Avatar

It isn't often that I am moved to write about a film, but Avatar was one of the best films I have seen in ages.
The film is set in the future--perhaps the 2050's--and although it isn't clear at first, Earth has been ravaged and exploited. Jack Sully, the parapelegic hero, has been recruited to enable an expensive avatar that was designed for his now dead twin brother. In return, the US Forces, led by molevalent Col Quaritch, (Stephan Lang) would see that he receives restoring spinal surgery. So Sully is embedded with the Navi. It is embarrassing because he doesn't know the language or anything about their culture. Mentally, he is even awkward in walking and running.

The skinny, giant blue-skinned Navi of Pandora are a charming race, more free and harmonious with their environment than their oppressors, US Forces. Unfortunately Pandora is the source of a precious mineral that the earth needs--and believes is theirs to take. Entitlement. A noun that describes a lot of politicians and earthlings I know.

Sully discovers that in his Avatar body, survival is a learned skill, and he is a baby as far as what he knows about the shark headed 30 ton rhino or the native dogs. He and his avatar are soft, barely able to navigate the trees and mysterious terrain of Pandora. His transformation from a hohah marine into a sensitive forest person is gradual and believable.

Beside the sacred tree, the the floating jelly-fish beings, the cloud-like islands, the US militaristic and technological world looks very ugly. Very quickly our sympathies shift to the Navi who physically and mentally bond with horses and dragonlike flying critters. As the struggle between the two begins, we are reminded of the frontiersman versus the Native Americans and similar struggles. It is the traditional good (aboriginal people) versus evil (exploiting invaders) plot, but with the many subtle layers and details that takes it to a higher level.
There is love (not lust), there is the metaphorical connection the universe; there is the message that once again we cannot disrespect the underclass.

I loved the ending. Had to restrain my 70 year old self from shouting and clapping.
Fortunately, the underclass reminds us--once again--that "Do no wrong" is a rule for life. Sadly we will need to be reminded again and again. Maybe sequels are needed here.

Threads



Last night was another
of those social evenings,
smiling, meeting strangers.
My husband wore his
leather sport coat, I
wore a black dress
wrapped in a favorit
knitted scarf.

Conversation filled
the evening. They
picked a thread from
the past—their first date—
and pulled, until we
grabbed a soft
blue thread from our past,
our honeymoon in Germany.
Then we laughed
at soggy garments,
cleansed in the front,
mud striped in the back:
the joy of bicycle
trips in the rain. Threads
tangled as we pulled
through our lives.

After appetizers
we shared pictures
of our children, family
portraits, cute grandchildren.
Sipping wine, we discovered
we all lost luggage
in Spain, but only my husband
lost a backpack in London.
The wine and life stories
continued, unraveling
the weft and warp of our lives.

Autumn Fantasy

Leaves blew against

houses and cars,

mounding burnt orange,

umber, red, and copper leaves,

mulching shrubs,

burying flower beds

and clogging gutters.

With gusty winds

my rake is for naught.

It seems like yesterday

my childhood friends and I

played house in the yard,

raked leaves into walls--

bedroom walls, living room walls,

garage walls that held

imaginary luxury cars;

we played tag and danced in

blueprints of castles

with glorious ballrooms

opening onto patios and porticos.

In my flannel-lined jeans

and plaid shirt, I waltzed

with my friends,

imaginary knights and dukes;

twirling past dusk

in the mansions of our minds.

After that last call for bed

we would roll in the leaves,

savoring the pungent earthiness,

then jump up and down

shaking the scratchy fibers free.

Later, bundled in bed,

the spicy scent

perfuming our hair

drafted the sweetest dreams.

Ashland Fall

Chuck’s Leaves

Two days

after the fall sun

dried sodden

leaf mounds,

he walked

through the trees,

kicking leaves,

sending oak, poplar,

and plate sized maple

flapping and fluttering

around himself:

the 80 year old man

with the ten year old heart.

Thursday, October 8

Another beautiful day. After a skimpy Super 8 breakfast we headed out toward Dulles International on HWY 13 north to HWY 50. We crossed the Bay Bridge and headed into Annapolis for some lunch and historical browsing. Very coincidental, because our trip began here about 3 weeks ago. We arrived into Annapolis along with the annual Sailboat show. All those well-to-do shoppers gave the town a real buzz. We walked along Main street to the harbor, noticed the boats and ships; we were partially shopping, partially looking for a good place for lunch. We found an Irish tavern by the harbor and had a wonderful lunch of fresh seafood. Then we investigated the first capital building of the United States, the Maryland State House. One of the most fascinating parts of this statehouse was the acorn shaped cupola that had a rod atop it designed by Benjamin Franklin. I was so moved to be in a building where many great men had gathered to debate the good of our country.

Then it was off to DC. With some effort we found our non smoking Econolodge room. That's right, the one that is now killing my nose with its pervasive smell of smoke. All we noticed when we inspected the room was the brand new marble bathroom. Thank God this is our last motel room. We are ready to be home. We did find a delicious meal at a very busy restaurant a short walk up the road. I wish I could make French Onion soup that well.

We have much to be thankful for. The weather has been incredible We have had only 2 days when it rained. One of those was at night while we slept, and the other storm passed by noon. The weather has been much warmer than we expected as well.

The food has been different. We only had one horrid meal, a very good record for that many meals out. Of course we only bought one meal a day. Vegetables on the east coast are interessting. We found lots of canned vegetables. Often the fresh vegetables we did find were overcooked. We carried raw celery and carrots with us, or we would have been a long time without crunch. As the cook I have had lots of days off, so I think I am ready to go home and "put dinner on the table."

Wednesday, October 7

The day began with another walk along the promenade in Virginia Beach. Rain was forecast for today, but it all happened before we went out. It was still cloudy as various military in civvies ran past. Their planes were racing back and forth overhead. We walked past a touching air carrier memorial. Great morning walk.

