Years ago I knew a married gay couple who ran a white cloth, french restaurant. Michael ran the business, Tony ran the restaurant. Michael was well heeled internationally and had specific ideas as to how he wanted his food presented -- so much so that one time he decided to take his Sous Chef, Kevin and Tony on a European Cultural Tour where they would sample the art and cuisine of several countries.
Michael set up the entire trip and their agenda. When they got to Italy, Michael insisted they see the works of the great masters. On their return, Kevin related that at first it was a bit difficult for him because Michael kept interjecting about the artist's sexuality. Michael would say, "These magnificent doors represent the work of early Donatello. He was gay, you know." or "Michelangelo was brilliant He was gay, you know."
Kevin said one day, after Michael had been prattling on several times that he had finally had enough. He looked at Michael and said, "Yes. I understand he was gay. I also understand you are gay. I respect that. You need to respect the fact that I am straight. And if it wasn't for people like me, people like you wouldn't be here!"
After that, the trip went much smoother.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
My Friend Robert
I know an amazing fellow down in Portland. I have known him for eight years now and every time we meet I learn new things about him.
Conversations are always a delight as his knowledge spans many areas of interest. He likes creating art and is quite adept at drawing. He also enjoys dabbling in science. It is not uncommon to find him in the kitchen. He makes a great homemade "pumpkin" pie using two similar squash; but, with a slightly nuttier flavor. . . something he thought up himself, I'm told.
He has a great appreciation of classic black-and-white movies and appreciates Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers' talents. An avid reader, his library spans the tomes of classic literature and current releases. He devours the New Yorker magazine as soon as it arrives by post, much to the dismay of his housemate who ordered the subscription and has to track it down every week.
A more well-rounded gent would be hard to locate. Robert may not know the current Top 40 in the Pop Charts, but he's up on all the latest trends and his musical appreciation spans from jazz to standards, hiphop to orchestra, and almost anything else you can think of. He is taking piano lessons to enhance his musical appreciation.
Did I mention he's tri-lingual? Well, almost. He's fluent in English and Russian and speaks each with no cross-over accent. He sounds native in each tongue. Now's he's working to perfect French.
This past weekend we were driving from Vancouver, Washington back to Portland and the beautiful neighborhood he lives in, where old growth tree-lined streets take you past stately tudor and craftsman homes.
As we drew nearer to the city Robert asked, "Do you know where you're going?" "Oh yeah," I replied, "This is easy for me." Robert looked at the back of my head from the rear seat and said, "Ya sure? 'Cause I know where we need to go."
Robert knows I am not good on finding my way in a city I only visit briefly once a month, but I salvoed back, "That's what you said back there when we turned early." "Well, I may not know Vancouver as well as I should, but I do know Portland," he said. I nodded but wasn't ready to give up and pressed the issue, "But you said, 'I remember this. This is it. Turn here.' and sounded like you knew back there also."
"What do ya want?" came the question from the car seat, "I'm a kid!"
I had to smile. Robert is eight. Sometimes I forget that.
Conversations are always a delight as his knowledge spans many areas of interest. He likes creating art and is quite adept at drawing. He also enjoys dabbling in science. It is not uncommon to find him in the kitchen. He makes a great homemade "pumpkin" pie using two similar squash; but, with a slightly nuttier flavor. . . something he thought up himself, I'm told.
He has a great appreciation of classic black-and-white movies and appreciates Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers' talents. An avid reader, his library spans the tomes of classic literature and current releases. He devours the New Yorker magazine as soon as it arrives by post, much to the dismay of his housemate who ordered the subscription and has to track it down every week.
A more well-rounded gent would be hard to locate. Robert may not know the current Top 40 in the Pop Charts, but he's up on all the latest trends and his musical appreciation spans from jazz to standards, hiphop to orchestra, and almost anything else you can think of. He is taking piano lessons to enhance his musical appreciation.
Did I mention he's tri-lingual? Well, almost. He's fluent in English and Russian and speaks each with no cross-over accent. He sounds native in each tongue. Now's he's working to perfect French.
This past weekend we were driving from Vancouver, Washington back to Portland and the beautiful neighborhood he lives in, where old growth tree-lined streets take you past stately tudor and craftsman homes.
As we drew nearer to the city Robert asked, "Do you know where you're going?" "Oh yeah," I replied, "This is easy for me." Robert looked at the back of my head from the rear seat and said, "Ya sure? 'Cause I know where we need to go."
Robert knows I am not good on finding my way in a city I only visit briefly once a month, but I salvoed back, "That's what you said back there when we turned early." "Well, I may not know Vancouver as well as I should, but I do know Portland," he said. I nodded but wasn't ready to give up and pressed the issue, "But you said, 'I remember this. This is it. Turn here.' and sounded like you knew back there also."
