modern artifacts

Cover Insets; Jewelry for handbound books

2011-01-02T19:27:00.000-08:00

Placing insets on a cover of a handbound book is an easy way to make it more unique, more personal. Insets do take a bit of planning, but it doesn't take special tools to make one.

In simple terms, a cover inset is simply an indentation or window in a book cover into which an object is placed.

Here are some of the simple steps and some ideas for making your own book cover insets.

In this example, a polymer clay tile of an elephant will be inset into the book's cover. Before any cover stock is adhered to the book board, the tile is positioned and its outside edges traced onto the cover.

I generally add 1/16" of an inch on two adjoining edges to the cutout, allowing a 1/32" border space around the inset item. This allows for the space taken up by the cover stock inside the cutout and permits a tight fit.

Using a razor knife, the opening is cut out, but only cutting into a depth of about 1/3 to 1/2 the thickness of the board. This takes some practice, but it's easier to estimate by placing your blade next to the edge of the board to see how deep the blade should go to only cut partially into the board.

Using an awl, layers of board board are picked away and removed from the cutout section. The inside of the cutout is smoothed with a wood chisel and a small bit of sandpaper to get it flat all the way across the bottom of the cutout.

The depth of the cutout is generally determined by the thickness of the item being inset. In the example on the right, the elephant icon tile was thicker than the Scrabble tiles, requiring it to be inset slightly deeper than the letter tiles.

After the cover stock is glued to the bookboard, it is pushed into the inset with a bonefolder to allow the inset item to be attached. Cutting an "X" in the middle of the coverstock makes it easier to push it into the cutout.

As shown in the example, the autograph book was further embellished with beads strung around the binding posts.

A simple way to make an inset object is to wrap a cut microscope slide with adhesive copper tape, holding a home-printed title in place behind the glass.

In the examples to the right, the tape was treated to Liver of Sulfur to give it an interesting patina.

As in the earlier example, the bookboard is cut out to the desired size and depth, then smoothed with sandpaper and a wood chisel.

Taking a little extra time to smooth out the cutout section really makes a big difference later on. This permits the inset item to rest more evenly inside the cutout section, making it more secure.

Some additional ideas for insets include:

Cut a window all the way through the cover and glue a thinner sheet of chipboard behind it to create an indentation in the cover. It is advised to start with thinner book board since you'll be laminating an additional layer to create the inset.

Use a Dremel power tool like a miniature wood router to remove the board from the cutout section. This works pretty well, but a great deal of airborne bits of book board results. It can be pretty messy and fills the air with paper fiber.

Any sort of item can be placed within the inset, but it is advised that it has a flat back side to make gluing easier and more secure.

Consider stitching or using other ways (rivets, brads, twisted wire) to hold the inset item in place. If desired, the holders are seen as part of the cover's design aesthetic.

Triptych: "El Corazon De Sufrimiento"

2010-03-22T15:08:00.000-07:00

My triptych mixed media painting "El Corazon de Sufrimiento" was finished in time for the previously mentioned Vox Sacramento art show. It received some good notices from attendees and the press, all of which is a good thing. It did not sell which initially disappointed me. However, after it was returned I was actually pleased to have it for my own to display at home.

The two small canvases "La Dama Sirena" and "El Catrin Muerte" utilized a few image transfer techniques, collage and encaustic wax applications. The center canvas was similarly finished, but as mentioned in an earlier post included an acrylic painting.

The work certainly conveyed what I hoped it could. Love can be incredibly joyous but can bring unbelievable pain. Sometimes simultaneously.

Archetypal imagery was used throughout, although those archetypes have been altered and played around with just a bit as well. The inherent narrative was left somewhat accessible, I try not to be too enigmatic.

In addition to it all, I got to play around with Mexican pop culture imagery, which I appreciate and am drawn to much.

The other aspect of this exercise that was appreciated is that the deadline for a show can truly motivate me to "get the damned thing done" and live with the resultant work. Plan, execute and release.

