tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81490336563535808532024-03-05T11:23:59.893-08:00Downstream Bohemia'Downstream' because we are not in the headwaters any more; that big confluence is coming up around the bend. 'Bohemia'? Whatever.The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.comBlogger180125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-21536071694055007232015-05-07T13:43:00.004-07:002015-05-08T13:22:47.317-07:00Un Poco Triste<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4y3zikH9s65UHYvM6plyD6GEz99FeZsrvFPyBoGU0NIsAk1xtiyqdK3Zap0WFNEj8jZ9d02MO-o_uW61j5mq0YgrII6OwoqEae7Q94qArhhcvSTAMnnGtdueGBTzBW5RIqYhWO0c895nc/s1600/Georgia-and-Sarina-at-Cedar-Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4y3zikH9s65UHYvM6plyD6GEz99FeZsrvFPyBoGU0NIsAk1xtiyqdK3Zap0WFNEj8jZ9d02MO-o_uW61j5mq0YgrII6OwoqEae7Q94qArhhcvSTAMnnGtdueGBTzBW5RIqYhWO0c895nc/s320/Georgia-and-Sarina-at-Cedar-Park.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet daughters in the park below their former home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This past weekend my Sweet Daughters and I spent our final day all together before the move to Mexico: tasty breakfast at a boutique bakery, round of miniature golf in the spring sunshine, improv comedy matinee show, ice cream cones, and, finally, a visit to the funky school-turned-art studio where Daughter 1 grew up and Daughter 2 was born--a place where our three lives were intimately connected for a decade.<br />
<br />
It was a fun day except for the ending which left us feeling a little sad--this place of many memories is now overgrown or being slowly torn asunder.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUwMEkOeAlyxNc9Q2Yoazy6pVIaXC4z4j45HTC8G5t_PEhte03Qf-ziVptXe2_PJdCD76uE1Fni3wctAeHi9ggTOA6p6Og6AdPAq8Coj5hH7bH9H7u9kU2dQGjKE6DAsIJZCmlsQzEdCC/s1600/Cedar-Park-Under-Construction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUwMEkOeAlyxNc9Q2Yoazy6pVIaXC4z4j45HTC8G5t_PEhte03Qf-ziVptXe2_PJdCD76uE1Fni3wctAeHi9ggTOA6p6Og6AdPAq8Coj5hH7bH9H7u9kU2dQGjKE6DAsIJZCmlsQzEdCC/s320/Cedar-Park-Under-Construction.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heavy equipment is digging through the overgrown garden;<br />
piles of building materials are stacked and strewn around the<br />
property. Some murals we don't remember remain below the <br />
roof, on which pyramids once lit up to represent the Pleiades.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After nearly 30 years of sheltering poor people with artistic intentions, its residents have been evicted, the site has been reclaimed by the school district and is currently surrounded by a nearly quarter-mile long, chainlink rent-a-fence enclosing a deserted-looking worksite, completion date unknown.<br />
<br />
It <i>was</i> a place of comfortable gardens, idiosyncratic rooms and installation-art hallways, huge stone busts of obscure scientists and poets, a heritage apple orchard, vast graffiti murals and bumpy relationships. Now, the colorful rooms are no longer visible. A wall of gray concrete blocks has replaced the generous many-paned windows of this early Baby Boom building.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTgnPeiqokuP467oCLupMV7l6B6BzrPdfbSRNRo27uQZEGRymV94p4GOUKFUP4qq8VQAnUwvVEv0ajFFPZ1X7sKgVNUhDW7Tkh0m07YT7DAyuJic49T3c_Ah2kN5CTqYHOh1Fi-9un_H7/s1600/Cedar-Park-Nonsignificance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTgnPeiqokuP467oCLupMV7l6B6BzrPdfbSRNRo27uQZEGRymV94p4GOUKFUP4qq8VQAnUwvVEv0ajFFPZ1X7sKgVNUhDW7Tkh0m07YT7DAyuJic49T3c_Ah2kN5CTqYHOh1Fi-9un_H7/s200/Cedar-Park-Nonsignificance.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Non-significance" of existing use as<br />
an art studio is the school district's<br />
justification for its costly plan to turn <br />
the building into a temporary school.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We walked along the perimeter looking, futilely, for a way past the high fence so we could explore and identify some remains. We read the Land Use billboard and Daughter 1 scoffed at the School District's justification for its takeover--"non-significance" of its previous use as art studios. Her attitude had been hardened by an us-versus-them struggle during our long tenancy.<br />
<br />
For Daughter 2, this was not only the place where she was raised from infancy into childhood; it was also the site of her mom's workshop for nearly 20 years.<br />
<br />
For me, this was where I acted--half the time or more--as their single parent. <a href="http://ilteatropescatore.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Il Teatro Pescatore</a> was born here, and I'm equally as happy with the shipping crate bamboo cottage I built for my daughters, the flat rooftop sculpture that lit up every night to represent a cluster of stars, and the annual Halloween Haunted Hallway where we each posed, for the neighborhood, as staff member of a scarily demented school. All gone.<br />
<br />
Part of all that has already been told, <a href="http://slog.thestranger.com/slog/archives/2013/03/27/the-short-sighted-dismantling-of-artwood-a-quiet-and-long-running-utopia-in-north-seattle" target="_blank">here</a> or <a href="http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/archive/?date=20041015&slug=pacific-partwood17" target="_blank">here</a>, or is a longer story for another time, if at all. The memories will conflate and fade as we grow older, but the old school was a special place for the three of us, and many others.The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-43950504181863764872015-04-26T12:27:00.004-07:002015-04-28T20:09:46.099-07:00Slender FootA Packing Stress-induced hallucination:<br />
<br />
I look past our bed to the luggage and mostly clothes--all in an organized heap next to the wall, under the window, just now.<br />
<br />
The corner of a bedsheet falls in a soft fold over the carpet. For an instant I mistake this shape for my wife's slender foot.The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-23002096739172387792015-04-22T18:16:00.004-07:002015-05-09T14:11:02.003-07:00OverheardOverheard today on the sidewalk just past Main in our little town. They were two women of a certain age, one walking an old beagle.<br />
<br />
<i>Beagle Woman:</i> ...past tense--<br />
<br />
<i>Other:</i> You mean he's dead?<br />
<br />
<i>BW:</i> Blew his brains out.<br />
<br />
Now that's something you want to distance yourself from.The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-59101185843667007292015-04-10T17:18:00.003-07:002015-04-10T20:47:30.423-07:00Tulip Magic Land<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGg_fPQWNSvIem6e99Sc_AAc1hGsERmVfowNKCspO5bOqq4GERcuy5QsmGV7dJTESZYzvLQr4QX3fcY22JDLbfofEtDR07ByGQnPg1Ow9WkG0oRNXoUr3HuhMW9d-layMwitWMO__hmfZ1/s1600/Tulip-Magic-Land.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGg_fPQWNSvIem6e99Sc_AAc1hGsERmVfowNKCspO5bOqq4GERcuy5QsmGV7dJTESZYzvLQr4QX3fcY22JDLbfofEtDR07ByGQnPg1Ow9WkG0oRNXoUr3HuhMW9d-layMwitWMO__hmfZ1/s1600/Tulip-Magic-Land.jpg" height="285" width="400" /></a>On the way down Dayton Street to the shore this afternoon, I stopped to take a picture of this tulip. A little further on, seeing it was low low tide, I went for a walk and run along the beach<br />
<br />
A gray blustery day, the current strong with whitecaps out in the channel.<br />
<br />
Playing Stick and Rock as usual.<br />
<br />
According to my nature-loving spouse, looking into a tulip is like looking into a magic land.<br />
<br />
<br />The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-58177779797739024402015-04-07T10:29:00.002-07:002015-04-13T21:02:42.137-07:00Red Cod Island Village<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnJ2lovqDttlZvXTkHe3BsxGYdy0jpZPi0aSctnnQDpPsHfnw8bUF4GGCZy7USvQm861wXDAZf8oo6kMbeNredujJe7wopk_CuKb0ryxj1qWlK01UEabntR4flTy0nDylwpaZUaHCnORh/s1600/Ninstints-beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnJ2lovqDttlZvXTkHe3BsxGYdy0jpZPi0aSctnnQDpPsHfnw8bUF4GGCZy7USvQm861wXDAZf8oo6kMbeNredujJe7wopk_CuKb0ryxj1qWlK01UEabntR4flTy0nDylwpaZUaHCnORh/s1600/Ninstints-beach.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching the shore of this little <br />
island, you could still see a pathway <br />
created by removing rocks to allow the <br />
large canoes to be more easily beached.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
About forty years ago I was fortunate to be working for the U.S. Forest Service with an accomplished and adventurous kayaker. He invited me along on a trip in his two-man folding kayak to Canada's Queen Charlotte Islands, ancestral home of the Haida people.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1TSnRtw9c3xydFtYUM-4kbetgTpCGt9Q4Y8bFSaJthk4Vs6yXH24O1h3158TXN0_npiBwbtnhAvSVFYAjJaHZk-ZQxjC89iibSFxsQ0BVCR7IumJkdbRoj8EqPifAIWfcoTprfHlQBE80/s1600/Ninstints-standing-poles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1TSnRtw9c3xydFtYUM-4kbetgTpCGt9Q4Y8bFSaJthk4Vs6yXH24O1h3158TXN0_npiBwbtnhAvSVFYAjJaHZk-ZQxjC89iibSFxsQ0BVCR7IumJkdbRoj8EqPifAIWfcoTprfHlQBE80/s1600/Ninstints-standing-poles.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cutout at the top of the pole would<br />
have held a grave box full of bones of a<br />
deceased leader of this clan. The front<br />
pole appears to be Raven, the back one--<br />
Bear.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They're the ones who lived in longhouses <br />
fronted by these awesome totem poles, and who traveled across hundreds of miles of open water in thirty-foot long cedar canoes on slave raids.<br />
<br />
Their abandoned villages are now a World Heritage Site, with no camping, visits limited to reservations, and then only if you have a native guide. Back in our day, however, all it took was the money to hire a float plane to drop us off fifty miles by sea from the nearest small town.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWkrrioYJpi5zPQKOpFIupvIxXXqMzGscAOwPdkInHyX5RQMBbtr8gOXDNh03p0Qd0ye7nZ7KUNeuCwt8_dTdKXROOH8BK0McnvrQbdz9G-32QRKa03TdhhLNWkMsnn7djpBSHMT-7eEgW/s1600/Ninstints-teeth-side.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWkrrioYJpi5zPQKOpFIupvIxXXqMzGscAOwPdkInHyX5RQMBbtr8gOXDNh03p0Qd0ye7nZ7KUNeuCwt8_dTdKXROOH8BK0McnvrQbdz9G-32QRKa03TdhhLNWkMsnn7djpBSHMT-7eEgW/s1600/Ninstints-teeth-side.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Possibly a wolf crest being aggressively colonized <br />
by local salal. The area around the poles has been<br />
cleared since we were there, but they are still <br />
exposed to weather. Red Cedar is naturally rot<br />
resistant, but its man-made aspects are slowly<br />
succumbing to nature.<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Randy and I spent most of a week, just the two of us, camping on the beach at this site whose Haida name means "Red Cod Island Village". We knew it as Ninstints, the Anglicized name of its last powerful chief.<br />
<br />
By 1880 the incidence of smallpox deaths had become so great that the village was abandoned.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>I recently found these pictures in a box of memorabilia I was organizing. I took a digital photo of each picture and processed them in Adobe </i><i>Lightroom using a preset I had created for its dramatic qualities.</i>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-83390177967621086062015-04-03T19:02:00.000-07:002015-04-28T20:44:54.347-07:00Waiter With Distinctive HairWalking past Demetri's Taverna a few minutes ago, right next to the train tracks just before you get to the pier, I saw they'd closed its side porch to acknowledge the blustery weather. I remembered a few days ago it had been bustling with diners on a calm and sunny afternoon. That reminded me of their Waiter with Distinctive Hair.<br />
<br />
From coloring and appearance he looks Mediterranean. His swarthy skull is shaved and waxed except for a coal black pyramid of hair that rises to crest--glistening--two inches above the skin, like the prow of a ship whose aft is sinking at a 45 degree angle into what had been his fontanelle.<br />
