The Yellow Spring... or is it?

When I first saw the Yellow Spring, my initial thought was, “That’s not yellow.” I mean, not really. It’s yellowish, ok, but if I were to see it without knowing its name, I certainly wouldn’t call it yellow.

Because my inquiring mind wants to know, I’ve occasionally mentioned this to people. It turns out, as I suspected, that the name of our beloved village is actually the result of a slight mistranslation.

We all know about the Yellow Spring, a natural spring in Glen Helen that is rich in iron ore, staining the rocks and ochre earth with its yellow-like color. We all know that early draws to the spring were to do with its alleged healing properties, and that in the 19th century spas and resorts were built along and nearby.

Apparently, the indigenous Shawnee, who inhabited our village before it was settled by white people, called the spring what is perhaps more accurately translated as “golden waters”. In English this became Yellow Springs and we’ve never looked back.

I became curious about other waters that might have similar compositions, and what they might be named.

I found two other places that call the water yellow.

• Yellow Springs, Pennsylvania is an historic village and ghost town in Chester County that runs over an iron-rich spring. As in our Yellow Spring, indigenous Lenape peoples were in the area for thousands of years. Their white folks made it into a spa village well before ours, though, in the 18th century. Alternate names for this spring have been Iron Springs and Sulphur Spring.

• Yellow Spring (yes, that’s singular), West Virginia is an unincorporated community in Hampshire County. It is named after the spring on the Cacapon River. That’s all the information I could find on that.

I thought, perhaps there are places which named the waters after other colors on the first half of the spectrum, which are just as valid labels as yellow.

• Red Springs, North Carolina is a town in Robeson and Hoke counties. According to their web site, it is named for the iron- and sulphur-rich springs that were “known for their beneficial qualities long before the town came into being” (by whom it doesn’t say) and it, too, became a bit of a spa mecca.

• Red Springs, Wisconsin is a town in Shawano County. No other information found.

• Orange Springs, Florida is an unincorporated community in Marion County. No other information found on there, either, except that there is a spring-fed lake.

We might have easily been called Red Springs. Our history and stereotype as a bunch of lefty commies make that an easy joke.

Many thanks to Scott Sanders of Antiochiana.

It wasn’t just me. According to the Yellow Springs News last month, this summer “butterflies, perhaps due to a combination of the heat and wet winter, were abundant. ‘The butterflies were amazing,’ [Bill] Felker [of ‘Poor Will’s Almanac’] said” (9/9/10).

One day I was walking dogs while housesitting. I started into the path that led to the covered bridge from Grinnell Road, where we were swarmed by dozens of butterflies of various sizes and patterns. And these were no timid butterflies—they rushed us, brushing my skin with their wings and landing on me briefly before skipping off. They whipped in and out of my vision and never stayed anywhere long enough for me to watch one for more than a literal second—but their presence as a mass didn’t cease for some time.

At first I vocalized my surprised (i.e., I shrieked), but found it to be such a pleasant experience—in contrast to the myriad other unpleasantries of this summer—that I stopped in my tracks, and remained very still as the critters flitted and flirted about me. The dogs were impatient at this pause in their walks but I ignored them.

A few times this summer I came across an injured or dead butterfly; sad for the butterfly, but nice for me, as I got to enjoy the eye candy uninterrupted by fluttering and flying away. My favorites were the big shiny ones with blue and gold spots and tiger-stripes.

I recently visited The Farm in southern Tennessee and the sand by their swimming hole—peopleless but for me—was populated by butterflies, which I didn’t notice until I walked into the middle of their territory. They flew into a frenzy around me—not making contact, but refusing to leave their turf for very long. It seemed like they were just making themselves mobile while waiting for me to leave. Their constant flying away and back and away and back, looked like a surge of seemingly arbitrary flight patterns.

I went into the water by the shore and they settled down. There were three distinct species that hung out together. Two groups of small yellow butterflies that clustered closely, always by two particular yellow beach toys. Very small gray/blue ones that clustered less tightly. And a bit further away, orange-and-black ones that clustered even less tightly. All clearly, however, a part of their own group. There was the occasional commingling, or other type of butterfly that would come along, but this only led to that disrupted frantic flying and things eventually went back to the way they were.

I watched all of this for an inordinate amount of time.

I am not particularly fond of bugs. A common childhood phobia threatened to become permanent in my adulthood and has been only partly assuaged by diligent self-therapy.

