Brass Tacks

The new school term began and the incoming class is huge, three times the size of my class now that our classmates who have dropped out are gone but not forgotten.  I think I mentioned before that the particular program I’m in has a 30-50% dropout rate.  I passed this new group of students in their first period hall and because I am more the age of a teacher than a student they sat up straight when I entered the room and welcomed them to the school as I passed through.  After I was upstairs I realized they expected me to sit down at the desk in front instead of booking it across the room which explains the general deer-in-the-headlights gaze that followed me.  I wish them well and hope to see all of them still here next semester.

Our bathroom renovation is done and it is thrilling to have everything brand new and best of all, finished.  When Husband and I first talked about gutting our 1950s era bathroom, I declared that I wanted fixtures that were anything but white; white was so pedestrian.  If you’re going to do this once-in-a-lifetime update go for bisque or almond or whatever but no white, right?  The ending of the story is the contractor said he could start in three days and we found out the only color available without being special ordered was white.  So the toilet, sink and jet tub are white.  They look terrific.  I’m ashamed for being so prejudiced.  If any of my readers are basic appliances please consider this my apology.

When two people fall in love and marry it soon becomes apparent the ways in which they differ.  One is regular, one is decaf.  One eats fruit, the other Twinkies.  One is an early riser, the other a vampire.  Compromises are reached and love is deepened.  Then an area appears that is so fraught with memory, experience and need that it threatens to rock the boat so smoothly sailing.  An area like shower heads.

Husband likes a halo of water.  I like a cannon.  As a young mother, the shower was the only place I was truly alone.  My ex was at work, the children were napping, and I could stand motionless under the blissful needles of water forcing negative ions of energy into my pores.  Not only is the pressure of the water paramount but it also has to pulse, spray and stream steadily however I want it to and wherever I want it to for reasons you needn’t concern yourself with.  Women’s rights groups back in the day used to proclaim that our body is a temple but I always thought that was only half right.  Our shower with our body in it is a temple.

Always on the lookout for the perfect shower head to suit all of our needs, Husband and I write down brand names from hotels and B&Bs we’ve visited and research them online to see where they’re available for purchase.  We’ve ordered, installed and returned half a dozen.  The one we have now is only okay.  Because my shower mania is shared by Son, he called the other day from his new address at the house he’s renting with friends.

SON:  It arrived today.  The Fire Hydrant Presidential.  The box weighed like ten pounds.

OSV:  You ordered a 10-pound shower head?  What’s it like?

SON:  It’s amazing.  No, it surpasses amazing.  It’s so powerful I can barely stay under it.  It requires strength just to stand there.  You couldn’t handle it.  It would blow you out of the shower.

OSV:  Really?  Really?

SON:  And that’s on medium.  I haven’t even tried it on high.  High is for elephants.

If low is a halo of water we could be in business.

City Looks via Daughter’s Featured Fotos

brass tacks 1 dress_made_of_tiles

dress made of tiles

brass tacks 2 jesus_in_the_window

jesus in the window

brass tacks 3 industry

industry

brass tacks 4 5th___Bway

5th & broadway

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Baby Steps

On October 11, 2006 the first article appeared in this spot making today my blog’s first birthday.  What began as a suggestion by Husband that was encouraged by Daughter became a resurrection of a newspaper column I used to write in the 90s.  Since I can’t offer you a piece of birthday cake, let me at least answer some questions I’ve been asked.

Why is this blog anonymous?  My answer is don’t you think you would find it much more comfortable to reveal personal events and inner thoughts when there’s no evidence of who the hell you are?  In other words, if a blogger screams in cyberspace and no one can see her does she still make a sound?  For this blog’s launch a year ago, Daughter and I sent out an email blast to everyone we knew.  I sent out about 30 emails.  Daughter sent 300.  It is entirely possible that the bulk of my readership is comprised of people Daughter met in the subway.

Why am I so camera shy?  Actually, I’m not.  Even I have grown tired of looking at the back of my head at the top of this blog.  But when I tried to replace the photo, it turned out that GoDaddy updated their site with many exciting New Features! which included replacing my template with other New! Exciting! ones rendering mineImpossible! to revise.  They tried to entice me to pick a new template but that would mean designing everything again from scratch and that concept is not realistic considering it still takes me ten minutes to create a link.  When you look at all the links I’ll be creating for this entry you’ll realize I started writing it in June.

