Billy Graham shared these concerns in 1981, and you will never read anything more timely, prophetic, and relevant to our current crisis. SC

 

As people of faith, we’re cautioned against hating anyone. But there are groups in our society today whose ideologies are a clear and present danger to truth, justice, freedom, and the American way.

As people of faith, we’re cautioned against hating anyone. But there are groups in our society today whose ideologies are a clear and present danger to truth, justice, freedom, and the American way. We all know who they are. They are well on their way to undoing the progress of the last fifty years. While I struggle against hating anyone, I detest those ideologies. SC

Coffee On the Canna Mire, I’m looking for a Literary Agent to assist in publishing this blog and several additional manuscripts.

Greetings to my friends in Singapore! I'd love to hear from you.

QUERY, first draft, first page, new manuscript, Coffee on The Canna mire

 

COFFEE ON THE CANNA MIRE

Essays, Quotes, & Anecdotes

 By S. T. Casebeer

June 4, 2023

INVITATION

 

Much like the proverbial box of assorted chocolates, Coffee on The Canna Mire is a sampler of my vast and varied literary confections, and you’re right; you never know what you’ll get. But, if you enjoy this book, you’ll love the others. The canna mire is my happy place; its where I go to escape the talons of time, enhance my perspective, widen my horizons, contemplate the cosmos, and ponder incomprehensible possibilities. For me, it’s a little like Brer Rabbit’s briar patch. There’s no other place where I’m entirely lucid and comfortable. 

Littlethicket is my name for several acres of old growth pines which shade, shelter, and encircle a small, woodland pond that nestles peacefully into our wooded sanctuary in the Missouri Ozarks. The little watering hole was bladed out back in the 1940s as a resource for wildlife and livestock which make their home on or around our 120-acre homestead which shares its woodland border with an eight-thousand-acre wildlife management area. My family acquired the property in 1978.

Through the years the little pond has achieved what among its kind would be considered an advanced age, as the ebb and flow of seasons and cycles has deposited within its shaded shores rich deposits of decaying leaves and silt to a depth of several feet, thus reducing the water’s depth to about neck deep on a good-sized Whitetail.

Outside of our annual hay crops, our property is no longer home to farming activity and the grazing of livestock, but local fauna graces the quiet solitude of the sparkling resource with frequent visits from their homes in the deep woods. Deer, turkey, black bear, raccoon, bobcats, skunks, great blue heron, and an occasional mountain lion scatter their padded prints along its muddy banks. Bull frogs join in a chorus of booming voices, announcing their romantic intentions, snapping turtles lurk in the shallows, awaiting the arrival of an unwary snack, and Northern water snakes slither and undulate over the sheltering root wads and among the shaded nooks. 

Some years ago, I began dredging channels through the accumulation of thick, gooey mire and using the mud to create miniature islands and peninsulas. These I have naturalized and landscaped with the addition of rocks, stumps, logs, and numerous varieties of flowering shrubs and wildflowers. What was once a barren and unsightly mudflat in now home to luxurious water garden which provides home to a rich landscape of lilacs, clematis, coneflowers, weigelia, berry vines, and a multitude of vibrant lilies.  Whenever possible, I begin my day with some quiet time. Daybreak is extravagantly peaceful at Littlethicket. The solitude is a balm for my soul. The first rays of dawn are freshened and filtered by the evergreens. Mists rise from the pond’s mirrorlike surface, and the air is heavy with the fragrances of pine boughs, wildflowers, and the enchanting breath of the deep, dark woods. Mornings are my favorite time of day, and I frequently take my coffee on the canna mire.

Having achieved an age at which I have now met my obligations to the trials and tribulations of the work force, except for a healthy regimen of spousal assignments and the time-honored duties of a compliant mate, my time is much my own. Having tried my hand at all variety of hobbies and found most to be bottomless pits of unrewarding expenditures, I’ve found that creative writing can be a source of endless diversion and considerable gratification, and furthermore, words are cheap.

