The Hiwassee

We’re going down to Tennessee to kayak the Hiwassee River this weekend. I’m already packed. I’ve been packed for two weeks. Can’t wait.

While it’s always been a blast for us, it represents more to me. I’ve always been a reader and writer, so there’s lessons and symbolism in everything.

About four years ago, I bought a whitewater kayak and began to dabble. It was a sit-on-top design. Not exactly hard core, but a first step. It helped dispel initial apprehensions and had me sticking my nose into the stuff. Such as the stuff was around here. I felt a need to grow.

A paddling group from another city posted a trip to the Hiwassee. I knew the trip leader and got the information. It sounded like a bit more of a leap than I wanted to make, but I pondered it.

I floated the idea to some people I paddled with. One bit. She was more advanced than I was, so it sounded great to her. I committed to go and the die was cast.

The camping site was at the outfitter. The leader was billeting in a cabin elsewhere. He told me he would have his family with him and his wife preferred the cabin. I should’ve paid more attention.

We checked in and were directed to the reserved site. There were numerous campsites crammed into the property. They were small. We pitched our tents and the others in the group began to arrive. I had been wondering where their spots were. Surprise. There was only one spot. We helped them wedge in. We were not only tent-to-tent with each other, but with our tripmates and those occupying adjoining sites.

So, who needs more space than your own tent? If you have a fraternity on one side, a scout troop on the other, and a gospel singing group across from you, you need more space. It was cacophonous. I began to write off sleep.

But, the rains came. That squelched the singers and the scouts, giving hope, but the frat boys were already too well lubricated. Sleep was fitful.

The next morning, we gathered for instructions with the trip leader. He gave us a rundown of the rapids and other features we would encounter, along with the appropriate cautions. My mouth was drying out. I think he was even giving my experienced cohort reason to pause. He urged us to wait for him to tackle the rough parts and follow his route. No problem.

So, we launched. The river was fairly flat for the first quarter mile and then dropped into a sweeping curve of a rapid. The leader shouted out reminders of technique and precautions. It was nothing real challenging, but I made a couple errors. What had caused them?

I was being tentative. To succeed, when you go, go hard.

The next rapid came up and he provided instructions, offering an alternative route around it. No, I came here to learn. Right down the gut it would be. And, hard.

No problem. By halfway through the trip, we were charging ahead as soon as he yelled out the instructions. The next day, most of his yelling was to rein us in. The first day, the objective had been to make it down the river. Now, we were testing it and ourselves.

You can almost always do more than you think you can. I knew that, but just wasn’t applying it here. Sometimes, you have to be reminded. That’s what the Hiwassee reminds me of.

In subsequent years, I would lead our group on the same trip (renting a large, secluded cabin for us). I had moved on to a “regular” whitewater kayak and to playing the holes and waves for all they were worth. But, the real enjoyment was watching beginners progress through those stages with each passing year.

The Hiwassee reminds me that growth is always possible. Can’t wait for the weekend.

At last, a fortune cookie to believe in

I seldom touch a fortune cookie. The messages are banal and the vessels are more fit for packing material than consumption.

But, today's informal meeting drove me to seek diversion. The convener had run out of things to say at 12:04, but was still talking at 12:54. The delivery of checks and cookies didn't affect her momentum, much less our shuffling of feet and consulting of timepieces. Maybe cracking open a cookie would convey the message.

The slip inside read, "You will become hungry in the near future. Order take-out."

Jersey Boys

It’s nice to be “the date” once in a while. I thought this was supposed to really take off with women’s lib, but that doctrine just never picked up a lot of momentum.

Anyway, last night it was dinner at Jeff Ruby’s Steakhouse and over to the Aronoff for the performance of “Jersey Boys.” I’m sure she selected Ruby’s for me because the man makes a mean cow. She probably overlooked the apropos connection. Jeff is a Jersey boy.

JB is a musical production about the life and times of the Four Seasons. Rick Elick wrote the book. It could’ve been a template for hundreds of street lamp, alley and subway groups that sprung up in Jersey, Philly and Brooklyn at the time. Like the movie, “Eddie and the Cruisers.” I think anyone who was in one of them feels more than one little tug at various turns in the stories. Who didn’t fight over play lists or get screwed by club owners?

Musicals can be just a little swishy. Appropriate for most of their subjects, but a band from Jersey? Well, the Four Seasons were a little soft, as rock goes, so it wasn’t too bad.

They slipped in some good detail, like a young Joe Pesci. He was a hanger-on back then. In fact, I believe his first screen appearance was in the movie “Hey, Let’s Twist.” Joe was an uncredited extra in the movie that made Joey Dee and the Starliters (Jersey boys), as well as the Peppermint Lounge. Jumping into the musical limelight with a JB is the Jersey version of an audition (see: Courtney Cox).

The musical score for JB kind of writes itself. I mean, it’s the story of the Four Seasons, right? The writers didn’t go the easy route and laced it with some period stuff. There’s an Angels number (“My Boyfriend’s Back”) that’s almost a footnote to the story, but is one of the gems. If the Angels had the benefit of modern choreography, they might still be around. These performers killed.

For some of the numbers, they’d drop screens of actual performances over the stage. So, when they were appearing on “The Ed Sullivan Show,” they were doing the numbers on stage, but you saw the actual footage overhead. Very nice touch.

Always a danger in trying to portray icons and sing their numbers. More so with the unique Frankie Valli falsetto. But, it was a decent shot. Better than some of the stage Jersey accents.

But, does the show hold together? And how! It captured the ambiance of the times and swept up the audience into dancing and clapping along.

True art evokes emotion. This is true art.

Another day the music died

I’m driving down I-75 between appointments and my cell phone buzzes. I glance at the screen to see if it’s a call I have to take. It is. I turn down the radio and take the call.

When I’m driving and have to use the phone, I try to go into a zone of focus on the road and keep that a priority. I’d rather miss something in the call than a lane changer in front of me.

It’s a listening call. A lawyer is reading off a skein of proposed changes to a complex contract. Like I need a challenge to my concentration.

Somewhere in the ninth paragraph, I become aware that the fingers of my right hand are twitching. No, it’s more of a rhythm. No, it’s a strumming. Some long dormant program is driving it. I know what it is and it doesn’t feel like a random recollection. Something triggered it and there’s a potent sentiment attached. “I’ll call you back in an hour,” I interject and hang up. The meaning is floating just below my conscious thoughts.

I turn the radio back up. Ellas McDaniel died.

The song was “Who do you love?” It was a number I sang lead on with the band I had in high school. It absolutely killed. You’ve heard it covered by many much more renown than our little alley band. Morrison does one of the best versions in a live recording on a Doors album.

I usually played autoharp when I sang lead. Not exactly. Our technogeek rigged one with a contact mike and reverb unit to provide that heavy bass guitar twang. We were low budget.

Not a lot of chord changes in many McDaniel numbers. He often got it done with one chord and a lot of rhythm. It got the job done. Oh man, did it get it done. Ask The Who, Yardbirds, Beatles, Animals, Quicksilver Messenger Service, The Clash, Creedence, Thorogood, Petty, Clapton and myriad of others who covered him.

We used to cut school and hop a train to New York to catch hot acts in Greenwich Village. The Village Gate at Bleecker and Thompson was where you could always pick up some hot licks to play at the dance that weekend. McDaniel had some of the hottest. He set the place on fire and rocked it to the ground. Without the benefit of special effects, I might add.

If you scan down his discography, you’ll recognize a whole lot of his work. One of the truly great. A piece of the music died with Ellas McDaniel today, a very big piece.

You knew him as Bo Diddley.

Is it wrong to be Wright?

Last week, I took a trip to western Pennsylvania to enjoy the many delights of the Laurel Highlands. This was to include Fallingwater, the famous Frank Lloyd Wright creation. It’s worth seeing, but strikes me more as a lesson in managing specialized talent, or ego, than the epitome of residential design.

For context, my base of operations was Nemacolin. This resort provided contrast to Wright’s organic architecture. Joe Brady is more of the school, “whatever the best costs, we can spend more.” If you don’t find yourself on the short list to weekend at Buckingham Palace, Nemacolin is a good way to salve your wounds. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t lavish naked opulence upon myself, but the occasion merited it.

Fallingwater is right up the road from Brady’s homage to excess. It’s a windy, mountain road, which puts you in the proper frame of mind. From the visitors center, you follow a wooded path to Fallingwater, which you catch sight of from the opposite bank of Bear Run.

The view bodes well. The horizontal layers fairly cascade down the side of the gorge. That was almost the case, as I was to learn.

Our group met the guide on the foot bridge over Bear Run. She launched into a history of the house, addressing the obvious question. If you had purchased property with a waterfall, as Edgar Kaufmann had, why not build a house just downstream of it, instead of hovering over, so you’d have a great view? That was Kaufmann’s intent, but Wright talked him into the cantilevered approach on top of the falls, which precludes a dramatic view.

