"The 11th Hour" - a video

Speaking as a biologist (M.A.T. Washington State University) this video is worth watching: all of it.

Forty years ago I taught about greenhouse gasses and global warming, back then it was something so far into the future, it was, at best, just something to know about, contemplate, and move on with.

There were a number of things we biologists taught back then that would “someday” have negative impacts on people – mainly the increasing genetic strength of two of our main enemies, insects and bacteria, through the destruction of the weaker strains with the utilization of insecticides and antibiotics.

The insecticide industry has grown exponentially in the last forty years in its attempts to “keep up.” And though it has been a few years ago, most of us know about the death of Jim Henson, the fabulous inventor of “The Muppets,” by way of antibiotic-resistant bacteria.

You see, the bacteria we have today are the recipients of bacterial genes that were strong enough to successfully resist the ever increasing strengths of antibiotics over the years since they were first developed in the 1940’s. This is why the doctor tells us to take all the pills s/he prescribed, even if you feel fine a week before they are all gone.

We also taught about how someday, geneticists would unravel the DNA molecule and with it the many bio-ethical problems to solve (the ability to clone mammals, including humans, is now available); and that because of our knowledge of reproduction and genes (DNA) someday we would have the ability to grow organs from our own tissues that could one day be used in case we needed new ones (that is being done today with bone marrow, and esophageal tissues). None of us knew then how soon these things would become reality.

None of us knew then, that in just a few short decades leading scientists across the world would be predicting the imminence of the end of days.

This video is long, but important. Perhaps as more and more of us begin to understand the implications of business-as-usual whether it be governmental, corporate, social, cultural, or as individuals, and the impact of that strategy on the future of our planet, we can begin to turn it toward a brighter future.

Please watch this, and pass it on.

This is really so important...please find the time to watch it.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2174195060267517042

XLIII

His daugher and son-in-law invited him and his wife (her mother) over to watch Super Bowl XLIII. The food was good: pizza, chicken wings, hors d'douerves, nachos with all the fixin's, coke, beer; and the folks there all filled with good cheer.

A bit later, he sat back in the recliner and the game began on their big 48" LCD wide-screen television. It was like being there in person, he thought. Maybe better.

Toward the end of the first quarter he looked around the room. His daughter, her friend, Erica, and his son-in-law were all busy texting EACH OTHER and their friend, Amy; his wife was asleep; and his son was busy gaming on a laptop computer. The dogs were settled down, sleeping, and he felt even though in a room fairly full of people and dogs, he was watching the game, alone.

A few minutes later he looked around again, and they were all gone.

In the fourth quarter the game evolved into one of the best Super Bowls ever and everyone got into it; but we were all rooting for the team that lost.

Next year we'll have smoked ribs too.

On the Steps of the Lincoln Memorial

Today, on the Mall in Washington DC, in preparation for the inauguration of President-elect, Barck Obama, the opening celebration is being telecast across America, and the world. We celebrate this "change" in our country with the words and music America holds dear to its heart.

In glorious high definition, HBO is broadcasting from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial the music of Bruce Springsteen, James Taylor, John Legend, Jennifer Nettles, Cheryl Crow, Herbie Hancock, Josh Groban, Heather Hedley, Garth Brooks ("American Pie" with Barach Obama singing along), Bono and U2, Pete Seeger ("This Land is Your Land"),Beyonce, and many others.

Tom Hanks, Denzel Washington, Queen Latifah, George Lopez, Tiger Woods, Jack Black, and many others spoke and shared our American ideals through quotations from Abraham Lincoln, Ronald Reagan, FDR, Theodore Roosevelt, and Martin Luther King.

An American Eagle, "Challenger," from the American Eagle Foundation spread its wings.

The President-elect, to glorious applause said, "I stand here as hopeful as ever that the dream of America will enure."

A journey through the past half-century, experiencing the hopes and dreams of the men and women of this age, causes one to 1): reflect on the immediacy of those events when the occured - "I have a dream," "ask not what your country can do for you," assassinations, burning cities, Viet Nam, hippies and yuppies, the release of the Iranian Hostages on Regan's inauguration day, 9/11; and 2) to hope those young people who are taking, and will in the future take the reigns our our great country, can move it closer to that place we and our forefathers have always envisioned.

Godspeed, Mr. Obama! Godspeed!

Four Years Yesterday

Four years ago yesterday, this blog's heart began to beat. It was not a strong, resounding, rhythmic or smooth beat: it was weak, it lacked rhythm. It was a rough start, and - interestingly enough - it was at the time of the second inauguration of GWBush, of which no mention was made.

The blog ran fairly strong for quite a while, but as you read in the previous post, it has punched up against a rather tall speed-bump lately. For six months it slept peacefully, resting and waiting for what might come next. A few people viewed it, mostly due to google searches for things mentioned in the blog - mostly Andrew Jackson; but overall, not much going on.

Yesterday, on its fourth birthday, I spent some time looking for new templates for it thinking that if I changed its look it maybe it would be more appealing to work with again. Annihilation of the blog seems rather drastic and cold-hearted, so I think now that the template has been modified, and the heart of the matter has been rejuvenated, the blog will live another day.

Blog Near Death

So here it is, 2009. The last post in this blog was last July. I think it may be near death, unless of course I work to revive the sucker. Not sure that's what I want to do though.

Lot's of things have happened since last July. Lois' health couldn't be any better. She's had a couple of three month check-ups and all is very normal and good. It has gotten a lot colder now that we are in the dead-of-winter; the water lying atop the pool cover was frozen solid a week or so ago. I hate having an ugly pool cover over the pool in the winter. I hate having a pool that is useless a good 6 or 7 months of the year. Those few that it is useful though are, I guess, worth it.

No more for now. I will continue to ponder what to do about this blog. If you have any suggestions, they are welcomed. Just leave them in the comment box below.

cya

Went to Spokane for a Week

Spent a week in Spokane, WA., recently and had the opportunity to snap some pictures of this photogenic city; so I thought I would post them here.

A number of years ago, when I lived in a small central Washington town, I always thought if I ever left there I would like to move to Spokane. Well, as luck, and Murphy, always lay things out, when we left that lovely small town, we ended up way over on the other side of the state.

Here's the link to the pictures. If you go there, click on "slideshow," and if you want some commentary so the pics make some sense, click on the bottom of any pic and the commentary will show up on all of them. ENJOY.

The Baja Marimba Band

When we were high school boys we enjoyed a variety of music in what is known today as the genres of rock n’ roll and jazz. We didn’t pay much attention to country music, opera, or the old Big Bands that had been at the top of the charts when our parents were teens. That music was obviously old and out-of-date! We listened to Elvis, Ricky Nelson, The Chiffons ("Do Lang, Do Lang, Do Lang"), Mary Wells ("My Guy"), the Supremes ("Baby Love"),and of course, the Beatles ("Yesterday").

One group a small group of us really enjoyed was The Baja Marimba Band; but alas, in the recent transition from analog to digital age, it appeared the old band was a goner-digital presentations were non-existent at Amazon and iTunes and where the hell else does one find music these days, anyway?

Then my old friend Joe (Benny) and I get to talking about how much we enjoyed The Baja Marimba Band back in the day. That’s when I told him, “it’s gone. I have looked far and wide in the Google Empire and it just ain’t there, Benny.”

Today, I got a package from him. It’s a CD filled with the Best of the Baja Marimba Band. You just gotta listen to Acapulco 1922, or Maria’s First Rose, to get the full jist of who they were.

What joy!!

The Lion Roars

The Lion Roars, originally uploaded by bmgarner.

This weekend the Alumni Association of the Kennewick High School, Lions, are holding their third All-Class Reunion at the Benton-Franklin Fairgrounds. This concrete molded sentry sits across the street from out home, guarding the neighbor from intruders and other creatures who reside lower on the food chain. It is appropriate to the weekend that this lion be posted here on the Cherokee Son's blog. Doncha think?

BNSF Through the Wallula Gap

BNSF Through the Wallula Gap
Originally uploaded by bmgarner

We took a drive yesterday along the Columbia River from the Tri-Cites in Washington state to the Oregon border, into Pendleton for dinner, and back home across the river at a little spot in the road named, Umatilla (you ma tilla). This route takes you around the big curve in the river, just before it takes a fairly straight shot all the way to Portland, Oregon, about three hours down river by car. As the river makes the turn, it passes through the Wallula Gap. While stopped and taking in some of the scenery along the gap, this beautiful BNSF engine came rolling through pulling a long train of cars behind.

Andrew Jackson, OU and My Hat

EDM #58: Draw Your Hat
Originally uploaded by bmgarner

With recent conversations with Nona regarding our interest in having Andrew Jackson removed from the twenty dollar bill, I thought I would post this watercolor painting I did of my Oklahoma University (OU) hat.

I bought this hat about four years ago in honor of my aunt Rachel who had, at that time been diagnosed with cancer; she has since passed away. Rachel lived her entire life in Oklahoma as did most of her 11 brothers and sisters.

My mother was one of the few that left the state when as a young woman of 20, or 21, she took a troop train to California where my father, also a born and bred Okie, was working in the ship yards at Oakland. They married there in 1944, and I was born a couple years later in 1946; yes, the math holds up doesn't it.

Anyway, I replied with a rather lengthy email to Nona, but I haven't heard back from her yet.

Is this the Pooch?

Maggie
Originally uploaded by ! Artist - Carolyn Hietala

This dog's name is Maggie, and her owner is Carolyn Hietala who posted this pic in Flickr.com. When I saw this photo it almost took my breath!

When I was a small boy in need of a dog, a stray suddenly appeared; I started feeding him, named him "Poochie," and he became my constant companion. Maggie is a spitting image of him.

We were best buds, ol' Pooch and I. He went with me everywhere whether it was chasing after me when I rode my little red bike about town, or chasing the little green man I tied onto the end of the tail on my kite, or just wrestling around in the yard.

When I was eleven we moved from the panhandle of Texas to Washington state and I had to leave Pooch behind. I have thought of him millions of times since; and I have agonized over what he must have thought when I disappeared from his life.

I'm sixty-two years old now and I still love that dog.

Three Pears in White Dish

This is my response the challenge at Everyday Matters to draw/paint something fresh. I painted this yesterday while watching the Daytona 500, then posted it in my "Sketches and Stuff" art blog, and on Flickr.com; then I printed it out (8x10) and hung it on the wall in the kitchen. It looks good there.

watercolor on 140# Arches sketchbook paper

Turquoise Ridge

Turquoise Ridge
Originally uploaded by copperhorse

Found this image on Flickr tonight and I think it might be another image worth messing with art-wise. I could see this in graphite, charcoal, or maybe a bit o' watercolor.

Cherry Tree in Snow

Cherry Tree in Snow
Originally uploaded by bmgarner

Five months from now the kids will be playing in the swing; and we will be picking buckets of bright red, juicy, cherries from this tree.

Picture taken at midnight using a flash.

Rowan Enjoys a Warm Fire

Rowan Enjoys a Warm Fire
Originally uploaded by bmgarner

Rowan was part of the bargaining process by the previous owners of our home. They were moving into Seattle and didn't think he would do well there. We didn't have any animals when we made the offer on the house, so when they countered with Rowan staying, we agreed. He now owns the house; it is his. You can see how unhappy he is with me taking his picture.

Today he says he would like two things: one, to enjoy a warm fire because it's simply too cold to venture outside; and two, to have some respite from that damn dog, Aggie.

Barbecue Anyone?

Barbecue Anyone?
Originally uploaded by bmgarner

I guess summer is finally over. Yesterday about an inch of freezing ice fell on everything. Even the tall bushes, the ones that stand over 7 feet tall by the front door, are frozen. With all this snow falling on top of them today their branches may snap off.

We grille all year long - summer, spring, winter, fall. But probably not today. Today we have a nice warm fire going in the living room and Lois has a big pot of beans on the stove. I'm going to use my mother's recipe for cornbread and later we're going to have a feast while watching all this snow pile up.

Out the Front Window

Out the Front Window
Originally uploaded by bmgarner

A true photographer would have braved the cold, and the sleet, and the snow, and the freezing temperatures, by going outside and getting a better shot than this. I stood in the living room and snapped the pic through our very dirty front window.

Dahlias and the Blue Hole

This picture was taken when we lived on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington state in a small town known as Sequim (s'kwim). The average summer temperature hovers there at about 60 degrees, and in the winter, at about 40; and the sun shines almost every day.

About nineteen miles away - as the crow flies, they say - the weather off the Pacific churns up against the western side of the majestic, snow covered peaks of the Olympic mountains and drops 144 inches (12 feet) of rain per year creating the only temperate zone rainforest in the northern hemisphere in the Hoh River Basin!

As the weather hits those mountains and drop this terrific amount of precipitation, Pacific air masses push the lightened clouds eastward causing them to seperate as they traverse their way around the mountain peaks; then they rejoin miles and miles north and east over the Straits of Juan de Fuca. This cloud separation creates an opening in the sky over Sequim which airline pilots have named the "Blue Hole." Because of this phenomenon Sequim is washed in sunlight almost every day of the year, and experiences the least amount of rainfall of any other locale on the western side of the state, even less than the anuual rainfall in Los Angeles: 17 inches per year.

These factors of moderate temperatures, appropriate rainfall, and plenty of sunshine lend themselves to the development of a garden similar to Eden's; beautiful farms and flower gardens in the Sequim Valley have developed where farmers used to grow alfalfa and corn.

When we moved from Sequim, in 2003, flower farms such as Purple Haze Lavendar Farm, and cutting gardens like that of Catherine Mix (featured in Sunset magazine - and where the image above was photographed), were beginning to pop up in the Sequim area, and since then have become a major tourist attraction.

Somedays I miss Sequim ... for its natural beauty.

Wheels in Watercolor

Wheels
Originally uploaded by bmgarner

Couple of posts down you can find the original photo from which this painting was developed. The photographer granted me permission to put the image to watercolor and I'm quite happy with the finished product.

Click on the pic and you will be taken to Flickr where you can see it enlarged as well as read comments by viewers who have seen it there; or, tell me what you think....click on "comment" below and post a reply.

watercolor on cold-pressed Arches 140# paper 11X14

Chevrolet Sedan

Chevrolet Sedan
Originally uploaded by im pastor rick

I found this old rusted out '53 Chev on Flickr.com this evening. It almost brings tears to my eyes to see the ol' girl in such bad shape. All you many fans out there who keep up with this blog already know this is the same make and model as my first car when I was a high school kid.

I have two other images of '53 Chevs; one is a beauty I found in a car show in downtown Kennewick a couple of years ago, the other is a sketch I did of my old car.

Here they are:

Old Steam Train

What a great sound!!
Originally uploaded by rickhanger

One of the things I love about no longer living where we used to live on the Olympic Peninsula where trains no longer run, is that now we get to hear train whistes in the distance.

This image is from the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railway, not eastern Washington, where we now live; but it caught my eye, and my heart. Love these old trains: their whistles, and their clankety-clank-clank, and the way they gently rock you back and forth while riding along. We rode a train out of Branson, MO., last August. It was a great ride.

This train caught my eye this evening while perusing photos in Flickr, my new place to hang out...spent most of the day there today... I love this photo; thanks to Rick Hanger for posting it for all the world to see!

Wheels Within Wheels

Wheels Within Wheels
Originally uploaded by booksin

Wow, I just found this image online and love it. Wouldn't this make another interesting "machinery" painting? Hmmmmm. Something to think about. This image is from Flickr, uploader: booksin.

An Oil Change and a Lube

My father worked with his hands as a welder-pipefitter. There was nothing he couldn't build, or fix; but when it came to his cars, he went to the experts - local mechanics. In those days, the local mechanics were men whose interests in cars began during their high school days. At home they taught their sons how to replace six cylinder engines with powerful V-8's, and install gear shifters mounted on the floor, and replace rusty mufflers with throat humming glass-packed mufflers, and how to pack wheel-bearings and adjust carburators.

He would take me with him on these sorties into these cold, oil stained and smelly car-shops where oil stains, grease, grime, and dirt permeated everything: the concrete floors; and the walls, where hundreds of different sized radiator belts hung; and the tools, strewn over the benches and the floor, and the loose hoses dropped on the floor. It was on the door handles, too; and the toilets; and the coke machines, and the cash register keys.

The grease and dirt permeated even the mechanics' clothes, hair, and skin. These men with stubble beards had smudges on their cheeks and foreheads that were wiped with hands permanently greased; under their fingernails a dark, hardened jell-like material hid and, whether these men are dead or still alive today, is still there. Their shirts and pants and over-alls and boots smelled of oil and grime. It was never a pleasant trip for a small boy whose mother kept her house cleaner than the operating room at the local hospital.

The winter trips stand out in my memory - the garages, heated mostly by wood burning stoves, sat with their large garage doors usually open so exhaust fumes could escape, along with what little heat emanated from the stoves. My father and I would stand next to these stoves to keep warm while we waited and talked of Mickey Mantle and Phil Rizzuto.

Right now I am waiting for a mechanic to change the oil in my truck and lubricate it. When I pulled up to the garage's closed door, it opened automatically, inviting me to drive into the large, expansive area. Once inside, the mechanic approached me with a smile, he was dressed in clean pants, and a freshly washed and ironed shirt. I saw no radiator hoses, no oil cans, no dirty tools, only clean surfaces including the shiny, tiled foor; there were no smudgy-dirty, rank, oily, odors. I was escorted into a waiting area where a barrista served lattes, cappucinos, and pastries; where there is a wide screen television surrounded by overstuffed furniture; tables and chairs made of maple, some regular height, and some the more trendy tall tables, where you sit in tall chairs and your feet don't touch the floor; there is a shopping area where t-shirts, fender stickers, and bright, shiny wheels are for sale; and there is a small room with computers. I'm using one of them right now to update this blog.

My father wouldn't believe this, and I'm hoping my doctor and my dentist get some ideas if they ever come here; but I admit, I miss standing by the old wood burning stove, trying to warm my freezing hands while my dad and I wait, and talk about baseball.

Aggie

Aggie
Originally uploaded by bmgarner

After getting the haircut, Aggie is kicking back with her new best friend, Lois. She looks so much better now, and she seems to feel better as well.

Once she's recovered from her surgery and fully de-wormed, we are going to take her for training sessions: we want her to - come when called, stay in the yard, work a leash correctly (she freezes up with it now), let us know when she needs to go outside (we make sure she goes out plenty, but still...), and how to chase a ball and bring it back.

To find out more about how Aggie came into our lives, check out the link below.

Aggie the Dog

Aggie
Originally uploaded by bmgarner

Our desktop computer sits in an upstairs room with a view that overlooks parts of the town running eastward and off to the north we can see glimpses of the Columbia River; but this morning: overcast, gray, raining. It's a perfect morning for coffee, newspaper, and a fire in the fireplace (I hear a train whistle off in the misty distance); but it's so cozy up here with Lois still in bed and our new puppy all wrapped up with her I grabbed a cup of coffe downstairs and came back up to post this entry.


Our new puppy is Aggie. She's comes from miniature schnauzer parents, but she was the runt of the litter so rather than 10 or 12 pounds in weight, she's just under 8. The man we got her from wanted $250 for her, but we weren't sure about her; so he offered to let us keep her for a "few weeks" then if we wanted her we could send him the money. We were reluctant for these reasons: she was scraggly looking, she had hair knots, she is extremely timid (but that could be because she was in an unfamiliar setting); and unlike our previous schnauzer who was muscularly tight with excellent body and muscle tone, she felt frail and weak. We looked at each other and decided to give it a try. We had nothing to lose.


