OccasionalPiece

Ferris Bueller, Take Two

2012-02-01T16:11:00.000-08:00

The iPhone Economy

2012-01-26T10:03:00.000-08:00

If you didn't see this video on the New York Times, may I suggest you watch it now?

It begins with the iPhone, but gives an interesting overview of our US economy now. I clicked onto the video from an article Dave recommended to me, "How the US lost out on iPhone Work," also good reading.

More New York Times news: my friend's daughter is featured in an article about Mormon foodies, and as of today has hit #17 on the Most Read List. That's her in the photo. *Here's* the link.

Twenty Minutes

2012-01-24T22:16:00.000-08:00

I ordered a A Year with C.S. Lewis from Amazon (thanks, Matthew!) and have been reading every night, right after I jot down my day in the Charley Harper Engagement Calendar. Above is a picture of Harper's Monteverde Cloud Forest Preserve, Costa Rica 1999, which is on the cover of the engagement calendar, and I love studying it after I write. It's full of details, surprised, layers, color--all the things I love in a visual piece. (Can you see the chimp?)

Back to the Lewis: I read all the days up to today in January's readings in order to catch up and be on track for the rest of the year, then couldn't resist and read a couple more. Here's January 26th's thought, from Lewis' The Great Divorce, Preface:

"We are not living in a world where all roads are radii of a circle and where all, if followed long enough, will therefore draw gradually nearer and finally meet at the center: rather in a world where every road, after a few miles, forks into two and each of those into two again, and at each fork you must make a decision. Even on the biological level life is not like a pool but like a tree. It does not move towards unity but away from it and the creatures grow further apart as they increase in perfection. Good, as it ripens, becomes continually more different not only from evil but from other good."

What else, this January month? I upgraded our computer OS software; we now have Lion installed so it will work with our iCal and our Mail and our iPhones and the iCloud (and our iBrains). I will have been to the doctor seven times before the month is out, eight, if you count the 3 1/2 hours in Urgent Care on the 31st of December. Two other people I care about were also hospitalized and they are both home. I started teaching again in the new semester; a friend who has had her battles with cancer says that initially she had much less patience for the complaints of the students, a side-effect of the experience. I know what she means. I miss feeling like I could conquer the world, but that may be just having a birthday.

Oh, a birthday! And this is how my mind works right now: like a trying to take a walk in the night with no moon and a dim flashlight, feeling my way through all things, recognizing some only after shining the light on it twice. I find "lost" things in strange places and am surprised by where they are, as I don't recall putting them away there. I intensely miss people. People exhaust me. I tear up too easily. I tire by mid-afternoon and stand in the laundry room looking at cans of Barq's root beer, trying to decide if I should drink some caffeine or go take a nap. I can do either, at my stage of life. Usually the nap wins.

And now like to say I had cancer for twenty minutes, but that someone has imbedded a hatchet in my upper thigh. That's about how it's going around here these days--with new dressing change routines, the asthma kicking in (esp. today with its high winds) and the gratifying realization that I don't have to do chemo or radiation like my other friends with cancer. Hence, the 20-minute cancer. Just need to get rid of that hatchet now, and although changed, life will go on in its branching ways.

Poems for Post-Tweflth Night

2012-01-14T08:27:00.000-08:00

Trouble Coming, by Charles Simic
One saw signs of it in certain families.
The future was like an unfriendly waiter
Standing ready to take their dinner order
From a menu they could not read.

To look without understanding was their lot
While a salesman in the TV store
Kept changing channels too quickly
For them to retain a single image.

The little flags freshly posted in a cemetery
Said nothing as they hung listlessly
In the early summer breeze,
Not that anybody particularly noticed.

The sunset over the approaching city
Was like a banquet in a madhouse
The inmates were happily setting on fire
Just as our train ducked into a tunnel.

My father sent me a whole passel of The New York Review of Books, and the above poem was published there. The next poem is a haiku written by one of my students last semester and I thought a fitting counterpart to Simic's.

Zipline, by Suzanne Shields
Zipping through the trees
Altitude is everything
Life is delicate.

A Trip to Foodie Paradise

2012-01-13T21:47:00.000-08:00

When we were back in Ohio, Matthew said we had to go to a place called Jungle Jim's. We were thinking it was a play place where the young girls could horse around. We were wrong. The place bills itself as Foodie Paradise. This giant frankfurter was just outside.

Yes--these lights really work.

Emilee and Megan pose in front of one his statues. I watched the video clip where Jungle Jim--Jim Bonaminio--talks about how he likes to mess around with animatronics (among other things).

High above our heads--a swinging soup can. So at this point I'm thinking that it's just a giant grocery store with regular food. Wrong.

Matthew and girls near the deli section.

Barra de Salsa, where they have a variety of fresh salsas.

Dave, in blue, stands by the blue cheese section. Yes--all those packages are blue cheese. Overall they have over 1400 cheeses. I began to wonder if I could buy another suitcase and take some things home.

A display of salamis.

Now, I really wanted to take some of their selections home. A butter bar?

Hand rolled butter from Wisconsin. Think what my shortbread cookies would taste like with this as the base!

European-style high fat butter content. I've been buying some Plugra at home, but I'm sure this outranks it.

Goat butter.

And cheeses in animal shapes and packaging. I was beginning to catch on to why this store was famous.

I caught up with Kim & Megan at the candy aisle. Yes, I bought a gumball monkey that clangs its symbols together when you push a lever. Who cares if the candy is any good--I love the packaging!

Lots of displays--this, obviously, is the bakery.

Kim got us totally hooked on Servatii's pretzel slices. They take a giant fat pretzel, run it through their bakery slicer and you use the little rounds for dips or snacks. We brought a bag home with us all the way to California and we are down to the last little bit.

Random flying pig.

Alligator meat. In case you don't like that, there are buffalo steaks (below).

Bet you didn't know there was more than one kind of coconut, did you?

The hot sauce aisle, complete with fire engine.

Along the side wall are little alcoves that have products from a single region. Here's Scandinavia.

And a theater where you can watch the history of Jungle Jim (some of it is in the video I linked to above).

The Holland alcove has fuzzy slippers in the shape of wooden shoes.

We were running out of time, so we made a beeline for the chocolate aisle.

We bought the bacon flavor, plus two others.

And one of those machines that gives your fortune--the Brain! (Dave posed under duress.)

We had a great time there, and if I lived there, I think I might make this a regular habit--esp. for that butter! Matthew said he's already gone back once in order to get Blenheim's Gingerale, which this place carries. (It's one of his favorites, esp. the red-lid variety.)

So, when you go and visit Matthew--go to Jungle Jim's!

Convalescing, and That's All for Now

2012-01-10T18:53:00.000-08:00

After a visit with my doctor, this time to check that the brochitis has come to an end, but now the asthma has flared up (more drugs), I stopped by the Customer Relations office today to speak with Marylon (correct spelling) about something that has bothered me since that lovely day I found out about the cancer.

That particular morning, I was sitting in my dermatologist's examining room, my "vitals" having been taken by a young man. He had a copy of my lab report in his hand, and leaned forward and asked "Are you going to cry when you find out your diagnosis?" A creeping flush began at the back of my neck, confirming what Dave and I had talked about this morning--that whatever the news was, it was bad--but I'd be hanged if I was going to give this young man any indication of my emotions.
"Depends on what my diagnosis is," I answered calmly.
He did not leave well enough alone, but instead went back to reading my lab report.
"I guess I'll let the doctor tell you the news," he said.
"That would probably be wise," I answered, wishing that a hole would open up in the floor and swallow him. Couple this experience with an incident later that hour when the botox-ed blonde young woman (office assistant) counseled me to "Ask more nicely," when I requested a copy of the pathology report. At that point, I was struggling to stay on top of the inner storm surge, so could not even answer. I simply stared and wished that same hole would get her too. I did get the report, got out of the office before I broke down while talking to Dave, sitting in the parking lot outside the office. That whole day was strange, but these two comments left me wondering if I should say something to someone. And who? I didn't want them fired, but I certainly didn't want to let their unprofessionalism go unchecked.

So I guess this means I'm getting better. Better, as in the surgery is now two weeks in the past. Better, as in now I don't have bronchitis and a double ear infection, but instead, asthma. Better, as I don't randomly tear up every twenty minutes, but instead every afternoon or so. Better, as in I didn't climb once on the bed today, but am on track to wait until after dinner to do that, where I will curl up with my laptop and stream Downton Abbey, Season Two, Episode One.

Better, as in now I am now technically someone who once had cancer, but now does not.

Convalescing, Part Two

2012-01-04T17:13:00.000-08:00

We parked across the street from the courthouse, and slowly Dave walked me across the street. This was the earliest I'd been out of the house in a week, and I remarked to him how interesting it was to be out this early in the downtown, watching the different people moving around in their very normal day. I felt completely unnerved and was not happy to feel tears well up--for what? For leaving the house early? I blinked them back.

We went through security; the guard had to repeat twice that I should take my cell phone OUT of my purse and put it in their basket. I must have looked strange: flat hair, sallow skin, no make-up, creeping along in my sweats and T-shirt, clutching the left side of my pants as I held the fabric away from the prong-like sutures projecting out nearly a half an inch from my leg. Upstairs in the jury reporting room, I was directed to the woman in the office who did postponements. I had brought my doctor's note, the hospital admitting records. I said quietly, "I need a postponement. I had emergency surgery for melanoma. I'm sorry." She looked at me. "No problem." We agreed on a date and she was so kind and I was so relieved that again I started to cry.

Dave walked me to the elevators, back through the guarded doorway, across the plaza and helped me into the car. "How can I teach a church lesson on Sunday?" I asked, "if I cry when I have to ask for a jury duty postponement? How can I start teaching in two weeks?" I swallowed hard. "How do I get my life back?" He was quiet for a minute. Then we talked about how the surgery had interrupted what things were planned and how getting the bronchitis on top of that was like a double whammy. As he drove he told me he'd found a bargain trip to Iceland in winter because "Haven't you always wanted to see the Northern Lights?"