I have always identified with this quote by Mulder from “The X-Files”: “One day back when I was a kid, I was climbing this tree when I noticed this leaf walking towards me. It took forever for me to realize that it was no leaf…. I had a praying mantis epiphany and, as a result, I screamed. No, not a girly scream, but the scream of someone being confronted by some before unknown monster that had no right existing on the same planet I inhabited. Did you ever notice how a praying mantis’ head resembles an alien’s head? I mean, the mysteries of the natural world were revealed to me that day, but instead of being astounded, I was repulsed.” (season 3, episode 12, “War of the Coprophages”, air date 1/5/96).

But I prefer flying bugs to crawling bugs and there’s something about certain bugs I have always loved—butterflies and dragonflies mainly. Maybe it’s the wings—gossamer and decorative and striking. There is more pretty wing than icky insect body, often by far. Maybe it’s the fascination many of us have with the grotesque, in this case with the uneasy mix of the beautiful and the grotesque—a combination which makes us question our preconceived notions that there is a firm boundary between these two seemingly mutually-exclusive states. Well, maybe just me.

The Farm butterflies (click to see them bigger)

My first encounter with Faul-Real Company Director Mark Greenfield was classic Antiochian, appropriate as all parties involved are Antiochians.

My buddy Michael Casselli, who designed their set, said to me, at the Emporium on Friday the 13th, “You should go to the theater workshop that starts tonight.” I snarkily replied, “I thought I couldn’t because I’m not a man.”

I didn’t realize that Mark—Oedipus Rex director—was right there until he said to me, “No, that’s just the play; the workshop is open.”

I apologized for my brash statement—I really didn’t feel any contention about their casting choice, because I knew the purpose of it; I was just saying that to be snarky to Michael. Mark said, “That’s okay, I knew what I was getting into when I made that choice.” “Especially around these parts.”

I couldn’t make the workshop that night but Mark seemed like a cool guy, so I checked it out, liked what I read, and went the next night.

The workshop was called “Make Theater Anywhere” and its mission was to teach about environmental theater—making theater in outdoor and non-traditional spaces. The workshop met for a week in the evenings, culminating in the creation of a short play that was performed in the amphitheater before Oedipus Rex.

In his introduction to our performance that weekend, Mark explained how the workshop morphed into a how-to on spontaneous, democratic theater. As that’s one of my favorite forms of theater to make, I was quite happy with the transformation. The workshop quickly became the highlight of my week.

Mark’s wife, Laura Barnett, co-ran the workshop with him and their son, JackAllen, participated. The other folks in the workshop and performance were myself, local Springers Ali Thomas and Charlotte Walkey, Antioch/Nonstop students Jeanne Kay and Rose Pelzl, local teenager Jaylin Walker, and two teens who had travelled with the theater company, Alassane Diop and Donatello Meltz-DeMeo. An honorary mention goes to Rachel, who was in the workshop the whole week but was out of town during the weekend performances.

Between all of the participants was a diversity of ages, backgrounds, and theatrical experiences and approaches that proved challenging and rewarding during both the early theater exercises and the process of putting together the show.

Many of the early theater exercises were techniques on presenting theater outdoors, using space, movement, and gesture—including some dabbling in commedia dell’arte, Italian Renaissance street theater, a personal favorite. Over the course of the week, each of us was tasked to bring in different things—texts to be performed in particular spaces; props, costumes, or other elements we’d like to see in the final show; pieces of overheard dialogue as short texts to play with. Workshop locations were all over campus and included the South Gym and its parking lot, the Amphitheatre, Red Square (between Main Building, North, and the mound), and the golf course. As the week drew to a close, we began to shape our piece, but the actual form wasn’t set until Thursday, the day before our first show.

We incorporated ideas from everyone in the group, using bits we’d developed or that had surfaced over the week. Example: I brought in the ropes, because I’ve been trained as an escape artist and love them as theatrical props. The running joke of JackAllen incessantly begging to be tied up was just as it had happened during the workshop, whenever the rope was visible. The political text pieces were excerpted by Jeanne from an article in the New Yorker that, when she read it, she found to be theatrical. Lying was an element that Ali wanted to explore. And so on and so forth.

Our show was a lot of fun to perform and the audience seemed to enjoy it, particularly when we interacted with them directly (another favorite theatrical element of mine). I think we did end up developing a nice troupe dynamic, particularly as the weekend wore on. I hadn’t done theater for a long time, so just being on stage again was a lovely rush.

Friday’s workshop performance; photos by Aaron Zaremsky

After our show was Oedipus Rex, and let me tell you, it blew me away. Classical theater isn’t always my cup of tea, because I have a hard time with archaic, verbose language. But this production of Oedipus Rex made the language and story all the more beautiful through its clever, stark, and very physical staging; expressive and sparsely-used masks; expressive and sparsely-used sound effects; and most importantly, its stunning performances. Many of the actors still had their scripts in hand, but it didn’t matter—they delivered their performances with a furious passion that drew me into the guts of the play as I’m sure no other production could have done. I watched the show with relish that night, and the following night, and was sorry I had to miss closing night.