<br />
Plus the thin and geometric Van Dyke.The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-37779737210409503652015-03-31T10:54:00.002-07:002015-04-22T18:36:29.023-07:00Stick and Rock<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I’ve been walking and running at the beach lately, in the late afternoon during low tide. Along the water line I always stop to throw a piece of driftwood thirty or forty feet into the surf. Then I pick up some larger-than-thumb-sized rocks off the sand to throw at the stick as it slowly recedes from shore.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I do this for awhile, stopping only when I get close enough to the stick to call it a hit. I call the game Stick and Rock.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Most people we see who determinedly toss rocks into water are trying to skip the rock with a sidearm throw, seeing how many “skips” they can get. It's a common thing to do, but that trick’s no longer for me, although I have fine memories of skipping rocks with my granddad--and even once with my uncle--on the rocky bend of a creek in rural Missouri.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">For months now, when I go down to the shore at the end of the street, I’ve been playing Stick and Rock exclusively. In all that time I’ve seen lots of skippers, but never seen anyone else play my game. Until today.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It was a man in his thirties with his son about five, right behind me as we made our way down the beach, to just beyond a swath of perfectly-sized rocks laid parallel with the waterline by the last rising tide.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I was searching for a suitable stick--if you find one too close to the surf it'll be waterlogged and won't float--when I heard the man tell his young son to “pick up a piece of wood to be your battleship". I sensed what was going on, so grabbed one of my own and hurried down to the water, feeling--for some reason--that it was important to get established in my own game before they began theirs.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Unaccountably I had begun to feel competitive about how my aim would compare with the dad's. </span>Not his son's.<br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Anyway, my hunch about what they were up to was confirmed a few minutes later when I heard the man urging his boy, as he demonstrated by throwing a rock, to “see if you can sink the battleship with your bomb.” By this time I'd drifted down the beach a bit, and my stick had been going out with the tide. My rock had come within a foot a few times, but no direct hits.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Glancing over, I saw that the boy's aim wasn't bad, and the man's was dead-on. I heaved a couple more rocks near the limit of my range that--generously judged--landed not "too far" from the stick, which, by this time, was bobbing maybe eighty feet from shore. Their "battleship"--barely eight, I noted.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Three generations of us were out there on the beach, amusing ourselves in a fine way by just throwing rocks into the water, trying to hit a piece of wood, whether you called it a stick, or more metaphorical battleship. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-58918574638611981422015-02-22T15:16:00.001-08:002015-04-11T08:53:10.417-07:00What Would Groucho Do?<div class="p1">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEfZy1Ll8HMJp-hz3l6ItRH3MMlNrS8W-OmIuwz7b8GmZwXjMJtTBEF26oYYLo4I0wIc0bHS5GsQnQnWJe_J77wzibsqw5canWGc0d_S4fEF88EcS9bpahXt8kxVuITTvlXLKZkuJH3Gx/s1600/Frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEfZy1Ll8HMJp-hz3l6ItRH3MMlNrS8W-OmIuwz7b8GmZwXjMJtTBEF26oYYLo4I0wIc0bHS5GsQnQnWJe_J77wzibsqw5canWGc0d_S4fEF88EcS9bpahXt8kxVuITTvlXLKZkuJH3Gx/s1600/Frame.jpg" height="286" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This 5'X6' frame used to be attached to the side of a <a href="http://ilteatropescatore.blogspot.com/2010/07/pinball-to-carpo.html" target="_blank">tarted-up panel van</a>;<br />
Now it's on my office wall.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">In preparation for this move to Mexico that's not many months away, I've been sorting my belongings—starting in the office—trying to figure out what to do with everything. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A lot of the stuff is remembrances of my family—spouse and daughters, parents and grandparents.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I have the snappy old hat my dad used to wear, my mother’s favorite coffee mug, the original 1961 flyer advertising the going-out-of-business sale for granddad’s general store, medals from both World Wars, trinkets, the photo of my wife I call MBPITW (Most Beautiful Picture In The World), Father’s Day and ID cards, and such—many years’ worth. I'll keep most all of these odds and ends—maybe make a trunk's worth to remind me of my place and </span>where I come from.</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2rXZlpFdEGuIxzX-dT_8yW14EcqBqEp-qedB2am89y2bxZWjRkQhUBhVobbFwmVoZOXoFo17iZig6M4oJG8rr4X6Wo2207NVqMd1RF2zE30kltHBCqipLcRsXiHvqgHqExuYPAiMHxNJ/s1600/Kachina-Coffee-Cup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2rXZlpFdEGuIxzX-dT_8yW14EcqBqEp-qedB2am89y2bxZWjRkQhUBhVobbFwmVoZOXoFo17iZig6M4oJG8rr4X6Wo2207NVqMd1RF2zE30kltHBCqipLcRsXiHvqgHqExuYPAiMHxNJ/s1600/Kachina-Coffee-Cup.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A picture of Mom, in a familiar pose, behind a kachina doll<br />
I purchased on the Hopi reservation a long time ago.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">Aside from these heritage displays, the office is also festooned with a variety of odd creations.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The biggest piece, occupying one whole wall, is the proscenium frame for a traveling theater. It weighs about 20 pounds, and is four by five feet in size. It’s sculpted to depict the mermaid, seaweed, and sea monster-guarded, golden portal to a succession of scenes from my imagination. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">What to do with the frame? I'll never get rid of it, but where should it go? I imagine it'd be pretty difficult to pack and get safely to Mexico.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And what to do with a wooden-faced Kwakiutl boy in the body of a silver salmon that hangs from the ceiling?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUh84cPB6PYtSNH1x_5oMtR0rk1BltyCm3mpfpV_Elqe4PpGlasIYrbYpKmA6Hafmis56KDtVrDoGuix6J9G1enRTFmre51f_qk7gQJJMrHB714AlFWyG5iQBL3Ec2Cq626e8bbQkEiTVF/s1600/Carpo-lo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUh84cPB6PYtSNH1x_5oMtR0rk1BltyCm3mpfpV_Elqe4PpGlasIYrbYpKmA6Hafmis56KDtVrDoGuix6J9G1enRTFmre51f_qk7gQJJMrHB714AlFWyG5iQBL3Ec2Cq626e8bbQkEiTVF/s1600/Carpo-lo.jpg" height="146" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What would Groucho do?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Or the four foot-long flying fish with the face
of Groucho Marx, leaping across the wall and puffing a cigar? A hand puppet of Homer Simpson in the black-caped garb of Alberich—evil dwarf—from an unproduced version of Wagner’s <i>Ring?</i></span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">On the filing cabinet sits a goldfish head swollen larger than the size of a human’s. <i>Quo vadis</i>?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">There are a lot of other things, too—in drawers or on shelves, or in the closet in boxes and tubs. Most of them have to do with a dozen or so theater projects created during a two decade-long period that ended twelve years ago, when I began teaching.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">For now, I think I'll just get rid of the few pieces to which I'm not attached, pack and store the rest. </span>Maybe later I'll have an idea how some of the items can still be used; I hope so, because it's hard to say a final goodbye to that time in my life when creative visions seemed to come and be actualized like magic.<br />
<br />
The best solution would probably be to pass them on to my daughters, or even the school at which I taught—somewhere they would be appreciated.<br />
<br />
Any takers?<br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-89759612947994921072014-08-15T20:58:00.001-07:002014-08-15T23:04:59.075-07:00In It To Win It<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">After the hiatus for a rare visit from Sis and Bro, I returned to work this evening on a long range and improbable goal of winning the 100m dash—age 95 and over—at the 2042 Senior Games. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0TZe9GkB-c5qy845b3N3p2M6mNsOh8gtvnIfwdnXyexwChCKz411r5UKtKujnk2NKL3Sk7_syRKMbl_XSkZskxBpXvVSFvAcs6E89g4Yh6zPwEafVFb4_eVdxx6JpE87PS5mK-KphHeF4/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-15+at+8.37.57+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0TZe9GkB-c5qy845b3N3p2M6mNsOh8gtvnIfwdnXyexwChCKz411r5UKtKujnk2NKL3Sk7_syRKMbl_XSkZskxBpXvVSFvAcs6E89g4Yh6zPwEafVFb4_eVdxx6JpE87PS5mK-KphHeF4/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-15+at+8.37.57+PM.png" height="147" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Merrell Men's Ascend Glove Minimal Running Shoe. Sweet!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Two days ago the crucial order arrived from Amazon—a great deal on Merrell running shoes in dove grey and slate, neon lemon and lime. Vibram. They were waiting on the front porch when we returned from Portland. At first I wasn’t sure I would keep them—the arch felt too high—but I did. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This calm but overcast afternoon, I wore them on my Power Walk and they fit like a glove. They also subtly changed my gait. I stick my butt out a bit more and push harder with my thighs. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Power Walk leaves our apartment and heads south on 3rd Avenue, up a steady rise past the many seniors’ condos, and big trees in City Park, to turn left at Pine, which climbs steeply east six long blocks to the ridge. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It’s a vertiginous view down Pine, past solidly sedate and middle class blocks to the marsh and Puget Sound. At 5PM I looked back and saw either a huge yacht or small cruise ship unusually close to shore, heading north.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I paralleled its course down along the ridge on 9th, then west to Main, turning right on 7th a block south of the grandstand, and finally—let’s call it fifty minutes; that will be my baseline—jogged, ran, sprinted and dashed around the quarter mile track. Matt, my trusty trainer, says I can decrease the time of my Power Walk by no more than five percent each day, as I increase the distance I run. </span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">Onward.</span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-33914704513955973002014-04-07T17:07:00.002-07:002015-04-28T20:46:27.492-07:00The Church of Nature Gives...and It Takes Away<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDEZwO1c0L64cEN8dV-lu34zK-Fc4YjNSy2f1_ARyVU0MgI9pkrUTWIFGgH3QmL90zpvIJp-xjjZ78hXFTjTyqXhfBm0GxZVvJOIdXmZRXZwM7xnZiYu7IPyTRkRSqCsxoG62qndq1Fc9S/s1600/Holding+the+Sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDEZwO1c0L64cEN8dV-lu34zK-Fc4YjNSy2f1_ARyVU0MgI9pkrUTWIFGgH3QmL90zpvIJp-xjjZ78hXFTjTyqXhfBm0GxZVvJOIdXmZRXZwM7xnZiYu7IPyTRkRSqCsxoG62qndq1Fc9S/s1600/Holding+the+Sun.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holding the sun</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">What a glorious morning! The rising sun is peekabooing through fluffy clouds and there are promises of afternoon temps in the high sixties. This fine weather is especially welcome after last month’s record rainfall that led to a calamitous mudslide nearby, killing so many, and devastating a small community.