Now I’ll ask you a question.  As my Aunt Sophie would say, you don’t call, you don’t write; you broke your hand?  Whether the communication is by email or onsite, my commentators are truly enjoyed and appreciated.  I know how you must feel, though, because I rarely comment on anyone’s blog either and I look in on quite a few.  I’m never completely convinced my comment will be relevant or receive a response.  Then I’ll have to fight the impulse to think my remark was ignored or the blogger is an asshole.  Well, yours won’t be and I’m not.

What topics do readers like best?  If my statistics are any indication, the answer lies somewhere between Little League and Medicine.  My archives get accessed almost daily and it would seem that baseball and medical drama speak the loudest with these getting viewed most often:

Field of Screams
Before the House Comes Down
One Flew Over the Sonogram
Devotion in the Suburbs
To Do: Post Office, Car Wash, Brain Scan
It Only Turned My Eyeballs Inside Out
Perfect Location! EZ walk schools/shops/RR Charming vus heaven/hell
In the News. . .Sports, Slavery, Starbucks

Readers sometimes print out entries and that just thrills me because it suggests they either want to pass them on or read them again.  Unless it means they have a parakeet cage.  These are the ten most printed entries led by Before the House Comes Down which is the most printed of all:

What, Me Worry?
Buy Me a Volvo
No Stupid Children
That’s the word on the street
‘Scuse Me While I Kiss the Sky
Odds, Ends and Friends
Tough ‘R’ Us
Say what you mean, mean what you say, and don’t be mean
Familiar Strangers and Others

The entries below drew the most emails and comments:

Down the Rabbit Hole
Dropping Like Cyber Flies
Goes Down Easy at a Bargain Price
A Darker Shade of Pale
Roots and Wings

Of the more recent entries with less statistical history, these posts get opened frequently:

Secret Powers
Making Memories
I Smell It, Too
Giggles & Gigabytes
What’s Mine is Yours
The Fine Print
Wind in My Hair, Gravel in My Teeth

In answer to no particular question, these entries were written in hotel lobbies in the middle of the night while Husband slept and I was out of Ambien:

The South’s Gonna Do It Again, Part One
The South’s Gonna Do It Again, Part Two
The South’s Gonna Do It Again, Last Part

Daughter’s photos are an honor to showcase and there is a link to her site on the sidebar panel.  The first entry with a Featured Foto was Fast Food and Slow Burn but I didn’t know how to use the image manager so the picture is tiny.  I began including Fotos regularly with No Longer Available and they have truly raised the bar with their compelling subjects and unique composition.  Daughter is both gifted and a gift.  You can experience her exceptional vision in The City that never sleeps and the Girl who watches it.

Son is irresistible to blog about because he is so damn funny and original and I am beyond proud of the young man he has become.  The post regarding himself that he approved most recently was What You Get For What You’ve Got and I appreciate my entire family’s generosity in not editing my pieces even though they can.  Wonderful, loving Husband is especially supportive and an especially good sport in this regard and it’s a pleasure to have the freedom to write what I want.

I’ll close with a photo taken by Husband when he got his new digital camera earlier this year and it is still the image that greets him when he turns the camera on and that sends me out of this world.  It has been cleverly disguised with my amateur photo-editing skills and I’ll leave it here with my thanks to all of you for coming.  And coming back.

baby steps ali_stamp2_large1

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Confidence is High

The other evening Son came to visit and we were sitting in the room in our house we’ve always called the blue room.  It doesn’t have its own assigned identity like family room or den because the whole first floor living area is an open floor plan, but for many years we had a blue sectional in it and even though the sectional is long gone it’s still the blue room.  I was talking and Son was alternately listening and looking at the ceiling above my head and finally I asked what he was doing.

SON:  (looking up)  These are expensive lights, aren’t they?  I see them a lot now in houses.  They’re very popular.  What are they called?

OSV:  (also looking up)  They’re called recessed lighting or high hats.