Members of Faux-Real in “Oedipus Rex.” (submitted photo by Jeff Wood)

Over the weekend I got to know Mark and Laura more, as well as some of the other company members. The last carload of them left on Tuesday, and I miss them already. I love having visitors in Yellow Springs, to break up the routine (such as it is in this unpredictable and oft-shifting place!), and theater people involved with Antioch are for me just the cat’s meow.

Throughout the week, the Faul-Real crew made me miss and love theater again, just as marked a memory as the moment I first realized I loved theater. I’m happy to say that there’s increasingly more buzz for new theater projects here in town, and I encourage all of you to participate, as practitioners and spectators.

Thus begins “The Twilight Zone” episode “The Changing Of The Guard”. Fowler has been teaching for 51 years and is being forced to retire. Pondering his fate and his past, he comes to the conclusion that his whole career has been in vain because he hasn’t made a lick of difference to or an impression on any of his students.

Depressed, he decides to commit suicide. Handgun in hand, he returns to his school, to a statue of none other than Horace Mann, adorned with his famous Antiochian “Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity” quote. Fowler tells Horace that he is ashamed to die, but alas, there is nothing more to be done. Just as he is about to pull the trigger… (dramatic pause…) he is whisked away into the Twilight Zone! Ghosts of his former students appear to him, saying that he has, in fact, made a difference to them, in such personal ways he could never know them all. Fowler returns home, alive and happy, gracefully accepting his retirement. (You can watch the whole episode here.)

As you probably know, if you are reading this, if you have any connection to Yellow Springs, Rod Serling got his Bachelor’s degree at Antioch College. In much of his work, the Antiochian influence is clear, but never quite so directly as in this episode of the TV show he created, produced, hosted, and wrote most of the scripts for.

In this episode, which, yes, Serling wrote, it is Fowler’s visit to Horace Mann that brings him into the Twilight Zone. Horace Mann is clearly a gatekeeper to the Twilight Zone. And as if we needed more proof, we can thus extrapolate that Antioch College and Yellow Springs are huge landmarks of the Twilight Zone, if not the Zone itself. If the Zone could be said to have a single, geographic location, that is.

Serling as Antioch student…

From the Cleveland Plain Dealer, 5/23/1949: ANTIOCH WINNER. Rod Serling, student at Antioch College, at Yellow Springs, O., who just won a nation-wide radio script contest, writes an original radio play every week on the kitchen table of a campus trailer, while his wife and fellow student, Carol, hits the textbooks or keeps the household running. Each week, too, he casts his play, directs it, plans music and sound effects for it and produces it over a Springfield radio station. In between times he studies, too. His wife looks over his script. (photo by John Hoke; courtesy of Antiochiana)

Rod Serling was born on Christmas Day, 1924 and raised in upstate New York. After graduating from high school, he joined the Army; he served as a paratrooper in New Guinea and the Philippines from 1944 until 1946. He’d been accepted to Antioch College during high school; he applied because his brother had gone there. “I just wanted a good school to get practical experience. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do,” he said. He entered in the fall of 1946.

He’d written a bit before, but had no thoughts of doing it for a living. Instead, he started out as a physical education major, because he liked working with kids. “But as is so often the case, I found that little hole, that little sense of hunger, that all is not right, something is left out. And then came writing…” [6].

He got interested in creative writing and radio, eventually changing his major to Literature. He was manager of the Antioch Broadcasting System’s radio workshop, and wrote, directed, produced, and scored weekly shows for a Springfield station. He won a prize for a regional original radio script contest and then won second prize (and $500) in a national radio contest. He sold several radio scripts and one for television before graduating.

Serling in the “real”, non-Antioch world…

After graduating in 1950, Serling and his wife (Carol, a fellow Antiochian) moved to Cincinnati, where he worked for a radio station and wrote freelance. This proved too taxing, so he decided to “drop my regular job for 12 months. Then if I couldn’t make enough to exist, I’d give up [writing]” [4]. Well make it he did. Serling made a living writing scripts for television, mostly dramas for live anthology shows.

Throughout his life-long career as a writer and then producer, Serling’s Antiochian ideals were unwavering and unabashed. He felt strongly that writers should “menace the public conscience” and that radio, television, and film ought to be “vehicles of social criticism” [7]. He said, “The singular evil of our time is prejudice,” and that he tried to address this in all of his work [2].