The first thing was to get her clipped and cleaned up, so we took her to a groomer. In a very short while, the groomer called us and told us they coudn't proceed with the operation because the dog had worms - and - they thought she MIGHT be pregnant. We picked up Aggie and took her to the vet where we received de-worming medicine and an appointment to bring her back in on Monday to see the vet where he would, hopefully, give us some estimation as to the degree of "pregnant" she might be in. She goes in tomorrow to be spayed.


We took her back to the groomer, Tabby, where she was given a schnauzer cut and wow, what a difference. She's really a nice looing dog, she gets lots of attention from strangers in the pet store, and her coat really shines. The jury is still out as to whether we will keep her after we get her back to health; but it's looking like a "definite maybe" right now.

A Glass of Cabernet

For all of you followers of this blog (cough, cough) you know I have a favorite loaf of bread I make because you've seen previous pictures in this blog that I've taken of some of the loaves. Well, yesterday I decided to try something different: rather making a boule (french word for bowl, I think), I put the dough in a rectangular bread pan. It came out great! Today I decided to slice the loaf in thinner slices than what I have done previously. It came out so well, I then decided it needed to be photographed.

I have been having way too much fun with my new Nikon D40 cam. This photo, taken this afternoon, was a lot of fun to set up. I gave Lois the roses for our 37th anniversary a couple days ago, and they're still good enough for photo taking. This turned out pretty good, if I have to say so myself.

Red Headed Kid

That red-hair really flames, doesn't it? He was on the same tour ride my wife and the couple we were on - a duck ride in Branson, MO. I thought there was something about him that might make a good picture, maybe even a watercolor, or graphite sketch; so I started taking his picture. Right off he caught me; but I didn't care. I only wish that I had discovered the joy of taking pictures of people then getting their email addresses and sending them the pics.

By the time I took this pic, he had tired of me. I never got the pic I wanted of him; so there won't be any art work, or whatever. Just this photo of him looking over the edge of the "duck" into the deep waters overboard.

Yakima River at Prosser, Washington

Another shot I took with my new Nikon D40. Close to 30 years ago I took a picture from this same location that was selected for placement on the local telephone book. This one is much better!

Lois and Jim at Blue Springs, Arkansas

Now that we are home my enthusiasm for posting a journal outlining our trip has waned; so I've decided instead to post a link to the photos. You can see all of our adventure at this link and there is no obligation to register to see them.

Here's one of my favorite pictures taken in Blue Springs, Arkansas. This site was visited during the Trail of Tears by the Cherokee Tribe who was being force-marched from South Carolina to Oklahoma: many thousands died along the way. If you look closely behind us, you can see the spring; and there are many more at the link posted above.

Missouri Rocks

Just a quick note to say we are in Missouri this week. We are staying with friends in their time-share just south of Branson and are having a wonderful time. I'm keeping a journal of our adventures and plenty of photos with my new camera, so when we get home next week, I'll be posting it all here.

New Camera: Maia Rose and Aidan Charles

These pictures were the first two taken by my new Nikon D40 camera. I think it's going to be a good one!

If you follow this blog, you've been introduced to Maia Rose before. Here she is holding her pink fuzzy and looking 'oh, so sweet.' She isn't always like this.




And this is Aidan Charles. He loves to play rough, laugh and have fun. And sometimes, he doesn't; but you couldn't tell by looking at those eyes, could you....

New Camera and Neighborhood

Another pic taken with my new Nikon D40. We live sorta at the bottom/lower side/ of a hill and this was taken up the side of the hill.

In the background you can see the Columbia River. Our house is the one in the middle of all the homes in the bottom half of the picture.

In the bottom pic, I rotated the camera to horizontal and moved to the next house to the right (our's is out of frame in this picture).

Gracie the Dog

We dog-sat this last week. Her name is, Gracie. She is a miniature German Schnauzer and she brings back strong and vivid memories of our little schnauzer, Jutta (a German name meaning, "Judy" and pronounced, "You-da"), who we lost a few years ago.

Gracie may have a little ocd when it comes to balls - she's a voracious chaser - probably due to that rat-chasing behaviour schnauzers were bred for in the first place.

Here's Gracie getting ready to go after a floating ball.

We loved having her with us and her "Momma" knows she can bring Gracie over to visit anytime.

The Movie "Once"

My wife, Lois, and I went to the movies this afternoon and saw a delightful little foreign (Irish) flick called, Once. A man and a woman meet on the sidewalks of Dublin: he busks (sidewalk performer) as a singer/guitar player, and repairs vacuum cleaners in his father's shop; she is Eastern European, and cleans upscale homes. The story, told not as much through dialogue as through their music is simple, crisp, elegant, and so very easy on the eyes and the ears. If you haven't yet, click on the link above and explore the site.

John Carney, director, made the movie with only enough money to "pay the actors and feed them." Glen Hansard who wrote most of the songs, plays the lead. His last movie was fifteen years ago. Hansard commented that he became interested in the movie when he learned there were no big money producers behind the production because it meant they had all the artistic freedom they would want.

Marketa Irglova, someone Glen had seen play and sing, had never made a movie. John Carney, once listening to her, hired her on the spot. She had no acting experience. He told her to get a movie cam and spend as much time as possible in front of it for the few weeks they had prior to shooting; "and don't take any acting lessons," he admonished her.

I love foreign films. The first I remember seeing was, "A Man and a Woman," in 1969 in Seattle. I was mesmerized. Since then I have watched maybe hundreds of foreign films and have almost convinced my wife that they're are far superior to most Hollywood films. This movie, "Once" makes me feel as though I've come to some of completion of the circle that began in that theatre in Seattle so many years ago. See the producer's blog here, and be sure to click on the "comments" at the bottom.

This is a wonderful film. Go see it!!

A Skill Finely Tuned

The skill is in the art of procrastination; one given with not one iota of educational enterprise required. Similar to the many behaviors fully inherited by birds, studies are not needed to gain the skill of procrastination, it is given at birth and developed at about the same speed as teething. Ever tell a toddler to put a toy away? Carefully analyze his/her strategies to fulfill your order and like the butterflie's slow growth in its coccon, the early developmental layers of procrastination begin to emerge.

During the teen years the skill develops into something more conscious in orientation. Teachers with good and sometimes, great, intentions create wonderfully fertile grounds where the skill is often honed into near perfection. Projects requiring great amounts of time, thought, planning, and execution; projects designed to enlighten, enhance, and unfold the intracacies of the world to our developing minds; projects designed by teachers who believe students will need days, even weeks for completion, and carefully announce them well in advance of the due date, are actually completed in the late evening hours on the night before, and sometimes in the library on the actual day of final turn-in; and many receive top marks. The unintentional, and incidental, feedback we receive for such full utilization of this opportunity for procrastination presents itself as a far greater lesson learned than what was intended: we can shortcut stuff and still be successful.

Once we morph into full adulthood, the skill, as finely tuned as a Stradivarius in the New York Philharmonic, provides us with enough time to write several novels, build several homes, start a number of new businesses, volunteer uncounted hours in the community. But it seems the really necessary things of the day: work, home, eat, watch television, go to bed - take precedence.

The most wonderful thing about this skill is that it also requires not one iota of energy to maintain. The old adage of "use it or lose it," doesn't apply. It's always there, lurking behind every effort we make to overcome this most basic skill.

This little piece of writing is a small example of a small burst of energy which will be followed by a long period of procrastination. I had quite a bit more to say, but ....

Unbelievably Easy Bread

I found the following recipe while googling bread recipes. To watch a New York City baker show how this is done on "youtube.com," click here. You'll love this bread!!

Ingredients:

3 cups enriched bread flour
1/4 tsp yeast
1 1/4 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups water

Blend ingredients until you have a dough. Do not knead the dough. The blending here should take only about one minute. Let sit for 12 - 15 hours.

Pour dough onto flat, floured surface and toss about slightly. Press into a flat circle then fold into thirds, the fold the ends over the middle. Let rest for 10 minutes.

Prehead oven to 500 degrees along with a flat-bottomed 2 1/2 quart either pyrex, or cast iron, pot and lid.

Toss the dough into the hot pan, put on lid and heat for 30 minutes. Then remove the lid and continue cooking for another 10 - 20 minutes, depending on the degree of coloration you want in the crust.

The bread can be toasted and buttered with a creamy honey, or jelly, or jam of your choice. The loaf can be cut into a bowl for salads, chili, or other delights. Another is to make Bruschetta Bites using the grille to toast the bread.

Bruschetta Bites

For a quick snack/dinner meal, slice the "No Knead Bread" loaf and toast on the grille. I used the gas grille, but next time I'll use the charcoal grille because it gives a more steady and even heat. Brush on some olive oil on each side of the bread and toast on medium heat.

Once the bread is lightly toasted, add the bruschetta. Bruschetta can be purchased or made at home. Here's a recipe.

Close the lid for a few minutes, turn down the heat, then add cheese. I found some tasty blue cheese at a local grocer's; my wife prefers a milder cheese, so I added parmesan to a few for her.

Serve with fruit, watermelon, and either a cold-cut (in this case sliced salami), or thinly slice a summer sausage and heat on the grille prior to serving. Hold your breath and wait for the reviews.

Serve with wine to your taste. I prefer a chardonnay, although next time I will try it with a chilled bottle of merlot. Mmmmmmmmmm.

25% Juts Away

What distance traverses the range from knock-you-on-your-ass depression to perfect bliss? Hopefully the two ends are as distant as any mentally healthy person would want them; but sometimes methinks the spectrum elastic.

Somewhere in the middle, mmmm, 5o% portion of the spectrum (the one where 25% juts from each end) runs a great deal of frustration and angst.

Why does life run there? Is there really a God when so many are so frustrated? If He loves us and wants us to be the best we can be, for Him, then why didn't He kill the serpent in the garden, or better yet, why did he "make it?" Things were perfect before it arrived.

Then we must also consider that 100% of one person's spectrum is much shorter than someone else's. Boom.

This is Maia

Say "hello" to one tough little package of energy, pizzaz, and trouble. This is Maia Rose. She's two years old; wears a diaper; wears her mother - out; and knows, at all times, where the nearest binkie is located.

Don't even let me think you don't see the mind of a two year old fast at work behind those beautiful brown eyes and those pursed lips. She's got something on her mind, and my bet is, it's trouble.

Take a Look at this Beauty

I've been baking bread, off and on, for a year or two and lately I've been baking from a recipe I found at www.youtube.com for "No Knead Bread." This is, maybe, the tenth loaf I've made and I thought it came nice enough to take a few pics.

We have company coming later today for dinner, we're having fresh Pacific Salmon, grilled with a merinade we love made from orange juice and honey; asparagas; some of Lois' special strawberry salad with her homemade dressing; rice; and a piece or two of this bread. Can't wait!

Take a close look at the date on that bottle of wine. I bought it in 1981 for when a special friend, Scott F, would some day visit. We haven't seen him yet. The wine is no doubt not very good now; but you never know.

Still More - Wasted Time

Looking at the post prior the most recent one, I see it has been over a month since I was whining about not getting back to the editing process for The Marker. Well, nothing still happens. It seems everytime I get the time, something else comes along to distract me from the molding task; or I get to thinking about how terrible the whole damned thing is - then the discouragement keeps me away.

Maybe I'll tackle it later today, after I get the lawn mowed, the sprinklers adjusted out front, the rocker moved from my mother-in-law's over to my wife's cousin's place.

Which reminds me: the manager of the bookstore where Sofie is for sale, called and she wants three more books. Sales are climbing: she's sold two so far and I know who bought one of them.

Wasted Time

My novel, The Marker, is waiting for me this morning. It was about half completed when the computer had a major stroke; all my favorites, 'my document' files, email history at grayshoe, and about half the icons on my desktop went kaput! It's about 250 pages in length so I hope to edit an average of ten pages a day so I can have it all done in about a month.

Right now I'm wasting time by not getting started. Odd how once the project gets going, I'm immersed and lost in time; but getting it started, that's the most difficult part.

A Black Hole Farted

I think, in all totality of this blog, and it's rather large, there is one comment in one of the posts where the post is titled, "Does Anyone Read This?" Someone responded to that question, and I replied; but I really think that was just an anomoly in the universe, you know, a star belched, or a black hole farted, or something infinitesimal disappeared from the heavens and it created the reponse from who-knows-where.

I've been writing more in a three-ring binder lately than on this blog. It seems more personal, and - me - when I write there. Still, I love to write and watch the words appear on the screen as I type along, somewhat uninhibited by the dreaded 'Internal Editor.'

Viruses, and Swans on the River

After completing 40 days in a row of substitute teaching, not counting weekends, I fell ill with an intestinal virus that put me down for seven days. Talk about exhausted; then, in the middle of all that joy, I got a chest cold - at least I lost some weight and haven't yet put it back on. Maybe sometime soon I'll be able to get back into the swing and rhythm of my retired life.

I don't know if it was an hallucination while ill, or an image burned into my mind while flippin' thru the channels, but the vision of my retirement has become a couple of beautiful white swarns, moving along a slow moving river. I'm thinking about creating the image with watercolor, so I went googling to see if I could find something that would help. This is one of the images I found. If I use these two swans in the painting, I'll put them in the river with a row of trees against the far bank, low evening light, and their reflections in the water. And if I don't, well, this is a beautiful picture to look at anyway.

America's Saddam Hussein, Andrew Jackson?

As a nation we have spent billions over the past few years to remove Saddam Hussein from his despotic rule over Iraq. Whether that war was right or wrong is not the premise of this post. The premise is this: Hussein killed hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of people living within the boundaries of his country; as did Andrew Jackson in ours. It is astounding that this man, responsible for the deaths of thousands of Native Americans, caused by ripping them from their homeland and marching them on a trail of tears through cold and bitter winter weather from Georgia to Oklahoma, is today found on our twenty dollar bills.

In all over 100,000 Native Americans from Michigan, to Louisiana, to Florida were moved following fraudulent treaties with Jackson's government. In Georgia alone an estimated 3,500 died in the march. Some were bound by chains.

The following few paragraphs, by Mr. Ken Martin, tell the story in simple words. Read them, and visit the link at the bottom of the page taking you to Ken Martin's site.

Help me begin a grass roots movement for the removal of Jackson from our twenty dollar bills.

The italics and bold are mine.

Cherokee


"With the election of Jackson as president in 1828, the Cherokee were in serious trouble. Gold was discovered that year on Cherokee land in northern Georgia, and miners swarmed in. Indian removal to west of the Mississippi had been suggested as early as 1802 by Thomas Jefferson and recommended by James Monroe in his final address to Congress in 1825. With Jackson's full support, the Indian Removal Act was introduced in Congress in 1829. There it met serious opposition from Senators Daniel Webster and Henry Clay who were able to delay passage until 1830. Meanwhile, Jackson refused to enforce the treaties which protected the Cherokee homeland from encroachment. During the two years following his election, Georgia unilaterally extended its laws to Cherokee territory, dividing up Cherokee lands by lottery, and stripping the Cherokee of legal protection. Georgia citizens were free to kill, burn, and steal. With the only alternative a war which would result in annihilation, John Ross decided to fight for his people's rights in the United States courts.

"The Cherokee won both cases brought before the Supreme Court: Cherokee Nation vs Georgia (1831) and Worcester vs Georgia(1832), but the legal victories were useless. Jackson's answer: "Justice Marshall has made his decision. Let him enforce it." Without federal interference, Georgia and Tennessee began a reign of terror using arrest, murder and arson against the Cherokee. Ross was arrested, and the offices of the Cherokee Phoenix burned in May, 1834. The mansion of the wealthiest Cherokee, Joseph Vann, was confiscated by the Georgia militia, and the Moravian mission and school was converted into a militia headquarters. When Ross travelled to Washington to protest, Jackson refused to see him. Instead overtures were made to Major Ridge, his son John Ridge, and nephew Elias Boudinot (Buck Oowatie), editor of the Phoenix (Cherokee newspaper). The hopelessness of the situation finally convinced these men to sign the Treaty of New Echota (December, 1835) surrendering the Cherokee Nation's homeland in exchange for $5,000,000, seven million acres in Oklahoma, and an agreement to remove within two years.

"Known as the Treaty Party (Ridgites), only 350 of 17,000 Cherokee actually endorsed the agreement. Threatened by violence from their own people, they and 2,000 family members quickly gathered their property and left for Oklahoma. The treaty was clearly a fraud, and a petition of protest with 16,000 Cherokee signatures was dispatched to Washington to halt ratification. After violent debate, Jackson succeeded in pushing it through the Senate during May by the margin of a single vote. The Cherokee Nation was doomed. For the next two years, Ross tried every political and legal means to stop the removal, but failed. When the deadline arrived in May, (Jackson ordered)1838, 7,000 soldiers under General Winfield Scott (virtually the entire American Army) moved into the Cherokee homeland. The Cherokee found that their reward for 'taking the white man's road' was to be driven from their homes at gunpoint. It was the beginning of the Nunadautsun't or 'the trail where we cried.' History would call it the Trail of Tears."


Visit Ken Martin's Site here.

Is this Government Intrusion?

The school district's Board of Directors has instituted a new policy requiring high school students to lead conferences regarding their academic progress and plans for completing high school, as well as plans for post high school graduation. Many hours of planning and faculty training sessions have been spent along with supplying binders and all the copies of the necessary forms students need. A number of school days have been shortened reducing actual classroom instruction (time on task) to accommodate students planning sessions for these conferences. Teachers have been assigned students that they do not know, students who are not in their classes, necessarily, to facilitate planning the conferences.

It is a good idea - it causes generally apathetic high school students to take ownership of this part of their lives: it causes them to collect examples of exemplary work from their teachers and coaches; it causes them to plan what coursework they will take in future semesters to help them meet graduation requirements; it causes them to evaluate their learning styles; and they must collect transcripts. It focuses the students; it makes them think about the future, realistically.

The idea sours when it requires the student and his/her students parent(s), to come to the school together where the student will lead this conference in the presence of his/her parent(s), and the teacher who helped them plan the conference. Surely there are parents out there who have concerns about being required to come into the school to do what every responsible parent must intuitively know is their responsiblity. Do any of them wonder if this is too much government intrusion into their private lives?

A teacher at one of the local high schools said, "When my kids were in school (and one of them is now a researcher at Purdue) we sat down every night to discuss how their classes were going and what homework they had to get done that evening. Now, I'm being required to sit down with other parents and listen to their children tell them how they are doing at school and these are students I don't have in class, or even know."

Granted, there are students whose parents never come to the school. These are the students who will no doubt benefit most from this plan; but will they? And what about those who clearly do not need such "help?" I would be offended at such arrogant suppositions.

"Letters from Iwo Jima"

This movie gets my vote for movie of the year; well almost, I liked "The Departed" well enough for it to win too. When it ended, the credits and my tears ran side by side. Thank you Mr. Eastwood, and Mr. Spielberg, for bringing images and stories that give us the closest experience we could ever have to "being there;" for taking us into places our fathers couldn't.

The computer generated images of our naval fleet arriving at Iwo Jima made me wonder if the opposition from Congress today would have slowed, or stopped the fleet, allowing the enemy, in a politically correct fashion, to keep their island. Maybe if we could get them to sit down at the negotiation table, we could stop/forestall the inevitable. Bull shit: "Speak softly and carry a big stick." Taking that island led to the war's end.

