The New American Digest

(Oh! No! … Global Warming!)

Time to start thinking of mountain roads and remote mining camps.

The years accumulate. I become aware that emergencies are for the young … which, apparently, no longer includes me.
And there’s no place like being in the back country, alone and deep in, to invite Murphy to pay a visit upon the fool-hardy and insane.

There was a time I thought I was prepared. Two excellent spares, good air in each, good jack … and three flats.
Hup, hoop, heep, hope!
“An adventure is something you don’t want to be doing at the time you’re doing it“

But to stop is to give up; to give up is to die.

a comment to “Mines Alumni” from Wild, Wild West

Gerard once put up a story called “The Witness”, a translation of Jorge Louis Borges work into English, about the passing of the last Saxon in England, and how when he died “the last eyewitness images” of those days would die with him. As would other memories be gone forever when others died. Very poignant, haunting even; I would like it read at my funeral. I put it up in the comments here when the plug was pulled on Gerard’s blog.

“The Witness,” a very short story by Jorge Luis Borges
by VANDERLEUN on FEBRUARY 10, 2019

In a stable that stands almost in the shadow of the new stone church, a man with gray eyes and gray beard, lying amid the odor of the animals, humbly tries to will himself into death, much as a man might will himself to sleep. The day, obedient to vast and secret laws, slowly shifts about and mingles the shadows in the lowly place; outside lie plowed fields, a ditch clogged with dead leaves, and the faint track of a wolf in the black clay where the line of woods begins. The man sleeps and dreams, forgotten.

The bells for orisons awaken him. Bells are now one of evening’s customs in the kingdoms of England, but as a boy the man has seen the face of Woden, the sacred horror and the exultation, the clumsy wooden idol laden with Roman coins and ponderous vestments, the sacrifice of horses, dogs, and prisoners. Before dawn, he will be dead, and with him, the last eyewitness images of pagan rites will perish, never to be seen again. The world will be a little poorer when this Saxon man is dead.

Things, events, that occupy space yet come to an end when someone dies may make us stop in wonder—and yet one thing, or an infinite number of things, dies with every man’s or woman’s death, unless the universe itself has a memory, as theosophists have suggested. In the course of time there was one day that closed the last eyes that had looked on Christ; the Battle of Junin and the love of Helen died with the death of one man. What will die with me the day I die? What pathetic or frail image will be lost to the world? The voice of Macedonia Fernandez, the image of a bay horse in a vacant lot on the corner of Sarrano and Charcas, a bar of sulfur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?

English translation by Andrew Hurley Via – Biblioklept”

Where is Gerard’s desk now, I wonder.

When I lived in Williamsburg, I spent a lot of time on Jamestown Island. I cheated a bit – the island has a loop road which doesn’t require a entrance ticket but the Jamestown Settlement grounds do. But if one parks along the loop road and hoofs it, it’s possible to come in through a back way.

Bad DT, bad! (Nah, I have a lifetime park pass anyway – just don’t like dealing with the front office)

So here I am, wandering around the grounds and I got inspired to take this photo of the crowd more than the exhibits (though I have those photos as well).

That’s the James River in the background and Scotland Landing across the river. A ferry runs across here; free last time I was there … (gee, almost 10 years ago. Didn’t realize it had been that long …)

When you get down to it, there’s not really much to see here beyond some signs telling one what once was here; some reconstructions, a bit of facade of a 1609 church, some crumbled bricks of old foundations. A building over-standing an old 1600s glassworks pit with an operating glassworks nearby.

A ruin of a home that burned in 1895 and was never rebuilt. Some old graves, a statue of Pocahontas – probably the model was better looking than the person.

I spent a lot of time wandering through places in the woods I probably wasn’t supposed to be.

There’s a lot of history packed into this region.
I don’t want to live there again but I wouldn’t mind visiting – many places to re-visit; to see what I missed the first time ’round.

Those in the know, know …
A post from HJB – inspired by “Oh Wow Man The Colors!”

Nope – not too long for a post.

Your piece today on the ‘newly-discovered’ controlled substances reminds me of a short story from the years at Mines –

I had driven up to Boulder very early one Saturday morning to attend a geology lecture. On the way back down Hwy 93 to Golden, mid-morning, on the dead-straight and flat section about half-way I found myself catching up to a slow-moving Volkswagen Beetle.

When I was about 100 yards behind, the Bug suddenly made a 90° right turn, ran through the roadside ditch and came to rest impaled on the barbed-wire fence along the adjacent pasture. I pulled over quickly and jumped out to render aid if needed. As I got to the car a long-haired, bearded flower child of the late 1960s Boulder / CU variety emerged with a wide-eyed look on his face …..

“Did you see that?? Did you see that??? Oh my God, did you see that??” …..
“See what, I hollered” …..

“That giant purple chicken in the middle of the road …. there was a giant purple chicken!!” ……

Seeing that he was not visibly injured, I returned to my car and made my way back to Mines, thanking my stars for having not chosen CU.

“The most dangerous man to any government is the man who is able to think things out for himself, without regard to the prevailing superstitions and taboos.” — H.L. Mencken

“Truth seekers often find themselves alone.  This is part of their initiation in order to gain self mastery.  One cannot know thy true self by being constantly surrounded by others.” —  Anonymous 

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” ― Plato