Wellerman Sea Shanty TikTok

Uploading this for some friends.

A young scotsman recorded himself singing a New Zealand sea shanty. For a drum, he thumps on a wooden box in his lap with a gloved fist. Posts it on TikTok.

Somebody likes the song and takes that, duplicates parts and remixes it to make the sound richer. Reposts it.

Then some guy takes that and sings a bass harmony, which he adds on top. Reposts that.

Others pick up and add other parts, all recorded just on their iPhone mics, with videos of themselves in front, the previous ones receding further back. It starts to look like a funhouse mirror.

I’ve added a minute of each, end to end, so you can hear the increasing complexity. You’ll want to listen with headphones or good speakers if you can to hear the layers building.

At the end I added Hank or Jonathan Green explaining the history of the song they’re singing.

Boat Buddies Bookshelf

 

Back around Christmas,  a bunch of the guys in the sailing group started asking about making a delivery from Philly, Delaware, and Jersey – “a major award” they called it, and promised it was neither a leg lamp nor Brandi, the  rubber mermaid fender. This week they showed up for a tour, with the goods in tow.

 

 

Most of us sailors are also readers. There was much relief that the boats were safe, but it hurt them to hear that my library had burned. So they banded together and brought me a new handmade bookshelf and four crates of books to fill it. Totally blew me away.

 

 

Apparently, this has been in the works for some time. I may not have this exactly right, but apparently Paul S., a teacher, salvaged some clear Douglas Fir from the old bleachers during a gym renovation. He delivered it to Kevin B. at the Mid-Atlantic Small Craft Festival  in St. Michaels, who then drove it back to DC to build the shelves. Meanwhile, over a dozen of the guys pitched in and put together a collection of books. Emily says they contacted her to see if she could suss out what I needed.

Many of the titles they sent were those I had before the fire and were on my list to find again and replace if I could. Many I have not heard of, but now look forward to reading. Add these to the books from Doug L. and Dave G., and I’m well on the way to restarting the library again.

Pete P. even tossed in a framed print of me sailing in Caesura with the tops’l up, taken on one of my last trips with the crew.

 

 

Thanks guys!

All of the above, including just seeing good friends again, made me realize how much I’ve missed it. By the time warm weather returns I should be ready to get on the water again. Even Steve E. has been prodding with a standing invitation, so it’s long overdue.

 

Paddling the Canal at Winter Harbor

 

direct youtube link

 

We snuck in a few days at Winter Harbor this year. We had to forfeit last year, and missed it. Too much life going on. But this year, with the house nearly done we felt we could take a few days off and not lose the chance again. Glad we did.

The sailboats are still in storage, but we took the canoe, paddled it over and back. I took photos and video as usual, but just haven’t had time to look at any of it. Went back tonight, back at my editing station again finally, and got a nice feeling from this part. Enjoy.

May we all have more days like this in the coming year.

 

 

 

Things We Saved: Sails, a Jewelry Box

 

The floors got refinished Friday, so we had to stay out of the house all weekend. This finally made some time for a chore postponed for a year now – washing the Melonseed sails.

Jim Drake, a fine boatbuilder and fellow sailor in the Old Bay Club, got in touch shortly after the fire, so soon I think there was still steam rising from the snow. He asked what he could do to help.

The night of the fire, the fire marshal generously offered to take us into the house to retrieve anything of value. We were so numb we couldn’t think. He went in and pulled photos off the walls, and found Terri’s handmade jewelry box, black as ebony, and brought them to us. I could only think of one thing – my sails, stored in the basement where the fire started.

We went in by the basement door wearing headlamps, and waded  through shin deep sooty water, still raining down from the floors above. By the light of the headlamps I could see gear and tools and wood bobbing around in the black pool. The shop looked like the hold of a sinking ship. We grabbed the sails rolled up in Tyvek, and carried them out into the yard.

In daylight the next morning, I could see that, miraculously, they had not been scorched, but were covered in soot. When I heard from Jim, maybe even that day, the only thing I could think of was this boatbuilder friend might be able to figure out how to clean them.

And he did. A short time later a box arrived from his sail loft, containing two pounds of special cleaning powder and a set of simple instructions. For a year now, the sails and the cleaner have been stored in Doug’s rented garage, waiting for me to attend to it. Besides being consumed with house construction, the prospect of trying to clean the sails, perhaps only to find them beyond saving, was enough to put me off. With move in day coming in less than a week, and the wet floors keeping other tasks at bay, seemed like it was now or never.

They soaked in a tub of hot water with the cleaning solution overnight, stirring with a soup ladle every few hours. This morning I pulled the plug. Trying to rinse them from outside the tub was a full contact sport, like wrestling a jellyfish. I finally gave up, stripped down, and just got in the shower with them. Which worked out well, but I will spare my gentle readers the photos of that particular step.

They hung from the rope swing out in the wind and the sun all day to dry. I must say, they look almost as good as new. Cleaner than they were before the fire. There are only a few faint smudges left, adding character. I’ll always remember where those came from.

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, and Terri’s jewelry box? Another friend, fine cabinet maker Todd Leback of Vaneri Studio,  took on the task of restoring it and sent a photo. It looks like the original birdseye maple again.