SON:  Very nice.  You were smart to put them in.

OSV:  They were already here.  The people before us had them installed.

SON:  That surprises me because I remember them as being kind of idiots.

OSV:  They were the prototype for idiots.  But smart about the lights.

SON:  (nodding approval)  This lighting adds value to the house.

I have conversations like this with Son all the time now and it slays me.  We have probably sat in that blue room fifty thousand times in the past twenty years and suddenly we’re discussing lighting installations and how they might influence a return on our investment.

Adulthood springs up in unexpected places.  In the past, my experience has been solely with my own adulthood which was plenty springy.  This having adult children now adds a whole layer of interest.  Thomas Wolfe may have said you can’t go home again but all that means is he didn’t have a child who read SmartMoney or they’d have kept that house in the family.

Daughter called a while back to ask if I thought she was allowed to run for a position on her co-op board even though she doesn’t currently have ownership of the apartment.  I asked her why she wanted that kind of commitment and she said she thought solar power was a viable option for her building and she wanted the proper platform to introduce it.  The conversation we had moments before that one was about her plans to go body surfing in Costa Rica on the next school break.  I experience these subject jumps as verbally induced vertigo.

This is a great time in my kids’ lives and the best part is they know it.  It makes me remember when “I’m out of here!” didn’t require ten days of preparation.  Have the post office hold the mail.  Suspend newspaper delivery.  Make sure the Visa bill is paid to catch the due date.  Tell the neighbors.  Refill the prescriptions.  Buy a dog and add a trip to the kennel.  Now I’m out of here.

I’m thrilled they see every option as open.  There’s always time to find out otherwise and the options change soon enough.  My favorite scene from The Graduate was when Benjamin told his parents he was going to California to marry Elaine right before he revealed that Elaine never wanted to see him again.  They said to their son with concern, “This plan sounds a little half-baked.”  To which he replied, “No, it’s completely baked.”  The movie ends with them running off together on a city bus, an unlikely pair in scruffy khakis and a wedding dress.  Sweet possibility.

Faces You Can’t Look Away From are the subject of Daughter’s Featured Fotos

confidence 1 blue_deitch

it’s for you. 3rd annual deitch art parade, nyc

confidence 2 heads_larger

heads on sticks. chashama art studio/cooperative, nyc

confidence 3 giant_heads_deitch

giant heads chatting. deitch art parade

confidence 4 purple_deitch

i knew you’d call

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That Monday Feeling

We’re having a Jacuzzi installed as part of our long-awaited bathroom renovation project which means a portal to access the motor has to be installed in an adjacent room and the contractor suggested Son’s room, now missing Son.  For better or worse, I am notoriously lax about the kids getting all their belongings out of the house once they move out of the house so I began stacking Son’s left behind things against the far wall in preparation.

I pulled a box from under the bed that was layered with dust and discovered it contained broken headlights from Son’s first car.  That was seven years ago.  I suddenly felt like I didn’t have any business going back that far into the personal heirlooms of someone who wasn’t present at the moment.  Husband appeared in the doorway as I cradled a broken headlight in my lap.

HUSBAND:  Having some trouble letting go?

OSV:  Me??  It’s not my stuff.

HUSBAND (walking away):  Uh huh.

Son responded to my call immediately by texting that he’d be over Monday evening to take care of it.  Around dinnertime if that would be convenient.

By the time that moment arrived, I had already been to Lowe’s twice, Home Depot once, the tile distributor three times and KFC in between where I discovered that fast food really is bad for you when I dropped gravy on my favorite leather bag.  Shit.  I would rather be at school but I’m between sessions.  For me, the home remodeling process is like being pecked to death by a duck.

Daughter called with her bad day as I was putting dinner on the table.

DTR:  Today was the WORST.  I was running to catch a bus and I fell really bad and went skidding across the street on my face.  It was hideous.  No one stopped to help me.  No one.

OSV:  Oh my God!  Where did this happen?

DTR:  90th and 1st.  No one helped me.  I couldn’t believe it.  If someone even came close enough to step over me I would have grabbed their leg with my good hand.

OSV:  Well, you know Upper East Siders.

DTR:  No, it was in front of the projects.