Politically conscious as he was, his scripts dealt frankly with social issues and were often censored by corporate sponsors, who didn’t want to be associated with anything that might be offensive—watering down plots, even changing a character’s race or religion. Corporate sponsorship and censorship became a thorn in Serling’s side. “I think it is criminal that we are not permitted to make dramatic note of social evils that exist, of controversial themes as they are inherent in our society” [7,2].

Like any good critical thinking Antiochian, though, he found a creative way around the problem. He found that in writing science fiction and fantasy, he could be more parabolic, more metaphoric, and that his scripts were approved more readily. In the words of his wife, “sponsors basically just didn’t understand what he was doing” [2].

And so, in 1959, “The Twilight Zone” was born. This show was a half-hour anthology drama taking place in various supernatural, futuristic, or dystopian worlds. It allowed Serling and other writers to tackle social issues in well-concealed but nonetheless effective parable form. It was a massive, seminal success.

Despite this victory-of-sorts, after a few years Serling needed a break from show business. He was over-worked, disillusioned, and weary from working within the system he found so flawed. “I’m no longer an angry man. Now I’m only a petulant aging man. I’m not exactly a meek conformist. I’m just a tired non-conformist” [5].

So where’s a “petulant aging man” to go to recharge? Why, back to Antioch, of course! His decision to return was fueled by his “tremendous feeling for Antioch and for what it does and I’ve always wanted to be more a part of it” [3].

Serling as Antioch professor…

Rod Serling on Antioch College campus during his stint as professor, 1962–63 (photo by Axel Bahnsen; courtesy of Antiochiana)

Serling accepted a position as writer-in-residence and part-time teacher at Antioch College. He lived, taught, wrote, and hung out with his family here in town for five months in 1962–63. “It will be a respite, but that’s not to say it’ll be sack-time. I’ve been here before, remember, and I know there’s not much sack-time around Antioch” [3].

He taught classes in writing and drama, and an adult class on the “social and historical implications of the media.” You can read the typewritten notes of one of the students of the latter class here.

He enjoyed his time here, though was not without the challenges of the current generation of Antioch students. “They want to prove to me that they’re something less than impressed by my so-called status. I show them a film and then say, beaming with pride, ‘What d’you think of that?’ and they look at me and rip it apart” [1].

Rod Serling teaching at Antioch College during his stint as professor, 1962–63 (photo by Axel Bahnsen; courtesy of Antiochiana)

Toward the end, he was reflective: “I’m often asked, has this rather brief, transitory sojourn back at your old alma mater been of help to you? And I must answer to that very much in the affirmative. The questions thrown at me have made me restate my own position, have made me reevaluate what I believe to be right or true or just, have made me think again about those standards of judgment that I apply to my own work” [6].

…and all the rest

Serling returned to LA, where “The Twilight Zone” ran for another two seasons, until 1964. He went on to write more film scripts, including co-writing, with Michael Wilson, the adaptation of Planet Of The Apes (1968). He also returned to teaching, this time at Ithaca College, from 1970 until his death in 1975.

Toward the end of his term teaching at Antioch, he did an interview on WYSO during which he spoke at length on his love for Antioch and its influence on him:

“[A]ntioch… tries to build not just a student, not just a mind, but a person, a whole person, a citizen, a thinker, a person with a point of view, and not just any extraneous point of view that comes from the spur of a single emotion, but a person who arrives at a philosophy and a point of view based on observation, a thought process, a collection of knowledge.”

Rod Serling teaching at Antioch College during his stint as professor, 1962–63 (photo by Axel Bahnsen; courtesy of Antiochiana)

“[A]ntioch is somewhat looked askance at because of the volubility and dissent that comes from this campus. It has always been a place of dissent, but I think of wholesome dissent…. [T]his is what I learned at Antioch, that when something was wrong and I could reason it out and be secure in my own mind that it was wrong, that I could get up on my own two feet and make comment on it. And I guess if anything, that’s something that has carried with me over the years and has been, I think, fairly evident in my writing…. This I think is traditional at Antioch. The same freedom to speak, the same freedom to reason, and above all, the right to question. I think the idea of questioning is not only a right, it is a responsibility. We have to question, because from questioning we get betterment.”

“[C]ertainly there are truths, but all truths are questionable. Certainly there are facts, but all facts are changeable. Certainly there are opinions, but opinions are alterable. I find that dynamic process of change after change is one of the marvelous aspects of this college, that we’re not mired in any ruts here. We’re not anchored to any traditions of the past.”

“An exciting 4 or 5 years at Antioch is not the traditional college education. It is something very special, very different.”

