Hopalong Katzidy

Hopalong Katzidy

By John R. Greenwood

Bedlam Farm 

Author Clarence E. Mulford’s 1904 fictional cowboy hero Hopalong Cassidy was rude, dangerous, and rough-talking. My real-life writer hero Hopalong Katzidy is polite and gentle as a lamb. He’s more like the 1940s television version portrayed by actor William Boyd. That Hopalong drank sarsaparilla and never shot first. Cassidy’s one-legged hop was the result of being shot in the leg during a gunfight. My Katzidy’s hop was a scripted attempt to improve his quality of life by removing a disagreeable big toe. 

When I read that my friend and writing mentor, author Jon Katz had made the difficult decision to have the big toe on his left foot amputated, I reached out to him. I knew he would not make a life altering decision without weighing all options and risks. My opinion would not be necessary but my support would be a given. 

A day or two after Jon wrote about his plans publicly, I offered my help on the day of his surgery. My only role was to meet Jon and his wife Maria at his home and assist in getting him out of the car, in the house, and into his overstuffed chair. Rather than a well choreographed ballet-like maneuver our version was more “Weekend At Bernie’s.” Still groggy from the anesthesia our patient was surprisingly giddy and even chatty. As I write this several hours later I’m quite certain the pain and seriousness has now sunk in. 

So why after months of blog silence did I choose my friends traumatic surgery as an impetus to put pen to paper? 

Its like a 5th Grade teacher pointing her finger at a ten-year-old boy and asking the question, “Why would you do that?” 

“Because Jon told me to!” 

My mentor, my nagging writing-group leader, my friend, my hero, my Hopalong Katzidy is a persuasive nudge. He hadn’t been in his big-boy chair more than 30 seconds before he was asking why I wasn’t writing more? Excuses only provoke him to hurl them back at you like a true friend should. Jon smothers excuses like a wet blanket on a trash fire. Jonnie Nine-Toes was not going to allow Johnnie Nine-Fingers to head back to Saratoga County without promising to hit the keyboard when he gets there. 

Jon’s support for my writing began with our Hubbard Hall Writing Group over a decade ago. His influence and that experience will last me a lifetime. As a connoisseur of larger than life characters that have crossed my path, Jon Katz is King of the Hill. 

This piece was written about him, for him with nothing but sincere admiration and respect. I wish him a speedy recovery so we can fulfill our mutual promise to spend an afternoon sitting in the backyard at Bedlam Farm, swapping stories about the good old days when we had all of our pieces and parts. 

This one’s for you Hopalong. 

Peace,

John (with an H) 

Click here to visit Bedlam Farm

My Witch: The Margaret Hamilton Stories

My Witch: The Margaret Hamilton Stories
By John R. Greenwood

Jean Tafler as Margaret Hamilton enjoying a resounding standing ovation 

This is not meant to be a theater review of John Ahlin's mono-drama My Witch: The Margaret Hamilton Stories. Its purpose is to emphasize the joy you can find when you venture off the edge of your comfort zone. Attending a play is not foreign to me, but it's not something I levitate to naturally. When it comes to buying tickets to a public performance, I'm much more apt to purchase tickets to a musician or author's event. A friend of mine who masterfully played the part of Lennie in Hubbard Hall's 2014 production Of Mice and Men highly recommended I purchase tickets to this latest one-woman play. When it comes to witnessing outstanding theater performances at Hubbard Hall, my record stands at two for two in the win column. In both cases, I am indebted to Chris Barlow of Sandgate VT.

I would like to commend Hubbard Hall on their handling of this beautiful play in times of Covid. They took every precaution possible to ensure the safety and comfort level of everyone involved. By prioritizing safety over numbers, my wife and I were able to experience a Tony Award-worthy performance by an extraordinarily talented Jean Tafler. My wife has been a fan of The Wizard of Oz ever since it first aired on color television. She has been a fan of Margaret Hamilton's just as long. Due to that long-standing fandom, she was quick to table a little covid-phobia and accept my invitation to attend the sixth and last showing of the play at Hubbard Hall. Fortunately, I acted quickly enough to secure tickets to that final matinee.

