Some pics from Leverett, Greenfield and Shelburne Falls after Hurricane Irene blew through western Mass.
Showing posts with label Greenfield. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Greenfield. Show all posts
Monday, August 29, 2011
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Greenful Things
Saturday being kind of a ho-hum, potentially rainy day...
...we set out for Greenfield for a look at their Better Living Show and Green Fair. Although we rarely go to the better living shows, the 'Green Fair' portion of it had me intrigued. The exhibition is being held at the Franklin County Fairgrounds this weekend, and they ask for a two dollar donation to get in; fair enough.
Maybe because of the huge area set up for the event making things seem roomier, or maybe it's the comatose housing and renovation market, or maybe it was just the blah weather on Saturday, but the turnout appeared to be moderate and we had no problem finding parking or waiting to get in.
There's several long tents set up alongside more permanent fairground buildings. Outside the first tent, a Hip-Hop performer called Tim Blessed was setting up for a show.
Though his set was mainly focused on cleverly written social and sustainability issues, he started off the set with a more traditional hip-hop ditty. To wit:
Greenfield appeared to be not quite ready...Blessed has talent, and the show was worthy of a bigger audience.
We entered the first building, where a panel of representatives from local green technology companies and organizations were discussing career choices in renewable energy and recycling technologies for home and business.
They mentioned that what's needed at the moment, more than just laborers in the growing field of 'green' building and recycling, are management and supervisor-level people who really take renewable and sustainable technology to heart and can lead through example.
It was number two of five such panels that will be speaking throughout Saturday and Sunday. The participants were pretty passionate about what they do and what they believe is the wave of the future. It was very interesting, and (being in the heating and air conditioning field myself), it was really the main reason I wanted to come to the event.
But, since we were here, we had to check out the rest of the show. Into the first big tent, there was more renewable and recyclable wares and crafts to see.
One vendor, Olsen Design, has the good idea of turning non-recyclable materials into cool looking bibs, quilts, and other items like jewelry.
There were local organically grown food stuffs to be seen, tasted, promoted and purchased.
Being Portuguese, I had to test out some of these samples of a non-animal version of chourico sausages. Spicy, and actually pretty good tasting.
I grew up witnessing first hand the making of real chourico sausages; I mean first hand. But that's a blog post for another day...
Trusty Hemp apparently will continue it's role as a renewable but under-utilized resource; at least until the drug wars are over.
Other renewable energy vendors included the sun-utilizing variety, with a vendor of all things photovoltaic...
...and another vendor selling solar heated hot water systems; Sun Energy from Cheshire Mass.
The owner Jim Sherratt took some time with me to explain the system and where the technology is at. He networks with local home builders to get the word out about the new technology option. The solar energy collecting panels that are placed on the roof are similar looking to the familiar electricity producing photovoltaic panels, but instead contain tubing for liquid to circulate and heat up water, which is then stored in tanks in the house. The technology still has some bugs to be worked out, like the need to dump unused hot water to avoid overheating, and but it's well on it's way to being widely used.
Probably the number one hindrance to the popularity of solar technolgy, the price, is still up there, though state and federal tax credits do cover about a third of the cost. So for the time being, to install such a system still requires a bit of a sacrifice to your wallet to help save your conscience, and the planet. But it's getting easier, and the word is getting out...
Farther down the tent and building row was the more traditional Better-Living Show, with Home products and efficiency upgrades to windows, insulation materials and state of the art oil and gas fired boilers and furnaces. Other products include luxury oriented items like home spas and hot tubs.
We traveled back up the row of tents and buildings for one more look on the way out, and Dr. Worm gave us one final lesson in perhaps the oldest form of recycling; composting.
It was interesting to see that the green movement has made such inroads to home renovation and building exhibitions. Green technologies seem to have taken up more than half of the exhibits at this show.
...we set out for Greenfield for a look at their Better Living Show and Green Fair. Although we rarely go to the better living shows, the 'Green Fair' portion of it had me intrigued. The exhibition is being held at the Franklin County Fairgrounds this weekend, and they ask for a two dollar donation to get in; fair enough.
