The Garden of Travel: Independence Day in Cincinnati

            The Fourth's not such a big deal here, the van driver tells us, as he takes us from the airport to our hotel downtown (not far from the Ohio River) on a visit to our son. The airport is in the state of Kentucky, which, like Ohio, did not exist at the time of the Declaration of Independence. It's the day before the Fourth of July, but the airport is not very crowded. I had feared it would be a busy, crowded, anxious travel day -- not so much. Not even in Logan, which is ordinarily bad to the bone. Our van driver has all sorts of things to tell us about living in Cincinnati, since he used to live in Salem, Mass.

            "They have their big parade on Labor Day out here," he tells us.

            Whoa, I think. A big labor town?

            He doesn't know why. He has family in Mass., and keeps up, but has somehow missed the earth-shaking fact that the surviving Marathon Day bomber has been sentenced to death. Do you mean the Boston bombing attack is not a drop-dead, stop what you're doing lead item news on the local networks?

            We cross the Ohio River, long famous as the boundary of freedom for escaped slaves at the doorstep of freedom. I have to remind myself that 'border state' Kentucky remained in the Union during the Era of Illegal Secession. Abe Lincoln was born in Kentucky. George Washington never set foot in Kentucky. Nor did he make it to Cincinnati, though Washington loved 'the Ohio,' since it represented the universal dream of 18th century, independence-hungry American patriots: to get rich on owning new western land. In Washington's time, that new western land was called 'the Ohio country.'

            As a career move Washington joined British General Braddock in an ill-considered military expedition into the 'Ohio country' (their goal was the place where Pittsburgh stands now) where the Redcoats were slaughtered by the French and their Indian allies waiting for them in ambush. Dying in Washington's arms, Braddock was reported to have said, "We shall know better how to deal with them next time."

            In this year of "The Color of Change," of police killings and a racist massacre in the Old South, it seems we are still trying to learn how to better deal with divisions among ourselves. How do we cross that river beyond which certain horrors will cease to grow up among us liked ugly, deadly weeds. I hear of urgings that President Obama in some official POTUS cap and gown should formally apologize for slavery. By all means, and to all the world. In our famous Declaration we copyrighted the word "equality," but our behavior showed we didn't really mean it.

            On Independence Day I am a cranky Yankee. But Ohio has no Adams family, no Virginia class of mansion-bred Founding Fathers, Washington, Jefferson, Madison, slave-owners all. Kentucky-born, Illinois favorite-son Lincoln had no slaves, but like most Midwesterners, was no abolitionist himself. Even Walt Whitman, my favorite 19th century American, a New Yorker and world class egalitarian, had a soft spot for the rural 'Southern way of life.'

            Still, it's understandable that Ohio, still Indian territory at the time of the American Revolution, despite French and English intrusions -- the British holding back American settlers from the region in an attempt to keep some tribes on their side -- has no major Independence Day glitter. No freedom trail. No Cincinnati massacre to rival Boston's. No Minutemen. No 18th century historic houses; though no slave quarters either. No sites connected to the founding fathers and their best friends and colleagues. Though plenty of German beer -- far superior, at least to American taste, to anything that Sam Adams could have produced.

            But the city draws its name from Washington's heroic career as Revolutionary general and the newly independent country's first President. His generation of idealistic leaders found models in the "classics" studied for their wisdom by 18th century gentlemen. When he stepped down from the head of the army at the war's end to allow for the civilian rule of a new government, his officers recognized the example of the Roman general Cincinnatus and formed an organization dedicated to the republican ideal of unselfish public service, calling themselves the Society of the Cincinnati.

            Here's another Revolutionary connection. Even today, the Wikipedia tells us, "Cincinnati in particular, and Ohio in general, is home to a disproportionately large number of descendants of Revolutionary War soldiers who were granted lands in the state."

            The place goes back to physical origins around 1800, became a city in 1819, grew to a major trade and manufacturing center, and an important stop on the Underground Railroad. That cheek to jowl border and deep economic ties with the South made Ohio fertile ground for a movement to end the Civil War. The Union Army declared martial law in the city when Confederate raiders struck North. The Union was preserved.

            We did in fact see some fireworks during our visit with Saul. They were visible from Fountain Square, the mid-town public space, for music and the like, though launched behind an electric billboard, as if somebody had been given the wrong map. They were however effectively loud. Even louder, and by all accounts more spectacular were the Friday night fireworks launched by the Cincinnati Reds in their Great American Ballpark after a game. The Reds got pounded Friday night. Fireworks anyway. Saturday night, lost again. More fireworks. Unfortunately, our nice and very reasonably priced downtown hotel had no view of the waterfront .

            However we do it, Independence Day is always worth celebrating.

            We can't underestimate the accomplishment of simply starting up a new country and keeping it together. Think of Sudan: genocide, secession, civil war, massacres. Remember the break-up of Yugoslavia: massacres, hate. Independence Day in 1947 for Indian and Pakistan: grand scale massacres.