OSV:  Well, you know the projects.

DTR:  The people were so rude!  It wasn’t like last time.

OSV:  Oh, when you got run over by the bicycle in Chelsea?

DTR:  Yeah, the stupid bike messenger.  Everyone came to help me then, everyone.

OSV:  Those were the days.

Husband came home tired from his bad Monday at work and then Son arrived looking like he was on top of the world.  He leaned against the counter smiling and regaled us with stories about his job, his life, and the great house he’s renting with friends.  After a hearty portion of shrimp marinara and penne he strode into his old bedroom, looked around at the mass of debris and rubbed his hands together.

SON:  Okay, what’s the plan?

The theme for Daughter’s Featured Fotos today is Leftovers

Monday 1 flatiron_leftover

the flatiron building. left over from a classier time

Monday 2 pigeon_leftover

the pigeon. nyc’s leftover bird

Monday 3 william_h_seward_leftover_land

william h. seward. famous for buying leftover frozen land

Monday 4 leftovers

yesterday’s leftovers

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The City that never Sleeps and the Girl who watches it

The early sun streams in through the windows that frame the morning sky, illuminating the crowded walls of the Girl’s studio apartment.  From the moment her building was born, the landscape out the Girl’s windows from high up so many stories was magical, flowing down the avenue past Union Square all the way to the Village and beyond.  The Girl was born decades later, but the view was waiting for her the day she moved in and it thrilled her every time she peered out at this city of heroes and sinners and everyone in between.

But nothing is forever, especially in New York, and now the Girl stretches her arms and looks toward the light, ignoring the twenty-floor structure that suddenly blocks her view. The new building so close she can feel its breath is finished construction and waiting to be occupied.  Waiting to be filled with more people stacked one over the other, each with their own schedule and their own story in the midst of her view downtown.  Ah well, she thinks, watching the cars below in the post-dawn rush, she could still see the clock tower if she stood in just the right spot.

When the Girl moved into the City, she was just beginning the rest of her life and she quickly discovered that the breathless energy with which she began each day was returned ten-fold by a city even more breathless.  Deciding which direction to take her life came with every corner she turned, and she reported her adventures with words and pictures.  She assured her mother that there were no worries; she lived in a big building with lots of neighbors and diligent doormen who looked out for danger.  Her mother knew what danger was but what made a doorman diligent, she wondered.  The Girl responded with tales of young tenants returning from nights of celebration too overcelebrated to find their door key, the elevator, even the building.  These diligent doormen guided them upstairs to floors they’d forgotten they lived on, through doors that guarded their IKEA sofas and onward to the porcelain god of celebration awaiting beyond.  The mother was strangely not assured.

On this day the Girl dresses and grabs an organic peach from the counter as she bolts down the stairs.  The elevators will be crowded and running slow and it’s only four hundred steps.  Four-fifty tops.  Tonight is grad school after a day of teaching, and as her foot hits the next step she goes over the things in her backpack she knows she will need.

Elsewhere in the City her young students awake to parents who help them dress and prepare for their day in Miss Girl’s classroom.  They remind their parents excitedly that today is slipper day; they must remember their fuzzy slippers.  As she exits the building into the rush of traffic and light, the Girl reaches behind her to squeeze the backpack.  Yes, there they are, her Hello Kitty scuffs.  The day begins.

Urban Landscape as seen by the Girl

clock tower from under the flatiron bldg scaffold

clock tower from under the flatiron bldg scaffold

alfresco seating

alfresco seating

madison square park fountain

madison square park fountain

still life: toupee and hydrant

still life: toupee and hydrant

foggy foggy night

foggy foggy night

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In the News . . . Sports, Slavery, Starbucks

We get the newspaper delivered every morning and it is something Husband and I look forward to reading, even if we don’t get to it until after dinner.  This past week has been hectic for me with schoolwork and home-related repairs and the minor dramas of daily life, like my printer is printing very crappy with lines across the page and I replaced the toner cartridge but now it looks like it’s the drum which is annoying and expensive and you know the drill.