We were treated to an exceptional afternoon of theater in its finest attire. Jean Tafler gave a Broadway performance on Main Street with grace, humor, and professionalism. My wife and I are a hometown-average couple who enjoy life's simplest pleasures. It might be sipping coffee in our backyard or peeling a couple Slim Jims on a country ride. Let's say we are happiest when surrounded by things that calm us and keep us grounded to the earth. Although we were both looking forward to an entertaining play, we were awestruck at the acting ability and engagement we got from this talented actress.

I want to express how important it is to approach life with open eyes and mind. Thinking about what I would have missed had I been a rusty old curmudgeon and placed an afternoon of NFL above a Sunday Matinee at the theater makes me cringe. More importantly, both of us would have been shortchanged in the game of life. These little unearthed treasures are crucial to our mental health. For me, they keep me peering around corners, not in fear but in anticipation of the next great discovery. I've been blessed with plenty of what's good in the world, and I've never taken one speck of it for granted. It has taken a lifetime to hone the ability to appreciate whatever it is and place it on the "Life is Good" bookcase. The same bookcase I refer back to in times of doubt or despair.

Day after day, I witness people of my hair color whimpering and whining about the government, gas prices, or rain in the forecast. I'm guilty on occasion but what I don't do is park my pickup there. It only takes the turn of a page to find an opposing vantage point. One where you can witness the sun highlighting the leaves on that giant maple in your yard or the rain quenching your thirsty lawn. These are the times I'm reminded that life is precious and if you can't change something, why dwell on it. Stir that lemonade and move on.

Such was the case as I sat next to my wife of 47 years and soaked in an actor living out her passion full throttle. What a gift it was to see a room full of like-minded people fully engaged in watching Jean transform herself into Margaret Hamilton. She thoroughly convinced everyone in the room that we were face to face with Margaret herself. She made me want to hug every witch I knew and buy them a new broom.

I didn't write this to be dramatic about a play and its star; I did it to express my love of curiosity and what it has placed at my door. I remember being petrified of department store Santas as a child. I loved the old guy, but when offered the opportunity to sit on his lap and look him in the eye, I became overwhelmed with fear. I now have a four-year-old grandson who sported his little Santa outfit all summer. That's when Santa sits on your lap and melts your heart. Talk about Santa handing out gifts!

Unfortunately, you missed the opportunity to see this play locally. I don't know where it will travel to next, but I do know there will always be another play, concert, presentation, class, course, hike, Zoom, fundraiser somewhere tomorrow, next week, or next month. Don't think; act. Don't walk; run. Don't press pause; press play. Whatever you do, don't hesitate.

Take Thanksgiving seriously this year. It's a good time to forget why you don't like the person next door today and remember why you liked them five years ago.

Thank you once again, Hubbard Hall—for everything…


Yours truly, 

Raining Iguanas

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

By John R. Greenwood

Jon Katz discussing his latest book "Talking to Animals"  

I went to pay my respects last night, not for someone’s passing, but for someone’s rebirth. Not their rebirth, but for what they did to revive my life. My wife joined me for a trip to Battenkill Books in Cambridge where Jon Katz was launching his latest book, “Talking to Animals.” I wanted to be there out of respect for the things Jon did for me at a critical moment in my life. What Jon did was hand me a key to a world I’d yet to experience. I was deep into my fifties when Jon accepted my application and invited me to be a member of the original Hubbard Hall Writer’s Group. That small group became an immeasurable inspiration and support system that continues some five years later. You can’t write a check or a Thank You card big enough for what Jon’s encouragement and support has done for me personally. 