Back home I filled the sink with soapy water, pulled the knobs off the stove and tossed them in with the dirty dishes to be done. Then I got out the cleaner and cleaned underneath the knobs, the front of the stove, working my way down to my knees to remove the spaghetti sauce that had splattered across the front. Don't too much, cautioned Dave, saying that he knew it was hard for someone like me to remain idle. "But maybe that's why I was crying," I said. "Because I'm not me right now."

So this is convalescing, part II: not feeling like myself, not really knowing who I am, unable to do the regular things that bring rhythm and a pacing to my life. The idea of cancer and melanoma are an abstract--unreal, not me, not my life. Given the surgeon's comments post-op, I am confident that the pathology report this Friday will give me good news: no cancer, clear margins around the original site. So where does that leave me now? Knowing more than I want to know about carcinomas and melanoma, yet less about how to absorb and apply this information. The sutures and the lymph node wound sites are reminders of what has happened on a physical level. Perhaps the tears, the wobbly gait are reminders for the rest of me?

A late lunch date that allowed me to change out of the clothes I'd worn all week, curl my hair, and stroke on eyeliner and mascara. We ordered our food, talking about blessedly mundane things, the wait staff, the too-warm January day, details from his morning's work. How the lady at the table who waved to us is from a neighboring church congregation. How Romney won the caucuses by eight votes. How a small trip like this to a local restaurant can act as a beacon to my new normal, the light shimmering as it casts its beam across that revenant life.

Random Whatevers

2012-01-01T21:06:00.000-08:00

from the balloon kiosk, South Coast Plaza Mall
Orange County

Playing Chinese Checkers with my grandchildren
Christmastime 2011

Bumper Sticker Reads

"We Speak English"

Rotunda with Christmas Tree

South Coast Plaza Mall

Lights at Mission Inn

Riverside, California

Horse-drawn Cinderella Carriage

Mission Inn, Riverside

Happy 2012

Sparklers in Time Lapse Photography
St. Stephen's Cathedral, Vienna

Quadriga, Brandenberg Gate

New Year Fireworks

Lights for the New Year

Temple of Heaven Park

Bejing, China

Things to Do While Convalescing

2011-12-29T21:28:00.000-08:00

Read an essay by Susan Straight on California Patios, titled Sun Boss--Inventing the Patio. This is from her series for KCET, found *here*
Read the series of papers given to me by the hospital, a collection of helpful and inane pages (including one on how to prevent the spread of disease, which includes the timely tip to "wash hands for at least 20 seconds")
Talk on the phone to friends, my parents and my brothers and sisters.
Sleep.
Write back answers to sweet, touching, kind and caring emails.
Moan.
Read poems from the website Poetry Daily (a sample)
Grimace when I forget and roll onto my left side, where they performed a "wide excision" and took out a hunk of my leg (or at least it feels like they did).
Be grateful that I didn't have cancer in my lymph node.
Sleep.
Talk to the nurse on the phone as she calls to check up on her surgery outpatient.
Finally enjoy my first real meal: a pot of homemade chicken soup, cooked up by my husband.
Lay in bed.
Realize that I can't think clearly, and that my mouth feels like cotton.
Read the news online, as I can't concentrate on anything other than short blurbs.
Stare at the bumps in the ceiling.
Look outside at the beautiful day and wished I felt well enough to sit outside.
Try not to sit (it hurts).
Admire the way the clutter on the nightstand can be stacked to include glasses of ginger ale & water, pretzel bread brought back from Ohio, cell phone, regular phone, books, clock and eyeglasses.
Count my many, many blessings.
Sleep.
And remember that--

"The mind wants this: a door in the wall,
an open field, a narrow path
through the woods, an open field"

Helen Wickes

Palm Reading

2011-12-26T07:12:00.000-08:00

When I was a girl I was fascinated by the idea that a person could tell their future by looking at the lines in their hands. The theory goes that these lines will show your future. I spent a long time pouring over the tiny palm-reading book from the grocery store, trying to figure out if I would marry, and how many children I would have. I was always a bit concerned, though, because on my left hand (the non-dominant hand) the life line, which wrapped around the base of my thumb, showed a distinct interruption, even a cessation. Whatever was promised on the left hand, was ameliorated by the smallest of lines connecting this supposed break on the right hand--which indicated that I would make it through. At the ripe old age of eleven, the fact that something may happen to me mid-life seemed to be a thrilling horror and I wondered what it was.

When the dermatologist's office called me after I returned home from a two-day jaunt to my daughter's and said I had to come in today (there were three messages on my answering machine), and I subsequently was told that the small biopsy from my revealed malignant melanoma, my world began to reel and rock. I barely made it out of their office, with its chaos, strange office helpers, and a myriad of instructions before the deluge of tears came. I sat in the car talking to Dave, the tears flowing as we discussed what had now interrupted the forward flow of my life: Cancer. The big C.

An appointment had been made for me with surgeon the next day, so I dutifully went to do my lab work in preparation for the surgery that would surely follow this diagnosis. I felt like I was in some sort of a bubble as I had my chest X-ray, my blood drawn. Instead of going home, I went to the grocery store to buy the food for our own Christmas Eve meal, which we had decided to hold that evening (we had plans to spend Christmas Day with our children in a faraway state). I zombied around the store, trying to keep my wobbly self intact, trying to answer this pressing, inane question: what kind of food do you prepare when you've just been diagnosed with cancer?

Answer: sauteed mushrooms, London broil steak, potatoes. Apple cake with a rich lemony butter sauce. Food that grounds you. Food that makes you shop because you have none of this in your house so it forces you to do regular little things like interact with the meat guy, smile at the checker, to stuff an extra dollar or two in the Salvation Army's red kettle on the way out of the store. To drive home. To not talk to anyone while you put away the groceries, to start the laundry for the trip you hope you'll take. To try not think. To try not to cry.

At dinner, I tell Dave about my two hands, one with a complete break of the life line, the other with a tenuous connection between the two halves of my life. I realize it's a silly thing (bunk science, he agrees) but when all the things that make your world itself, those the multiple layers of normalcy that keep you upright and sane and going forward suddenly crumble, you are left pondering the truths that an eleven-year old once believed in, yet find them wanting.

In one of the multiple phone calls and emails that followed in the next few hours, I was reminded of other dark days when the layers of normalcy were suddenly seared away. I got through them with a more mature faith, through the knowledge that there was a power much greater than an illustrated booklet. I got through them one prayer at a time, both by me and by others in my behalf. For after all is said and done, none of us control much of our mortality.

In the end, all we can do is place our trust in hands not our own, but in those of our Heavenly Father.

Merry Christmas 2011

2011-12-25T05:43:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas to All!

Merry Christmas

2011-12-24T07:03:00.000-08:00

United's Tunnel

2011-12-22T07:17:00.000-08:00

The first time I came to O'Hare Airport was when my 32-year-old year old daughter was an infant with a very high fever. We were between flights and I was trying to find some way to take her temperature and get some aspirin. I think she and I just suffered through, made the connection and from then on I carried a thermometer in my make-up bag.

The United Tunnel, also known as the Gershwin Tunnel, is part of my memories of O'Hare, with all its lights. I don't know how many times I'll come here again, so I took a short movie to remember it by.

Snowman Cartoon Fun

2011-12-20T13:19:00.000-08:00

We don't have snow in California, so we have to get our snowmen fixes this way.

The Divided Brain

2011-12-10T09:43:00.000-08:00

A little animated video, courtesey of RSA and my having graded research papers all week.

"The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift." - Einstein

Merry Christmas Season Begins!

2011-12-04T06:03:00.000-08:00

My friend and her family do a Christmas video every year. We know we can start celebrating and decorating when we see it arrive.

Cult of the Done

2011-12-03T11:07:00.000-08:00

Two brilliant guys, Bre Pettis and collaborator Kio Stark wrote down everything they knew about bringing "a creative vision to life. They called it The Done Manifesto. Illustrator James Provost then took the extra step of turning their 13 maxims into a poster":

There are three states of being. Not knowing, action and completion.
Accept that everything is a draft. It helps to get it done.
There is no editing stage.
Pretending you know what you're doing is almost the same as knowing what you are doing, so just accept that you know what you're doing even if you don't and do it.
Banish procrastination. If you wait more than a week to get an idea done, abandon it.
The point of being done is not to finish but to get other things done.
Once you're done you can throw it away.
Laugh at perfection. It's boring and keeps you from being done.
People without dirty hands are wrong. Doing something makes you right.
Failure counts as done. So do mistakes.
Destruction is a variant of done.
If you have an idea and publish it on the internet, that counts as a ghost of done.
Done is the engine of more.

from Infographic of the Day

My favorite is #13: Done is the engine of more. I find I get stuck in "not knowing" a lot, and my other swamp is denying the principle of #2, that everything is a draft. Perhaps if I memorized these, or posted them somewhere prominent--like my bathroom mirror--I might eventually conquer #5: procrastination.

In Honor of my Mother, my Daughter(s)

2011-12-01T10:49:00.000-08:00

A Little Treasure of Hope to start off your Christmas season.

Last Day in New York

2011-11-29T16:30:00.000-08:00

First off, the Christmas tree lights atop Radio City Music Hall Marquee:

We're having fun now! I know you saw the still shot on an earlier post, but this is the moving action piece.

Today is our last day in New York and there's this sense of relief of heading home tomorrow and wistfulness at leaving this place. So we get up and head south again--Barbara to Herald Square and Macy's, and me to mid-town Manhattan. This was a spur of the moment decision to split up, but we agree to meet up again for lunch.

Barbara went over to H & M to check out the Versace line being revealed today; she said it was a madhouse. Then to Macy's, where I met up with her in the furniture department on the top floor; they had chairs.