Maybe because of the huge area set up for the event making things seem roomier, or maybe it's the comatose housing and renovation market, or maybe it was just the blah weather on Saturday, but the turnout appeared to be moderate and we had no problem finding parking or waiting to get in.
There's several long tents set up alongside more permanent fairground buildings. Outside the first tent, a Hip-Hop performer called Tim Blessed was setting up for a show.
Though his set was mainly focused on cleverly written social and sustainability issues, he started off the set with a more traditional hip-hop ditty. To wit:
Greenfield appeared to be not quite ready...Blessed has talent, and the show was worthy of a bigger audience.
We entered the first building, where a panel of representatives from local green technology companies and organizations were discussing career choices in renewable energy and recycling technologies for home and business.
They mentioned that what's needed at the moment, more than just laborers in the growing field of 'green' building and recycling, are management and supervisor-level people who really take renewable and sustainable technology to heart and can lead through example.
It was number two of five such panels that will be speaking throughout Saturday and Sunday. The participants were pretty passionate about what they do and what they believe is the wave of the future. It was very interesting, and (being in the heating and air conditioning field myself), it was really the main reason I wanted to come to the event.
But, since we were here, we had to check out the rest of the show. Into the first big tent, there was more renewable and recyclable wares and crafts to see.
One vendor, Olsen Design, has the good idea of turning non-recyclable materials into cool looking bibs, quilts, and other items like jewelry.
There were local organically grown food stuffs to be seen, tasted, promoted and purchased.
Being Portuguese, I had to test out some of these samples of a non-animal version of chourico sausages. Spicy, and actually pretty good tasting.
I grew up witnessing first hand the making of real chourico sausages; I mean first hand. But that's a blog post for another day...
Trusty Hemp apparently will continue it's role as a renewable but under-utilized resource; at least until the drug wars are over.
Other renewable energy vendors included the sun-utilizing variety, with a vendor of all things photovoltaic...
...and another vendor selling solar heated hot water systems; Sun Energy from Cheshire Mass.
The owner Jim Sherratt took some time with me to explain the system and where the technology is at. He networks with local home builders to get the word out about the new technology option. The solar energy collecting panels that are placed on the roof are similar looking to the familiar electricity producing photovoltaic panels, but instead contain tubing for liquid to circulate and heat up water, which is then stored in tanks in the house. The technology still has some bugs to be worked out, like the need to dump unused hot water to avoid overheating, and but it's well on it's way to being widely used.
Probably the number one hindrance to the popularity of solar technolgy, the price, is still up there, though state and federal tax credits do cover about a third of the cost. So for the time being, to install such a system still requires a bit of a sacrifice to your wallet to help save your conscience, and the planet. But it's getting easier, and the word is getting out...
Farther down the tent and building row was the more traditional Better-Living Show, with Home products and efficiency upgrades to windows, insulation materials and state of the art oil and gas fired boilers and furnaces. Other products include luxury oriented items like home spas and hot tubs.
We traveled back up the row of tents and buildings for one more look on the way out, and Dr. Worm gave us one final lesson in perhaps the oldest form of recycling; composting.
It was interesting to see that the green movement has made such inroads to home renovation and building exhibitions. Green technologies seem to have taken up more than half of the exhibits at this show.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Out In The Cold
(Some stuff that didn't make it to the last post, due to my going off on that tangent about sledding) ...
I wasn't the only one in the park at the base of Poet's Seat Tower in Greenfield on Sunday.
A woman in thin, taped up, white cover-alls stood a few feet away from me. She was just standing there when I arrived, and was just standing there exactly in the same place when I left, just after sunset. Free time was a theme in the last blog post, but this is an entirely different type...(see comments below for some more info on her story)...
The dark and the cold was coming in fast once the sun disappeared.
Bringing with it the realization that there's much to be thankful for.
Before heading back I made one more stop in downtown Greenfield. Walking down the sidewalk for a bit barely scratched the edge of Greenfield's very long, locally owned retail strip and side streets.