So today being Saturday, I had some downtime and figured I’d catch up on the week’s events.  I joined Husband at the table who was reading the current newspaper and in case you’ve missed the past recent news, I’ll share with you what I now know:

In Washington, the House is reviewing a bill introduced by the representative from Tennessee to formally apologize for slavery and its lingering effects.  As the legislative body of our nation considers this, Alabama became the fourth southern state to pass its own resolution following in the steps of Maryland, Virginia and North Carolina.  As healing a concept as many consider this measure, holdouts still squirm in their own dark, moldy corners.  Said a member of the Sons of Confederate Veterans, “There are no slaves left and there are no slaveholders, so this is silly.”  Without any verification, I suspect this would also be a person who denies the Holocaust happened.  I will try and shoot him an email.  As opposed to just shooting him.

Starbucks announced it will now be using 2% milk instead of whole milk in its espresso drinks like lattes and cappuccinos.  So I no longer have to order a Tall Skinny Cap, now just a Tall Cap since it will automatically be Skinny.  Or will Skinny now be considered Regular so if I say Skinny do I get Skim?  What if I want Skim?  Do I say Tall Anorexic Cap?  Or just Tall Annie Cap?  I have to go on their website to get up on the new lingo.  I love reading about Starbucks because the guy who founded the company grew up in my building in Brooklyn, I think on the 7th floor, and our families were friendly until we moved away while we were still kids.  I remember him being very sympathetic one summer at sleepaway camp when I was miserably homesick.  Also, I like the coffee.

In Sports, the Yankees go up against the Red Sox again this weekend, with New York 13 1/2 games behind Boston.  They won’t meet again until late August so this would be the time for a sweep, which they have a good head start on with last night’s 9-5 win at Fenway.  This outing was amusingly accompanied by some in the Boston stands wearing blonde wig masks for the benefit of A-Rod whose wife is not blonde and who the paparazzi caught him not with.  Just hit the ball.

Here is a rock ‘n’ roll factoid which I will give you as a quiz with my own three possible answers for you to choose from (answer at end of post):
By now everyone knows June 2007 marks 40 years since the release of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the Beatles’ groundbreaking epic.  What album did the Beatles themselves credit as inspiration for that masterpiece?
(a)  Pet Sounds – The Beach Boys
(b)  Strange Days – The Doors
(c)  Tommy – The Who

And finally, an item read to me by Husband from 2007’s “What’s In, What’s Out for Homebuyers” survey:

HUSBAND:  How interesting is this?  “There’s a baby boomer trend in home renovation called ‘sleeping closets’, a small soundproof room constructed off the master bedroom as a solution for the strain snoring can impose on a marriage.”

OSV:  Wow, that is an incredible idea.  And wonderful, really wonderful.

HUSBAND:  Yeah, it says here by a woman who had one built that she can finally get a good night’s sleep.  Now when her husband snores really loud, she just goes in there.

OSV:  HER??

HUSBAND:  (gives wife look she has blogged about in past)

Answer to quiz:
(a)  Pet Sounds, 1966.  All Hail Brian Wilson.

Featured Fotos by Daughter who photographically documents the street art movement

starbucks 1 candle_building

candle building, spring street

starbucks 2 dog_and_crib

dog and crib

starbucks 3 Conscious_Cycle_451__GoreB

conscious cycle 451

starbucks 4 from_the_tunnel

from the tunnel

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Speak Up

I’ve noticed that when I’m feeling overwhelmed with pressures or tasks, my peripheral observation skills seem to become more acute.  This past week was finals again and more home remodeling and that nagging legal matter I’ve referred to without referring to and the result of being hyperfocused on so many things was that little snippets of sound kept popping up on the fringe of my consciousness.

Husband was channel surfing the other evening while I was studying and I heard an anchor on one of the entertainment news shows say, “Police were speaking with a former woman he lived with.”  Okay, so that’s either a woman he lived with formerly or a woman he once lived with who’s no longer a woman.  I knew what was meant but it drew my attention.

If I look at the TV while Husband is jetting through the channels it has a hypnotic effect until the waking-state rapid eye movement makes me feel like puking.  I was about to leave the room when he landed on a different news channel talking about O.J.’s latest foray into public spectacle, the sports memorabilia theft that could actually send him to prison.  O.J. Simpson is a good example of that famous quote about the first time being tragedy and the second time comedy.  Who said that anyway?  The next thing the newscaster said was, “So the prosecution has to decide about this piece of evidence; should it come into the trial or should it doesn’t?”  Which was my exit line out of the room or I don’t know an exit line.

In between taking finals and having the driveway excavated, Husband and I had to decide on tile for the bathroom which is our contractor’s next project.  Doing all this work on the house is huge for me because I hate the mess and the people tracking mess into the house and the mess they leave behind and I find it messy.  Husband and I agreeing on home decorating choices is a different kind of mess so we strolled through Home Depot, where good times go to die.

Amazingly, we instantly chose the floor tile we both wanted, a great black and white pattern reminiscent of the subway bathrooms we’re all so terrified to go into and we joyously presented it to our contractor who shook his head no right away saying it would make the room look too small.  We said to do it anyway and he said no.  At least this time Husband heard it, too.

Son moved out of the house while we were on vacation in the Southwest and before we left I asked him to remember to take all the stuff he piled on the ping pong table in the basement when he came home from college four months ago.  We returned to a silent house with Son gone and the driveway scheduled for demolition the next day.  I walked through the rooms smiling at how neat Son had left things.  Missing him already, I went down to the basement to see if he had indeed taken all of his belongings.  I have to report that everything that was on the ping pong table was gone.  So was the ping pong table.

Either you can’t believe your ears or you can’t believe your eyes.  Daughter’s Featured Fotos from her birthright trip to Israel will leave you wondering.

speak up 1 popping_out_in_tel_aviv

popping out in tel aviv

speak up 2 climb_out_of_there,_will_ya

climb out of there, will ya?

speak up 3 stone_chair_on_the_street

stone chair on the street

speak up 4 i_see_you

i see you

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Lucky Number Whatever

Neither Husband nor I are gamblers by nature but at least one of us is a sucker for a raffle.  I don’t buy lottery tickets and I won’t put a chip on a table and watch a wheel spin because these efforts simply do not speak to me.  But put me in front of a showcase of items being raffled off and as sure as Scarlett O’Hara will never go hungry again, I’m taking one of those babies home with me.

It’s a numbers game.  I’m not talking about numbers as in statistics and probability; I’m talking numbers as in lucky.  Everything in the universe has energy, positive and negative, and it is my belief that prizes are open pits ready to receive the most positive energy flowing their way and that energy would be coming from me.  When entering a situation high in raffle possibility, I have been known to produce address labels from my wallet ready to be stuck right on the ticket so there will be no debate as to where to contact the winner.  Husband calls me a Raffle Savant and I am insane enough to find that flattering.

On our recent trip to the Four Corners area of the Southwest, one of our planned destinations was the annual Navajo Totah Festival in Farmington, New Mexico.  We happened upon this event by chance about six years ago and have returned four times now, enjoying it each time as much as the last.  It is a weekend-long celebration of Navajo culture featuring ceremonial dancing, Native food, juried art and jewelry creations and community spirit culminating in a Navajo rug auction that is unlike anything else we’ve seen in our travels.

And each year the Native craftspeople at the festival donate items for raffle.  Exquisite and one-of-a-kind, they range from turquoise earrings to pottery Storyteller figures; from hand woven blankets to sand art pictures.  Not only are they all as potentially mine as they are anyone else’s, but every year that we have attended one of my tickets was picked a winner.

As Husband strolled the room taking in the displays, I hovered by the cabinet of raffle offerings shooting rays of positive energy through the glass.  By the time he circled around I was sticking my address labels on $10 worth.

“How many are you buying?”

“Well, it’s 6 for $5 and 12 for $10 and 6 is a lucky number but I want more than 6 and 12 isn’t lucky.”

“Why is 6 lucky?”

“It was the number on Son’s first Little League jersey.”

“What’s wrong with 12?”

“It has no meaning.  It’s not lucky.  I suppose I could just give in 11.  Eleven was his basketball number.  But that would be wasting a ticket.  I could always buy 6 more and make it 18.  Eighteen is really lucky.”

“What’s with 18?”

