The Ospreys, Again

Sorry to keep going on about this, but it’s worth mentioning.

There was a dead osprey in our yard this afternoon. We’d been gone and when we returned it appeared that the osprey had been there for a while. It looked like an adult, big, with well developed talons and beak, tail feathers and wings. But its body mass was nearly gone.

How did this happen? There was no sign of trauma that I could see, though it was far too late for a necropsy. Trying to imagine the causes of death I thought of poison, a natural illness, a shooting, and little else. These birds are so powerful and self sufficient there seems little else that coud kill them.

The heat was too great to dig a hole for burial, so we bagged it (the bird) and carried it to a disposal area. Which osprey it was, whether it left young or a mate, I do not know. But I learned this. I now know why the parents of our young one in the water (see earlier post) could not save it. The talons are fearsome. Long, curved and sharp as needles. I certainly would not wish to be saved in a set of those. 

The Mysterious Mr. Poe

Edgar Allan Poe

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.

An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,

Exhales from out her golden rim,

And, softly dripping, drop by drop,

Upon the quiet mountain top,

Steals drowsily and musically

Into the universal valley.

A friend sent me this quotation the other day, and I loved the beautiful language and the soft imagery. It strikes me as a near-perfect description of the photograph that introduces my blog. These lines come from a poem called "The Sleeper." There are many possible readings of them. One is the approach of death. Another might be the transport of a moon-induced inspiration into the "universal" consciousness, a rather vague idea that represents to me the effort to create a novel. Or are those a single reading?

Dog Days

What’s a poor vizsla to do?

We’re outdoor dogs, and this mid-summer is a miserable time of year. Hunting season is over and won’t start until fall. We try to train, Pops and I. Once a week or so we work out on live birds with some other dogs, and I get to run off-leash. But mostly I sit in the shade because the trainers work on one dog at a time. The rest of the week Pop stays indoors because, he says, “It’s too hot to go out.”

Now I wouldn’t know this firsthand, but I’ve heard that my ancestors used to hunt all day long, even in heat like this. The Great Hungarian Plain, where we come from, gets as hot as this in summer—90 to 105. That’s what it is here now. We vizslas have thin, short-haired coats. I guess my ancestors simply got acclimatized to it. But I’m acclimatized to air-conditioning.  

So I put on weight, and my muscles get flabby. And sometimes I just go stir-crazy and run top speed around the house to burn up energy. When that happens Pops better get out of my way.

When fall comes I’ll have to work hard to get back in shape. Can’t wait! 

Formula Fun

Jan said, "Take the red car."

But it wouldn’t be up to me; I knew that. Then the voice behind me said, "Frank, take the red car." Now that was karma, and the word isn't big enough to describe what happened next. 

I would drive the red car—the color of Ferrari, the most famous name in racing. The sky was blue, the sun warm, and a winding track lay ahead. The formula cars were lined up ready to go, and we were going to do a dozen laps or so at racing speeds. 

What does this have to do with writing a novel? I’ll tell you. 

There’s no better way to refresh the old muse than going racing. It clears the mind, leaving it fresh and clean as a mountain stream. The concentration required to write is nothing at all compared to the concentration required to dive into a corner at 120 mph, brake hard, downshift, and come out fast and fully in control. When you get it right, it’s better than sex (almost).  Facing total destruction and defeating it several times per lap is a tonic that lasts for days. Weeks!

But eventually it wears off. Several years ago I stopped amateur racing and sold the turquoise Porsche 914-6 race car pictured on this page. People ask me, “Don’t you miss it?” Ah, if only they knew!

When the Internet brought an opportunity to buy a ride, it was more than an old Formula One fan could resist. I'd never driven an open-wheel single-seater. 
The venue was Summit Point, West Virginia. I know the old track well, but they put us on the Jefferson Circuit, a short and treacherous 1.1 miles that I hadn't driven in several years. 

So here's the story, in pictures: 

The cars, small, lightweight, and fast.

I get some reconnaissance laps with a professional.

Am I nuts?

Smile, dammit!

Climbing aboard looks easy when they do it.

Where are the pedals?

That's not my helmet; it's my head. 

The competition: half my age and half my weight.

A cushion behind makes a short guy taller. 

What's that thing for?

My game face.

Okay. I can do this!

Any questions?

Whooooeee!

First lap ends. Guess who's in front.

Bye-bye!

Lap two: my pursuers fall back.

Lap three: where are they?

Uh-oh!

Next lap: He's still there!

He's still there, and ahead is a back marker.

Free at last! I've lapped the back marker and my pursuers are stuck behind him.

A nasty corner: double apex, decreasing radius, off-camber, and downhill.  Many come to grief here.
And I complete another lap alone. 

Last lap: The radio tells me "Checkered flag!" 

 Climbing out. 

Still climbing out. 

Still climbing out. Why is this so hard?

Hey guys, I've got to sit down awhile. I'm soaked through. But if this were a race, I would have won.

So the moral is: Age and wile top youth and skill. The truth is that soon I would have had a fight because those guys were in my mirrors for the last two laps. Then they would see what wile is. 
Thanks to my wife, who took the pictures. 

Buckle Up and Hold On Tight

A surprise is coming. Think speed.