Bowing to Royalty at the Crownpoint Rug Auction

When we first got married, Husband opened my eyes to Native American art and culture.  I’ve written before about our trips to Arizona and New Mexico, especially in Going to Gallup, and how reverential we feel toward the Navajo way.  We’ve also fallen in love with Navajo rugs and the meaning behind the various patterns.  Over the years, we’ve attended several rug auctions, and our experiences at them, as well as the beautiful items we purchased, still make us smile.

The auction we kept missing is by the Crownpoint Rug Weavers Association in Crownpoint, New Mexico, where rugs can be bought for $50 to $5,000+.  This storied sale is held once a month at the elementary school in Crownpoint, a town where 90% of the 2500 residents are Navajo.  There are no street names or house addresses.  Directions to the auction are as follows:  Take the Crownpoint exit on Hwy 371 and drive until you see a lot of cars.  That will be the school parking lot.

The tables in the school lunchroom are strewn with over 300 rugs of all size and design, each created by a local artist.  The native weavers sit in the back of the lunchroom, and the bidders in front.  Bidders come from all over the country and the world.  The school hallway is lined with townspeople selling handmade crafts and home-cooked foods.  We saw a couple eating a fragrant vegetable soup, and when we asked where they purchased it, they said they’d brought it themselves.  They walked outside and returned with two hearty bowls for Husband and I.  We were almost speechless as they handed us giant wedges of homemade bread.

Our goal for the evening was to win a rug large enough to actually put on the floor instead of the wall.  During the pre-auction viewing, we looked at so many rugs our heads were spinning.  We wrote down the numbers of about 20 we both loved and would be honored to live with, and concurred on a price we would not bid over.  Then we agreed on a ‘panic price’, the amount beyond the limit we had just agreed on that we DEFINITELY would not go over.

The spirits were smiling on Crownpoint that night as a good percentage of the rugs brought for sale found new homes.  If a rug doesn’t sell, the native weaver must take it home and present it again the next month.  The weavers depend on the money from their craft to pay their bills, raise their families, and continue weaving.  If they can’t make a living as weavers, they must find any work they can.  Then the knowledge and expertise they have will not be passed down, and a tradition dies.

When the auction began, the very first rug shown for sale was the one on our list we had put two stars next to.  There was no time to react, only time to raise our bidding card in the air.  Our second bid was our panic price.  Our third bid won it.  Apparently, we had a post-panic price we didn’t know about.  Thrilled with our purchase, we sat and watched for the next two hours, chatting with those around us and admiring the workmanship on display.  We left at the end of the night feeling good for many reasons.

The Navajo are among the most talented and humble of our country’s artisans.  Navajo weaving can be traced back hundreds of years, from its beginnings on the looms of the Pueblo Indians who wove cotton garments, to the mid-seventeenth century when the wool of Spanish sheep was used, to the days of the trading posts when the Native American presence surged.  Today, Navajo rugs are valued not only for home décor, but as original works of art that will become increasingly rare.

We live in a world where it costs more and more to live decently, and an economy that makes doing so less and less possible.  Art forms passed down from generation to generation define a culture and its place in the foundation of history.  It’s a great feeling to support and respect those peoples among us who are striving to preserve a history we are all a part of.  They are the keepers of a past it is still possible to reach out and touch.

Today’s guest photographer is Cousin, who just returned from Amsterdam.
Thanx for the pics, Cuz, and welcome back

Utrecht Alley

Utrecht Alley

Zuiderzee Canal

Zuiderzee Canal

Dom Tower

Dom Tower

Windmill

Windmill

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When I say we were out west, I mean way out

On our latest vacation to Arizona and New Mexico, Husband and I stopped to visit friends of ours from New York who had recently relocated to a town outside Phoenix.  They are a lovely couple, good-hearted and well meaning, and a little to the left of quirky.  The wife is a spiritually psychic type who sees metaphysical auras surrounding all living things, and has long considered herself a witch.  We’ll call her Samantha.  That means her husband, being your standard issue hapless mortal, gets to be Darrin.

They gave us a tour of their strikingly gorgeous new home, and chided us for choosing a hotel over their guest room.  Husband responded that we are hotel people, not guest room people, a preference that in no way translates as an insult to them.  To say nothing of the fact they have TWO cats, meaning double the hives for me.  Samantha assured me I would never know there were cats in her house, and guaranteed I wouldn’t feel any indication of their presence, a conversation that took place as we walked past the litter box.  It crossed my mind that I would enjoy sharing that bit of irony with my own coven, if I had a coven.