El Corazon De Sufrimiento: WIP

2010-01-17T13:49:00.000-08:00

I'm on the downhill side of a mixed-media piece that will be comprised of three (maybe more) canvases. Not really a triptych in the traditional sense as each canvas could be displayed alone, but when grouped together create a more cohesive, interesting work.

I'm making it for the Vox Sacramento February Show, "Love: Let Me Count The Ways." Vox Sacramento is a non-profit artist http://www.voxsac.com/ that regularly host unique art-centric events all year. I will post more on Vox later, but I invite you to check them out, as they are a good group of dedicated, art minded folks.

I'm sending a few things in for this show and this work focuses on the incredible joy and devastating pain that love can bring. As you can see, it is still a work in progress.

The foundation is based on card #27, El Corazon of the Lorteria game. It was painted with acrylics.

Collage elements have been added to the foundation image. These elements consist of a vintage photo, a love poem fragment and an EKG of someone whose heart has stopped and then started again.

A carved wooden arrow has been added to the canvas as well as a few small words near the bottom of the heart image. A few more words will be added to complete the sentence before the entire canvas is coated with encaustic wax.

I will post additional photos as I progress on this canvas and begin the other two.

I guess better get busy, boys and girls.

Altered Art: Vintage Bottles & Micro Slides - Final Round

2009-04-12T17:21:00.001-07:00

After being prompted to present some work by a dear art friend, Jill Allyn Stafford (who is a wonderful collage artist, btw)at an artist's co-op show. VOX Sacramento is a group of dedicated artists in a variety of mediums who put on regular gallery showings in the Sacramento area. Their "GREEN" show seemed a perfect theme for my work using old bottles and other discarded ephemera.

However, merely showing an altered bottle wasn't quite up to the standards I imagined they anticipated, so I knew I had to step up my game a bit.

The result was a unique way to display the altered bottles on a shelf-like background as seen in these photos.

After these first few were completed, my creative juices began to flow a bit and I think I can improve on these first attempts even more. However, I am pleased with the results and believe that these assemblage works are just the beginning.

The upper piece is called "Leap of Faith," and incorporates the use of tape transfers, soldering, a painted and stenciled background as well as the micro slice "charm" which dominates the work.

The lower work is called "Mother Nature's Son" and like the other one, utilizes micro slides to even more advantage due to the collages that appear within the slides.

There are other things on the work that you cannot see from the photos, but make it even more personally significant.

Oh yeah, if you're interested, these are for sale. Email me with any inquiries you may have.

I guess it's time to get one of those Etsy shops. All the cool kids are doing it, right?

Punch Needle - Funk Factor?

2009-01-10T10:56:00.000-08:00

It was just about a year ago that I was suffering from a killer cold and severe cabin fever. My old friend, television offered no solace and only bored me to the point of anger. Looking for something to occupy some time and concentration I took a trip to Michael's for inspiration. Or at least some distraction.

That's when I found a "punch needle" heart design kit, made by Dimensions.

I immediately thought that the resulting project would be useful for hand made cards, small gifty things and inclusions in hand bound books.

Like many projects, I finished the first and then let the idea sit idle for a long time. Like, for a year.

Just before the holidays, I picked up another kit (colorful coffee cups) and finished it. The original idea was to make a smallish picture to hang in a kitchen. But after it was done, the finished product was less than desirable, quality-wise.

Yeah, it looked okay, but it was just...I don't know...a little "precious." It was just this side of being too cute, too obviously "crafty" and maybe just a bit too much like something Grandma would hang in her hallway.

Now don't get me wrong. I love ALL handcrafted items. I appreciate the work, dedication and skill that goes into making any hand made chotchke. I just don't like to put some of it on the wall.

The piece has to either be very fine or have a certain "funk factor" present before I will display it.

I freakin' love paint-by-numbers (PBN) paintings, but there are few that have the desired funk factor. I've got a couple of friends, Kelly Sue DeConnick and Jody Jean Saltz who have the greatest thrift store PBN painting collections I've seen. Kelly Sue's collection of Kimono clad ladies and Jody Jean's religious-themed paintings are amazing.