But before all that, I headed downtown and got off on the 23rd Street Stop. I assume this hat in the mosaic (there were many others on this wall) is because I'm near the Garment District, which I never got to head into. Next trip.

I've landed about the Madison Square area of town, near one of my favorite buildings.
Yep, it's the Flatiron Building again.

Detail of the top of the "prow" of the building. It has an interesting history, and apparently is destined to be a luxury hotel, when all the buildings leases run out, in about ten years.

Detail of top of the back.

It's quite ornate, showing that it was constructed in a time when these things mattered.
Pressing on, I run into the underground garage flea market (just like any other, if you ask me).

Shop windows along the street show all kinds of fabulous jewelry, but this shop wasn't open when I passed by.

This was my destination, with ArtQuilt Gallery beside it. Check out my quilt blog for more info on this and other NYC fabric sights.

A tiny quilt: New York Subway fabric with appliqued subway routes on top.

Back out on the street, this sounds like a good idea: a foot massage.

A Saturday morning ritual of feeding the birds?

I stop at this flea market, and buy a calligraphy brush from the fellow on the right.

His table of wares.

So many little scenes along the streets.

I stop in at this paper store looking for "washi," or paper tape. Not much success although they did have just about everything else paper. I saw two other shops that had paper as their theme--do all stores congregate in districts in New York?

I walk over to the one-train, as I hear someone call it.

And take it up to 34th street to meet Barbara.

We find each other, show off our treasures, then start to walk up to Fifth Avenue to see the windows, before we depart this city.

Macy's--one side is "Miracle on 34th Street" and the other side is a fantasy of moving puppets and wishes and music.

We walk uptown.

Past the tree in Rockefeller Center and down into the basement to grab a quick snack, as we decide to postpone a meal until an early dinner that night.

All cables for the lights for the tree. Check your favorite TV station on Wednesday, November 30th, for the lighting of the tree.

We watch the ice skaters from below.

And from above, outside in the plaza.

These two little girls look like they are wearing old-fashioned ice-skating outfits, with those ruffles on their coats.

More art deco on the buildings in this area, then we start our way up Fifth Avenue, Barbara determined to get to the Apple Store and charge her phone, and me determined to photograph the Christmas windows. We eventually split up and meet later.

Cartier's store.

Fendi.

This store (Henri Bendel?) had a dollhouse scene with wild and crazy party scene.

Trump Tower. The guy's a dweeb, but his tower is nice looking.

These windows are loaded with antique clothing. Sorry about the glare--that's how it is in the day.

More Bergdorf Goodman windows on the theme of Carnival of the Animals.

This picture is from their website, as I couldn't ever get a good photo.
This one is called Breaking the Ice.

These are my snapshot details.

Testing the Waters

Obviously, my shot.

Teacher's Pets.
These are all made of paper.

The zebra's stripes.

And their last one is Artists and Models (below).

I've arrived at the corner and it's time to find Barbara.

The street scene is in full swing, and if it weren't for the fact that we're both really tired, we'd love to stay and play.

We hire a bicycle cab to take us on a ride through Central Park to our hotel.

He owns his own contraption. He told me the name, but I forgot.

A final meal in New York City: dinner at the Shake Shack. We go back to our hotel, grab our luggage, find some ~~money~~ a bank, take a taxi to Penn Station. A train on the NJ Transit system is next, with a pick-up at P4 at the Newark Airport by our hotel: Fairfield Inn and Suites.

We are out the door the next morning, catching an early flight to LAX. We arrive 45 minutes late (bad weather in LA) so Barbara runs across the airport to make her connecting flight home with a whole 2 mintues to spare. When she told the guy at security she was trying to make her flight and could she please run barefoot to her gate, he told her to take the whole bin and run like crazy. So she slipped on her backpack, grabbed her wheelie suitcase with one hand, tucked the security tray with all of her things in the other and made the flight.
Thanks for the memories!

It's Sunny and We're Exploring from Top to the Bottom

2011-11-28T14:13:00.000-08:00

First stop on this beautiful sunny day: Top of the Rock, their euphemism for going to the top of the Rockefeller Center Building and paying sacks of money for the privilege of looking down onto New York. Since we're tourists, and the ticket was bundled with the entrance for the MOMA, we're in.

Getting off the subway at Times Square, we see that Good Morning America is doing a bit out on the street. We stop to ~~watch~~ gawk.

Yep, George in the flesh doing a bit with a famous chef and the good-looking co-host--I haven't the foggiest idea what her name is. Barbara does.

But here she is.

We trek on to the Rockefeller Building, find our way to the place where we redeem our ticket vouchers and they turn us upside down to shake us down for more money. Kidding.

And we're at the top!

Nifty view of Central Park.

That's St. Patrick's Cathedral down in the corner of this photo, right side. We were there yesterday.

The counterpart: Empire State Building. Next trip.

Hi Barbara! There were three viewing levels, and I was still on the top. After the sprint through the streets yesterday with Chad and Barbara, I was hungry for some photography time.

A close-up of where our hotel is--79th street, just a block away from the Natural History Museum.

Looking down.

Looking back up. I had no idea the ceiling lights in that room I'd been in lit up when a person walked by. But they do--in different patterns. The schoolchildren are arriving. Teens--and lots of them.

A reflective moment. Time to go.
And we did--DOWN the island of Manhattan to Chinatown, where Barbara wanted to do some shopping.

She and Chad had been making jokes about how often I took photographs. I remember my photography teacher saying she had to shoot a whole roll (36) to get three she liked, so I've always figured my ratio was a lot worse. Just before I stopped to photograph this wall of tiles in the subway station, I kissed her good-bye as we'd agreed to meet up later.

Five minutes later my phone rings and it's Barbara wanting to know if I was okay. She makes me smile--what a good daughter!

I was interested in the fact that she was using cooking tongs to place all the diamond rings out for display. Click to enlarge.

A for-sure sign you are in Chinatown: Peking Duck in the window.

Snacks in a grocery store. I didn't buy any because, golly gee, if I get a craving for octopus crunchies, I know Bob and Judy Cannon can get me to the exact place in LA's Chinatown to satisfy my craving. That is, if I should ever have that kind of craving.

Love the two flags.

If you have to chose your restaurant item solely by price, you probably won't be dining here.

It's the verbiage that I love on these signs, as well as the layout. Golden Smell Salt or Garden Wafers, anyone?

Right above Chinatown is Little Italy, and I thought of my children's Italian great-grandmother, who used to work in a hat factory somewhere down here. That side of the family didn't like to write their stories down, so they are lost. I would have loved to know if she'd arrived before or after the Triangle Shirtwaist fire.

Not one to be left out, I head to Kate's Paperie, a shop I'd read about. These fabulous little coin purses with big fat black leather buttons were only 90 dollars. Um, right. So I browse, buying a wooden acorn for my kitchen window sill and a pink and purple briefcase. You heard me. Pink and purple.

Firmly in the SoHo area (SOuth of HOuston Street--that's Houston pronounced as HOW-stun), I find Purl Soho, a yarn and fabric shop. If I could have figured out how to get the fabric home in my carry-on suitcase, I would have bought more. Luckily they have a warehouse near me.

Barbara's flagging from her morning of shopping, so we duck into Le Pain Quotidien for lunch: she had a Belgian waffle and I had a Cobb-type salad. An amazing salad.

We head back uptown on the subway to our hotel to take a break for a few hours.

We have dinner at a local chain restaurant, just wanting something easy and familiar, where we meet up with an actor who had been working all day on the movie for which we'd seen trailers in front of our hotel. While the movie had one code name, it was really the next Spiderman movie (got that info confirmed by the NYC tourist website before I felt I could tell you all). He gave Barbara his card. We walk down Amsterdam, then cross over to Broadway, and find another Apple store.

Then the Lincoln Center, my sister Christine's old stomping grounds.

Then the temple.

Right there is the Folk Art Museum. This used to be their satellite location, but then they lost their ~~shirt~~ lease and now this is the primary museum, rented to them by the church for a nominal sum per year. Apparently (according to Christine) it used to be an alley with vagrants. Much better to be a place where quilts can be displayed.

This is unique because the stars (theme of this show) are done in knots on a plain red background. If I could have used a flash, or a tripod it would have been better, but you can see a little bit of this in the lower left corner.

And the 9/11 Tribute Quilt.

We walk over to Columbus Circle and see all these dazzling blue lights in the trees. I agreed with Barbara when she said that it was okay to have all the Christmas lights up and the music going because it was cold and felt like Christmas, and besides it was New York. But don't do this stuff at home for at least until we get through Thanksgiving.

They were playing a delicious jazzy rendition of Christmas carols while the lights kept changing colors. Downstairs in Whole Foods, we got a little treat to cap off our night on the town, then walked back up Amsterdam, then along the park to our hotel.

Night!

9/11 Memorial Site

2011-11-27T17:38:00.000-08:00

Getting to the Ground Zero or 9/11 Memorial Site takes some walking. The entrance is some blocks away from the current Visitor's Center, filled with its throat-catching display of memoriabilia. I have had some experience with memorials of this type, having visited the Oklahoma City memorial, where so many little children lost their lives when a crazy person bombed the side of a building into eternity.

I also lived in Washington, DC for a year, and visited the Vietnam Wall multiple times, each visit accompanied by unbidden weeping, especially on days when there were a lot of tributes left at the base of the wall. There is a reverence at these memorials, and everyone feels it, I think. I was at the Vietnam Memorial when three busloads of young teenage girls touring the capital, started their walk down into the V-shaped depression. Laughing, joking at the beginning, the young women soon fell to silence, and by their exit at the other end, tears. So I knew what I was in for, when Chad, Barbara and I got tickets to this memorial. They were timed tickets, and ours was at 4:45 p.m., but we were able to get in about 30 minutes earlier--just at sunset.