“It’s the date of Daughter’s bat mitzvah.  June 18, 1994.”

“You know you need help.”

“And I’m getting it.  But right now I’m on vacation.”

I bought 6 more.

Two days later as we were signing the liability waiver in Flagstaff for the motorcycle rental, my cell phone rang.

“Hello?  I’m calling from the Totah Festival.  You won something at our raffle.  If you’re out of the area we can arrange to send it to you.  Should we do that or can you come get it?”

“Thank you!  Yes, would you send it?  We’re in Arizona now.  What did I win?”

“Oh, I don’t have that list here, just the winners.  But I do show that you won two prizes.  Congratulations!”

I turned to Husband who was waiting for my signature releasing the rental company from any responsibility should we decapitate ourselves while riding their equipment.  Now maybe it’s me but that just doesn’t seem lucky.

Pictures from the Navajo Totah Festival and the Arizona road

lucky 1 warriordancer

Ceremonial dancer on break

lucky 2 dancergroup

Dancers awaiting their category to compete

lucky 3 girldancer

Girls’ Fancy Dress and Jingle competition

lucky 4 crossroads

Flagstaff crossroads by bike

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Wind in my hair, gravel in my teeth

We’re having our driveway ripped up and replaced and it has brought me endless amusement watching the parents who drop their kids off at the elementary school across the street from us.  Ours is the perfect driveway to turn around in after drop-off, a fact that the realtor neglected to mention 20 years ago when she was showing the house.  Something about the location, the angle, the ‘No U-turn’ sign, whatever, has always made our driveway the unspoken alternative.  Generally, it doesn’t bother us or have any effect other than afford us the opportunity to observe human behavior and this week has been textbook.

This is how things look at 8:15 in the morning:  On one side of the driveway is a huge dumpster filled to the brim with chunks of old concrete and gravel.  On the other side is the contractor’s truck.  Flanking both of these are the cars belonging to Husband and I.  Across the driveway is a yellow caution tape that extends from the street to our house.  Bricks are stacked against the curb.  No one else on our block is having work done.  Which makes it all so amazing that people still try and turn around in our driveway.  One by one they push Junior out of their giant SUV and proceed on automatic pilot 100 feet down the block where they swing a wild turn into the place they have turned around for generations, perhaps following in the tire treads of their ancestors, our driveway.

On the day the cement truck arrived, they honked for it to get out of their way so they could maneuver a three-point turn after realizing the path was blocked.  This was as cement was literally pouring down the spout.  We live on a through street, by the way, not a dead end, so people can just keep driving if they put their thinking cap on.  One mother glared at me as I pulled away to go to my own school.  I rolled down my window and called out.

“What is it you’re trying to do?”

“I just want to turn around.”

“Our driveway is ripped up.”

“Well, I have to turn around.”

“While you’re waiting would you like to come in and pee?  We’re having the bathroom ripped out, too.”

When I told this to Husband he shook his head at how eager people are to disregard warnings.  I shook my head back and he knew what I was thinking.  We had just returned from our vacation in the Southwest during which time we spent a day in Flagstaff on a motorcycle.  Ever mindful of my fear of highway speed on a Harley, Husband thoughtfully requested routes for leisurely travel on scenic roads.  On past trips we have ridden across the Painted Desert and over the Continental Divide and Husband knows my terrors better than he knows his own because I make sure of it.

We took a lovely ride up toward the Grand Canyon and then the weather turned ominous.  Fearing rain and slick canyon roads, Husband opted for the highway instead.  I don’t remember voting.  In fact, I remember screaming, “NOOOO!!!” but it was probably lost in the 75-mile-an-hour wind biting into my cheeks and the trucks spewing gravel against my lips.

I do remember him asking as we pulled off the highway if that wasn’t better than getting soaked on a winding canyon road.  But he knew he was in the clear.  By the time I regained the ability to speak I had forgotten the question.