 

 

Two more things to make our Christmas a lot more cheerful.

 

 

 

 

Wood is Beautiful

 

Almost done. Scraper to smooth, followed by one last finish coat.

Then design the bases.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scottsville, Virginia

postcards from the road

Buy or Build?

 

The way insurance works, to replace some of our old with new we need to save cost elsewhere. Fortunately, we like to make things.

I’ve saved these spalted maple rounds since the tree fell down next to the house 20 years ago.

It appears after all this time they want to be end tables.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scottsville, Virginia

 

postcards from the road

 

Resurrection Palm

A year before the fire, after first pruning.

 

Forty years ago, in my first semester of college, I bought some plants to furnish the room. The dorms were dim and dogeared, depressing. Plants were cheaper than chairs, so I picked some up at a campus sale, all in little 4″ pots. For a few bucks they brought a little life into the place. At least for a while. The room was so dark, most of them died by the end of the first year.

One, though, managed to hang on. An odd little thing, just a grey scaly bulb the size of a billiard ball, with skin like an elephant, half buried in the soil. A stout trunk tapered up from the bulb, topped with a pom-pom of grassy green leaves. It looked like something right out of Dr. Seuss. A botany major friend determined it was a ponytail palm. I became rather fond of it. Frond of it?

The next year I moved off campus and it came with me, suffering mightily for the rest of my college career – knocked over by inebriated housemates, dug up and defecated on by ill-behaved cats, neglected when I went away for holidays. Even stayed home alone the summer I went abroad. It survived all that, and eventually outgrew the original pot, earning a splurge on a new larger non-plastic container.

I left college, and the plant came with me.

Years went by and wherever I went the plant went, too. Cars and furniture and clothes and jobs got shed along the way, dead husks shucked off like snake skins, but after each purge the plant remained. If I dug through all the photos of my life over the past 40 years, this one odd thing would keep popping up in the background like a silent Forrest Gump:

  • In a cabin on the York River where I had my first wooden sailboat, sitting on the old grain scale that served for an end table.
  • In the apartment in downtown Atlanta just off Peachtree Street, where I squatted under a tree next to John Lee Hooker playing the blues in Piedmont Park, and saw R.E.M. in a bar in Athens for $5, which included a pitcher of beer.
  • On the iron balcony of a pink victorian in the historic district of Savannah, where church bells chimed on Sunday mornings and Spanish Moss collected on the railings, and finches twittered in the aviary I built for them that summer when the Challenger exploded with a teacher aboard.
  • In the basement of my grandmother’s house in Richmond, when Apple and Microsoft started marketing the first viable desktop computers, and the Berlin Wall came down.
  • There in the attic in Richmond when I logged onto the World Wide Web for the first time, and stayed up all night exchanging messages with people across the world over a dialup modem.
  • In the background, a little bigger now, when my daughters were born, and learned to walk and swim and ride a bike.
  • In Scottsville, where they played soccer and finished high school and went off to college themselves.
  • In the sunroom where Terri and I drank coffee and planned trips to the West Coast or the Low Country.

All the while that funny little plant kept going, eventually filling a large oriental porcelain pot the size of a bucket, standing in the corner so tall it brushed the 9 foot ceilings in our house.

Until the night of the fire.

 

 

 

 

A week after the fire.

 

When we walked through the house the next day, all the plants were wilted, black like everything else. That night it got down to 16 degrees. Though heat from the fire kept the whole house warm for a day, it dipped below freezing every night the following week. There was no power and no heat in the house. Everything froze.

Seven days after the fire, I gave Doug a tour of the damage. When we came to this plant – black and wilted, covered in soot –he said, you know, that’s a pretty big root ball, it might be OK, maybe you could save it?

So a few days later I took it out back, lopped off the stalk, and stuck it in the neighbor’s spare room with the other smokey things we hoped to save. A month after that, I brought it to the cottage, still bare and black, and set it near the window and watered it.

 

Two months after the fire.

 

A month later still, two months after the fire, I noticed a small lump on the stalk. Then, a few days later, a tiny spud of green broke through.

 

 

I tipped the pot over and let all the black sooty water drain out, added some fresh soil. A week later, another spud appeared, then another.

 

 

 

 

 

Now, there are several sprouts of green, and it seems this tough old plant refuses to die.

 

 

 

 

 

When I lived in Savannah, I discovered a remarkable native plant called “Resurrection Fern“. It spreads out along the top of big Live Oak limbs forming a fringe of little bonsai forests.

 

 

 

Resurrection Fern after a rain.

 

An epiphyte, it has no root system, since there’s no soil where it grows. It clings to the bark and survives in the humid southern air on nutrients in the dust and rain dripping down the limbs.

In periods between rains it turns grey and shrivels up like origami ashes, losing up to 97% of it’s moisture and going dormant. But it revives and turns vivid green again within hours after the first splash of rain. Most plants die after losing only 10% of their water, and don’t come back. These plants could remain dormant without water for over a century, and still revive.

Very impressive, these little ferns.

So I’m christening this tough and homely house plant of mine the Resurrection Palm.