field trip

Back in college I read about the first and last cars of trains being the highest risk locations in case of collision and I've tended to avoid those crumple zones since. I read a story recently about a trolley that was hit head on by a freight train in East Norriton in 1942, the latter cutting through the former killing twelve. I wound up in the second row of the first car on the way to the city Friday morning. I watched as we rolled through what was the Gwynedd tunnel, blasted out in the 1850s and daylighted 70 years later to make room for the powerlines. The first Europeans arrived to the area about 150 years before the tunnel was cleared. One of the books I'm reading posits that the indigenous Lenape occupying the land prior would winter there and spend time between hunting and gathering staring at the large rock formations, in which they purportedly found a spiritual resonance. I thought it was true that the carved out layers might act as their own seed crystals, manifesting memory in the minds washed over their surfaces.

I made it to the Historical Society of Pennsylvania around noon thinking they were open until 4:00 only to find they close at 2:00 on Fridays. The two hours turned out to be sufficient to pick through a collection on Albertus Shelley, a violinist I've been researching for my presentation. I might go back to review some details, but a bulk of the material was a scrapbook of newspaper clippings and programs I believe was assembled by his mom. Also included were letters from Viardot and Sousa and an autograph book signed only by Benjamin and Caroline Harrison, J.S. Duss, W.Y. Meschter, and his mother.

It rained all night Thursday and into Friday morning, a blessing for the peach tree that seems to be OK in its new location. I think I will take a shot at growing wheat, corn, beans, and squash this year, for the food and the history lesson. Somebody suggested growing cotton then somebody else suggested dye plants as well. I thought it's a wonder anybody figured this out to begin with while the clock was counting down and the foragers were gawking at the rocks and playing with the birds. Then I thought there must have been a Sumerian Suit who chiseled his own letter to the editors lamenting how nobody wanted to work anymore, a band of academics pointing to their nomadic forebears who made the same argument, and a group of woodworkers arguing over the construction of spindles and looms.

I baked three loaves of bread this weekend. The first was a boule made with the last of the whole wheat flour. The starter was still struggling at that point, but it rose enough that it was edible. The second two I made in the Pullman pan with bread flour. They're the most successful I've baked this month, though the rise and shaping aren't quite right yet. I made a batch of hummus to make a sammich with the first slices on Saturday then headed to the library to do some more research.

I made it to church yesterday morning after a few weeks away. The sermon was about making a life and grappling with labor's relationship to personal identity. It was breezy but the sun was out so I spent the afternoon walking with the dogs and eating bread, then worked on sketching out a script for the presentation. It was even warmer out today so we walked for a good hour and a half down the Wissahickon while the laundry and vacuum ran. I made a pot of rice then fixed a big bowl with leftover chickpeas and lentils.