There is another entry place, and we unload our coats, backpacks, belts to walk through their scanners, just as if we were taking an airplane ride somewhere. Solemnity. In boatloads. Dressing back up for the cold, we walk down a path, then a turn, then another path, then around the Ground Zero site, zig-zagging our way to the entrance, where our tickets were scanned for the third time. And then you're there. You see the tall "Freedom Tower" rising first above the site (above), then the south pool and then as you scan, the north pool.

As I talked to Chad, a man volunteered to take our photo, his wife at his side. We thanked him, and Chad moved on more quickly than I, as I wanted to linger. Barbara was already at the far side of the first pool. This man also took the photo at the end of this post, as we met up with him again. That time he told us it was his first visit to the Memorial; he had worked in the PATH station, deep below the twin towers that day. He was in the epicenter of the trauma, as was my brother David, walking between the towers when the second plane hit. We are all connected to this horror, by our connections to each other.

The visitors generally start with the south pool, where the New York City Policemen begin the array of engraved names. There is an order to the listing, but I didn't consult my carefully downloaded phone app. There's really no need for it, unless you are trying to find someone specific. I wasn't. I was there to pay homage to them all.

The engraved names hover at the perimeter of the waterfalls, which cascade into a flat black pool. And at the center of this, another square--an infinity pool where the water falls, of which you can't see the bottom.

The names are engraved, then this slab is lighted from below, so the glow filters up through the etched-out words. Everyone once in a while, I spotted a rosebud, or a flag. They are building a museum onsite which will hold the momentos that will surely be left by visitors.

A shaky video clip of the falls.

As I studied this site, trying to notice the architectural details, the reflection of the lights rimming the bottom of the falls look as if they veer off into another dimension.

I am fascinated by this idea--of seeing an overlay of design--the lights reflected against the black granite. I find myself focusing on these details as the feelings seem to have risen in my throat--not tears, really, but this kind of thick feeling, familiar to me from my time at the Vietnam Memorial. What else can I feel but horror, sadness, grief? I remember that day, as do many, of being glued to the television, switching channels, trying to comprehend what was really going on. What was going on? Who knew that it would change so much of our lives?

When I was a younger woman, deep in writing classes, I often bemoaned to my husband that I seemed to only be able to see a small slice of life, a bubble. I longed to have the bigger picture that my father, my mother seemed to have. I now realize, as I have aged, that this "big picture" seeing comes with living, comes with just being on the planet and going through experiences and interacting with humanity, both on the personal and on the public level. Education helps, of course, but it's mostly growing older. This has allowed me to see so much more of other people's lives, and I can envision and even imagine their pain, their suffering, their joys and triumphs. But there is an unforeseen drawback to this acquired vision: that because I can now see the bigger vision, places like this Memorial are part sorrow, part anguish.

I long for a wee bit of humanity within this majestic homage to suffering.

I go to find my children.

A Few Odds 'N' Ends Thus Far

2011-11-27T09:25:00.000-08:00

Since arriving home, I've been able to upload a few pictures from my phone, so here's a few details not shown before. I appreciated my lovely niece's letter saying how she enjoyed seeing photos of her favorite city--thanks, Suzanne. There are more regular posts coming!!

The way this guy (that's what you call them in Brooklyn--you call them "guys") popped his ingredients on the pizza merited a quick video clip I thought. Love that beefy upper arm going like clockwork.

We were always on the hunt for an outlet where Barbara could charge her phone. I couldn't figure out why until I arrived home and checked her Facebook page. The whole trip was up there, complete with a photo album, comments and little entries the entire weekend. Add to that our Four-Square competition on the day we were with Chad, and yep, that would suck the juice right out of a phone.

Here she is at the Apple Store, phone plugged in, waiting for a charge.

Barbara chatting with a friend.

Central Park fall colors. Even on a gloomy day, they are beautiful.

Times Square billboards from Chad's window, including an ad for the Book of Mormon musical (below).

That's all for now. I'm blending the others into the regular posts, but I had missed these.

New York City, in Contrasts

2011-11-19T19:33:00.000-08:00

While it is still raining today, it comes (as Harriet Doer used to say) in sleeves. Barbara and I arrive at Chad's hotel for breakfast--a buffet--which fortifies us for the long day ahead. Here, as my friend Judy would say, is the way we sprinted through the day. . .with TONS of pictures.

Tree grate on Fifth Avenue. Everything's a little upscale here, I must say. On the way in, the newsletter they passed out at the subway stairs noted the series of events planned today for the giant Occupy Wall Street protests. Hmm, but we carry on.

A lot of the shop windows reflect the upcoming Christmas season, with all their decorations. After leaving Chad's hotel, we walk up Fifth Avenue to St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Then to St. Bart's, a Benedictine-looking church, that reminds me of some Carolingian churches in Lyon, France.

And on down the street to Grand Central Station, for the three-minute tour, which included this photo.

New York Public Library, with the stone lions.

And the exquisite reading room.

Back out on the street, the Lord and Taylor windows are ready for Christmas. Now I want to see others.

Some terrific tourists, posing for their mother.

Empire State Building. We're scheduled to go up to the top of the Rockefeller building tomorrow, so we walk on by.

As I pass by this church, I see all the ribbons tied to the front railings--all in memory of servicemen.

Madison Park, famous for being the home of the Shake Shack, a burger which originated from Gramercy Tavern, apparently.

Two policemen from Queens, part of the force of an extra 10,000 men brought in for the day. They were joined a few minutes later by their sergeant.

Madison Park is across from the Flatiron Building, a lovely little oddity.

We share an order of fries and the maple sugar custard (delish) and by now it begins to rain in earnest. We head to the subway and to Brooklyn for lunch at Grimaldi's pizza.

And encouraged by Chad, we are walking back to Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge.

This stroll drops us right at City Hall, where the policemen in riot gear are spread 10 feet apart all around the perimeter. I tell them good luck, in the cheeriest voice I can. I mean it too, as New York just is so tough, so resilient and all these events seem relentless. I'm mindful of where we're headed--Ground Zero--and although I still don't know everything about how the OWS protests all turned out, I think about them.

It's a long walk from the 9/11 memorial site to the entrance. Along the way, we pass by Zuccotti Park, site of the OWS protest beginnings.

View up into the park, sans tents and most of the people. It is ringed with barricades. . .

. . . and televison uplink trucks.

The famous bull of Wall Street. I asked one of the policemen if it was ringed by barricades just for today. He paused. "Just for lately," he said.

We went to the 9/11 Memorial Site, but I want to write about that one on another post. Check back.

Gift-wrapped Century 21 building, which is not the realty company, but a Ross-type store.

We made our way back up the island of Manhattan on the QRS train, which I would have to say was populated by suits. Lots and lots of them--a contrast to the those hanging out at Zucotti Park in the same area. I couldn't help think about what we'd seen today--all the police in riot gear, many extra policemen, the general climate of anticipation of worry--and in a tiny corner of my mind I thought that although some may denigrate the ideals expressed by those of the Occupy Wall Street movement, and denigrate those who choose to express themselves this way, that even if all of that was gone and all these protesters went back to their homes (or no homes, as some are homeless), that the problem--of a huge disparity between the wealthiest and the middle class--still remains.

Since I teach critical thinking in my classes, I have identified the arguments on both sides, but I have to admit that I am reluctant to join in those criticizing the OWS participants. They alone seem willing to point out to the politicians (is that where their message is directed?) that some real work needs to be done.

I also admit that I am rather hopeless about the whole situation, especially as I talk to my students who are going deeper and deeper into debt just to get an education, or to those who work 30 hours a week just to stay afloat and I think, for what? The school I teach at is not Ivy League by any stretch, yet these student pay scads of money every year on their loans. Who is benefiting from this arrangement? Certainly not the students in the long-term, although it does give them money to attend classes. Will they be the ones to solve this problem? I hope so.

After dinner, a terrific musical Broadway show: How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. So fifties, and I loved the costumes, the lighting and the sets.

Heading home. Nope.

Yep.

Getting our Bearings around The Big Apple

2011-11-18T14:00:00.000-08:00

This is our hotel, 79 Park Hotel, on the upper West Side. The towels and room are clean and in good repair, and the bed is pretty good, as are the pillows. It's a bit far away from the Midtown action, which explains the price point. As Dad says, life is a series of trade-offs.

I like seeing all the different doorways as we walk down to breakfast, plus ART! What a wonderful thing to see all over the place. This crow sculpture is on Broadway, and according to the sign, some variants are found all the way down.

Zabar's for breakfast, where we talked to a local about pizza, bagels, the price of bagels, and the Occupy Wall Street protests planned for today.

Cream cheese with a lightly toasted bagel. The guy's toasting skills are above average--I loved it.

We walked into Central Park, seeing placards on benches (it's raining). . .

. . . a fence around the Shakespeare garden . . .

. . . and the names of the gates (entrances) into the park. Here are only three: Hunter's Gate, Children's Gate and Scholar's Gate.

Belvedere Castle, not yet open.

We pop through into the East side of the island, and start walking down Fifth Avenue.

Ta Da! The Apple Store. As usual, I am compelled to go in. As usual, I have no idea what to do there once I am inside. Back home I say hi to one of Peter's friends, but this time all we did was give an extra charge to our phones, then went next door to FAO Schwartz, then continued down the avenue.

It's lunchtime for Chad and we meet him down by the Rockefeller Center, and head up to his lair in the clouds (33rd floor), where these billboards flash day and night and day and night.

We walk by the Christmas Tree, still in scaffolding, being trimmed and clipped, in preparation for the holiday season.

He heads back to work, and we walk (in the rain) to find lunch, passing by this colorfully lit tree at Radio City Music Hall. In another life, I'm going to someday see the Rockettes perform. Doesn't look like it will be this trip.

We wander into Anthropologie, where they do interesting things with basic items, like this flourescent tube sculptury thing. They were working on the holiday windows and some of the items I saw werre tin foil, clear straws, and scotch tape (being used to fog in the window, below).