"What do ya want?" came the question from the car seat, "I'm a kid!"
I had to smile. Robert is eight. Sometimes I forget that.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Some parts of parenting are as old as the hills
One of the great joys of parenting is helping your child explore and learn. Children are creative when encouraged and a great deal of mental acuity is acquired through play.
When I was growing up my parents had a big house and a big family. They also had a small budget. We did not have a lot of the toys other kids had, but we had plenty to do with my parent's help. We had big sheets of paper to draw on and paint on, courtesy of my father's newspaper. We had mounds of Playdough- like stuff my mother made in the kitchen with corn starch and food colouring. We read and wrote poetry and we played a lot outdoors.
As a child I never thought of us as having less than anyone else. What we did have was parents who engaged us in creative pursuits and helped guide us in them. I can to this day still hear the echoes of my mother and father's comments and encouragements that were murmured in my ear as I worked on creating.
I never thought of my upbringing as being unique. But to tell you the truth, I never thought of it as being universal either.
The Rouffignac caves in the Dordogne area of France have been known since the 16th century. In 1956 archeologists discovered that the art that adorns the walls of these caves was prehistoric. Recently, they have discerned that much of it was done by children, guided by adults.
The walls of the caves are soft and by pressing your fingers into the surface and dragging them channels can be cut into the face of the walls and ceiling. These lines were first termed "finger flutings" by the Australian archeologist Robert G. Bednarik in 1986 in his study of prehistoric art found in caves throughout Europe and Australia. For years it was thought that adults had created these images and designs.
While there are a great many differences in the male and female anatomy, one predominate feature is finger length. Males have longer ring fingers than females. In studying the depth of the finger flutings these researchers determined that many of the designs were made by females. The width of the depressions also told them that the flutings were made by a child's hand.
Many of the designs are on the ceiling of the cave and some are on walls six feet or more above the floor. Researchers believe the parents of the children either held them or perhaps allowed them to ride on their shoulders to create their art. Some designs are more precise, deeper and made with shorter strokes that indicate that an adult was guiding the young hand. The majority of the rest are more free form lines and squiggles. And there are some representing specific animals, obviously done by an adult.
The researchers determined the age of the children involved by the width of the fingers that made the designs and correlated that to human development. One budding artist from this family that lived over 13,000 years ago was a five-year-old girl. Her designs proliferate throught the caves. There is evidence that another child, a two-year-old girl, also enjoyed creating lines.
We will never know their names, or even if either had one. We will never know their life stories or how long they lived. But we do know that when they were a little girls they had at least one parent who encouraged them to play and create. Like the millenia of children since their time, they were cared for and nurtured by a parent who loved them.
Some things, gratefully, do not change.
When I was growing up my parents had a big house and a big family. They also had a small budget. We did not have a lot of the toys other kids had, but we had plenty to do with my parent's help. We had big sheets of paper to draw on and paint on, courtesy of my father's newspaper. We had mounds of Playdough- like stuff my mother made in the kitchen with corn starch and food colouring. We read and wrote poetry and we played a lot outdoors.
As a child I never thought of us as having less than anyone else. What we did have was parents who engaged us in creative pursuits and helped guide us in them. I can to this day still hear the echoes of my mother and father's comments and encouragements that were murmured in my ear as I worked on creating.
I never thought of my upbringing as being unique. But to tell you the truth, I never thought of it as being universal either.
The Rouffignac caves in the Dordogne area of France have been known since the 16th century. In 1956 archeologists discovered that the art that adorns the walls of these caves was prehistoric. Recently, they have discerned that much of it was done by children, guided by adults.
The walls of the caves are soft and by pressing your fingers into the surface and dragging them channels can be cut into the face of the walls and ceiling. These lines were first termed "finger flutings" by the Australian archeologist Robert G. Bednarik in 1986 in his study of prehistoric art found in caves throughout Europe and Australia. For years it was thought that adults had created these images and designs.
While there are a great many differences in the male and female anatomy, one predominate feature is finger length. Males have longer ring fingers than females. In studying the depth of the finger flutings these researchers determined that many of the designs were made by females. The width of the depressions also told them that the flutings were made by a child's hand.
Many of the designs are on the ceiling of the cave and some are on walls six feet or more above the floor. Researchers believe the parents of the children either held them or perhaps allowed them to ride on their shoulders to create their art. Some designs are more precise, deeper and made with shorter strokes that indicate that an adult was guiding the young hand. The majority of the rest are more free form lines and squiggles. And there are some representing specific animals, obviously done by an adult.
The researchers determined the age of the children involved by the width of the fingers that made the designs and correlated that to human development. One budding artist from this family that lived over 13,000 years ago was a five-year-old girl. Her designs proliferate throught the caves. There is evidence that another child, a two-year-old girl, also enjoyed creating lines.
We will never know their names, or even if either had one. We will never know their life stories or how long they lived. But we do know that when they were a little girls they had at least one parent who encouraged them to play and create. Like the millenia of children since their time, they were cared for and nurtured by a parent who loved them.
Some things, gratefully, do not change.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Flight of the Hummingbird
There is a story told to a friend of mine by a Tibetan monk.
One day a great heat storm came to the forest. Lightning flashed and a bolt struck a group of tinder-dry trees causing them to erupt in flame. Soon the fire began to spread. As it grew, it quickly became apparent to the animals of the forest that their home was in danger of being destroyed.
All the animals raced to the river and safely crossed to the other side. As they stood there watching the fire consume the forest they noticed that the hummingbird had not joined them. The owl, bear, wildcat, skunk, snake and the rest were safely away but nowhere could they find hummingbird.
One of them soon saw it. Hummingbird was flying to the river and taking a drop of water in its beak, flying quickly to the fire, dropping it into the flames, and flying back to the river for another drop. The animals called out, "Hummingbird! Come here and be safe with us!" But the hummingbird acted as if it did not hear them and kept flying from the river to the fire, each time with a drop of water.
The other animals began to laugh at hummingbird's antics. "You'll never put it out," they cried, "You are wasting your time!" Instead of stopping, their taunts made the hummingbird more determined and it flew even faster. Back and forth hummingbird darted with the drops of precious water as the fire ravaged the land.
The fire continued to grow. The catcalls from the animals grew louder as they watched the forest being consumed in flame. "You'll never make it!" "Give up!" they called. But hummingbird kept on.
Finally, one of the animals called out, "Why are you doing that? You'll never succeed! Why don't you stop?" Hummingbird paused in flight and answered, "I'm doing the best I can."
One day a great heat storm came to the forest. Lightning flashed and a bolt struck a group of tinder-dry trees causing them to erupt in flame. Soon the fire began to spread. As it grew, it quickly became apparent to the animals of the forest that their home was in danger of being destroyed.
All the animals raced to the river and safely crossed to the other side. As they stood there watching the fire consume the forest they noticed that the hummingbird had not joined them. The owl, bear, wildcat, skunk, snake and the rest were safely away but nowhere could they find hummingbird.
One of them soon saw it. Hummingbird was flying to the river and taking a drop of water in its beak, flying quickly to the fire, dropping it into the flames, and flying back to the river for another drop. The animals called out, "Hummingbird! Come here and be safe with us!" But the hummingbird acted as if it did not hear them and kept flying from the river to the fire, each time with a drop of water.
The other animals began to laugh at hummingbird's antics. "You'll never put it out," they cried, "You are wasting your time!" Instead of stopping, their taunts made the hummingbird more determined and it flew even faster. Back and forth hummingbird darted with the drops of precious water as the fire ravaged the land.
The fire continued to grow. The catcalls from the animals grew louder as they watched the forest being consumed in flame. "You'll never make it!" "Give up!" they called. But hummingbird kept on.
Finally, one of the animals called out, "Why are you doing that? You'll never succeed! Why don't you stop?" Hummingbird paused in flight and answered, "I'm doing the best I can."
Friday, September 16, 2011
These are the things you learn by living alone
They say the best gift you can give a toddler is an empty oatmeal carton. With dogs, it is a slice of marrow bone. It not only keeps them occupied for about an hour initially the residual chew times can go on for days.
Telemarketers and other auto-dialer phone nazis use a program that allows the phone number four rings and then disconnects. Some stretch it to six rings. When I grew up, long before the advent of answering machines, you were taught to let the phone ring ten times before you hung up. Ten rings is roughly equivalent to one minute. But in today's digital world where the programmers believe people are married to their phones they have programmed in a bias that allows me to easily avoid them. I answer only after six rings.
The dogs have a certain schedule for bathroom times whether you are home or not.
I used to think I was busy. Now I have a tough time keeping up with myself.
If you take the neighbors blackberry coffee cake, they'll return the plate very quickly. Give them homemade, five bean soup and you won't hear from them for a few days.
It is not difficult cooking for one. Just make enough for six and eat for a week. Following that same logic leads to panic when you have 18 days of food and your taste buds shift again. Thank God for freezer space. And neighbors.
To hell with the Tooth Fairy. I want a Laundry Fairy that takes it and gives me a quarter for leaving it out.
Play until you are tired and then rest. The world will wait until you get up.
to be continued... both in thought as well as form.
Telemarketers and other auto-dialer phone nazis use a program that allows the phone number four rings and then disconnects. Some stretch it to six rings. When I grew up, long before the advent of answering machines, you were taught to let the phone ring ten times before you hung up. Ten rings is roughly equivalent to one minute. But in today's digital world where the programmers believe people are married to their phones they have programmed in a bias that allows me to easily avoid them. I answer only after six rings.
The dogs have a certain schedule for bathroom times whether you are home or not.
I used to think I was busy. Now I have a tough time keeping up with myself.
If you take the neighbors blackberry coffee cake, they'll return the plate very quickly. Give them homemade, five bean soup and you won't hear from them for a few days.
It is not difficult cooking for one. Just make enough for six and eat for a week. Following that same logic leads to panic when you have 18 days of food and your taste buds shift again. Thank God for freezer space. And neighbors.
To hell with the Tooth Fairy. I want a Laundry Fairy that takes it and gives me a quarter for leaving it out.
Play until you are tired and then rest. The world will wait until you get up.
to be continued... both in thought as well as form.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Weeds
I have a lot more free time theses days. And, truth be told, there are a lot of things I have needed to do but have not. The lawn is a prime example. When I finally got around to pulling the weeds, I stopped after about five hours because I was afraid I'd be investigated for deforestation.
The more I looked, the deeper the problem went.
I've known about the lawn in a passing over the last few years. I have transversed it at high speed on the riding mower many times. When I started looking at it from a near stationary position though I saw things I'd never noticed -- as far as the weeds went.
There's one with cute little flowers that can take over and drown out the grass as it spreads quickly across the landscape. I have the market pretty well cornered on it. My lawn is beginning to become a yellow profusion in spots.
I stopped at the county agricultural agent's office with an example to ask how I could get rid of it. The woman who was at the office gave me a print out detailing the weed killer chemicals needed. And as she handed them to me she casually said, "At least you don't have horsetail."
Horsetail is a prolific weed. If you see a one inch sprout, you don't see the foot-long root. And it spreads like crazy. (Kind of like rabbits or lawyers. If you have one, it is lonely. Have two and you'll soon have a whole bunch if they are any good at their job).
Horsetail is said to be high in iron and herbalists find it fairly powerful in a variety of uses. But still, it is a weed. And I've got it as well.
"Funny you should mention that," I said, "I do have a bunch of it." "Oh, I am so sorry," she murmured as she handed me another pamphlet. I accepted it dubiously and then brightened when I read the words,
". . .and is best eradicated by flame" at the bottom of the page. "You mean I can get rid of it with a flame thrower?" I asked. "Oh yes," she replied cheerily. My head swam with thoughts of battling the evil weed with something that could cook dinner in two minutes and the boy within me awoke with glee.
Up here in Port Angeles, many folks fall into the "hippie, organic blueberry" type of people. I know one such. He was nominated to be the organic gardener at the White House for President Obama. He once told me that vinegar was a great weed killer. So a part of my efforts has been to spray with vinegar. I started that today.
Armed with my one gallon garden sprayer and a couple gallons of white vinegar I went out to combat the dreaded herbage. As I happily bowed the vegetational leaves under the pressure stream from my organic killing device I happened to overshoot and hit some of the horsetail.
My neighbor, Stan, was curious as to what I was doing in the yard and I explained about the empty vinegar jugs. "Oh, that stuff will kill anything. . .including your grass! Ya better be careful where ya get that," he cautioned. I thanked him for his sage advice and went inside soon afterward.
His words kept resonating in my mind and I soon found myself back outside, like one of our dogs, checking to see at where I had sprayed.
Everywhere I looked plants were shriveling after having consumed the vinegar. . .even the horsetail.
I cursed silently.
I really wanted a flame thrower.
The more I looked, the deeper the problem went.
I've known about the lawn in a passing over the last few years. I have transversed it at high speed on the riding mower many times. When I started looking at it from a near stationary position though I saw things I'd never noticed -- as far as the weeds went.
There's one with cute little flowers that can take over and drown out the grass as it spreads quickly across the landscape. I have the market pretty well cornered on it. My lawn is beginning to become a yellow profusion in spots.
I stopped at the county agricultural agent's office with an example to ask how I could get rid of it. The woman who was at the office gave me a print out detailing the weed killer chemicals needed. And as she handed them to me she casually said, "At least you don't have horsetail."
Horsetail is a prolific weed. If you see a one inch sprout, you don't see the foot-long root. And it spreads like crazy. (Kind of like rabbits or lawyers. If you have one, it is lonely. Have two and you'll soon have a whole bunch if they are any good at their job).
Horsetail is said to be high in iron and herbalists find it fairly powerful in a variety of uses. But still, it is a weed. And I've got it as well.
"Funny you should mention that," I said, "I do have a bunch of it." "Oh, I am so sorry," she murmured as she handed me another pamphlet. I accepted it dubiously and then brightened when I read the words,
". . .and is best eradicated by flame" at the bottom of the page. "You mean I can get rid of it with a flame thrower?" I asked. "Oh yes," she replied cheerily. My head swam with thoughts of battling the evil weed with something that could cook dinner in two minutes and the boy within me awoke with glee.
Up here in Port Angeles, many folks fall into the "hippie, organic blueberry" type of people. I know one such. He was nominated to be the organic gardener at the White House for President Obama. He once told me that vinegar was a great weed killer. So a part of my efforts has been to spray with vinegar. I started that today.
Armed with my one gallon garden sprayer and a couple gallons of white vinegar I went out to combat the dreaded herbage. As I happily bowed the vegetational leaves under the pressure stream from my organic killing device I happened to overshoot and hit some of the horsetail.
My neighbor, Stan, was curious as to what I was doing in the yard and I explained about the empty vinegar jugs. "Oh, that stuff will kill anything. . .including your grass! Ya better be careful where ya get that," he cautioned. I thanked him for his sage advice and went inside soon afterward.
His words kept resonating in my mind and I soon found myself back outside, like one of our dogs, checking to see at where I had sprayed.
Everywhere I looked plants were shriveling after having consumed the vinegar. . .even the horsetail.
I cursed silently.
I really wanted a flame thrower.
Monday, March 7, 2011
It's been a while....
I remembered David tonight for the first time in, perhaps, decades. One of my best friends in highschool was Steve Moore. He was fairly tall, lean, well-humoured and very smart. Steve was usually serious, perhaps a better word is "mature," with his thinking. And he was definitely a big brother to his sibling, David.
David had a big toothy grin that went from behind one ear all the way to the other side of his head and a twinkle that would tell you mischief was afoot. The appeal was instant and you always found yourself wondering what adventure you were about to embark on with this handsome imp. He was comical, enthusiastic, and very loveable. He was everybody's friend and everybody's little brother.
I was at work the night I heard. David had been at a party and decided to climb the old elm tree in the front of the house that hung out over the street. He was clowning around, as usual, and misjudged a distance between branches. When he hit the pavement on his hind end, his head went back into a steel bumper on a car. He was fifteen.
As you get older, you get used to people passing on. I have had several friends and family members herald the last years of their lives in my presence. When it is a process it is easier to accept. The march of time excludes no one. But when it happens that a life ends abruptly, it causes one to pause.
If there were ever a couple you wanted to hate but couldn't, it was Ken & Ellen. Each of them embraced their passions and shared all of that and more with each other and you. Their spirits were gentle, intelligent, compassionate and very detail-oriented. They were the kind of folks to drop in because they were in the neighborhood after taking a twelve mile run; happy beyond belief and just looking for some water, perhaps.
He was an accomplished artist and she, a oncology nurse who dealt specifically with pain mediation. Their common love - beyond each other - was kayaking. They had run a kayak symposium on the Olympic Peninsula for seven years and one day saw a property for sale overlooking a bay that they really liked.
They made an offer on the cabin with five acres of woods and wetlands, wood-fired hottub and all, and moved out from Seattle shortly thereafter.
It was never difficult to consider these two as friends. Each exuded such positive, peaceful energy that just being around them made you feel better . . . with some self-induced, guilt-laden resolve to reconsider the New Year's resolutions dropped.
I can still see the flash of excitement in Ellen's eyes as she would recount her kayak journeys, her appreciation of her husband's art, or whatever aspect of her life she wanted to share. Every aspect was wonder-filled and it was easy to be swept up in her passions.
She was a pillar of strength and very empathetic, a great, big sister. And she reached out to many; wanting to help, willing to share.
At 7:45 yesterday, Sunday morning, Ellen was heading toward town and had gone about a half-mile down the highway in her light duty pickup truck with the kayak rack over the bed when a 24 year-old woman in a full-sized pickup truck heading in the opposite direction apparently tried to pass on a blind curve.
Ellen saw the truck approaching and was driving on the shoulder to avoid the oncoming vehicle but the larger truck took out the entire driver's side of Ellen's truck when the two vehicles met head-on. Only the passenger side remained intact.
The 24 year-old female driver of the larger truck was not wearing a seat belt and suffered only minor injuries. She was arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol.
Ellen was 44.
It's tougher when they leave unannounced.
David had a big toothy grin that went from behind one ear all the way to the other side of his head and a twinkle that would tell you mischief was afoot. The appeal was instant and you always found yourself wondering what adventure you were about to embark on with this handsome imp. He was comical, enthusiastic, and very loveable. He was everybody's friend and everybody's little brother.
I was at work the night I heard. David had been at a party and decided to climb the old elm tree in the front of the house that hung out over the street. He was clowning around, as usual, and misjudged a distance between branches. When he hit the pavement on his hind end, his head went back into a steel bumper on a car. He was fifteen.
As you get older, you get used to people passing on. I have had several friends and family members herald the last years of their lives in my presence. When it is a process it is easier to accept. The march of time excludes no one. But when it happens that a life ends abruptly, it causes one to pause.
If there were ever a couple you wanted to hate but couldn't, it was Ken & Ellen. Each of them embraced their passions and shared all of that and more with each other and you. Their spirits were gentle, intelligent, compassionate and very detail-oriented. They were the kind of folks to drop in because they were in the neighborhood after taking a twelve mile run; happy beyond belief and just looking for some water, perhaps.
He was an accomplished artist and she, a oncology nurse who dealt specifically with pain mediation. Their common love - beyond each other - was kayaking. They had run a kayak symposium on the Olympic Peninsula for seven years and one day saw a property for sale overlooking a bay that they really liked.
They made an offer on the cabin with five acres of woods and wetlands, wood-fired hottub and all, and moved out from Seattle shortly thereafter.
It was never difficult to consider these two as friends. Each exuded such positive, peaceful energy that just being around them made you feel better . . . with some self-induced, guilt-laden resolve to reconsider the New Year's resolutions dropped.
I can still see the flash of excitement in Ellen's eyes as she would recount her kayak journeys, her appreciation of her husband's art, or whatever aspect of her life she wanted to share. Every aspect was wonder-filled and it was easy to be swept up in her passions.
She was a pillar of strength and very empathetic, a great, big sister. And she reached out to many; wanting to help, willing to share.
At 7:45 yesterday, Sunday morning, Ellen was heading toward town and had gone about a half-mile down the highway in her light duty pickup truck with the kayak rack over the bed when a 24 year-old woman in a full-sized pickup truck heading in the opposite direction apparently tried to pass on a blind curve.
Ellen saw the truck approaching and was driving on the shoulder to avoid the oncoming vehicle but the larger truck took out the entire driver's side of Ellen's truck when the two vehicles met head-on. Only the passenger side remained intact.
The 24 year-old female driver of the larger truck was not wearing a seat belt and suffered only minor injuries. She was arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol.
Ellen was 44.
It's tougher when they leave unannounced.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
An Open Letter to the Sand Sculptors of the World
I write to you fully understanding that I am not one of you. I am an outsider, an observer, as I have been for over a decade. From that position I realize I have no authority and do not claim or attempt to assert any. However, as an observer and a passionate fan I would like to offer a few thoughts I feel you need to realize for I believe them to be the truth.
Yours is an art that may have existed as long as man has tried to express his creativity and bring emotion and imagination into form. One will never know. As certainly as there has always been sand there has also been the elements that formed it and have erased the structures made from it; erosion and gravity. But I believe that ancient humans practiced what you have perfected.
But sand sculpting is not a nature-borne element like a tree or a mountain. Neither is it manufactured by machines or many hands in some assembly process. The sculptures created come from within each of you. Every nuance, detail, and reflection of your reality comes from within your soul and is manifested in your works.
You, and you alone, are sand sculpture. Without you, the magnificent beauty created for others to behold would not exist. No singular tool is responsible for the end result. No formula exists that would allow an apprentice to the art to mimic your creations. What people see take place in a matter of hours has taken years of dedication to bring to fruition.
There is now a great movement beginning in your ranks. Borne in part by necessity and in part by frustration, this acknowledgement of need is taking a position of permanence with you and your peers. Once firmly established, it will change the very perception of your craft.
History is replete with examples of the outcome of such a movement. Current events reflect others who, in their own right, are also going through this process. No group deciding to oppose oppression and having the resolve to advance their concerns has failed to alter their destiny. Look at religious, societal, or class evolutions and you will find that the efforts of a group of people, demanding their wishes be acknowledged have formed the change now considered to be the norm.
It is a time of great concern, of nervous anticipation, of fear and elation. And it is a time now before you.