Bedlam Farm has become a rally cry for me. The words alone lift my spirit and ignite creativity in me. Jon and Maria opened their home and their lives so that they might expand the lives and dreams of others. I never took their kindness for granted. It was the perfect gift for me at the perfect time. They proved to me that aging shouldn't mean closing doors—on the contrary. It should invite the opening, knocking on, and kicking down of doors. 

My 50’s were invigorating for me, due in large part to the people I chose to hang out with. I would include a list but it would take up pages and pages. It would be easier to simply say, "If you’re reading this right now, there’s a very good chance you belong on my Thank You list." 

With every book launch of Jon’s, my dream of someday launching my own is reenergized. But, even if that day never materializes, I have enjoyed the fruit of having put words to paper. My life has mushroomed to include so many kind and generous people that I would never have had the opportunity to meet if Jon had not accepted that application to the Hubbard Hall Writer’s Group. It was a portal that continues to this day. 

I will end this piece with a formal nod of gratitude for Jon and the people who funneled through him to me. I learned a most valuable lesson from you all. “Follow your Bliss,” whether it comes via pen, paint, photographs, sculpture, or hammer and nails. Embrace it and run with it. It could also come from your pets, Mother Nature, or chasing your grandchildren around the yard. Don’t stop following that, “Bliss.” Jon once shared Joseph Campbell’s mantra in the book cover at one of his book launches I attended. For once in my life I listened to someone’s advice.

As I sit here writing this, I’m raising my glass of milk (for you Ed Gulley) to the air in a toast to all you other, “Bliss” followers. 

Thanks for the ride! 

Respectfully yours,

Raining Iguanas

John R. Greenwood

Below I've included a few photographs from years of book launches and get togethers. 

Northshire Bookstore Manchester VT.
October 2011

Red and Jon arriving for one of our writing meetings
June 2012

   Battenkill Books
August 2013 

Bedlam Farm
April 2013

  Chatham Library
March 2013

Bedlam Farm Open House
September 2013 

Our Hubbard Hall Writer's Group Presentation Day
Freight Theater
May 2013

"Second Chance Dog" Launch
Battenkill Books  
November 2013

Mary Kellogg reads at the Bedlam Farm Open House
September 2013 

The best place to buy "Talking to Animals"
2017 

Thanks Again Washington County

Thanks Again Washington County

By John R. Greenwood

Foxfield Farm - Granville, NY

I owe a lot to Washington County NY. It has come to my rescue time and time again. It has been a tough summer for me. There has been some family losses and more work than play, thus making it more difficult to recuperate. But, as it has in the past, the green pastures and farm scenes of Washington County have revived my spirit and brought me back peace of mind. The resuscitation began with the 2016 Washington County Fair. I didn't get to enjoy the rides, tractor pulls, or the displays, but that’s okay. It was my visit at 3:30am to pick up milk that brought my pulse rate and my outlook back on track. Passing by the darkened rides and curtained midway games was therapeutic. Picturing the change that would take place in the hours ahead brought a smile to my face. As I pulled in the back entrance to the waving flashlight beam of a man that had probably manned that same post for years, I waved back in a semi-salute of mutual appreciation for being early morning sentinels at this yearly late summer event. As I backed in to the milking barn to prepare the milk tank for pickup I scanned the dimly lit barns looking for an early riser. The cows stirred quietly, mooing a welcoming good morning to me. I saw the familiar sign of Lincoln Hill Farm right next door. The same farm where a tragic farm accident was overcome by the miracle of prayer and the farmer strong will of Lenny Austin. Lenny who just months earlier teetered at heavens gate refused the invitation and decided to stick around for what we all hope will be decades more county fairs. The strength of Lenny, his family, and the close knit network of friends and neighbors was an inspiration for any one with a ticking heart this summer. I can’t express how deeply I was affected watching the farming community rally around one man and his family. It was uplifting and the high point of the summer of 2016. My admiration for farmers and the communities where they reside has always been of the highest regard, but in this, my 61st year, it quadrupled. 

