2 May 2025, 2:42 p.m. (Friday) | 5 days past the New Flower Moon

Back in step with the stone engraving business for the next eight months. For those who are new subscribers, this is what I do to float the boat. The map above shows most of cemeteries we service (we = me + my two excellent employees, Ryan and Bren). What you’re seeing up there is primarily the driftless region of southwestern Wisconsin, with the Mississippi River on the left, and the interstate running from Madison in the lower right, northwest along the edge of the driftless region (the terrain map illustrates that pretty well) to Tomah, and then west to La Crosse. The Wisconsin River comes down from the north at the top (right of center), and then cuts straight across the state (essentially bisecting the  driftless region) towards the bottom of the map. I spent six days in a row this past week in the territory south of Madison (off the map), around Janesville and Beloit (on the Illinois border) engraving an average of fifteen final dates per day. It’s somewhat monotonous, and it can be exhausting; but it pays pretty well, and the solitary nature of the work is very meditative, especially when you have given up on the faulty radio in the van and spend all your driving time in silence. I have found I’m wired pretty well for this work.

I bought the business on the 22nd of July, 2011, so it’s been almost fourteen years. I happen to be one of those artists who has always had to earn a living doing something other than creating, and I feel pretty fortunate to have found and capitalized on this opportunity. I’ll admit it is getting old, insofar as how many times can a person get on his knees to engrave a date in a stone? And the territory which was once all fresh and new to me, providing a steady dose of dopamine every day, has become as familiar as the back of my hand. But things move pretty slowly when you’re doing this kind of work, and every once in a while you see something new, or the vibe within a cemetery strikes you in new way.

Two weeks ago, Friday 18 April, was one of those days.

Millards Prairie Cemetery. This has always been one of my favorites. I have it pinned on the map at the top of the newsletter. It’s about an hour’s drive from Viroqua (near the 3 blue flags to the southwest). I would categorize it as a mid-size rural cemetery. There is a gravel road around the perimeter, so when you drive around it all the graves are on one side of the van (driver’s side), which makes them easy to read. That’s important when you’re looking for the monument that needs engraving. As I approached the cemetery from the east two weeks ago, I noticed something was different. Along the perimeter road there has always been a perfectly spaced row of trees. A lot of them are gone. You can see in the photo above that something is missing from the left side of the cemetery gate. Something big.

That’s a little unnerving to me because the trees are part of what I like, or love about this cemetery. In the back of the cemetery there is one especially magnificent oak, and I actually found myself suddenly in a hurry to photograph it before they cut it down. Who knows how far they intend to go? I’ve come to this cemetery in the past and seen huge limbs from this tree on the ground, so yes, it’s a widow maker. But still. It has to stay. It better stay.

In photographing the tree I took a closer notice of what makes it special. The photo doesn’t do it justice, and it doesn’t help that Izzy’s in the way (but she’s there for scale)…what in the hell is going on with that ground burl? There appears to be a pefectly spherical burl growing at the root of the tree. I don’t know if that’s beautiful or grotesque but one thing it most definitely is is remarkable. And don’t you love it when you get to repeat is in a sentence and it happens to be grammatically correct? It is correct, isn’t it?

And that’s not even the most remarkable part of the story. It’s this engraving for Carmen Miller. There was nothing particularly telling about the order. I usually don’t look at the birthday until I’m working on the stone. And for those who don’t know how this works, many people in the United States purchase a grave stone before they die. They have the opportunity to participate in the design of it, and their names and birthdays are engraved on it. My job is to finish the monument after a person dies. As you can see here, her husband Howard was born in 1925 and died early in life in 1971. That’s tragic. I’m guessing farming accident. It’s just a guess. And that’s most likely when this monument was purchased. You can also see that Carmen was born in 1928. So this is someone who lived a pretty long life. You can do the math. It’s fun. What you cannot see in the photo above, you can see in the photo below.

The portrait. Now this is touching. I mean…yeah, there’s literally some touching going on there by handsy Howard, but that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that this is a cute couple, and if you look closely at that portrait you can see that they’re sitting on top of a giant monument with a name that starts with B and ends with RD.  And of course there’s some young trees behind it. The whole time I’m working on engraving her 2025 I’m thinking that I can’t wait to go look for that monument in the older part of the cemetery, because I bet it’s there.

But before I go look for it, let’s just take a minute to acknowledge the bouquet of real flowers left at Carmen’s grave. This is the classy way to do it, folks. I may have said it before, but I’ll say it again so you can spread the word further. Plastic flowers at graves is a sad and sickening outcome of capitalism, or consumerism, over the past century. Please. There is absolutely no good reason to be shipping plastic flowers to the United States for people to buy to show their respect for their deceased loved ones. I’m sorry if you’ve done this and it makes you feel dumb. But really…come on. There are garbage cans and dumpsters full of plastic flowers in cemeteries all across the country—destined for the landfill—and those are just the ones that make it into the garbage can. The rest are in the farm fields and the woods  bordering the cemeteries. This, friends, is the kind of thing the government should work on stopping. God made real flowers for this. Stickers for sale.