Hollywood politics have soured me on many actors I previously loved to watch. I do not prescribe to Hollywood politics. They should simply "shut up and sing/act/play/entertain." Their opinions are no more valuable than mine, or yours, or my neighbor's down the street. I abhor Hollywood standing on its highly accessible soapboxes to tell the rest of us how our country should behave, and how we should think.

That being said, I applaud Hollywood when it takes me places I would never be able to visit: Omaha Beach, Iwo Jima, Pirate ships, lonely motels where psychopaths live. I especially applaud "Letters" for showing me the hell and tragedy that is war by taking me into the Japanese soldiers' camp. It was amazing when through the camera lens we learned with the Japanese soldiers when they took "Sam" into one of their caves, from their point of view, how more similar the Americans were to them than they knew.

Some may perceive this movie as a statement against war in general; however the movie did not, in any way, say to me that pacifism is the path to peace and freedom. Pacificism is the path to death.

Experience this movie!

Heartache in the Cherokee Nation

Shortly following the bombing of the Alfred Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, the Cherokee began thinking about how a story might be crafted from that dreadful event. Somewhere on his hard drive the bits and pieces of that idea rest; they tell of a young married couple with a small child who is lost when the truck sitting outside the building, the one packed with nitrates, fuel, and a detonator, exploded.

The father in this story is a Cherokee; and the idea of the story was to connect his tragedy in today's world with that of his forbears - the ones who were forced to walk halfway across the country from the Carolinas to the newly formed reservation, a wasteland in the mind of Andrew Jackson known as Oklahoma.

The problem is the story is plot-less, there is nothing to hang the intensity of the tragedy of the actual event on within a fictionalized family. Still there is something intriguing about connecting the tragedy of this event to the tragedy of the Trail of Tears.

The Bridge at Antietam

Some summers ago, circa 1998, the Cherokee took his young son of seventeen years, Derik, back to Washington DC. Derik had not been athletically inclined as a young boy and the Cherokee had never had to haul him all over town, region, or state with helmets, cleats, baseball bats, or a bevy of team mates, so it was decided to take him somewhere he wanted to go: a place where his interests might be fueled and ignited.

He had an inclination toward history, and he was becoming somewhat of an expert in war: especially those of Rome, and oddly enough, the battles of our Civil War.

Burnside's Bridge spans Antietam creek, and is positioned down a gently sloping landscape from Miller's Farm at Sharpsburg, Maryland; where the battle of Antietam creek took place on 17 September 1862. It was Miller's Farm where within a seven hundred yard radius, it was said that after that part of the battle, one could walk across the corn field and never step on the ground as there were so many dead and dying. Seven thousand, six hundred and forty men were killed that day. It was the largest loss of American lives in any one day, of any battle anywhere including the invasion of Normandy in 1944.

We walked across this beautifully placed and placid bridge and could only try to visualize what happened there in 1862. The bridge is the highwater mark for General Burnside's career. He led the Union Army in the taking of this bridge that day; but at a terrible, and bloody price.

The battle at Antietam lasted approximately twelve hours. It ended with a few potshots taken from both sides of the creek. The next day, General Lee and his ragtag army of beaten and starving rebels headed back across the Potomac into Virginia. Lee had hoped to shorten the war with this excursion in a northern state; and though his men were experienced and emboldened by a number of victories leading into Antietam, they were spent.

Antietam was the battle Lincoln had been waiting for. The Union's victory, veiled as it was, was enough for Lincoln to proclaim the Emancipation of slavery in our country for all time.

PS: The battle at Antietam plays an important part in the Cherokee's next novel, The Marker, which is still being edited. Hopefully it will be published at lulu.com sometime this spring. Watch for it!

It Is Done

I started writing a story about a young beauty queen from 1929 about four years ago: 2002. I wanted to write a novel and I needed a story. One late night I was browsing about in the National Archives and found some interesting photographs. One showed a large group of beauty queens lined shoulder to shoulder inside the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco; the photo was dated 1927. Below each girl's feet was a number and the number coincided with a legend above their heads telling which city in California they represented. Number ten caught my eye. She was Miss Oakland.

From there I wrote a novel entitled, Sofie, the Queen of Oakland. The novel began at the National Novel Writing Month (nanowrimo.org) where in thirty days I put together the first fifty-thousand word, rough draft. I laid it aside for a few years, then in 2005 I decided to start the editing process. I wanted to see if I could get it published.

Along the way, I learned about Publishing-On-Demand (POD). In 2006, at nanowrimo I learned that one POD, Lulu.com, had agreed to publish, for free, one copy of anyone's novel that was completed during the month of November. I dressed up the novel and sent it off. It was not ready for the printing press, eventhough I had read through and edited the entire story close to twenty times.

Since the first Lulu edition came out, there have been, I believe, seventeen revisions. I got the last one back yesterday, February 12, 2007. It's as good as it's gonna get. I'm done with it.

Wanna have a look? Check out the link above.

Cherokee

Does Anyone Read This?

I'm wondering if anyone reads this blog.

If you do, how about dropping down to comments and leave either a non-anonymous message (Yes), or an anonymous message (Yes).

Actually I sorta hope no one does read this blog - I know it's public and all, but sometimes I just need to put stuff down on "paper" and I like this spot on the internet for that purpose.

This is the first entry since December 8th when I was subbing in one of the local high schools. I guess not a lot has changed because I am presently long-term subbing for a Computer Applications teacher who had some bones fused in his foot and is home on a long recuperation.

Being a teacher for more than a day or two involves quite a bit more detail to follow: there needs to be a lesson plan for each day and fortunately for me, the teacher I'm covering and another teacher put together a series of lessons using excel spreadsheets, powerpoint, graphing, etc. that keeps both me and the teacher's kids busy.

There needs to be follow up to absences, tardies; and papers have to be graded and posted and kept organized. One has to be far enough ahead of the students to be able to answer their questions (this is my fifteenth straight day and so far, only two questions were beyond me - thank goodness for good help from the other teachers).

Keeping track of all the details is something I had forgotten about - who turned in what, who needs to turn in what, who was absent on the day of the big assignment and let them know they have work to turn in. Who's been late to class and how many times have they been late; assigning detention to those who have been late too many times; etc., etc.

Then one has to worry about making copies of all the assignments; learning how to operate the copy machine; learning who to contact when the computers go down, and keeping the attendance and grading data input daily into the computers.

Walking around, helping individual students, making sure they are behaving appropriately and that they are "on-task" (education-ese). Dealing with those students who are lethargic, or passive resisters (more education-ese), and motivating them to get their work done. (I try to be friendly, overly helpful, and smile and laugh a lot. When kids know you aren't pissed off about something, especially them as individual, or their friends, they do a lot better on their work.)

There's quite a lot to remember.

High School Substituting

I'm subbing today in my old high school: Kennewick High School - class of '64.

The teacher doesn't have a first period class, so the fun began at 8:30 with an International Baccalaureate Junior English class. They were good; there were no problems, they had a test to take and series of definitions to copy from the overhead once they were done with the test. They worked right up to the bell.

Now it gets tricky. I'm writing presently in the present tense, trying demonstrate journal writing as they write in their journals. Because I never know when I might have to move around, or whatever, I may not be able to do any journal/blogging, but let's see what happens.

I'ts third period and I'm presently supervising a group of high school students who are supposed to be writing in their journals. It's an English Lab 3 class for students who, I think, have trouble in their regular English classes. One student just told me (between this sentence and the last) that in his "other" English class the teacher makes them read "really dumb books." To demonstrate this he pulled two from his backpack: Animal Farm, and The Lord of the Flies. I chuckled and told him, next time he goes online to google "great novels," and both of them will come up, everytime; then I showed him. He responded, with a slight smile, by saying, "whoever wrote those books should be slugged." I think he's a good kid; just struggles with reading, and maybe, thinking.

This is a class of good kids! There are only twelve students enrolled, and one is absent today. They are presently working, diligently I might add, on their journals. There is quiet conversation, occasionally they ask me a question, and I answer as best I can. I like these kids.

4th period:

A "regular" English class: mostly sophomores. Once again, all good kids, no discipline, or disrectful students; but few of them are doing the assignment left by the teacher. These types of assignments are given by teachers who haven't thought through the results. Students work in groups of five to write a summary of chapter 5 of Elie Weisel's Night, then "three in-depth questions." At the end of the 20 minutes alloted for this acivity, each group will pass their summary and questions to the next group; then each group will copy the questions from the previous group, then pass the original back to its group. Students will keep their paper and bring back with them tomorrow. If you think that sounds confusing, you should see what I'm seeing right now: chaos.

Do you rememer high school? If it isn't due until tomorrow, then I'll do it, but NOT right now! I'll get it done, leave me alone. Right?

For the next two classes I intend to modify the teacher's plan. All work will be due AT THE END OF THE PERIOD, and I will group the students by having them count off: one's over here, two's over there. There will be a tremendous reduction if chaos (what we educators call, "off-task behaviors).

Ok, so I forgot how to do the math to get 30 people equally divided into groups of four and in the haste to "get on with it," with fifth period, I let them group the way their teacher lets them group. I did, however, tell them their papers are due at the end of the period and most of them are working on answering the questions with twelve minutes to go. Some are doing nothing but chatting and having a good time.....

Sixth is next. 30 people in groups of four means we count off in sevens: one's over here, two's over there, etc. Sixth period should be the best, in terms of productivity. We'll see.

Sixth:

This was amazing! I believed the students when they told me they had not yet been assigned to read this particular chapter; so I made them a deal. "You guys read chapter 13 for twenty minutes, if you do without me having to remind you that what's your supposed to be doing, I'll give you a five minute break at 1:50. After the break, you go back to reading, and if you do, I'll give you the last five minutes of class to socialize." It was STONE QUIET all period long! Wow, I am impressed with this group!

Cherokee

Nano Done

I just finished the first rough draft of my fourth novel, The Intersection. It is a fictionalized account of how the lives of a young, orphaned, foster child, and a man in a witness protection program, who suffers from amnesia, are intertwined in a struggle for survival in the post-modern world of anger, confusion, and terrorism.

November's Relentless March to Completion

". . . and My Fumbling Attempts to Keep Up"

The National Novel Writing Month continues its relentless march to the 30th. Trying to keep up with it is like trying to make sure you and your wheelbarrow don't get too far behind the horses before the parade comes to an end and the street fills with cars. To finish/win at nano requires 50,000 words minimum by midnight on the 30th. The average number of obligatory words per day is 1,667. It's not like asking one to recreate War and Peace each day. 1,667 words per day is highly do-able.

Once the computer's turned on, and the coffee cup is filled with life-giving caffeine and four or five tablespoons of chocolate-mint-truffles creamer, it's time to start the writing. But wait, the blog needs updating, ESPN.com needs someone to read the latest scores, and oh, by the way, I better check with whatsonatthemoviestonight.com., and I wonder what the other nano writers are saying on the forums at nanowrimo.org?

It's the other stuff that gets in the way: one has to work ocassionally, then there is the 'honey-do' list of stuff - the garbage, the leaves piling up at the front door, the grease and oil change on the car; and the doctor visits, the mail, the newspaper, wash the dog, feed the cat and clean the fishbowl.

That's why my daily word average has escalated from 1,667 to 2,500 words per day so I can wrap this sucker up in 8 more days.

Wish me luck.

Nano Preps

Nano is only days away. If you are not sure what Nano is, check it out here. I've been thinking, no, I have no good ideas; my muse died and I don't even know where it was buried - perhaps in a dismal painting somewhere - there are lots of those.

For the hundreds, or is it thousands, of readers of this blog out there in cyberspace, you'll know I met "Hap" in a dream a couple night ago. He has me intrigued and I may have to poke at him some to see if he has 50,000 words hidden beneath that old blue stocking cap he wears. Maybe.

Last November I wrote a novel titled, "The Marker." While laboring through the story, I decided when the month ended and "The Marker" was as complete in it's first draft that I could get it, I would go back to the first Nano novel I wrote and edit it to perfection. The first novel was "Sofie, the Queen of Oakland," and I rough drafted it in November of 2002, at Nano.

The last eleven months have been spent editing "Sofie." I hate to say it but I'm sick of this story! I've got it just about as far as I can go with it, and I almost don't care anymore if it ever gets finished. No, that's not true; I'm in the 13th or 14th edit, and I have only a couple chapters to go. When done, I promise myself not to read it again. It will be DONE, and I will ship it off to my publisher at lulu.com for the final production. Merry Christmas.

"Sofie" must be in final state before November 1st, because that's when I will begin the 1,700 word per day trek to find out more about my dream character, "Hap."

Wish me luck.

The Cherokee

Hap

I met Hap last night in a dream.

Standing on broad concrete stairs leading up the hill to the city library, and enjoying the still warm autumn air and the view of the streets below, I looked down across the street and saw him standing next to the kiosk in front of the opera house. He was holding a newspaper in his hands. A young boy, early teens maybe, stood attentive, listening to Hap read aloud the selections the city symphony would play later that evening. After reading each title, Hap would hum the opening few notes, I thought more for himself than the boy; but the boy eyes were glued on Hap.

Older, probably mid to late fifties, with a slight paunch, and long, straight, brown hair that extended in all directions once it escaped the boundaries of the old, blue stocking cap pulled down over his ears, Hap was enjoying himself. A comfortably worn, blue denim jacket over an old plaid shirt would keep him warm in the soon-to-be cool, evening air; and an equally worn pair of blue Levis with a brown belt rounded the man many would have thought ‘homeless.’

“Mahler’s First,” he said, reading to the boy, then he looked into the sky, closed his eyes and hummed the gentle beginning of the piece. “Listen, here come the trumpets…To-to-To-to-To-to. It’s the awakening of nature at early dawn.”

“What is?”

“The music. That’s what the master himself said, you know.”

“Who?” the boy asked.

“Gustav Mahler. He said the opening is about the 'awakening of nature at early dawn.'”

The boy looked up at Hap, and smiled. “That's weird. Do another one.”

Haps eyes scrolled down the list. “Do you know Frere Jacques?”

“Fair a what?”

“Ferair a jock a,” Hap said, teaching the boy the correct pronunciation. “It’s an old song they used to teach in the school when we were small children.” He held his head back and mimicked the tune as Mahler had written it for the third movement of his symphony. “Can you sing along?” he asked, forgetting there would be someone who didn’t know the tune, then answering his own question, said, “Of course not, they didn’t teach it to you, did they.”

“No.”

Hap folded the newspaper and leaned against the old brick façade of the opera house. “No boy should go without knowing this song,” he said, and soon they were singing, in the round, as ‘Frere Jacques’ was intended. People hurrying along on the sidewalk smiled at the old man and the boy.

I stood spellbound by this man. How did I know his name, and who was he? How did he get this knowledge? Where does he live? What has happened in his life to get him here in front of the grand opera house this morning with this young boy. I decided to follow him, but first I had to call my boss and tell her I wouldn’t be back in this afternoon. “My cold has taken a turn for the worse,” I said, wiping my nose with a handkerchief in a weak attempt to make the lie real.

Character Development

Jim

Movie: The Departed

We saw the movie The Departed this evening. It's Martin Scorcese's most recent, stylized, modernized and bloodied, film noir. Two Boston boys, raised in the malaise of South Boston, take two different roads in life: one becomes the cop, Billy Costigan (Leonardo DiCaprio); the other, Colin Sullivan (Matt Damon), a gangster. The movie twists early when Costigan, by the coercion of his boss, Oliver Queenan (Charlie Sheen) and his lackey, Dignam (Mark Wahlberg), is planted inside gangster Frank Costello's (Jack Nicholoson) tribe of bad guys; and Sullivan, after being groomed by Nicholoson from boyhood and trained at the police academy, infiltrates the Massachusett's State Police.

Film noir, where the protagonist isn't all that good of a guy, and the antagonist isn't all that bad, is also characterized by short, snappy dialogue, and a fem fatale. The fem, Madolyn, is played by Vera Farmiga (and I suspect movie-goers will be seeing much more of her soon), is a psychologist who contracts with the police department to help bummed out officers who in the line of their work, "have to shoot their guns." Unknowingly, she becomes intimately associated with both, thinking, of course that they are both cops. (Only in the movies, right?)The audience knows more than she when she falls hard for Sullivan (Damon) and to a lesser amount, Costigan (DiCaprio).

Each mole is dispersed to find out who the other is, and that's where the story gets complicated, as all good stories do; it's the Second Act, where according to the Hero's Journey (based on archetypes invented by Carl Jung) things get a bit messy. In good film noir the second act is characterized by fast, and purposefully confusing action. Hollywood learned long ago, that in film noir, if the audience is slightly confused about some aspects of the unfolding plot, it lends a keen edge of suspense and tension to the film. For years I thought maybe I was a bit more dense than the average film afficionado because of this: turns out we are all in it together....neener, neener, neener.

The ending could be better, especially if you like, "good endings." It's shocking, and it's messy, and it makes you want to throw tomatoes at Scorcese, if you could just find him; but alas, violence begets violence and the ending, while some in the theatre laughed, was plausible. Sorta.

I highly recommend the film. It's two and one half hours long, but Jack makes it all worthwhile, especially when he does his rat impersonation, and I particularly enjoyed Leonardo DiCaprio. He has grown significantly as an actor, especially in Scorcese films, and could be Oscar material here.

Thanks for reading,

The Cherokee

Sunday Morning Thoughts

This morning the air is pure; you can see beyond the horizon, and it is refreshing to take a long, deep breath. It's that time of year when you know summer is slipping away.

At church this morning, a self-proclaimed 'peace activist' sang and played his guitar. His voice and guitar rifs fit the beautiful morning; but his words caused me wonder about peace activism. The Lord told us to "turn the other cheek," but I suspect if our forefathers had strictly followed that message, we would all be heralding the Queen of England as our leader today. Following the Brits lead, I say, "Poppycock." Most Americans would. Everyone wants peace, but we often fight wars to preserve peace, and sometimes we fight wars because we want to preserve our way of life. "Tooth for tooth, and eye for eye," the Good Book also says.

That's not to say 'peace advocates' cannot bring significant change. Ghandi and his followers successfully utilized civil disobedience and wrestled India from the tight grip of the British Empire; and Martin Luther King, Jr., using Ghandi's strategies brought the civil rights movement to all the people living in our nation. Important moves no doubt; however, both these giants among men were assassinated and died violent deaths.

When a grizzly bear steals another's salmon, an act of peace will not bring it back. If our land is attacked, only strong and swift retaliation will hold our attackers at bay.

God Bless our Nation's leaders and God Bless our Troops. And may they also be able to take a long, slow, and deep breath of fresh air today.

JB

Nano Returns in November

Nano, short for Nanowrimo, short for National Novel Writing Month, is month after next. Wannabe writers, and real writers across the earth are busy preparing for November is the month they will begin writing stories that, if completed and awarded as 'winners,' will contain a minimum of 50,000 words; it will require approximately 1,700 new words per day.

It's a hair-pulling experience.

You start out not knowing for sure where you're going, you get discouraged, you pull out paper and pencil and begin outlining the plot, you spend untold hours in coffee shops, libraries, personal desks, kitchen tables, sitting in your car in the park, scribbling ideas about where the story is going. Will she be held hostage, killed, taken to the boat ramps in the park and raped, or will she go to college and learn how to design skirts?

Will he find her under a bridge, emaciated, hungry, strung out on meth; or will he find her at a local dance club where only salsa dancing is allowed; or will he meet her in the morgue, on a table? Minor details, but details that will snake the story toward it's major plot points.

Then you take your notes to your computer and begin writing. Writing slop, writing crap, writing stuff that you had no idea lurked in your head. Your characters begin to live inside you, you wonder what they had for breakfast, or if they slept til noon cranked out on last night's escapades.

You review your plot notes and start writing again. The characters take their own approach to problem solving; she was tied to the bed, her ankles and wrists duct-taped to the ropes that held her, she was cold and naked. You weren't sure what was going to happen, then HE comes back and surprise, suprise . . . she escapes. You slap your head, you had no idea she was going to find a way to get away.

Does she go to the cops? Does she hide in the bushed near the elementary school, cold and looking for something to cover her naked body? If she goes there, does she lose consciousness? Will she be discovered by first graders chasing one another before school starts? What? Decisions, decisions, then you find out she doesn't go the school, she steps out on I-5 and flags down a sheriff's car.

Then it happens. The story begins to write itself. Amazed, you keep your fingers whizzing across the keyboard because you can't wait to find out what will happen next.

It's like this all month. Your wife is a stranger lurking in the shadows. She stays away, your kids don't exist, you eat tacos and bologna sandwiches and peanut butter covered crackers. Mustard falls on your keyboard, gets on your fingers but you don't notice until hours later when it has crusted on the "alt" key because you never use that one anyway. Your desk is littered with coffee cups, beer cans, diet-coke cans, platters, used napkins, pencils, papers, a bottle of brandy, and stuff you don't remember putting there. You butt hurts, but the story rolls on. The 30th is just four, three, two, weeks away.

Then it begins to come together, the knife arrives in Seattle, as scheduled weeks ago in a spiral notebook in Barnes and Noble. The protagonist bought the knife at a swap meet on Capital Hill, he likes old knives, little does he know this one survived Antietam over a hundred years ago.

The president will arriving on Pike Street in a matter of minutes.

Roll on, nanowrimer, roll on.

Jim

Sofie, the Queen of Oakland

Always wanted to write a novel, but had no knowledge about how one goes about doing such a thing. Over the past few years I've learned alot about story-telling, studied writing, and have written a few pieces, many on my hard drive - a few made it to online e-zines. For a while I belonged to a group of online writers at the Writer's University. It was exhilarating and along with writing, I found you can actually make friends online; then I joined another online writer's group at zoetrope.com and learned about how to create an entire story in 600, or less, words. It was fun, but eventually both groups disentegrated after a while. While on this journey of discovery, I also found a place online called the National Novel Writing Month, aka, Nanowrimo.

Nanowrimo was started about six years ago by a writer in Oakland, California. He wanted to create a place online where real writers and wannabe writers, like me, could write a novel in one month: November. Winners at Nano write novels consisting of at least 50,000 words; about 1,700 per day. The motto at Nano is this: "It's not the quality of the writing that counts, it's the quantity."

The purpose is to turn off one's internal editor, don't "fix" anything, just keep going and going and going until you hit 50,000, minimum. Upon completion what you have is a seminal piece of very rough writing that can be honed into something better. I liken it to the 17 ton slab of granite Michelangelo used to carve out his statue of David.

I've participated, and completed in three of the past four years at Nano. My first was a story about a beauty queen, mentioned below; the second was about a young, single mother from Serbia trying to survive on the streets of Seattle only to be kidnapped and held hostage; the third was about the journey a hunting knife takes from the mid-18th century in England to the National Museum of History in Washington D.C.

Today, August 22, 2006, I finally put the finishing touches on the first story I wrote at Nano in 2003, Sofie, the Queen of Oakland, and sent it off to the publisher. It's a story of how a sexually abused beauty queen from the 1920's, and a modern day prisoner communicate through a time-warp to solve a serial-murder case over 60 years old.

Here's an excerpt:

"Events in our daily lives often go without explanation. Are there really UFO's from outer space? Is it prayer, or coincidence, that sometimes causes diseases to simply, go away?

How telegraphed messages from a machine switched in the 'off' position could be received in an email inbox, sixty-some years later, is a mystery no doubt caused by some incomprehensible change wrought by some imperceptible event in the vast and infinitesimal universe. Maybe a black hole in a distant galaxy belched. Maybe it was a sunspot gone bad.

Whatever it was, it worked far better than anyone would have imagined."

The book will be available for purchase soon from The Gray Shoe Publishers at lulu.com.

Former Students' Class Reunion

What an absolute joy to be invited to former students' class reunions. It seems every summer I get one or two invites to attend from the classes 1970 - 1986: the years I was a classroom teacher at Prosser High School in Prosser, WA.

Tonight I was the guest speaker at the 20th reunion of the Prosser High School, class of '86. These were special people to me, as they were the last class I had the opportunity to teach. I have vivid memories of the last day of their classes. I stood next to the door and said goodbye to them, knowing that this may never happen to me again; that is, have classes to say goodbye to at the end of the year.

By the time this class got to me, I had been teaching general biology five times a day for sixteen years. If I never had to explain again how a cell divided, or how an enzyme works, it would be fine with me. I loved teaching, but I had grown beyond tired of my subject matter. I told them that tonight and they were surprised. Many told me later that I had done a wonderful job of hiding my "burn-out," because they thought I loved biology. The fact was, I needed a new challenge and I had decided it was administration.

Once school was out, I knew I had to make a decision regarding applying for an administrative role as assistant principal, or not. Though it was one of the hardest things I have ever done; I accepted a position in a different high school for the next year - and left Prosser High School.

These kids were great tonight. When I told them they are right now the same age I was that year we spent together, there was great oohing, and awing, and gasping. I was genuinely surprised at their reaction.

I wish each and every one of them the best that life has to offer.

Jim

Does Every Cloud Have a Silvery Lining?

We were diagnosed with breast cancer in June. Lois' surgery went well, and the prognosis is good. We just completed our second week of twelve weeks of scheduled chemotherapy: she hasn't lost any hair, she hasn't been nauseated, she hasn't been fatigued.

You can check our the blog titled, 'Update for Lois,' here.

Oh, and yes, we believe all clouds have silvery linings!

El Cinco de Julio

Last night, on the eve of July 4th, I took my wife, daughter, son and grandson to watch the fireworks overlooking the Columbia River. It was one of those comfortably warm summer evenings, with a clear sky overhead and storm clouds filled with lightning off in the far northern distance. We walked a couple of blocks to the edge of the hill which overlooks the Columbia River and the wide municipal park below, and watched with the thousands of other people who had gathered there.

I always enjoy celebrating the Fourth. Our family doesn't have any particularly well-defined traditions other than to have a nice dinner, usually off the grill, and then we watch the fireworks. Many times we have chosen to watch the PBS broadcast of the Boston Pops playing American tunes with the firework display in the background. Then there was the year in Sequim when we went down to the football field and watched the scrawniest of all fireworks displays ever.

One year in Port Angeles we watched a spectacular display presented from the long dock there, that extends into the harbor. The reflections of the fireworks across the still waters still resonate in my memory.

Last night, as I stood as a proud American feeling the booms; and I thought about what it must feel like to be shooting the real thing at the enemy in the distance while they volley their bombs back at us. I've never been in a combat situation, but I have friends and family members who have. I thought about how our countrymen responded to the call that the "British are coming, the British are coming," and I thought about the Civil War battle sites my son and I visited a few years ago. And I thought about how the freedom I have to say what I want, and do what I want, and pursue the dreams I have in a free society, are in thanks to the men and women who fought those fights and the many of them who died carrying out their duties. I thanked God for our country and what it means to those of us fortunate enough to call it "home."

Then I heard excitement - people talking about what they were watching. Little of what I heard was understandable; it wasn't English I was hearing. I wondered what does all this mean to those people? Do they understand the significance of our Independence Day?

I found myself wanting to shout, "Viva los Estados Unidos," and "Este dia es mas importante por los Estados Unidos y por todo del mundo!" I don't know if that's the correct way to say it, and I don't know if they would even understand, but according to what I remember of my high school Spanish, it means, "This day is the commemoration of the most important day in the history of the United States as well as all the world."

I heard laughter and joy. Together, all of us pointed to the beautiful colors tossed by small rockets against the darkened sky and the distant lightning strikes far to the north. We expressed joy; but how many of them understand? How many of them simply know it as the day before "el cinco de Julio?"

Memorial Day: 2006

Just before the alarm clock went off at 6 am, I awoke to the cooing of a mourning dove breaking the silence outside my bedroom window. Normally I don't set my alarm clock. I wake up between 6:30 and 7:00 am every morning. This morning I wanted to get an early start.

The chrysanthemums sat over night on the dining room table: yellow, red, burgundy, and lavendar. There were six of them, waiting for their early morning delivery to the cemeteries: today is Memorial Day.

One basket was delivered to the grave of T. Lynn. T lost his life on a gun boat in Viet Nam. I knew T, he was a casual friend of mine. When I heard he was killed in VN, I nearly collapsed. The last I had seen him had been the summer before when he and I took an algebra class together at the local community college.

Two other baskets were delivered to my father and my father-in-law. Clint was my father-in-law and he was Army during the war. He didn't see service overseas but worked as a physical therapist for the injured boys back in the states. My father wasn't in the service, though he was of the age. He was the head of his household and the military wouldn't take him. He worked in the shipyards of Oakland, California, repairing wounded battle ships and destroyers limping back from the Pacific theatre of war.

My wife's grandparents received a basket of chrysanthemums, as did my old friend John. John has been dead since June 13th of 1969. Before he was taken he lost his two year old daughter, Julia Dawn, to spinal meningitus earlier in the same year. She also got a basket of flowers. I don't think there is anyone left here to visit her grave, so I go there a few times each year. I was a pall-bearer at her funeral and I remember. It is so hard to believe she would be 39 years old this year.

Later today we had family over for a barbecue. We had barbecued salmon, shrimp from Key West Florida, oysters, fried okra, potatoes and potato salad, and lots of veggies and cakes.

Now, as the day winds down, I hear the mourning dove. She is sitting on the neighbor's roof out my window and the forlorn nature of her call, reminds of the many we no longer have to visit and laugh with. May they all rest in peace.

The DaVinci Code

Dan Brown touched our collective "Jesus nerve" when, using his incredible imagination, he put together a fictional story based so closely on historical fact that Maylasia (I think it was Malaysia) banned the movie, and Christians and Catholics world-wide are meeting and discussing what to do about it.

Brown said, "everyone knows the best Hollywood offers writers is disappointment, but this time they got it right." If he liked it, I choose to respect the intelluctual property he crafted, as well as Ron "Opie" Howard's movie.

Movies are never as good as the book they come from. It isn't possible. I remember being spellbound by Steinbeck's "Cannery Row" when I first read it many years ago. A movie could never, ever, come close to presenting the images I have in my mind of Ol' Doc, and the boys, and the places where they hung out. I decided upon completing the book to never see the movie, if it was ever made. Eventually Hollywood came out with its version. I think Nick Nolte was the main character; I did not see the movie, and never will.

With The DaVinci Code, however, all the locales are real places and when I heard Ron Howard was filming in those locations, I knew I had to see what he produced.

We saw the movie this afternoon. I thought Ian McKewan stole the show, Tom Hanks was flat, and Audrey was wonderful eye candy. Having been to all the locations (except Rosslyn Chapel), including Newton's tomb in Westminster, I got the thrill I wanted watching them stand in the spots I've been.

April 18th

April 18th: Our first child, Brooke, was born 29 years ago today. It was a Monday, and I remember the events of the day so vividly: it feels real today - the labor, we should probably go back to the hospital - embarassing, my wife thought - after the false alarm last Friday, but we had no choice. She labored hard that day, grunting, pushing, and perspiring. Her hair was askew and uncharacteristically, she didn't care; she was sweet, and innocent, and vulnerable and determined, and with a grip that I've always known left my fingerprints in the metal bar alongside her bed.

Into the birthing room with a cadre of people in "scrubs," including me, the father, ignorant of most, but wanting so much to participate: more labor, and excrutiatingly hard pushes; then there she was: bluish, shiny, still connected to her mother and screaming like a banshee. Quickly disconnected, and wiped down like a new car on a spring day, she was put in a blanket, and layed across her mother to begin the bonding that would lead to the many years of love and care that her mother would give her. The picture a nurse took shows how happy we were to have such a precious bundle of joy to bring into our lives.

Today, Brooke is married to James and together they have given us three beautiful grandchildren and a step-grand daughter. Each of these children too, were precious bundles of joy when they were born and we couldn't love anything, or anyone, more than we do Brooke and her family.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BROOKE!

Dad

Reclamation

The bird's wing was broken
And he struggled to re-gain flight.
Stuck in a corner, lined with brick,
His chances of flying again were slim.

She's a large, middle-aged woman
And she thinks of becoming a nurse.
She has four kids at home, and
A tired husband who is leaving.

With no employable skills but the minimum,
She's gone back to college.
In my sessions she sits,
Red hair frazzled,
Colored pens stuck in pockets on her back pack,
Notes strung out on her desk.

Her questions bely her secret,
She doesn't understand molecular biology.
The pace is killing her dreams,
We covered two chapters in three hours.
And like the bird with the broken wing,
She struggles to re-gain her life.

Only the bird is childless.

Title Change

The title of the blog was changed today from Word Sketches and Stuff, to Cherokee Journal. This is more fitting and proper. I will try to honor the title and all the nuances it blankets.

NPR

I do not subscribe to National Public Radio's political bent, but I do enjoy letting it set the ambience in my home. With the volume turned low, soft voices and music provide a gentle ambience for reading, writing, drawing, painting, or conversing, and the 'message' stays quiet. Well, except for "Click and Clack" who can easily destroy a nice Saturday morning.

Vacation - Summer 2005

Summer quarter ended Friday, August 12th, and Fall quarter begins on September 20th. I want to make everyday matter during this time frame, so I'm going to post my activities for each of these days on this blog.

August 11th - Lois and I drove up to her mother's cabin on White Pass. We did some yard work, invited the neighbors next door over for barbecued chicken (it's been a while since I cooked with briquets, it was deliscious.

August 12th - I got up first, around 7am, fixed myself some coffee, went outside to enjoy the fresh air and watch a four bunny-rabbits eating some grass and wallow in the dirt. Lois and Boots fixed a tasty breakfast of pancakes, fried eggs, and bacon with orange juice; it "hit the spot." Afterwards, we took a long walk across the highway into the forest. It was uphill all the way and I was impressed with Boots' stamina. She's quite the trooper. On our way back we stopped in the little store there by the cabins and chatted with the proprietor (Debbie?) who later came down to Boots' cabin and looked at some of my sketch books and mini-portfolios. After lunch, Lois and I drove back to the tri-cities.

August 13th - The biggest activity today was the Life Drawing session I went to at CBC. There's a group of artists/sketchers/etc. who meet on a monthly basis to draw from live models. We go from 10am to noon, have an hour for lunch, then come back for the afternoon sessin from 1 to 3pm. Our morning model is an older woman, she said she just turned 74. Her name is Katherine. Our afternoon model is Sarah, and she poses nude. I'll attach a couple of the sketches here.

August 14th - Discovered my irrigation system is malfunctioning. That's not really a good thing when the temperatures are running in the high 90's and low 100's. It's just the first two legs, I think a valve is stuck. I'm going to call the manufacturer tomorrow at their help line and see if I can get it working again. I mowed the lawn today, Lois vacuumed and mopped the hardwood floors, then I put a protective layer of shine on them. I think we're going to watch a movie in a little while, "Beyond the Sea," on pay on demand.

August 15th - Didn't get much done today, but the highlight was when I called Toro to talk with them about my irrigation sprinkler system. They provide a free 1-800 number and their service is beyond excellent. The man I talked with knew all about the hydraulic to electronic exchange I use and while he was telling me how to swap some wires in my controller, the unit that the two wires from the two legs that had quit working, fell out. It had become unplugged. I plugged it in, tested the two legs and voila! they worked. What I thought would take most of the day turned out to take about 5 minutes.

There was other good news today, though. Derik's doctor called and his cholesterol level has dropped to 143! It was over 200 a few months ago.

I have ordered a new Toyota Tacoma pick-up truck through Auto Solutions at GESA credit union (Marci). It was supposed to come in last Friday, but it isn't here yet. We are not happy with this, but what can you do? We were planning on driving it down to Ashland on Wednesday, the 17th.

August 16th - My mother bought a new house today. She's been in the house she lives in since 1957. This wasn't an easy move for her, but she finally decided that the yard my dad took such great pride in, in too much for her to maintain. She bought in Canyon Lakes, non-contingent. The sale will close September 30th. Looks like she and our daughter and son-in-law will be moving at about the same time. Good thing I bought a new pick up; hope it's here by then.

We watched Izaiah at his soccer practice this morning. He sure has a lot to tell the coaches and other players. He's a great little guy. We're so proud of him and proud to have him in the family.

We had lunch today at The Olive Garden. Mom picked up the tab for Lois and I, my sister and her son, Kevin. Mom wanted to take care of us, since we had just left the realtors office where she made her first offer. While we were eating lunch the realtor called to say she was recommending mom change her offer from contingency to non-contingency and to raise her offer to full price. There was another offer coming in at 3pm. Mom called about 6 pm saying she had "won." I think she was excited, now we just hope she survives the "buyer's remorse" phase.

Lois and I leave for Ashland tomorrow. I'll write more about it later. Maybe the truck will come in tomorrow morning before we leave. It's an 8 hour drive so we want to leave no later than about 11 am.

"Joe" Slated for Summer Show

This painting has been selected by the juror for entry into the Summer Celebration Show at the Allied Arts Gallery in Richland, WA. The image is one I created from an old photo of my grandfather, Joe Brown. He was an unusually kind-hearted, hard-working man who made a positive difference in many lives. In the late 80's he was posthumously awarded, by the governor of Oklahoma, an award for being one of the pioneers in the trucking industry in that state. He and my grandmother raised 11 children, all of whom became highly responsible and productive people. The painting shows him with a stern face, at first that bothered me, but then I got to thinking. Raising that many kids and running a large, successful business probably caused him more than one headache. For me the construction of the painting brought me closer to him than I think anything could. My memories of him are from my boyhood, and they are warm and very pleasant things to have. See you at the show, Grandad.

Our Adventure into Oregon Trail Country

June 16, 2005



(The stamp is dated correctly. I got it the next day when we visited the Whitman Mission near Walla Walla, WA.)

Pendleton, Oregon

Lois and I pulled up stakes this afternoon and drove south into Oregon. The drive is about an hour to Pendleton where we have found a Bed and Breakfast for the evening. It’s the Parker House and it’s just a short skip and a hop up the north hill from downtown.




The proprietor is Sandy Parker (no, I didn't get a picture of her, but should have) She purchased this old home 11 years ago from the Rogers family.




L. L. Rogers came out west on the Oregon Trail with his mother, father and five siblings. According to Ms. Parker, his father died on the trail and the mother was left with the kids. They homesteaded in northeastern Oregon. L. L. met his wife when they went to school in Westin, he later introduced peas into the area and built his fortune from them. L. L. Rogers owned and operated canneries in Walla Walla where the peas were processed and shipped out.

The Rogers’ decided to build their home in Pendleton. It is four floors with 6,000 square feet, and has the look and feel of late American 19th/early 20th century with strong hints of Italian design and details generally not found in modern homes: detailed trimming, columns with a Corinthian “feel” support the opening into the living room from the entry-way where the stairs lead to the bedrooms on the two upper floors (see my sketch of this room below, or here), curved handrailing, ornate and large fireplace, hinged windows framed in circle fashion at the top with heavy and ornate window treatments, a large dining room with an a large and old table that would have sat a large family to dinner, a porch running the entire width of the home across the front (where we lost count of the number of cats lounging in the chairs), and a very small kitchen where a modern cooking range and micro-wave have taken the place of the wood burning stove that no doubt boiled many a pea.

Here's a sketch I did of looking from my seat in front of the ornate fireplace looking back across the room to the front door. Note the columns.




Ms. Parker bought the house as a bed and breakfast in 1994, and named it the Parker House. Working for United Airlines for many years, she became familiar with the Parker House in Boston and always figured if ever she purchased her dream B and B, she would name it such. She said it simply has a “nice feel” to it. We agree. She figures once she surpasses the twelfth year she will hold the record, at least in this area, for single ownership of B and B’s.

Friday morning we arose to a wonderful German Pancake breakfast featuring apples, cinnamon, Ms. Parker's special sauce, orange juice, sausage links, and coffee. While she didn't eat, she did join us for our breakfast and we had a delightful conversation.

Afterwards, we walked literally a "stone's throw" down the street to look at the First Christian Church and the Pendleton Art Gallery just across the street from the church.




While looking at it I noticed the stained glass, so we went looking for an unlocked entry. The temporary secretary we found in the office was very gracious and walked us down the short hall where we entered the sanctuary and marveled at the beautiful light coming through these windows.




The church was built in 1909 after the first, constructed in 1853, was consumed by fire.

The art gallery was interesting. I talked with the proprietor about the gallery and the possibility of holding a show there (I told Lois, I don't know whether I'm just brave or totally stupid thinking these galleries are interested in my elementary attempts at art..) Anyway, she got my mailing address and will send some "stuff."

We left Pendleton and headed toward Walla Walla. The drive is a short one following along the majestic foothills of the Blue Mountains and field after field of wheat, barely, and peas.

In Walla Walla we walked along the two or three blocks along Main street where the many wineries have their tasting rooms (visit this virtual wine tasting room), and where there are some art galleries. We didn't do much wine tasting as it was mid-day and wine makes us both so sleepy.

We drove down to Pioneer Park and had a nice lunch beneath the huge sycamore trees near the band stand. My parents used to love to come to this park and it brought back some very fond memories being there again. The trees weren't nearly so huge 35 years ago when we brought my grandmother here. Just as we were leaving the park, rain began to fall. It about 20 minutes Walla Walla was scrubbed clean by this unusual hard rainfall, then the sun reappeared and the air was fresh enough to want to bottle it and take it home.




Driving west from Walla Walla one soon comes upon the Whitman Mission. It deserves space here as it is not only an historical place of interest, but also of importance to out development as a country.

I didn't take any pictures here, wish I had, but I did try to capture some of the spirit of the place with my graphite pencil and moleskine sketchbook. I hopw you enjoy them.




The mortar and pestle were generally used to grind hardened materials into something more soft and pliable, like a flour like substance. The corn stalk represents what the Whitman's were trying to teach the Indians, and the pond is still there. The water powered the grinding mill the Whitman's used to produce larger quantities of flour.




The old Oregon Trail grooves can be seen along the pathway where the settlers from the east pulled into the mission, and the blacksmits's shop is still outlined in the grounds.

As more and more European settlers traveled through the region, they brought measles with them. The Indians, especially the Cayuse, were fatally suseptible having no acquired immunities like the Europeans had. When the death rate reached 50% in the Cayuse population, the powder keg of suspicion and finger-pointing erupted and the Whitmans, along with 11 other people were massacred. The fear created by the massacre pushed the development of the Pacific Northwest back for decades as many missionaries and others left the country and headed back east.




Leaving the Whitman Mission grounds, we drove to Lowden where we pulled in to a winery, but it was closed. Rather than pull back out onto the main road, we took the country road north out of Lowden and drove through the beautiful rolling hills toward the Snake River which were covered mostly in alfalfa and wheat. The sky was beautifully filled with small cumulus puffs and the surrounding sky was as blue as any you've ever seen. It was a perfect drive on into the Tri-Cities and home for some grilled steak and baked potatoes.

We'll be heading out again soon. Stay posted.

The Old Shipyard

When we lived on the west side of the state we frequently drove past the Naval Shipyards in Bremerton, WA. I couldn't help have the following thoughts when we did:


The old shipyard is not what it was,
The first thing you see is the men are gone,
then you notice the ships that are in dock don't have gun turrets, or canons.
Those men, many young, my father was eighteen,
were protected from the draft,
their services too important for the effort called "war."
It was their hands that laid the steel beams,
the skin,
the guns,
the canons,
the electrical and plumbing,
and the final pat when the job was done,
with hands weary of hard yet determined work.
Today we lift our eyes to the heavens,
and thank those who served in the armed forces, in peace time and war,
who fought and planned and preserved our freedoms,
to those who have passed on.
But we don't have room in our day of thanks for the others,
those who worked in the homeland support structures, like
ship builders,
tank builders,
ammunition builders,
aircraft builders.
People who's lives were changed by the circumstances of the war,
who went to work for the war effort,
people who's sons, fathers, brothers fought across the seas
to protect our way of life.
In the old shipyard today there's a new building,
it houses a memorial to all the
Rosie the Riveters
who worked in the aircraft plants.
My mother was one of them.
She tossed rivets on the wings of DC-6's
in Oklahoma City.
She knew the value of her work,
and she imagined each and every airplane off
the assembly line
were aircraft one of her four brothers
who were overseas would, in some way,
touch.
My father worked in the old shipyard,
he built new warships and
repaired those old battle weary behemouths
lucky enough to find safe waters
in San Francisco Bay.
He worked there as an eighteen year old,
who was the head of household for his
mother, one brother and sister.
When he was twenty-two he called my mother and
invited her to join him in marriage
in California.
I was born two years later.

"On Track" selected for Juried Show

This painting was selected as an entry into the "Anuual Juried Show and Regional Exhibition" at the Allied Arts Gallery in Richland, WA for May of 2005.

"From California to the Midwest, over 150 entries were received for the Anuual Juried Show Exhibition. Richard Andrews, a world traveler with a Master's degree in Art History, and himself a painter in pastels and acrylics, served as the Juror for this show. He has also served as the director of several art galleries, has organized other competitions and art fairs, teaches advanced students, and is a certified art appraiser. Living in Seattle, he is the editor of an art newsletter and an expert regarding the current art scenes around the United States."

Mr. Andrews' comments regarding "On Track" were very favorable. He said some paintings look like watercolor, but "this one," he said, "looks like metal." Other favorable comments included the composition, the feeling of a great deal of weight coming down from above, the total use of every square inch of of the surface available, and the accompished technical skill involved it the creation.

Afterwards I told him this was my first entry into a show, and that I had only been painting for about 4 years, he said, "I know people who've been painting in watercolor for more than thirty years who couldn't paint this picture."

I'm inspired.

The Little Bird

Poetry beginnings:

Nature provides an excellent choice of metaphoric materials for comparisons to everyday life situations. Sherman Alexie talks in a poem of how a robin banging it’s head into a window might be the “spirit” of his father. Inspired by the rhythms of the language in his poetry, and the voice inflections that layer the emotions of the words he weaves into the poem, I wrote one tying the need for perfection in nature to the human condition of my son. Here it is:




The little male bird returned first,
that cold spring morning on the beach,
with a piece of colored paper in his beak.
Before nightfall the colored paper,
along with hundreds of twigs,
strings,
and other colorful objects,
hopefully would be tightly woven,
into an architecturally perfected nest.

Tomorrow his lady would arrive and he knew she would be expecting nothing less.

In years past,
as soon as she landed,
she would inspect the nest,
and if it met her approval,
she would signal him,
and they would prance on the beach,
and dance on the tops of clouds.

Later they would snuggle in the nest,
and keep each other warm during the cool spring nights.

She would lay her eggs,
and incubate them until her babies hatched;
while he foraged for food,
and brought it back to their wide,
and hungry mouths.

At day break she arrives and finds him heavily involved in his constructions,
he's been working all night,
the nest isn't finished.
She notices a broken leg hanging loose beside his good one.
The nest is messy,
disheveled.

Her heart is broken.

Frantic,
but overjoyed to see her,
he tries to hide his pain,
and he feels his heart weigh heavy,
while waiting for her signal of approval.

The pain will keep him from prancing on the beach,
or reaching the tops of the clouds.

Mystically programmed for mate perfection,
for the sake of her children,
she stays a while,
then her biological clock tugs her,
pulls her,
screams at her,

and she flies away.

Like the female bird watches her mate,
I watch my son struggle,
too.
It isn’t a broken leg,
or arm,
or other physical affliction,
He doesn’t do drugs, or alcohol, or cigarettes;
but he takes medication,
in industrial-strength dosages.
Dosages that hopefully calm his mind,
so he can think,
and plan,
and conduct regular daily affairs.

He sleeps sometimes for more than 14 hours,
while those same,
mystical forces,
work on him.

He wants a companion,
someone to share life with,
someone to build a nest with,
and prance of the beach,
and fly on the clouds with.

He chats online with women,
who sometimes go to movies,
and get pizza with him,
but soon,
they see his imperfection;
then,

they fly away.

The little nest rolls empty across the sand,
and on a distant fence pole,
standing brave on one good leg,
with the wind whipping his feathers about,
the little male bird watches the empty next blow across the sand,
then with a sad and heavy heart,
he turns away,
and leaps into the wind.


There’s a poignancy here. I heard the story of the little birds from a zoology professor, about 15 years before my son’s birth. When I heard the story, it touched me. The story reinforces what we already know about the ferocity of nature to preserve itself, perfectly. The “mystical program” is dna and it is far more fierce and cold-hearted than what we want to admit.

Spring and Baseball cont.

The student I was supposed to work this this hour is a "no show." I'm sitting in the HUB at the college, in the "quiet" room where approxiamately 20 people are in various stages of studying, eating lunch, or in my case, goofing off. Actually, I think I'm the only one not with my nose in a book. Why should I? I have a master's degree from a major university; this is a community college. I know it all, right? Sure, yeah, that's it.

We're beginning to get some sunshine. Winter in eastern Washington is a rather lengthy affair with it's cloud covers and cold winds. In the spring time the clouds turn to huge, heavy, cumulus monoliths that drift slowly overhead, creating patches of sunlight that brighten our days and our spirits.

I love sunshine; but then who doesn't? I've never heard anyone say, "Hey, give me one of those gray, cloud covered days!" Well, maybe some drug-crazed hippy type. Why does George Carlin come to mind?

"Yeah, man, I'm like really into those cold, gray clouded days where everybody walks around looking at the ground watching their shoes get wet and muddy. Yeah, give me one of those man."

So anyway, I'm looking out the windows and that's what I see: white cumulus clouds hanging over the Horse Heaven Hills in the distance, occasional sunshine breaking through and lighting up the grass on the campus lawn, trees budding, flowers blooming, a reawakening right before my eyes. And of course that brings my mind to baseball.

I keep thinking someday I would like to study the metaphors in baseball. My theory is that baseball could never have been invented in any country but this one where our democratic ideals have led to fairness and taking turns; where rugged individuals and rugged individualism forged our way through the west in the 17th and 18th centuries and into the world in the 19th; where opportunity abounds at every turn and our individual abilities, skills, talents, and preparedness allow us to take advantage of them, and if we find ourselves stuck, our collective/democratic team-society helps us move forward.

We can also fail, we can strike out, we can get thrown out at the bases. In a free and democratic society there are no guarantees that hard work will bring success, but without hard work, no one makes it home.

Fascinating stuff.

The Artist I Met Today

At an art sale today I met Don James, a former WWII photographer, artist and true American Hero. Mr. James flew missions over Italy and Austria serving as a photographer taking pictures for the armed services to assess bombing destruction after these raids. On his 48th mission, Mr. James' plane, a B-24 Liberator, was shot down. He survived the crash only to serve the next 17 months as a prisoner of war in the Stalag 1 and Stalag 2 camps in Poland.

He had other paintings I liked better, but after hearing his story while holding this print of his "Raid on Polesti" in hand, I had to have it!

 


Attacks on Polesti in 1944 cost more than 252 bombers and 39 fighters. More than 2,200 American airmen were shot down and taken prisoner.

"Labs and Long-Weekends"

For a retired guy, Thursdays have become a challenge. Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, are good days because I start here at the college at 8 am and finish close to noon: perfect. Thursdays though bring a two hour lab in the middle of the afternoon: not so perfect. The day runs from 8 am until 4 pm: long sucker, sorta like the old days when on Fridays I would go from 7 am until oftentimes after midnight. Nothing like Friday night high school sports and dances that follow.....ugh!

So anyway, right now it's Thursday and I'm sitting in the college's library, without my laptop, but on one of their machines (I'm impressed with the speed . . . but I guess all computers are fast these days). Anyway, I'm killing time between the morning sessions and this mid-afternoon one. It startes in about 30 minutes so I guess I've been finding some interesting stuff to take my time: worked on my schedule and change it so it fits better with the college wants me to do; did a little research into "motor proteins," and read my Sketches and Stuff blog.

Fridays are the best day of the week, just like they always have been. I don't work at all on Fridays, so every weekend is a long one. Not that I'm whining or anything, this position here at the college is perfect, just perfect for an old retired guy.

Noveling Thoughts re: Egon

Mourning Woman: Egon Schiele


Egon Schiele’s story is available, but I’m not aware of it being so in novel form. To put his story in novel form would require a great deal of research and imagination. The research would include Europe in pre-Word War I times, specifically Austria and more specifically, Vienna; and the art world’s reactions to Shiele’s works.

Some of the research yields a city presenting itself in a refined and somewhat “glitzy” urban setting, while hiding it’s dreary underbelly of unemployed and homeless people ecking out desperate lives literally beneath the cities view in tunnels and other hiding places.

Egon was born in 1896 and lived his entire life in this urban milieu split between the upper and abject lower levels of the social spectrum of the city.

Novelizing his story presents a number of interesting problems. The story could be told from a number of points of view: his, an associate’s, a lover’s, a stranger’s. It might also revolve around a present day character whose life is changed in response to Schiele.

Depending upon the research available, which I believe is sparse, fictionalized accounts would probably flourish. The issue of a script, or a novel needs consideration as each presents strengths and weaknesses regarding the effectiveness of the story.

The overall point of view is important also: first person, second person, etc.

The setting: Vienna, the boyhood home,

The mood: Connects with Egon’s parents (what work did he/they do?), the city itself, the influences of Egon (Klimt, et. al.), Egon’s response to these influences would drive his story . . . obviously.

The plot: Three acts: Ordinary world, Conflict, Conclusion.

The characters: Egon, his wife, Klimt, a present day individual, or individuals.

Thoughts about plot: at the end of Act I, a crossing of a threshold occurs. He would be presented with a significant problem, one he would resist at first, but would come to accept. Maybe it’s the decision to be a controversial artist, maybe it’s something partially fictionalized, something to do with the changing political scene that led to war, or some other agent of change working in his world. His works should reflect whatever forces are pushing him and the plot: believability is important, even though the source may be manufactured.

Decisions and Space

Yesterday was the first day of spring quarter at the college. My decision for this quarter involved working with students in Bio Sci 105 (cellular biology), or 221 (anatomy and physiology). In an earlier post I discussed the pros and cons of each and my ambivalence towards the two classes. The decision has been made and I've attended the course of choice twice now - today being Tuesday. Which course, you ask? The 105 class - the one that starts at 8am. Yawwwwwwn.

The good news is I learned yesterday that I worked enough hours during the winter quarter to qualify for benefits: medical and dental. We dropped our dental coverage since I retired in 1998 because the medical insurance premium has more than doubled since and we're paying close to $800/month. For identical coverage through the college, it will cost $53, and that includes dental. Not a bad raise!!

The class is taught by the same instructor, but is approximately half the size of the last class. We're in a much smaller classroom and I find myself scrunched up against the wall at a small table.

The odd thing is this: the college hired me to provide instructional support to these students but they didn't allocate a place for us to work. Last quarter I found a couple of lab rooms that were available when we needed them. This quarter the labs are in session on Mondays and Wednesdays, but not on Tuesdays or Thursdays, so I filled out a facility usage form today locking in two hours on Tuesday and Thursdays. Rather than get in a support session a day, I'll be conducting two sessions on Tuesday and Thursdays instead.

Well, not much to add today.

Easter and the Family Brunch

Easter Sunday:

As a child I remember little about Easter except when I was about 3 or 4 there was a parade and it was an Easter parade. We lived in California then, so it was probably in Port Chicago (which no longer exists), or Martinez, where I was born. I also remember some Easter egg hunts, somewhere. I think the one I remember the most was in the front yard at my grandparents near Hennepin. There may have been Easter egg hunts when we lived in Cactus too, I just don't remember. I do know that after we moved to Washington state, there was never any Easter celebrations, with the exception of my sister having Easter eggs to find. I might have even been involved in some Easter egg coloring sessions; they were fun.

My wife brought the real Easter into my life. Her family always did special things on that day. Church, Easter Baskets, and a sort of "gift in the morning" thing from the Easter bunny.

This morning we collected with others from Boots' church (my mother-in-law) on the banks of the mighty Columbia River for sunrise services. It's become a family tradition for Boots and her daughters and their husbands (I'm one) to do this. This morning was our third, but my sister-in-law, her husband, and in former times, their children have been accompanying my mother-in-law to these sunrise services for years.

A thin layer of fog covered the river from bank to bank under a clouded sky, and the light touch of moisture in the air softened our programs while we sang "In the Garden," listened to a few words from the pastor, had communion, and a small amount of fellowship with people I don't know.

Afterwards we drove home, and my wife put the finishing touches on an Easter brunch she had prepared for about 20 people who were expected to start arriving at 10:30. It was a wonderful brunch and everyone enjoyed themselves, especially the children who got toys and chocolates for Easter.

Egon Schiele, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain

Recently an online acquaintance posted some sketches of her interpretations of a relatively unknown artist, Egon Schiele (ai-gone-sheila). Shiele was Austrian born in 1890, and later became a part of the rarified atmosphere of turn-of-the-century Vienna. Sigmund Freud, and writers Kraus and Schnitzler, artists Gustav Klimt and Shiele,and architects Wagner,Loos,and Hoffman, among many, were alive and working in Vienna at the time. All were involved in what became monumental shifts in societal direction coming out the nineteenth into the twentieth century. At that time, Vienna was perhaps one of the last bastions of a kind of free thought and expression that disappeared after the war, and is therefore, in retrospect, a place in time of fascination and wonder.

Alex Huxley said this about Schiele, "The Austrian Expressionist painter Egon Schiele (1890-1918) died when he was only 28 and we do not really know whether he would have developed from the self-pitying adolescent angst that was the main theme of his work. Self-Portrait (1910; 110 x 35.5 cm (43 x 14 1/4 in)),however, is a most moving theme in itself: a pathetic and yet powerful exposure of Schiele's vulnerability. He is mere skin and bone, not yet fully there as a person. He has outlined his body with a glowing line of white to indicate to us both his sense of imprisonment and his limitations: notice how his arm disappears almost at the elbow-- yet paradoxically it also suggests growth and potential. He is an unhappy, scrawny youth, the wild and exaggerated expanse of pubic hair perhaps indicating the center of his unhappiness. It may seem too individualistic a view, yet in his hysterical way he is expressing the fears and doubts of many young people. He is wonderful, unsettling, and strangely innocent."

Egon Schiele, "Self Portrait."



Egon Schiele, an expressionist, developed in his paintings a sense of loss and despair which characterized the underside of the "joie de vivre" in Vienna. His subjects were lost in the milieu of change from what was, to something that was yet to be. Posed in a stylized sense of distress and impending doom, his subjects lend understanding of the psyche of the social underbelly of central Europe at the turn of the century: a time immediately preceding the horrors of World War I.

Schiele's work presents a blend of art, Freud, youthful angst and fear. Many of his paintings reflect normal sexual tensions trapped in a vortex created by Freud's popular findings of the time. Many of Schiele's models were young girls, and the furor brought by this art landed him behind bars for a time for what was considered pornographic renderings.

Today Shiele's art is still controversial, however I believe if we look beyond the surface of his paintings, we can find a subtle mirroring of the metaphor found in Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein:" the potential for scientific advancements to unravel society in a dark and unknown future.

In Schiele's paintings we can find ourselves facing those same fears of the future and whatever horrors live just beyond that enevitable door. Shiele's ultimate message, though one hundred years in age, is as timely as Jim Morrison's and Kurt Cobain's.

"Mocha, Dude" hits the Big Time

Ever do a "google" with your name? I put my name in a while ago and a most amazing thing happened! At another blog, which I've previously mentioned, and which is linked in the sidebar on this blog, I post sketches. It's a very enjoyable hobby and I've discovered a universe of other people with like minded ideas who do the same, and I've joined in some discourse with a number of them. One thing I discovered is many of these fine artists use the moleskine (pronounced mola-skeena) notebook. Consequently, I bought one and now all my sketches are in my "trusty moleskine."

Here's one of my sketches. I call him the "Mocha, Dude."



Here's what amazing: Someone posted the "Mocha, Dude," on the moleskine website, and you can check him out there now!!!

Thoughts about 105 and 221

I'm waiting to find if I'm going to be working with the biosci 105 class again, or the anatomy and physiology class. I'm abivalent about which I prefer. The experience of already having done the 105 class would be an asset to the students this time; I think I would enjoy it even more from that perspective. The downside is that it starts at 8am, and the other commences at 9. The upside of the 9am, anatomy and physiology class, is the students taking it are students I worked with in the previous 105 class. I know them, I like them, I care about them, and I'd like to continue helping them. A big downside on the A&P class though, is that my knowledge base is old; I'd have to re-learn a bunch of stuff. The other downside about learning this A&P stuff is that I'm not as interested in the names of bones and muscles as I am about the biochemistry that's covered in the 105 class.

We're on spring break this week and I've been waiting for three days now for the advisor who helps students schedule and is my "point-man" for this grant at the college to let me know which class I be with. I know he's struggling with it, he mentioned yesterday that he was re-working some students' schedules, but I have yet to hear from him, so I don't know what's going on yet. Doesn't matter, he's a good man and when I know, I'll know. If I don't hear from him today, I'll plan on the 8am class Monday morning and be there, then if it's the 9 am class, I'll be there too.

What else do I have to do on Monday morning? Sleep? No, I'm a fairly early riser, so it won't be a problem.

"On Track" and the Juried Show

I'm excited about this! Sometime in my art history I found an article in a magazine demonstrating what I call "industrial art." The artist had paintings of these huge, rusty chains, something like you'd find on oil tanker anchors; big gears; and pipes and valves like you'd find in an oil refinery. I thought they were striking, but didn't have the "right" inclination about it until last summer when I took my little digital camera out on an excursion and came back with a huge byte of railroad car wheels. Then the muse bit me and the result is what you see here.

The totally exciting thing about it though is this: I entered the painting into a competition at the Allied Arts Gallery here locally and it was accepted into the show. I don't expect to win any of the $2300 in prizes for the winners of the show; I'm just pumped about BEING IN THE SHOW!

This is Izaiah

Our daughter walked in the other day and laid this photo in my hand. At first I can't believe what I'm seeing; Wow, this is my oldest grandson, Izaiah. Then I believe it, he's fours years old and just the handsomest little dude. Don't even think about telling he can't be whatever he wants to become. My oh my, what a boy!

My Work Room and the Ditritus on my Desk

Ok, so I was going to clean this room today. I might yet, but the prospect is dimming, rapidly (to add an adverb). I have a difficult time anytime I come into this room getting anything done. This is where I keep three important items: my treadmill, which I use less than regularly; my art desk, where I paint and sketch; and my computer.

My computer desk is made of a maple door that has never been used. I got the idea from a counselor I knew once; anyway it has no cuts or marks on it, no hinges, or door-gut cut-outs. It's a nice flat piece of wood that sits atop two-two door filing cabinets making a nice, large surface for collecting things, things like: two speakers; a printer; a scanner; a telephone; a wireless remote; a cable modem; my new thin computer monitor; a pencil sharpener; an old desk lamp I stole from a school where I once worked (I think it might be a '30's - '40's model...I should sketch it sometime); a stapler; a pair of scissors; a couple pocket calculators; a plastic cup from the College World Series that my friend Tom Morgan brought back for me - it's full of pencils and pens; a Washington State University coffee mug that leaks; a stack of cd's; a stack of 35mm slides that's been careening back and forth for months and months; a movie script entitled, "Does Anyone Here Remember When Hanz Gubenstein Invented Time Travel?" I was left open-mouthed the other night to learn it was one of three finalists in the Project Greenlight competition - (Tuesdays at 9pm on the Discovery Channel) - I mean it's been lying on my desk so long I'd forgotten I had printed it out; various spiral notebooks; a bunch of papers lying about, some from the printer, some from I don't know where; a bunch of batteries; a Kodak dock unit for my digital camera; a 35 mm film container with an extra chip for my digital cam hiding in it; a stack of business cards; a glass paper weight that just sits around; some really cool coasters that I picked up in Europe and Chicago; a whole bunch of post-it notes - most just lying haphazardly and a few stuck to the moitor - one with a nome d'plume I was considering," Gabriel dos Santos," kinda exotic doncha think; a keyboard; two used and empty coffee mugs; and an partially filled Coca-Cola glass (Diet Coke only, please . . . ok, with just a touch of Rum); and a credit card. I can only hope it's mine.

Word Sketches vs. Real Sketches

I got to thinking about my entries in this blog and how they are like some of the sketches in one of my other blogs. So I have changed the name of this one from "Words and Stuff" to "Word Sketches and Stuff." I don't know for sure what the "stuff" is, but it leaves the opportunities for all kinds of things, whatever they might be... Anyway, to whet your appetite, dear reader, here's a sketch of an old copper pot I bought at a yard sale in Sequim for 25 cents. You can find it at here too.

Baseball, Beatles, and 77 Sunset Strip

The ideas for blogs come when I'm not at my keyboard, then when I am at my keyboard, the ideas are hard to locate. I do want to write about some things though: baseball and its impact on the American psyche; the Beatles (I saw the "Concert for George" on PBS the other night while flipping through the channels. It was performed in the Royal Albert Hall in London "one day to the year" of George Harrison's death to cancer. I could hardly believe the emotions that ran through me watching Ringo, Paul and George's son, Dhani, on stage together - it's the closest the "Beatles" have been together since 1970); but I digress.

Right now Mayberry RFD (aka: The Andy Griffith Show) is on the TV Land channel. We used to watch this show when we were in high school. Our track coach looked a lot like Barney Fife. That's what we called him, not Barney, but "Barney Fife." He had that punched up self confidence, just like Barney.

Tonight we're going to watch Survivor. We don't watch a lot of television, except during baseball season, but we've been watching Survivor for the last three, maybe four years. It's interesting and the drama that's produced by these faux reality situations they manufacture is enjoyable. We also watch American Idol, Boston Legal, American Chopper, The Apprentice, and Desperate Housewifes. More would be over the edge.

I like TV Land. I wish they would get some of these: "77 Sunset Strip," "The Untouchables," " Maverick," and "Wanted Dead or Alive."

Mountain passes and the Dodge Intrepid

"Do you think this is a good deal?" my wife asked about the used (pre-owned) car I had my eye on.

"Our New Yorker is twelve years old, it has 180,000 miles on it. We paid $25,000 for it, we might be able to sell it for two thousand. This pre-owned will cost us less than one/third and it has only 34,000 miles on it. What do you think?"

"Is it in good shape?"

"Mr. Eliot told me it had only some small scratches and blotches; mostly parking lot damage," I answered. "Do you think your sister would want to go with us?"

She picks up the phone and dials her sister.

"Hello." There's some laughter, then she says, "We're driving to Sequim, tomorrow, want to go with us?"

More laughter. Then she tells her sister why we're going and they discuss whether we can return on the same day, of stay overnight with friends. My wife turns to me and asks if we can come back on the same day since her sister can't go if we don't. Internally I cringe at the thought of driving 12 hours in one day, but say, "Sure."

At 7am we climbed into our Subaru stationwagon and headed west. At 1pm we arrived in Sequim and drove straight to the seller's address. I recognize the Intrepid sitting in his driveway. I watched for Intrepids while driving over and once I spotted what I thought were Intrepids along the way, my spirits drooped. This car however, is not a Stealth, like those I had seen, it is an entirely different style: I like it. My spirits soar again. The owner sees us drive up and steps outside.

"Glad you're here," he says, "we have to go to a bank and get some papers notorized and they close at 2pm."

We get into the Intrepid; me, my wife, my sister's sister, Mr. Eliot, and his wife, and drive to the bank. It's the only time I get to drive the car; it seems to drive well.

At the bank we learn only the owner and his wife need to sign the Odometer Certification document. They could have done it yesterday.

We drive back to his house, sign all the necessary papers, draft him a check, get the keys and leave.

I set it on cruise control coming up the mountain pass. The speed limit's 70, but traffic runs pretty close to 80. The state patrol allows that much fudge, so I set it at 78 mph, and watch it climb the mountain without the slightest slowing. It has a 2.7 liter engine and it likes to go fast.

We arrived back at about 10:30 pm, exhausted. It's been a long day.

The next morning I filled it up: 10.9 gallons, 328 miles. Not bad!!

Buying a Used Car Sight Unseen

"Hello, Mr. Eliot?"

"Yes."

"Hi, my name is Jim Bumgarner, and I'm a friend of George G. I believe he came over a little while ago and looked at the car you have for sale."

"Yes, he was here."

"He was looking at it for me."

"Yes, George mentioned your name."

I already knew quite a bit about the car. George mentioned it to me when we visited there a few weeks ago. It's a five year old car, it has 34K miles on it and the owner is 80 years old. He wants about 3K less than low book, and it' s in excellent condition.

"He told me the tires were good, and it appears in good condition."

"Yes, it's in real good condition. I always change my own oil, the tires are the originals."

"Does it use any oil?"

"No, it doesn't. It has a cd player and one of those cartridge players, or whatever you call it."

My wife and I have been casually looking for a "new" vehicle. Our New Yorker has 180,000 miles on it and it's not destined to stay out of the repair shop much longer. This car we're talking with Mr. Eliot about is a Dodge Intrepid. George said it was the "sporty" model.

"What about the exterior? Any dints or dings?"

"No, but there are some scratches. You'd have to look for them though."

"Parking lot dings and scratches?"

"Yes."

We talked about George and their long standing friendship; and I could tell by his age, and his demeanor he is an honest man. Besides, with George's receommendation, there's nothing hiding in the negotiations.

"Well, I'll tell you what, Mr. Eliot. I've never done this like this before, but I'm prepared to make you an offer, sight unseen." I laughed and he joined in. "Would you take $6500 for it?"

Short wait.

"Oh no," he said. "I've decided if I can't get seven for it, I'm just going to give it to my daughter."

I knew right then, there was no room for negotiation; but even at 7, this is an excellent deal.

"Ok, then I'll up my offer to full asking price."

He chuckled, lightly, and said, "Well, Ok."

I told him we live six hours away, but we'd be there tomorrow to finalize the deal. He agreed to take the check we'd deliver with the knowledge that it wouldn't clear until Monday as we have to move money from savings to checking to cover the expense.

We're leaving at 6:30 am in the morning. Wish us luck!

Dave questions Dan

"So, Dan, what do you think is the most important benchmark in the Iraqi war?" asked Dave.

"Well, I'll tell you this. It comes down to electricity. If the average, everyday Iraqi has electricity in his home, then we'll be doing alright. If not, well then, we'll see how it goes."

"But do you think it was inevitable that George W. Bush would have been elected no matter what happened in the months leading up to the election?"

"Yes, Dave. There was a committee that spent upwards of 5 million dollars, and they could not authenticate that the documents were not true. It's a big enough report to make a door-stop. And they concluded that it was not politically biased," said Dan.

"So they could not prove the documents were false."

"You've summarized it correctly Dave."

"Why were people fired then?"

"The boss read the report and his conclusion was that four people, who worked hard for the network, they were people who helped us break the most important story of the year, the Abu Ghraib story. He felt they were people who needed to be released. He had the report days ahead of time. He made his decisions and since these were two of the most imortant findings, that there were other reports that caused him to make his decision."

"Did you agree with his decisions?"

"It was his decision, but the fact that 4 close friends had to be let go, it's never far from my mind."

"Should the president of CBS news have stepped down?"

"He's on vacation right now, when he gets back you can ask him. But keep in mind, nobody lied, and nobody broke the law."

"Who will replace you?"

"There will be an interim anchor until they decide what to do. It doesn't matter what the format will be, what matters is the integrity and presentation of the news."

"We no longer get our news the way we did 20 years ago."

"There has been fragmentation of the audience, you don't have any competition here on the late night . . . . By the way, I'm not actually retiring, I will still be doing some special reporting."

The Empty Nest and OCD

This big ol' house is rather quiet these days. Our youngest moved out a couple weeks ago. It's time he moved out, he's 23, but it isn't that simple. He has ocd. The neurodoc we used to go to in Seattle said it was probably there when he was quite young, but it fully manifested when he was 17.

There are many types of ocd. Most people are familiar with the most common since it was portrayed in the movie As Good as it Gets with Jack Nicholson, on tv with Monk, and more recently in the movie The Aviator. All these victims portrayed are germophobics: afraid of germs. Frequently called "handwashers," their fear is they will get some deadly disease, or they will pass deadly germs on to loved ones.

We used to go to a support group in Seattle for families afflicted with ocd. There we met a girl who couldn't drive because she kept having to go back through the parking lot to see if she'd ran over anyone; another lady was a hoarder. Our son has one most people haven't heard of, it's called "religiosity," or "scrupulosity," and it's all about God.

We don't know where this came from. The scientific literature says ocd is fairly genetic, but we can't locate anyone on either side of our families who have had it. We don't understand where fear of what God may, or may not do based on whether he eats a banana, or tells his mother anything, or any other of the thousands of things he makes deals with God over, came from. My suspicion is the Christian group he participated in when he was in high school; the people who ran it used to group together with others and pray for me and the school where their children attended when I was principal there. It is fair to say they fit the standard definition of "fundamentalists," not that that is bad, but I believe the "hell-fire and brimstone" teachings they provided were like a drill bit burrowing into his brain, driving these fears deep and permanently. Maybe, maybe not.

The deal is usually something like this: if he eats the banana God will give the "mark of the beast," or some other very bad thing, to his nephews, his niece, his mother, grandmother(s), father, sister, friends, and sometimes "anyone who does" whatever. He's quite skinny because food and his ocd are related. The ocd has robbed him of an education, a profession/job, the likelihood of finding a mate, his former interests in politics, history, or philosophy.

The positive side is that he has never given us the slightest inkling of suspicion for tobacco, alcohol, or drug use. He is adamantly opposed to personal use, but he has tolerated such in some of his prior friends.

He is intelligent. When in 10th grade, his reading skills were measured at the post-collegiate level. That was before he stared kneeling and making deals with God: in the yard while running the lawn mower, in the hallways at school, in the supermarket. We could always tell what kind of day he had at school by the condition of the knees on his jeans when he got home. Fortunately, the kneeling stopped years ago. All he does now is make deals then seek reassurance, from his mother or me, that God won't make the deals he struck with Him.

He receives a small check from the government each month. It's barely enough to cover his rent, food, and electric bills. But he and a friend from Sequim, where we used to live, have moved into a apartment.

The friend is blind in one eye, and has about 50 percent vision in his "good" eye; his name is Bill. We like him, he has one of the most positive outlooks of anyone I've ever known, really. He doesn't smoke, drink, or do drugs. He's 28.

Bill went to the school for the blind when he was a kid, he understands responsiblity, he knows how to cook and take care of his personal hygiene, and he keeps his own financial records. We hope some of this rubs off on our son, Derik.

They are good friends. Their interests are video games and movies and girls. Derik enjoys video games because they settle his mind; he doesn't experience deal-making, or the anxiety caused by the deal-making when he plays. The neurodoc told us not to discourage this activity. We've spent a LOT of money on video games.

So the boys are on their own. Bill has been for quite some time. He came over last summer and really enjoyed himself. He was here visiting for the full month of August, '04. We talked then about him moving over; I told him if he was genuinely interested, I would move him over. When the apartment came available in February of '05, he jumped at the chance of moving over, so we rented a U-Haul and moved him over.

It's about a 13 minute walk from the apartment to our home. They've already visited with us a number of times, and we always welcome them. They'll be over tomorrow night for dinner, and Bill is bringing an application he picked up today at Shari's Restaurant for employement. He needs help reading the small print.

Derik picked up an application at EB Games and while he attends his Monday sessions at DVR (department of vocational rehabilitation), they will assist him with any preparations he needs to make. Not that we won't, but he's been going to DVR on Mondays now for about two or three months; they're working on his job skills.

Since Derik moved out of the house, he has had very few questions for his mother or I. We have our fingers crossed.

Cell Bio vs. Anatomy and Physiology

I'm in the midst of making a decision about next quarter at the college. I have two options to choose from regarding which class I work with: biological science 105 - cell biology, again; or biological science 221 - human anatomy and physiology. Right now I'm leaning toward the 221 class. It's been many a year since I thought much about anatomy and physiology. The course I took in college was intense, and I taught basic A & P to my students at Prosser High; but it's been a while.

I picked up a text today at the college and brought it home. It's familiar stuff and unlike cell biology, I don't think there's been such a tremendous explosion of knowledge in A & P over the last 20 years. Besides that, the class starts at 9:10 and the 105 begins at 8:10 in the morning. I don't really want to have to get up that early; not that I won't, but I prefer doing it by choice. Also the 105 lab isn't until 3 in the afternoon. Too long a day.

So there, I've pretty much talked myself into reporting tomorrow that my choice is Anatomy and Physiology, biological science 221, with Rachel Anderson. I hear she piles it on and some of the students I've talked with are nervous, but also resolved; and that presents another factor for my choice. In 221 students are those that were successful in 105; the "chaff" has been culled, so these students will, on average, be more motivated than the 105'ers were. And that's a good, very good, thing.

I'll take it.

The "To Do" List

Now about that "to do" list I posted here yesterday.

1. I didn't go over the gym and work out.
2. I didn't go to DS Watkins and talk with Deborah.
3. I didn't do any yard work, and today's an even nicer day and I don't think I'll join all my neighbors who are working in their yards today either.

However I did:

1. Put the bookcase together, with Lois' help, and she's got it full of "stuff" already,
2. I went to Hastings and met with some of art friends who positively critiqued my painting, "On Track," and convinced me to enter it into the Allied Arts Juried Show coming up later this spring.
   
3. I did some sketching and you can find them here.

So the day wasn't a complete waste, but today is definitely moving in that direction.

Self Exposure and Creativity

The thing that makes writing/blogging difficult is when you realize you have readers who know who you are; people who know your exterior and would recognize you in a crowd of hungry people at the food court in the local mall.

"Well, lookit' that wouldja 'hon, there's ol Jim over there," says the reader, spotting the writer gorging a taco. "Haven't seen him in ages. C'mon, hon' lets go talk to him."

Now don't get me wrong. I love socializing with friends, old and new, so dear reader, let your guard down. What this post is about isn't any disappointment "ol' Jim" would experience seeing and talking and laughing with you; there wouldn't be any.

What this post is about is the writer letting you nudge closer into his soul. This is not easy.

All writers face the problem of self exposure to some degree. Not that I'm tuned into actually being a writer, it's just that I like to write stuff and post it for anyone to read. You're probably thinking, "Well, hooptidoo, big writer, ha .... I've read some of that crap on your blog, and your website, and writer you ain't buddy." Ok, you got me on that one.

Anyway, as I was saying before being interrupted, all writers face the self-exposure problem. Some don't let it bother them, others don't write anything for fear of this exposure. I guess it's sorta like walking naked into the food court. Not only is it not a pretty sight, it's painful. What if someone I know sees me, what if they don't like me anymore after I've let them see beyond the exterior they recognize, into the dark and worrisome interior.

And there's the rub. How strong is the writer's fear of exposure, losing friends, being vulnerable? If these things influence and stifle his creativity, then he's a wuss; if not, then he, or she, may eventually have something interesting or possibly even important to say.

Read on.

To Do and Not To Do

The biosci class I work with doesn't have class on Friday, so today is my day-off. Here are some things I need to do today.

1. Go over to the gym and workout
2. Visit Deborah at DS Watkins (I'm intrigued by the idea of an art show there) I sent her an email a few weeks ago and she hasn't responded, I don't think she checks this particular email box very often? It's the one listed on her business' website.
3. Put together a book case for my wife (it's been in a box in the garage for months)
4. If it gets warm enough I have some yard work that needs done before more green things begin pushing up through the ground
5. Go over to Hastings in Richland to visit with my art instructor, Chris Wallings. There's a small group that meets there on Friday mornings.
6. Sketch, sketch and sketch some more for my Sketch Blog.

That's probably enough things to do for now. I have to be careful because my wife will add to the list if I don't get going.

Blog ya later.

Home Alone and No Muse

Full moon rising through the window off my left shoulder, the Mamas and the Papas crooning from the cd player in another room, muted cartoons on the Cartoon Channel, sitting under one downflow lamp at the dining room table, wondering what I should write this evening.

I've struggled the last few days with something to write about. Some possible topics?

The monstrous pain between my shoulders the past few days, the drugs I've taken, the changes I've made in my work-outs at the gym, staying away from "desk sitting";

the moved last weekend when we traveled to Sequim and brought Derik's friend, Bill, back with us so he and Derik could move in as roomies in an apartment down the hill from where we live;

I have a 38 year old cousin who came out of Iraq the first time as a General in the Marine Corps, and went back in last week as a Lt. Colonel, he's appears on the fast track for promotions and I'm proud as hell of him;

my mother is one of the Rosie-the-Riveters and I've thought about creating a webpage for her and the writings she's produced for the national Rosie-the-Riveter Memorial in Richmond, California;

how the top 8 scores on the biology mid-term at the college were students I'm tutoring;

and then there was the birth of Maia Rose Canada, but I've already posted that event earlier in the blog.

So I'm up to my eyelids in not much to say . . . except with the exception that American Idol is on tonight and I'm going to tape it so Lois and I can watch it together when she gets home from her meeting tonight.

By the way. Yes, Lois is gone to a meeting tonight, and I'm sitting here under this light, writing this blog and it is the first time in 28 years that there are no children somewhere in the house with me.

I'm Home Alone.

The New Gym and Workin' Out

A first today: I went to a gym and worked out. The gym is at the community college. It is a new, multi-million dollar facility, loaded with all the latest equipment. I had one of the instructors show me how to maneuver my way through both the circuit-training equipment and one of the treadmills. Then I went through one circuit and hit the treadmill for 20 minutes.

I didn't like looking in the mirrors. Every other human being in the gym, including the instructors, looked many years my junior. "Why does this intimidate me?" I thought, then tried not to be concerned while the young guy on the treadmill next to me ran for 18 minutes straight while I slow-jogged, and walked.

Still, it was fun to do, and I felt so much better about it afterwards. I'm gonna do it again tomorrow.

The Student Terrorist and the Private Eye

I’m sitting in Barnes and Noble having a mocha and waiting for Sears to service my Subaru. I asked the barrista if they have wireless access here, like they have down at DS Watkins and she says they do, but there’s a fee. No thanks, I have free wireless in my home.

Also in the coffee shop are two guys at one table: one is a math tutor, the other is an older guy who needs help with Pre-Algebra. The tutor looks like he’s 19, red hair, overweight, wearing a black and orange baseball cap with a large letter “I” on the front. The student speaks with an accent, but it isn’t Spanish; sounds more eastern, maybe Arabic. He might be a terrorist, learning pre-algebra so he can understand the mathematical complexities involved in making nuclear bombs.

There is another guy with a pair of glasses resting atop his head; sitting with his back to the shop, facing the windows. I notice a 35 mm camera on his table. I think he’s a private investigator working for some wife’s husband, or vice versa; or he’s simply a weirdo taking pictures of pretty girls. He spots something, raises the camera to his eye and while peering through the eyepiece, talks to his subject, “Right there, don’t move. Don’t move.” I can hear him, he’s talking under his breath; I’m only 15 feet away and it’s unusually quiet in here this afternoon.

“Ah,” says the student, “this ees treeky.”

“Yes,” says the tutor, “two negatives make a positive.”

“I have to be so careful, because I have some brain damage,” says the student who has a scar peeking through the thinning hair on his head. “I get it though, I get it. Two negatives make a positive.”

“Yes.”

The weird private investigator took a few more pictures, then bagged up his camera and left.

“I’m a thinker,” says the brain-damaged student, working problems for the tutor.

The tutor nods affirmation, and offers more suggestions. “There’s only one negative here, so it doesn’t change.”

“Oh, of course not.”

Time flies for me in Barnes and Noble. The guy in Sears said, “45 minutes.” I wouldn’t care if he said, “three hours.” I like the pace in this store, especially today, at 2:29 pm.

“Remember, two minuses become a plus.”

“Ooooh, I need to memorize that.”

“Yep.”

People move slowly, purposefully, carefully grazing the shelves. I’m reminded of the cows in Eberle’s pastures on north Towne Road in Sequim.

The student has a book in his bag, “The Physics of Nuclear Armaments,” and I check his accent again. I wonder if he has a green card. I wonder if his name is Mohammed. I wonder if he has a family in Fallujah. I wonder if he is going to kill all of us, as soon as he has mastered two negatives make a positive.

“So, don’t worry about the minus here?” asks the terrorist.

“Ok, see if you find a minus here and another one over here, then it becomes a positive, not a negative.”

I wonder if the student knows he’s aiding and abetting a mass murderer with a book on WMD’s in his bag.

Maybe I should tell him.

An older woman saunters into the shop, and sits down where the weird private investigator was sitting, only she puts her back to the windows. She drops a pile of book on the table, goes to the snack bar, and returns with a large pastry; freshly micro-waved icing slowly drips off the top of her pastry onto the saucer. She opens the largest book, “Modern Day Health Practices,” and begins turning the pages. I wonder if she’s checking the fat, carb, and caloric content of pastry and icing?

“So what should I do with these numbers?”

Then I notice a man who’s here often. I’ve sketched him before. He speaks Spanish fluently, but he isn’t Hispanic. I think he’s an official Spaniard. He wears one of those golfing hats, khaki pants with pockets on the legs, flashy Nikes, and an expensive jacket. I think he may be in cahoots with the student terrorist. Neither of them are ever going to be able to run for the presidency of the Unites States as they aren’t natural born Americans.

“You multiply the 70 times the negative 4.”

“So I can master that a little bit.”

“Ok.”

My mocha’s empty and my 45 minutes are up.

Life Drawing and The Quality of Life Drawings

On Sunday I went to the life drawing session at the Allied Arts in Richland. I've been attending the sessions for close to a year, and I'm not too sure I should keep going. I'm just not convinced my drawing skills get the service they need on a once a month basis.

When we were in Sequim, Carlos and I went to Port Townsend every Wednesday for a three-hour session that cost five dollars per session. My skills weren't any better then, but I did feel like I was progressing . . . and maybe I am here with these once a month sessions. It's hard to get a grasp on it.

The other thing I liked better about life drawing sessions in Port Townsend was the variety in models that showed up. We had men, and women, old and young, and the diversity was both challenging and interesting. Once I decide to post some of these drawings on the Art Blog, or the Sketches and Stuff Blog, I'll make note of it here so the reader can click the link and have a look. I'll probably post them in the Sketches and Stuff Blog because I want the Art Blog to showcase some of my better pieces.

Here's a rapid fast sketch I did from the top of a ladder in the room. The morning model is a man; in the afternoon we have a female model.




Here's another life drawer, sketched in rapid fast mode, who was contemplating his work.

Clint Eastwood and His New Movie

Lois and I just got back from the theatre where we saw, "Million Dollar Baby."



We agree the acting was superb, it's hard to beat Eastwood's cool, million dollar persona in any of his movies. Hillary Swank's performance may have paralleled the one she delivered a few years ago in "Boys Don't Cry." What I like about these two performances is her grit and determination to turn in a million dollar performance. She's good.



It's easy to see why Eastwood would incorporate Morgan Freemant to play his side-kick, he also is a dynamite performer; but Freeman seems type-cast in the same type of character we've seen, and heard, before in the Shawshank Redemption.

The first two acts are dynamite. Frank Dunn, a man in search of something to fill the void left in his life by his estranged daughter, at first shuns Maggie Fitzgerald. She a "girl" and he "don't train no girls," it's classic plot-line drama, give and take, ying and yang; and as you would expect from so many other thousands of movies and books, she finally convinces him to change his mind. That's act I.

In Act II she trains hard, she's driven: obsessed with boxing. She begins winning and fighting contenders in Europe and the United States. Finally the big fight comes; she's fighting a mean and dirty woman from Germany, for the World Title. This act comes to a screeching halt and the movie takes a disturbing turn into Act III.

Act III was dark, depressing and mentally draining. I've gone to a few web sites, looking for commentary on the movie. Check some of them out:

Yahoo

World Net

Roger Ebert

The PTA meeting in Barnes and Noble

Last order of business the young blonde kindergarten teacher pitched her idea for a "learning rug" to the group. After some discussion and pondering, it was decided to take the funds from the Teacher's Fund. Huh?

A Day in the Park

I’m sitting in Zip’s Hamburger Drive-In in west Kennewick, having the cheapest hamburger on the menu, listening to Lenny Kravitz’ sing “She’s a Lady” from the cheap speakers in the ceiling. A group of teens just came in and while they’re ordering their burgers, fries and drinks, my memory shifts back 40 some years to Zip’s on the east side of town. The one where WE used to hang out, down by the “old” bridge, but I’m going to close that memory and come back to what I’ve been up to the last few hours.

Columbia Park:

First, today is a beautiful day. The sky is blue, the sun still hangs low in the sky at its highest point this 10th day of February, so even at mid-day the shadows are intriguing and visually pleasing: good for photography and painting.

I entered the park from the east end and drove to the Blue Bridge at the far end. Here's a picture of the Blue Bridge.



Along the way I stopped a few times and did some sketching in both my moleskine journal book and a larger format sketch book. On a nice day like today, you’ll always find people feeding the ducks, gulls, and geese in the park. I stopped at the central location where they hang out together and did a little sketching. Birds are nteresting creatures and I enjoyed trying, once again, to capture something using pen and ink of their essence, and the Dude in Sunglasses, who was feeding them.




Further down the road I stopped and peered over the lagoon, looking south toward the side of the hill where the railroad tracks run. There’s a place with some really warm memories. The road leading into the lagoon is all smooth, asphalted, and lined. I remember you used to literally risk damage to the undercarriage of your car driving that road to the lagoon. It was dirt, rocks, and full of holes. At the end of the road though, where it met the lagoon was pure California Dreamin’ for us kids in the 60’s. The main attraction of course was the girls in their two-piece bathing suits. Getting a tan was paramount for all of us, and the girls concentrated their efforts lying on the sandy beach of the lagoon. It was one the first times I realized that there is a little bit of heaven right here on earth.

The guys were mostly in the water, splashing, swimming out to the raft and jumping off into the cool water. Some, who didn’t swim, sat on the sand and watched: male beach flowers. I was too shy to interact with the girls much, it seemed they all had other friends and people they knew better. Well, for the most part anyway. I was content to watch; the summer was always hot and all our spirits were high. We had yet to watch John F. Kennedy’s brains fly across the trunk lid; we laughed and enjoyed friends whose lives would be ended, or permanently ruined in the jungles of a far-away Oriental land; we were innocent, and happy.

Today, the lagoon is closed to swimmers. There’s no sand where the beach used to be, only weeds and bushes. Ducks sit on the still water, and no one watches but me. I look across the “used to be beach” and see it the way it once was, and my heart gets heavy. I wonder where all those kids went, where are they today? And I wonder how long I would have to stay down there before any one of them came in to look. Probably a long time. I wonder what the lagoon will look like in another 40 years.

I wetted a page in the sketchbook and dropped some watercolor on it to create an image showing it as looks today. I think it would be fun to fill the edges with kids, and show the hot dog stand open with kids lined up to get sno-cones and cokes.

Driving back through the park, toward home and this Zips, the car crept. I let the memories consume me:

• the time John Higley and I and some other guys walked through the flood waters up to our thighs and wrote our names on the base of the flag pole that stuck up out of the water;
• the places where you used to be able to park your car near the water but can no longer because they put boulders all along the way;
• the time John Higley and I polished my ’69 Ford Mustang, Mach I, one summer day;
• the old building that’s gone, near the Kiwanis, where Bill Mansfield and I and some other guys I don’t remember once spent the night (it was the last night of ‘day camp’) and we saw a meteor hit the river’s surface;
• the time I killed a sucker fish with a spear-gun down where the irrigation run-off spills into the river;
• the time some of us guys went down and rode the algae-lined irrigation slough under the highway into the park;
• the time with Lois, mom, and dad when we spotted a Caspian Tern;
• the night Joe and Hal and I spent with some old drunk guy, homeless by today’s standard probably, and he told us high tales of once being rich and influential, somewhere;
• and the time this girl I knew and I left her dad's car parked in the outer traffic lane, thinking it was a parking lane, when it ran out of gas. The deputy found us, I don’t know how, at a gas station down on Fruitland and Canal Drive….what was that guy’s name who owned it? He was a Dutchman from the East Indies.

Anyway, the Tri-Cites continue offering me opportunities to relive the past. Sometimes I worry this may not be mentally healthy to relive all those times, still I wouldn’t trade those days for anything. I just hope, if I ever get to be a really old man, I’ll still be able to remember them.

I wonder if those teens that came in a few minutes ago, will someday sit down and recollect a memory of today. Reminds me of the time John Selland, Ralph Langlo and I were walking around out here by the “Y” (where this Zips is located and where Lois and her family lived when she was a little girl) when we found a grocery bag with a full six-pack of Miller Draft beer. We walked down to a gas station and asked the guy if he had a bottle opener, and he asked us where we got the beer. For years I wondered how he was so smart. We were fourteen, the beer was warm, and all this land here where Zip’s is located and embedded in an asphalt parking lot that adjoins many other brick buildings, was dirt and sagebrush.

A New Baby in the Family

Let it be proclaimed throughout the land and let infinite echoes travel into the universe: MAIA ROSE CANADA is born today at 3:18 am. Seven pounds, five.nine ounces, 21 inches, and more lovely than a softly ripened peach, she lies in warm, downy coverings, sleeping peacefully. The glow from her little being fills the room and the hearts that surround her. Welcome to the family little one!

Collegiate Conflicts and Inducement

Last night I slept all night for the first time in weeks, maybe months. Today after coming home from the college and having some lunch I crashed for 3 hours upstairs. Go figure.

Don't feel too good about what's going on at the college right now. The two students, in this class of 43, have suddenly let it be known they think they should be getting one on one tutoring. I don't really mind doing that, it's just that when I asked at the beginning of the class if that's how it would work, I was told no; any and all students could attend the tutoring sessions. So here we are in mid-term week and they're demanding time they didn't seem interested in until now. They are required to be in attendance a minimum of two hours per week. In two of the first six weeks, they showed up once; they always travel together and bring a couple of their friends with them. I don't think they've figured out yet that if I have to offer services to them and only them twice a week, in fairness to everyone else in the class, the friends will be barred from entry as well. I figure the "fan will clog" at that point.

On a brighter note: Brooke was supposed to go into the hospital at 6 pm for the doctor to induce her delivery of Maia Rose, but then she got a call saying they're having a rash of births and they'll have to hold off for a while. They said they'd call her back at 7:30. The brightness of this note is that our new grandaughter isn't far away: Maia Rose Canada.

They did call at 7:30. If someone in delivery now delivers as soon as they think she will, then they'll be ready for her about 9:30. We're almost holding our breaths. For now, Lois and I are going to watch another exciting edition of "American Idol." Did I really say that?

11:03 - Brooke called, she's in the hospital, ready to go with the procedure. She said the doctor is in the delivery room, and Brooke's "inducement" is next on the list. I expect we'll be getting a call in a few hours: Maia will be here.

These Old Streets and Bridges

Who said, "You can never go home again"? I think it was Thomas Wolfe in some long-ago essay, or novel. He's wrong. This move back to the Tri-Cities has turned out the best move of our lives. Not only are we integrating back into our extended families, but we are "home." For me that means every time I venture out of the house, old memories are just a thought away.

The move isn't just physical, it's psychological and emotional. I loved my youth spent in Kennewick and its environs (Pasco, Richland, the Horse Heaven Hills), and after being gone over 30 years it is pure joy to drive the old streets and roads. Sure, some of them are different now, Clearwater used to be a two-lane road that ran from hiway 395 west out past the grain elevator. No one used to go that far out though, there was nothing out there. Now, the grain elevator isn't "that" far removed from the center of town because "town" has moved west, way past the grain elevator. In their wildest dreams, the 12, or so, laned intersection on Clearwater and the Columbia Mall Boulevard would never have materialized; but it's there.

That intersection was a poorly asphalted road that extended north off Clearwater in the 60's. We used to go rabbit hunting out there. Now, the rabbits are long gone; there's a huge mall, and a 6 lane boulevard in their place.

Still, the outlying area looks much the same. Jump Off Joe, the tallest "mountain" south of Kennewick looks exactly as it did 40 years ago, with one exception - it's covered with huge wind generators now. They're huge, these generators. I drove up there a year or so ago, parked the car and got out and wondered at their size. It's hard to see how big they are from down here.

I remember once taking ML up on Jump Off Joe. We were just friends, and if I remember correctly, we had a little wine and some good laughs, but nothing more. Mary was a fun girl. Her father was Neal F. L, the man who's name is connected to just about everything around here these days. Mary's long gone from Kennewick, but her dad, who's now passed on, and her brother Bill are Big Names here now. Bill lives in one of those HUGE homes on the Pasco side of the Columbia River.

My mother still lives in the house we moved into when I was 11 years old: 1957. The street she lives on hasn't changed a lot; there are still junky places along the way up the dead-end street, and some places are fairly well kept. Dad always kept our place in tip-top condition. Mom struggles with that now that he been gone for over 9 years, but she isn't giving up. It's good to have that house as some kind of anchor. I wonder what it feels like to kids/people who no longer have any connection with the place where they grew up. I think that's a part of what's wrong with America these days; too many people whose roots are a little rotten. Maybe.

