Higgins

Medusa Head Plate

I know that the title of this blog would lead you to believe that I am only going to focus on being outside with my dog... but my life does go beyond that, and so, my blog will as well.

Besides, today should be recorded. At precisely 3:30 in the afternoon today, Worcester Massachusetts

lost one of the coolest things it possessed. Higgins Armory closed forever today. It had survived 83 years as a private collection of arms and armor. John Higgins, an industrialist in the early 1900's started collecting armor on his many trips to Europe. He created and sustained both the building and the collection. When he died he left the museum $17,000 to continue displaying his collection. This really wasn't a lot of money, but through creative means, the trusties (his children among them) found ways to stretch that initial money into over 80 years of presentation. All of the pieces are now going to be displayed at the Worcester Art Museum. For those familiar with WAM, what is now the library will be the entire collection of arms and armor. They intend to make the entire collection visible at all times to visitors.

I couldn't let the place close without one final visit. Our whole family set out this morning and got

there about ten minutes before the museum opened. As you can see, and as we certainly expected, there was a line. But it moved fast enough and soon we were through the think wooden doors that lead into the Great Hall. I love the Great Hall. It is just as it should be,  two stories tall with barrel vaulted ceilings and a rose window at one end. I remember going there when I was little. I thought we were going to have to drive all day to go there. The place hasn't changed a whole lot. The collection, I believe, is now static. The good thing about museums, is that the collection is always the collection: A dagger and sheath from 700 BCE is still from 700 BCE, it is just a tiny bit older than when I saw it the first time.

There is something special about the middle ages. I know it has been nearly romanticized to death, but hell even the word "romanticized" stems from that time period. The Arthurian Romances (a name given them because of their association with Rome and then redefined into our modern understanding of romance because of the chivalry and lustiness present within Arthurian Legends) reached into who I am, and really the whole world, and found that part of us that valued chivalry and honor, strength

and purity of spirit and purpose. I still have a collection of his tales given to me by my first girlfriend tucked nicely in my library. Suits of Armor are really far more than protective technology, they symbolize, through tales sung by bards and passed down through Oral tradition to audiences of peasants and royalty alike, the true mettle of the human spirit. Beowulf did fight Grendel and the dragons deep under the thick water of a black and poison pond, but also found himself questioning the fate of a world that was slowly turning away from superstition and toward religion. Arthur's true glory wasn't in his might as a warrior, but in his undying spirit and thirst for a justice tempered by mercy embodied in his sword Excalibur. Legend states that his messianic return to Britain waits for them to turn toward the type of purity in justice that he offered.

I understand why John Higgins wanted to collect these pieces. Yes he was a steel worker, and I am sure that on the surface the artistry of the process appealed to him, but I think we go there to feel a bit of Arthur's presence again.

the "Bilbo" Blade

The place is filled with Viking weapons, knights' swords with their own names (like Bilbo! If this sword weren't encased in glass I don't know if I would have been able to resist touching it ... waiting... hoping that that blade would start to glow blue.) armor that was made as much for beauty as it was for self-preservation. Even the wood working is so foreign and at the same time familiar.

I will miss you, breezy, silver building.
Goodbye to Higgins Armory. May the ghosts of the knights that once inhabited those suits of armor still walk your halls.
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why I follow coyotes

You went to a library. It was a new one, but a very old one, in the middle of some old New England town. It was made of brick, or of stone. It was weathered and you touched the outside walls by instinct, just to see if they would crumble a bit in your hand. The doors creaked when you walked in and the Librarian, who was old, hunched, wearing those glasses with the little chains attached to the sides so they wouldn't fall too far if they were to suicidally attempt to jump off of her face, looked up at you slightly annoyed, leaving you with that pleasant feeling of slight intrusion. You walked past her and past the new part of the library that was sadly made of metal and bolts and wandered up the stairs that were railed with thick wooden rails. The steps curved their way upward toward the older part of the library. There were long-unused fireplaces threateningly placed precariously close to the old, dented wooden shelves that held the low-traffic books about things like the history of various neighboring towns and about the architectural significance of a selection of buildings in Boston. You could smell these books. You walked down an aisle that was a little too close to your shoulders and found a green, high-backed seat, sitted crookedly across from another fireplace that had forgotten its purpose a hundred years ago and you sat, because honestly, who could resist it? The chair felt good and a little hard in spots. In front of you rested a smaller shelf of books that was inset in the wall, hidden behind a little sliding glass door. One book was a history of the library itself, and because the aisle completely hid you from view, you reached out and tried to slide the little glass door aside. And it slid. You waited a second, glanced up and around you, because that what burglers do on TV and you picked up the book. 