Then, as the sun shone and clouds cleared, we headed toward the East Virginia shore, the other side of the Chesapeake. To get there we had to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. Built in 1964, the bridge/tunnel system is described as one of the seven structural engineering wonders of the world. Measuring 17.6 miles from shore to shore, the passage consists of 12 miles of trestled bridge, two mile long tunnels under the bay so large ships can pass over them, four man-made islands made by thousands of 15 ton boulders or rip rap. It was pretty impressive, and I will note that Chuck got his $12 toll's worth. She who hates tunnels put on a brave front and survived quite nicely. It was definitely my longest brave front ever.

Starting up HWY 13 toward Maryland, our first and most interesting stop of the whole vacation was at the Barrier Islands Cultural Center near Machipongo. The cultural center was the Almshouse Farm during the 1800's. Shortly after we were inside we were met by the center's historian Jerry Doughty. Since Jerry had lived in the area all his life and had the pleasure of a pioneer grandfather who had told him stories of the island's days of grandeur.

The beautiful town or island names like Wachapeague, Metompkin, and Chincoteague go back to the first Algonquin inhabitants. Their numbers dwindled and the remnants intermarried.

The area was the playground of the New York and Pennsylvania rich. Huge hotels and private gaming clubs for men were very popular at the turn of the century. Sea salt, seafood, and tourism made that county one of the richest in New England. Robert E Lee was one of the island property owners. And one of the biggest businesses was smuggling---from Civil War medicines to Joe Kennedy's rum running. Unfortunately, the prosperity was not to last. The use of DDT and arsenic in agriculture ruined lots of the seafood business. There was the depression and economic downturn in the 30's as well, and most significantly, the beginning of the hurricane seasons for the area, starting in 1933. The 1933 hurricane wiped out many of the hotels and mansions of the rich. They were never rebuilt.

Today there are times when potable water is a problem Global warming is placing all of the island at risk. Developers have exploited resources appealing to tourists. Jerry was truly worried about the area's future.

We moved to the attic where we looked at the unique chimney built for the almshouse. It was twisted in the attic so the smoke would blow the right direction. There were also beautiful examples of decoys that early hunters and islanders had carved. There was also a 4 barreled gun used to shoot birds.

After the museum we had lunch in the Exmore Diner. A true diner with pony-tailed waitresses and the menu at our booth. Good food. Then we were off to Chincoteague to find wild horses. Sadly, the horses were busy doing other things. It had been a great day. We drove into Salisbury, MD, for the night.

Tuesday, October 6

What a perfect ending for a day. Tonight we are in Virginia Beach and just finished walking blocks along the beach promenade. We have spent entirely too much time in the car this trip, so it was so refreshing to walk and listen to the waves. And the helicopters and jets from the adjacent naval air force base. It seems those planes are in constant motion.

Our day started in Charlottesville, VA. We left a Super 8 manned by the world's grumpiest staff, and headed out on I-64. We thought we were going to Monticello. Unfortunately it was in the opposite direction. So we forgot that plan, and kept going to Williamsburg. Williamsburg's historic district must be quite a money-maker. If we had wanted to enter the homes and 17th century businesses, it would have cost it us $30 a piece. For free we walked up and down the Duke of Glouchester street. Proprietors were on hand to welcome tourists and gawkers like us. I discovered the Historic Society buys their costumes. Each worker reports for a fitting and receives an authentic costume and a list detailing the cost—in case it is lost or stolen.

Williamsburg was a great walk, but eventually we left in search of good food. We found some great Asian food @ $6 a plate. Then it was on to Virginia Beach.

Monday, October 5

I cannot imagine a more perfect day. After replacing my lost camera bag and media cards, we set off down HWY 30 to I-81. We took a detour to Antietam and enjoyed the bright sunny day walking around the battlefield. We walked to the Dunker Church, looked at the exhibits at the visitor center, and listened to a lecture on the medical care for the battle. Then we drove a few miles for an excellent meal at the Red Byrd. Then back to 81. We took the exit to I-66, and Front Royal because we were told the Skyline Drive through the Shenandoah Valley was spectacular. The ride was incredible, and was along a breathetaking ridge at 2000+ feet. We could see forever. Unfortunately, I was pretty uncomfortable with my fear of heights, but as Chuck phrased it, “ I made the trip with a few fingernails left.” Since the entire National Park trip takes about 5 hours at the speed limit of 35 mph, we left the park at Thorton's Gap. HWY 231 was a lovely, rolling shortcut to Highway 29 to Charlottesville. We are relaxing in our jammies after some Mexican food and a huge marguerita that we shared.

How romantic.

Sunday, October 4

We had enjoyed the state of New York, but today we crossed Pennsylvania from the northeast to southwest Gettsyburg. Rolling beautiful hills and villages dot the sides of the road. The northern part of the state had the same blazing color found in New York and Vermont. I realize that if the color is great in the south, leaves have fallen in the north. If color is beautiful in the Adirondacks, it is still green in Maryland.

We haven't said much about food. We had found some wonderful inexpensive food until today. Around 12:30 we were cruising down Hwy 81 when we decided to look for a dinnerhouse with the most cars. This has always been an effective strategy. Unfortunately we drove about 7 miles to this small town, picked the diner with the most cars. Casual dress. Down home kind of place with specials like chicken pot pie. Chuck ordered the roast beef dinner, and I ordered a meatloaf sandwich which came with “filling.” Filling was defined as potatoes mixed with onions, celery, etc. What we received was enough food for 5 people. I had this huge plate covered with dark brown stuff. Gravy. Except it didn't taste like gravy. More like brown wallpaper paste. So I lifted the top piece of white bread and ate the meatloaf which was pretty good. The filling wasn't bad either. Fortunately Chuck had shared his salad with me. He put away half of his dry roast beef. Anyway, we left trying to forget the experience. I swallowed a Pepsid about an half hour later.

