This week is the thirty-ninth anniversary of one of the great upsets in sports history, Australia’s win over the United States in the 1983 America’s Cup twelve meter Yacht race. Generally considered the longest winning streak in sports, the USA had retained the cup against all challengers for one hundred thirty two years straight.   But in 1983 the Royal Perth Yacht Club entered the twelve meter yacht Australia II, skippered by John Bertrand and bankrolled by businessman Alan Bond, a larger than life character who’d made his fortune in property deals and construction. Bond was a gambler who never flinched at putting his money on the line, and never backed down from a challenge.  Defending the cup since 1857, the New York Yacht Club was an exclusive group of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the United States. Their boat that year, Liberty, was skippered by the renowned Dennis Conner, maybe the finest sailor on the planet. The members of the New York Yacht Club were a group of men (there were no women members) not used to losing, had not lost in over a century, and had no plans to lose. Ever. In contrast, the team of John Bertrand and Alan Bond were upstarts. Whereas Dennis Conner was a celebrity in moneyed America, and had recently been featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated, nobody outside of sailing circles had heard of Bertrand. He was respected by his small group of peers, but unknown outside that group. Bond was “new money,” and would never have been invited inside the NYYC (New York Yacht Club.) And then there was the boat, Australia II. She was designed by Ben Lexcen, a sailor and marine architect who as a child had been abandoned by his laborer parents, sent to foster care, then dropped out of school at the age of fourteen to begin working at shipyards, building boats. What he invented that year, 1983, designing Australia II, was a completely revolutionary keel design, the winged keel. Under the boat, in the Read more [...]

Morning on Jasper Lake, Minnesota. One in a string of mountain lakes in BWCA, Boundary Waters Canoe Area. It’s way off the grid wilderness, bordering on Canada, and we’ve come far back into it, canoeing ten miles over and through five different lakes to get here yesterday.  My brother and I are traveling with our friends Tom and Marilyn, a retired doctor and his therapist wife, who have made multiple journeys out into this wild and beautiful country of over a thousand lakes and a million acres. Power boats or motored transport of any kind are not allowed here. Canoes and hikers only. Aircraft are required to adjust their flight plans to avoid flying over BWCA.  We are camped on a large granite outcropping, jutting out into the lake. A basic feature of the country, these large boulders were left behind when glaciers carved out these lakes over hundreds of thousands of years. Scrape marks on the rock attest to the power of the advancing and retreating ice. There are no man made dams here, only mother nature at work. Digging.  We’ve pitched the tents in the shade of the pines and cedars that have taken root in the thin soil. The views over the water from our high perch are expansive and well…breathtaking. A large beaver swims lazily next to the shore, curious about us. Loons dive and surface, their haunting calls reverberating off the granite cliffs.  Bald eagles watch from the treetops, swooping down on unsuspecting fish. My brother and Tom have taken a canoe out this morning and come back with three glistening lake trout. Marilyn and I fry them up with scrambled eggs and bagels for breakfast.  Today is not a traveling day, which is a relief after the paddle in yesterday. In addition to canoeing across the five lakes, there was a portage between each pair. Where everything is carried across rocky connecting trails, sometimes fifty yards, sometimes a half mile. Occasionally more. Tom has demonstrated the technique Read more [...]

On a drive up through the heart of America, heading toward the Boundary Waters in Minnesota, my brother and I encounter a major thunderstorm coming across Illinois. It’s a flat but beautiful country of farms and windmills. Green wheat, corn, and soybeans stretch for miles in every direction, and Interstate 36 plows right through the middle of it. To the north, straight in front of us, we can see the storm off in the distance. It’s dark, very dark, and as we close in bolts of lightning tear toward the ground. It stretches from one corner of the horizon to the other, over the broad farmland. We have some sandwiches packed, and had planned to stop and eat lunch at the next rest area, but by the time we reach it the rain is blowing sideways in sheets. We sit silently and eat in the car instead, as it drums away on the roof and windshield. Pretty well used up from a long day of driving, we check into a hotel that evening and order Chinese from a nearby restaurant. I volunteer to go pick it up and get there near closing. A mop bucket stands near the kitchen entrance and I walk in just in time to see a young Asian woman disappear into the back. At the counter a small boy, not more than ten, is standing, almost formally, at the register. Barely tall enough to see over the counter top, he asks me, in a polite tone, what I have ordered.  “Moo goo guy pan with brown sauce, and beef with broccoli.” “That will be $23.45, please.” He takes my card, hands me the receipt. I see the top of another small head peek out from underneath. “Is there someone else back there?” I ask, leaning forward over the counter. His sister pops up with a large smile, blushing, and runs to the back. I sign the receipt and ask the young man. “Will your mom split this tip with you?” He shakes his head no with a look of disbelief at my ignorant question, then steps into the kitchen, where his mother is cooking my order. I’ve been in a few restaurant Read more [...]