There are many Antiochians that are Antiochians through and through, that experience Antioch not just as a place to get an education and a degree but as a pivotal point in their lives. A point in which arguably their very nature—often previously hidden and at odds with much of the rest of our societal system—is allowed to shine and develop. After Antioch, these folks can then go on to nurture their nature, strengthen their ideals, allow for and participate in constant questioning and change, and live in an uncompromising harmony with their world in a way they wouldn’t have been able to without Antioch. People like this simply could not have gone to any other college, no matter how “liberal” or seemingly progressive. Antioch is one of a kind, for one-of-a-kind people.

Rod Serling was clearly one of these people. So am I. So are most of the Antiochians I have ever known.

And without a new Antioch that is just as boldly and unapologetically progressive, voluble, critical, intense, “wholesome[ly] dissent[ing]”, “not anchored to any traditions of the past”, as it has been, historically—as Rod Serling was, as I strive to be—what will all the misfits do?

Works Cited

1. Cooper, Susan. “‘Twilight Zone’ Beckons—Reluctant Rod Serling Returning To TV After A Happy Antioch College Sabbatical”, The Blade (Toledo, O.), 12/9/62.
2. French, Kimberly. “‘Twilight Zone’ writer challenged prejudice”, UU World, Winter 2007.
3. “Rumors confirmed—Serling to Join Antioch Faculty”, Dayton Daily News, 3/28/62.
4. Silden, Isobel. “Success By Rod”, unknown newspaper, 1956.
5. Wolfe, Mary Ellen. “TV Writer Longs For Quiet—Antioch Skeptical On Serling Return”, Dayton Journal Herald, 1961.
6. WYSO interview with Rod Serling, 1/28/63.
7. Zen, Beringia. “Rod Serling”, Unitarian Universalist Historical Society (UUHS), http://www25.uua.org/uuhs/duub/articles/rodserling.html.

A very special thanks to Scott Sanders of Antiochiana. Muggins!

photo by Lee Johnson

My friend Paul says Ireland is not all like this—the town, Clones, built around the church on a hill to dominate the land for miles. (It’s the highest diamond, or town center, in Ireland I’ve been told.) He grew up in the suburbs. From here I can see both spires, one Catholic, one Protestant, one on either side of the town, barely a mile from the capital-B border.

Someone told me that the land here looked so northern to them, lines of pines bordering green fields. That his association with that landscape was to imagine the bloodshed, the battles, the British soldiers storming through those trees…

photo by Lee Johnson

As an outsider I look at this land and see what I want, unsoiled by anything other than an intellectual awareness of its history. I think it’s tragic to see this beauty and think of war. But without one, could there be another? Is it because of one that we have the other? The oldest question in the book.

On two occasions I was in a group that was chased by cows. One was on the grounds of a dilapidated castle in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. The other was in a field in County Galway. These photos were taken once I knew we were safe, over the fence or stone wall, with them still staring us down.

There’s not a soul around as far as I can see, and I can see very far. Kept walking till the beaten path became considerably less beaten. A crumbling stone wall covering a massive scrap heap, an abandoned barn just behind. Sectioned off, forgotten; rural decay. Rural Irish decay; history commingling so easily with recent past and present. The time lapse becomes blurry.

As it turns out, it was not so abandoned. I was there barely an hour before someone drove by and recognized me from a photo on Facebook with a mutual friend who’s a local. “Is your name Vanessa?” Clones is worse than Yellow Springs…

The evenings are chilly but they say it’s warm. Swimming with new friends in limestoney Lough Buinne, near Kinvara, in County Clare. The mud in the water nothing I’d ever felt before, the water warmer than the air—not saying a whole lot. It never got deep and I could always see the bottom, clay-colored; it threatened to suck me down with every foot-fall, with every foot-rise releasing cloudy mud into the water making it temporarily opaque.

The Kinvara farmers market in County Galway is my new favorite, I do believe. In addition to the vendors, the music, cafe and prepared foods (“tea, coffee, & other nice things”), and tables and chairs made it almost fair-like. Granted, money-exchange for goods was first but it wasn’t last, or maybe it was also last but not middle. Very communal—“Got an Irish coffee there?” one man said as he passed and tapped my cup of lemon-ginger tea. “Ha I wish.”

traipsing through fields of cows and nettles
over shaky stone walls and variously-sized hills
even the dogs thought it was too much for a minute there

Clones, County Monaghan, Ireland (marked with an 'A') - a satellite image from Google Maps

So come let us meander to a land of melody, mirth, meadow, and mist: It can only be Ireland. If you start in Dublin, as most people who fly in do, travel 2 hours north and a bit west and you’ll hit Clones (originally “Cluain Eois” in Irish so pronounced “clone-es”). Clones is a town in County Monaghan, population 2,889 at the 2006 census. 7 kilometers away is the village of Scotshouse, which according to the locals has a population of 150, maybe 200. In between Clones and Scotshouse is Hilton Park, an estate on which the 8th, 9th, and 10th generations of the Madden family live.