Off soap box, back to the cemetery research. It just so happens I have one other date to engrave in this cemetery, and it happens to be up in that older section.

This is a completely different kind of life. The bachelor. 75 years old, Vietnam vet, paratrooper. Modest grave stone with cool paratrooper engraving at the top. Classy. Thank you, Mr. Grilley, for your service.

As I’m working in this older section I can’t help but notice the difference between the classic little Wisconsin farm to the west (above, beyond the row of old pines) and the more contemporary, massive farm to the east (below, with the massive steel silos).

And if you walk towards that big farm with the silos…

Bingo. And here I am having my moment, alone in the cemetery, save for the dog, taking a photograph of a monument that once upon a time (80 years ago?) was adorned with a young couple excited for their future in this beautiful little barely populated community nestled within the driftless region of southwestern Wisconsin.

If ever there were ghosts in the cemetery with me, this was the moment.

It’s also worth noting that the trees behind the couple in the portrait on the Miller monument are no longer the giant mature maples I have become accustomed to seeing when I approach this cemetery from the east…

…they are now ground stumps.

But on a brighter note, so sweetly, someone has taken the time to plant a baby arborvitae (which is the quintessential cemetery tree) next to the graves of Howard and Carmen Miller, which we can only imagine will one day be a towering 50-footer, shading their monument in the century ahead.

THANK YOU

I’ll leave you with one more grand daddy of a monument in Millards Prairie Cemetery. This is a real sculptural rarity, and the pink stone is hard to identify as either marble or granite. I’m not the expert. The shape carved adornments in the art nouveau style along the bottom of each of the three pieces is beautiful and uncommon, especially for a cemetery in rural Wisconsin  in 1926. And the bell curved baseline of Thomas Prosper’s name…I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything like it before. And his middle name is Prosper. That flower isn’t plastic, either. It’s metal. As for the deceased, you do the math.

The New Pink Moon - Mr Koppa Visits England

29 March 2025, 4:57 p.m. (Saturday) | The New Pink Moon

Mostly reacclimated to time and geographical location here in the peaceful driftless region of southwestern Wisconsin after an epic eight-day adventure in distant England, I am ready to spend a few hours putting together a full report for you. Expectations for this trip were set fairly high, even as I tried to remain calm, which one must do when traveling alone to faraway lands. The trip exceeded almost all expectations and honestly, with never a dull moment, I felt as if I was almost always in a state of amazement. Let’s begin.

Overnight flights are the way to go for me. No, I don’t sleep well, but I am able to keep my eyes shut for maybe four hours in the middle of the eight-hour journey and it’s at least some kind of rest before the action begins. Here’s a play-by-play for you to imagine: 8 a.m. begin packing luggage. 10 a.m. drive two hours to Madison, Wisconsin. 12:30 p.m. eat a hearty lunch. 2:00 p.m. board a 3-hour bus ride to O’Hare International. 6:30 p.m. eat guacamole and chips with a beer from Frontera. 9:15 p.m. board large jet aeroplane. Take flight from Chicago around 10 p.m. and, with the time adjusted for the fact that you are traveling into the past, touchdown at Heathrow Airport at 11 a.m. Get off the plane and start towing your luggage for a very long time, made easier by conveyors, and think about how neat it would be if roads were conveyors so you could simply walk wherever you need to go at an accelerated rate. Figure out which train you need to take to get to Kings Cross station in London. Figure out how to pay for it, and find out all you do is tap your credit card at the turnstile. Lug your luggage onto that train and listen to all the English accents as people get on and off for about a dozen stops with great names, and get yourself and your luggage off the train at Kings Cross. Start your way to the exit, and lug your luggage up a series of escalators. Realize you were several stories underground. Marvel at the Underground network. Climb out of the Underground at high noon to blue skies, above the expansive plaza hosting a tented market of delicious food, and hundreds of people hustling, bustling, or just hanging around Kings Cross Station. You have arrived.

Traveling through the air to distant lands is a privilege, and ought never be taken lightly. To be someplace you don’t belong is truly the next best thing to time travel. That sensation might fall into the subconscious or never even be considered by some, but for me it remains at the front of my mind for the duration of the trip. I feel fortunate to have been able to travel to Europe multiple times, and am grateful for everyone in my life that has helped make that possible for me. I am relaying my experience as a matter of sharing.

Day 1: Wednesday, 19 March 2025

The first day is always a recovery day, with a mid-day beer (ideally outdoors) before checking into the hotel for a long nap, then waking up for a stroll around the neighborhood, marveling at the nightlife and magnificent buildings…so much stone. St Pancras Station, which is seen behind the bus in the photo above, and not seen immediately to the left of Kings Cross Station as pictured in the photograph below, is absolutely massive and seems almost impossible to be real. There is no way to capture this in a mobile phone photograph. I tried. But when a person is traveling it should always be okay to be seen in awe of things, so when the picture could not be saved in a photo, I simply stood and stared at it from the curb across the street for a full minute or two, attempting to soak it into memory as thoroughly as possible.

And with that I decided I should go to bed, and keeping with tradition I needed to go back to the convenience store I spotted along my stroll to buy a small bottle of single malt scotch. Glen Morangie if you are wondering. I chose my one-night lodging in London through Travelocity… the Wardonia Hotel. Ratings were pretty good with a few comments about the rooms being tiny. It was an absolutely perfect room for entry into this English adventure. The lobby feels first class and very clean, and of course the host is exceedingly polite. I was given the room on the very east end (to the left in the photo below), on the top floor, almost as if I requested it. I love being inside these buildings and the location of this room gave me the longest walk possible down a cozy carpeted corridor that may have been 12” wider than my luggage, and up three flights of stairs the same width, through a narrow fire door to a small hall with three doors to three rooms. My room was slightly larger than the twin bed in it, which was tight against the wall next to the window, with an en suite bathroom that might have been 3’ wide by 8’ long (with shower stall, sink, and toilet). I absolutely love and admire the efficiency. This is all a traveling man needs.

Day 2: Thursday, 20 March 2025—Birmingham

Thursday began with a figuring out train travel to Leeds for the PAGES Artists’ Books Fair, with a stop in Birmingham on the way up, and then from Leeds down to Oxford on Sunday, with a stops in Derby and Birmingham (again) on the way down. I was happy to have a human being available to help me sort through all that and purchase the tickets. Again with the efficiency, the public transportation system in England is something to admire. Being in train stations, waiting for trains, getting on trains, getting off trains…it is a novelty for a man from Wisconsin, and the experience is cherished.

Birmingham was a wonderful surprise. The exceptionally modern New Street Station let me out into a large plaza to begin the walk to the Library of Birmingham to view an exhibit about John Baskerville. This could have been made easier if I had left my luggage in the Left Luggage room, but in a hasty moment I chose to save the £12 and lug it along. Also hard to follow the walking instructions on your phone sometimes, which meant a couple wrong turns and a longer walk than necessary, but no complaints…happy to walk through Victoria Square and past the Birmingham Museum & Art Gallery to the monstrous and contemporary Library of Birmingham. This is when the mix of very old and modern architecture began to capture my attention, sparking an appreciation for the scope of Western civilization. We don’t get that in Wisconsin, where our oldest buildings were built in the late 19th century, and a lot of them are barns.

The Baskerville exhibit was nothing more than an installation of about fifteen posters, but it was plenty to read and very informative. If you are not familiar with the man, the short of it is this: He lived in the 18th century, began his life as a writing instructor, then stone engraver, before making a fortune in the manufacture of decorative lacquered tea trays. Once well off, he pursued his passion for printing and typography, and contributed innovations to the field in the form of the Baskerville type face, printing techniques, paper production, and a secret recipe for unusually black ink. He married his shop assistant, Sarah Eaves, shortly after the death of her allegedly derelict and estranged husband, and took in her five children as his own. Mr Baskerville was known by friends to be full of fun. He was a notoriously well dressed man, progressive, outspoken, and a friend of American statesman, Benjamin Franklin. He had his critics.

After reading through the exhibit, the luggage was lugged back to New Street Station to take a ten-minute train ride to the University of Birmingham’s Cadbury Research Library, where I had an appointment with librarian Victoria Clubb to view some of John Baskerville’s books, and some printed by his wife, Sarah, and some by others, all featuring the Baskerville type face. It was quite an honor to be given a private lecture with the opportunity to page through and photograph these beautiful 250 year-old books, and fun to see Ben Franklin’s name noted among the subscribers…not just one copy of each book printed, but six.

The day is not over until I get back to New Street Station and board the train again for Leeds, where I will stay the next three nights in a flat booked through Airbnb while exhibiting at the book fair. What I know at this point is the flat is on the top floor of the Pearl Chambers building across the street from the Leeds Art Gallery, and an eight-minute walk from the train station. I arrived in the dark.

Days 3-4: Friday-Saturday, 21-22 March 2025—Leeds

It feels only a little bit spooky lugging luggage alone through a big, old, and dark city in the middle of England, but it also seems as if there is nothing to fear. I took a stroll up and down The Headrow Thursday night before retiring, and woke up to these views from the windows of my flat: the Leeds Art Gallery across the street, and the Leeds Town Hall, kitty corner from the Pearl Chambers.

I remain acutely aware that I am far from home, visiting a country with a long history. I also check the news and find out that Heathrow is shut down due to a nearby fire and begin to wonder if my trip to England will be extended. And then I walk a few blocks to get some groceries for breakfasts and a cafe coffee before setting up my table at the fair.

The PAGES Artists’ Book Fair was held in a beautifully sky lit room within the Leeds Art Gallery. This was a smallish event when compared to the Oxford Fine Press Book Fair, with only about forty exhibitors. I found it to be a wonderful group and enjoyed meeting so many like-minded people from all over England. The lesson learned here, too late, but I hope to remember it for the next time, is not to display every book you can possibly fit on a table among forty other tables full of interesting books. Once the fair is rolling, it is easy to observe how someone (or everyone) could be overwhelmed by the number of intriguing things to see, handle, and read. It is nice to put all of these people together in one space for a few days, but it is asking a lot of anyone to process all there is to process. It is probably impossible. And therefore, a person cannot be disappointed with flat sales, but rather must be grateful for the opportunity to rub elbows with other artists, make some new friends, and have a few fun conversations with a few buyers. Next time simply show three books.

The fair coincided with an opening reception for a traveling exhibition of artists’ books titled Enfolded Journeys at the Leeds Library, curated by the same fellows who organize the fair: Chris Taylor and John McDowall, with works co-selected by Karen Babayan and Sophie Loss. This was a another lovely event, and it felt humbling to be among such interesting, creative, and intelligent people.

I will have fond memories of my time in Leeds and look forward to returning some day with more time to take in everything it has to offer, from the gorgeous interior of the Art Gallery and Library to the shops and restaurants along Albion Place (pictured above). I barely had a glance.

(DAN'S NOTE - If you have not done so already, this would be a good time to get a beer. Mr koppa would approve)

Day 5: Sunday, 23 March 2025—Birmingham sans Derby

The wildest day of the week, to be sure. I had made careful plans to meet a musical artist named Miles Newbold in Derby. Miles is the man behind The Natural Yogurt Band, which caught my ear a few years ago. As I was trying to make the most of my trip, I contacted his record label, managed to get connected with him via email, and he agreed to take a bus (with his partner and two children in tow) from his home in Ashbourne to meet me in Derby, where I would get off my train to meet with him at a coffeeshop for breakfast. Sadly, that plan was aborted when I had to get off the train in Derby in a rush, couldn’t find my phone as I was frantically checking over my belongings on the platform, and decided to jump back on the train to find it. The doors, of course, closed behind me and I was off to Birmingham, still without my phone. The train was packed like a tin of sardines and for the next half hour I tried to do the English thing and keep calm while I searched by pockets, purse, and satchel a dozen times over, looked under seats, and used my iPad to email Miles and let him know what was happening. I am grateful for his understanding of my misfortune, and the short story is that I found my phone in an upper pocket of my coat after getting off the train in Birmingham. Miles and I have started talking about a collaboration about the debacle.

Continuing on then, the plan for Sunday afternoon included a visit to the Typographic Library at the Winterbourne House (above) on the University of Birmingham campus. I’m still not sure how important this was, as I really didn’t have anything specific to research, but I enjoyed browsing through type specimen books from the turn of the 20th century, not only to observe gorgeous design and exemplary letterpress printing, but also to take inspiration from the civil language of the trade.

The afternoon finished with a delicious sausage roll with Earl Grey tea in the cafe with a view of the gardens.

Days 6-7: Monday-Tuesday 24-25 March 2025—Oxford

Sunday finished with a train ride to Oxford. I had a scheduled meeting with a wizard-like fellow named Theo Dunnett, whom my wife and I met on our previous trip to Oxford while sitting at the bar in the King’s Arms in December 2023. I had contacted Theo by postal mail about a month before the trip to let him know I would be in Oxford and would like to visit if he had time. He replied by email to let me know when and where we would meet (The Rusty Bicycle), and that he would introduce me to Richard Lawrence, printer at The Bodleian Bibliographical Press.

What a fun time. Walking into that pub and seeing Theo waiting for me felt as if we were old friends. During our first beer, Richard walks in, we are introduced, and we have another beer. Then Richard and I leave to find a meal. All of this is happening while I remain acutely aware that I am far away from home walking through a neighborhood in one of the most fascinating cities in the Western world. After a delicious pizza and salad at La Cucina, we walk back to his personal shop and talk for another hour or so. When I tell him I have to leave and get some sleep, he lets me go and tells me we will reconvene in the same place at 9 a.m. It is a little ambitious. I tell him I might not make it by 9. He’s okay with that.

The next morning we complete the visit in his shop, which includes studios rented to other artists upstairs, and the Monotype typecasting operation of Claire and David Bolton’s Alembic Press. This is all kind of incredible to me.

Around noon we walk to The Bodleian Museum where he will show me the home of The Bibliographical Press, where peering out windows set in 24” thick 400 year-old stone walls is enough to send a mind spinning centuries back in time.

A couple hours later Richard tells me it’s time for a sandwich before he has to teach a class of fourteen students from Lincoln College at 3:30. Eight stations of upper and lowercase 14 pt Caslon will be shared by fourteen students, and each will set two lines from a Shakespeare sonnet (so two sonnets), which they will then print on a mid-sized Albion hand press, all in a little more than two hours. I am invited to observe and watch Richard lecture the students and give instruction as to how they will proceed. When the time starts to get crunched, I am asked to assist the students with the typesetting. This is a real “how did I get here?” moment, and I enjoyed every bit of being a part of the action.

And now, after a remarkable day spent with Richard, I glance up at the tower of the Bodleian Library before walking to The Head of the River on the Thames for a beer and a delicious meal.

The final day of the trip ended with a visit with Sarah Wheale, special collections librarian at the Bodleian. I had hoped she might purchase a copy of Hail, Holy Queen for their collection. She took a pass, but then stunned me with a decision to purchase copies of Typesetting on a Winter’s Afternoon, Les Cocobopros, For Dust I Am, and the most recent title, Baskerville for Brummies. This is followed by another visit with Richard to review a portfolio of prints made for a commemoration of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick in 2019.

The evening finished with one final beer with Richard at the Magdalen Arms, across the road from my Oxford lodging, from which I departed the next morning for Heathrow (no problem), O’Hare, and a Van Galder bus back to Madison, which, thanks to understaffing and general confusion, I had to get off to transfer to a different bus at a stop in Rockford, Illinois, with a ticket service sadly representative of one big difference between life in the midwestern United States and the one I had been visiting in England.

THANK YOU

Because this newsletter feels plenty long enough as it is, prospectuses for Baskerville for Brummies, Stones Watch in Silence, and another small project, What to Do, What to Do, will be coming shortly in separate emails. And then the cemetery season begins again. Thank you, as always, for your interest in what I have to share, and your support of The Heavy Duty Press.

Replies, comments always welcome.

09 March 2025, 8:23 a.m. (Sunday) | The Nearly Full Worm Moon

And again, you may have been wondering, is Koppa going to continue with the lunar-based newsletters in 2025, or was that just a 2024 thing? More likely you weren’t wondering that at all, but either way I’m here to let you know that I do plan to continue writing these this year and this one is almost two weeks late because all available time was dedicated to creative production in preparation for the trip to England in just a little over a week.

The photo above was taken 27 February, which happened to be the day of the new Worm moon, so that’s nice and coincidental, at least. This is the wooded hillside (south facing) above the Klubhaus, which I walk in the morning with the dog (that’s my trail going between the two tree trunks) before settling down to business in the shop. On this particular morning, the vibrance of the green moss on every stone surface was unusually dazzling, giving the entire woodland floor a new texture. Tolkien-esque in my imagination. I took about a dozen pictures to capture the moment (you’re welcome), and this is best of them. But it’s not that great of a picture. It’s also not the best hill for hiking when it comes to knee fatigue, but it’s what we have and therefore I hike on it. I like to think that after five years I have  lumbered out a little more level trail than was ever there before. Life can be so full of accomplishments.

HAIL, HOLY QUEEN

It is an honour to have had a book accepted into the Ritual exhibit of artists’ books at Baylor University. The show is presented by 23 Sandy, and every book in it is listed for sale (thoroughly described w/photos) through the 23 Sandy online gallery. All of the books in this exhibition are wonderful. Just a half hour  browsing the show could only increase one’s interest in what is there for you to see and think about, but what else is happening among the book arts community at large.

ENGLAND: MARCH 2025

It is now eight days before departure for England to exhibit at the PAGES Artists’ Book Fair in Leeds, 21-22 March 2025. Also on the itinerary are visits to Birmingham, where they are commemorating the life of John Baskerville (stone engraver, typographer, printer, book maker), marking 250 years since his death in 1775; and a few days in Oxford to visit the letterpress shop at the Bodliean Library. It is a little crazy to me that this is all happening, and I am quite excited about the upcoming adventure.

After learning about the Baskerville celebration in Birmingham and Cambridge, it became rather clear that making a book featuring the Baskerville typeface should top the list of things to create if I had intentions of bringing something other than the other recently completed books to England. Kind of a long run-on sentence? Yes, my apologies. It stays. No time for thoughtful edits right now. After ordering a used fount of 30 point Roman from Michael Murphy, I was very pleased to find Ed Rayher at the Swamp Press, and that he would be willing and able to cast some fresh 8 and 10 pt Baskerville in both the Roman and Italics. All that arrived  couple weeks ago and again, just following the obvious path, it was decided that an abecedarium would be the most automatic and appropriate thing to create. I have never created one, people collect them, and how else to showcase Baskerville’s typeface and offer something Birmingham-centric to librarians and collectors of artists’ books in England in 2025? Along the way, it came to me that there is no really good reason not to employ an inkjet printer if it prints well enough on the paper, and to my great delight, images printed beautifully on the Zerkall Frankfurt Cream, and the registration was suprisingly accurate. This book piggy backs nicely on 2023’s Understanding This Book both in terms of the improvisational creative process that spawned it, the design within it, and speedy nature of it’s production. See for yourselves:

A lot of other things happened today between this morning when I started writing this and now when I need to get to bed, so I’m going to spare you any further description of what transpired over the past two weeks and just let that cascade of photographs tell the story.

22 copies of Baskerville for Brummies have been printed, and they all need to be bound before next Monday. Cover building starts tomorrow. Price to be determined. If you think you want a copy and want to reserve one before I sell them all in Leeds, you better let me know. Standing orders will of course be receiving copies of this book.

STONES WATCH

IN SILENCE

The design of David Steingass’s book of stone-themed poems is complete and proofs approved. Grimm Book Bindery in Madison is working on printing and binding 25 hard cover copies, while 250 soft cover copies will be printed by Bookmobile in St. Paul, Minnesota. This book will be accompanied by a limited edition letterpress-printed artists’ book featuring one of its poems: Stacking Dry Stone Walls. Unfortunately, none of this will be done before the trip to England, and that’s okay because it will give me something to feature next month or the month after that.

THANK YOU

The picture above was taken of that same hillside shown in the opening photo, about ten days later. We never did get a lot of snow here in Wisconsin this winter, which was disappointing for people like me, but at least we had a few chances to enjoy how quiet and beautiful the world is under a blanket of snow. It has since melted. It was 60° F here today.

Thank you, as always, for your interest in what I have to share, and your support of The Heavy Duty Press. Replies, comments always welcome.

Peace be with you. And remember that you are dust and unto dust you shall return.

Enjoy the Full worm Moon 14 march 2025

This edition The New Moon Monitor was written pretty quickly and the beginning and end of the day, with some binding work and band practice in between, taco salads for two, and the last episode of season two of Funny Woman. Please excuse typos and misspellings. Thank you.

MOTORCYCLES AND ME

I  had the most excellent motorcycle adventure of my life last week, thanks in     part to the internet making it possible for my daughter to make a Harry     Potter pen pal in Sudbury, Ontario, many years ago. This is the same     daughter who recently turned 18 and wrote For     Dust I Am. Three     days after graduating from high school (two Saturdays ago), she embarked on     a one-day, 12-hour solo road trip to Sudbury to pick up her BFF and bring     her back to Viroqua for a week. My wife and I are of the mind that when you     turn 18 you are an adult and you get to decide what you are going to do or     not do, so we had no choice but to allow it. We provided the car (2012     Subaru Impreza), she paid for the gas.

Beatrix     is pretty determined and adventurous, and while she was confident she could     make the 12-hour journey in one day, I felt some obligation to be at least     a little bit protective. I have a motorcycle and I use it to take short     trips with friends once a year, but it has been a long time since I have     taken a multi-day solo adventure, and I saw this as the opportunity to do     it. She agreed to allow me to escort her (from a distance) to the Canadian     border, and while she was visiting with the Sudburians, I would remain a     few hours away in the Algoma     District.

Because     a 12-hour day on a motorcycle is completely out of the question, my plan     included a one-day head start, leaving Memorial Day afternoon and riding up     to Lappen’s camp on the Pesthigo River, near Crivitz, Wisconsin. It was a     250-mile day on the motorcycle, in and out of unexpected rain for the last     100 miles, ending on a wet and sandy road into the woods to eat and drink     with close friends I haven’t seen in years, and sleep in a spare pop-up     camper. Stories around the fire included Mike’s connection to relatives who     survived the Peshtigo     Fire in 1871, and his most recent     assignment, as CEO of Milwaukee County Behavior Health Services: overseeing     the total closure of the Milwaukee County Asylum for the Chronic Insane.     Both topics, and especially the latter, are very intriguing as material for     a book project in the future. We talked about that possibility.

Tuesday,     Day 2

Staying     up late talking to an old friend about endlessly interesting things makes     me feel hungover the next day, and that’s not the best way to wake up on a     day that will include a 325-mile motorcycle ride. My daughter left home at     6am, and I was expected to meet her at 1pm in Escanaba, Michigan. After a     good camp breakfast of eggs, bacon, blueberries, and coffee, I started     feeling a little sharper and ready roll, but apparently not quite clear     headed enough to remember the route, because I missed a turn on the way,     and my 1.5 hour ride became a 2-hour ride. Add that Beatrix was ahead of     schedule, and needless to say she was a little short with me when we met,     and had no time for idle chit chat. I gave her a solid 5-minute head start,     as we pressed on without delay from Escanaba to Sault Sainte Marie, again     in and out of (lighter, thankfully) rain, to cross the border.

Crossing     over the Soo     Locks and St. Mary’s River into Canada is a sight to     behold, and things like incredible bridges are much more remarkable from     the seat of a motorcycle than from behind the wheel of a large automobile.     And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?” but you know full     well, because you’ve been actively engaged in riding, out in the weather     for the entire journey.

I     watched Trixie pass the customs window from a few cars behind, and as she     carried on straight east for another couple hours to Sudbury, I turned     north on Highway 17 en route to my lodging, the Sawpit Bay Resort, about an     hour further down the road. The reservation was made over the telephone a     few days earlier with a bad connection due to work on the phone lines,     according to the woman on the other end. When I asked if she needed my card     number to reserve a room, she said, “No that’s okay. Just come. There will     be a room for you.” Upon arrival, I found the place to be pretty desolate.     Almost abandoned by appearance. No cars in sight, except for the one that     might have belonged to the owner. As I approached the office, I learned by     hand-written sign in the window there was no tv, no wi-fi. When I walked     in, I learned there was also no credit card machine, and I was asked if I     could pay cash. The whole scene was a little weird for a road weary and     damp fellow nearly 600 miles from home. But when the proprietor extended     his hand and accepted my $35 cash for the room I was grateful and went to     check for bed bugs. All good. Bed felt like it would be plenty comfortable,     and cozier than the pop-up camper I slept in the night before.                        

After     unpacking my gear, I walked across the highway to take some time staring at     Lake Superior. Really nice.  Done for the day and looking forward to a     good long sleep.                       

Just     a little bit about my motorcycle. This is my third motorcycle. Each one has     been a Moto Guzzi. Guzzis are Italian motorcycles, notorious for their     transverse V-twin engines and shaft drive (like an automobile). These     motorcycles are strong like a tractor and easy to understand, which makes     them ideal for the amateur motorcyclist who wants to maintain his own     machine. Aside from the practical aspects, the aesthetics are superb to my     eye. And they’re not terribly expensive. I found this 1979 1000SP on the     internet a few years ago for $3,000, and had it shipped to Viroqua from     Baltimore, Maryland. Recognizing its age an my limited ability to fully     restore the engine, I bit the bullet and paid the pros at Retrospeed in     Belgium, Wisconsin, to fully rebuild the engine two years ago. And this is     why I am able to have the confidence to take a 45 year-old motorcycle on a     5-day, 1,500-mile adventure.

Wednesday,     Day 3

The     day I’ve been waiting for: 325 miles of remote Ontario. Sawpit Bay Resort     to Wawa, Wawa to Chapleau on Highway 101, and Chapleau to Thessalon on     Highway 129, highly regarded as the primo road to ride in the Algoma     District.                         

The     best thing about riding alone is the freedom to stop and take a break     whenever you are moved to do so. Passing a very large stone on Highway 101     between Wawa and Chapleau, for example. Aside from visiting with my old     friend, Mike, another mission invented for this adventure was to find and     capture stones in photographs for the upcoming book of stone-themed poems     by David Steingass. Every once in a while I would pass something, think     about it for a mile or so, and decide it was worth turning around and going     back.               

With     gratitude for the solitude, I took advantage of this freedom many times to     photograph stones for the book… 

…and     vistas for this newsletter. Like from this bridge over the Mississagi     River, for example: A     few thoughts on the zen of motorcycling, even though it’s all be said     before by better writers. I remember the first ride on my first motorcycle     (1972 Moto Guzzi Eldorado) in 1995. I remember being on the highway going     60 miles per hour heading west out of Milwaukee and looking down at the     pavement beneath my feet. I remember realizing that I was going very fast,     that the road was less than twelve inches below my feet, and that I was     essentially sitting on the engine that was pushing me forward. That’s a lot     to digest. And then realizing that I didn’t feel like I was in any danger.     I felt perfectly safe. As long as the machine did what it was designed to     do, and I kept my hands on the handlebars and didn’t intentionally ride off     the shoulder or into oncoming traffic, everything would be fine. That’s     actually something you think about on a motorcycle. I do, anyway. It’s     dangerous, so you have to be on your A-game.

I     still feel that way when I am riding. It’s not constant, but it’s like     this: In between long meditations about whatever happens to be on the mind     (because there is no audio input, other than the engine), every once in a     while you come back to realizing you are moving very rapidly through space,     and you think about how the spark plugs are firing and alternately pushing     the pistons in the cylinders down to drive the cam which transfers directly     to the rear wheel, about how many miniature explosions are happening     between your legs, and how gravity and the gyroscopic potential of a     2-wheeled vehicle allows you to travel gracefully over the tarmack. On this     particular trip it went a step further for me. Maybe it was the duration of     the meditation, but I began to think about how grateful I was for the     opportunity to experience what I was experiencing. This turned into     gratitude for everyone who helped make it possible. That goes for the     obvious family support, but further to every single person who has helped     me do anything at all up to this point in my life. Everyone who has     influenced the way I think. Maybe even everyone I’ve ever met. As in, the     act of doing this is the result of every single thing that has come before     it. And furthermore, gratitude for the civil engineers who made these     incredible roads and bridges, gratitude for the designers and builders of     my motorcycle in 1979, gratitude for the people who made the tires on my     motorcycle, the person who figured out how to wire the electricity,     gratitude for the people at Aerostitch in Duluth for making a riding suit     that makes me feel safe, gratitude for the internet for helping me plan my     adventure, gratitude for all the people who are working while I am riding:     the people who are working at the gas stations, at the oil refineries (and     thoughts about how this adventure requires the burning of fossil fuels that     are contributing to the climate crisis), the people working at the border     crossing, at the restaurants, the motels…everyone, everything. Absolute and     complete gratitude.             