Thus, bolstered by my singular sagacity and unique perspective, I’ve set out to address the ebb and flow of societal distress and dysfunction by singlehandedly salving the world’s myriad ills. Good luck, right! My quiet time on the canna mire frequently provides opportunity for musing over the events of the day and penning my personal judgments and candid opinions. You’re welcome to join me. Here, for your edification, are several years’ worth of literary cacophonies which spontaneously ensued while taking my coffee on the canna mire.  SC

Hear ye, hear ye! As many of you are aware, among other endeavors, in recent years I’ve fathered several novels. I’m now looking for a literary agent to provide some much-needed midwifery during their birthing. Please put out the word. Thanks, SC

CLARA'S BEST, Episode Thirty-three, TAHOE & LAKE VALLEY

 

CLARA'S BEST

Episode Thirty-three

TAHOE & LAKE VALLEY

Is there any wonder Lake Tahoe steals our hearts? One Friday morning, just as the stars blinked out and the eastern horizon assumed a rosy hue, we boarded the old Packard, bound for the Lake. Cynthia brought along her terrier. I packed a loaded picnic basket. Ralph packed his appetite, and Henry provided a thermos of coffee and a sunny disposition.

Leaving Smith Flat and veering hard to port, we pulled onto highway 50 and headed up the grade. The Packard is a wide-open touring car. Suffice it to say, the morning air was invigorating! The Packard easily took the grade at a cruising speed of 60 MPH! In twenty minutes, we were sailing past Camino. Moments later, Pollock pines disappeared in our rearview mirror. “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” 

U.S. Route 50 runs east from West Sacramento to the Nevada state line in South Lake Tahoe. Leaving Smith Flat, the highway proceeds past Pollock Pines and continues eastward to the canyon of the South Fork of the American River at Riverton. It then climbs along and out of the canyon, over Echo Summit, and down into the Lake Tahoe basin. The corridor is a historic one, used by many 49ers who came to California during the Gold Rush. In 1895, part of the present-day route was designated as California's first state highway. 

 

If one leaves Highway 50 and turns hard left at Riverton, Icehouse Road begins a steep climb up the mountain into El Dorado National Forest’s Crystal Basin and Silver Fork. It’s a long, steep grade with numerous switchbacks! Henry’s little Ford was generally overheated and puffing by the time we were half way up the mountain. Icehouse Reservoir gleamed like a blue emerald, mounted in a setting of glorious, pristine granite, at an elevation of around fifty-five hundred feet. Before reaching that elevation, the little Ford generally began boiling and hissing and insisted on taking a breather and having her radiator topped off.

Crystal Basin is a fisherman’s paradise! There’s Icehouse Reservoir, Wright’s Lake, Loon Lake, Gerle Creek, and, if you have the nerve, the rugged, granite lined trek to the little outpost at Wentworth Springs is an adventure in itself. Wentworth Springs was another of Henry’s favorites. He almost always felt obliged to take time to descend into the little meadow to pay homage to the gurgling spring and sample its eyewatering vintage. There was an ancient, gray graniteware dipper on hand for just that purpose. I sampled it once myself. Dipping up a generous ladleful, I briefly inhaled its boiled-egg-like aroma and gallantly gulped ‘er down! Suffice it to say, I would not recommend this to a friend!  If you’re absolutely determined to try this delicate bouquet for yourself, by all means, DO NOT INHALE!  

Beyond this odiferous little mineral spring, Gerle Creek gurgles, splashes and meanders lazily from its snow-fed headwaters, high in a desolate but awe-inspiring landscape of granite peaks, snow-packed crevasses, stunted conifers, and a hardy little perennial lovingly referred to as mountain misery.

 

Staying on the highway and leaving Riverton, the road clings to the north side of the river. From Icehouse Road to the crest of the Sierras, it rises steadily into the high Sierras. Several hairpin-turns take the highway up a steep grade east of Strawberry, after which US 50 continues east alongside the river to its source at Echo Summit.

 

Echo Summit is the highest elevation U.S. Route 50 reaches in California at 7,377 feet. From Echo Summit down to the Lake Tahoe Basin, the roadway slowly snakes downward, hugging the side of a steep hill; it then curves northeast to its south junction with SR 89 (which heads south to Luther Pass) and then turns northward near the city of South Lake Tahoe, where it splits at an intersection known as "The Y". There the former turns east on Lake Tahoe Boulevard, which it follows along the scenic south shore of Lake Tahoe until it reluctantly enters the state of Nevada.

 

The distance from Smith Flat to Lake Tahoe is right around sixty miles. When you cruise at a mile a minute, it doesn’t take long to get there. Unless you stop almost everywhere! We stopped at Bridal Veil Falls for a coffee break. We stopped at Meyer’s Station for lunch. We stopped at Twin Bridges for a photo op., we stopped at Strawberry just because, and we stopped at Echo summit to admire the view and marvel at the substantial snowbank stretching skyward on each side of the road. The temperature at the summit was an invigorating forty-two degrees! Fortunately, before leaving home, we’d filled the entire Packard with luxurious quilts!