Every year Hilton Park is host to the Flat Lake Literary & Arts Festival, organized and hosted by writer Pat McCabe and actor/director/producer Kevin Allen. This festival brings together artists and spectators of all types for a weekend of creativity, camping, and drinking in the very green fields of rainy rural Ireland.

Later this week my friend Lee and I will leave for Ireland. It will be my third year going out there to volunteer for the Flat Lake festival. (It will be Lee’s first!) I am greatly looking forward to once again breathing that fresh, country air; gazing out at those green, green fields; enjoying the company of the friends I’ve made the last two years; and drinking really, really good Guinness. Not to mention the great food, work, art, and inspiration.

Some reflections from the first year

Remember how I said Boston was so Irish? Well, Ireland is way more Irish. Boston’s got nothing on Ireland in terms of Irishness.

I wish I could take pictures of how the air feels on my skin in my mouth and lungs, or how the earth feels on my feet.

Irish-language radio station.
Conrad (Australian): “You getting all that?”
Me: “Oh yeah, every word.”
Conrad: “Even when they’re talking English it’s just as hard.”

I got a bit lost in the country. I blame Jonathan’s directions which had “green field” as a landmark.

In Scotshouse there are 3 shops. In Clones there are—according to David—2 churches, 20 pubs, and 1 of everything else.

Chrissie took me to Enniskillen (in Northern Ireland) and showed me sights on the way. The police stations are barricaded with huge steel columns from about four feet up to the top and cops still on standard wear bullet-proof vests and pack crazy heat. Also, they’re police in the north because it’s UK but “the guards” (garda) in Ireland from the Irish “garda síochána” meaning “civic guard”.

Sometimes, early in the morning, the cows sound like the T-Rex from Jurassic Park.

Bernie: “We drink tea like water.”
Me: “That is the equivalent isn’t it. I was trying to figure that out. I think you drink more tea than we drink liquid.”
Bernie: “The aul ones are the worst. I’ve an uncle who will drink only tea. It wouldn’t occur to him to drink anything else.”
Me: “What if he wants a cold drink?”
Bernie: “He doesn’t want a cold drink.”

Some reflections from the second year

A guy started chatting me up. I can’t remember his name and I shouldn’t say it, anyway. He told me to forget everything he told me, stories of being in the IRA during the Troubles and how he’d been gone 22 years, just got back, and was still acknowledged as a member. Scary, he said, but they take care of you, like a gang, like gangsters in America. You can’t ever really escape but there are perks, like yesterday he was pulled over in Cavan and they frisked him, they went through all his stuff until they found a certain card they stopped and apologized and said it’d never happen again, the only reason it did was because they didn’t recognize him in those parts. He showed me the Sinn Fein membership card, told me about conversations with Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness, how he knew exactly who was involved in the cop shooting a few months ago in Armagh, that Ireland was never really going to change, that all the politics were bull, and he knew a lot of it was just ignorance but a part of him didn’t want it to change. He confessed and apparently only to me and eventually to a priest—that when his wife died of cancer last year he felt like he wanted the Troubles to start again. He didn’t really, but that’s how he felt.

Oh it’s lovely right now. The weather changes approximately every minute. Last night I made a home in the hotel bar and the pub Packie Willie’s. Pretty much everyone treats you like a friend and wants to know all about you and shares their own life story or take on American politics or what have you. The bartenders don’t work for tips which is probably why they don’t try to refill you every 8 seconds and there’s a genuineness to them that Americans lack because they’re not perpetually on the hustle. James at the hotel calls me Sister Assumpta—I forget why, and so does he—and is my new best friend. The pints keep coming even though I say no. “Sister Assumpta!” “How do I make it stop??” “You don’t.” Today he found me walking outside of town. Pulled up to me, opened the door and I got in without a word as though this were intended and as though I’d known him longer than 24 hours. Paula had called the hotel so he had come looking for me.

Seeing the culture differences make me think about enculturation and Althusserian obviousness. It’s not obviously to me that you would order a “diluted orange” at the bar. I wonder about how people learn these things, individually. Like, when did I learn there was an Ireland? Talked about learning history in school with Mark and Eamon at the bar—Mark’s from the north and they were exchanging their own educational differences. But Americans are not taught about other countries in anything other than a theoretical way, or historical as it relates to us. Like I wouldn’t have learned as much about the USSR except I was in grade school during the Cold War. I learned almost nothing—or maybe nothing—about the Troubles. Didn’t involve us.