Heide Merecki and Sara Kelly
at Lovejoy Hall on the Hubbard Hall Campus 

Today I enjoyed another spirit quenching experience in the town of Cambridge NY. The Cambridge Valley Fine Art Tour was in its second day and there was one artist in particular that I had been wanting to meet. Matt Chinian was one of the seven artists in town who were displaying and selling their work all within the city limits. I apologize for not getting to visit all seven artists but heat and time took a toll and my wife and I had to cut our tour short. Before meeting Matt we did get to meet artists Heide Merecki and Sara Kelly in the Lovejoy Building on the Hubbard Hall Campus. Their work was wonderful as were their welcoming personalities. It was like reacquainting with old friends. Two more examples of Washington County hospitality that has been so supportive of my own work. 

Artist Matt Chinian 

We left these two lovely artists and headed out to meet Matt Chinian. Matt’s gallery is located next to his home. It’s a beautiful piece of property right on Main St. I’d been by it dozens of times on my way to Bedlam Farm, Battenkill Books, and Hubbard Hall. I knew where it was because I’d seen the sign out front. I never would have stopped by unannounced or without an invitation. The tour was the perfect opportunity to introduce myself. I’d become interested in Matt’s work because not only did his work resemble my favorite artist Jack Lewis, much of it was done along the banks of the Hudson River. For over a year I’ve wanted to show Matt, Jack’s work. I knew in my heart he would be as drawn to the painting and writings of Mr. Lewis as I was. I pulled into Matt’s back yard and parked the car. My wife was not feeling well so she relaxed quietly while I headed into the gallery to introduce myself. Matt came out of the gallery door as I approached. I instinctively said, “Hi Matt, I’m John Greenwood, aka “Raining Iguanas” from the blog and Facebook.” Although we hadn’t met before, it seemed like we had. I was the only visitor at the time so I took full advantage of it by blasting Matt with both barrels. I couldn't  explain why I was so interested in his work fast enough. Matt is a quiet and mild mannered man. I was rattling on like a four year-old on Red Bull. The poor guy didn’t know what hit him. He was gracious and genuinely interested in my Jack Lewis, Hudson River connection. This was better than any ride at the fair. It was better than any ride at Disney for me. “I just happen to have a copy of,  “The Hudson River” in the car Matt,” I interjected. He nodded and with two strokes of a paint brush I had it spread out on a table in Matt’s gallery looking for a similar painting in Matt’s collection. It didn’t take long to locate one. As I gently flipped the boxes of prints one scene stopped me in my tracks. It was a painting of the Rip Van Winkle Bridge and the Hudson River done from the banks below the Olana Historical Site. It was almost an identical match to Jack’s painting in the Hudson River book done from the same location. There were over fifty years between the two paintings and I was enjoying them both equally. I had to have Matt’s rendition. I said, “I’ll take it!” Before we could go any further more visitor’s showed up cutting our talk short. I didn’t want Matt to miss an opportunity to make another sale so I stepped back. Later we made a commitment to get together at another time so we could talk in more detail about his work and the painting I wanted. It was like Christmas morning with a room full of presents you have to wait to open. Our meeting was much too short but it had enough content to pump me up for another week or two. I couldn’t wait to get home to write about it. That’s a bonus! 

So, tomorrow morning when I return to the Washington County Fair Grounds to pick up the last milking I will scan the empty barns and the disassembled rides. I will replay my Sunday art tour. I will make a list of thank you’s to all the great people from the area who have decorated my life over the last few years. Jon Katz and Hubbard Hall got the ball rolling and it looks like it has no signs of stopping anytime soon. 

