.  We'd not done anything but chores all that day and a hike was a great idea.  I did not wait for discussion but jumped up, kissed Jackie and the baby and grabbed my boy, an apple and a small bottle of water.  We were off.

As I said the day was fading but the sun was still bright.  I was not worried about a late start.  I figured we'd hike about a mile into the hardwood forest, through the meadow and up the gentle trail built on old logging roads and then we'd stop where the trail takes a steep turn upward and scrambles into some ledge cliffs where steep stone stairs have been rolled and pushed and ground into place over the years.  I assumed we'd stop at this rise, drink some water, share the apple and head back toward home.  I was wrong.

Yard Sales and Memories

 For five years or so we have committed regularly to a yard sale.  “This Memorial Day!” we exclaim, and then don’t.  “Labor Day for sure!” we commit, and let it slide.  But houses fill up and then it seems the house will sink into the ground if we don't bail it out. 

So early Saturday morning there we were putting stickers on mugs I do not think I had ever seen before and nailing “Yard Sale” signs to telephone poles (I know, we’re not supposed to).  We pulled what seemed enough stuff to fill a boxcar out of the house and set it all out on makeshift tables constructed with plywood and saw horses.

Notes from the Toronto International Film Festival

I went to the Toronto Film Festival to talk about a film I wrote and plan to make this winter or next.  I have been putting together the film for a while, and working at the festivals is hard.  It is in fact somewhat insane in the particular. The activity is anarchic.  It can almost be chaos.  Chaos theory, which states random actions – chaos – have a purpose and are a system, is in play in the film industry.

Stepping back from the particular though, the festivals – and the process of building a film –make sense.  The end result of the chaos is the creation of teams, which work to make films.  The films eventually come back to the festival and can be overwhelmingly beautiful and powerful.  Chaos theory in action.

This festival I carved out time to see films.  I have not done that before; I have been surrounded by films at festivals but simply went from meeting to meeting.  I felt guilty going to see movies when I could be working.  I decided in Toronto I needed to take the time to see why I was doing what I was doing.  There are two films I saw which have stuck with me.

Kids Off To School

I took this picture of the kids heading off to the bus on the first day of school.  We’ve been driving them to school since Cal was going to kindergarten, so it was a big change. Now that Cal wants to take the bus so does his younger sister.  Once they'd left for school I went inside and looked at the NYT’s on line.  The Times was asking for back to school photos for their website, so I downloaded this snap and sent it in.  

I sent them it in with a caption something like ‘the kids decide to take the bus after five years of us driving them each morning. Off they go, in more ways than one.’

I did not know the paper had posted the photo and the caption until I received an e-mail from a reader of the Times.  From Hong Kong.  It was a sweet note thanking us for a beautiful image and sentiment.  It struck me and made me incredibly happy that a simple, joyful image of kids growing up touched a couple so far away.
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Radio Post: Gardens, Chickens and Eating Local

To listen to this week's radio essay from WDEV, courtesy of WDEV/Radio Vermont, please click on the title to the post.

I am enjoying writing for radio.  It is hard.  Four hundred words maybe isn't a tweet but it's still a short little essay.  Let me know what you think.


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

The Garden, Chickens and the Kids

Where we live most gardens are done or mostly done.  We stuck a fork in our patch in the ground, but for the eggplant, a week ago.  Pulled up stakes and harvested the last of the carrots.  Rubbed dry dirt off orange roots on a hot day.

Good kitchen garden this year but I've never viewed it as important, just fun.  Now, of course, food costs more and it cannot be assumed to be safe.  Did I mention fresh eggs?

Between the backyard garden; our laying hens; some local farms pushing out well-raised meat, fruit and vegetables; and a thriving farm market community, it is now possible -- at least here in northern Vermont -- to supply ourselves with a healthy portion of what we eat through the year.  By April, true, I will be pretty much sick of parsnips, but overall there is enough of interest to feast on.  We are in hearty and interesting meals all winter long.

The laying hens are all proud now because of the bad egg scare chasing the nation.  The kids sell what we don't eat, teaching them enterprise if not economics (I am certain my input costs exceed the output value, making the farm more soviet than all-American).  We do sell a lot of eggs.  Who can turn down two smiling kids selling fresh eggs?  So far no one.

We also buy meat-bird futures from a good friend and neighbor.  Any day now we'll get a call and will collect twenty frozen local treats.  We buy as well local lamb and a share of a cow out of Montpelier -- grazing today but in our freezer tomorrow.  We are raising a brood of omnivores and they are comfortable with their food being produced locally.