The day we first drove into Kennewick from the panhandle of Texas in February 1957, we crossed the Columbia River from Pasco across the Blue Bridge. In those days it was called the "New Bridge," and the "Clover Leaf" on the Kennewick side was confusing to all the Texans who moved in that year. I traverse the "Clover Leaf" and cross the Blue Bridge every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday mornings. Nothing about either of them is different.




It's a pretty bridge and I hear some talk about a move to refurbish, or replace, it. I'm not convinced replacing it is necessary. I've been across when traffic is pretty tight, but it's not a problem. I'd sure hate to see it go. I almost miss the Old Bridge, which was replaced by the Cable Bridge in the early 70's. The Old Bridge was only two-lane and I remember being in the car with one crazy son-of-a-bitch high school kid who decided to pass a car on that bridge once: going up the upside, with no vision of any oncoming traffic from the other direction. The Old Bridge was green and ugly and dangerous. I don't think anyone missed it after it fell into the river.

There have been a lot of things changed over the years, but the old is still there, quiet and unassuming in my mind's eye as I turn this turn, and drive down that old boulevard. It's all still there.

Super Bowl XXXIX and Paul McCartney

Watching Superbowl XXXIX right now: Patriots lead late in the third quarter 14 - 7 over the Eagles. I don't really care who wins. Part of me wants Corey Dillon and the Pats to win simply because Dillon played college ball for the University of Washington a few year ago. Uh-oh, Eagles just scored: 14 - 13. Now if they get the extra point, they tie the game. Here it goes: 14 - 14.

The problem with watching the Superbowl is you can't go to the john when there's a break in the play; the ads are too good. Now, I don't know that they've had any blockbuster ads today like they've had in the past, but there was one about a website early in the game, that was very risque.

So far, the best part of the broadcast was half-time: no "wardrobe malfunctions" this time, as Sir Paul McCartney electrified the crowd with four or five of his tunes from roughly 35 years ago. It's amazing how his stuff still rocks; I don't think there's a popular performer today who will, in another 30 years, rock Superbowl LXIX, like McCartney did today. Last year it was Justin Timberlake, Janet Jackson and the "breast." This year it's "Hey Jude," "Live and Let Die," "Get Back," and "Baby, You Can Drive my Car." Ok, so I once read that in the early sixties in England, "Baby, You Can Drive my Car" was metaphoric for letting a lady know you were available for more than a double, or a triple, to use a more modern metaphor for the same thing. I doubt anyone will complain about Lennon's lyrics in that song; it's too old, too standard, and today, like always, it slips "under the wire" just enough for us to simply "Let It Be."

The game ended; the New England Patriots won. It's their second in a row, and their third in four years. They're playing like the Packers in the sixties, the Cowboys in the seventies, the Forty-Niners in the nineties.

Now we enter the long month of February where there's nothing but basketball on the television. The only hope for the future, the thing that gives one pause for things magnificent to come is due to the pitchers and catchers reporting at the spring training camps in Florida and Arizona, this month. MLB begins the first week of April, it's better than spring.

DS Watkins & Blog Changes

Today I decided to organize the blogs differently. I'm going to put art on the Some Art blog, biological writings on the Biology blog, and one I haven't created yet for writings of political, rag on things blog...maybe I'll call it, "Ragging Politics": emphasis on the misspelling.

I'm in DS Watkins Gallery and Coffeehouse this morning. In my class this morning, the students took a quiz. It's their last day of the week, so there's little demand for tutoring session, so I left the college and found myself here. The cool thing about DS Watkins is that they have a free-wireless router! So I have a cup of coffee, some soft jazz, cool art and a cool view of railroad cars in the distance throught the windows. It's quiet, peaceful and almost esoteric in here.

I've been working on the "On Track" painting, posted below, on another blog (click on the link in the menu to the left, or go here. I'm thinking about showing some of my art to the proprietor of the Gallery & Coffeehouse, Mrs. Watkins, I believe, but my nerve-level isn't high enough, yet. I don't know that the art I have posted, especially at yahoo is what I want to show her. I should go in and edit those pictures. I'm beginning to get enough of an inventory, that I could glean out the better paintings to post online.

Nutrients and Energy for Life Processes

Let's see what I can do without preparation in terms of explaining cellular respiration. First, respiration is the process living things carry out which provides them with the energy they need to power their life processes. The energy is released from nutrients: autotrophs make their own nutrients (mostly photosynthetic creatures), and heterotrophs who have to hunt and gather their nutrients.

The primary nutrient used by living things for an energy source is glucose, a hexose (6 carbon) sugar, but energy can also be obtained from lipids such as fat molecules, and proteins as well. Think of glucose as a large car battery. Now think of how you would use the energy in the car battery to power those devices that need small AA batteries: cameras, small flashlights, the mouse on your computer, perhaps a decorative wall clock, etc. The car battery is too large and unwieldly for these purposes: thus the glucose molecule.

Respiration extracts the energy from the glucose molecule and packages it into smaller packets, something similar to what would happen if we could extract the energy in a car battery and charge a large number of AA batteries. Glucose molecules, in the presence of oxygen, will produce approximately 36 molecules of Adenosine Triphosphate (ATP), the chemical equivalents of the small AA batteries.

The first step in cellular respiration is glycolysis. A 6 carbon sugar molecule is basically split into two 3 carbon molecules, known as pyruvates, or pyruvic acid molecules. The process used two molecules of ATP (converts them to ADP + Pi {adenosine diphosphate + one inorganic phosphate molecule}), therefore this process uses energy, later energy will be produced.

In glycolysis, the ATP that is used is used in the first three stages (there are approximately 10 stages in glycolysis), then in the final few stages, 4 molecules of ATP are produced. The net product of ATP production then is 4 - 2 = 2.

The pyruvates are then converted to acetate. Acetate is added to Coenzyme A, the two together are called, acetyl CoA. Acetyl CoA then enteres the Krebs Cycle (formerly known as the Kreb's Citric Acid Cycle). In Krebs, acetyl CoA is converted to oxaloacetic acid which cycles through a series of metabolic changes where all the H atoms from the glucose molecues are removed, and 6 carbons atoms are converted to simple inorganic CO2. It also reduces the electron carriers NAD+ to NADH, and FAD to FADH, and produces 2 molecules of ATP. These electron carriers will carry the electrons to the Electron Transport Chain where the bulk of ATP from the glucose molecule are produced.

The Electron Transport Chain (or System) is controlled and regulated by respiratory enzymes found in the cytoplasm of prokaryotes, and on the inner membrane (cristae) of the mitochondria in eukaryotes. The ETC is a series of reduction/oxidation reactions where electrons are passed along - losing energy along the way which results in H+ ions being pumped (active transport) across the inner membrane. This produces an electrochemical gradient where the higher concentration of H+ ions is located across the membrane. By simple diffusion through a carrier protein, ATP Synthase, the H+ ions moved back, and when they do, the energy they release is sufficient to phosphorylate 32 ADP molecules into 32 ATP molecules.

In an electron transport system, energy from electron transfer during oxidation-reduction reactions enables certain carriers to pump protons (H+) across a membrane. As the H+ concentration increases on one side of the membrane, an electrochemical gradient called proton motive force develops. As the accumulating protons follow the electrochemical gradient back across the membrane through an ATP synthase complex, the movement of the protons provides energy for synthesizing ATP from ADP and phosphate.
http://www.cat.cc.md.us/~gkaiser/biotutorials/energy/atpase.html

In areobic respiration, eukaryotes, the electrons, and H ions, flowing to the end of the ETS then join with the final electron carrier, oxygen, creating molecules of H2O. 2H+ + O-- ----> 2H2O. (The electrons fill the outer shell of the O-- atoms, the H+ then share electrons pairs creating the water molecule.)

O2 + C6H12O6 + ADP + Pi -----> H2O + CO2 + ATP

"On Track"

This painting took longer than any other I've done. The thing I learned from it is the importance of simply sitting and looking at it during the process. The other thing I learned is when you put a wash on the paper before painting the image, you lose highlights and contrast. This image could use a little more contrast. I like it anyway though.

"Sailboat and Tender"

I painted this picture a couple years ago. It's one of my favorites, so I'm publishing it here in the blog. It is a tribute to C.E.L. Green, the original artist.

Watch for more paintings and photographs.

Long Days and Cherry Wood Sawing

My son, Derik, is 23. For the time being, he lives at home, but that's going to be a short-lived prospect. On Feb 18th we're going to Sequim to move, Bill Daniher, a friend of Derik's over here. They have found an apartment just about 4 blocks from here and they will rooming together this next year.

Bill came over last summer and enjoyed our pool and the environs here in the Tri-Cities and decided there is much more opportunity for him here, than there is in Sequim. We would agree. Bill is blind in one eye and has only about 50 percent vision in his good eye. I'm hoping we can get him involved in some programs for the visually impaired, DVR, and maybe Wilson House where Derik goes 3 times a week.

Wilson House is in Pasco. It's located in an old home close to downtown: three stories with a little shop in the basement where they sell clothing, a restaurant on the main floor where they serve themselves and anyone off the street a decent lunch, and upstairs they have offices for television viewing, newsletter production, and a bunch of other stuff I don't know anything about. The main purpose of Wilson House is to help disable people learn job skills, independent living skills, and social skills. They guy who runs the place is Joe Hernandez, a very likeable man who is dedicated to helping the disabled reach their full potential.

Anyway, maybe Bill, and Derik will both be involved.

Derik and I went out and sawed some large cherry limbs for fire wood this afternoon. He said this may be one of his first 8 hour days. He and his mother went shopping today for "stuff" he's going to need in the apartment: waste baskets, cleaning soaps, dish towels, etc., then when he got home, I was home from the college, we had lunch, then we went out and started sawing the limbs. Our good neighbor Bill Meader came over and helped, and helped make the project much more enjoyable than it would have been otherwise.

So I'm tired too. I came in, had a beer, took a shower and dinner's just around the corner.

Glycolysis and Kindness

Today I was worried the instructor would get into the deep inner-workings of the complicated and convoluted world of cellular respiration: glycolysis, fermentation, Krebs Citric Acid Cycle, Electron Transport Chain, and the pending doom of H+ concentrations ending the ETC events. She skimmed over the top of the glycolysis today, leaving plenty of room for me to work with the students needing additional help. She also discussed enzymes and how they work to control and regulate all metabolic reactions in living cells. I thought her lecture was excellent, stimulating and certainly with some degree of kindness in leaving the gory details of glycolysis to simply the beginning 6-carbon chained glucose and ending with two simple 3-carbon chained pyruvate molecules.

Today almost feels like early spring. The outside temp is near 50 degrees, the sun is brilliant and I don't know why I've cooped myself up here on this machine.

Izaiah's Hat

Here's Izaiah when he wore this hat.

Izaiah James Canada

Izaiah James Canada. He's my first grandson.
He's a handsome boy!

Aidan Charles Canada

This is Aidan Charles Canada. He's my second grandson.
Is he handsome or WHAT?

Forgotten videos and contractions

What a day. The teacher I work with at the college was gone today. Last week she asked me to show a video in her class. The video is on genetics and does a good job of explaining basic Mendelian laws. I know because I brought it home over the weekend and previewed it. This morning, when I walked into the main hall of the science wing at the college, the realization hit me, I snapped my hand to my forehead and said, "Oh no." A lady behind me said in response, "Forgot something didn't you." I laughed and responded that I had left the video I was supposed to show, at home.

Ever wing a lecture to a college class regarding a subject you haven't taught for over 20 years? I had done some reviewing because I wanted to cover some of the material in the video, and lay out a very simple approach to monohybrid crosses that the students could use when the teacher gets into genetics at a much deeper level. I covered some basic history: spontaneous generation and Francesco Redi, mala aeria, I might have mentioned Pasteur, don't remember; then I talked to them about purebreds, hybrids, homozygotes, heterozygotes; P, F1 and F2 generations; how traits are determined by one pair of genes; how lucky Mendel was to have chosen peas as his experimental subjects due to the fact that so many of their traits are determined by a single pair of genes, how many human traits are determined by many more than one pair of genes; and then I showed them how to do some of the basic Punnett Square crosses, including one dihybrid cross. One big mistake was in telling them to, in their spare time,cross two parents both hybrid for being tall and having smooth seeds. I told them smooth was dominant over wrinkled: it's the other way around.

Anyway, it was a little nerve-wracking, but not too bad. We'll see how it goes tomorrow.

Lois brought her mother home to spend the evening and night with us. Then about 6pm, Brooke called and said she thought she might be going into labor with Maia. She and James brought the boys up, and Brooke's contractions lost any rhythm they had been expressing. They had a hard time deciding what to do, but in the end, Lois took the boys home (Shana was waiting there with Kiauna), and her mother. Brooke and James went on over to the hospital in Richland. We think it's too early, but you can never be too careful.

We'll know more later.

So, here it is 8:18pm. Derik's in his room watching tv, or playing video games, or chatting online, and I'm writing to the blog.

My cbcbio105 page chunked at me this afternoon when I was posting more notes. Got a message saying my space is used up, told me to wait for about an hour and the site would be back up. It was down right after I finished adding the last few page/images. I think what I'll have to do is create other geocities web pages and link to them for further note postings.

More later.

Sofie: The Novel

In November of 2002, I wrote a story I call, Sofie, the Queen of Oakland. I wrote it at the National Novel Writing Month competition and it was a winner. Of course, anyone who writes a "novel" of at least 50,000 words is a "winner." I don't remember, but I think Sofie is about 54,000 words.

Someday, maybe, I'll get back to it and re-write/edit it. I've had some tell me they think it's good, but what else will friends tell you? My wife read it and she said she liked it, no one else in my family, nuclear or extended has shown any interest. Oh well.

The other novel I wrote in November of 2004, The Girl with a Cello. It isn't as good as Ruby, but it won at Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) too.

Breakfast at Tiffany's

I like a lot of things, but they're mostly things no one else close to me really cares for. You can see them in my profile: Breakfast at Tiffany's, Charade, Cannery Row, The Grapes of Wrath. I also like art; independent and foreign films; smooth jazz; and baseball. Some of these things have been with me a long time; they are things that formed me in my younger days. These things are part of me, part of my breathing, and my coming and my going, part of my decision making, part of my smile and my frown, and they are part of who I am. That's why no one who knows me really knows me, but I think that's probably the same for everyone. Who thinks they really know someone who really knows who they are? We are, like someone said, moving through space and time on our own lonely island, "living lives of quiet desperation."

Breakfast at Tiffany's:

What I really like is the opening when the coolest of all human creatures, Holly Golightly, rides the only taxi on Fifth Avenue, New York City, on a morning so lonely the taxi was the only vehicle in sight. She emerges from the back seat smooth, like syrup, in a very black and elegant spaghetti strap. She's wearing big sunglasses, and a black hat brimmed wide enough to cast a shadow on both her shoulders. She glides across the sidewalk, and casually eats what looks like a McDonald's breakfast, though they didn't exist then, while watching her own reflection in the window at Tiffany's: Breakfast at Tiffany's. Her necklace lies peacefully against her pearly skinned throat. There has never been a scene dripping with so much "cool" as that one.

Another scene in the movie I like is when Mickey Rooney, playing a totally politically incorrect oriental man who lives upstairs, comes to the stairs and yells, "Missa Go-Rightry, I protest." Mickey may not have been oriental, but I think no oriental could have embedded that particular type of humor in the movie.

I've never cared for George Peppard; the woman who played the woman who enjoyed his gigoloing - can't remember her name (she had a stroke some years later, but was able to return to film-making); or the Beverly Hillbilly who played her father, can't remember his name right now either. I thought all three were terrfically miscast. Their performances and their personas were distracting to the story. Too bad Cary Grant didn't play the gigolo. He was terrrific with her in Charade.

Even with all this distraction, "Breakfast at Tiffany's", is my favorite movie of all time: thank you Audrey. You were terrific.

Inauguration Day

Been busy all day. It's 5:37 pm and I haven't had the tv on once, so I've missed one of my favorite things to do each four years, watch the Presidential Inauguration. I suppose it doesn't really matter; the parade went forward and the president spoke, whether I was watching, there, or not.

I did have some great fun today though. It's Thursday, the last day of the week for students at the college. Yesterday the students I work with had a quiz in their biology class, so I figured there would be little, if any, interest in anyone coming to the tutor session at 10:00 am. I was mostly right, but 3 did show.

I walked them through the lecture they had just heard from the teacher: Membranous organelles in eukaryotic cells, and by the way they responded, at least two of them "got it." They didn't "have it" when they came in, I could tell by the questions they were asking. Anyway, it is pure delight to have students experience the "ah - hah" moment; ask any teacher you know. I'm in pure bliss because I'm experiencing that probably 3 - 5 times a day at the college now. I would get that many over the course of 3 - 5 years when I taught high school biology. This is wonderful!!

When I got home, I grabbed Lois and we went to a local tavern for a glass of cold beer and peanuts. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day: endoplasmic reticuli, lysosomes, peroxisomes, beer and peanuts. It can't get any better.

Winter Snow and Biology

Today we awoke to multiple school closures on the radio: Freezing rain. Columbia Basin College wasn't listed as a closed institution, so I bundled up and drove on over for the 9 am class this morning. Good thing. Since 1957, CBC has closed twice and both were last year during the rather significant blizzard we experienced here in eastern Washington. I guess it was a disaster at the college, so on a day like today where the news was filled with reports of vehicles (cars, trucks and semi's) sliding off local roads, school was on.

I went to class and thinking about how to take notes differently; I chose to use a black ink pen and some regular white paper. The notes I've taken so far with pencil on yellow paper didn't scan well. I don't even know if scanning these notes and posting them on the site is useful for, the students. Some said today if my notes reflect her lectures, which today came pretty straight off the outline she provides (I think that's a good thing), then they wouldn't need them. Understandable, since pretty much everyone in the class has the same notes, including me. But, they said if my notes include sketches and pictures they would be very helpful. Maybe what I need to do is create some sketches and post those. This computer I'm using might work very well for that with it's tableture software. The only thing is I'm not sure the blog software will recognize the tableture software....I tried saving it in "word," and it didn't work.

I'm home now. Brooke and the kids are all here. Brooke is ready to deliver Maia Rose any day. She was hoping maybe today since she spent the morning cleaning her house. The boys are busy, as ever. Izaiah is grazing through the kitchen, and Aiden is "playing" with his grandmother while Brooke lies on the couch watching an old re-run of "Roseanne." Kiauna is upstairs playing video games with Derik.

The Beat Goes On.

January 17, 2005

Ok, I spent some "quality" time with this blogger.com deal and I think I have the basics figured out. So, I have a master's degree in biosci, it doesn't matter, this blog thing is complicated.

What I would like to do is put some of my art on one of these. It might be a good way to share it with others. It might be an interesting way to share it with others. In doing some research about how to go about posting pictures I found I need to download Picasa's Helper software. I did. It doesn't seem to work to well: I downloaded it and removed it three times. It doesn't think my comnputer's linked to the internet....well, guess what...it is. Damned things been "re-logging" for over an hour on the fourth download. I think it's stupid.

This could be useful too inworking with my bio students at the college. I think maybe a good place to post lecture notes, thoughts, ideas, whatever. We'll see. My webpage for the class needs to be publicized with the students. I just built it this weekend, and I just linked it to this page. Time to post and see if it worked....we know the pic thingy didn't.

PS: just posted this page, then came back in, found the "edit" and I'm editing right now. The link worked.