Anyone who travels much knows the drill. The standard things we pack, according to the destination. For overnight trips, three to four days, or even a week, I have a medium sized green duffle perfect for the job. It easily holds a few changes of clothes and clean underwear (so my mother doesn’t worry, bless her soul,) toiletries, notebooks and laptop, chargers, a good book plus a kindle with more - meds, headwear, flip flops, and other assorted whatevers.   If the trip involves air travel, the luggage changes though the contents remain. There’s a well worn black TravelPro carry-on I'm fond of, with plenty of various sized and configured pockets around a good sized main compartment. It still rolls on old fashioned two wheels, the zippers all work, and I have found no reason to upgrade. It is also expandable, but I almost never have use for that, and it fits in any overhead bin. Attached is a large blue name tag, to help distinguish it from all the other ubiquitous black carry-ons. I long ago learned to carefully fold and roll my clothes. It minimizes wrinkles and is so much more space efficient. Socks, earbuds, and other small odds and ends tuck neatly into the spaces around the rolls. Also a tiny bluetooth speaker I’ve started to bring along, about half the size of a small can of tomato paste, with excellent sound that belies its size and price. Over the last several years I’ve built some substantial playlists on my phone, and both iTunes and Spotify know all my algorithms. I’m always careful not to foist my music or podcasts on fellow travelers, and my favorite sound is silence, but I've learned there’s a time and a place for having some music on hand. One can only read so many books in a day after all, and sometimes need a break. A well chosen song lightens the heart and relieves the mind. But I digress. The original point was that I have a very specialized journey at hand, to which I’m having to give serious thought and attention Read more [...]

There’s a vegetable stand we like to stop at in the summer once local veggies and fruit start coming in. It’s on a side road so not everyone knows about it. In the front yard of a small well kept brick house, protected from the elements by one of those portable carports with the plastic roofs.  It’s on the honor system. Prices are written on a white board, and you do your shopping, then put the money in a slot in the top of a metal box. Last week when we stopped, there were beautiful peaches, yellow squash, silver queen corn, white potatoes, cucumbers, and…. wait for it …. home grown tomatoes.  We bought some of almost everything. And that night had a memorable vegetable supper of fried yellow squash, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and coleslaw. Along with iron skillet cornbread, sliced tomatoes and vidalia onion. And fried peach pies for dessert. It all tasted wonderful, and brought back memories of my grandmother’s kitchen when I visited every year on summer break. All that was missing from the meal was her green beans, long cooked with pork belly. This was before pork belly became a staple as an appetizer in hipster restaurants. A humble cut of meat marked up astronomically. I love it as a seasoning agent in beans. On a bed of arugula with five spice maple glaze, not as much. My grandparent’s house was on a nice sized piece of land in Cherokee County, where I learned to shoot but not really hunt. I was way too tender-hearted to actually kill anything. My grandfather plowed up a half acre of bottomland for my grandmother’s garden spot. And in case you don’t think in acres, a half acre vegetable garden is a big ass garden. I would look out my bedroom window in the mornings and see her broad brimmed straw hat in amongst the pole beans. She had a short three legged pine stool my grandfather had made for her, that she could carry around, and sit and weed, or pick. A large old apple tree stood at one end of the garden, and Read more [...]