Our son learned the difference between livestock and pets when he was about 4 years old.  He was arguing with me one cold winter afternoon.  I was reading the paper after loading a massive roasting hen into the over.  I had spackled the bird with olive oil, sea salt, crushed pepper, cumin, and fennel seed.  I stuffed her with lemons.  She was cooking away in a hot hot oven as I sat, warm, before the wood stove, in the cuddle chair by the window.

Cal walked in.  "Dad," he said.  "My chickens are my pets."

"No they're not."

"They are."

We vollied back and forth and then I dropped the paper to the side and he plopped into my lap.  (How the chair got its name.)  "Here's the difference," I said.  "Look in the oven."

He turned his head and stared.  I could see him thinking.

"What's in it?"

"A chicken," he said.

"That's the difference."

"Oh," he said, and that was that.

I am looking forward to our beef cow coming.  This grass-fed, organically fed and lovingly pampered bovine (at least until judgment day) will taste great.

That's the bottom line, really.  I wish I could say I am focusing on local because I want to save the planet.  I want to live in a community with lots of people working and living good lives in rural communities surrounded by working lands and supplying us with great food.  If, as a side-dish, meeting these goals happens to save the planet and our food supply I will not complain.


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

The Crowd, The Game, The Surprise -- Radio

Here is my second broadcast -- sorry, podcast -- again courtesy of WDEV Radio Vermont; all you need to do is click on the headline, which will take you to another website, which will allow you to download my podcast and then listen to it.  I would like to know what you think -- both content and mechanics of getting the content.

You will want to open the link in a new window -- so you don't leave this blog -- and then download the file.  Mine opened right away when it downloaded and it started to play.  I'd prefer the file to sit in a player so it just broadcasts when clicked on.

I'll keep working on easier ways to make the audio files available, including turning this into my own private BBC Radio4 (it and locally owned and operated WDEV are the best radio stations on the globe (and maybe KCRW, too)).  Any ideas or comments leading me to make the audio files easier to use will be much appreciated.

I think I will like radio.  I'll keep you posted.

Thanks,

Rocchio

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Summer's Close -- Radio

Here is my first podcast, courtesy of WDEV Radio Vermont, where I am now a commentator.  Let me know if this works and let me know what you think.

Thanks,

Rocchio


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Summer's Close

The calendar says there are four weeks left to summer but the rituals and customs of life say summer is closing. 

We picked our boy up from camp this past Sunday – big embraces, long looks to note the growth and scrapes and wisdoms picked up through new experiences.  First time having one of the wee ones out of the nest.  Two weeks, at that.  All to the good, the camp was awesome and the reports back all positive.  He looks great, if not a bit older, bigger.  It is a start of a process, which will be as hard as it is rewarding.  A passage like a season, but with more sting.

It is time to pick up supplies and clothes to make both kids shiny and presentable for the first day of school.  Talking with school age children in town is all about which teacher and what grade and who is in who’s class.  Good thing about it is landing a good teacher is like looking for weeds in a garden.  Easy.  Schools are all shined up too.

Fall gardens are starting and summer crops are mostly done.  If the weather holds we will have arugula and other greens for more than a month.  Trucks full of firewood and heating oil are starting to hog our roads.  And thankfully summer road projects are winding down.  Traffic control workers on construction sites – the most bored people in America – will soon hang up the yellow vest and lean the stop/slow sign against the work shed.

In Vermont we have the odd experience of a political primary in August, which is like hosting a football championship in July.  It’s hard enough to care about politics in September – it’s just not right to care about an election in August.  Another sign summer is done.

I voted early and am glad (at least for me) the election is over.  First, it will be good to know the main contenders in the fall madness.  Second, I will not miss the dozens of e-mails a day from people pretending to be writing to me but really just sending out virus-mail to advertise candidates.  I miss bumper-stickers.  Finally, I am looking forward to the end of lawn signs for a while.  We can’t make them illegal but candidates could agree not to plant them.  The candidates should hold a summit and agree to pull the signs:  they are ugly, ineffective and annoying.

I am not going to predict winners.  In a way I don’t care who wins, either the primary or the general election in November; I only care what they do.  As we head into fall I hope we get sense and reason, not bile and edge-issues, from whomever wins.  Wouldn’t it be great to have the vicious politics of the past ten years fall away with the leaves?  The problems we face can’t be managed to advantage for a candidate or party – they need to be managed for positive results for the nation.