Women In Motion is today’s picture theme.  Three of the following are Daughter’s Fotos from the 3rd Annual Deitch Art Parade in Lower Manhattan.  The fourth is an impostor.  Test your skills.

wind 1 blue_car_girl

blue rider

wind 2 skateboard

red rider

wind 3 naked_pastels

naked rider

wind 4 easy_rider

easy rider

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Going to Gallup

One of our favorite places in New Mexico is Gallup, a former frontier town founded in 1881 on Historic Route 66.  We’ve visited there about four times now and we’ve learned some historic facts along the way.  Fact one:  Gallup has the highest annual number of DWIs per capita of any town anywhere, period.  It is situated next to the Navajo Nation Reservation and as such reflects an unfortunate aspect of Native American reality, namely, alcohol abuse.  Fact one, Part two:  Take away a people’s land and attempt to eradicate their culture and they tend to look into a bottle for answers.  Fact one, Part two, Russian version:  Make them wait on line three hours in the cold for a loaf of bread and they’ll need vodka.

Birth Fact:  The town did not get its name from anything to do with horses.  Rather, in the 1880s when the railroad was being built through the coal-mining areas of western New Mexico, paymaster David Gallup was stationed where the town is now so railroad workers talked of “going to Gallup” to be paid.  Towns tend to spring up where the money is and the new railroad didn’t hurt so Gallup was born.

Commerce Fact:  Because of its proximity to the Navajo and Zuni reservations and the establishment of the trading post system, 85% of the world’s supply of Native American-made crafts passes through the businesses of Gallup today.  The most exquisite turquoise and silver jewelry as well as traditional pottery and handmade Navajo rugs are available everywhere, even sold table-to-table by local Native Americans in restaurants while you eat.  If you choose not to be approached by local artisans during your meal, you just pick up a “No Sale Please” card when you enter and place it on your table.

Our biggest education by far was regarding pawn.  The concept of pawn in old New Mexico was completely unlike the stigmatized down-on-your-luck version found everywhere today.  In frontier times, pawn rooms were part of the trading posts and they served as banks.  Native Americans needed to buy raw materials for their craft work so they would leave a handmade item for a loan that they would pay back from future sales and reclaim their pawned item.

That system is still in place today with pawn shops crowded on payday as locals head in to pay off their pawn or put something toward what they owe.  Others wait in line with items to leave for cash so they can make their bills or pay off other debts.  Still others utilize pawn shops as vaults for their valuables since theft runs as high on the reservation as it does in your hometown.  Some of the most rare and beautiful things made by Native Americans can be found in the dead pawn section which consists of those items never retrieved by their owners.

Gallup always surprises us and this visit was no exception.  The city commissioned local artists to create murals depicting Native American history and culture and the resulting artworks made us catch our breath as we came upon them sprawled across public buildings.  But it was the newly erected war memorial to the soldiers of Gallup that stopped my heart.

In a plaza next to the adobe-style courthouse, glass-sided square pillars about twenty feet in height lined a walkway facing a bronze plaque.  Each pillar memorialized a different war beginning with the Spanish American War of 1898 through the Persian Gulf.  One side of each pillar listed POWs and MIAs; another had the names of those killed in action; a third side listed those who returned as veterans and all sides contained many Native American names.

The fourth side of each pillar told of the war itself and the particular quote chosen shrewdly captured the essence of remembered sentiment:

For the Navajo Code Talkers of WWII:
“If it were not for the Navajos, the Marines would never have taken Iwo Jima.” – Maj. Howard Conner

For the Bataan Death March, 1942-1945
“We’re the battling bastards of Bataan
No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam
No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces
No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces
. . . and nobody gives a damn.
We’re the battling bastards of Bataan.”

For Vietnam:
“And in that time when man decides and feels safe to call the war insane, take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.” – Maj. Michael Davis O’Donnell

For the Persian Gulf:
“We will rule the night. . .” – Gen. Colin Powell

And for whatever is going on now, whether we’re calling it The War on Terror, The War in Iraq or Gulf Continued, there is a twenty-foot glass-sided pillar blank and waiting.  And that’s what broke my heart.

Snapshots in time, downtown Gallup, New Mexico

gallup 1 long_walk_home

Long Walk Home

gallup 2 code_talkers

Code Talkers of World War II

gallup 3 gallup_remembers

Gallup remembers

gallup 4 nam,_gulf

Nam, Gulf

gallup 5 tribute_to_veterans

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