Next up was the MOMA, where we did the Express version: in and out in 75 minutes. We thought it was a good place to go to get out of the rain. So did every other tourist in Manhattan. It was swamped.

I always love Dan Flavin's work (above) and the Jasper Johns piece below made me think of my daughter-in-law, Kim, who loves this painting of his.

I was intrigued by the special exhibit they had on print and the graphic arts, but it was a quick once over and we were done.

Back out in the rain, we head down to Times Square to meet Chad.

Stopped only by this temple to consumerism: the M & M store--a whole store with the narrative centered around a small circular candy-coated piece of chocolate. I succumbed when I saw that you could make a mix of your own colors. Always tempted by color (certainly not by the flavor--funny how I used to love them so), I made a couple of small mixes to take home.

We picked up Chad, then headed back out into the rain to eat at a shop in the base of 30 Rock: Rockefeller Center. These paintings are in the lobby.

Then across the street to the Lego store. The logo over the doorway is an imitation of the one over the doorways of the Rockefeller Center. Clever.

Daylight shot taken a couple of days later for clarity.

Artsy night shot.

I know all these shots are mostly too dark, but it was night. And raining. (Did I mention that?)

One of the things that always intrigues me is when I see murals/paintings, etc. trying to represent abstract ideals, such as "Thought" like this one is.

And a butterfly mosaic on the walls of the subway tunnel near the Natural History Museum, as we arrive home.

We played this electronic game all day, trying to check-in different places and we tried to be at the top of the Leaderboard. When I hit it, at the Lego store, I quickly took a photo to prove my dominance. It only lasted a brief moment, but what fun for this old lady.

New York City, First Impressions

2011-11-15T18:26:00.000-08:00

Requisite plane shot of happy daughter, as she escapes with her mother to New York City. A trip that had been in the planning for about a year has finally come to fruition. It will be a nice getaway.

What is it about clouds that are so intriguing? I feel like I could get out and walk across this cloudscape.

Windows in the New Jersey Transit Station, near the New Jersey Airport.

Requisite photo of happy tourists--happy to be off the plane and moving around on ground transportation.

After checking in to our hotel, and donating dollars to the doorman for various and sundry tasks even though we didn't intend to (and brought up our own luggage), and checking in with Chad (who is bound for a company dinner) we found a cute little Thai restaurant in the neighborhood and had dinner.

Next to this cardeology shop.

Then to Zabar's of food and culinary equipment fame. When we came out, it started to rain so I ducked back in to buy an umbrella (we'd left ours at the hotel). "Is it raining?" she asked. "Yes," I said. "Then you get a dollar off the price." A deal became a steal. (But for all I know, it may be a one-time use item.)

Their cheese wall.

Culinary equipment, of all shapes and sizes and varieties.

Another interesting shop. The plastic blow-up turkey was rotating around in the window, framed by the "microwave" out of black.

Sights and sounds in the Times Square Subway station.

Time Square. Ground Zero for Tourists. Slow-moving tourists, of which I am one.

All that remains now it to think about policemen on horses, wind down the day and head to bed.

Before/After

2011-11-09T09:02:00.000-08:00

BEFORE

AFTER

Some shots of the final day:

First coat of primer on the doors.

Second coat of finish paint on.

Final coat (#8) of finish paint, with doors ajar to let them cure. The color was Benjamin Moore's Million Dollar Red. It turned out more vermilion/Japanese red than was on the paint chip (our mild-mannered painter was very pleasant throughout all the testing and painting and samples).

Walter (l) and Mike, the painter. He started out in automotive painting, so he's really aware of not getting overspray on anything. He even re-painted my back door mat where his other painter -- Ryan, who would paint anything that wasn't moving -- had oversprayed. I hadn't even noticed, but Mike's really good with getting the details taken care of.

New FIBERGLASS back door. We'd replaced this door twice already with wood doors, and because it gets the full brunt of any storm, we went with fiberglass this time, hoping this will be the last time we have to replace it.

We do feel like it looks like a new house, certainly much better than the old paint job and doors. Our painter had planned on 10 gallons of primer and 15 gallons of paint. He used 12 gallons of primer and 25 gallons of paint, apparently due to the fact that it hadn't been painted in so very long. He did lots of caulking, repairs, double painting and we were very happy with how it all turned out. Our neighbor came out this morning and said as she drives around she sees brown houses and tan houses and gray houses and beige houses and then there's our house, with it's happy sunny yellow. I feel the same.
Or as my Dad would say: to each his own.

Now to recover. I told Dave I'm wrapping up the garage doors for his Christmas present. He can wrap the paint job and the back door for mine. We already know our next big home improvement project: a re-do of the front yard, taking it from bushes and lawn to xeriscaping and native plants. Give me a couple of years to recover, and I'll get started.

Painting the House, Day Four

2011-11-05T20:45:00.000-07:00

A new-garage day is here. And like I said before, it rained that day.

The main man (green truck) and his helper (white truck) arrive.

I asked white truck to cut out my paint samples. He did so, and now they're by the front door, while we think about what color of red to paint the house. Yes, still thinking about that.

As I was in the dining room grading fiction essays and fiction exams, I heard the crack as they lowered the old garage door onto white truck's truck. I quickly opened the door and snapped a shot. I asked green truck what happens to these doors. "Oh, they recycle them -- in Mexico," he said. "Probably not my door, with its holes cut out," I said. "You'd be surprised," he said.

No doors anywhere.

I have to say watching them from the doorway into the house (which I did to take breaks from the grading) was like watching young boys with tinker toys or Legos, or building sets.

Big door mostly done, little door still being assembled.

Interior shot.

All done, all paid, and white truck and green truck leave.

I try the door up and down for fun. It's much quieter than our last door (ancient door and ancient opener). Every time Dave or I walk into the garage, we say something like "Wow. Windows." We're not used to having light when we open the door. Next up, next week: finish the painting (including the front door), install back door into backyard and get that painted. From here on out, no major changes, just the little stuff. I'll post up a photo of the house once everything's done.

Painting the House, Day Three

2011-11-04T07:20:00.000-07:00

The rotted front "flower box" is gone, and it suprised me how little separated the inside from the outside. I mean, I have this illusion that when I'm in my house, I'm protected from the elements, the world, the bugs, but really, it was just a thin piece of sheetrock. Which now has a couple of holes in it.

I removed the number plate that had been there since our first year, a bittersweet moment as it had to be destroyed to be removed. Nothing is permanent. This also shows our array of paint samples (the dark gray patch in the center is our current house color), as we finally nailed it Wednesday night: Behr's Cream Yellow, lightened by 25%.

Which necessitated a visit to Home Depot with the painter on Thursday morning, as our closest store had not yet switched over to the low VOC compounds and we could still get the color we wanted. Or, at least that was the story.

So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow?

On to the next sampling: the front door.
On the left: Heritage Red Ext. RM by Benjamin Moore.
On the right: Million Dollar Red 2003-10, also by Benjamin Moore.

I'm in the Million Dollar Red category of fan, if only to pay homage for the depletion of the savings that all the extra add-ons have incurred. But that's cynical, I suppose, and how it always goes when you start a Home Improvement project. There's a reason our Lowe's and our Home Depot are only a mile from each other.

So, no Micky's Pants. Instead, a house with a Million Dollar Red front door. I do like the orangey-red on the left, a sort of Chinese/Japanese vermillion, but given the reflective qualities of our little front door alcove (above) and the fact that it will all surfaces around it will be painted in cream yellow, tells me the red on the right is probably more like it.

Did I tell you it's raining? So no painters today. Instead we have the garage door people. We cleared most of the storage side of the garage into a neat dispersion of goods (junk?) across the back of the garage in order to clear space. I came in first in the number of storage containers, followed only by our last son, Peter, who still has not cleared out his childhood treasures, even though he's married and lives in one house and owns another. I may help that along. As far as my collection, which can also be considered the house/quilt/books collection? Looks like a trip to the thrift store drop-off is in our future. Soon enough, for besides the garage door replacement today, I also need to finish grading the essays from this week, as well as the stack of Fiction Exams.

Who thought the three words "painting the house" would involve so many choices, expend so much energy? Stop that laughing out there.

Painting the House, Day Two

2011-11-02T09:31:00.000-07:00

This is a shot of my painters ripping the trim off. Why? Like so much else, we're discovering more ick behind a lovely facade. Painting a house could be a moral lesson about human frailties, I think.

All sorts of fun lurks behind a pretty face.

Two bids on garage doors for a total of four. Went with this company, these doors, with windows.

Action shot of house being primed.

We didn't like any of the first round of colors proposed, so last night after dinner I ran to Lowe's (crabby paint person) and Home Depot (nice paint person). We rounded up three more and this morning I got up early and added those samples to the wall. Top right: Cream Yellow. Middle Left: Antigua Sunrise. Bottom Left: Magnolia Spray. I asked the guy if he'd ever been to Antigua.
No.

By the front door.

On the front of the garage.

Then Dave and I drove around for a few minutes this morning looking at different houses and paint colors and garage doors and windows in garage doors and why did they paint their chimney and how come they didn't paint their trim and do you like that one not as much as this one kind of driving around.

For Dad: the reds we like for the front door are Grenadine. Or Mickey's Pants. I think I just like saying that--"And yes, our front door color is Mickey's Pants." By the way, these colors are not true--I have flash on them so they present differently than what they really are.

No wonder I don't get the grading done. They are still ripping apart the front of my house and the one guy is priming up above and I'm going to try and get the last six essays graded before the Fiction Exam comes in later today. And the garage doors on Friday. And the back garage door on Tuesday.

And Micky's Pants up on the front door next week.

Painting the House

2011-11-01T09:40:00.000-07:00

Before.

Fantasy.

Discovering dry rot in the (ancient) garage door.

House, with front ficus tree butchered (I got carried away).