Fortunately, we’ve had more important – or at least more interesting – things to focus on this summer than who will take the reins and try to get us out of the fiscal, policy and economic mess we are in.  Summer here is marked by events, as it is probably in most towns, and from the antique car show to the balloon-fest to the music festival the town has moved seamlessly from one crowd of enthusiasts to another. 

The balloon people come first and this year the weather cooperated.  We did not have a dawn landing on our barn, but we did see the sight and grace of hot-air balloons drifting across the sky. 

The antique car people walk through town with pride while their prize cars form a line up and down town.  Nothing makes me want a 1936 Packard Convertible Coupe more than seeing a mint condition forest green model parked, top down, on a crystal clear summer day.  (Okay, I honestly don’t know whether it was a 1936.  Or a Packard.  I think it was a coupe and am pretty sure that color is forest green. It was a convertible.  It’s interesting how we all claim more knowledge about cars when people who really know drive them into town.)  There is the Lamoille County Field Days -- rusted carnival rides, terrific livestock competitions, tractor and ox pulls and barrel racing.  All washed down with greasy food and milk.  We have too a summer music festival.  Ravello look out.

Summer is not all closed down.  A month or more of baseball; the chance to sneak away to the beach on warm September days; more gardening at least if the weather holds and chances for long weekend bike rides and hikes.  But the big markers are behind us and the early signs of fall are in front. 

I’ll be splitting and stacking firewood, breaking out the alarm clock and polishing the kids up for first day of school.  Not a bad way to mark the passage of a season.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

Clouds In Motion: Summer In Full Swing

Summer is in full swing; clouds are wistful, not threatening.  Kids are burnt brown and live like the lost boys.

Driving dirt roads yesterday came upon these clouds in motion.  Snapped the picture through the windshield with iPhone, kept going, needed to get to camp, couldn't stop.


David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio

The Crowd, The Game, The Surprise

I knew about the surprise trip to see the Sox at Fenway Park.  My little girl had told me as only a seven year old can:

“Dad,” she whispered.  “Can I tell you a secret??”

“Well, shouldn’t you keep it quiet?”

“But!  Will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

“Sure.”

“We’re taking you to see the Red Sox for your birthday!”

I did not point out the thrill of this secret was pretty much gone once she told me.

The kids were not done.  “Just wait, Dad.  You’ll be so excited when you get in the park!”  Hmmm. 

A hot night.  Ninety-four degrees and no breeze at game time.  Humidity 1,000 percent.  Lester was terrible; we settled in for an anemic game; a rare loss on the Red Sox’s roll.  But the kids stayed on the edge of their seats!  “Just wait, Dad!”

And then, there it was.  Middle of the fourth inning.  Big scoreboard in Center Field.  In the lights:  “Happy Birthday David Rocchio; Love Callum and Antonia” 

All spelled right.  Kids jumping up and down. 

Other than the kids and an embarrassed grin from my wife, that was that.  The scoreboard went on to the next thing.  None of the beer swilling fans to our left or right, north or south, offered a ripple of recognition. 

I think the kids expected the crowd to stand and cheer – and I guess I hesitated for a second – my Ted Williams moment.  Did not happen.

I started watching the scoreboard.  I saw an anniversary announced.  Another birthday; this one for twins.  They’d been going up all during the game; I had not noticed.  Except for localized bursts each announcement was met with, well, nothing.

The thirty-seven-thousand-nine-hundred-and-four souls at Fenway Park that night were not interested in my – or anyone’s – personal milestones.

The Crowd.  Of course each one of us sitting in that park had stories.  Including the birthdays and anniversaries blaring from the scoreboard, but also bigger personal stories: a new job, a lost job; a graduation, an engagement; a big move, a deadline; a loss, a gain of this kind or that.  Every one of us could have turned to the person to the left or the right and talked for hours.  Each story would be different, but we’d all be in the same ballpark.

The refreshing thing was to The Crowd the only interesting people in the little bandbox (to borrow a phrase) were those who could throw a baseball ninety miles per hour, hit a baseball traveling ninety miles per hour or catch a ball so hit. 

Maybe that’s really why we go there:  we all have stories but none of us can hit Bard or Buchholz.  The game gets us out of ourselves.  We get to put life aside and pull for the extraordinary.

Comfort in a crowd, my kids excited beyond belief, life put in perspective.  Maybe Sox tickets are not too expensive after all. 

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio