Got My Wires Crossed

Wiring is something that should be done, as Gramp used to say, "according to Gunter," so I tend to stay away from these sorts of projects since I'm more likely to learn as I go then really plan it all out ahead. At least I try to. But every once in a while a fly gets in the ointment.

Take for example one indian summer back in the early eighties. I was set to head for the High Peaks and a bit of climbing and quiet. No sooner had I uttered that I aimed to leave by noon on the 18th, did old Margie Ingman appear down my road. Margie was a friend of the family from before I can remember, used to do mending for Gramp's ma back when she was but a little thing. Over the years she just sort of attached herself to Gramp, til she'd just about drawn her own branch on the Kincaid family tree.

I knew the minute I saw her moving my way I was up a gum-tree. Before I knew it the 18th became the 19th and the 19th the 20th as I did favor after favor for Margie, who had found herself in possession of a little camp near Brant Lake.

"A little help with lighting and some light carpentry," she said.
Still remember plain as day how badly I wanted to turn on my heel and leave. But it was Margie, and Margie is family, whether she was born a Kincaid or not. Light carpentry my hat. The place was a rat's nest with bowing walls, buckling ceiling and the worst mess of wiring I've ever seen. Never did make it to the High Peaks, but I did spend a heck of a lot of time climbing as I reroofed the dang thing.

Found this picture as I was cleaning out a trunk in my house. That Margie sure could get it done. "A little help with lighting," she said.

Oswegatchie

Certain experiences in life can make a person glad to be alive.

I had one such experience a few weekends past. It was one of those days when the air seems to carry a weight to it, a bit of the autumn air creeping into summer, warning you to get while the gettin's good. Me and a friend, along with a couple of younger folks, headed for parts north. With our kayaks strapped four abreast to the top of my friend's vehicle, we made our way toward St. Lawrence and the Oswegatchie River.

Not being much for music myself, and the rest of the group of such disparate age, we rode without the radio. The whistle of the wind against the strap ends of the kayak tie off quickly lulled us all into a bit of a trance. The dark greens of the forest whirring past and the great expanse of blue Adirondack sky reminded me of the early days with Gramp and running supplies back and forth from the seaplane to camp.

"Mind ya don't stumble and lose all those potatoes on the dock. I like 'em mashed, not bruised," he'd say this all with a chuckle, sometimes seemed as if he'd'a preferred me to fall so as to break up the chores and laugh for a spell.

Gramp would've appreciated being able to take a day to steal away for a paddle. Speaking of paddle...I found the photograph from the Northeast Paddlers. It shows a piece of the river. I don't go in for the rapids and steep ledge drops. Me,I like to just sort of float, paddling as I feel so inclined. Better to take things in when you let the boat kinda do the work. Paddle, glide, breathe.

This bit of river was particularly suited to just coasting and looking around. I was far behind the group and enjoying the sounds of the wildlife, the feel of the paddle in my hands and the sun breaking through the tree limbs. Made me glad to be an Adirondacker. Gladder still that we had several growlers in the rig to enjoy at day's end.

Hazards

Photo by Nathan Pallace

Seaplanes, with all the required upkeep and attention, can be a demanding mistress. Most pilots are pretty content to do what's needed to keep our planes sea and flight worthy. Heck, it doesn't take more than a couple of break downs in foul weather to burn ya clear through with the need to keep things in working order. Unfortunately there are times when things happen that turn a good flight sour with no regard to the condition of your plane or the skill of the pilot. I've heard plenty'a people specualting 'bout how this particular accident happend, what he did or didn't do. Seems to me it's pretty far fetched to talk about what happend like you know when you don't know the first thing about piloting a seaplane. You'll never hear me going on about what the jeweler shoulda done with his displays in the window. I'd sooner try to put the pearl back in the shell it came from then in a set-up to get folks to pay for it.




Photo by Nathan Pallace
Photo by Nathan Pallace

It's the 7th of July.
This time of year always gets me to thinkin' 'bout Gramp.
I suppose folks thought he was a bit peculiar, what with his quiet ways and predilection for carryin' oddities in his coat pocket like a three winged beetle.

A'course he wouldn't've called it a beetle, he'd a said, "This is what ya call a Northeastern Beech Tiger Beetle, rare indeed to find one with a third wing."
He was a smart fellow, just a bit misunderstood. Have to chuckle because I 'spect that was exactly how he wanted it.



He had a great cabin, tucked away in the trees out of sight of most everyone, except of course the occasional bear, fox and wild turkey. He built the whole thing himself late one summer after having a none too pleasant experience with a woman by the name of Annie MacDougall. Never did tell me exactly what happened, but any time the subject came up he'd get a look about him that let you know you should hold your tongue or else. Then off he'd go to chop more wood.




Didn't bother me any, the thing 'bout Gramp was that even at his most sour, he was the best company I'd ever known. I used to sit on Gramp's porch and just listen to the crackle of the fire and the sound of his ax as he brewed the barley wort and chopped wood for later in the season.




It was actually early in July the year I turned 9 that he first let me take a pull off the jug he used for his ale. Gramp is long since gone and ale has never tasted quite so sweet as it did that afternoon under the hot July sun.
But I'll tell ya, knockin' back a dacker by the fire comes pretty close.

Been fiddling around with a bit of furniture making in my off time.

Friend of mine named Caroline needed some things for her cabin. Years ago she had most of her family's things transported from the city and put into storage with the intention of establishing an Adirondack retreat. She's only now, some 15 years later, setting up camp so to speak. Upon closer inspection of her things she is realizing that they were woefully damaged in transport on account of the hapless way things were packed. I put together this rocker and am aiming to make a nice small table to go along side it. There's a shop in North Creek I've heard about that has quilts, furniture and such. I told her she should visit and pick up a lamp or two.



Two Saturdays back I went out behind my camp and cleared bits of timber. Not so much large timber, just clearing the weaker growth that has begun posing a danger of falling. Since I've no shortage of firewood I decided to take knife to limb and see what I might come up with. I'd been meaning to frame the map passed down to me from Gramp, the one chronicling his father's travels.



I have a distant cousin named Grier Callaghan, who was recently widowed after her husband Duff lost his fight to cancer. She and Duff were set to be parents. She gave birth to a son, Guthrie, last October. Always the nicest person in a room, Grier still sent out scads of Christmas care packages. As always she sent me preserves and a hand made quilt- there's not a machine been invented that can hold a candle to a hand made quilt. I made this chair so that Guthrie could join her at the table. Truth be told, Grier is using this as a toy seat and has got Guthrie in some plastic job that has a tray like you'd expect to see in a cafeteria. Dang thing even has some sort of holster for a drink and rattle on a tether.