We arrived at Gettsyburg at about 3:30 and checked into a motel. Then we walked through a forest to get to the Visitor Center. The Gettysburg foundation has built a new center which charges for almost all the exhibits. It is big, glitzy, and has many workers keeping the massive new wood floor shiny. Our motel manager said the new charges ($3 more just this year) paid a number of executives. Our compromise was to take the car tour around the battlefield. We enjoyed the drive. How could such beauty be defiled by such carnage. Although I had been here 10 years ago, I had forgotten how massive the battle was. A beautiful end to our day. The only negative was that I lost my camera case in the moving in and out of the car process. It contained several cards, a flash drive, and my mechanism for transferring pictures to my computer. Drat.

Saturday,October 3

Fortunately we woke up alive this morning. After finding that bizarre motel in North Albany, NY, I wasn't sure what would happen. We left early—at 8 am-- not hanging around the strange place. I had asked for our money back yet again, and promised I would write the health department, so they were quite glad to get rid of me.

Our first stop was Glen Falls, but it was raining so we headed into the Adirondack National Park, 6 million acres of mountains and beautiful fall color. We drove north to Brant Lake, then took HWY 8 to HWY 28 to the upper Hudson River, and the Indian River. We were traveling a road that was built in 1850, although it was a very modern road. Following the Sacandaga River, we finally bordered a lake by the same name. We moved in and out of the fog, always appreciating the beautiful color on the sides of the road. At Amsterdam we grabbed the freeways to drive southwest to Binghamton, NY, and a clean motel without mice or backward New Yorkers. While Maryann did laundry, Chuck watched football. As I record the day he is well into his 2nd game. Sadly, many Pac 10 games won't begin until we are asleep.

Friday, October 2

We are staying in the Bates Motel. It has been a long, crazy, yet beautifully colored day. Sunny. Gorgeous mountain drives. However, yet again we have had several small crises. Nothing to dampen our sense of humor. Nothing to discourage our sense of adventure.

The first little boo-boo occurred when Chuck locked the doors of our still running rental car when we got out at a visitor center at Woodstock, VT, just after we had driven the Kancamagus Highway. When your main car is a Prius, there is a tendency to think all cars are like Priuses and have that keyless entry and ignition. We lost an hour and a bit of gas waiting for the AAA service car to let us into the car. We were both pretty quiet about that one. Easy mistake to make, so we are being super careful now.

The second was finding this motel. We had been on the road since 9 am, and we had hoped to find a motel in Bennington. (And look up Robert Frost in the graveyard there.) However, they were having a Moose Fest. Main street was a pasture full of life size moose statues that had been decorated and dressed to be auctioned off at the end of the festival. A bookstore manager who surely was a Chamber of Commerce bigwig tried to sell one to me, claiming that people came from as far as the West Coast to purchase one of the big cuties. But the real impact was there was no room in the Inn. Not unless we wanted to pay $149 for the Hampton Inn or one of the high end motels. I would also compare Bennington to a beautiful girl who was a little stuck on herself. And it was after 5 pm. So we started toward Troy hoping this bedroom community to Albany would have a roo9m. We tried several highways leaving Troy, but no motels except for a Hilton on a hill that said $$$$. By this time it was nearly dark and Chuck was weary, but it was just a few miles to I-87, and I had a book listing many motels there. (And why wasn't I using my GPS to find motels? Because it was dead. And why wasn't I calling for reservations? Because my cell phone battery was dead too.) So we forged on. Finally we were moving on I-87 and yes, there were motels. After getting on the service road, we missed the Holicay Express by not being in the right lane. We pulled into the next motel after noting it had a clean exterior. Just $65 later, we were in a room. And then I noticed the mouse. And Chuck, never particularly worried about mice, noticed the TV didn't work. Did I say that by this time it is almost 8 pm. We called the manager in, and he agreed to give us another room because he was unable to refund our money. (He had no way to reverse a credit card charge.) The room he found for us had clean sheets and pillowcases, but needed the spread and blanket from the other room. I made the bed. Then I took my hand disinfectant and did a bit of sprucing up in the bathroom. I decided it was a bit chilly, and then I realized the heating-cooling unit was a plastic case only. I am hoping this first floor unit will not get too nippy tonight. We were really breaking up about that one. But Chuck was much too tired to drive somewhere else, and we would have lost our money.

On the positive side, the White Mountains were full of every fall color. There were lots of trails and Overlooks so we could photograph the valleys and streams with their hillsides sparkling in the sun. Fall color and fellow leaf peepers were everywhere. I suspect this was very close to peak color here because leaves were already starting to fall. I am sure that my photography didn't picture half of the splendor before me. Beside highway 112 beginning with the Kancamagus Mountains and stops for historic farms, the Quechee Gorge was a breath-taking sight.

Wednesday, September 30

The subway. Maryann hates subways. Claustrophobia. Today was our day to freestyle it in the city. After a hearty breakfast we were off. The first part of the ride was great and above ground, but we ended our ride nosing our way into a tunnel by Copley Square. Since Chuck wanted to revisit the Berklee School of Music—it's now music, all types of music, not just jazz—that was our first stop. Chuck really enjoyed walking around the campus, finding his dorm, talking about how the college has changed. Berklee now owns almost the whole Back Bay area, and the school has doubled in size. He was able to find TC's, a bar he visited once in awhile as a student. Unfortunately the Back Bay Lounge was now Dunkin Donuts.

Then we walked cross country to the Museum of Fine Arts. Our hosts had lent us their family membership, and that provided admission and some great art for the whole afternoon. There was a great display of the designs and furniture of the architects Greene. There were great Gainsbourghs, Monets, and sculptures. After a great lunch in the cafeteria, we visited the second floor. By 3 pm we were tired of walking and caught the subway Intown. At Copley Square we had to find the outbound subway. After a tour of the gorgeous Boston Public Library, and asking a few natives, we finally found the Outbound tunnel. The ride to the suburbs was much shorter than on Long Island. Back at our hosts, we repacked, I wrote, and Chuck watched the Red Socks on Big Screen TV.

Thursday, October 1

We left our friends Dan and Joan Kunitz and headed for Walden Pond. When we arrived, it was closed. No—not the pond—the gift shop and very spendy parking lot. So we parked before a “Don't park here unless you are shopping sign, and checked out the pond. A cement path around the pond hosted pods of walkers. There was some color around the pond, but it was early yet. Then we drove the Minuteman's ride between Concord and Lexington. The Miniteman's visitor center was well interpreted. Unfortunately we didn't have time to visit Hawthorne's or Alcott's homes.

Then it was off to Cape Ann. Highway 127 takes you on the perimeter of the Cape past fascinating mansions, homes of middleclass fishermen, art galleries on Rockport, the area that was home to Winslow Homer and Edward Hooper, the famous Captain at the wheel statue, and the fishing fleet in Glouchester. Heading north, we finally arrived at North Conway before dark. As we drove north the color became more intense. We will definitely see enough color in New England. We have pulled out the sweat shirts and coats. (Yes, Chuck has been reunited with his coat.)

Sunday, September 27.

After touring the entire isle of Manhattan, we were ready for a slow day in the city. We repeated the usual trip to the LIRR and made it to Penn Station by noon. We were to meet Chuck's students Laurele and Carol Rippa at Terraza Toscana for lunch at 12:30, so we hailed a taxi and made it to 50th and 9th Avenue for under $7:00. We decided we definitely liked traveling by cab in New York. We had a wonderful long lunch filled with stories, memories, and lots of trivia about New York. We saw their rent-stabilized apartment. Since they do not own a car it was interesting to hear how they traveled about and how much they loved the city. Then we had a beautiful walk through part of Central Park, down Poet's lane, occasionally noting the smell of horse (The horse cabs are everywhere.) We ducked into Tavern On The Green to go to the bathroom. That is one classy restaurant. (Partly open air.)

Since it was rainy all day, we saw an umbrella New York. We took the train home and packed for our trip to Boston.

Monday, September 28

We left Marc Greene and his niece Julie after a wonderful stay that included a Brisket dinner with Julie's scrumptious apple pie (a first for her), and lots of tour hints and good conversation. We drove to the east end of Long Island—Orient and the Orient ferry. It was a beautiful but very long drive past road stands with pumpkins, squash, and fall produce. Not much fall color yet, but it will hit 30 degrees tonight, and we are seeing some beautiful reds and yellows already.

All of those New Englanders who have two dimes to rub together love to go the shore in the Hamptons, the Cape, the shore in MA. Fortunately there is a lot of coast line so there is a place for everyone.

Our ferry ride was very similar to the trips we have had on the Washington ferries. We left Orient and turned back into the Long Island sound. Often we could see land on the North and South. The hour and a half trip was warm and relaxing. Small colonial light houses popped up in the sound by various harbors.

At New London we unloaded our car from the ferry and looked for food. Much of the sandwich fare was not appealing, but we found a small Columbian restaurant with a handsome grandfather outside welcoming patrons in Spanish. We had an incredible meal of talapia cooked in white sauce with fried platains. Then we caught I-95 and drove 3 hours to the suburbs of Boston.

Newton is the largest of suburbs with huge Victorian homes on many streets and corners. Our room was with a wonderful couple, Dan and Joan Kunitz (relatives of the poet and philosopher Stanley Kunitz). We were very comfortable, and they taxied us to the subway and tour bus. Real saints. We arrived on the eve of Yom Kipper when they were just finishing their fast. It has been great to discuss their faith and enjoy meeting these great people.

Tuesday, September 29

This was Tour Boston day. We bought a tour in a small van with a clever interpreter of Boston history. We stopped at Longfellow 's home, looked at Harvard, MIT, and Boston U campuses. Chuck was able to revisit the Charles River, and the Berklee School of Jazz in the historic Back Bay. Gentrification had totally changed the neighborhood. Gone were the hookers outside the dorms, the drunks on corners and in alleys. The new John Handcock building with its huge glass windows that pop out from time to time had completely change Copley Square. There was plenty of Revolutionary history: a tour of the USS Constitution, Bunker Hill, Breed's Hill, Old North Church, and Copps Hill Burial Ground. We also saw the impressive Old Granary Burial Ground, the Boston Commons, and the Public Gardens.

We stopped for lunch at the Quincy Marketplace. Chuck had fish and chips and I had the lobster special for $12. Then we walked over to Faneuil Hall. When Chuck was there on July 4 30 years ago, he heard the Declaration of Independence read. Today that would be impossible because it is a trinkets market. Next it was on to Paul Revere's statue, the Boston Massacre site, and the Old State House. The Freedom Trail was easy to follow.

Those of us who watched Cheers every night saw the real neighborhood, the real bar. The same exact sign.

It was a wonderful day, concluded with a great meal at a Greek restaurant with our hosts.

--

Friday, September 25

Our first adventure was driving to the Ronkonkoma Long Island Railroad to catch a train to New York. Quite simple, clean, and efficient. It was an interesting ride. We started out where the homes were on huge lots. In Corum where our host lives, his home is on a huge lot of about a half acre with a pool. As we progress toward the city, the lots get smaller, houses are closer together. Soon the pools are small and above ground, and then before you know it, they are nonexistent. As we leave the suburban areas of Deer Park and move toward Brooklyn, there are fewer fields, steeples. Less green space. The paint on the homes becomes haphazard, and as we approach East New York the tenement house becomes taller and very brick.

Beside the 18 stops of the LIRR, are huge park and ride lots. Waiting in them are hundreds of cars for the many passengers of the commuter trains. A good portion of the passengers have a little privacy bubble around them---an attitude communicating a “don't bother me.”

Penn Station is huge. We departed from track # 20 and made our way above ground. One of the most remarkable things about New York is the noise. It is definitely a city for people who desire stimulation and excitement. I will do well to make it through three days. For some reason, I didn't sense the craziness in London, Barcelona, or Madrid that I feel in NYC. Perhaps when I get in the museums or Central Park it will calm down.

One of the interesting aspects about this week is the United Nations session. President Obama is here to address topics like terrorism and Iran's underground nuclear facility. This means that every time these heads of state moved from place to place, a convoy of black SUV's and police protection blazed down the street. It was also impossible to get anywhere close to the 3 United Nations buildings, particularly the General Assembly building. Police were everywhere in the city, particularly at heavy traffic intersections where they needed them.

There has been a sad consequence of the No Smoking bans in stores and restaurants. They have to smoke in the streets. That means that walking in the city or enjoying places like Times Square is difficult because every breath one takes is a smokey one.

Signage is fascinating. The huge LED screens—particularly present around Times Square, 42^nd street, etc. overshadow architecture and all else in the landscape. By Penn Station is a huge football player in his tight pants landmark. After awhile I found all of screens—especially Macy's malfunctioning one—visual overload.

The highlight of the day was a guilded cruise of the Hudson harbor. We had very good views of ellis Island, the train depot many immigrants took across America, the Statue of Liberty, Governor's Island, and the Financial District. This and the other tours we took put everything I have watched on television from business news to Law and Order in perspective. Like looking at society from a new view.

The Coast Guard has a number of small boats that look like smart rafts. They have machine guns mounted on the bow. We watched one pull over a small motor boat and give them a little chat.

Another fascinating thing about New York is the way certain industries have clustered. The garment industry is no longer there because of outsourcing that began with China's production of cheap clothing, but there are many other areas like the music instrument section, ASCAP section, the Theatre District, the area where there are hospitals and research facilities. In general, however, the trend is to tear down and build new glass or glitzy structures. Yes, there are a few of the historic buildings built in the early 1900's like the Art Decco Empire State building with its 104 floors, the Flatiron building, and the Chrysler building, but the push is to rebuild newer and “better.” Actually the Empire State building was more interesting in its architecture.

We took the express train back to Long Island with hundreds of commuters who raced to their waiting cars snoozing in cement fields by the tracks.

Saturday, September 26

This was our big touring day of New York. We covered almost all of the Island and particularly enjoyed the ethnic neighborhoods like Chinatown and Little Italy. Here is a partial list—just to help me remember the details:

I loved the trees and swankie apartments in Chelsea. Somehow I expected more unusual buildings or businesses in the Village. Saw the first pizzaria—John's. One bit of folklore about the bull on Wall Street is that if you kiss its ass, your portfolio will earn lots of money. And there was a huge line of tourists doing just that. Made me wonder what else they would kiss. The lower East side—melting pot of NY—did not have any flamboyant sights, however, there was the sense that the whole area had been the labor and the stability of the island for a long time. Of course all of the area bordering Central Park was beautiful and fascinating from the lavish 5^th avenue digs like the former home of Andrew Carnegie to the museums. Would I had a day to spend in each of them: the Whitney, the white curving Guggenheim, the Metropolitan Museum of Art (I would love 2 days for that one), the Museum of new York City, and the Museum of Natural History where the “Night in” movie was shot.

Harlem was also more of a polished city atmosphere than I expected. There were more blacks in the neighborhood, but other than that, it looked like much of the rest of the island.

Times Square was full of people by 5pm. We also had another insight into Carnegie hall, the Lincoln Center, the Apollo, and other similar venues. To attend a concert one needs to taxi, use public transportation, or pay $35 to $50 at a parking facility. I am so glad we can attend great concerts and plays without that hassle.

Biggest regret of the day? Not having time to have tea in the Plaza hotel.

Thursday, September 24

The order of things—beginning with Gaithersburg, MD:

1. Breakfast at a bagel place. Good coffee.

2. Purchased a styrofoam cooler to keep Lee's gifts from melting.

3. Left Gaithersburg for New York.

4. Called Alamo Lost and Found. They had Chuck's coat which they agreed to mail to our next stop in Boston.

5. Drove on long stretches of 10 lane freeways.

6. Stopped at a rest stop in Maryland and decided to jump for a cross-country ride to Annapolis on 301 so we could see some countryside. After several hours we decided to turn the GPS on so we could arrive at our host's before Friday.

7. Alas. That meant "flying" on the New Jersey Turnpike. Not a great experience, but we coped until our GPS told us to “Stay on I-95N” while the readout was pointing toward a road that would take us through the Lincoln Tunnel to our destination. Unfortunately we stayed left while I cursed Ms. SmartyPants of the GPS. Quite a bit later we took the George Washington Bridge (Chuck hummed Persichetti's piece while we crawled over during 5 pm traffic.)

8. Did I mention that we ended up driving through the Bronx and Queens? We wanted to see New York, but that was not the kindest way.

9. Then we had to swing South to get the Long Island Expressway. There was a fast Express lane with lots of signs explaining HOV safety. (We have no idea what HOV means.)

10. Now I know why New Yorkers drive with fists full of dollars in their right hand. Toll roads. No nickel and diming you either. We paid 5 to 10 bucks a time. When we leave for Boston we plan to take the ferry. That is not cheap, however. That will cost about $70.

11. The good news is that after a long day of driving (Did I mention the Mazda does not have cruise control), we arrived just before dark. We had traveled through 4 states.

A Long Hot Summer

September 17, 2009

It has been a very busy, hot summer. It is not unusual to look back on a summer and wonder where the time went. Weddings, concerts in Lithia Park, walks to the college--the summer is all a beautiful memory now. What I don't remember is rain this summer. Our last rain was back in June. With all of the low fronts that have blown over us, there has been no measurable rain. We came close the other night. The smell was so rich and desireable I wrote a poem about it.

The Tease

Four days dark gray
cumulous clouds
towered over our
parched valley.
The sun set behind
dusty tan hills
sulking in the shadows.

A warm earthy fragrance
suggested rain.
With bare feet I ran
to greet the drops—
but felt only a warm
damp sidewalk and
slightly slick grass.

Lonely for rain
after a long summer,
I tilt my face toward
the dark sky to feel
only three drops.
Merely the breath
of moisture.

New York and the New Yorker

Dear Marla,
Your Christmas gift of The New Yorker subscription has been an inspiration to us. We are sitting next to piles of those magazines, eight months of them, those beautiful covers----man on girder overlooking NY, a doctor helping a sick elephant (If only he could), dueling sight-seeing buses---staring up at us. Half the magazines are turned inside out, marking unfinished stories. We love the magazine, and there is so much good stuff that we can't read it all. But we NEVER miss a cartoon. We have our own captions that (moan and groan) would have won--if only we had sent them in.

However, it hits us that we have traveled to some of the other great cities of the world (London, Barcelona, Mexico City, etc.) but have ignored NYC. So we are going. (Please note our map of the transit system of New York.) We know our children will worry about our getting lost. And we promise we will not drive in New York City. Unless we get lost. We are in the process of getting tickets to Broadway. We found a tour company for the overview. And we plan a long walk in Central Park. We'll send you a postcard.

And Will, we have thought about your advice about investing in a Really Good Meal. I have to admit that Bobby Flay is really tempting. Of course, they won't let me in the kitchen. And I can't imagine our being able to spit a meal like we usually do. Sadly, the good meal treat would have been great about thirty years ago when we had appetites. So we will be eating street food and packing lunches. If it worked in London, it will work in NYC.

After you kids read this, I can see our subscriptions next year: African Vibes, Alaska, The last Frontier. I can't guess where you will want to send us.

Julie and Julia

My fourth of July dessert
and Chuck with Will's
Eggs Benedict










Today I saw a great movie, Julie and Julia. The film resonates with me on so many levels.

First, the contemporary Julie decides to find herself through exploring Julia Child's Mastering French Cooking. By blogging she would "find" herself-----establish an identity. All of us have had those moments on the porch. Midnight. Sitting there with a half-empty bottle of wine, wondering who we are becoming. And why. Julie had skills and compassion and an incredible sense of humor.

Julie and Julia both loved to cook and found relaxation and creativity in the kitchen. However, time I spend in the kitchen is time I can't spend reading or writing. There are many family jokes about my cooking. My son's favorite is the meal I served of garden red potatoes, pork chops, and salad. My son Will took his fork and tried to stab a potato. The potato clinked around the plate instead. He tried again. "Mom, this potato is hard as a rock!" It was a rock. I had scrubbed, boiled, plated, and served a smooth red rock.

So I have covered my kitchen laziness and lack of expertise by saying, "Whereas some are gourmet cooks, I put dinner on the table." But I was still feeling very inadequate. My son, realizing his father, grandfather, and all the men in his life were good cooks became a Foodie, a fantastic cook. Inspired by these people, I have begun to collect recipes, read directions, use measuring spoons and cups, and prepare healthy, tasty, attractive meals. Once in awhile.

My grandmother was an incredible cook who never measured and seldom used a recipe. I watched her make brioche in her big country kitchen. No recipe. No measuring devices. Anna would scoop the flour with her hands and use a huge bowl and a large spoon to beat the batter. No $300 Kitchen Aid for her. Her rhythmic kneading was beautiful to watch. The payoff was picture perfect mouth-watering rolls.

Watching the film I saw how cooking can be a passion. It provided a little window into the soul of cooks like my son Will who invest a lot of money for the freshest Whole Food fruits and vegetables so they will have optimum flavor. My daughters Tami, Marla, Aletha, and Will may outcook me, but no one enjoys good food more. Except Julie and Julia. Historically speaking.

Reservation Rock







At the south end of Stanley Park’s
Lost Lagoon, Reservation Rock
pokes out of the cool blue
providing a sun-bathing raft
for sleepy turtles. Very popular
this small rock which holds three--
just three of the thirty or so feral
red-eared sliders which have
clawed out of the lagoon’s mud
after a long winter’s nap
with a vegetarian hunger
greater than a panda. After
chewing a huge swath through
water hyacinths, cannas,
and many of the grasses,
these cold-blooded sliders,
big as dinner plates,
must warm themselves in
the afternoon sun, but with
few logs and rocks, it’s
first come, first warmed
on pedestal rock, unless
there are previous reservations.

Calendars: March 3

Calendars are about expectations.
The worst? online, blank box calendars
staring back at me, begging fulfillment,
like ground waiting to be planted,
defying me to ignore Special Days.

As if calendars are the gift of time.
Christmas brings more calendars;
Audubon nature calendars, art calendars
napping cat calendars, and humor calendars.
This year I made room for three.
all gifts from loving family.
Family photo calendars, warm,
benign, still on January’s picture.

Those daily calendars enslave.
On my daily art calendar, stuck on Feb 1,
the Gauguin women clash with my blue sofa.
My Learning-by-the-day calendar is the worst.
“Manana es un dia especial” reads
my Spanish Language calendar,
February 13th. Manana, tomorrow.
Manana, time awaits.
Manana I may get my calendars updated.
Manana I may put them all in a box.

My Floral History

Left my two grandmothers are pictured. Anna Pettit is on the far left, and Anna Nitzke is on the right. They are inspecting peonies, and rightfully could serve as master gardeners. Anna Pettit raised her flowers along the three sided fence in her back yard. Rose and pink peonies lined the south side, and daisies and delphiniums lined the back fence. In the middle of the yard was a oblong gold fish pond filled with bright orange fish. (My brothers and I really enjoyed feeding those fish, especially when they resided in grandmother's basement during the cold Iowa winters.)
My father's mother, Anna Nizke, was an important mentor in so many ways. She was an incredible baker and cook, a fisherman, quilter and needlework artist. Our souls clicked on so many levels. We fished together, she showed me how to can, and included me on her needlework days. Her life had a plan. Laundry Day was early Monday morning. Tuesday was gardening day, and Wednesday was baking day. All of this work was performed before this granddaughter got out of bed unless I made an effort to bike the four blocks to grandmothers on an early summer morning. Afternoons were for fishing, needlework, or calling on friends.
The following poem comes from Grandmother's gardening advice.

Deadheading

This morning as I
groom my flower patch,
I feel grandmother looking
over my shoulder. Anna,
my grandmother who died
in 1979 at the age of 98.
She counsels me often,
but this morning I remember
her lecture on deadheading
when I was about ten.
As we strolled through the peonies
and rose bushes in her backyard,
she surgically removed suckers,
and shaped the rose bushes
slicing above the buds on
five leaflet stems. “Your flowers
will be bigger and your bush
healthier,” she said.
Snipping dead yellow cone
flowers, she admonished, “If
you want blooms, you must
clean out the flowers that have
passed.” That lesson worked
on the poppies, delphiniums,
and the asters. but grandmother
remains my most gorgeous flower.

Quilts

Every woman in my family did some type of needlework. As I was growing up, I watched my mother, grandmothers, aunts, and great aunts, appreciating their skill. Grandmother Pettit tatted. Although I never picked up that skill, I sat at her feet transfixed as she wove lace. They all crocheted. I managed to pick up that skill and once made a bedspread for my son, completed several years after the promised birthday. There were also scarves for boyfriends, although the

suitors often disappeared after receiving the gift. Of course everyone had quilts that were made by a family member. My favorite pictured in this blog were made by my paternal Grandmother Nitzke with several made by my husband's mother Hazel Balis.
I have wonderful memories of visiting Grandmother Anna and her twin sister Gustie. Afternoons they would sit in the living room with a quilt spread out over a frame, their tiny stitches swirling in the margins of the quilt. It was not quiet work. They laughed, told stories on family members and neighbors. Quilting was an act of love that made everyone happy.
Grandmother would use many of her quilts as gifts. They were frequently her wedding presents and become treasures of the granddaughters like myself who were lucky enough to receive them.



The Warmth Of History

When the temperature drops below freezing,
I pull the family crazy quilt from the closet.
Blue, black, lilac, and rose squares greet me
as I unwrap this gift from the past.
After this quilt blessed grandmother’s bed
for the last quarter of her life,
I inherited its loving warmth.
I lay caressed by the past,
snippets of skirts, vests--family clothing
grandmother artistically assembled.
Smoothing brown herringbone squares
from grandfather’s Sunday suit,
the suit he wore to Goodsell’s funeral,
over my corner of the bed, I flatten
dusty rose patches from the dress
grandmother wore to bridge club
and my childhood piano recitals.
Courting sleep, my finger follows
chain stitches in bold black yarn.
Yet white buttonhole embroidery
decorates the rich black triangles
from Aunt Anna’s black velvet gown.
The best family finery now
my bedtime heritage of love.

Here you are Barb. This poem is for you.

The Stickies

Yesterday I grabbed a rosy pomaceous
Mackintosh from my fruit bowl;
As I bit this perfect apple,
crunchy meat and juice ran
down my freckled hand. Yet
wedged between my molars,
skin or seed tormented my teeth.
At last a toothpick freed the
bar coded villain—pricing label #4042.
These hideous labels do not wash away,
often bonding with skin and pulp,
refusing removal from the fruit.
Who slaps numbers on my food?
Apples are no longer Delicious or
Gravenstein: they are 4042, 4131, or 4139,
Even my tomatoes bear the brand 4664.
Standing in the produce aisle,
beside the flowers, I sense
no fragrance except the newly waxed floor.
Those Cyclops labels stare at me,
ready to jump into my basket.
Is that glue organic?

Off to the Farmer’s market
with their naked, aromatic fruit.
I will delay the day when I’ll sit
on my porch, peeling labels
from each grape, cursing
the pricing God who labeled them.

Cross Upon Cross

Across the dry desert
of the Bolivian altiplano
four men dig a grave,
silhouetted against the sunset.
Beside a rough box,
the size of a duffel bag,
two women weep, and
distance silences their cries.
Even on the edge of La Paz,
the city that touches the clouds,
heaven is far away.

Seeking to leave sorrow behind,
I descend the labyrinth
of narrow streets toward

Plaza Murillo's sidewalk cafes.
At the Mercado de las Brujas
mysterious food, herbs and charms
distract from street beggars.
Mothers with crying children,
toddlers with outstretched hands,
twisted faces pleading--
please, a peso, just
a meal today for the youngest.
Their cries choking my heart,
I escape across the street;
more begging children
like hungry dogs,
line the sidewalk.

At the cathedral
older, more established beggars,
several missing limbs, plead;
inside the quiet church
there is no solace.
Even in the sanctuary
where statues of saints
wear elegant finery
on altars of gold,
where candles burn,
where cross upon cross
incise sin and sorrow,
church after church
cannot bring justice to the poor.

Relaxation

Quilting. Macramé. Gardening.
Golfing. Eighteen holes of humiliation,
followed by practice on the putting range.
All in the name of relaxation.
I’ve thought of petting a cat
because that purr relaxes,
or practicing yoga’s warrior pose.
No toxins, stress, or guilt for me.
Well, maybe an ergonomic chair.
I’ll slip on headphones, listen
to Black Sabbath or Motley Crue,
maybe watch a favorite film,
Fatal Attraction or Play Misty.
Perhaps a familiar poem
or a thrilling book—Beowulf
or the Chowchilla Kidnappings.

Honk If You Love Jesus

Many years ago, in fifth grade
I received my first chain letter.
“Send this letter to ten friends
or your life will be ruined.”
Friendless. Ruined forever.
Those letters always promised
heaven or hell, happiness or catastrophe.

Chain letters are back, annoying
me from cyberspace. The emails
begin, “God Bless You.”
Who would have thought
God would be messaging me
through an email chain letter.

The letter criticized the faint-hearted
who would not forward the message
to ten best friends. Obviously,
they were ashamed to admit
knowing the Lord. Angels, butterflies,
and Thomas Kinkade pictures fill
my computer screen, rivers sparkling
across the screen into the Sidebar.

After recounting many blessings,
the message ends with the kicker:
“If you love Jesus, send this
message and its heavenly
pictures to ten people. Soon
you will be blessed with a miracle.”
Immediately I visualize St. Peter
sitting at his computer in the sky,
crossing me off as I press Delete.

If you love this poem,
pass it on to ten fellow poets
or risk the loss of your muse.
Forever.

That's The Way It Was: Walter Cronkite

Watching the memorial to Walter Cronkite brings so many thoughts. The evolution of television, his reporting of some of history biggest moments, his other projects like "The Twentieth Century."

Television and I grew up together. As I watched his coverage of the 50's, I remembered watching many of those stories at grandmother's house. The Pettits had television several years before we did, but then they bought us our first television, and we could watch the news every night in our own living room. I have always been a news junkie, and Cronkite was riveting. In retrospect, he inspired me to love politics, history, popular culture. His curiosity and objectivity about everything probably set the stage for my own independent political leanings and my fascination with popular culture.

I have been around radio and television since I was a kid. Microphones, cameras, video have all morphed as technology has changed. Newspapers are reaching the end of their cycle. Television studios are becoming automated. A huge television news staff died way before Walter Cronkite. We are looking at the media of the future. Computers, ipods, podcasts, news to your phone and Kindle will be all part of our future.

Cronkite would definitely be on my list of 4 people in history I would invite to a dinner party. He could not have been the newsman he was without being a world-class listener. Much of media today is weak in the listening department. Cronkite had a respect for details and was a master of research. Would that be common or true today.

I was fascinated by the people who had spent time with Cronkite and counted him as a close friend--Mickey Hart, Robin Williams, George Clooney, President Johnson, and a long list of newsmen, politicians, and television people. We were all blessed by his presence.

Conversion

Today I tossed my red plaid cookbook,
1930’s New Better Homes and Garden version.
into our co-mingle recycling bin.
Poring through my old friend,
I rescued my favorite recipes—
chocolate chip cookies and mincemeat pie.
My new bible is America’s Test Kitchen.
Mincemeat is not in their new book,
nor is old-time molded perfection salad.
My copper molds live at Goodwill,
leaving more room for microplanes,
my fat separator and salad spinner.
Oxtail stew and chipped beef are missing
with old-fashioned recipes like jelly roll,
buckwheat griddle cakes, sauerbraten,
sea foam candy, tutti-frutti bars, and fruit cocktail pie.
Tuna croquettes, tuna tetrazinni, and
company tuna-bake outlawed forever.
Children rejoice because liver loaf
and snappy liver dip no longer exist.
Test Kitchen chefs believe light brownies or
light cheesecake are not oxymorons.
Our doctors are happier because
mayonnaise, cooking in aluminum wrap,
maraschino cherries, and red food coloring
are no longer part of our diets. But hey,
my cooking light and vegetarian sections
rethink fettuccine alfredo and lasagna.
Come over sometime. We’ll have cassoulet.

Porches and Patios

On porches on upper Willow Wind Street
white Adirondack chairs stare
silently across the tree-lined street.
Rustic bent willow loveseats
offering plush pillows sit empty.
Porch swings, cypress rockers,
gliders, loungers, potted plants—
all welcoming by design--yet deserted.

Historically, a prosperous man’s porch
held wooden ice boxes for milkman’s
early morning milk and cream delivery.
Neighbors swapped family gossip there,
shared exploits of eccentric ancestors
cherished in their collective memory.
Men read the evening paper, while
their wives knit and purled sweaters,
nodding and chatting with passersby.

Now affluent families crave comfort
behind study cedar privacy fences.
Exhusted working moms and dads
huddle around the barbecue or firepit,
watching their children romp with the dog.
Now the decorator pillows adorn
cushioned settees on back patios
hidden beneath climbing roses or honeysuckle.

Yet on unpainted cottage porches
across town behind the car dealers,
tattoo parlors, and gas stations,
giggling children play with legos
while snuggling parents sip sodas.
Now on along side train tracks
cousins and neighbors stop by
crumbling porches crowded with
bicycles and discarded sofas
to discuss movies and Wal-Mart specials,
their common lives intimacy rich.

I Have Your Word

The Agriculture Department
proposes to remove “hunger”
for more accurate, “low food security.”
What is a word?
Does it matter if you are blind
or visually challenged?
Or can words blind us from
a more tragic reality?
When murder is liquidation, and when
the death of innocents
becomes collateral damage,
do our words reframe
or ignore truth?
In today’s doublespeak,
ketchup is a vegetable.
Considering the theological,
to eliminate a sin, simply rename it,
the stealthiest of verbal absolution.
What is a word? A test.
It is our language
which reflects our souls.

To Begin

Last year my husband and I did some "estate" planning and invested in the Neptune Societies burial package for ourselves. We were pleased that we had saved our families a few decisions. Unfortunately, there was baggage associated with that decision: we have two mahogany cube boxes in the garage waiting for us. So when you look at the blog title you will have a hint at the origin of the blog title.

Of course I have colored outside the lines for years.