 

The only thing I know of that’s a bigger rush than cruising in the Phaeton, is cruising in the Phaeton around Lake Tahoe! The road conditions left something to be desired. Even the potholes had potholes! In places, it was difficult to tell if the road was paved. But the views were spectacular and the traffic, intermittent. We stopped often to admire the lake views and breathe in the invigorating, pine scented air. I truly wish you could have been there with us.  

 

Long before the white man arrived at Tahoe, the lake teamed with native silver and cutthroat trout. The old growth forests of virgin sugar pine boasted large numbers of deer, bear, and all variety of wildlife which roamed unmolested by any, other than the Washoe and Paiute Indians, who established their encampments here during the long luxurious summer months when the snowpack allowed.

 

In February of 1844, Captain John C. Freemont recorded the first sighting of the lake by a white man. He christened the vast expanse of brilliant indigo blue waters, Lake Bonpland, in honor of a French botanist. In 1848, John C. “Cock Eye” Johnson, blazed a trail over Echo summit from Hangtown. The majestic basin soon became known as Lake Valley. The first stagecoach lumbered over the Johnson’s cutoff in 1857. During this time Lake Bonpland was briefly renamed Lake Bigler, in honor of California’s governor, John Bigler. John Bigler was California’s governor from 1852 to 1856. He was an early advocate of the Chinese exclusion act of 1893 and 1902, one of the most unconscionable acts of racism ever perpetrated on the American public and passed by congress.

 

It was not until years later that the name Tahoe became official, chosen in deference to the Washoe Indians, in whose dialect Tahoe means Big Water, or Grasshopper Soup, if you prefer Mark Twain’s translation.

 

In 1859, the discovery of silver in Nevada’s Comstock Lode, prompted a migration of men, animals, stagecoaches, and freighters over Johnson’s cut-off that has been described as the greatest mass movement of men, wagons, animals, and materials know to history. This traffic was eventually eased by the construction of the Central Pacific Railroad over Donner Pass in 1868.

 

During the 1860s, agriculture came to Lake Valley. Early pioneers began plowing its fertile soils for the planting of hayfields and pastures. The dairy industry flourished, and a melancholy chorus of cowbells filled the air. Eventually, the mouth of the upper Truckee River became known far and wide for a trout fishing industry that harvested hundreds of tons of native trout from its pristine waters annually.

 

Also, during the 1860s, steamboats first appeared on Tahoe, providing an indispensable freight service for mail, freight, and passengers, not to mention spectacular sightseeing, to points all around the lake’s seventy-two miles of   picturesque shoreline, about two-thirds of which is in California, with the remainder gracing Nevada.

 

During Mark Twain’s time at Lake Tahoe in the 1860s, he described his personal fascination with Tahoe’s awe-inspiring beauty and serenity. “I thought it must surely be the fairest picture the whole earth affords.” Also, during his time at Tahoe, Mr. Twain tried his hand as a lumber jack. His efforts produced little more than blisters and a terrible conflagration, when his poorly supervised campfire lit out for the territory’s, eventually blackening several acres of old growth timber before burning itself out, but he writes with incredible fondness of his time at the lake. 

 

While the Comstock was busily tunneling its way beneath Virginia City, the demand for timber to shore up the miles of meandering chasms and shafts was insatiable. Entire forests were leveled as old growth pines were felled and discharged into the lake, to be towed to the mills at Glenbrook. By the turn of the century the forests were sufficiently depleted that by 1900 large scale logging operations were suspended. Small scale operations continued as demand grew for lumber for construction of resorts, cabins, and summer homes. Accommodations with such names as Valhalla, Lucky Baldwin’s Tallac Hotel, Fallen Leaf Lodge, Camp Richardson, and Vikings Holm became favorite vacation destinations for Lake Valleys many admirers from all over the world.

 

During the early years, Lake Tahoe was occupied mainly by summer guests and caretakers of its large estates. Few people remained at the high elevations during the winter months, when snowpack measured in the tens of feet rendered Lake Valley inaccessible to even the hardy Paiutes, who retreated to Nevada’s lower elevations and comparatively balmy temperatures.