I don’t talk much to my friends any more. Mostly we just text. Or like stuff on Facebook. Sign of the times I guess and I don’t worry too much about it. Wading in the shallow water of connection, if in fact that’s what it is. But only so much can be said in a text, and sometimes a phone call fills the need better. And of course there’s no real substitute for face to face in person quality time. My friend Scottie and I have known each other for thirty years. We've always kept in touch, but between life, work, and raising families we haven’t spent much real time together. That began to change this year when he invited me down to his house in the city, and we ended up going out to Miller Union where his brother Steven is chef owner. To my taste, Miller Union is still my favorite Atlanta restaurant, and one of the best in the country. We were late arriving, and just sat at the bar and had a fabulous meal. My daughter Sophie worked here for a time, and some of the staff drop by to ask about her. Steven’s business partner Neal says he has a raise waiting should she ever want to come back. She was a food lover before she ever came here but it was this restaurant that helped shape her knowledge. It’s that kind of place.  After the kitchen closed Steven came out and sat with us, and we shared some good wine and company. Steven won the James Beard award for best chef Southeast, and had a new cookbook out, which I was reading. The conversation turned to food, and then writing. His editor had been Anthony Bourdain’s editor, and we spoke of our admiration for Bourdain’s work, and a meaningful life cut short. It was nice hanging out, and Steven picked up the check, which was kind. Afterward Scott and I walked up to Northside Tavern, one of Atlanta’s great dive bars, and caught a really killer band doing Allman Brothers covers. All in all, an evening well spent, and we made a promise to get together again sooner rather than later.    So Read more [...]

Over the last year or so we’ve been learning to dance. Waltz, East Coast Swing, and Two Step are a few we’ve dabbled in. It started with a trip to the local American Legion, Club 201. Certain nights of the week they focus on a particular dance style, and for a nominal fee, you show up, get an hour of instruction, and then the floor opens up for practice and socializing. Music is usually provided by a DJ, or sometimes a band on the weekends. There’s almost always a good turn out.  And it’s a hoot. On our first visit, we met an Irish couple who really knew how to do it. Johnna danced with the gentleman some, learned a few things. I danced with his wife, who showed me some of the basics. And though she didn’t say much, what she did say was in a lovely Northern Irish lilt, the sound of which lightened my steps. Immediately I figured out I knew basically nothing. Which could have been disheartening but wasn’t - it just piqued my interest more. What she did tell me, in no uncertain terms, was that the man has to lead. The woman follows the man’s lead. And there lies the rub. The man must learn the steps and moves so he is able to lead. And in addition, keep it in his head what is coming next. So, not only does the man have to know where he and his partner are within the dance, he has to initiate where you’re going. No slacking. Having always been a bit of a slacker, I was at an immediate disadvantage. Also, before I go too far down the rabbit hole in the wrong direction, the correct term for a dance couple is not man and woman, but leader and follower. Still, at American Legion Post 201, generally the man is expected to lead. And it is these expectations that both curse and inspire.  After several visits to the Legion, we agreed that further lessons were needed, more one on one instruction. So every other Tuesday that’s what we’ve been doing, with another couple who are friends of ours and at a similar novice level. The four of us Read more [...]

A few days ago I’m sitting on the front porch with my brother, and we hear a car coming up the driveway toward the house. It’s fairly remote out here and we don’t often get unexpected guests so we’re watching to see who it could be. Probably just a lost tourist or someone trying to buy property.  A nice new Subaru comes into view, pulls up and parks. A young woman, tatted up, ball cap, work boots, gets out and walks toward us. Turns out she is the niece of the lady who keeps horses in our pasture, and she’s just here to check their water. There’s been a bit of a drought, and it’s hot. I ask her how Mary is doing. That’s her aunt, the horse lady. Her husband passed away from cancer last year, leaving her with a farm to work, a trail riding business and a young teenage daughter. Quite a few horses to take care of. Life isn’t always fair. She usually keeps two or three in our pasture here. They’re no trouble, and pretty to look at. We keep some sweet feed and horse treats on hand and they will usually come to the fence when they see us coming. Mary cycles different ones in month to month, but one horse is pretty much a constant. King Phillip is his name, and he’s a big, noble looking animal. Solid black with a white blaze face. He’s also old, twenty eight, and lame in his front legs. Mary had told me a couple of years ago that he was going to have to be put down because of his legs, that he’s in a lot of pain. But he’s still here, and we try to treat him a little special. Seems like the old guy deserves it. She usually puts young horses in here with him. He’s very calm, and they stick close to him as he moves around the hillside, showing them the ropes so to speak. Or in this case the fenceline. The young ones are inexperienced and can be excitable. Phillip helps with their education, in his own stoic way. Horses herd naturally, but don’t always necessarily get along. King Phillip gets along with everybody.      Hadley. Read more [...]