Up on the arbor in the back to cut back the wysteria. Sounds a bit scary out there. Don't ask questions.

Upshot: getting bids on new garage door. Getting a bid on new back garage door to backyard. Hoping that my handyman's philosophical words won't prove any more true than they are: "Well, that's what painters do. They find damage."

Upside: guests for dinner and I served stuffed pumpkin. Recipe coming soon the recipe blog (check tab above).

Happy Halloween!

Field Trip

2011-10-30T09:44:00.000-07:00

Aside from the two hours in to LA to see this exhibit of costumes of Italian opera (due to an accident that closed two lanes of traffic on a major freeway), and the two hours home (typical afternoon traffic), my hour in this exhibit was full of color, style, swirls and flourishes. See the full gallery on my quilty blog.

Colors

2011-10-26T07:02:00.000-07:00

(Click to enlarge.)

from a new book: Listomania: A World of Fascinating Facts in Graphic Detail

Saturday-the-2nd's Photos

2011-10-23T04:49:00.000-07:00

Homeward Bound

Friday's Photos

2011-10-22T04:51:00.000-07:00

This is poutine.

We went for the deluxe: french fries, cheese curds, gravy with meat in it, and "sausages" on top, which frankly, tasted like hot dogs.

Thursday's Photos

2011-10-21T06:03:00.000-07:00

(In Montreal, they have decorated "parking meters" around the city, into which people can put their change, instead of giving it to panhandlers. Clever idea, as the money is distributed to shelters and those organizations that help the poor.)

Bed

Hotel Frontenac

Quebec City

Wednesday's Photos

2011-10-20T06:45:00.000-07:00

Tuesday's Photos

2011-10-19T06:10:00.000-07:00

Proust's Armchair, by Alessandro Mendini

Museum of Fine Arts, Montreal

Decorative Arts Exhibit

Monday's Photos

2011-10-18T06:55:00.000-07:00

Presidents, all.

Sunday's Photos

2011-10-17T06:50:00.000-07:00

Saturday's Photos

2011-10-16T14:30:00.000-07:00

In the way we saw it.

Forgot

2011-10-04T20:41:00.000-07:00

I forgot I'd redesigned my blog.
Those of you who only get me through your Google Readers have no idea what I'm talking about.

But when I clicked over here tonight to do some prep work on a post, I was startled initially by the different look. Is this my blog, I thought? The patio of LACMA is peeking out from around the texty white screen in the middle, there's a new header with a different logo, tabs up above for my other blogs and Things I Read/Watch/Listen To (titled InPut) and clutter cleared out along the side.

I keep streamlining the blog, hoping it will also spill over into my regular life. It hasn't yet.

Talker's Block

2011-09-30T09:06:00.000-07:00

Seth Grodin's column on "Talker's Block" hit home for me today.

He writes:
"No one ever gets talker's block. No one wakes up in the morning, discovers he has nothing to say and sits quietly, for days or weeks, until the muse hits, until the moment is right, until all the craziness in his life has died down.
"Why then, is writer's block endemic?"

Writing is a part of my life: I work with a community of writers in my English class. I belong to a Writers Group. I have a few friends who have blogs, and lots of people chatter away on Facebook. This latter category, I believe, plays into this admonition:

"Writer's block isn't hard to cure.
Just write poorly. Continue to write poorly, in public, until you can write better."

He advises that everyone should have a blog or use Tumblr or something on that order and he suggests that the comments should be turned off, because "you don't need more criticism, you need more writing."

I like this column of his. Every time Writers Group rolls around, I've about convinced myself that it's an idea that has played itself out, that we are a bunch of post-grads trying to act as if we are still in grad school with its combined burst of energy and exhaustion. Then I go to group, and find out how exhilarating it is to be around those who write and even though none of us seems to be writing every day, we are writing.

Which is exactly Grodin's point.

Google Docs Enthusiasm

2011-09-22T09:44:00.000-07:00

I introduced Google Docs to my class today as a way for them to collaborate on a group document that won't get lost. Or forgotten. Or when Student X drops the class, and they lose the work (common in group projects). I know Google Docs been pretty big everywhere else, but it seems to have slipped by our student body.

I reserved the computer area for the class, and set them all on machines in groups. Previously I had gone in and set up a Google Doc for each group, so that I would own the document and could have a little control over it. I sent an invite to their emails and told them to save the link. We noticed that those who used the student email, or AOL, couldn't access them. One young man went around helping people sign up for Gmail--he should get a commission from them as I think about 8 or 9 students signed up.

At first, the students were tentative. I had my list of Google Docs up on the display screen, and selected a strong group to show their document. At first there were a lot of giggles as they watched a little colorful flag, attached to the writing, work its way across the screen as they typed. I had them change their notifications. I showed them how I knew they were there, working. I then placed a comment on each document and showed them how to respond. The volume in the classroom zoomed, as they started typing, watching the changes appear on their own computers, and figured out that this was truly a collaborative effort. Some were stalled (the groups without a strong personality) and I went around and tried to help them find their way.

After class ended, one student came up to me and said he was in three other groups for his classes, and he was going to show them this technology. He had me show him how to set it up, and how to invite others. He was totally jazzed. So was I.

I showed my friend my group plan and the Google Docs idea; she called me Meriwether. But since it's all still new and I don't know if it will work, I may have just jumped off of a cliff.

Here's Google's video of what happens on a Google Doc:

Character

2011-09-20T20:38:00.000-07:00

In an article in the New York Times, the authors note that a couple of educators are trying to get a handle on what makes students succeed--in the long run. They compiled a list of 24 character traits and set out to see how they could incorporate these ideas into their schools. Some of the ideals are "zest" and "grit."

As I read a tiny thought kept echoing in the back of my mind: this is what I learned at home. And now it must be taught in the schools of some at-risk neighborhoods in order to propel these students through to a better place. I was encouraged by the educators' willingness to tackle these ideas and communicate them to their students, but saddened that home was failing these youngsters. All in all, a provocative article about the topic of teaching character, and to translate it to the school setting.

The blue letters in those pictures are not digitally added. It is blue tape. Want to a video of how they created the word "Grit" in the gymnasium? Click *here.*

A Few Odd Things

2011-09-16T03:36:00.000-07:00

Odd, as in odds and ends. I need to get on Pinterest, especially after Barbara's post. But here's a few interesting things I've found while trolling the web. I think my favorite is below: Carpe Futurum.

And the first tomato from my garden. Actually it's the first tomato from my garden that the varmints didn't chew into. I harvested it today, cut it up and had it for lunch. Complete ambrosia. Yes, we're a little late, as I didn't even decide to put in any plants until we got home from May's camp out in Zion. I guess I was just tired, or something. But there are a couple little companion tomatoes on the heirloom tomato plant in the next box over, and I've enjoyed cutting basil all summer long.

A Walk Around the Morning

2011-09-13T08:41:00.000-07:00

I awoke at 5:20 a.m. and tried to pretend I could still keep sleeping. The other side of the bed was empty (gone on a business trip) and so it was just me, the lightening skies, the sound of the fans whapping around in their boxes, and my thoughts. I've been waking up early for a while now, as I contemplate the eddies and whirlpools in my life, reviewing things as they are now. A family relationship was abruptly interrupted/ended recently and this interrupts my dreams and my sleep until I busy myself with the tasks of the day. First up: a walk.

I step outside with Praan on my iTunes, and this beautiful lavender sky arches overhead. We're supposed to have storms and the morning sky is dim with clouds.

The morning moon is still there, low over the rooftops as I start down the street. My camera can't find anything to focus on, so the snapshot comes out a misty blur--perfect for how I feel this early morning. Yesterday my horoscope said to watch out for falls and accidents, but I seemed to make it through the day intact. Wonder what amusements my horoscope holds for today. Randomness, says Dave, dismissing it all with a wave as I read his to him on some mornings. We both laugh, not taking it seriously. Usually we walk together, but this morning I only have songs for companionship.

That and my Endomundo app, which calls out my mile to me over Tengo La Voz. Since I've been sick, I'm a full two minutes slower. Well, at least I'm out here. At the end of my walk, I stretch out my calves on the curb, wave to neighbor, pick up the paper and carry it inside with me. The antibiotics I'm on have an interesting side effect of making me feel like I've chewed up a skyscraper in my mouth so the morning's breakfast tastes like metallic banana bread, metallic orange juice, metallic yogurt. I think about Peter, as I pop the nut from the top of the banana bread into my mouth. I have this habit of putting slices of walnut on top of the bread, but didn't remember why I did this. It was a habit started long ago and Peter reminded me of it when we saw each other this summer; he doesn't like nuts and that's how I identified the nutty loaf from the plain. Funny how you start something and over time it becomes like a tree ring: integral to a life. Like a walk. Like a relationship. Like the sun rising each morning.

A Fine Day Out

2011-09-07T05:53:00.000-07:00

While I was at my parents in Utah, they took me to a combo Walmart/Country Western/Army-Navy store called Smith and Edwards. It's an experience.

My Dad wanted to give me the 30 second tour (he's done this a lot) but I was so amazed by the stuff--tons and tons of stuff--that he realized I wasn't going to be quick. Above, weather vanes.

Spinning whirligig things--all flavors.

Now we begin the country/western part with your gun equipment.

And clothes to wear while you're shooting your guns, er, participating in a tactical exercise.

My favorite picture: a cardboard John Wayne as a Green Beret next to the picture of Jesus and the Children.

Get your parachutes, tarps, Army shirts and security outfits here.

The rope room. I wanted a shot of the whole room, but darn it if people didn't need some rope and kept getting in the way. I like the rope that looked like snakeskin. If my Dad wasn't ready to take me to the next part of the tour, I might have bought some just to have around. That's in case I needed some camouflage snake rope to rustle up some snakes, or something.

Fishing pole aisle. I didn't post the gun aisle. You can imagine that one.

