A raft is a raft is a raft -- or is it?

Lumber Raft 1868 -- another painting by Frances Anne Hopkins

A river runs through the farm

Do you ever wonder, sometimes, how people living under primitive conditions are able to accomplish what they accomplish? My painter and your very own Frances Anne Hopkins provided an illustration of ingenuity 19th Century style in her painting, "The Lumber Raft 1868."

This time, I am not certain of the exact location where this event took place, but I would not be afraid to put a few dollars on the table betting that it was on Lake Superior, and probably an enterprise associated with building projects in Fort William and Port Arthur in present day Ontario, Canada.

Look closely at the painting and at the scope of the activities. The raft in the foreground, one of two in the painting, has three large sails and a tent. What appears to be five large barrels or bales are on the deck, probably food supplies. A cooking fire burns. There are approximately 50 men scattered around the raft. No small enterprise, this. No better eye for detail than Frances.

Although mine was not a task comparable to the one captured on canvas by Frances, when I was a boy, about 11, I built a raft by creating a double layer deck from old, dried fence posts. For a few weeks that summer, I was a Minnesota version of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, exploring a river that ran through my grandmother's farm. The raft met an untimely end when it was consumed in a grass fire the next spring. It was timeless and ageless fun while it lasted.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

The concluding lines from
"Ulysses"
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I have nothing to say

Ile Dorval 1866 -- another painting by Frances Anne Hopkins

Fram Actual & Fram the First meet Frances

I have nothing to say. My mind is filled with thoughts, but nothing wishes to emerge. In which case, I will take the opportunity to post another painting by Frances Anne Hopkins. This one is titled, Ile Dorval 1866.

Dorval is a small community located on the southwest portion of the Island of Montreal, along the shores of Lake St. Louis. Many wealthier families from in and around Montreal, mostly English-speaking, went there in search of a summer refuge during the latter half of the 19th Century.

The history of Dorval dates back more than 300 years to 1667, when Sulpician priests established a mission on the outskirts of what was then called Ville-Marie. The mission, originally named "Gentilly," was later renamed "La Présentation de la Vierge Marie" and finally, "Dorval," after the nickname of a French landowner.

Offshore is Ile Dorval. Such was the view when Frances painted it in 1866. This piece demonstrates her skill and her versatility, as well as her knowledge of the fashionable art of her day.

And, if the gentleman reclining in the foreground looks at all familiar, I will admit to being present that day, and was captured while admiring the antics of the three young ladies in the rowboat offshore. For those with keener eyes, they might also notice the head of Fram the First in view just in front of me. He chose to appear in Wolfen form and fashion that day. He is a funny joker, and rarely bites.

Music Note: Listening to Iron Maiden
Specifically, "Brave New World"
Some lines from "Dream of Mirrors"

Have you ever felt the future is the past,
but you don't know how?
A reflected dream of a captured time,
is it really now, is it really happening?

Don't know why I feel this way,
have I dreamt this time, this place?
Something vivid comes again into my mind
And I think I've seen your face,
seen this room, been in this place
Something vivid comes again into my mind

All my hopes and expectations,
looking for an explanation
Have I found my destination?

The dream is true, the dream is true

The dream is true, the dream is true

Where have all the flowers gone?

June 6, 1944, D-Day, Normandy, France

In the distance are the 100-foot cliffs of Pointe du Hoc, climbed by American Army Rangers while under fire from German troops who were fortified above. During two days of fighting below and above the cliffs, the Ranger units suffered about 60 percent causalities. Fram's photos, taken in 2004.

Not just another day in June

This is one of the monuments commemorating the Allied landings on the beaches of Normandy on June 6, 1944. Approximately 160,000 Allied troops invaded France from the air and from the sea. This is on Omaha Beach, which was stormed by American troops.

About 1,500 Americans died on that one day

One of many cemeteries in which are buried thousands of soldiers from several nations who died 65 years ago during the invasion of France, and during ensuing weeks as Allied troops forced the German Army ever steadily to retreat into its homeland.

"Where Have All the Flowers Gone?"
Words and music by Pete Seeger

Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the flowers gone?
Girls have picked them every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the young girls gone?
Taken husbands every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the young men gone?
Gone for soldiers every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Covered with flowers every one
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn?

Ecclesiastes & Bierce had it right

Thinking in terms of timeless and traditional today, here is another painting by one of my all-time favorite young ladies, Frances Anne Hopkins. This one is quite unlike the paintings of voyageurs and canoes and Lake Superior that I previously posted. This painting is titled, "Plains Indian Left to Die." I would love to know the story behind this piece. This one also is different in the sense that unless Frances thinks of herself as being among the riders galloping away, she is not to be seen.

The more things change, the more ....

If there is a god, surely he (or she) knows that I have tried to be everything in life that time has allowed me to be, short of being totally irresponsible. If there is not a god, well, then, anyone else who passes this way will know it.

Some people do not believe the varied types of work I have tried or how often I have jumped from one field or location to another just for the pleasure of new experiences, new places and new faces. When I was age thirty, I bragged that I had already done everything in life there was to do in one form or variation. This was not quite true, of course, but close. Permission is granted to use your imagination to fill in some of the blanks.