After a few days they think I am Canadian. After a few more they don’t know where I’m from. One thought I was from Dublin—“You’re not loud enough to be American.” Which is funny because back home I am considered loud, too loud for a woman anyway. In Ireland women are allowed to be as loud as men. One said, “Have you some American or something in you?” This is the woman who has Joe Strummer’s godson and said Joe would have loved the Flat Lake scene.

Places in Ireland I have slept

• An apartment attached to an out-of-business storefront that was once the village post office and general store.
• An old farm house half a mile from the road that had been emptied after the woman who’d lived there for 40 years died—emptied save for a portrait of the Sacred Heart and a plastic bottle of mass-produced holy water. One night I stayed in that house alone. It was terrifying and amazing.
• A hotel in the town center of Clones.
• In the maid’s room of a massive estate house.
• A tent in a field that stretched for miles.
• A friend’s house in the neighboring county of Cavan.
• A friend’s apartment in Dublin.
• A rented apartment in Dublin.
• A horse farm in County Laois.
• And finally, a traveling horse caravan. That’s a whole other story that’s a lot less interesting than it sounds.

I look forward to adding a few more to my list this time around.

We begin our show this morning at the farmers’ market. Which farmers’ market, you ask? So then I ask: Isn’t it amazing that in a town of our size, one has to ask, which farmers’ market? That’s right, folks, Yellow Springs is home to no less than three farmers’ markets.

That’s approximately one farmers’ market per 1,254 people. Exponentially, that means there would be 133 farmers’ markets in Dayton. In Central Falls, Rhode Island (a city that, as you may recall, I have used as a sort of control before, in “Yellow Springs: A Primer”) there would be 15—15, in a city with a land area of just over a square mile!

photo by Vanessa Query

Yellow Springs’ farmers’ markets are not only comparatively numerous, they are special. You can’t find fresher food than at our markets. The farmers have been up nearly since the night before, harvesting and collecting the lovely foods you see before you. So fresh is the food, you may overhear a customer ask, “Is this cheese gamey?”

Drifting away from the market, the sounds of camaraderie, money changing hands, and the occasional live goat evanescing into the distance, we arrive downtown. Here you will find not an abundance of fresh produce but of public art and tourists. The intersection of these two can bring about some unexpected surprises. Recently overheard near a knit tree was: “Very strange. I wonder if I stay still long enough, will they knit around me?”

Another thing in great abundance downtown is the obvious sense of comfort of its denizens. Milling about freely, on the sidewalk or in the shops, on the outdoor benches or café tables or in the trees—it’s kind of like being in your living room.

Of course, there is no hiding downtown. No anonymity. You are free to do (and act and dress) as you please in our beloved Yellow Springs in ways you cannot in other places, but you also cannot escape everyone else—people you know, for better or for worse—who are also free to do (and act and dress) as they please.

photo by Vanessa Query

It may be your living room, but remember—your family might also be in your living room.

My mother recently visited Yellow Springs. I was supposed to meet her at the Emporium one day at 11:45 a.m. My morning yoga class ran late, so I didn’t get there until almost noon. In that time she’d already complained to some folks about my tardiness. Kurt’s response was the classic “Yellow Springs Time” excuse. John’s response was that my mother had failed in raising me and that’s why I was late. Carmen’s response to John’s response was that that’s rich coming from the guy with no kids.

After a nice big cup of coffee (a Maté Lemon Green tea for me), our short jaunt through Yellow Springs is complete.

We thank you for reading this episode of “Good Morning, Yellow Springs”. We hope this has been informative and entertaining. This edition of “Good Morning, Yellow Springs” was brought to you by mascarpone cheese from Current Cuisine, Big Calm by Morcheeba, and Chenoa. Thank you, and good morning.

I first met Coconut on New Year’s Eve, 2007. I’d been gone from Yellow Springs for over a year, was just visiting for the holidays. I would return home to Providence, Rhode Island from this visit having decided to move back.

I can’t remember if by New Year’s I knew I was coming back. But that’s not the point. I met Coconut because my friend and comedy partner Jill Summerville and I were sitting on the steps of Dunphy’s for the ball drop. We were sitting on the steps because we needed a stable, seated place away from the crowd. We needed stable, seated place because Jill has cerebral palsy and isn’t terribly mobile. We didn’t want her to get trampled by the crowd and we didn’t want people to trip over her wheelchair. So we got downtown really early and staked out our seats, holding court all night.