I’ve started walking in the mornings lately. It began as a need for exercise, which I know I need more of, but is also a chance to just move, put on my shoes and get out into the world. Today I take a different route than usual, the less scenic route, and it immediately takes me up a long hill, several hundred yards of steady grade. I drive from my house almost every day up this hill, and usually see someone standing at the top. In my car driving thought process, for a moment of leisure I assumed. Wrong. The truth is, they were stopping to catch their breath.  Which I do now for a minute in the shade. Then I walk on, down Peachtree Street, past Houston’s with their shaded outdoor patio, birds in the trees, jazz piping out softly over the tables. Atlanta is known as the city in a forest, and the birds will wake you up in the morning. Not city birds like pigeons or starlings, but song birds singing away, wrens, nuthatches, chickadees. Plenty of mature hardwoods and green space back in these neighborhoods, and the birds thrive.  It’s late morning in the middle of our first heatwave, and it is ninety degrees already. I walk a quarter mile or so and turn off on Bennett Street, looking for the Museum of Contemporary Art of Georgia. MOCAGA. I know it’s here somewhere, and have been meaning to find it and have a look. As with other things, people move to the city for the museums and culture, and then never quite make it actually to the museum. And our culture comes from our car radios.  I find it at the end of the street, among some warehouses, across from a large power station. The doors are locked and it’s dark inside. But it’s still a few minutes before opening so I sit down under the front awning and wait. Did I mention we’re in the middle of a heat wave? It’s ninety degrees on the concrete steps where I’m sitting.  After twenty minutes or so, the lights come on inside and a woman comes to the door, unlocks it, and picks Read more [...]

A few years ago I rode on a cross country motorcycle trip with some friends. We started in Tennessee and took mostly two lane roads across Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas, heading for Santa Fe, New Mexico. It was the middle of summer, riding across Texas was swelteringly hot, and we pit stopped for gas and a cold drink. Bikes parked, sitting in the shade sweating, a beat up Ford pick-up coughs to a stop and parks. A ragged cowboy steps out, gives us a wry look. “Welcome to Snyder, boys. You in the armpit of Texas!” “Appreciate it. Who are you, the mayor?” My buddy replies. Approaching Santa Fe from Albuquerque,  the road winds up and up into the high desert.  Coming around a curve in the middle of nowhere, a simple adobe church sits alone. It’s a four hundred year old Spanish mission, beautiful in its simplicity. Built in the 1600’s by Spanish friars bringing Christianity to the indigenious people here, it was remote and dangerous work. The natives, having been here a thousand years, were understandably reluctant to change. But the Spanish were not easily dissuaded, and often brutal. As with most of European colonization, not one of Christianity’s finest moments.      In Santa Fe we meet my brother, coming from California, and the (now) four of us ride up from Santa Fe over the mountain plateaus to Taos, crossing over the Rio Grande on a suspension bridge nine hundred feet above the river. It's a heart stopping view, and would give a person vertigo looking down over either side. That evening we have some good Mexican food at a local cantina and wander around the old Taos Plaza looking at remnants and reproductions of the Wild West. Outside of town, Taos Pueblo, a Unesco World Heritage sight, has been home to the Tiwa tribe for over a thousand years, one of the oldest continually inhabited sites in America. Kit Carson’s home, the famous Indian fighter, scout, and mountain man, is a museum now. On one Read more [...]