The tour completed, Husband suggested we all depart for a nice brunch, since my comfort level in their house with the invisible cats had reached its threshold.  Samantha expressed disappointment at not being given the opportunity to feed us from her kitchen, and promised she knew how to make me forget my allergy.  She waved her arms in a way that made me think she planned to either hypnotize me, or levitate the dander off the cats and down the garbage disposal.  The vision ended when Husband said, “No, we’re all going out.  I’ll get the car.”  You go, guy.

At the new wave, Arizona healthy fusion restaurant, Samantha turned to me and lowered her voice in concern.  She said this was a difficult moon cycle for Taurus health-wise, and I shouldn’t cancel any doctor appointments.  I told her I’d seen plenty of doctors, and in fact, recently had a hernia operation.  She smacked her hand on the table and said, “I knew it!  I knew you’re an Earth Sign and you had to be careful.  The midsection is the Taurus center of weakness.”

Busy talking to Darrin and unaware of our conversation, Husband rose to excuse himself to the men’s room, and Samantha spun to face him.

SAM:  Have you had your prostate checked?

HUSBAND:  What?  (looking around)  Did you just ask me about my prostate?

SAM:  You’re a Taurus, too.  I noticed you went to the bathroom at our house before we left.  Frequent urination is a sign of a weak prostate.

HUSBAND:  You’re charting my pees now?

SAM:  I need you to know that as the planets are currently aligned, Taurus is ruled by Venus —

HUSBAND:  Hey, just because ‘Venus’ rhymes with ‘penis’ doesn’t mean you get to ask about mine.

Husband looked at me, and I gestured to my stomach saying, “We just did my hernia, so I guess it’s your turn.”

SAM:  (turning back to me)  It’s the whole midsection, not just your abdomen.  You have to watch your breasts.  Are you watching your breasts?

HUSBAND:  I’m watching her breasts.  I’m watching them very closely.

OSV:  He really is.  It’s like they’re television, but without the remote.

Despite the inquisition, brunch was great.  It was wonderful to see our friends again and hear their New York accent ring out among the cacti.  When we dropped them off at their house, they asked if we needed to come in before our long ride to Albuquerque.  Husband and I gave each other a quick look, acknowledging that beyond their front door lay three bathrooms and two furry cats.  We waved out the window heartily and drove off.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos offer us Urban Perspectives:  Concrete and Conceptual

building tetris

building tetris

roof tops

roof tops

when I say 3 3_13_appropriate

when I say 4 3_13_unfortunate

when I say 5 3_13_sad

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Blacktop Battleground

Husband and I just took another vacation out in Arizona and New Mexico.  We have a great time on these road trips, and frequently rent a motorcycle for a day or two to explore scenic routes and do our version of Easy Rider without the bandanas and bloodshed.  The roadblock to all this merriment is getting me on the plane in the first place.

I’ve written so many entries about my air travel neurosis that I can’t link to them all here, but if you did a content search for “fly” they’d pop right up.  At the beginning of this trip, I was using the free wireless connection at JFK’s JetBlue terminal when Daughter emailed a message about an art show I might like to attend.  I answered right away that it sounded like a terrific event, and as I was finishing my response, the boarding announcement filled my ears and my insanity kicked in.  I wrote Daughter that we were at the airport and had to get on the plane and if anything happened, she should remember where I told her we keep the safe deposit box key and all our important papers.  Then I signed off.

When I awoke the next morning in Phoenix, I logged onto Gmail and there was Daughter’s reply staring back at me saying, “Yeah, that was pretty scary.  Don’t do that again.”

She’s absolutely right, of course, so I would like to publicly apologize to Daughter and promise that I will try and keep my panic wrapped in a neat little ball in the pit of my stomach and not worry her again, although I never said being my daughter wouldn’t have its scary moments.

On the subject of scary, Husband and I had our usual turf war in the rental car when I kept asking to relieve him of driving, and he came up with one excuse after another as to why that wasn’t a good idea.  The truth is, Husband finds my driving alternately annoying and terrifying.  You should see him in the passenger seat when I’m passing a truck at 80 miles an hour.  His internal organs are bubbling.

The thing is, I never even WANT to pass the stupid truck.  I only do it because he says something like, “Are you happy riding in this guy’s fumes for 40 miles?”  Happy?  Happiness is relative.  I’M ON VACATION.  I’d be happy hanging off the back of his truck in my underwear.

I do understand Husband’s concern, though, because my depth perception isn’t what you’d call stellar, and on those endless two-way, two-lane highways the Southwest is famous for, it’s not always easy to judge how far away oncoming traffic really is.  Husband sitting tense in the passenger seat always reminds me of Annie Hall, the classic Woody Allen film.  There’s a scene where Woody’s character is talking to Diane Keaton’s brother, Dwayne, played by a very young Christopher Walken in an early act of casting brilliance when you consider his later roles.

Anyway, in the middle of the conversation, Dwayne says something like, “Sometimes, when I’m driving alone at night, I see a car coming toward me and I have this sudden impulse to swerve into the oncoming lights.”  And Woody looks at his watch and says, “I have to go now, Dwayne, I’m due back on the planet Earth.”

I guess you’ll be going now, too.

Daughter’s Fotos take us to 5 Ptz, a graffiti mecca under the 7 train in Queens

around the corner

around the corner

NeoPen

NeoPen

Japan-Ricans

Japan-Ricans

Muro

Muro

overview

overview

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Home Grown Pain

Events have been known to conspire in a way that bends our memory to their will.  Twenty years ago this week, an unspeakable murder took place in the quiet suburban town we had just moved into.  While Son and Daughter were busy making new friends, a 13-year-old girl in a nearby neighborhood had her life taken away.

She had been at home after school babysitting her younger brother when she received a phone call from a boy on the block asking her to come over to his house.  She dashed over for a moment and never returned.  Her brother went to the boy’s house to get her, but no one answered the door.  Her parents searched for her frantically into the night.

The next day, police found her mutilated body in a closet under the basement stairs at the boy’s house.  The boy swore he never saw her or called her home.  He said he spent the afternoon in his room smoking pot with two friends.  Also in the house was his 21-year-old brother, who was later arrested and convicted of the murder.  He is currently serving a term of 25-to-life.  The murdered girls parents never stopped aching for justice after the brother’s trial, convinced he had not acted alone.  No other charges were ever brought.

In a living nightmare no one could have predicted, neither family – the victim’s or the killer’s – moved away from the block.  They continued to go about their lives, separated by a handful of houses and an ocean of misery.  Thus the years passed, punctuated with accusations of harassment and flares of hostility that drew police intervention.

In March of 1996, I was writing for a newspaper that covered the happenings of our town.  By then our family was settled into our surroundings, but I still felt a sad shiver when I drove by the neighborhood where the murder had occurred.  Haunted by the image of a girl killed at an age my own Daughter had recently passed, I asked my editor if I could write a memorial piece for the seventh year since the tragedy.  My editor said to go ahead, but I needed a higher blessing.

I called the slain girl’s parents and asked their permission to write a memorial column.  I told them my heart ached for what they had gone through, and I had no wish to bring up the past if it was too upsetting for them so the decision would rest entirely in their hands.  They told me that day seven years ago was never far from their minds, and they supported any act that would keep their daughter’s memory alive.  I wrote the column and drove to their house and put a copy in their mailbox.  They called me at the paper the next day to say they liked it.  We never spoke in person.

This week the district attorney announced that the case is to be reopened.  After twenty years, it’s unclear whether new evidence has been discovered or unknown witnesses have come forward.  The victim’s family has never wavered in their belief that others were involved.  The man serving time still swears he’s innocent.  His parents stand by him.  His brother has not commented.  As Narcotics Anonymous says in Chapter 10:  More will be revealed.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos whisk us away to Florida and then back to NY

perched

perched

coconut grove arts festival

coconut grove arts festival

butt out at the festival

butt out at the festival

subway tunes

subway tunes

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You’re Not Who You Think

We received an automated phone message the other morning from the fraud division of Citibank, the provider of our MasterCard.  The voice gave instructions for us to call a certain number if we had not just attempted to charge thousands of dollars worth of electronic equipment on our charge card.  The voice went on to say if it wasn’t us making this online purchase, then it was someone not authorized to use our card.  Husband and I looked at each other and shook our heads in surrender.  It wasn’t us.

I used to be baffled by identity theft and how it could occur.  Now I’m just vigilant.  I have a friend who’s still clawing her way out of legal and credit problems as a result of techno treachery, and I know enough to know that no one’s armor is impervious to invasion.

At a job I had for several years, we dealt with online orders so I’m familiar with the plaintive cry of the desperately dishonest.  Our company policy was to ship only to the address of the cardholder and we would verify anything out of the ordinary.  Every now and then, a customer would give a sob story as to why their order needed to go to their boyfriend’s workplace, their sister’s house, the convenience store down the block, JUST THIS ONCE.  “This is on the level, I swear to God!”  And what God would that be?  The Mail Fraud Almighty?  The Patron Saint of Dogs and Stoopid People?  No woof.

Husband and I were thrilled to hear that Citibank would not put the bogus sale through, and when we called in, they canceled the card on the spot and issued a new one to be sent out immediately.  This was a far cry from my experience with Capital One, which I wrote about in Dear Mr. Fairbank.  That one had me ready to fire warning shots into a throw pillow.  My particular drama with their credit card happened before our economy sunk into its current abyss, and maybe banks in general now are more motivated to hold onto valued customers.  But my correspondence with Capital One is not one I’m eager to resurrect, so I’ll just continue to give Citibank its props.

Here’s what I do, though, to protect myself.  I pay cash at the gas station and anywhere else another person swipes my card out of my view.  For online purchases, I use PayPal whenever possible.  If I have to enter a credit card number, I always check the box that says ‘do not store my information’.  I give no authorizations for any company or service to link directly to my checking account.  I don’t mind buying stamps and writing checks.  It’s retro, I know, but that’s just me.  Or at least, I think it’s me.

That sound you hear in Daughter’s Featured Fotos is The Call of Nature

mohawk

mohawk

crabs

crabs

treehouse

treehouse

hanging out

hanging out

 

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It’s All in the Details

Son called yesterday to see if he could come over in the evening and use our washing machine.  He already bought one of his own, but it arrived damaged, and now he’s waiting for P.C. Richard to wow him with their customer service.  The place the washing machine was delivered to was Son’s new house, which almost unbelievably, he bought last week at the age of 24.

I’ve written here about Son’s passion for real estate, and particularly our home, the house he grew up in.  Whereas Daughter has mixed emotions about growing up suburban, Son recalls only the fondest of times, and has always expressed the wish to buy the place out from under us for a reasonable price.  Putting aside Scarlett O’Hara’s crinoline and melodrama, Son is the child of mine who would grab a handful of dirt from the yard, hold it up to the Almighty, and proclaim he will never go hungry again.  With a decent mortgage, that is.

Son graduated high school in 2002 and college in 2007, after taking a year off to do some internal housekeeping.  Following his university graduation, he returned to our New York suburb and entered the work force with a vengeance, vowing to own property in town by the time he was 25.  When we didn’t oblige him by moving out or passing on, he found a realtor, lawyer, and financial advisor, and accomplished it all on his own.

Son imparts information inscrutably.  The first inkling I had that he was seriously involved in real estate negotiations was a one-line email that said, “Are your property taxes higher than those in the incorporated village?”  It seemed a sale was imminent when my inbox asked, “Do you prefer Home Depot or Lowe’s for bathroom fixtures?”  And the day after his closing, he left the message, “Do you guys have an air mattress?”  He had decided to sleep in the house during renovation to keep an eye on progress.

If I close my eyes, it feels like yesterday I was cheering at Son’s basketball games, jumping to my feet when his three-pointer hit just before the halftime buzzer at the State Championships.  Now he’s assistant coach for his own team.  And I’m still cheering, albeit more subdued.  I congratulate him for getting approved for a mortgage, managing a down payment, hiring two contractors and a landscaper, and doing battle with P.C. Richard.  I say the words with quiet pride, but in my head, I’m standing.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos offer Another Way of Looking at Things

love?

love?

chutes and ladders

chutes and ladders

anxiety room

anxiety room

unity

unity

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Chimped Out

People are nuts and they make their pets nuts, especially when they insist on acting as if their animals are human.  Here on the East Coast, we had the latest illustration of PetLoveGoneMad when a Connecticut chimpanzee named Travis went berserk and nearly killed his owner’s friend.

Travis the Chimp was apparently something of a local celebrity.  He had previously appeared in television commercials for Old Navy and Coca Cola, to say nothing of the fact that he was a monkey living in a suburban house for fifteen years being treated like a son.  I don’t know whose teenage son that would be who gets fed filet mignon and wine in stemmed glasses, but these are the media reports feeding the current circus, and I can see my own Son filing abuse charges against me once he remembers his reward for school excellence was Burger King.

Even if the news reports are overblown, and the widowed owner did not share her bed and bath with Travis, the horrific attack by a domesticated wild animal against a human invited to the home should wake up legislators.  Surrounding homeowners and local school children deserve safety in their everyday lives, and shouldn’t have to consider that the street they’re walking on may house a 14-foot boa constrictor, baby alligator (oh! he’s so cute!), tarantula farm or imported ocelot.  Don’t we have our hands full enough with pit bulls on weak leashes?

Everyone has memories of friends with funky pets, and they do add color to one’s childhood recollections.  When we moved from the Brooklyn housing projects to the country when I was in grade school, I remember entering the house of one especially rural new friend, and noticing their TV set was oddly different from ours.  It was the same 19″ mahogany box with a thick glass screen, but instead of picture tubes inside it, they had a squirrel.

It scampered all around the inside of the wooden box that was furnished with tree branches and little rocks.  It scaled the walls and ceiling of its cramped home, pressing its face against the glass while it clawed at the world just outside its reach.  I was fascinated and terrified at the same time.  This was a faraway universe from the Brooklyn apartment building I had lived in all my life.  The wildest creature you would see in the project back then was your friend’s father scratching his butt on the way to the bathroom in his boxers and wife-beater.

Later, in my twenties, I visited someone who had a pet I had not been told about.  When I went to look out the window and admire the view, my hand brushed against something as I pushed aside the curtain.  A six-inch gecko raced across the glass in front of me, disturbed from his resting place.  I may have wet my pants.  I’m not sure.  I’ve blocked it out.

Back to the country, there was one occasion when I walked the long mile to my rural friend’s house, only to have her slip out the front door and close it quickly behind her.  She said we’d have to play outside that day.  I asked if the squirrel had gotten out of its TV again and was running wild.  She shook her head no, sadly, and said, “My stepfather.”  That’s when I found out wife beater wasn’t just an undershirt.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos explore Wild Things

painted cows in san jose

painted cows in san jose

right of way

right of way

costa rica

costa rica

hendrix

hendrix

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Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like Hell

Back in the 2007 entry In Forward Motion, I wrote about my love/hate relationship with email forwards.  You can never tell how much truth is involved in them and how much urban legend.  For instance, anyone pushing thirty now who once lived in a college dorm swears the kid down the hall from them started Napster or Friendster or Facebook.  Likewise, who knows about the vintage forward below that I am forwarding on to you.

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington chemistry midterm.  The answer by one student was so original that the professor shared it with his colleagues via the Internet.

Bonus Question:  Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle’s Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.  One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time.  So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell, and the rate at which they are leaving.  I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave.  Therefore, no souls are leaving.

As for how many souls are entering Hell, let’s look at the different religions that exist in the world today.  Most of these religions state that if you are not one of their members, you will go to Hell.  Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell.  With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially.  Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle’s Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities:

1.  If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2.  If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Julietta during my Freshman year that “It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,” and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.  The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls, and is therefore extinct.  Which leaves only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being, which explains why last night Julietta kept shouting, “‘Oh my God.”

The student received an A+.

Take Me Home is the cry heard in Daughter’s Featured Fotos

remember michael jordan

remember michael jordan

deserted city

deserted city

as green as green gets at PS 1

as green as green gets at PS 1

elevator ceiling lights

elevator ceiling lights

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Nicely Sliced

Hernia is never the best word to start off a blog entry, but the fact remains that this week was my surgery, the one I told you about in Marooned.  When I had the C-sections for my kids 20+ years ago, they kept you in the hospital for a full seven days.  Now I believe it’s more like two.  At the terrific ambulatory surgery center where my procedure was performed, I arrived at 11:00 and was home by 3:00.  If things keep going the way they are, those four hour slots will eventually be reserved for organ transplants and they’ll be doing hernias in the drive-thru.

The whole experience was remarkably decent.  On arrival, the pre-op nurse asked me all the relevant questions and wrote down my answers:  Are you wearing jewelry anywhere?  Do you have any allergies?  When was the last time you had something to eat or drink?  On which side is your hernia?

I waved my hands in the air to show my empty fingers, and swore there was no belly ring.  I told her I was allergic to cats and pollen.  I had Cheerios at 8:00 the night before, and Vitamin Water at 10:00.  The hernia was on my left side.  Then she looked down to where she’d written my birth date, and leaned in closer to ask confidentially if it was safe to assume I wouldn’t be pregnant.  I asked if she was familiar with what the brown bear does in the woods while the Pope’s busy being Catholic.  She nodded.

Husband helped me change out of my street clothes, and then excused himself to take a phone call.  On the tray next to me was a poufy powder blue cap the exact same color as the keep-it-open-in-the-front gown and non-skid bootie socks.  It was clearly an ensemble.

As I was slipping the cap over my hair, I knew precisely what I would look like in it.  Husband appeared at the curtain opening and verified my hunch.

HUSBAND:  I’ll have the chicken nuggets with macaroni and cheese, Mrs. Grimley.

OSV:  I saw you cut the line.  For that you get fish sticks.

The anesthesiologist sat down next to me and asked the name, birth date, jewelry, allergy, food questions again, and compared them with my previous answers.  They really weren’t taking any chances I would fail any part of this polygraph.  Far from being impatient with all the repetition, their attention to detail made me happy.  As someone who delivered my first child with minimal sedation to make sure the baby I came out of the hospital with was the same baby that came out of me, I was warmly reassured.

A young man who introduced himself as the physician’s assistant arrived and directed Husband to the waiting area.  We kissed and he departed.  As the PA walked me in my traction-sole booties into the operating room, he repeated the now familiar questions once again in the presence of the OR staff.  I responded as the A+ student I am.

OSV:  No jewelry anywhere.  Cats and pollen.  Cheerios at 8 pm and Vitamin Water at 10.

The sea of powder blue lunch-lady caps waited expectantly.

OSV:  The left side.

DOCTOR:  Lay down and let’s roll.

What’s Going On Here? is the question asked by Daughter’s Featured Fotos

eye in the sky, 3rd annual deitch art parade

eye in the sky, 3rd annual deitch art parade

the incredible diving man in washington square

the incredible diving man in washington square

please don't smoke in the daisies, howl art in the park at tompkins square

please don’t smoke in the daisies, howl art in the park at tompkins square

nicely 4 the_latest_in_punishments

fun at the gitmo playground? (origin unknown)

Note:  Thanx for the flowers, Blondie!  You and Vicodin made my day.

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Proceed straight to the writer’s block then turn left

The area I live in has a large, active Writer’s Guild, and I attended a meeting the other night for the first time.  It’s hard to say what was holding me back for so many years because I consider myself a writer in the same way that a mother considers herself a mom even though she may not have photos of her creations on her at the moment.

Years ago, I had a conversation with a friend we’ll call betty’s sister, who was visiting the old Brooklyn neighborhood from her adopted state of California.  At the time, I was writing for a newspaper and frustrated with the lack of creativity involved in covering school board meetings.  Sister was working as a pastry chef in a Southern California avocado-colored, dude-friendly, high-end bakery, and likewise feeling suffocated.

We were eating some of the indescribably delicious confections she had prepared for the occasion, and I asked her why she didn’t just leave the ungrateful bakery and find something that would challenge her talents more.  Sister leaned in so close I could smell the chocolate on her breath and said, “I’m afraid people might find out I’m a fraud.”

My mouth dropped open, which must have been gross since it was full of marzipan, and I gasped, “What?  What are you saying?  You’re an amazing baker.  Everyone knows that.  How could you not know that?”  To which she replied in a caring voice, “And I’ve read your writing.  Why are you still at the paper?”

It doesn’t take much to get me thinking, and that question set me off and running.  Why was I still there?  The pay was lousy, the staff turnover was so relentless it was like trying to get dressed in a wind tunnel, and my articles could be cut for space to the point they were unrecognizable.  To say nothing of which there are very few evocative adjectives you can use in a story about bond discussions at a town hall meeting.  Even lively discussions.

The leap from being routinely edited to creating a website where I control the content did not occur overnight.  Almost a decade passed.  In that time, I worked for an Easter egg company (yeah, you heard right), dabbled in the career I’m now chasing for a degree, and helped run a family business after my parents’ death.  But the writing never stopped.  After two and a half years of blogging, I’ve come to believe that your passion is still your passion even if you don’t have the big paycheck to show for it.  It can feel just as good to dance in the dark.

What about Sister, you ask?  In that same decade, she went back to school for a degree and then taught a while in her field.  She baked wedding cakes that were works of art, and one of them was for Husband and me.  She changed jobs twice and got more respect and better pay.  And this year, a huge company that everyone’s heard of hired her onto its creative development team and relocated her to a new state.  All my friends should be such frauds.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos illustrate Negative Thoughts

bent

bent

stripped

stripped

ripped

ripped

my demons

my demons

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