The Ash Creek Papers

I can’t remember my exact age when I stepped into the Great Dinosaur Hall at Yale’s Peabody Museum. For sure, I was a little kid, and my small size made the Apatosaurus (called a Brontosaurus back then) seem much more impressive. I instantly loved dinosaurs. But at some point my interest went into hibernation, only to be jarred awake when Zachary came of age.

During that three decade block of time there was an explosion of information about dinosaurs that had come out… books galore and excellent specials on TV.

And the popularity of Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park was the frosting on the cake… it was every kid who loved dinosaurs ultimate fantasy: the possibility of seeing a live sauropod munching on some leaves.

Anyway… it continues to amaze me how much information can be gained by examining fossil records. How extraordinary the talent for looking at a bunch of bones (sorry, fossil remains) embedded in rock and develop an accurate picture of how these creatures lived and died. We know what they ate, how fast they could move, whether they lived in groups and even the manner of death… not the “Great Extinction” (which is a topic of serious debate); but rather that a young Tenontosaurus got culled from the herd and fell victim to a pack of Deinonychus.

The way I got it figured… these Paleontologists are like “Dr. Henry Lee” examining a crime scene (only they don’t get paid as much money). They piece together the clues, reassemble the puzzle ’til they can definitively state, “Colonel Mustard, with the candlestick, in the Billiard Room,” or better put, “Deinonychus, with tooth and claw, near the river bed.”

This studying of “bones” does not end with Paleontology… it goes well beyond the studying of dinosaurs and the great mammals.

Anthropologists, “Henry Lees” of a different stripe, uncover sites long trapped in the earth… sites bearing witness to our early forebears… how they lived and how they died. Perhaps a certain clutch of skeleton remains giving evidence to a horrible disease that overtook a group of people… or perhaps another location that indicated that a fight between competing “peoples” left numbers of dead in a confined area.

I thought about this on my drive into JFK, a route that goes by a sprawling cemetery that was a perfect reflection of its greater neighborhood. It was situated in a highly congested area, an area thick with apartment buildings, businesses and intersecting roads. The cemetery, too, was congested with headstones, monuments and mausoleums… Even the patches of grass seemed congested.

I doubt that life was ever this crowded in the Triassic… or even during our Ice Age.

But in ten thousand years who knows what this patch of Queens will look like. It will probably be leveled to the ground, covered in several feet of earth and debris.

And thinking to that time ahead… what will the inhabitants think when they dig down fifty feet or so into the crust and uncover several acres chock full of marble fragments and the earthly remains of thousands of souls?

Perhaps there will be no written clues remaining… no tablets… no cuneiform… no hieroglyphs… or books to suggest the reason for this “devastation”.

In an age with some much information written and recorded… what would happen if in ten thousand years it was all gone and the only thing left were bones and some spare artifacts? What will the “Dr. Lee” of the Year 12006 surmise from the discovery? Was it disease? Was it lack of food during a migrating pattern? Perhaps a meteor?

And more to the point… more than knowing how we died, will scientists ten thousand years hence, know how we lived? Our laughs and our tears? Will the excitement and challenges of our time be there in the skeletal remains? I hope so.

It’s time to put my pen down… the Captain has announced that we are making our approach, we have to fasten our seat belts and bring trays & seat backs to an upright position.

Burbank airport lay ahead.

Zack and Beth await.

It’s time to get on with living.

Josh Ronish is the newest addition to the Bullpen at Grapes. He brings to our number a love of wine (which is a first base issue with us) and a very interesting background that adds to our diversity. If you are interested in that sort of thing… he is part Asian, part French Canadian, part Native American, part Swiss… and a little bit of Endor tossed in for good luck.

He was raised in Schenectady, New York. It had been my home as well for the four years I attended Union College. When I tell folks, “when you smell shit, it’s Schenectady… when you step in it, it’s Troy…” they chuckle. When I mentioned it to Josh his chuckle was the chuckle of sharing… of knowing. Based on that alone, it was easy to give Josh the benefit of the doubt.

And there were other stories. He raced motorcycles and a real bad accident nearly cost him his life. He no longer races motorcycles. He is an accomplished tattoo artist… and evidence of his artistry is on display when he sheds his shirt… he loves single malt whisky. And he loves to fish.

For a man of many interests, it seems that fishing is his passion, maybe even his calling. If there were a First Reform Church of the Tasty Trout, he would be its Minister.

Josh is not on the clock ’til noon… which gives him time to get a couple of hours of fishing in, take home the keepers, clean and cook them… and then bring in his latest recipes to share. At 12:15PM when we tuck into striped bass in a Mediterranean Mushroom Sauce, it’s not only fresh, it’s good beyond belief. It is clear that our Josh also knows his way around the kitchen.

And if he hasn’t had his fill of fishing in the morning, during our 5:00PM – 6:00PM break, he heads over to the Norwalk River, some 150 yards from our front door, and casts his line to see what the River will yield.

His stories of catching fish from that location seemed to strike at credulity. But then came the day when Wally (our Wizard of I.T.) and John (our Proprietor) trailed after Josh, braving the light rain to watch Josh do his stuff.

At the point where the Norwalk River crosses underneath U.S. Route 1, its width is no more that 15 yards, the depth no more than 18″, and the River appears more rock than water.

The stalwart band of outdoorsmen clambered down the steep bank (probably violating some City Ordinance)… Josh to fish, Wally & John to observe. Josh picked his way on the rocks looking for a suitable location to drop his line. His trained eye found a slightly deeper pool, and this pool “spoke to him.” It wasn’t long before he was engaged in a significant battle with a fish of substantial size.

Josh had hooked a good-sized fish nearly 2′ in length. And this fish was decidedly unhappy about being taken out of the water. It flapped about mightily and Josh had difficulty disengaging the hook. His ultimate victory was not without cost… his trousers were splattered with blood from catching his own hook.

By the time I saw the fish back in the Bullpen, it was already gutted and cleaned, ready for planking. I looked in his pail, “Holy Shit, Josh, what the hell is that?” I thought it looked like an ichthyosaur; but kept that observation to myself.

He proceeded to examine the catch more carefully… “it’s a Rainbow Trout… but at this age it’s also known as a ‘Steelhead’.”

I look at Josh and see pride in his eye… proud as a true fisherman would be… proud as someone experienced in the finer points of angling.

The old fisherman who Hemingway wrote of in his exquisite Old Man and the Sea was no “angler”. But he surely would have shared in Josh’s passion and pride.

The Old Man and the Sea was the first book that I read without being required to by the English Department. I picked it up as a result of loving Spencer Tracy’s portrayal of the lead role in the film.

When that huge fish lugged Tracy further out to sea and he had to eat raw fish for nourishment, I watched half in amazement, and half in revulsion.

I guess I have never really shed the revulsion of eating raw fish. Only today, eating raw fish is not confined to poor Cuban fishermen being carried out to sea… it has spread its popularity to affluent citizens who flock to establishments featuring its preparation and service: sushi joints.

This Japanese food form is a culture unto itself. How it is ordered, how it is prepared, how it is served all contribute to the aesthetics and the dinning experience. One thing is for sure… there is no “middle ground” when it comes to sushi… it’s not something that you can just be OK on.

And while I do no like it, there are too many folks I know (and respect) who love it. In fact, I can think of no one who I know besides me (and my Sister & my kids) who do not go “ga ga” over sushi.

I do not lose sleep over this.

In 1980, I can recall going to a party at the Vetrano’s in early November. About sixteen folks were there… and after a post-election straw poll was taken, it turned out that I was the only person who did not vote for Ronald Reagan.

I didn’t like Jimmy Carter (although I voted for him in 1976)… but I would rather have eaten rat poison than vote for Reagan. I had cast my ballot for the Third Party Candidate, John Anderson.

Still it remained that in a room of 16 people, I stood alone. That my friends (including Ellen) treated me like an insane Aunt troubled me not.

And so, too, on Saturday night, in the company of Best Friends Sandy & Gary, enjoying the hospitality of Akasaka on Whalley Ave in New Haven, I could love their company, and at the same time distance myself from the raw fish that they loved and appreciated.

On an intellectual level, I am fascinated by the huge success of sushi (and sashimi… I guess the more “pure” form, served without sticky rice to buffer the taste of the raw fish).

I stand alone in a room filled with sushi and sashimi lovers. It’s OK. Me? I can’t wait for Josh to bring in the results of an excursion to Cove Inlet in Stamford… fish caught, cleaned, cooked… all with loving care.

I stand by my belief that fish should be swimming free in the wild, in an aquarium or cooked in a superb manner.