I started laughing when I saw this lamp--reminiscent of A Christmas Story lamp.

Horse-riding jewelry, belt buckles, lassos--this place has everything for the well-turned-out Country/Western ~~dude~~ person.

My Dad bought my Mom a cowboy hat last year. When I asked her if she had one when she was younger (she lived on a farm), she said "Heavens, no. I didn't want to be a cowgirl--I was a farm girl."

Horns. For what, I have no idea, but they have a wide selection. It's about here that I realize that I am completely out of my suburban element.

This is where you climb up on the wooden horses and try out your saddles. Mr. Cowboy Hat will help you, and from what I could tell, he was very knowledgeable about his products. I would definitely need his help if I ever wanted to buy a saddle.

I think these racks are just for show.

A wide mouth bass trying to catch the fake fisherman's lure. (He's up on the dressing room roof.)

I had Dad check out the Dickies attire for my photoshoot.

This boot was my favorite. If I got some of these, I could dance like these ladies:

One youngster threw a giant tantrum over the pink boots, wailing to her mother that she wanted thoooose boots. The mother, with her cow~~boy~~girl hat on her head, just turned on her heel and walked toward the jeans.

I almost bought this for Dave. Just kidding.

For the well-turned out bridal couple: a registry.
I've got to bring my son-in-law here. He'd love it. Maybe they have gift cards?

Wedding Flowers

2011-09-05T17:41:00.000-07:00

The wedding flowers at Eric and Casey's wedding were luscious, softly colored small bouquets of three at each table. More flowers were at the sign-up table and on the cake. Enjoy the photographs.

I have no idea what the name of these speckled hydrangeas is, but they were beautiful.

A Fine Day Out

2011-09-03T12:27:00.000-07:00

I came to Ogden to visit my parents and attend the wedding of Casey and Eric (a nephew). It was a lovely wedding--the snapshot above is of them leaving just after taking their vows.

Wedding over, we relaxed and on Saturday morning Mom and Dad drove me up to Pettingill's Fruit Stand. It was really busy.

They'd just brought in a load of peaches on a flat truck and the employees were busy selling them "off the back of the truck." Sort of. I've been complaining to Dave all summer that I haven't had a good stone fruit in California for at least 3 or 4 years. I plan to eat one that Dad bought this morning, so I can say I've eaten one at least once. Interesting that I live in a place (California) known for its fruits and vegetables, but the peaches & nectarines in our area? Awful.

I liked the knife spearing a taste of peach. I should have grabbed it and tasted it, but my Dad moves quickly and I only had a very limited amount of time for photos. (Like I said, I'll get a whole one later this afternoon.)

Every quirky farmstand has quirky signs and decor. Here's a couple of farmers in a fur-lined bathtub.

I wish I lived nearby. I'd love to can a bushel of these tomatoes and eat them all year round. However that would be tricky. After years of not canning, I gave all my jars away to the thrift store. It was a bit sad--like the end of an era. But the steam canner is still up in the rafters if I ever want to do that again. For now, my canning habits are putting up freezer jam (strawberry and raspberry) every spring.

A hanging whirly-gig, with a tractor in the center. I saw more of these in the next store we went to.

When I visited Christine in Delaware last year, her farmstand had lists of apples and the harvest dates. This was a list of peaches.

No, the corn silks aren't red. They were near the red plastic awning so picked up the color. But it reminded me of some of the well-known painters that switch out colors in their art.

In case you're hungry.

The sign reads: I started with nothing and I still have most of it left.

Checking out. Above the doorway are pumpkinheads with quotes from the visitors to Pettingill's.

Close-up of the pumpkinheads.

Summer Yummy Yellow Watermelon

2011-09-01T06:37:00.000-07:00

We've been enjoying a treat: yellow watermelon. It's WAAAAY better than regular watermelon, especially if you serve it icy cold on a hot, hot day.

What it Takes

2011-08-29T07:46:00.001-07:00

Ira Glass on Storytelling from David Shiyang Liu on Vimeo.
(Many thanks to Heidi Hathaway for posting this on FB.)

Hot

2011-08-24T09:14:00.000-07:00

Guess it's finally our turn to get hot, so I put up a great hot-weather fast-and-easy recipe on ElizabethCooks.com. I guess we have to be mature about this since the East Coast has had an earthquake, the rest of the country has had their heatwaves, and Texas has their drought. I feel like we've been dodging a bullet this summer. It's been the most pleasant I can ever remember: moderate in the mornings, and warm, but not scorching, in the afternoons.

I always knew the Real Summer would come to get us. Look like it's time.

Slammed by the Start of School

2011-08-19T11:38:00.000-07:00

I came home from vacation about two weeks ago Sunday. Monday I started in at the computer, cranking out documents for my class. Tuesday: Orientation. Wed, Thurs, more of the same then Friday we helped Dave's niece move to LA. Saturday I prepared a lesson for the women in my church, Sunday I gave it and Monday I started teaching. From one thing to another to another, this is the first moment I've had to breathe since we returned. And as I speak, I'm washing bedding, laundry and hope to do a bathroom or two before the weekend is over (I'm not even mentioning the vacuuming!).

Busy is as busy does.

My nephew and his wife had a new baby. My son and his wife welcomed the second of their soon-to-be-adopted children into their home (just found out yesterday), and his new job has him cooking at work about 12 hours a day on a the good days. Another son spends his days, like me, on the computer, writing in-house code for their software. My mother and father saw their granddaughter's college commencement, then a niece's baby blessed. Another sister just completed Beach Week with her children-by-marriage and their families. A friend has been setting up her classroom, moving desks, bookcases, putting stuff up on walls. Another son and his family are settling in to their new house and are exploring and playing and talking walks in the creek behind their house. (Yes. IN the creek.) And that same son is busy in his new job. My daughter's husband begins dental school next week, and their children started school the same day as I. Another friend is writing her syllabi for her classes. Another friend is mounting an exhibition of her infrared images of Japanese Internment camps.

Busy is as busy does.

An old saying goes "better to wear out, than rust out," but there are some days when I just want to go back to that evening in southern Idaho when we stopped in a tiny town called Paris and photographed the sun setting on the mountains across the valley. No one was on the streets, and the only people I saw were in cars that occasionally passed by on the road below. We'd taken a side street up into a small hillside cemetery, where surely the town's fathers and forefathers had been laid to rest. We turned and looked across the valley, the scene changing moment by moment: golds and purples and rosy hues that compelled to stay and enjoy, to rest, rather than hurrying down the 89 to our final destination.

So when the knots in your shoulders become like stone, take a moment and think about when you paused from the busy to let the day, the twilight, seep in.

And take a breath.

Interacting with LA

2011-08-13T11:51:00.000-07:00

Going to LA is always an interesting experience for us in the hinterlands--aka, the glorious suburb of Los Angeles that stretches all the way to Vegas and Phoenix. We are subsumed by this city. If someone asks us where we are from (like they did when we were in Yellowstone this month), we don't say the name of our town. We say "oh, about an hour east of LA." They nod, because everyone knows where LA is, but nobody (well, hardly anyone) knows where our city is.

Our city is no slouch of a place, population-wise. We're pushing 300,000 folks according to the official freeway signs. If we were in the middle of Wyoming, we would BE the big city. Or Utah. Or Iowa, maybe. I don't know. But we ACT like the little sister, with few restaurants of a non-chain variety, a weak cultural vein of entertainment to mine, and downtown library that is a bit of an embarrassment, when compared to Salt Lake City's glorious edifice (I'm still impressed from when I was there two years ago).

So, we don't head to LA much, other than to visit Michael Levine's fabric emporium. But now I'll have more reasons to go there: my husband's niece is going to USC grad school. She and her mother (and a new dachshund puppy) arrived in a U-Haul truck, pulling Heidi's car behind on a hitch.

They spent the night, then we ditched the hitch at our local U-Haul place and drove into LA to move her into her place in the Big City: El-Lay. We caravanned: me in our car, then Heidi in hers, then Dave and his sister Janice (Heidi's mom) in the U-Haul truck. Tricky in traffic, that's for sure.

Imprint in the side of the freeway divider. I could take this photo because it was the 101-Hollywood Freeway and at noon on a Friday, we were in stop-and-go traffic. Welcome to LA. We made our way to her apartment building, and by some miracle, both Heidi and I found parking places; Janice parked the U-Haul in front of the building.

She's here!!

Dave and I, keeping an eye on our time, started to help unload the truck. Janice and I traded turns digging out the boxes from the truck/running the stuff to her apartment (first floor, blessedly!). Within two hours, it was all unloaded, our faces were red, we were tired, but Heidi was moved in to her studio apartment. It was 2:20 and Dave and I jumped back into our car and drove home, catching some of the Friday traffic, but mostly ahead of it. I didn't get a shot of her apartment, filled with boxes, some furniture and a bicycle, but imagine something like this:

Kidding.

Our Anniversary Celebration

2011-08-11T20:50:00.000-07:00

So we decided to skip the polishing/shining thing, and instead we packed a picnic and took off to our favorite park.

Where we had pinwheel sandwiches (only took me 2 hours to find the lahvosh cracker bread), roasted beet and miniature tomatoes in lemon vinaigrette, melon wrapped with proscuitto, two kinds of exotic soda from LA and for dessert. . .

. . . Fresh Berry Tart.

And chocolates. And a romantic view of the. . .

smog.

When we came back to the car, Riverside City had honored us with a momento of our time there: a parking ticket (we thought we'd checked thoroughly). Truly memorable.

Here's to another twenty-two years!

Happy Anniversary to Us!

2011-08-11T01:06:00.000-07:00

Yes, we've been married for some time now.
Thought you'd like the flashback photo of us on our wedding day.

We plan to celebrate by doing prep work for our teaching, surviving the hot summer, and polishing our crown and medals.
We do this once a year, whether we need it or not.