I can't think of another area of locally owned shops and stores as big as this one, anywhere else in the valley. This downtown is a throw back to a few decades ago, before malls and then chain stores first enticed us with convenience, but ultimately numbed us with impersonal-ness.
In the heart of the way-back machine that is Main Street is four story department store called Wilson's. It's a living relic of how things used to be, it's like coming across a retail mastodon.
I wonder who will fare better in the coming economic downturn, the small local shops or the big chain stores...
...the big banks or the small ones...
...the entertainment megaplexes, or the small theater. In keeping with the unchanged vibe of Main Street, is the neat looking Garden Theater, still in business, still original, still $6.50.
It was getting late, and the weekend was just about over...
It was time to head back, to my own warm home...
I wasn't the only one in the park at the base of Poet's Seat Tower in Greenfield on Sunday.
A woman in thin, taped up, white cover-alls stood a few feet away from me. She was just standing there when I arrived, and was just standing there exactly in the same place when I left, just after sunset. Free time was a theme in the last blog post, but this is an entirely different type...(see comments below for some more info on her story)...
The dark and the cold was coming in fast once the sun disappeared.
Bringing with it the realization that there's much to be thankful for.
Before heading back I made one more stop in downtown Greenfield. Walking down the sidewalk for a bit barely scratched the edge of Greenfield's very long, locally owned retail strip and side streets.
I can't think of another area of locally owned shops and stores as big as this one, anywhere else in the valley. This downtown is a throw back to a few decades ago, before malls and then chain stores first enticed us with convenience, but ultimately numbed us with impersonal-ness.
In the heart of the way-back machine that is Main Street is four story department store called Wilson's. It's a living relic of how things used to be, it's like coming across a retail mastodon.
I wonder who will fare better in the coming economic downturn, the small local shops or the big chain stores...
...the big banks or the small ones...
...the entertainment megaplexes, or the small theater. In keeping with the unchanged vibe of Main Street, is the neat looking Garden Theater, still in business, still original, still $6.50.
It was getting late, and the weekend was just about over...
It was time to head back, to my own warm home...
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Rosebud
Snow plowing and shoveling and sanding: 5 hours. Dealing with bills, problems, people, quandaries and obstacles: 4 hours. Work done and a few hours of free time to do nothing: priceless.
Late Sunday afternoon the sun finally broke free of cloud cover and was casting a 'warm' glow on a freshly snow covered countryside as I shuttled myself north on route 5. My destination wasn't definite but it didn't really matter. It was the first few hours of freedom and solitude I managed to pry from the whole, rapidly disappearing weekend. Any destination was welcome as long as there was scenery on the way to help allow the mind to wander...
It was just me and the camera tooling along, listening to the radio and stopping here and there for pics as I pleased. I'm pretty sure free time is second only to health as the most important thing in this life. Time to play. Kids have it right. We adults forget how important it is, in our chase to 'make a living'...
This and other deep thoughts clicked away in my rapidly clearing mind as Route 5 north of Northampton blurred by, becoming progressively more rural and rustic the farther north I escaped. Old tobacco sheds and farmhouses became more and more abundant on the flat valley floor, which itself was becoming narrower and narrower...
The valley's edges finally began to press in close, as Deerfield skimmed by and I crossed the river into Greenfield.
By this time I had a semblance of a destination in mind; maybe the access road to the Poet's Seat Tower in Greenfield was open to traffic for a quick easy look around before the sunset.
But alas, it wasn't. There wasn't enough time to hike up the road before dark either, an option I milled about for a second or two...nah. Too cold today. I cruised back down the hill, ruminating that a younger me might have taken up that challenge...
The base of the hill the tower sits on is adjacent to a park, which is apparently a popular sledding destination.
I parked on the other side of the park and watched; thinking some more about the younger me, and free time, and the last time I was sledding. Suddenly, ancient memories came flooding into my thoughts. memories of the notorious Suicide Hill, my old neighborhood's sledding mecca.