A sign found in Matt Chinian's Gallery
Good advice I'd say

Hubbard Hall Writers

Hubbard Hall Writers 

By John R. Greenwood

I will lead this piece with a sincere thank you to my beautiful wife who is not pictured here. She was at home baking my favorite apple pie and making homemade meatballs and sauce while I was visiting with three members of the original Hubbard Hall Writer’s Group. I am a very lucky man. My wife realized how strong my passion for writing was a few years ago. I’d filled out an application for membership to a writing class hosted by Hubbard Hall and led by author Jon Katz. My wife encouraged me to follow my dream. She understood my need to find a venue to express my creativity and test my writing skills. Without her support I never would have had the courage to pursue that dream. The writing class was supposed to last a few weeks during the summer of 2012. Those classes ended for us but the friendship and support of our group is alive and well more than two years later. 

Today our group gathered in Southern Vermont at the home of Rachel Barlow. Rachel’s blog, “Picking My Battles” is an artist’s portrayal of real life with a twist. It all happens in an intimate Vermont setting but Rachel's posts are a reflection of life in homes across the country. 

Hubbard Hall Writer Kim Gifford was seated on the thick leather sofa with a open laptop checking out Rachel’s latest work when I arrived for our Sunday afternoon meeting. Kim’s blog, “Pugs & Pics” is a eclectic collection of posts with Kim’s love of pugs as the primary theme. She also creates stunning collages layered with emotion and beauty.

The last member to arrive was Diane Fiore. Diane’s blog, “Mergansers Crossing” is an inspirational collection of stories about yesterday and today. Diane began documenting the adventures she experienced with her father after he’d been diagnosed with dementia. She found writing about it was therapeutic and began a blog so she could share her stories. Soon others who had family members with Alzheimer's were looking to Diane’s blog to help them cope with the challenges of the disease. She has cultivated a supportive following that grows stronger with each post. 

These friends and fellow bloggers were an amateur writers dream team. Their genuine support was instrumental in building my confidence which in turn allowed me to grow beyond what I ever expected the day I placed that Hubbard Hall application in the mailbox.

The theme of this post is about friendship and support. I found them both at Hubbard Hall in Cambridge, New York. I consider myself an artist in search of an art. Although I enjoy writing and sharing stories I’m not yet sure writing is the final stop for me. I love all types of visual arts. I love all types of music. I basically enjoy creativity in any format, style, or venue. I don’t think you can truly enjoy your life without it. I want to thank those who have helped me along the way. Jon Katz and his blog Bedlam Farm injected me with an enthusiasm for the future and the undiscovered. Hubbard Hall gave me the opportunity to grow and the place to do it. I am grateful to all those mentioned above for their presence in my life. 

Of Mice And Men

Of Mice And Men 

By John R. Greenwood

This weekend was chock full of exciting events on television. There were multiple NBA game 7’s, and Stanley Cups Playoffs. NASCAR was full throttle at Talladega and Titleist golf balls were flying all over Quail Hollow in Charlotte. The Kentucky Derby was won by an $8,000 horse with a 77 Year-old trainer and I’m sure there was a Dog The Bounty Hunter Marathon on some cable station somewhere. But, my wife and I had the best seat in town. We had tickets to a play at the Hubbard Hall Theater in Cambridge. 

John Steinbeck’s 1937 play, “Of Mice and Men” was on the playbill and you couldn’t have asked for more bang for your buck. The theater was set up with the seating on either side with the stage and the actors sandwiched in the middle. You could literally reach out and touch them. It felt like everyone in the building was a part of the play. The highlight of the evening for me was watching Chris Barlow skillfully master the part of Lennie. Chris’s wife Rachel Barlow was a member of the Hubbard Hall Writer’s Group that I was fortunate to be a part of. I met Chris at their home a couple of years ago when Rachel and Chris graciously opened their home for one of our group’s meetings. I knew after I met this large statured man with the warm and generous personality, that seeing him play the part of Lennie was a, “have-to”. I was not disappointed. I jotted down the paragraph above around midnight after returning from the play. I was running out of steam but I wanted to solidify the evening in words while they were still fresh and clear. Below is what I sat down and wrote the next morning. I reached for my glasses and my pen as the alarm went off. I had witnessed something special Saturday night and it needed to be shared. 