            In fact, keeping this country together was no easy job. Remember the American Civil War: a million casualties.

            Guided by Saul, we saw revived city streets in Cincinnati, beautiful old neighborhoods, historic houses, river views, parks. The place that moved me is the one that memorializes that catastrophic blot on the 'stability' and unity of the new independent nation we celebrate each year in the Revolutionary month of July. In a city cemetery of monuments to the prosperous, a quadrant of grass dedicated to some portion of many American lives lost to that war.    

            Coming home from our visit, I wrote a poem that has since been published in the July edition of the Verse-Virtual online literary journal. Here's the link:

http://www.verse-virtual.com/robert-c-knox-2015-july.html

Two Plays in Shakespeare's Garden: Will Miracles Never Cease?

            The Bay Colony Shakespeare Company calls the two works it's now presenting in Plymouth's Community Center for the Arts plays "about light, love and magic." What's really miraculous is that a professional company this good is now in its third season of offering high-quality Shakespeare in Plymouth and other area towns.

            "The Winter's Tale," which opened last weekend, is one of Shakespeare's late romances, a particularly apt example of the 'romance' genre: a tale that moves from apparent tragedy to a redemption that may stretch credibility but satisfies the deeper yearnings of human heart.

            King Leontes, played by company director Neil McGarry of Marshfield, an actor who once again shows himself capable of commanding attention in any role, really has no claim on our sympathies except that he's a human being. A standard Shakespearean monarch capable of turning tyrant in a flash, his wholly unmotivated jealousy destroys the life of his blameless queen -- a la Othello, only he doesn't have the excuse of being corrupted by an Iago-figure. Somehow in an instant, like catching a fatal infection while out for a morning walk, he manages to corrupt himself by groundless self-feeding suspicion. The same disease of the mind convinces him that his newborn daughter is not his own child, so he has the infant exposed in a barren place.

            But romance is a literary opening to fairy tale and draws on the deep primal tuning to wonder and marvel that hooks us in children's literature, at least those tales that have a happy ending. In fact in Shakespeare's time that's what "a winter tale" meant: a tall story.

            Perdita (the name means "lost one") is carried to the wild country of Bohemia, a real name given to a stage creation, by a kindly courtier, who is eaten by a bear for his troubles. (No romance there.) Raised by simple shepherds, the girl has a natural grace and genuineness that charms a prince, who for some reason is hiding from his father.

            Part of the unstated metaphysics in romance is that an 'unspoiled' upbringing can cleanse the corruptions of the hothouse atmosphere of life at court. It's Cinderella the prince wants; not the pampered sisters. Similarly, if you're depressed in London, go spend some time in the forest of Arden -- well, actually the plot of another play, "As You Like It," but something similar is going on in this tale. There's a disease in the king's mind; perhaps power really does corrupt. And the pastoral folk of Perdita's upbringing -- even the truly simple-minded rubes whose "cozening" by the complacent hustler-clown Autolycus Shakespeare invites the audience to enjoy -- somehow help restore the balance.

            It's the 'return' of Perdita, the lost child, to Leontes's court that restores 'truth and natural goodness' to this world. For me, the high point of Bay Colony's production is observing McGarry transform himself into a sufficiently withered and guilt-haunted Leontes -- as if the theatrical 16 years' passage the plot calls for has magically taken place while the audience was chatting at intermission -- in order to enable the impact of 'bad transformed to good' to register fully on his character. In McGarry's hands Leontes is not just an example of regal folly; he's a suffering human being.

            The cast is uniformly strong. Poornima Kirby, who played opposite McGarry in the company's "Much Ado About Nothing" last year, is equally convincing as the wronged queen Hermione. Erica Simpson, another young veteran, who was the dark Lady Mac in the company's "MacBeth" last summer, hits the right note in a diametrically opposite role as the saving-grace Perdita. Meredith Stypinski, who stepped into a crucial role at the last moment, is a strong Paulina -- the woman who speaks truth to power. Cam Torres has a paunchy swagger as the gleeful conman Autolycus.

            "The Winter's Tale" can be somewhat harder to follow than the more popular comedies. Audiences who know "Much Ado" from the popular film may not have seen a production of "Tale," in a theater or on screen. Perusing a copy of the play beforehand, or even a plot summary, may be advised.

            Bay Colony Shakespeare Company doesn't slight the wonder and romance of the work's plot. And miracles do happen on stage.


(The Bay Colony Shakespeare Company presents two of Shakespeare’s most magical plays, "The Winter's Tale" and "A Midsummer Night's Dream" in repertory in Plymouth starting through Aug. 2. For dates and tickets see http://www.baycolonyshakespeare.org/)

Abundance in the Garden: July is Full of Everything

           I think a terrible winter must be good for a flower-filled summer. Was it the seven-foot snowbanks that surrounded the house like a frozen fortress for two months? Or the long, prolonged winter cold, owing to that heavy snow cover, which made life in Massachusetts feel like living next to a meat locker with the door open?