Suicide Hill was probably a half a mile from my house, which at the tender age of 8 might as well have been across the state, but my cousin and I would happily tow our sleds up to the steep wooded hill, clamber up and sled down over and over, until we were frozen to the core or near starving. The sled run was a long system of snow-packed foot trails that zig-zagged through narrow openings in the forest and down a steep incline. It took masterful skill to maneuver through those twists and turns, since they were bordered on all sides by tree trunks and jagged pricker bushes. One wrong maneuver or a split second's loss of concentration...and well, that's how the hill got it's name.
One frosty afternoon, it was getting late and the sun had just set, and we decided we'd make our final runs for the day. My cousin had just shoved off. He quickly hit light speed and somehow managing to bounce in the right directions, disappearing around the first curve. Alone, I paused for a second and looked out over the neighborhood below, from the bare top of the hill. The air was icy cold and crisp. I remember the stillness of it all, and the sharp sweet smell of wood stove smoke lazily drifting up from the tops of the chimneys of the neighborhood below, and stinging my cold runny nose. My cotton gloves were crusty with impregnated snow crystals, my pant legs stiff with the same, and my boots were by now just loose containers for half-melted snow and soaked socks that had pretty much completely curled up around my frozen toes. I remember looking out over the silent, twilight landscape, thinking how great it all was...then getting down to the business of prepping for the final plummet to the bottom.
The sleds we had back then were those old, metal-runner types, with the slat wood riding area and a wooden yolk with which you could force the front of the runners to twist left or right; supposedly giving some modicum of control as you plunge down the hill. Mine was especially old, and heavy. It was a little rusty, the paint had mostly worn off of the wooden slats and runners, and the wood was a little bit sliver-prone, but overall it was mostly solid. She was in her prime, and she was mine. A stiff frozen rope was tied and knotted to either end of the yoke, so if one rode sitting up, one could direct the sled by pulling on either end of the rope, like guiding a horse. The rope on my particular sled was customized to be especially long, so I could actually lean way back, luge style, and peer down the length of my body, for maximum aerodynamic effect.
I gave one last look to the frozen skyline, grabbed the rope with one hand, and pushed off with the other. A few more strokes on the packed snow with my free hand, and I was soon attaining gravity take-over. Time to grab the controls with both hands and fly. This being the last run: it would also have to be the fastest. I picked up initial speed, burst into the woods and knocked through the first two turns handily. Child's play, I thought from the cockpit of my fighter jet. A little turbulence over the next well worn section of twisted trail, where my feet threatened to bounce loose from their positions in the center of the steering yolk. But a firm yank on the rope planted my feet back in place, the trail began to straighten, and the sled skidded back onto a stabilized course and plowed on. The dreaded straightaway now lay ahead. How much speed you picked up here was really just a factor of your courage and/or stupidity. I was armed with both; gritted my teeth and squinted into the frosty wind, hell-bent on achieving the raw velocity that I was sure would make this run the stuff of legend, and that I would relate to my cousin all the way home. The trees and branches accelerated into a seeming tunnel of dark bouncing streaks on either side and above. I at first kidded myself that I was still in control of the situation, but finally relinquished my fate to truth, and the forces of gravity, rocketing to the end of the straightaway now at near cosmic speeds. Through watery eyes and between my feet I made out the final turn, hurriedly lurching towards me at an unprecedented rate. I began to realize that twisting the old runners would probably give no control at these white hot speeds, and attempting to dig into the snow with my feet would only invite a swift cartwheeling disaster. No, I would have to take the turn at speed, twist the yolk with all my might, and trust that the burm on the edge of the turn would contain this fireball.
The world now became the turn hurling itself at me...With my head bouncing uncontrollably, I tried to fix my gaze on the burm between my boots, and calculated the timing...steady....steeaadddyyyy...TURN!!! I yanked back on the right side of the rope with everything I had. Nightmarishly my arm suddenly snapped back, and my elbow bounced off of the hard ice streaking by...the rope had snapped loose! It was was now flapping cold across my chest and flabbergasted face. I instinctively kicked on the yolk with my left foot, but it was too late. Launching over the burm, the sled crashed through low, half-buried thicket and young branch stems into uncharted hillside. Through the jarring chaos, whipping branches and my own frantic screams, I could just make out that I was bearing down on a big dark lump, straight ahead. Was that a rock...? A tree stump..? No...it was my cousin...! He was getting up from his own recent crash, and scrambling to get out of my way! "Look Ouuuuuuuuuut!!!!!!!!!!" I dug my left hand and left foot into the tangle. I could feel my glove rip away, a quick glimpse of my cousin's eyes opened wide in terror, the sled turning suddenly and unnaturally sideways, a brief spin of the horizon, and then the bright flash of impact.