A small click sounded somewhere behind you. You felt it more than heard it as it resonated through the wooden frame of the green high-backed chair. You noticed now, that the book was previously resting on a small platform that had raised ever so slightly when you picked up the book. You turned to try to look behind you and noticed that one of the wooden panels in the wall, about three feet high, sat slightly ajar. 

"Oh God," you thought as a feeling that was born of every Hardy Boy novel and Scooby Doo episode you ever saw welled up in your chest. 

And you went in.

This is why I follow coyote trails. They lead places, places that only the coyotes know about, and I want to

go there too. I walked this morning with Chauc, down roads that I have jogged on and walked well over hundreds of times. The winter illuminates things that are hidden in the leaves of the other seasons. Snow collects in the spaces and is tramped down by things that travel during the cold months. I have passed by this trail innumerable times, but I noticed it today. So I went in, because honestly, who could resist it? After it's initial opening in the brush, the trial wound its way,through a dense little pine forest that carpeted the floor with brown needles that must somehow generate their own heat, they always seem to be void of snow, and then through closely grouped pillars of young birch trees. The snow here had faded away from the path, but the coyotes had travelled here a lot and the snow had packed down to a white-emblazoned trail that cut clearly through the woods. I didn't walk far, maybe a quarter of a mile, and the path crossed over an old stone wall. The woods opened up and out to the wetlands and a promontory made entirely of discarded rocks left there by a farmer that had run out of land to line them up into walls on. The rock-island was probably no larger than fifteen feet across and was tucked into a small bay in the wetland. To the left, past a beaver hut that met all three of the real-estate "L's", the way opened up to a view of blowing grass and ice, to the right the way was completely enclosed in massive looming Hemlocks. I was alone and in a place of beauty.

I know where this is, and apart from the coyotes and an occasional deer, I think I may be the only one who does. 

Tolkien knew this feeling well, in his Lothlorians, and Lewis, and Thoreau. There is beauty hidden just out of sight, and it remains the property of those who seek it out. 

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remnant

"Winter remnant" is the term for those elements of a plant that are left bereft of apparent life throughout the long stretches of winter here in New England.  It's such a thick word, "remnant": what remains. A sign that something existed here before. It is a brittle word. Something that you could crush with your hands and slowly grind to powder. It implies that something has left. That what has

been is now vacant, excepting the evidence that it was here previously. It is a grey-brown word. A hard word. A word that follows death, and yet, at least with these plants, that is not at all true. The plants are still here, and they certainly haven't died. Their root system lies just beneath my feet, lying dormant. "Dormant" is a much better word. It implies that life is waiting.

I wonder if death is true. 

I wonder if dormancy is a much more proper term. 

If we are to inform ourselves using the only true evidence of life: the world around us, death, at least in this massive family of plants, is at most temporary, and at least, untrue. 

Rutland State Park is full of winter remnant. The world this morning, except for Chaucer, Henry,

Myself, and a small group of Cardinals and Blue jays, was for all appearances...gone past. Waiting silently. Henry laughed when I told him that the only thing moving in the park this morning was the river. He told me that Chaucer, who has been kept inside by how dark the early mornings are before I go to work, was certainly not still. He was running, frantically trying to "remark" all of the old marking places that his scent used to dominate.

The frogs are dug deep into muck and tucked soundly into deep pockets of broken bark, body temperatures lowered to between 45 and 49 degrees. Grey Tree Frogs freeze rock hard in the winter. If you were to pick one up, it would feel exactly like a stone. 

Waiting. 

Painted turtles sleep down deep in the muddy world at the bottom of ponds. Bears hibernate.

Squirrels are in their nests. Chipmunks lie several feet underground in hordes of collected acorns and nuts. The world is just waiting to come back to life.

This morning I thought that I might take a lesson from the plants. I might choose to look at life through the seasons and allow myself to believe that maybe death isn't final... nothing in life suggests that it is. 

Maybe "dormancy" is a better word. 

It implies waiting. 

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