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This brooding thought lingers for a few minutes until I come back to the itch that’s been teasing me lately: this time next week my wife and I will be on a plane returning home from a long weekend in Tulsa--my hometown--where a week from today our fiftieth high school reunion will be history. It's much easier to imagine it in the past tense, rather than what it will actually be. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I’ve never gone to a reunion before. It’s been 25 years since I was last in Tulsa. Many of my classmates, especially those who stayed in Oklahoma, have kept in touch with a circle of friends, but me--not so much. It’s not the yearning for reestablishing connections that’s brought me back, although in a few instances that is the case; it’s more the symbolism of the occasion. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Our high school graduation marked entry into an adulthood that’s led us in myriad directions. From that common point, over the past half century we have each forged lives that are unimaginably varied. We've gone through a marriage or two or more, raised our kids, established an identity that’s rooted in where we came from but is mostly our own invention. Now we’re </span>entering retirement, no longer bound to our wage-earning lives, and looking forward to God knows what. </div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This seems a propitious time to not only mark a long passage, but to think about what’s next. For some reason, for me, entering this new stage means going back to the place where my parents raised me, to gather among former classmates who have opted to make the same journey. On this trip, I’m blessed to have my sparkly-eyed wife for company. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">We got our inexpensive tickets online through Cheap-O Air. We'll leave for Tulsa way early Friday morning, and don’t have assigned seats yet on Monday's leg home from Dallas. I’m hoping for a free upgrade, but prepared for the two of us to have scattered seats in the rear. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Unbidden, in my mind’s eye, an image of those airplane “seats” morphs into a newsreel shot of sodden muddy cushions, splintered timbers sticking out of the sludge, and much worse--that deadly slide again. At least the friendly weather will make it easier for recovery crews, and hopefully cast a bit of warmth and light on the affected families’ futures.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">For me, today is a good day for a walk down to the beach, and up to the ridge overlooking the Sound. The water will be calm, the sun glittering off its surface, and I'll be thankful for the moment just to be, and let the future take care of itself.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><em style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;">And the miraculous comes so close<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />to the ruined, dirty houses—</em><br style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;" /><em style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;">something not known to anyone at all</em><br style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;" /><em style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;">But wild in our breast for centuries.</em></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><em style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;">--</em><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;">Anna Akhmatnova</span></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-5914836804272655632014-03-24T11:37:00.000-07:002014-04-04T17:27:43.778-07:00Church of Nature<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMIBZPCb7X2l18B19eWVxOmTnIEKsu9xhnHDtexZ0KZ8ZuUt6S2Cy4ZaM2T8joHcYwq25S-eOIk-VrIzz5tvNmWhL-q3QHkF7P4WNVQSJlAXrHygFdMVBFAruK6vG72DW4K_zizUidJ04n/s1600/Daffodil+Facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMIBZPCb7X2l18B19eWVxOmTnIEKsu9xhnHDtexZ0KZ8ZuUt6S2Cy4ZaM2T8joHcYwq25S-eOIk-VrIzz5tvNmWhL-q3QHkF7P4WNVQSJlAXrHygFdMVBFAruK6vG72DW4K_zizUidJ04n/s1600/Daffodil+Facebook.jpg" height="240" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bugling Spring's arrival</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1">The Church of Nature had just thrown open its doors, and the sidewalk was thronged last Sunday morning with fellow worshippers. I was gob-smacked by this stand of buttery daffodils showing off at the corner across the street from our post office.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1">Then I crossed the street to discover, in one of the flower beds there, a cluster of hand-sized rocks curving around the historic plaque, inspired no doubt by the dry streambeds of a classic Japanese garden. Fittingly, nearby is a recently planted laceleaf maple with its finely etched leaves just beginning to unfurl--a long-range promise for a vibrant Fall. Newly installed azaleas anchor the other two corners.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1">All in all, a big upgrade at 2nd and Main. Thanks go, I’m sure, to Debra and her inspired, committed colleagues at Edmonds Parks who create and maintain our city's beautiful flower gardens. Good on y'all!</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1">During the rest of the morning’s pilgrimage, similar new rock arrangements were spotted on the way to the</span> roundabout's flower corners, well sited next to crossed bamboo stakes placed to protect the garden's edge. </div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA17sWWjbh-Cj6ttus6-G9UsCoY780lR5wSf2c9H5-JBw8N3LedAMY8hOR1QQabBtHzZ_57R2JrAcSjt80rzFJhdLXfU0C9goN6drl-paFvuTb6_kY6ZLIDpW1-YylatemfbpKWdbstAJs/s1600/Daphne3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA17sWWjbh-Cj6ttus6-G9UsCoY780lR5wSf2c9H5-JBw8N3LedAMY8hOR1QQabBtHzZ_57R2JrAcSjt80rzFJhdLXfU0C9goN6drl-paFvuTb6_kY6ZLIDpW1-YylatemfbpKWdbstAJs/s1600/Daphne3.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet-scented <i>Daphne</i> blossoms</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1">Around the fountain there was also the sweet scent of previously unnoticed <i>Daphne odora</i>s--three of them, if memory serves. This was one of the rare occasions when I recognized the <i>Daphne</i>’s blossom before I registered its fragrance; my nose has been too occupied with allergens lately to smell much of anything. Even so, as I leaned close to the tiny creamy fuchsia blooms, my olfactory senses rejoiced. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1">The Daphne is a tetchy plant; give it well-drained soil and just the right amount of water in filtered sun, and it might--just <i>might</i>--reward you with a few good years of its sweet, early Spring scent.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1">Hallelujah! </span></div>
</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-29395295057933517132014-03-12T13:24:00.001-07:002014-03-19T08:03:15.665-07:00Way Late Life Hack<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv14P7f2nTRUjmcUDMZ-NKxRrzL2S6IKs7L24cuiZiImZT188mztbDz5qE0BFnouqXhDfYrY63QdFwB5rBIj844-t9v1MRIs_nP0P9H1DaEautt4v7rjqr7omHIsW7OyEMX0Rlzwo-4XS_/s1600/Banana1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv14P7f2nTRUjmcUDMZ-NKxRrzL2S6IKs7L24cuiZiImZT188mztbDz5qE0BFnouqXhDfYrY63QdFwB5rBIj844-t9v1MRIs_nP0P9H1DaEautt4v7rjqr7omHIsW7OyEMX0Rlzwo-4XS_/s1600/Banana1.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't start at this end, instead...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">No intention to defame--they’re long gone anyway--but that well-intentioned couple who brought me up failed to clue me in to the best way of peeling a banana. The upshot is that I’ve been flaunting my pig ignorance at tropical gatherings over the past sixty-five years.</span><br />
<span class="s1"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWRRp2Xw5IajgszzopjKPM2sS1gGk-mtCdDBo9FcwapiQs7SJLV3mYLF85NBQJ65eVUsj4Dxz3aobAyijM-MQ6AfJGLIU2LzwZVIenuzxynpb-5y0f25v42mWgb1matfyWl5Vg5ZtM8b4/s1600/Banana+cartoon.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWRRp2Xw5IajgszzopjKPM2sS1gGk-mtCdDBo9FcwapiQs7SJLV3mYLF85NBQJ65eVUsj4Dxz3aobAyijM-MQ6AfJGLIU2LzwZVIenuzxynpb-5y0f25v42mWgb1matfyWl5Vg5ZtM8b4/s1600/Banana+cartoon.jpeg" height="128" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nunh-unh</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"></span>
<span class="s1">After carefully studying internet images of cartoon banana peels, I've also concluded that our popular culture has been abetting this mistake. I offer instructions in this post as a public service. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHc_dot_tU2y2bUnsRslVOqGYHFbbWb2mRbI24-frgasyXMuSSBYv7WuA6GzQjLh2OFB6cSj5IYGJYc34ydMlmltBKJZsy94cSJPy9hdX_YxrGePppv56hhOVXonf_FnrpkJUEMzRYoxq/s1600/Banana2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHc_dot_tU2y2bUnsRslVOqGYHFbbWb2mRbI24-frgasyXMuSSBYv7WuA6GzQjLh2OFB6cSj5IYGJYc34ydMlmltBKJZsy94cSJPy9hdX_YxrGePppv56hhOVXonf_FnrpkJUEMzRYoxq/s1600/Banana2.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Begin here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">You do <i>not</i> begin peeling at the end where the fruit connects to the stalk. You <i>could</i>--sure--but unless you use, and thus dirty, a potentially dangerous knife, you will nearly always risk smushed-up pulp. </span><br />
<br />
Or--before peeling you <i>could</i> bite, instead of slice, the same spot on that perky-looking fruit, but then you have the bitter taste and unpleasant texture of the skin.<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnhME1o_cySgDUxHlWVLNJ_FxeAVUf0IFmRgjVWMVd_J6xTj7puY9INubIu7G0QUDdH74YG3pN-Oh01JRlutg2MkAIyf4wC-06qDsNx0bz4Yp1nuLbRvuGDF-Dak4dPUESO5FxtTmDvm8/s1600/Banana4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnhME1o_cySgDUxHlWVLNJ_FxeAVUf0IFmRgjVWMVd_J6xTj7puY9INubIu7G0QUDdH74YG3pN-Oh01JRlutg2MkAIyf4wC-06qDsNx0bz4Yp1nuLbRvuGDF-Dak4dPUESO5FxtTmDvm8/s1600/Banana4.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinch, and peel with natural flair!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now I know a better way; thanks to recently received wisdom from my knowledgeable spouse, I start at the butt end. Pinch the nipple, peel those cunning flaps back with ease, and look at how securely they gather at the stalk. Top off your accomplishment by tossing that flaccid peel away with a flair and grace that confirms you're finally right with nature!<br />
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Call me, “Just Enlightened.”</div>
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The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-4850051971615632122014-03-02T17:06:00.002-08:002014-03-19T08:10:49.440-07:00Nehi Orange and Pheremonal Funk<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjJ4uKM60MaWLojUUGb-furpQjlad1FjPGG2NCVRG92Z28HTzeivUf5OF9RcZ1fBshlueSLN5dZaXFNjQVeh_TFXKWx_4Tm3nYPDeCbJKO1_lZPgcBov0OmLZ-kLKIumK9l3xdQbaHCTy/s1600/DSC00064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjJ4uKM60MaWLojUUGb-furpQjlad1FjPGG2NCVRG92Z28HTzeivUf5OF9RcZ1fBshlueSLN5dZaXFNjQVeh_TFXKWx_4Tm3nYPDeCbJKO1_lZPgcBov0OmLZ-kLKIumK9l3xdQbaHCTy/s1600/DSC00064.jpg" height="200" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Our fiftieth high school reunion is in Tulsa next month, and that’s got me to thinking about an inspiring teacher I had by the name of John Haynes. He taught Social Studies at Wright Junior High and moved on to Edison to teach Freshman English. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Mr. Haynes was a young guy then, but even with those odd glasses, his bullet-headed buzz cut and sarcastic lips gave him a not-to-be-fucked-with demeanor. I don’t remember much book learning from American History, but stories he told about living depressed, in a New York City walkup, are still around the edges of my mind. </span><br />
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<span class="s1">That such inchoate feelings could be shared and even named, that such a concrete bin of grime and glamor actually exists, and that teachers might have the same tics and appetites as me--these were all revelations </span>that pretty much exploded my pubescent world view.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwcNUl3XuAxUCHiStiaG5JMvtElcyUJnE_juP_fMjxCQD3eUorMLFXQg63ChW3CyXooZ5ivaPKWO5gKuE0fu43FNmj8jzapdYi7Pks9cA1NeBYqckdX-ypbCRjNFLUopAfAwtuBzGPdo3/s1600/Edison-J+Haynes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwcNUl3XuAxUCHiStiaG5JMvtElcyUJnE_juP_fMjxCQD3eUorMLFXQg63ChW3CyXooZ5ivaPKWO5gKuE0fu43FNmj8jzapdYi7Pks9cA1NeBYqckdX-ypbCRjNFLUopAfAwtuBzGPdo3/s1600/Edison-J+Haynes.jpg" height="200" width="126" /></a>Mr. Haynes’ class rated high in student involvement. We aped his demonstrations of how to drink Nehi Orange and eat ‘Bama pies like the people he’d met in Georgia. As we eagerly--even if a bit mockingly--acted out its distinctive behaviors, we were learning empathy for an unfamiliar culture. Mr. Haynes became an exemplar for my own teaching style.</div>
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<span class="s1">We had other good English teachers at Edison, too, like Ruth Wells. I was a precocious brat and Mrs. Wells indulged me, but she must have done it with good authority, because I still have, and appreciate, some of the perversely obscure work I did for her.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTl6PoFEm7ft0Z-Z7t9zpfCwDD72W3XR_2iCrCDWh2xG4ZNAoerOIutjHeQLk3GupTpLfgSfaWj0jmKbuZh6PnEPSi7Oi9zLZ6tl5qRnW3BbWnCoH0n2dLoHBTrB59Eu81aUgy3G2uHe4w/s1600/Edison-R+Wells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTl6PoFEm7ft0Z-Z7t9zpfCwDD72W3XR_2iCrCDWh2xG4ZNAoerOIutjHeQLk3GupTpLfgSfaWj0jmKbuZh6PnEPSi7Oi9zLZ6tl5qRnW3BbWnCoH0n2dLoHBTrB59Eu81aUgy3G2uHe4w/s1600/Edison-R+Wells.jpg" height="200" width="131" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">That was the class where a comely blonde sat sweetly in the desk right behind my own, making scholarly concentration impossible. Though never spoken, the feeling I had for her surely oozed from my follicles, joining the rest of the room’s pheromonal funk. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Even through the wiggling horniness, and my obsessive contemplation of the mysterious reappearing red mark high on our female classmates’ achingly alluring calves, Mrs. Wells persevered. She gave us encouragement to fly with our words, or at least to try. When I study her yearbook picture now, with these 67-year-old eyes--no disrespect intended--but I see serious GILF material. Click on the pic and check out </span>the sensuous mouth<span class="s1">, and </span>smoldering gaze behind those cat's-eye glasses. Call the class to attention, Mrs. Wells!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBOlfnhmt1xyIy-buaayyFjeWWYVAYqElxpZ5z19RDY_0r6SCAC2F0LBNfp1I2Ep65Aww0W89VA8kA5uMp8KiNpNrqg0hEa_81nMa_SHxuR8xDePSGg85hsRmAws1qrCZgHSl-SP6rMPR/s1600/Edison-M+Cole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBOlfnhmt1xyIy-buaayyFjeWWYVAYqElxpZ5z19RDY_0r6SCAC2F0LBNfp1I2Ep65Aww0W89VA8kA5uMp8KiNpNrqg0hEa_81nMa_SHxuR8xDePSGg85hsRmAws1qrCZgHSl-SP6rMPR/s1600/Edison-M+Cole.jpg" height="200" width="137" /></a><span class="s1">Mrs. Martha Cole appears to be in her late thirties when we were at Edison; she passed on four years </span>ago. I remember meeting with other students at her house--a first for me to go to the home of a teacher! We were working together on a school literary magazine--something right up my pretentious alley. She kept me focused and involved though--a warm, good person and teacher.</div>
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<span class="s1">I think it must have been Mrs. Cole who encouraged me and Lee Hoevel (AKA Diogenes Brown) to write a play--a political satire--and perform it, if memory serves, in the lunchroom. That kind of tomfoolery kept me engaged for many years in the then-distant future.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">If you Google “John Haynes Tulsa,” you’ll find a link to an autobiography you can download from Scribd. His people moved to Oklahoma when it was still Indian Territory and, like my own dad, his father was an elementary school principal for many years in Tulsa. Further search suggests he might still live, or at least own a home, on South Trenton Avenue. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Good health, Mr. Haynes! What a trip it would be to see you again.</span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-27066847436822822482014-02-19T15:35:00.000-08:002014-03-12T14:01:32.943-07:00CASE NO. 12-X-XX588-X, Part 4<div class="p1">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3cFcy8H_oKmy887V5XkVx3EP0VXm6aht3pG-maDPT2jvR9fu57HI54Gf8K1XXlqNI_VlEisCjH64d8jqxt7jVE9j_eNQ-mx23aYI2BKcCv-LjxJv_q_cL7SWFrkG-pu1EyDDH4qeuM0lY/s1600/question+mark.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3cFcy8H_oKmy887V5XkVx3EP0VXm6aht3pG-maDPT2jvR9fu57HI54Gf8K1XXlqNI_VlEisCjH64d8jqxt7jVE9j_eNQ-mx23aYI2BKcCv-LjxJv_q_cL7SWFrkG-pu1EyDDH4qeuM0lY/s1600/question+mark.jpeg" height="168" width="320" /></a></div>
As Artist smiled goodbye, the rest of us were in a bit of a tizzy. It was four o'clock; it was Friday--Valentines <i>Eve,</i> fer crissake. Make love, not verdicts! No one, though, wanted to come back to this decision after the three day weekend. But it was either/or, so over Cellphone’s fluttery disclaimers, she was scrummed into leadership with seemly reluctance.</div>
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<span class="s1">Forbidden to speak about the substance of the trial until this moment, I was shocked that not everyone shared my opinion: even with prior conditions and inconsistencies, Plaintiff’s lower back had clearly been damaged or “lit up” by the accident. She deserved some major compensation. I imagined her using the award for therapeutic guidance, materials and treatment, down--and way down--the line. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKamuEQK__-zvW_mqiqlcCpcfVrQ2hZ-inVQYMZ0sorSEhz0DsxkXkau4O9j6GkAxQAM-w59I8xfab1IV2H4tDoZBcKeVKMgeIHNwYJrxjxnUHjgk7-VV-h01Fk-8mrgAG8JwT_1Hc7Z-d/s1600/Jury+Instruction+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKamuEQK__-zvW_mqiqlcCpcfVrQ2hZ-inVQYMZ0sorSEhz0DsxkXkau4O9j6GkAxQAM-w59I8xfab1IV2H4tDoZBcKeVKMgeIHNwYJrxjxnUHjgk7-VV-h01Fk-8mrgAG8JwT_1Hc7Z-d/s1600/Jury+Instruction+11.jpg" height="166" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty clear...on the the third or fourth reading</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">So, it was a surprise to hear Cellphone jump in with her nurse-ly opinion that Plaintiff’s problems were clearly either pre-existing or degenerative. "And besides that, she didn't follow doctors' orders!"</span><br />
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<span class="s1">In the confusion of pent-up emotion that followed I was taken aback to hear Banker, Dog Trainer, Stiff, and Chaplain--especially Chaplain--give Cellphone their support.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Plaintiff's posse was back on its heels until Seldom Talked, introducing herself as I-am-also-a-nurse, pushed back with contradictory clinical insight. Fireplug, speaking from a yogic-body awareness perspective likewise supported Plaintiff’s claim. I offered my own dimly illuminating tale of lumbar woe, and Curly Blonde plus Shy Woman skirted a little behind Plaintiff as well, enough so that everyone pretty much agreed that at least the low back pain was a result of the crash.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbeNykxgquQELlF9Mn0zbTj0hFbr1l3d7q70yhSsxIGntKtdF-QYmmq5FvfT9_HSk-g53SQ_4sa0qooQbeVLX8Xn4D9fC5hkigxi_9RR36Oo127F4LGAvekSNEVFyA2__h36iByBnLYa4/s1600/Jury+Instruction+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbeNykxgquQELlF9Mn0zbTj0hFbr1l3d7q70yhSsxIGntKtdF-QYmmq5FvfT9_HSk-g53SQ_4sa0qooQbeVLX8Xn4D9fC5hkigxi_9RR36Oo127F4LGAvekSNEVFyA2__h36iByBnLYa4/s1600/Jury+Instruction+10.jpg" height="236" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clear as mud...Short shrift was given to clarifying many pages of<br />
instructions</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">But, could we agree on a sum for the <i>non-economic</i> damages of this pain before six o'clock? What should that
figure be? </span>After several false starts we each threw out a number in the thousands: a cluster of 50s, a scattering up to 100, with a leap to two of us at 150. </div>
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<span class="s1">Since it only took ten to agree, we eliminated the outliers and our initial “average” turned out to be 74K. Not long after this revelation, </span>Mario the Bailiff checked in to ask if we’d be able to reach our verdict tonight. Yes, we confidently replied. What followed, though, was a period of venting to which, with hindsight, I wish I’d given more respect. But I was looking forward to lobster dinner and a romantic evening, so pushed us to get back to a mathematical task that had become disconnected from the gritty of the case.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB7FpsPlXRqbZrpb3rbp48MIBreJDOar_sH6V0ayMWwZeMNz2FKuqQqs219W3Ff_SkeqtrxGLQcb3HhJROQ0XYFmn0_MPb_XGsKO_SZdo6VBWy6AXjNIvOfAbYnJbCr56NBi144ealoWn/s1600/first-of-its-kind-study-warns-of-jury-service-trauma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB7FpsPlXRqbZrpb3rbp48MIBreJDOar_sH6V0ayMWwZeMNz2FKuqQqs219W3Ff_SkeqtrxGLQcb3HhJROQ0XYFmn0_MPb_XGsKO_SZdo6VBWy6AXjNIvOfAbYnJbCr56NBi144ealoWn/s1600/first-of-its-kind-study-warns-of-jury-service-trauma.jpg" height="143" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="s1">Could ten of us could agree on 75? No, too low. Ninety was too high. At this point, in an aside to me, Seldom Talked said her first thought had been 200K. One more poll, though, gave us our sum. At 5:10PM we twelve jurors filed back into the courtroom. Cellphone handed our verdict to the clerk. Because we felt it was too low, Fireplug and I were the only ones not joining in the opinion, which was “Damages for the plaintiff in the sum of $85,000.”</span><br />
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<span class="s1">It was quick and it was dirty, and this glib recounting offers little more than lip service to </span>justice<span class="s1">. The heart of the case will always lie in the body and mind of Marilee, our Plaintiff. </span>I wonder how, after this long, expensive, disappointing, and ultimately sad chapter, she can continue the story of her recovery.<br />
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The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-22048173951208254872014-02-18T15:58:00.002-08:002014-02-21T10:38:59.164-08:00CASE NO. 12-X-XX588-X, Part 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQSLwjeNQ68I9S5kQ4aybnc_aGk61riDnlFfQUfDAGFX99D2uYb__zaYKN3WPOJhSmWpDUsnuIyC6C1kvVppKzE-_kjFtq8S8l2PfXXnSYKDUwF1FD_bg1wnePXhtmZ2uJs_xg3aD8Ew6C/s1600/Jury+Duty-12+angry+men.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQSLwjeNQ68I9S5kQ4aybnc_aGk61riDnlFfQUfDAGFX99D2uYb__zaYKN3WPOJhSmWpDUsnuIyC6C1kvVppKzE-_kjFtq8S8l2PfXXnSYKDUwF1FD_bg1wnePXhtmZ2uJs_xg3aD8Ew6C/s1600/Jury+Duty-12+angry+men.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm middle background, the rest are male impersonators.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Our thirteenth juror was a sweet, doll-like woman. She was always well-dressed in a nice figure, with a skirt over leggings tucked into low boots that had a bit of flash. Well-cut platinum hair. </span>Before deliberations could begin, though, she--as alternate--had to leave. I was sorry to see her go. </div>
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<span class="s1">During jury selection she'd mentioned she was an Artist. I’d asked about her work, and enjoyed our conversation. Always occupying the jury room chair to my right, she’d been a quiet, friendly presence all week, and would only return if one of us was unable to continue.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Another juror I’d chatted up was the Dog Trainer from Arizona. We’d shared, and shared again, our affection for border collies and the Grand Canyon. The Chaplain and I discussed elder care and good places to go for lunch. With the Renegade--the only other man in the group--I’d exchanged knowing nods and nonsensical small talk.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Renegade dressed down, like a biker but more raggedy. Born in Viet Nam, he grew up in Texas, and was now an unemployed Boeing engineer. He had a scruffier beard than my own and bad teeth. Renegade liked to joke around, but his English was so iffy you couldn't be sure you were catching his drift.</span></div>
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By odd coincidence one of the jurors was this same court’s regular Reporter. Her butchness was well turned-out, but her demeanor was initially so forbidding, I was put off. After a couple of days, though, she warmed up, and during our deliberations would become the soul of good-natured calmness. On the very end of the table, lanky Banker’s droll humor and easy-to-listen-to laugh were another plus. <span class="s1"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhE4nmUYugreFqESU2fRaTC4J80Q9LvoTDICfK_d77woS30jm6geUof-wS5dyri0YWOyFD8_ba13aDte0ocpIGJC22hDLDTWXjvsDhyphenhyphen78-i1_HtKmT3VtafAUPpg_i5elNZUx0OUTfbHVb/s1600/Jury+Room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhE4nmUYugreFqESU2fRaTC4J80Q9LvoTDICfK_d77woS30jm6geUof-wS5dyri0YWOyFD8_ba13aDte0ocpIGJC22hDLDTWXjvsDhyphenhyphen78-i1_HtKmT3VtafAUPpg_i5elNZUx0OUTfbHVb/s1600/Jury+Room.jpg" height="204" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good Times</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">One expensively coiffed woman spoke e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y clearly on her Cellphone during each of our jury room respites. In the midst of arranging care for her elderly father, she dutifully kept us apprised as the situation evolved. I occasionally retreated to the tiny men’s room to escape her self-assured loquacity.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">On the other hand, the woman next to me Seldom Talked while playing a game on her phone. A short red-faced woman--call her Fireplug--had once owned a yoga studio and, like me, used our breaks to stretch. </span>Curly Blonde and the former dental hygienist with a Stiff walk sat together down at the other end of the table usually engaged in some casual slander of their husbands. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Shy Woman rounded out our baker’s dozen. As soon as Artist left, someone asked if any of us had ever been on a jury before and Cellphone raised her hand. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">[To be continued.]</span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-6413673499307813202014-02-17T12:18:00.001-08:002014-02-21T10:00:11.134-08:00CASE NO. 12-X-XX588-X, Part 2<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD9aSmeMUw0rO8EdPVH4jLfBSCdHwCTRO8wOMsoqN7ZsHiBitPf0DyI1zMj0xGXenVAeLFg0y1RSYmdivors6C32P0sfAv_mslVajYrIwdssqfZYHGFMIc02bh8SMoyGzQv01eF5Az-Ae8/s1600/Snohomish-County-Courthouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD9aSmeMUw0rO8EdPVH4jLfBSCdHwCTRO8wOMsoqN7ZsHiBitPf0DyI1zMj0xGXenVAeLFg0y1RSYmdivors6C32P0sfAv_mslVajYrIwdssqfZYHGFMIc02bh8SMoyGzQv01eF5Az-Ae8/s1600/Snohomish-County-Courthouse.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jury room window, second floor, far right. Imagine the trees<br />
have no leaves, sky is dark grey, rain whipped by wind.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After we saw and heard all the evidence and testimony, our jury was asked to determine how much Defendant owed Plaintiff for <i>non-economic</i> damages suffered as result of head, neck, and lower back injuries caused nearly five years ago by the accident.</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Plaintiff was a small, prettier-than-plain woman, seemingly fit but with an unhappy face. We were introduced to her through testimony from:</span></div>
<ul>
<ul>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">her husband--an inarticulate man preyed upon by defendant’s counsel, </span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">her neighbor and friend--who really hadn’t seen too much of P lately,</span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">her mother-in-law--who lamented the loss of P’s former dynamism.</span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Each agreed that Plaintiff was stoic about pain, had a bad memory and fear of needles. For years she and her husband had worked long hours to build a small-town roofing and recycling business. They had two teenage boys.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Defense made much of Plaintiff’s:</span></div>
<ul>
<ul>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">visit to a doctor three years before the accident for bad headaches.</span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">surgery on a herniated disc six months before the crash.</span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Plaintiff’s English-chinned counsel countered that these should be seen as small “islands of pain” not connected to the “continent of pain” following the crash, as evidenced by:</span></div>
<ul>
<ul>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">six pain-free months after the sciatic surgery and before the crash,</span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">numerous visits over the four and a half years since the crash to doctors, neurologists, physical and occupational therapists, and chiropractors seeking relief from often excruciating head, neck and/or lower back pain.</span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“If that is so,” responded Defendant’s lawyer, who looked like a well-dressed jockey, “how do you explain”:</span></div>
<ul>
<ul>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">a half dozen or so full-range-of-motion tests on her neck during the period since the crash,</span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">several many-months-long gaps between treatments,</span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">spotty adherence to exercise regimens and use of prescribed medication,</span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">varying self-reports of pain, as low as 2 on a scale of 1-10,</span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">and the fact that Plaintiff refused emergency room treatment at the time of the accident?</span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqu90kPZXNZN5fjSVNll_kSHcoC-rMp0-MlWnvN-9W0V3Ipn_aevmyStgMbhZUfpneWFcAB9b6WrxfByRQ1ErxlBfGxBcqPa07KxHQe0spbQqmrcpl4qQ822305OOeGoCqJXYUDL-D426g/s1600/Jury+Duty+comprehend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqu90kPZXNZN5fjSVNll_kSHcoC-rMp0-MlWnvN-9W0V3Ipn_aevmyStgMbhZUfpneWFcAB9b6WrxfByRQ1ErxlBfGxBcqPa07KxHQe0spbQqmrcpl4qQ822305OOeGoCqJXYUDL-D426g/s1600/Jury+Duty+comprehend.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty much.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">There were no knockouts in the bout between expert neurologists, though Gravitas for the defense, seemed to have it on points over Earnestness out of Plaintiff’s corner. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In closing argument, Plaintiff’s counsel helpfully suggested recompense of 80K for past, and 280K for future, pain, distress, inconvenience, quality of life lost, etc. The defense opined 5-30K should cover it. At the same time we were advised that the “law has not furnished us with any fixed standards by which to measure non-economic damages.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">We had a little less than two hours to come up with a verdict, or return after the long weekend for another day at court.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">[To be continued.]</span></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-28502788528910065802014-02-16T15:05:00.002-08:002014-02-20T20:40:25.484-08:00CASE NO. 12-X-XX588-X, Part 1<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The past couple of nights I’ve had 3AM mental wrestling matches about the trial that just concluded, feeling that I should have been a better advocate for a more fair resolution than the one our jury reached. It's a feeling I can dismiss in the cold light of day, but it's been stealing into my dreams, waking me up, and keeping me awake.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid56Y93wGfuXi3zTLhQF-y3YmCjStJHyBXmJRZ9LT5z-uXUDx_iHThOAN4pRhwevsEvCHjqMHjUpEj21Hersj0XjnprdzYjFGyIPN0Md8jQPatKNIPumZDzW7bAcSaHWw6c5Ylufa7uXEQ/s1600/Jury+Badge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid56Y93wGfuXi3zTLhQF-y3YmCjStJHyBXmJRZ9LT5z-uXUDx_iHThOAN4pRhwevsEvCHjqMHjUpEj21Hersj0XjnprdzYjFGyIPN0Md8jQPatKNIPumZDzW7bAcSaHWw6c5Ylufa7uXEQ/s1600/Jury+Badge.jpg" height="182" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nobody said we had to, but we each clipped this badge<br />
over our breast/chest whenever we were in the courtroom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The opposing sides rested, and we began deliberations two days ago, on Friday</span><span class="s1">--</span>Valentines Day<i> </i>in an unfortunate twist of fate--<span class="s1">a little after 4PM</span>. We were told that if we didn’t reach a decision by six we’d need to return next Tuesday. Even though it was the end of a long, trying week, once our discussion began there was a general sense of “let’s try to get it over with now, if we can.” </div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The issue was how much money the plaintiff would receive for injuries that may have resulted, in whole or part, when her SUV was hit by defendant’s on-coming car as he was admittedly distracted, and it drifted across the center lane. The accident took place out where suburbs are becoming rural as both parties were performing errands for their children. Good conditions, neither speeding.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">For four mind-numbing days we heard this sad story told in excruciating and conflicting detail. We listened to the parsing and re-parsing of voluminous, inconclusive medical records. For elusive reasons, the two opposing expert witnesses, not surprisingly, disagreed. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">There were long moments during the trial when the only sound was the rustling of pages as one of the lawyers searched through his notes. Defense counsel made numerous objections and highlighted every report that might possibly--possibly!--cast doubt on any aspect of the plaintiff’s claims. <i>Her</i> counsel bloviated shamelessly, casting himself as a plain-spoken advocate for all of us regular folk, whom he vastly misunderstood.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJdaDSdrB8Bv6D0ejFyspzhKrSnUCDDsi5w5WvxL9m6Ose4hHTosv396tItdBodc0v9PkQERp-R6lI0fwJpStZ6QjVNAkvyFcZqT5Rik4Vp8pLtehVtFJJWcBoKq8ZH_N3oPeOzVYJVZ7X/s1600/Jury%2520duty-post%2520card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJdaDSdrB8Bv6D0ejFyspzhKrSnUCDDsi5w5WvxL9m6Ose4hHTosv396tItdBodc0v9PkQERp-R6lI0fwJpStZ6QjVNAkvyFcZqT5Rik4Vp8pLtehVtFJJWcBoKq8ZH_N3oPeOzVYJVZ7X/s1600/Jury%2520duty-post%2520card.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">In the courtroom we were the audience, expected to behave, of course, with decorum. Stifle sneezes and yawns. Don’t talk, even whisper, barely move. Morning and afternoon breaks, and many waiting minutes before, and a little after, were spent crowded in the narrow jury room. There wasn't much opportunity to cut loose there, either.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Forbidden to talk about the drama that most obviously united us, we shared hobbies and vocations, mild family dramas, told how tall our kids are, any topic--really--for good natured small talk that ignored an immense elephant in the room. We were a pretty congenial bunch. Ten women and two men. Mario the Bailiff was our lifeline to the court, and we took his irony for comic relief.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="s1">[To be continued.]</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-60597766068822152432014-02-08T14:03:00.000-08:002014-02-09T13:39:28.115-08:00Peyote Desert<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibOEonHy_PjLVVN19htkJh8SJFgA9mlsePoIkUh585k9WklxjFZtcYnwoaPgXvKLQi4zjs9WqDwiB0SVHv1ftH_o6_dz5uk9FAdobJ561jSdySPU9smQmy_thxKTXorwF19fUl1TyBAhTB/s1600/Yelapa,+Peyote+Desert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibOEonHy_PjLVVN19htkJh8SJFgA9mlsePoIkUh585k9WklxjFZtcYnwoaPgXvKLQi4zjs9WqDwiB0SVHv1ftH_o6_dz5uk9FAdobJ561jSdySPU9smQmy_thxKTXorwF19fUl1TyBAhTB/s1600/Yelapa,+Peyote+Desert.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yarn fixed on resin applied to foot-square board</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Showing off our recently hung <a href="http://downstreambohemia.blogspot.com/2014/02/two-farmers.html" target="_blank">print</a> from a local artist made me think of the art we have acquired in Mexico. My favorite works are by Huichol Indian artists from </span>mountainous areas of Jalisco and Nayarit. Their art has a profoundly religious base. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Huichol return annually to </span>central Mexico to collect peyote for their ceremonies. This yarn "painting" by Cecilio Canillo Bonilla likely represents that mountainous desert region of origin--peyote cactus in foreground. Above and in the background are two shaman’s healing wands, each hung with a pair of eagle feathers. Corn silk rises in the center, just below the sun, centered in what--incongruously--appears to be a night sky.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s3">There is a holy trinity in the Huichol faith. Corn is sustenance, and represents “</span><span class="s1">meaningful work or activity in the present”<a href="http://www.mexconnect.com/articles/3280-huichol-art-a-matter-of-survival-part-three" target="_blank">*</a>. Peyote is revered as “a means of release or escape into a world beyond time and space”<a href="http://www.mexconnect.com/articles/3280-huichol-art-a-matter-of-survival-part-three" target="_blank">*</a>. </span>The trio is complete with Deer, not only Lord of the Animals, but the one who brought farming to the people. Deer is shown in the middle of the gourd bowl, below. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Nowadays, most Huichol art in Yelapa is sold at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/CAFE-BAHIA-YELAPA/93784148290" target="_blank">Cafe Bahia</a>. The artist/vendor humps down every couple of weeks or so from his mountain village by bus to Puerto Vallarta, and then water taxi to Yelapa. He is a small golden-brown man, immaculately--strikingly--dressed in white cotton, <i>camisa </i>and <i>pantalones</i> both beautifully and amply embroidered. What is most notable, though, is a broad-brimmed hat adorned with hanging feathers, more embroidery, a woven beadwork band, red fabric puffballs. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGRYMttm7dKLvw4lVTPHYqD5Q309r_gS4598efzdwWmyiqm9JEzzTmx7V7_3LzOEzul-7x4r2968CoDOO7pO2roO3_KrwgrNB8aUluZ5aziM7fQF3wZtniJZc4y39to9vuEN2c80oCFgC/s1600/Yelapa,+Huichol+bowl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGRYMttm7dKLvw4lVTPHYqD5Q309r_gS4598efzdwWmyiqm9JEzzTmx7V7_3LzOEzul-7x4r2968CoDOO7pO2roO3_KrwgrNB8aUluZ5aziM7fQF3wZtniJZc4y39to9vuEN2c80oCFgC/s1600/Yelapa,+Huichol+bowl.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sleeping deer with peyote buttons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">To show this amazing finery, a few weeks ago I took a picture of the artist, Alesandro, from whom I had purchased this beaded <i>calabasa</i> bowl. Still in Yelapa, while editing on iPhoto, I noticed he was not looking into the lens. I thought of the allegedly primitive people who are said to believe that a camera will steal your soul. Back at my desk in the States, I can no longer find his three images. Now they're some pixel specks lost in an almost infinite digital abyss. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Stay strong, Huichol man!</span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-16393002851395474212014-02-07T14:48:00.000-08:002014-02-09T17:07:19.928-08:00Two Farmers<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvVhHDu_oULBsm34L4Fup2OX0CvGzdHDWWAI07d6Svjos70I30LG7nH0Pi2-12yqlOmDvcsiH-FOlladW0zuXY0fCj7BfjHQTwRQr6Jz222N1yhxzX-lC6UV_xLWf_SrIrsih6Y5qDhQG/s1600/Two+Farmers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvVhHDu_oULBsm34L4Fup2OX0CvGzdHDWWAI07d6Svjos70I30LG7nH0Pi2-12yqlOmDvcsiH-FOlladW0zuXY0fCj7BfjHQTwRQr6Jz222N1yhxzX-lC6UV_xLWf_SrIrsih6Y5qDhQG/s1600/Two+Farmers.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shapes of differently colored or patterned pieces of<br />
paper are printed and appear to be assembled like a<br />
collage into a seamless whole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">To soften our recent landing seventy degrees of coldness away from Mexico, we are pleased to have just hung a multicolored linoleum block print by local artist <a href="http://www.mimiwilliamsprintmaker.com/about.php" target="_blank">Mimi Williams</a>. </span>This is an expensive--for our budget--acquisition, but it gives a lot of joy. </div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">We saw Mimi's fall show at the local library, and every visit were drawn to its two dozen prints. As it came time for the show to end, we agreed to Christmas gift ourselves the one we liked best. Deciding was difficult. We chose this one, entitled “Two Farmers Hit the High Notes.” </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This is what I like and how I feel about the work: First, I see the harmony of shapes, lines and colors. When someone says, "Farmer," I think of a man, but these are <u>both</u> women. Their hands are either raised in praise, or sunk into bringing music from that rock of a piano. A long line of canning jars connects earth to industry. A windmill--its powering vanes are like sunrays. There is a constancy of hillside cows, and a periwinkle streak opens to the heavens. Outdoor spaciousness abounds.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">For us, the piece has a wholesome, uplifting, expansive quality. </span>My ears can almost imagine the farmers' high notes carrying over the Palouse hills of eastern Washington. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Thank you, Mimi, for this fine work of art!</span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-14241528129049432962014-01-31T09:30:00.000-08:002014-02-04T09:53:40.653-08:00Adios a Paraíso<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhot0iawHynP1a-_G9Cg2gN1FhuFFL3VOZvLbYk8L-VQ_sSCRmq6IezSBPkg1Uw2G3BI6YXrHY9ehWES_WJK6e7gPf22k3ZR24uwoCHMlGfuvjEWJ5AK9SQrqmqzqESaTjJTHtl6YwWgLj8/s1600/Yelapa,+Gracie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhot0iawHynP1a-_G9Cg2gN1FhuFFL3VOZvLbYk8L-VQ_sSCRmq6IezSBPkg1Uw2G3BI6YXrHY9ehWES_WJK6e7gPf22k3ZR24uwoCHMlGfuvjEWJ5AK9SQrqmqzqESaTjJTHtl6YwWgLj8/s1600/Yelapa,+Gracie.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gracie, ready to roll</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">10 AM. Three hours ago I told Ronco, “This moment, fishing with you in the <a href="http://downstreambohemia.blogspot.mx/2014/01/panga.html" target="_blank">panga</a>, is a memory for me like a treasure; in my city, in the next week, I think of this moment--the sun, the bay, the fish, and you--my boss.” He laughed, with pleasure, I think. Who wouldn’t?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Two days left and it's already like we're not completely here. Our idyl has become metered--more choices than time. Rather than brood on this scarcity, I'll take my favorite dog for a run over stumps and stones along the path to the point and up to <i>entrada privada</i> of a boutique resort. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhZ8YlVoFxg2M_YXrUmA5UXEUyXSQ9htHP2OkExArNkmjQo93OYs92THoQPLndRGeTA2XwczUhqRyIRc09h8GfV8e-8AmRm2tM83hFedOz103lr5rg0eETuKNHgCB95LyIUFDHORnHKI-/s1600/Yelapa,+turkey+vulture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhZ8YlVoFxg2M_YXrUmA5UXEUyXSQ9htHP2OkExArNkmjQo93OYs92THoQPLndRGeTA2XwczUhqRyIRc09h8GfV8e-8AmRm2tM83hFedOz103lr5rg0eETuKNHgCB95LyIUFDHORnHKI-/s1600/Yelapa,+turkey+vulture.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Turkey vulture practicing his moon walk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">12 PM. Nothing like popping endorphins in paradise. Add to that an avocado salad and you’ve got something with legs. I'll haul Corona empties up to <a href="http://downstreambohemia.blogspot.mx/2014/01/reviewing-our-local-grocery-stores.html" target="_blank">Tencia’s</a> for the bottle deposit, last shop and village ramble. But no hurry, stop downstairs for a chat with Solana, see if she needs anything from the store.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbdILXT4kfA8mYmVhqMRiqH1CywxP26cOCkwNW6TuYcYASUMe94mi4l9dayz90f5R-RW1ImQV4HG7zRXzIkS4B205dzdOd6FlXC_BxQtg8zRu0HESOhGSObZj3yAcYlfOJqdAiOayvmE6-/s1600/Yelapa,+frigate+birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbdILXT4kfA8mYmVhqMRiqH1CywxP26cOCkwNW6TuYcYASUMe94mi4l9dayz90f5R-RW1ImQV4HG7zRXzIkS4B205dzdOd6FlXC_BxQtg8zRu0HESOhGSObZj3yAcYlfOJqdAiOayvmE6-/s1600/Yelapa,+frigate+birds.jpg" height="162" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pterodactyl-esque Frigate Birds</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">3 PM. On the balcony, watching the easy pace of Nelson’s work on <a href="http://downstreambohemia.blogspot.mx/2014/01/silvestros-gate.html" target="_blank">Siete Trucha</a> project, and adopting the lazy manner of a turkey vulture when my wife harkens to the tweeting call of a black hawk. We trace its location above our near ridge, among </span>aforementioned vultures and similarly sized frigate birds, all wheeling black angles distinct against a baby blue sky.</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RbTC97T-bBi-qf_4R5U1wcic4JThAFJDQh16WfuScIMRMyzkKHYM00kUu5_H43KKbboIWQVF0WFHofapik3hSCh50U0mANKCxt386UYYzxmDf_kk8DfNoYQimsp2QXFIcS620a9ZGpMt/s1600/Yelapa,+pack+horses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RbTC97T-bBi-qf_4R5U1wcic4JThAFJDQh16WfuScIMRMyzkKHYM00kUu5_H43KKbboIWQVF0WFHofapik3hSCh50U0mANKCxt386UYYzxmDf_kk8DfNoYQimsp2QXFIcS620a9ZGpMt/s1600/Yelapa,+pack+horses.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unloading river sand from<br />
pack horses </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">The frigate bird’s silhouette is scary--resembles a refugee from Jurassic Park. Another distinction: greatest wingspan to body-length ratio of any bird in the world. Nonpareil gliders, but lack the ability to gain altitude from takeoff, so imagine the consequences of that...Breaking news: A two foot skate is caught just off the pier; young boys gather to gingerly release the hook, engage in some experimental cruelty, poke and prod the fish back into surf.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">6 PM. Balcony, now in the shade. News flash: two federales in navy blue uniforms, guns holstered and back-slung, stride over little bridge just below us. It’s been several weeks since we last saw them--the only organized law enforcement in our pueblo, must be their biweekly round. Nelson and helper have mixed concrete, fashioned rebar, moved rocks and dug base for Siete Trucha steps. Still working. Time to ready ourselves for taking Ana Rosa and Ronco out to Ray’s for dinner.
</span><br />
<span class="s1"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hkvsg6r1t5e75NFqKB87a3LCEdIGuWHXTwgPFj2qVWWOpFQbELaXWjaZrVTT4eG96J706xENzYb1xXH93afcAgefPZa-n0OsggyskO2XWLvvebXceQ6pvM0iyX-eWhjqMazWen6z_OgQ/s1600/Yelapa,+Ray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hkvsg6r1t5e75NFqKB87a3LCEdIGuWHXTwgPFj2qVWWOpFQbELaXWjaZrVTT4eG96J706xENzYb1xXH93afcAgefPZa-n0OsggyskO2XWLvvebXceQ6pvM0iyX-eWhjqMazWen6z_OgQ/s1600/Yelapa,+Ray.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"></span>
<span class="s1">9 PM. Balcony, after dinner, pangas below at their moorings, bobbing in the surf, night-lit by <a href="http://downstreambohemia.blogspot.mx/2014/01/la-lampa.html" target="_blank">La Lampa</a>. It's seldom, in my experience, that five more good-natured and fun-loving people have been gathered together, even if we don't all speak the same language. What a fine ending, with the clip-clopping of a late-working pack train adding a distinctive Yelapanese touch to our dinner. Thanks, Ray, for the bacon-wrapped shrimp and cheese-stuffed steak, and Ana Rosa loved your mango margarita.</span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-42436076432497122882014-01-29T15:51:00.000-08:002014-01-30T10:44:29.149-08:00Reviewing Our Local Grocery Stores<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8J0pPVHfunX5hnzQH5QJbx3L1v8gPOU28QvYn7CjLq3x8xiiJBfTnZ7R_3IVe2FfRPwuEj1hd5CekLhbNv5cRXPoRi-acLj38hGWHu8Ji-2mNvNfpnPd5xc9qcPHgVDQXpENqzqdlOuyd/s1600/Yelapa,+Pirri's+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8J0pPVHfunX5hnzQH5QJbx3L1v8gPOU28QvYn7CjLq3x8xiiJBfTnZ7R_3IVe2FfRPwuEj1hd5CekLhbNv5cRXPoRi-acLj38hGWHu8Ji-2mNvNfpnPd5xc9qcPHgVDQXpENqzqdlOuyd/s1600/Yelapa,+Pirri's+2.jpg" height="136" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Peedy's" photo-enhanced</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Closest <i>tienda</i> to our little place goes by the name of "Peedy’s", near as I can tell a gringo corruption of the owner’s nickname--Pirri (another of Ronco’s brothers). It’s our 7-11. We go there early or late for beer, bagels, or the canned milk we put in coffee. </div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"Peedy's" is too dark to see much that’s on the shelves, and produce bins are often slim pickins, except for fruit flies, but one thing you can count on is a smile from whomever is at the counter. "Peedy's" front stoop is also a local hangout for <i>hombres</i> wanting to kick back a <i>cerveza</i> or three, and BS. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Next further out is "Teesha’s"--a gringo-ish devolution of Leticia. It’s the spiffiest and best stocked <i>tienda</i> in the pueblo, but also the least friendly. We don’t go there except for the vacuum-packed coffee, and on the rare occasions we want to feel like clumsy foreign buttinskys.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikDzloMs2utX0W4uQvaa2Ks_f9s3fH3KEliy0YtN82lA-qWOAKD0uOpUwHhGKHWQwNmSwPrSpsg-oCbXlN4tsIbwwf9TJOeU54F6e0U-BMwtoFdWEqGwWZtFC4-WVt-UEjkfiC6Yx2_9Jo/s1600/Yelapa,+Tencia+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikDzloMs2utX0W4uQvaa2Ks_f9s3fH3KEliy0YtN82lA-qWOAKD0uOpUwHhGKHWQwNmSwPrSpsg-oCbXlN4tsIbwwf9TJOeU54F6e0U-BMwtoFdWEqGwWZtFC4-WVt-UEjkfiC6Yx2_9Jo/s1600/Yelapa,+Tencia+1.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tencia as La Suprema: she's such a cutup</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">Our favorite <i>tienda</i> is "Tensha’s"; it’s <i>numero uno</i> mainly because of the ebullient personality of Hortencia, its sort-of eponymous owner. She’s the hoot who, from the time I mistakenly asked for chamomile instead of butter, exuberantly, and educationally, recited, “<i>Manzanilla, mantequilla. Manzanilla, mantequilla</i>, etc,” every time I came in her store...maybe you'd have to be there to appreciate the whimsy, though.</span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpBMt0uMb2Alsv2Es5xnylZNkAvoBJfhO3weEkJ2FUbpW5_ywFzTsC5nYxBoDtO9gPTo7vhMM5GTo4cqnYkf5zS-Omqpwq3p9xt7yFtCEtMYhyVu412Xbdsu4e6E4HtPv9zEVN5OhZa-N/s1600/Yelapa,+Tencia's+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpBMt0uMb2Alsv2Es5xnylZNkAvoBJfhO3weEkJ2FUbpW5_ywFzTsC5nYxBoDtO9gPTo7vhMM5GTo4cqnYkf5zS-Omqpwq3p9xt7yFtCEtMYhyVu412Xbdsu4e6E4HtPv9zEVN5OhZa-N/s1600/Yelapa,+Tencia's+2.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mexican pinball: without a flipper,<br />
what's the point?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"Tensha’s" is an even more popular hang-out than "Peedy’s". I often see <a href="http://downstreambohemia.blogspot.mx/2014/01/silvestros-gate.html" target="_blank">Silverio</a> there playing the Mexican slot machine, and a pinball at the door (without flippers, alas) attracts all genders and ages. Hortencia holds court and pushes the homemade, and the all too frequently sampled-by-me, pies. </span>Plus she's got the lowest price on <i>El Jimador</i>, and best selection of <i>cacahuates</i> in town.<br />
<br />
Go Tencia!</div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-13901134876218406972014-01-26T15:16:00.001-08:002014-02-10T06:20:36.891-08:00Do You Eat Meat?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcW1tZqU0CS6JHSlqb7e7WcxKL3Q4lGiDgHaI_M_FUEzP9_VmXg-hgPCNwFVYPYUZ5_fpQNaoQ2QWpYlsjgji3EEeaE7pr_YW0CvqL4vviisrWcq5AvRego-hTHCOC4TLKXquOdL8J9TT/s1600/Yelapa,+steer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcW1tZqU0CS6JHSlqb7e7WcxKL3Q4lGiDgHaI_M_FUEzP9_VmXg-hgPCNwFVYPYUZ5_fpQNaoQ2QWpYlsjgji3EEeaE7pr_YW0CvqL4vviisrWcq5AvRego-hTHCOC4TLKXquOdL8J9TT/s1600/Yelapa,+steer.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At this point, I'm cowering next to a concrete pillar, aware that the beast's<br />
right rear hoof is braced for who-knows-what mayhem.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">First I hear braying snorts and then see an arresting sight as I StepMaster up a narrow concrete path, so steep it’s corrugated to allow footholds. Not twenty feet ahead and above me a big black, angry steer blocks the way.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“<i>Cuidado</i>!” one of the attendant cowboys shouts in warning.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Wannabe bull stiffens and snorts again, more loudly.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I brace myself against a post, eye rusted barbed wire curled below, and calculate chances of escaping injury by jumping down that way (”Is my tetanus shot still up to date?”) instead of standing my ground next to, but unfortunately not behind, the concrete shield. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Odds not good--better to hope the downhill <i>caballero </i>keeps the rope taut enough to prevent the steer from lunging my direction. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It’s tense for some minutes. The dogs get involved. We all escape injury. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">As I dart past--as much darting as one can do, going up three feet for every four horizontal--I meet a fellow coming down. He had been delayed by the bullish brouhaha as well.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“<i>¿Tu comes carne?</i>--Do you eat meat?” he jokingly asks.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Si, claro,” I reply.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“<i>Ahí está tu cena</i>--There’s dinner.”</span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-34595151136496511792014-01-26T08:28:00.003-08:002014-02-05T08:42:01.004-08:00Ch-ch-ch-changes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmUIdQluhqA_OU_FbOnjSQlV0NTN-_sqF1oi6tfaprbNBRIowmK8EKlU5eqrrCEAvWtGQIzlPJzDLw3gAK7OYOahLk5oeNMxsSuQOMMf_J1Y9p6UHCanN_lamvUy4p0qy2x2krOOV_ir3/s1600/Yelapa,+school+steps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmUIdQluhqA_OU_FbOnjSQlV0NTN-_sqF1oi6tfaprbNBRIowmK8EKlU5eqrrCEAvWtGQIzlPJzDLw3gAK7OYOahLk5oeNMxsSuQOMMf_J1Y9p6UHCanN_lamvUy4p0qy2x2krOOV_ir3/s1600/Yelapa,+school+steps.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Yelapa students see these values on the face of each low riser as they go up the steps to their school: Love, Respect, Honesty, Equality... </span><span class="s2"><i>Amor, Respeto, Honestidad, Igualidad...</i></span><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i></i></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“<i>La amistad, el tesoro mas valioso</i>”, or ”Friendship, the most valuable treasure” is inscribed along the base of the pedestal above which the school’s flagpole rises. This value is affirmed and reflected with the many “Hola, amigos” that greet me on village rambles.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VDiGUNXDFHajU3wE3npONAFxxqAVEpbCPld1LB0DuxqVJC5e7VAxFPUAB3bjNkvDnvMqKB3KaKAwh32-EvfqIn6e9jwIa8p_Nnq6LbwOFGfFXcHjFQ2d9O0IyJoykQc1UcJBGk_kPsVY/s1600/Yelapa,+flagpole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VDiGUNXDFHajU3wE3npONAFxxqAVEpbCPld1LB0DuxqVJC5e7VAxFPUAB3bjNkvDnvMqKB3KaKAwh32-EvfqIn6e9jwIa8p_Nnq6LbwOFGfFXcHjFQ2d9O0IyJoykQc1UcJBGk_kPsVY/s1600/Yelapa,+flagpole.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><span class="s1">Similarly inclusive values are promoted in the words of Benito Juarez that adorn the ledge at a scenic viewpoint above the <i>playa</i>-- ”Respecting the rights of all people leads to peace.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">I’m sure these same values were reinforced 50 years ago when Ronco and Ana Rosa were attending school, but mostly by family and peers, for they each only had two years in the classroom--first and second grade. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Not to get all sociological, but we’ve noticed perhaps a consequence of this minimal education among the older residents of the pueblo--verbal distinctions (the hoary “contrast and compare” of my former classroom) leading to strategies of classification are not much practiced. We see a whale on the horizon, point it out, ask “<i>Qué tipo de ballena</i>?”, and are met with a shrug and “<i>Una ballena</i>.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1M2u49ERIzhvnNLFNo_OGWZUQhTTEVL9DJaU5NxNdeEef8SrEsrXu0fAQYXnTm8ydw1FX7fyJmpQA_SPdlVlCVieocqAGmEXBmsC_krCCbS-0W6lUmXdDkL4htXErnG_-9nndCVXsjyEg/s1600/Yelapa,+un+arbol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1M2u49ERIzhvnNLFNo_OGWZUQhTTEVL9DJaU5NxNdeEef8SrEsrXu0fAQYXnTm8ydw1FX7fyJmpQA_SPdlVlCVieocqAGmEXBmsC_krCCbS-0W6lUmXdDkL4htXErnG_-9nndCVXsjyEg/s1600/Yelapa,+un+arbol.jpg" height="200" width="171" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tree</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">The same goes when I ask about a type of tree, certain birds, or even less common fish. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">According to Ana Rosa, who has some feelings about this, higher education, according to her padre, was only for the boys in the family, and then only if they had the wherewithal to send the young man to Puerto Vallarta. Her father probably had the connections to arrange for schooling, and did for her male sibling, but with Ana Rosa was not so inclined.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">At our dinner conversation she went on the reflect that the padres in those days a half century ago were generally hard and unsmiling, reflecting the difficulty of their life. That characterization, she and Ronco agreed, does not hold true today. Life is <i>mucho más fácil</i> with technological and sociological advancement, and an uneasy embrace of tourism.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Back in the day, though, if you wanted to schmooze with <i>una amiga</i>, you had to walk the up and down path, skipping over rocks. Today: cell phone. The consequence, of course, of this change in habit as well as diet, is that few are <i>flaco</i> (slender) as everyone was then, and that diabetes is now not at all uncommon. Same old sad song--you see it on Indian reservations back in the States. Hell, you see it everywhere. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-76085712273484960822014-01-23T12:42:00.000-08:002014-01-25T11:29:37.398-08:00Coconut Palm Poem<div class="p1">
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>El Sol</i> has risen over the near ridge, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Silhouetting coconut palms </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">That each look like a</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Lime-colored explosion or </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Stop-motion firework.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8Uf3mcwNNCGGGK8BL7iy2wZJal9Oc38WBX2b_CLFi4d-YoJiH05rMEbllq5AoHd2YdFiOXjHkeH8phrPvDghvOtHqRciwwczAPBwo7XX3z4qkuYiEXajqkBeAWo-9-ps5ONLk835GQ0y/s1600/Yelapa,+coconut+palm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8Uf3mcwNNCGGGK8BL7iy2wZJal9Oc38WBX2b_CLFi4d-YoJiH05rMEbllq5AoHd2YdFiOXjHkeH8phrPvDghvOtHqRciwwczAPBwo7XX3z4qkuYiEXajqkBeAWo-9-ps5ONLk835GQ0y/s1600/Yelapa,+coconut+palm.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at it long enough, and<br />
it all starts to shimmy-shake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">Stiletto fronds</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Swoon at the top </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Of an improbably</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Long and slender trunk,</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And shiver reflections</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Of the morning sun,</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Every single palm,</span></div>
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<span class="s1">In all its three sixty glory,</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Giving a personal shout out</span><br />
<span class="s1">To distinguish itself</span></div>
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<span class="s1">From the crumpled quilt of </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Other, more subtle greenery,</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And only <i>then</i></span></div>
<span class="s1">Do you think of the nut. </span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8149033656353580853.post-19499097169955864002014-01-22T13:12:00.001-08:002014-01-24T14:28:53.948-08:00Muy Primitivo and Not<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPnl4eNAjXKjuqRe1o8QbDVaOnuD2ruTVUgAP9mw8sF_73hh8vNseFxo-FPW47T-i-7cctw-z0ez8Yji2yFt0_qYaziCp5F7poGQGm2vzCInRRu2vjoBLoVVbuwzJN63HA-oxrD4tB_Jhz/s1600/Yelapa,+Night+title.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPnl4eNAjXKjuqRe1o8QbDVaOnuD2ruTVUgAP9mw8sF_73hh8vNseFxo-FPW47T-i-7cctw-z0ez8Yji2yFt0_qYaziCp5F7poGQGm2vzCInRRu2vjoBLoVVbuwzJN63HA-oxrD4tB_Jhz/s1600/Yelapa,+Night+title.jpg" height="200" width="113" /></a><span class="s1">“Night of the Iguana”, the movie, was released 50 years ago. It was filmed near Puerto Vallarta, and the <a href="http://www.tcm.com/mediaroom/video/28044/Night-of-the-Iguana-The-Original-Movie-Promo-.html" target="_blank">brouhaha</a> surrounding its production is popularly credited with PV’s rapid growth to international vacation destination. For many subsequent years, the movie’s director, John Huston, had a retreat just up the coast from our own little village. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk0MR6XoD3SdupKXBn5fo9-fHPiYRmdvM3rMB-MiPpFqGuTnJL6wbUSm1L9yozuviutOVcCD7eo4YF-QkvynWGntJdVkvkl45rFN_kRbNRglThERSzpmWTdo3VlWPZzZxZH-3LSvYIthSI/s1600/Yelapa+John+Huston.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk0MR6XoD3SdupKXBn5fo9-fHPiYRmdvM3rMB-MiPpFqGuTnJL6wbUSm1L9yozuviutOVcCD7eo4YF-QkvynWGntJdVkvkl45rFN_kRbNRglThERSzpmWTdo3VlWPZzZxZH-3LSvYIthSI/s1600/Yelapa+John+Huston.jpg" height="200" width="75" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JH at home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">Huston’s pad at Las Caletas, and Yelapa, are both located on Cabo Corrientes, a cape that sticks out into the Pacific Ocean like a big fat thumb. Most of this huge area is one of only a handful of <i>comunidads indigenas </i>in the country, each with legal status like United States Indian reservations. One big difference: unlike in the US, the indigenous people here were never occupied by European <i>conquistadors</i>. Cortes came and then backed off. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYROrSkijediAGqYjJnj2plbHwaXaN4ePySq-xgq_U0mlZ6SVuEZZFq-9GSr5CNHPVGfgtlIJx1jqjZjvXE0RjEMcV1IEyx20pviOlxNnAoV3CSrmKPvn0vkP_bHZkJIMs8e0KBkXoQk8/s1600/Yelapa,+Cabo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYROrSkijediAGqYjJnj2plbHwaXaN4ePySq-xgq_U0mlZ6SVuEZZFq-9GSr5CNHPVGfgtlIJx1jqjZjvXE0RjEMcV1IEyx20pviOlxNnAoV3CSrmKPvn0vkP_bHZkJIMs8e0KBkXoQk8/s1600/Yelapa,+Cabo.jpg" height="163" width="200" /></a><span class="s1">That was 500 years ago. The upshot of this history is that the land here has always been held collectively. </span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>There is no private ownership of land by anyone, even its indigenous residents, though it is possible for families to occupy and claim land by using or cultivating it, and then by buying and selling it. Outsiders, however, may not buy or claim any land here at all.<a href="http://www.palapainyelapa.com/pages/history_project.html" target="_blank">*</a></i></span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">You can imagine the crimp that’s put on development.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">As with any long-inhabitated and isolated area, everyone in the <i>Cabo</i> is connected by maybe only 2 or 3 degrees of Kevin <i>Tocino, </i>at most. There are a half dozen prominent families to whom almost all of the <i>habitantes</i> are connected by blood or marriage, or at least claim tenuous relation. With Ana Rosa and Ronco you have a marriage between two branches of the same well-established clan.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Our gracious hosts had us down to dinner last night, making an affectionate big deal over us eating the same <i>pescado</i> I’d caught just that morning. Ana Rosa marinaded the bonito in white wine vinegar and lime, then poached it with tomatoes, onions and peppers. <i>Magnífico</i>! </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxCTMDnY75IGZaCCCR-xjOD8uxRWGJVbaTw6-bN0Cs_txWcxl8HRX_lR_-E_KsbiLyALyR8kFFO53cLy_CkbGe7MltnpbT34W7NMofQ3LvZU2Tt9Jb9CE4DKzZrbFSph6c9dENgqq9OhP/s1600/Yelapa,+iguana+choice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxCTMDnY75IGZaCCCR-xjOD8uxRWGJVbaTw6-bN0Cs_txWcxl8HRX_lR_-E_KsbiLyALyR8kFFO53cLy_CkbGe7MltnpbT34W7NMofQ3LvZU2Tt9Jb9CE4DKzZrbFSph6c9dENgqq9OhP/s1600/Yelapa,+iguana+choice.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chillin' like a villain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">She also told us stories about life here in the days when they were young and all the movie stars </span><span style="text-align: center;">were just discovering sleepy little Puerto Vallarta. That’s when Ronco’s padre was making the day-long trip into PV by rowboat. The bouncing half-hour panga ride today may seem primitive by big city standards, but it’s a huge connectivity leap in fifty years.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKM3Syhr8xMhyphenhyphen0uYRKmcLCrUyRnMoO1ELfiQBTcHRPPD5ed4zLoUJXyX2z-Lq7WAe5Y72TeitW0OqszwRCdQSPmAmQVfY3HdhfpAzsHlVcz5K-KD4-acs-ZTeWdEUyQz6KzYvxBd0FP4y/s1600/Yelapa,+pochote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKM3Syhr8xMhyphenhyphen0uYRKmcLCrUyRnMoO1ELfiQBTcHRPPD5ed4zLoUJXyX2z-Lq7WAe5Y72TeitW0OqszwRCdQSPmAmQVfY3HdhfpAzsHlVcz5K-KD4-acs-ZTeWdEUyQz6KzYvxBd0FP4y/s1600/Yelapa,+pochote.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iggy Country</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">One thing that hasn’t changed since before Christ was a <i>caballero</i> is the primitive lizard that gave rise to Tennessee William’s play and John Huston’s movie. I’d never associated iguanas with their tree-dwelling habit, but there they were in all their scaly, weird-shit glory, this past s<i>ábado</i> on my ramble <i>al puente</i>. One of the many friendly locals pointed them out to me and explained that their favorite <i>árbol</i> is the copiously--hazardously--thorned pochote tree. Look at those lizardy suckers--they’re BIG, make </span><i>Godzilla</i> look like some cheap knockoff! <i>Muy primitivo.</i></div>
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<span class="s1"></span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0