Silence speaks volumes. 

Not one cough or clearing of the throat could be heard during the key moments of Mice and Men as it played out before my wife and I last evening. There on Main St. USA, real life was being played out just an arms length away. 

When the shot rang out that killed Candy’s dog, the only sound was the gentle creak of an 18th Century board beneath the actor’s feet. The actors had our attention--their voices were loud and clear. This world is crowded with youth and it’s stars. They struggle to find a place for us used up old men with missing parts and bent backs. At least that's what I heard in the moment. 

Hubbard Hall and it’s production so finely directed by Jeannine Haas was much more than just a Saturday night out with my wife on her birthday. It was a gift to us both. A gift of truth. The message of this seventy year old play was as relevant and as clear today as any I’d heard delivered during the entire back-breaking winter that preceded it. Life is tough and can be painfully unfair. The soft things don’t last. Warm puppies grow up, you have to savor their warmth while it’s in the crook of your arm. Those tender moments we share wash away in an instant. They disappear like the songbird that flits away the moment you step to the window to see, as well as hear. The cruelty of everyday life comes right back at you the next day, it’s talons straight out reaching to grab your arm and whisk you off to the next task. 

The impact of those actors and all their hard work; the commitment of all the Hubbard Hall volunteers: the generosity of the community that opens it’s heart and wallet in support of this venue; and the presence of such a vintage place, filled with vintage air will last long into the summer and far beyond for me. The gift of, “Mice and Men”, was so much larger than watching a game winning three-pointer, or a two minute Kentucky horse race. The Main St. USA, event to me, was the essence of play giving. It was live and life. It was real. So real, that an old hall filled to the brim whispered nothing more than the soft squeak of an old pine board when an old dog gets shot. Every heart in the theater felt that shot clear down to the bone. Every word uttered in Hubbard Hall last night soaked into our skin like thin stain on a rough sawn board.

I would list each actor and how their fine performance entertained my eyes and ears for a couple of hours but this piece is about something even larger than praise and accolades. This piece is about preservation and perseverance. When you stop and think about how many of these old theaters there used to be stretched across this country you realize what a treasure we have here in Cambridge. Like a crown jewel in a glass display we must insure this treasure remains here for our grandchildren and theirs. Everyone deserves to hear George and Lennie’s voice--Steinbeck’s message. No sudden death playoff at Quail Hollow can replace what a community witnessed last night at Hubbard Hall, five feet away, inches from our hearts, on May 3rd, 2014. 

When George pulled the trigger that ended the night I simultaneously reached for my camera and my pen. I wanted to capture the feeling that I had; we all had. The silence that echoed in that rustic hall reverberated down stairs and up Main St. Cambridge last night. It touched people in ways they haven’t yet felt. 

To all the actors, volunteers, and supporters of Hubbard Hall and places like it, I thank you. The gift I received last night will stick to my ribs like a bowl of warm oatmeal. I encourage anyone reading this to support places like Hubbard Hall with your heart and soul because that’s exactly what they gave us all last night...

Sincerely yours, 

John R. Greenwood 

Music To My Eyes

Music To My Eyes

By John R. Greenwood

Strolling past a music filled window caused me to stop posthaste. The utter beauty of notes I could not hear swelled my heart as I stood in the darkness peering in. Like a harmless intruder I watched in silent want. That deep desire to plink a gentle tune upon the ivory white keys of a black lacquered upright embraced my eyes. The youthful joy of weathered experience emanated out through the panes of glass and into the courtyard of Hubbard Hall. In silent shadows I yearned for the music beyond the glass, beyond my reach. A painter’s brush could find no greater subject or pastoral scene. I paused in brief elation to gather the noiseless sound of music. My wide eyes openly savored each song played as the sweet melody of this cool November evening brought warmth to my soul and my spirit to windy heights.