There are those who would exploit you. There is no necessary personal malice in their thought and action. People of this ilk have been in existence as long as man has walked upon the earth. There have been - and are now - those whose nature it is to find an exploitable resource and to harvest it for their own benefit. But now, as in the past and as certainly as it will be in the future, those exploited have realized that they have the ablility to change their environment and cause by banding together and allowing their unified strength to do what they cannot do singularly.
And it starts with a single word, "no."
One of the pioneers of the peaceful civil rights movement in the 1960's of the United States was Martin Luther King. Few would argue that point. But many recognize that one of the galvanizing points of the movement was not the highly-lauded and publicized King but a black woman of no stature named Rosa Parks who, when told to move to the back of the bus where blacks were regulated to travel, simply said "no."
Her act of what was then considered defiance gave strength to others who began to follow her example.
You now have the opportunity to follow a path that history has shown oppressors cannot ignore, peaceful resistance. And it begins and sustains with your resolve to simply assert yourselves and no longer tolerate being treated at less than your worth.
Without you. . . sand sculptures would remain sand -- a flat granular material devoid of form.
Without you. . . the public would have nothing to behold that would bring forth the childhood awe of sheer amazement long forgotten by so many.
Without you. . . there would be no worldwide development of this ancient artform.
Without you, the sculptors of sand, there would be no art.
Before you now is an opportunity for you to bond together and assert your demands that you be recognized for your talents; for those who gather you together to accomodate you for what you have the ability to bring to life; and for them to adequately compensate you for your talents. It is my fervent hope that you will do so, for no group is more worthy of long withheld recognition.
The destiny of your art is before you. And just as you are the creators of sand sculpture, you are also the creators of your professional destiny. Together you are a force that cannot be avoided or countered. You are sand sculpture.
There are leaders amongst your ranks, but this determination of a better now and a better future is something that must be carried on by each of you. Resolve yourselves to not accept less than you are worth and others who would not otherwise meet your realistic standards of ethical treatment will have no choice but to comply if they truly wish your expertise.
The road ahead may seem dark and foreboding to some of you, but there is a brighter future. Remember that those who would oppress you are not the majority. They are simply the more visible minority. Once dealt with, they will dissolve before you as simply as a bad pound-up faced with a rainstorm of opposition.
Stand Up. Stand Strong. Carve On.
Your future and your art demands it.
And you will succeed.
Yours is an art that may have existed as long as man has tried to express his creativity and bring emotion and imagination into form. One will never know. As certainly as there has always been sand there has also been the elements that formed it and have erased the structures made from it; erosion and gravity. But I believe that ancient humans practiced what you have perfected.
But sand sculpting is not a nature-borne element like a tree or a mountain. Neither is it manufactured by machines or many hands in some assembly process. The sculptures created come from within each of you. Every nuance, detail, and reflection of your reality comes from within your soul and is manifested in your works.
You, and you alone, are sand sculpture. Without you, the magnificent beauty created for others to behold would not exist. No singular tool is responsible for the end result. No formula exists that would allow an apprentice to the art to mimic your creations. What people see take place in a matter of hours has taken years of dedication to bring to fruition.
There is now a great movement beginning in your ranks. Borne in part by necessity and in part by frustration, this acknowledgement of need is taking a position of permanence with you and your peers. Once firmly established, it will change the very perception of your craft.
History is replete with examples of the outcome of such a movement. Current events reflect others who, in their own right, are also going through this process. No group deciding to oppose oppression and having the resolve to advance their concerns has failed to alter their destiny. Look at religious, societal, or class evolutions and you will find that the efforts of a group of people, demanding their wishes be acknowledged have formed the change now considered to be the norm.
It is a time of great concern, of nervous anticipation, of fear and elation. And it is a time now before you.
There are those who would exploit you. There is no necessary personal malice in their thought and action. People of this ilk have been in existence as long as man has walked upon the earth. There have been - and are now - those whose nature it is to find an exploitable resource and to harvest it for their own benefit. But now, as in the past and as certainly as it will be in the future, those exploited have realized that they have the ablility to change their environment and cause by banding together and allowing their unified strength to do what they cannot do singularly.
And it starts with a single word, "no."
One of the pioneers of the peaceful civil rights movement in the 1960's of the United States was Martin Luther King. Few would argue that point. But many recognize that one of the galvanizing points of the movement was not the highly-lauded and publicized King but a black woman of no stature named Rosa Parks who, when told to move to the back of the bus where blacks were regulated to travel, simply said "no."
Her act of what was then considered defiance gave strength to others who began to follow her example.
You now have the opportunity to follow a path that history has shown oppressors cannot ignore, peaceful resistance. And it begins and sustains with your resolve to simply assert yourselves and no longer tolerate being treated at less than your worth.
