Hokkaido

For some who remember this was the source of my .sig file long ago. For others, take from it what you will.


Fiddler Jones
By Edgar Lee Masters

The earth keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
And if the people find you can fiddle,
Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
What do you see, a harvest of clover?
Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
The wind's in the corn; you rub your hands
For beeves hereafter ready for market;
Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
Stepping it off, to "Toor-a-Loor."
How could I till my forty acres
Not to speak of getting more,
With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle—
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret.

King of the road

Because, as some have noted, I should have occasional changes in photographic subject.

And an adventurous trip to Nashville. Further escapades await.

New! For 2009!

The hottest calendar for the new year, featuring white chicks in the suburbs doing work on large American cars. Badly. With little help from those standing around, generally heckling, laughing, or giving photographic direction.

Note how the wind catches her hair, obscuring the look of disdain and contempt.

Wait a minute. . .

Those glasses and that jacket look awfully familiar.