Icy snow was in my hair, down my shirt, down my pants and all over the side of my face, as I lifted myself from the furrow I created skidding to a halt. It was a fantastic tumble of man and sled. My elbow and knee hurt, my face was numb, my palm was scraped and bloody. But yet, I felt warm with the heat of adrenaline. My hat had disappeared who knows where, and the left glove would also remain missing. The sturdy sleds were undamaged, and I fixed the rope back to the yolk. We walked down the remaining short distance of the hill, and limped home under the street lights, proudly trading the heroic details of our runs down Suicide Hill...
Late Sunday afternoon the sun finally broke free of cloud cover and was casting a 'warm' glow on a freshly snow covered countryside as I shuttled myself north on route 5. My destination wasn't definite but it didn't really matter. It was the first few hours of freedom and solitude I managed to pry from the whole, rapidly disappearing weekend. Any destination was welcome as long as there was scenery on the way to help allow the mind to wander...
It was just me and the camera tooling along, listening to the radio and stopping here and there for pics as I pleased. I'm pretty sure free time is second only to health as the most important thing in this life. Time to play. Kids have it right. We adults forget how important it is, in our chase to 'make a living'...
This and other deep thoughts clicked away in my rapidly clearing mind as Route 5 north of Northampton blurred by, becoming progressively more rural and rustic the farther north I escaped. Old tobacco sheds and farmhouses became more and more abundant on the flat valley floor, which itself was becoming narrower and narrower...
The valley's edges finally began to press in close, as Deerfield skimmed by and I crossed the river into Greenfield.
By this time I had a semblance of a destination in mind; maybe the access road to the Poet's Seat Tower in Greenfield was open to traffic for a quick easy look around before the sunset.
But alas, it wasn't. There wasn't enough time to hike up the road before dark either, an option I milled about for a second or two...nah. Too cold today. I cruised back down the hill, ruminating that a younger me might have taken up that challenge...
The base of the hill the tower sits on is adjacent to a park, which is apparently a popular sledding destination.
I parked on the other side of the park and watched; thinking some more about the younger me, and free time, and the last time I was sledding. Suddenly, ancient memories came flooding into my thoughts. memories of the notorious Suicide Hill, my old neighborhood's sledding mecca.
Suicide Hill was probably a half a mile from my house, which at the tender age of 8 might as well have been across the state, but my cousin and I would happily tow our sleds up to the steep wooded hill, clamber up and sled down over and over, until we were frozen to the core or near starving. The sled run was a long system of snow-packed foot trails that zig-zagged through narrow openings in the forest and down a steep incline. It took masterful skill to maneuver through those twists and turns, since they were bordered on all sides by tree trunks and jagged pricker bushes. One wrong maneuver or a split second's loss of concentration...and well, that's how the hill got it's name.
One frosty afternoon, it was getting late and the sun had just set, and we decided we'd make our final runs for the day. My cousin had just shoved off. He quickly hit light speed and somehow managing to bounce in the right directions, disappearing around the first curve. Alone, I paused for a second and looked out over the neighborhood below, from the bare top of the hill. The air was icy cold and crisp. I remember the stillness of it all, and the sharp sweet smell of wood stove smoke lazily drifting up from the tops of the chimneys of the neighborhood below, and stinging my cold runny nose. My cotton gloves were crusty with impregnated snow crystals, my pant legs stiff with the same, and my boots were by now just loose containers for half-melted snow and soaked socks that had pretty much completely curled up around my frozen toes. I remember looking out over the silent, twilight landscape, thinking how great it all was...then getting down to the business of prepping for the final plummet to the bottom.