Just a taste: Before I reached age thirty, I had a master's degree, been married and divorced, become a father, been in the Marine Corps, been a high school teacher, and had newspaper reporting and editing experience under my belt. I had been on wilderness canoe trips that stretched into weeks, "visited" a few foreign lands, dived to below 100 feet with scuba gear and jumped from airplanes. I was about to give up hunting because it had become too easy.

What follows now is part of a comment I wrote a few days ago. I am not certain how many people come around and read comments, but I decided I wanted to print this as a post, as well, to explain my more-or-less provincial view of art. I think my view has been formed mostly as a result of my lifestyle.

My view of many things in the community of art is particularly narrow. This is especially true in visual arts. To a lesser degree in music and in written words, but in those things, too.

This, then, makes me very opinionated, not so much in labeling things as good or bad, but in terms of like or dislike. I generally leave the decision as to whether art is good or bad to the marketplace, but I am not shy about saying what I like or dislike and the reason for that judgment.

In most instances, my preferences in writing tend toward subtlety, finesse and probably the least dramatic language available. My admiration goes toward writers who have the ability to paint pictures with words, and who use words which imply, suggest or insinuate rather than burst, explode or excite. Let the writer propose; allow the reader to interpret.

Whether one likes or dislikes a painting or a song or a book, it is only beneficial to know when reasons are given. In my case, almost anything "traditional" is going to win out over anything exploratory or experimental.

As for possibly liking something someday that is disliked now, I have found that to be happening to me in the sense of the work of some painters. Again, who knows?

In still another comment I made a few days ago, I said this:

I tend to put more credence in the visible (historical fact/archaeological rubble) than in the invisible (psychological theory/mythological memories). I tend to see civilization as William Golding saw it in his "Lord of the Flies" or George Stewart in his "Earth Abides."

Those two sentences reflect the same attitude, the same belief system.

Experience and environment, I think, are the primary elements in molding and forming the individual. My experiences here, upon this sea of blogs, are part of my overall portrait. So far, whether a student, a Marine, a reporter or a participant in blog conversations, life continues to fall under the category of, "the more things change, the more they stay the same."

Ecclesiastes had it right: "The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun."

But, unfortunately, my old friend Ambrose Bierce also had it right: "There is nothing new under the sun, but there are lots of old things we don't know."

Revised last sentences: For me, solutions and answers are to be found in searching the ruins of the known and the wisdom of the past, from reading writers who teach rather than writers who shock, from viewing paintings of beauty instead of splashes of paint, from seeking lyrics of logic while ignoring clever allusions. Many of us hit the ground running, and already had "been there, done that," while others idled away their time and, by that means, some of us have come to the conclusion that the past is the future.

Music Note: Listening to Ratt ....
Specifically, "Point Break"
Some lines from, "Nobody Rides for Free"

In my dreams see I'm on tv
Get back exactly who I wanna be
I'm sick and tired of it getting in my way
I'm sick and tired of everything I seem I know
Nobody rides for free
Nobody rides for free

Don't stop to think cause I know where I stand
I'm on my way no you’re not gonna change my plan
If you can break away and see what I say
You'll understand what I'm trying to be
I'm sick and tired of everyone in my way
Nobody rides for free
Nobody rides for free

You've gotta pay to play
So don't you stand in my way
Cause nobody, nobody rides for free
Now the world’s at stake
The card was drawn
You thought he could swim but I guess you were wrong
You sink to the depths of your misery
Baby the past will set you free
Nobody rides for free
Nobody rides for free

The falls of Minnehaha still sing

Possibly as long as a month ago, I ran across a few turn of the century (19th Century, that is) post cards of Minnehaha Park, Creek and Falls in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Here are some of them. Things are pretty much the same today, attire and transportation modes to the contrary. Rather than paraphrasing someone else's research, below is printed a brief description of the area, written by Clara James from About.com.

A metropolitan interlude in time and space

Minnehaha Park is on the banks of the Mississippi River, surrounding Minnehaha Creek, a tributary of the Mississippi, and Minnehaha Falls. The falls have long been an important site to the native Dakota people. Minnehaha means "falling water" in Dakota, not "laughing water" as it is often translated.

White settlers discovered the falls around 1820, not long after arriving in Minnesota. Minnehaha Falls are very close to the Mississippi River, and only a couple of miles from Fort Snelling, one of the first places inhabited by settlers in the region. A small mill was built on the falls in the 1850s, but Minnehaha Falls have considerably less power than the St. Anthony Falls on the Mississippi and the mill was soon abandoned.

The falls were to become a tourist destination after the publication of the epic poem, "The Song of Hiawatha," by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1855. Longfellow never visited the falls in person, but he was inspired by the works of scholars of Native American culture and images of the falls.

The city of Minneapolis purchased the land in 1889 to make the area into a city park. The park has been a popular attraction for locals and tourists ever since.

As unto the bow the cord is,
So unto the man is woman;
Though she bends him, she obeys him,
Though she draws him, yet she follows;
Useless each without the other!"
Thus the youthful Hiawatha
Said within himself and pondered,
Much perplexed by various feelings,
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing,
Dreaming still of Minnehaha,
Of the lovely Laughing Water,
In the land of the Dacotahs.
Wed a maiden of your people.

Some lines from
"The Song of Hiawatha"
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow