David K. Leff, Essayist, Poet, Lecturer

Houses of Worship Reborn

We often see houses of worship as fixtures on the landscape and in our lives.  Yet over a score of them in Connecticut’s urban, suburban, and rural areas are for sale or seeking new uses because while    pulpits teach that God is eternal, places consecrated for prayer are not.

Frequently located in town centers, religious structures are typically focal points of community activities.  Even non-members and non-believers visit occasionally for weddings, funerals and other life events of friends and relatives.  Such buildings range from storefronts to grand stone edifices with steeples or domes and elaborate columns.  But whether as a white clapboard meeting house or a contemporary with multiple gables and glass walls, they remain signature place defining institutions.

The World by the Seat of My Pants

There are few American icons as universally recognized and yet deeply personal as a pair of Levis jeans.  But today's classic denims may not exactly match the images fostered by our imaginations.  First brought to market in 1873 by dry goods merchant Levi Strauss and tailor Jacob Davis, who hit on the idea of copper rivets at pocket corners and other stress points, their creation by a pair of  European Jewish immigrants in itself tells a very American story.  Designed originally to be worn by men working in the outdoors, the descendents of these denims have not only clothed factory and construction workers, but starting in the 1950s, cultural rebels like Jack Kerouac, Marlon Brando, Elvis Presley and James Dean.

Leaving it to Beavers: Art, Ecology and History in Pointed Stumps

Over the last couple months the beavers in my neighborhood have been as busy as . . . well . . . beavers.  Darkened pointed tree stumps and partially healed basal areas stripped of bark are testament that these flat tailed rodents have been active in the area for a long time, but the recent burst of activity between the upper and lower Collinsville, Connecticut dams on the Farmington River is beyond anything I’ve seen in nearly three decades of almost daily observation.  Though I’ve often spotted the glossy furred creatures swimming at twilight, I’ve never caught them at more than hauling away a few light branches.  The fresh piles of wood chips, sculpture gardens of bright conical stumps, and freshly gnawed limbs suggest I’ve been missing a good deal under cover of darkness.