All     in all, between my departure from Wawa and arrival in Thessalon six hours     later, I honestly saw no more than a dozen other vehicles on the highway,     and two moose. I have never before enjoyed so many uninterrupted minutes of     riding through such beautiful, seemingly untouched land, and my arrival at     the Carolyn Beach Inn on Lake Huron iced the cake: Pakistani owners, an     attached restaurant with Indian dishes on the menu and samosas for an     appetizer, delightful conversation with my server, and an elegantly simple     room with a view of the lake. What an incredibly fortunate day. All I can     say is thank you. Yes, even you   

The     adventure continued on day four with a ride to Marquette, Michigan, taking     a detour through Tahquamenon Falls State Park, and concluding with a visit     to St Peter’s Cathedral,  paying respects to the Venerable Bishop Frederic Baraga.     The fifth, and longest day, included a stop at UW-Stevens Point to talk     with Brad Casselberry about the possibility of adding books by The     Heavy Duty Press to the William C. Bunce Artists’ Books Archive. We     had a nice visit and now there is a stronger possibility they will buy some     books from me in the future. That’s great news and more reason for     gratitude.

There     is no great pleasure in riding a motorcycle on the interstate, as     remarkable as the interstate system may be, and that happened to be long     stretch in the middle of day five. Also not much pleasure between Stevens     Point and Tomah (via Wisconsin Rapids), but the last stretch from Wilton     through the Kickapoo Valley was pure pleasure and a wonderful final hour     before arriving safely home at 7pm Friday evening. 

Credit to The New Moon Monitor, July 2024

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Moments of Hope: A Photo Gallery of Our TRIP

There has always been something burrowing under the   Klubhaus for as long as I can remember. I have always assumed it was a   groundhog, or groundhogs, until it or they left and the rabbits   took it over until springtime. A few years ago, I took the time to add   treated plywood to the foundation, extending as much as 18” below a packed   gravel perimeter about 2’ wide. The hole reappeared last year, I ignored it,   and this year there have been groundhog sightings almost every time I go out   there. Groundhogs can be problematic to a wooden foundation, and I don’t want   them gnawing at the insulated base the Klubhaus sits upon, so I decided to   borrow a live trap to catch and release however many of them are living on   the property.

I set the first trap yesterday morning, with cantaloupe   as bait (recommended by the lender), and picked up a second trap from the   rental department at the hardware store in the afternoon before going back   out to check on the first one. Sure enough, trap tripped. It was fairly small   for a groundhog, as far as I could tell, so I think it was a pup. I’ve read   that before the babies are born, the male leaves the den and the mama   groundhog raises a litter of 3-5 pups in it. Took the trap to the van and   hauled it about 5 miles north and on the other side of the West Fork of the   Kickapoo River to let it go. When I went back to Holy Hollow, I set both   traps for the night to see if I could catch some more.

When I arrived this morning, I was happy to see one of   the traps tripped, but less happy when I found it was not a groundhog, but a   skunk. And so began an entire morning blown trying to figure out what to do   when you trap a live skunk.

It’s the 21st century so I started texting friends.   Almost everyone I asked gave the same advice: cover the trap with a blanket.   Apparently, skunks become pretty deactivated in the dark, and the blanket not   only subdues them, but protects you somewhat if it decides to spray. I did   not have a blanket, but plenty of sheets of black plastic, and that did the   job.

Once the cage was propped open, we waited patiently. No movement inside the cage as far as anyone could tell. It seemed like the skunk was just going to sit in there huddled up in the corner until  we were gone. The black sheet over the cage made it impossible to see inside it, and neither of the gunmen wanted to shoot unless they knew it would be a clean shot at the heart. We didn’t want to take a chance of it soaking the Klubhaus with its spray. After about twenty minutes of

 waiting patiently, and me agitating the cage with a pole to coax it out, Glenn had to leave. 

Shortly after he left, Terry and I got a little tired of waiting, and I suggested maybe my Bluetooth speaker near the cage would make him want to leave. It worked. Not more than 30 seconds of Henry Mancini and the USC Marching Band (I think) playing The Theme from “Rocky”  and he decided make a lope for it. While the whole scene was slightly amusing, Terry gained his composure and kept a bead drawn on it as it went directly for the hole, just as Glenn had supposed it might. Next thing I know Terry, with composure and the gun aimed right at it, is in a  backpedal as the skunk is moving towards him. I, of course, moved further away and sorry but this was no time for photographs. Gratefully, it turned away from Terry towards the west and lumbered its way to the  path into the woods. It looked big, but never stopped long enough for Terry to get a good shot at it. Game over.

Skunk on the run.

I I set three traps before leaving, this time thinking about placement, as in  having a clean shot at another (or the same) skunk if necessary: away   from the building with no obstructing vegetation. If rodents are anything like my dog, they can smell that cantaloupe from 20’ away, and they’ll go get it no matter where it is.

And that’s the end of the story, for now. As soon as I drop the photos in this   newsletter, I’m heading back out there to check the traps. Maybe I’ll let you know how it ends, if it ends, if I don’t have anything more interesting to report next month. 

Credit to The New Moon Monitor, July 2024

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