The sleds we had back then were those old, metal-runner types, with the slat wood riding area and a wooden yolk with which you could force the front of the runners to twist left or right; supposedly giving some modicum of control as you plunge down the hill. Mine was especially old, and heavy. It was a little rusty, the paint had mostly worn off of the wooden slats and runners, and the wood was a little bit sliver-prone, but overall it was mostly solid. She was in her prime, and she was mine. A stiff frozen rope was tied and knotted to either end of the yoke, so if one rode sitting up, one could direct the sled by pulling on either end of the rope, like guiding a horse. The rope on my particular sled was customized to be especially long, so I could actually lean way back, luge style, and peer down the length of my body, for maximum aerodynamic effect.
I gave one last look to the frozen skyline, grabbed the rope with one hand, and pushed off with the other. A few more strokes on the packed snow with my free hand, and I was soon attaining gravity take-over. Time to grab the controls with both hands and fly. This being the last run: it would also have to be the fastest. I picked up initial speed, burst into the woods and knocked through the first two turns handily. Child's play, I thought from the cockpit of my fighter jet. A little turbulence over the next well worn section of twisted trail, where my feet threatened to bounce loose from their positions in the center of the steering yolk. But a firm yank on the rope planted my feet back in place, the trail began to straighten, and the sled skidded back onto a stabilized course and plowed on. The dreaded straightaway now lay ahead. How much speed you picked up here was really just a factor of your courage and/or stupidity. I was armed with both; gritted my teeth and squinted into the frosty wind, hell-bent on achieving the raw velocity that I was sure would make this run the stuff of legend, and that I would relate to my cousin all the way home. The trees and branches accelerated into a seeming tunnel of dark bouncing streaks on either side and above. I at first kidded myself that I was still in control of the situation, but finally relinquished my fate to truth, and the forces of gravity, rocketing to the end of the straightaway now at near cosmic speeds. Through watery eyes and between my feet I made out the final turn, hurriedly lurching towards me at an unprecedented rate. I began to realize that twisting the old runners would probably give no control at these white hot speeds, and attempting to dig into the snow with my feet would only invite a swift cartwheeling disaster. No, I would have to take the turn at speed, twist the yolk with all my might, and trust that the burm on the edge of the turn would contain this fireball.
The world now became the turn hurling itself at me...With my head bouncing uncontrollably, I tried to fix my gaze on the burm between my boots, and calculated the timing...steady....steeaadddyyyy...TURN!!! I yanked back on the right side of the rope with everything I had. Nightmarishly my arm suddenly snapped back, and my elbow bounced off of the hard ice streaking by...the rope had snapped loose! It was was now flapping cold across my chest and flabbergasted face. I instinctively kicked on the yolk with my left foot, but it was too late. Launching over the burm, the sled crashed through low, half-buried thicket and young branch stems into uncharted hillside. Through the jarring chaos, whipping branches and my own frantic screams, I could just make out that I was bearing down on a big dark lump, straight ahead. Was that a rock...? A tree stump..? No...it was my cousin...! He was getting up from his own recent crash, and scrambling to get out of my way! "Look Ouuuuuuuuuut!!!!!!!!!!" I dug my left hand and left foot into the tangle. I could feel my glove rip away, a quick glimpse of my cousin's eyes opened wide in terror, the sled turning suddenly and unnaturally sideways, a brief spin of the horizon, and then the bright flash of impact.
Icy snow was in my hair, down my shirt, down my pants and all over the side of my face, as I lifted myself from the furrow I created skidding to a halt. It was a fantastic tumble of man and sled. My elbow and knee hurt, my face was numb, my palm was scraped and bloody. But yet, I felt warm with the heat of adrenaline. My hat had disappeared who knows where, and the left glove would also remain missing. The sturdy sleds were undamaged, and I fixed the rope back to the yolk. We walked down the remaining short distance of the hill, and limped home under the street lights, proudly trading the heroic details of our runs down Suicide Hill...
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