            Whatever the reason, this year's flowering plants and vegetables are lusher than I can ever remember.

            With my limited resources and equipment, basically me behind my Sony point-and-shoot, I'm striving for a few panorama shots.

            Here are some of the results: Photo number one. The yellow stella d'oro daylilies (in their second week of blooming) dominate the foreground. We also see some flowering stalks of both red and white astilbe, pink tufts of cosmos, and behind the contrastingly dark red blossoms of coreopsis.

            The second shot focuses on our large red spirea shrub. It blooms in June and is still carrying on these days, though most of the blossoms have faded. In the foreground you can see the thick patch of yellow loosestrife flowers (on dark, wine-purple stems); then the big native orange daylilies in the background; along with some bi-colored dogwood branches on the left of the frame. And, behind all these guys, in the background against the fence, an example of our newest arrivals, the Green Giant Arborvitae recently planted to provide some privacy coverage because by all accounts THEY GROW FAST. We shall see. We need some height back there to hide behind.

             The next photo focuses on the round flower heads of that maroon coreopsis, another recent arrival, since I planted it only this spring. These plants were wilting in the nursery, their long stringy stems tangling with one another, but something about the color made me think it was worth taking a chance on them. They perked up marvelously once I got them in the ground in a spot I think of as part-sun.

            I think it may be all that melt-water in the ground that's still nourishing the roots of pernnials like coreopsis. I know I'm not watering like I did last year.

            The fifth photo is a solo portrait of dark pink knockout rose bushes, that started late this year but bloomed all together. The plants waited until the end of June to thicken up and blossom, after wearing heavy winter coats of snow piled up from shoveling the front sidewalk time and again. We don't mind the wait. Experience shows they bloom on and on through the rest of the year. The challenge is staying ahead of the black-spot disease that claims both leaves and branches and the season goes on. Maybe the cold has killed off some of these spores.

            The next photo concentrates on a happy hydrangea. Also in the front garden, the lace-cap hydrangea gets bigger and more flowerful every year. Most of the blossoms are pink, but some show a kind of purple. Color change in hydrangeas reflects the soil balance between acidic and basic chemistry, a subject I'm completely remiss in. I've never had my soil tested.

            The fourth photo from the top shows the white Shasta daisies, which are simply stronger and more perfectly shaped than they've been for years. I know no reason for it. Do they too prefer a more punishing climate? They bloomed all June, the blossoms appear to be lasting longer. Behind these white blooms you can see the raspberry bushes with green fruit. I took the photo before the fruit ripened. Now I pick raspberries every day and can't get them all in before a few at least fall to the ground.

            The last photo shows the orange daylilies blooming behind the branches of the dogwood, and the arborvitae behind them against the fence. There's more color out there in nature, especially in the daylilies and the yellow flowering loosestrife than these photos captured, but light isn't strong enough to show them truly.

            I think I'll go outdoors and try to do better. Right now.

The Garden of Verses: Poetry from Here to Bombay

            Happy summer, everyone. We're just past the Summer Solstice, still enjoying the longest days of the year, and I'm still high on one of the year's highest points.
            A poem stemming from the wages of carrying too much water to thirsty plants last summer has seen the light of day in a book recently published in a distant clime. The Bombay Review celebrates the first anniversary of its bimonthly literary journal with an anthology of selections from the first year's contributions. My poem "My Aching Back" (a backyard gardener's injury) was chosen for inclusion.

            You can order a copy of the anthology off the publisher's website, but it will cost you 399 rupees. I've been checking our various collections of international money, a few pounds or pence here, a few thousand Lebanese Lira there, but so far not a single rupee. Happily, I believe they take American. Anne points out that we are relatively "rich in rupees," since by recent exchange rates those 399 convert to $6.38.

            ("Let’s get a few copies," she suggests. "And then go out for Indian food.")

            Here's the link to the anthology: http://pothi.com/pothi/book/kaartikeya-bajpai-bombay-review-0

            Another month, another new edition. The July Verse-Virtual, the fantastically industrious online journal that publishes scores of original poems at the remarkable pace of a new edition every month, includes five of my poems. These consist of an amalgam of three "Late Songs," my title for poems written to celebrate some songs I listen to frequently, but almost always late at night.

            Another of these poems owes its existence to a recommendation from fellow Verse-Virtual poet Luis Neer, who pointed me to Mary Oliver's poem "Out of the Stump Rot, Something," which in turn reminded me of an encounter with a black snake. The poem's called "Snake Crossing."

            The fifth poem concerns one of poetry's most enduring subjects and sources of inspiration, the seasons.

            Here's the link for these poems: http://www.verse-virtual.com/robert-c-knox-2015-july.html