Coconut kept us company the whole time. She was very excited by all the activity and all the attention we were giving her, and frequently tried to paw her way through the glass windows. I reciprocated.

As you may know, Coconut lives in Dunphy’s and mostly when the place is empty, and especially when the miniature-town holiday display is up, she likes to hang out by the front windows. She expresses a lot of interest in passersby and even more in falling snow. If you get her on a good day, she might roll on her back for you and look at you upside-down with those big gorgeous eyes.

Since moving back to Yellow Springs, one of my favorite things to do is visit Coconut—usually just to say hey through the window, but sometimes when the weather is nice and the back door is open she’s there, prowling the 2-foot circumference of the doorway (she’s a bit skittish).

And if you don’t know already, and if you haven’t gathered as much by this post so far, I’m a cat person. Actually to say that I’m a cat person is a bit of an understatement. I don’t actually have a cat; I’ve always been fated to be a cat lady so what’s the rush? In the meantime I try to pet and bond with every cat that comes across my path. They distract me from everything: conversations, errands, other cats. I would yell “kitty!” and rush to them. But the cats around here can be antisocial so I’ve had to modify my approach. Now I whisper “kitty” and crouch-slink to them.

One of the things I love about cats—especially the cats around here—is their aloofness. The more aloof the cat the more I love them. I kind of thrive on perpetually-unfulfilled longing. So if one would care to get all psychoanalytic about it, Coconut’s appeal for me may partly be because much of our relationship is characterized by being separated by a glass window. We constantly try to get at each other through this window, and are only sometimes rewarded by actual physical contact, involving lots of petting, shedding, and the occasional dash to safety at outside disruption (I’m not telling you who does that one).

I want to take this opportunity to apologize to my colleagues at the News—if I am late to work, it’s all Coconut’s fault. You try saying no to that charm.

I would like to introduce you to Yellow Springs. And even if you’ve lived here all your life, you may not have been properly introduced. This is also a thinly-veiled introduction to me, your new blogger and friend, and a sneak peak at what this blogging adventure might bring…

Yellow Springs, Ohio - a satellite image from Google Maps

• Yellow Springs is in the Dayton Metropolitan Statistical Area, in Greene County, in Ohio, in the United States of America, in North America, in the Americas, in the northern/western hemispheres, on the Earth, in the Solar System, in the Milky Way Galaxy, in the observable universe.

• Total land area: 1.9 square miles.

• 2000 population: 3,761. What will the 2010 census bring? Predictions, anyone? Has everyone filled out their forms?

• Population density based on 2000 census: 1,981.3 people per square mile. Let’s compare that with Central Falls, Rhode Island (home of 19th-century activist Elizabeth Buffum Chace), which, at 1.29 square miles, is one of the smallest, densely populated cities in the country. Central Falls’ population density is 15,834 people per square mile.

• Yellow Springs was founded in 1825 by about 100 families who wanted to emulate the utopian/communitarian community of New Harmony, Indiana. It didn’t work. (New Harmony didn’t work either.)

• Yellow Springs was one of the final stops on the Underground Railroad. Elizabeth Buffum Chace, remember her, from Central Falls, was also an operator, but up in Rhode Island, not in Yellow Springs.

• Rod Serling, creator of “The Twilight Zone”, went to Antioch College (class of ’50). Antioch is where he became interested in theater and broadcasting and, some say that Yellow Springs itself was the inspiration of “The Twilight Zone”.

• Horace Mann, the first president of Antioch College, is buried in Providence, Rhode Island.

• Home of Antioch College, founded in 1852 and Antioch University, founded in 1978.

• Home of the Yellow Springs News (founded in 1880) and NPR-affiliate WYSO (founded in 1957).

• Home of 3 cafes, 3 bars, 3 restaurants (that are sit-down-wait-staffed and that are not also bars), 3 parks (of significant size), and 3 real estate agents (one of which is the home of my favorite villager, Coconut).*

• Home of lots of other places to get good food and an increasing number of small CSA (community-supported agriculture) farms and farmers’ markets.

• Home of Tom’s Market, where I found a pearl in an oyster (which they occasionally sell, mainly during Thanksgiving).

• Tomorrow is my birthday.

• Home of 4,792 import/gift shops.

• I miss Molladoor’s, remember that place? And the novelty shop with the Hershey’s ice cream and retro lunchboxes!

(*These numbers may be up for debate. Discuss.)

I realize this primer is perhaps inadequate for a lot of you, but I don’t want to bore/overwhelm you with the first post. I would like to invite you to post your fun facts and trivia and history about Yellow Springs, as it relates to you or your fancy. And stay tuned for more tidbits and the occasional in-depth exploration.