Without you. . . sand sculptures would remain sand -- a flat granular material devoid of form.
Without you. . . the public would have nothing to behold that would bring forth the childhood awe of sheer amazement long forgotten by so many.
Without you. . . there would be no worldwide development of this ancient artform.
Without you, the sculptors of sand, there would be no art.
Before you now is an opportunity for you to bond together and assert your demands that you be recognized for your talents; for those who gather you together to accomodate you for what you have the ability to bring to life; and for them to adequately compensate you for your talents. It is my fervent hope that you will do so, for no group is more worthy of long withheld recognition.
The destiny of your art is before you. And just as you are the creators of sand sculpture, you are also the creators of your professional destiny. Together you are a force that cannot be avoided or countered. You are sand sculpture.
There are leaders amongst your ranks, but this determination of a better now and a better future is something that must be carried on by each of you. Resolve yourselves to not accept less than you are worth and others who would not otherwise meet your realistic standards of ethical treatment will have no choice but to comply if they truly wish your expertise.
The road ahead may seem dark and foreboding to some of you, but there is a brighter future. Remember that those who would oppress you are not the majority. They are simply the more visible minority. Once dealt with, they will dissolve before you as simply as a bad pound-up faced with a rainstorm of opposition.
Stand Up. Stand Strong. Carve On.
Your future and your art demands it.
And you will succeed.
Third Time's a Charm
An Introduction of Sorts:
This program is asking me if I want to see what this will look like, even before I begin. To tell you the truth . . . I don't care. I spent time on the last two blogs I started; one free, one paid for on another service. Can't find either of them.
I could blame this computer - or the web - or divine providence I guess; but, more than likely it's just me. Regardless, I am trying this again and hopefully will be able to find it again when time allows or the brain demands.
People write for different reasons. I have had more than a few tell me that I should write about my town and I have. It's easy to do. I love living here and have been here longer than I have been anywhere in my life. But I want to write about more than that.
Some say I should write about sand sculpting since it is something I am passionate about. And I would happily do so, but I am not a sculptor and my knowledge of the actual artform is limited to the realm of a peripheral member of the sculpting community, similar perhaps to a host who packs his parties with movie stars but has never appeared on screen. As such, while my passion is great, my knowledge is limited and I feel my observations border between bland and boring.
Unfortunately for me my creative bent is writing and it is something I must do. That's not a "maybe" or an "if" or even a delusion of some type of grandeur. I am a writer by training and by education and it is something that I must do for my mental health. I can no sooner stop my writing desire than a musician could devoid her world of the notes that run through her head or the artist not doodle at least.
Whether or not anyone will ever stumble upon this is a consideration that does not really matter from the point of its creation. It would be gratifying to discover that someone found this and felt it warranted reading -- for that is the ego stroke all writers wish; but, this is begun through necessity.
There are no shackles or limitations on this exercise as there had been n my two previous attempts. The reader will have to accept they get whatever is laid before them, somewhat akin to taking a mystery tour.
That being said. . .
This program is asking me if I want to see what this will look like, even before I begin. To tell you the truth . . . I don't care. I spent time on the last two blogs I started; one free, one paid for on another service. Can't find either of them.
I could blame this computer - or the web - or divine providence I guess; but, more than likely it's just me. Regardless, I am trying this again and hopefully will be able to find it again when time allows or the brain demands.
People write for different reasons. I have had more than a few tell me that I should write about my town and I have. It's easy to do. I love living here and have been here longer than I have been anywhere in my life. But I want to write about more than that.
Some say I should write about sand sculpting since it is something I am passionate about. And I would happily do so, but I am not a sculptor and my knowledge of the actual artform is limited to the realm of a peripheral member of the sculpting community, similar perhaps to a host who packs his parties with movie stars but has never appeared on screen. As such, while my passion is great, my knowledge is limited and I feel my observations border between bland and boring.
Unfortunately for me my creative bent is writing and it is something I must do. That's not a "maybe" or an "if" or even a delusion of some type of grandeur. I am a writer by training and by education and it is something that I must do for my mental health. I can no sooner stop my writing desire than a musician could devoid her world of the notes that run through her head or the artist not doodle at least.
Whether or not anyone will ever stumble upon this is a consideration that does not really matter from the point of its creation. It would be gratifying to discover that someone found this and felt it warranted reading -- for that is the ego stroke all writers wish; but, this is begun through necessity.
There are no shackles or limitations on this exercise as there had been n my two previous attempts. The reader will have to accept they get whatever is laid before them, somewhat akin to taking a mystery tour.
That being said. . .
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