To “enjoy” the falls, a platform was suspended from underneath the lowest deck. I don’t know if I’d be less inclined to dip into frigid mountain water in a permanently shaded area or plunge into moving water just above a falls.

The guide transitioned into the rules and regs. The doorways were intentionally designed to be tight, so take care that your buckles, buttons, etc. didn’t scratch the wood. Also, Wright designed most of the furniture, which was largely veneer over plywood and somewhat fragile. Do not touch anything, much less sit or lean on it. A member of the group wondered aloud why you would go to this extent and then elect plywood furnishings. I was struggling to fit plywood into the organic scheme of things.

The guide had not exaggerated about the diminutive doorways. She went on to explain that Wright wanted you to feel like you were exploding into a room. That might be novel up to the point where you wanted to change some furniture around or just walk through a doorway without carefully lining up your trajectory.

To maintain the part-of-nature ambiance, the interior is stone and wood. Also, limited by a 6’ ceiling with elevated, slot-like windows in areas. Natural feel, if you’re a bat. Welcome to the bunker. The furniture was built low, because Wright wanted you to see nothing but trees if you looked out the high windows. Or, if you were standing, the design forced you to look outside. If I want to look outside, I’ll look outside. How about some light, in case I’m inside and want to look inside?

Yes, I know Wright’s hailed as one of the greatest architects of all time, but if I’m cutting the check, I draw the line where art butts heads with lifestyle. In this vein, Kaufmann wanted four garages. Wright pooh-poohed that, saying that doors and walls were unnecessary because the cars were going nowhere without drivers. He gave Kaufmann open carports instead. Nothing says “organic” like an exposed brace of Buicks.

All of this is a matter of the artistic eye. What isn’t is that the house cost $115,000 to build, and a hundred times that to prevent it from breaking up and sliding into the creek. It started to list almost before it was done.

It’s not like the flaws in design weren’t obvious. Kaufmann’s engineers warned him that it was structurally unsound. Experienced construction workers refused to knock out temporary wooden supports when some sections were completed. Instead, they winched them out from a safe position off to the side. Maybe it’s just me, but if I’m having a house built and the people putting it together refuse to stand under the roof, I’m going to have some serious reservations.

The engineering flaws manifested themselves as cracks and fissures. These were portals for snakes and rodents, as well as the water running down the walls of the gorge. Nothing sets off a vacation retreat like a field mouse splashing through a puddle in the living room.

It does have its touches, especially incorporating the existing rock structure. And, I would allow that it is a work of art. But, my idea of architectural genius is something that requires less than ten million bucks to prevent it from collapsing under its own weight.

A few miles down the road is Kentuck Knob, another Wright creation. It is a lot more livable. My opinion is that the livability is a credit to I. N. Hagan (the original owner) digging his heels in when it came to making some design calls.

Wright set out to design one of his Usonian creations and the original drawings called for a 1,200 s.f. structure. Usonian was Wright’s movement to design housing that almost anyone could afford.

That might be fine if you’re wedging a few hundred prefabs into a Levittown plat. But, if I’m laying out the kind of jack it takes to secure one of the prime mountaintops in the range, I might want to splurge a wee bit. The Hagans appear to have agreed with me and coerced Frank into doubling the space.

They didn’t hold firm enough, however. The knob summit overlooks the spectacular panorama of the Youghiogheny River Gorge. However, Wright said that you don’t build houses on a mountaintop because it ruins the mountaintop. You build in its side.

Excuse me, Frankie, but I just coughed up a mountain of currency for this mountaintop with the whole point of the exercise to have a mountaintop view. I did not pay the premium to look at the unspoiled knob. I paid it for the view from the knob, so put it up there. Thank you very much.

Mrs. Hagan did take on Wright in at least one area, the kitchen. Many of his kitchens seem to be an afterthought, if not something designed for a lowly retainer. You may not be far off course to link this to Wright’s numerous wives and paramours. While Kentuck Knob’s kitchen is somewhat spare in area, it resembles a World’ Fair exhibit in advanced gadgetry of the time. And, everything is still functional, attesting to the quality.

And, the present owner of Kentuck Knob still uses the home on occasion, especially for guests. This speaks to the more pragmatic nature of this creation.

Fallingwater is a sight to see if you’re a fan of art. Or, Howard Roark.