Forgiveness

2011-08-07T15:00:00.000-07:00

FORGIVENESS FLOUR

by Marguerite Stewart

When I went to the door, at the whisper of knocking,
I saw Simeon Gantner's daughter, Kathleen, standing
There, in her shawl and her shame, sent to ask
"Forgiveness Flour" for her bread. "Forgiveness Flour,"
We call it in our corner. If one has erred, one
Is sent to ask for flour of his neighbors. If they loan it
To him, that means he can stay, but if they refuse, he had
Best take himself off. I looked at Kathleen . . .
What a jewel of a daughter, though not much like her
Father, more's the pity. "I'll give you flour," I
Said, and went to measure it. Measuring was the rub.
If I gave too much, neighbors would think I made sin
Easy, but if I gave too little, they would label me
"Close." While I stood measuring, Joel, my husband,
Came in from the mill, a great bag of flour on his
Shoulder, and seeing her there, shrinking in the
Doorway, he tossed the bag at her feet. "Here, take
All of it." And so she had flour for many loaves,
While I stood measuring.

And *this,* too.

The older I get the more I depend on the blessing and power of forgiveness in my life. When I went to the Springville Art Museum while in Utah this past 11 days, I saw this statue and immediately thought of the the poem Forgiveness Flour (above). In tracking down information about the poem, I came upon a speech on forgiveness given at BYU, a powerful address that I plan to print out and place in my scriptures. It's the link just below the poem.

Lilies

2011-07-26T06:52:00.000-07:00

A neighbor brought me over a bouquet, which included this beautiful lily, probably 8 inches across. Unfortunately I have a thing about lilies--some have a fragrance which reminds me of funerals, of that smell of stagnation. The day lilies that grow in our garden don't have these, but Dave knows not to bring me any lilies from the store.

This lily was so beautiful that I brought it into the house. By the end of the first full day, though, I realized that it would spending its time out on the front porch. I tried again the second day to bring it into the house, thinking it had "aired out." Nope. I did this dance for several days, finally realizing that the lily, in all its glory, had to go, as now I could smell it even though it was out on the porch.

But before it did, I took pictures of it. It was truly a glorious and lovely flower, rich and vibrant in color and texture. A stunner. I hated to see the visuals of it go, but happy to let the fragrance fade away.

Life, and blog post numbers can just slip by. Happy 600 posts to this blog (a few back).

A Love Letter to the Shuttle Program

2011-07-21T18:46:00.000-07:00

Can't believe the shuttle program has ended--it's been such a constant in my life for so many years so I took for granted the rhythm of a shuttle lifting off, a shuttle landing. And no, I never did see a lift-off or a landing which is one of those things that are a regret.

So here's a video tribute to the shuttle. It's about 8 minutes long, but an enjoyable 8 minutes (funny clip of Buzz Lightyear near the end).

P.S. Thanks to Maggie Koerth-Baker of Boing Boing for the title of this post.

All Is Safely Gathered In

2011-07-15T16:25:00.000-07:00

When I was a young mother I moaned to MY mother about how I never got anything done. The laundry always piled up; sometimes as quickly I as I could move it from the dryer, fold it and put it in the drawers, it would be used, dirtied and find its way back to the blue plastic mesh basket in front of the washer. Meals were a never-ending story and I resorted to “closing the kitchen” just so I could get the breakfast dishes washed and put away before it was time to haul out the peanut butter and jelly for lunch. The bathrooms always needed to be cleaned, the floor rarely seemed to be free of crumbs or sticky places. And those sticky places migrated from floor to doorknobs, to car handles, to walls. If I could have strapped on the 409 in a giant backpack, squirting and wiping as I went I MIGHT have conquered the dirt. Just maybe. I began quilting because I wanted a “bedspread” (what we called it then) for my bed, however I soon saw the advantage of quilting: it stayed done. I didn’t have to resew a seam as it didn’t unpick itself in the night. The patches would still be there, done, when I was ready to assemble them into a quilt. And then somewhere this stitching and patching and quilting took a turn and became my art, my way of expressing creativity.

I think I moaned to mother for years and years. Then the children grew up, the bathrooms needed cleaning only once a week, then the children left. Dishes rarely pile up and sticky places don’t spring up like mushrooms overnight. The dust and dirt of housework and I have made our peace with each other, leaving lots of room around my job as am adjunct college professor (English) to happily spend time cutting and sewing and creating quilts.

But there’s this healthy strain of ADHD in my family, and I can easily flit from pile of fabric to pile of fabric. My intention was to take stock each Friday, slow down and commend myself on whatever I had accomplished in order to notice my work, to smile and be aware that I completed that which I set out to do. To reap a little harvest from the sowing (sewing, too) that I had done earlier.

So, today, here is the quilt I just finished: All Is Safely Gathered In, a quilt about sowing and harvesting. I began this three years ago, trying to work with an original block I’d drafted–simple in design but it carried a nice big punch with those new large-scale prints that we were all investigating. How to make them work? Place them right up against each other in nice big squares and shapes–let that fabric shine. When I was casting about for a name, I talked it over with my husband. How about something about harvest? he asked, and the phrase from a favorite hymn jumped right out at me. When I was that young overwhelmed mother, I could think of nothing more satisfying than walking around the house at night, the last child in bed, the open book fallen to the floor, the night-light casting its golden glow on the cheeks and hair of these children who kept me so busy during the day. I fell in love with them all over again, storing up these feelings of satisfaction every night against the onslaught of the day. And now, many many years later those children walk their houses at night, picking up the books, bending over to plant a kiss on their children’s soft cheeks.

I sowed children and stitches and tasks uncompleted and time and more time and I am now reaping grandchildren and quilts and houses that don’t get quite as dirty. While I’m not done, I feel like I have some sense of the law of the harvest. And it is immensely satisfying, I must say.

I was drawn to not only the Kaffe Fassett fabrics (rich in coloration and detail) but also those of designer Martha Negley and Phillip Jacobs (who designed that border). I loved making this quilt, but it did take me three and a half years from inception to this stage–awaiting its label on the back.

Photo taken by Judy and stolen from her website

I’m actually doing two labels–this one and the dotty quilt label, titled Come A- Round.

This one's stolen from Judy's website, too.

Here's a picture of that other quilt, unfinished. Check the quilty blog later, for a photo of the quilt, finished. Like next week.

“But few have spoken of the actual pleasure derived from giving to someone, from creating something, from finishing a task, from offering unexpected help almost invisibly and anonymously.” –Paul Wiener

--This post, in a slightly different form, was published as well on my quilty blog: occasionalpiece.wordpress.com.--

Fonts

2011-07-10T11:50:00.000-07:00

Fonts and I go way back, back to where we only had copy machines and typewriters and I used to cut apart interesting magazine page titles in order to get at a particular font, that only they could print.

Then came computers, desktop publishing (remember that phrase?) and font bibles. And suitcases. And TrueType. And other words that mean nothing to me, but are a way for me to get fonts.

I bought my first font disk probably 15 years ago and am still using some of those fonts still. I just downloaded a few more free fonts from Font Squirrel, a website with a good amount of free fonts (the picture is a clipping from their Display Font category).

In another life I would have been a graphic artist, with about as much employability as my current degree in writing. But how incredibly cool to study fonts, maybe design a few, and play play play with fonts all day long. I even read font blogs and subscribe to a newsletter.

Blogger has a few fonts, and a few more if a person wants to go into the guts of the machine. All are dictated by how they look on the digital web, so the place where I can really go crazy is print. I add interesting fonts to my church lessons (no one sees it but me). My lesson plans for school are a riot of fonts as I use particular fonts to highlight various points in the lesson plans.

My students may love fonts as much as I, but they may not type with them, nor gussy up their titles in Comic Sans, or some Gothic number, for fonts are a private passion, best kept under wraps.

Happy 4th, 2011

2011-07-04T22:55:00.000-07:00

Something a little different this year. Inspired by A Year in Pictures, I decided to shoot my fireworks this year in black and white. It helped to concentrate to block out the (very) annoying musical soundtrack some dude was playing next to me. I'm a purist, preferring oohs and aahs of small children and even adults to the mish-mash of country music, excerpts of speeches from the former President, and a Sousa clip or two. Which runs into another preference of mine: Sousa should be played by big marching bands with swinging epaulets and shiny brasses, not crammed into a tinny radio speaker.

So we sat on the lawn, gazing up over the trees that have grown taller each year, saying things like, "Remember when we first started coming here, how there were no trees in our way?" We had positioned our lawn chairs just right, allowing the dark shadow of a palm tree to block the streetlight's glare.

A few thundering explosions of green, yellows, red, and those white lights that go all wiggly-like as the embers burn out. Then it all stopped. Dead stop. We got up and wandered to where we could see the mountain where the fireworks are launched; it was being traversed by a sinewy, fiery snake of flames. We watched for a while, told the dude with the music that the mountain was on fire, then grabbed our chairs and drove further downtown to see if we could see the fire. We were going against traffic, their shining headlights another sinewy snake made of double-eyes. We tried to photograph the fire, but no--you had to be there.

We made our way across town this time and saw people lining the streets gazing up at the mountain, neighbors gathered sprawled in lawn chairs, some men shirtless in the heat. Remnants of barbecues, the coals glimmering and the ice chests nearby. We dodged spinning firecrackers thrown into the street, laughing at the whoops and shrieks when firecrackers exploded. "These are our peeps, Dave," I said and he gave some sound like--maybe yours, but not necessarily mine--but then nodded in agreement. Our peeps. Our town. Our smoking mountain now being doused by water cannons from flashing trucks high up on the ridge.

Back home, relaxing, I heard the thudding of launchers some ninety minutes after the beginning. I holler to Dave to come and see and we stand gazing out the upstairs bedroom window, watching the second half of the interrupted show. Still some trees in our way, but the best sounds come through: thudding cannons and our oohs and aahs at the brilliant lights, high up in our hometown sky.