Their collections truly reflects a high level of funk factor.

The punch needle stuff straddles that line in my eyes. At least on the stuff I am making at present. Maybe because it's relatively easy to get a minimally satisfactory result or perhaps it's just a little too sweet. The jury is still out, but in the meantime, I will continue to dabble with punch needle which will please my wife since I've invested in some higher end tools to work with.

In coming up with a more satisfying project, I recalled the fuzzy, touch-and-feel books made for little tykes that my baby sister enjoyed. With that in mind, I've started to assemble appropriate designs to include in a hand crafted version.

It will contain various animals, maybe 4-5 in total, all bound together using a simple Coptic stitch. The fuzzy pictures will be inserted on heavy pages, the images viewed through a cut-out.

The first of the images is of a grouping of funny giraffes and I admit being satisfied with the end result.

Having some trouble finding acceptable images for the rest of the pages is proving frustrating. I've decided to just draw my own and go for it.

The patterns are made coloring book style and since the characters are not realistic but more cartoony, it shouldn't be too difficult to make them. I'll update as they come together.

In my searches for patterns, I came across a fiber artist that has elevated this weekend pastime above mere craft to true art. Missy Stevens is perhaps the finest artist working in this medium. Her punch needle embroidery, and other fiber art, is remarkable.

Her work is striking. Her pieces have been featured in numerous books and magazine articles, displyed in craft museums, exclusive collections and sell at high-end galleries.

Yeah, no funk factor here.

Altered Bottles - Next Steps

2008-11-10T23:01:00.001-08:00

Jenn Francis and I spent the good part of the day attaching things to vintage bottles. This time, we both upped the ante and attempted to go beyond what others have done with this artsy craft idea.

After our initial trials and eventual success in securing shells to bottles and then applying an interesting patina to the solder, we knew that there was more to this than being merely decorative.

The easiest and quickest thing to do was to place things; sand, beach glass and smooth river stones inside the bottles. These internal elements provide some stability to the top-heavy finished product but also it looks cool.

Jenn then placed a place card holder (an element orginally produced by Seven Gypsies) made from twisted wire. Suddenly, the bottle had function and provided an additional option for adding a written statement of some sort to the thing.

I gathered together some microscope slide "charms" (made by sandwiching mini-collages between the slides which are then sealed with copper tape and solder) to add even more visual elements to the bottle.

This proved to open the project to many more possibilities for artistic expression, again beyond the merely decorative.

After we gathered them together, it was agreed it would be difficult to break up the set...or that to create new, complete and cohesive sets of altered bottles.

My next step is to just go into multiples that can be seen as an assemblage made up of individual pieces grouped together.

Also, attaching something other than the expected shells is a natural progression. I've tried large pieces of glass and slides.

Next steps - more found objects as well as other natural objects.

Stay tuned.

NOTE: The patina on the solder still needs to be applied to many of the pictured bottles.

Bad Words: A New Blog

2008-09-14T22:25:00.000-07:00

Sequestering the art and craft goodness from my feeble attempts writing by moving the bad poetry and other text-based junk to my new blog: Bad Words .

Lots of old crap to be moved first and then I'll add newer stuff as it floats to the top.

Thanks to the three of you who read this tripe. If you're suffering from insomnia, this may help.

2008-06-02T20:18:00.000-07:00

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Mary Oliver

This poem has always spoken to me, but I am again open to such voices whispering and sometimes shouting at me to listen. Having spent time in nature again as of late, I am reminded of the imporantance of such things as paying attention to God's creations and in doing so, commit a kind of prayer.

How many gifts and blessings have been provided me, I cannot begin to enumerate for the count is indeed higher than I probably know. But I am grateful for those who have come into my life and for the love they give and hope I show that love in return. I am grateful for the moments shared and the moments alone during which the common and the unique can be viewed as precious.

For these things and all the others that may seem trivial to some, I thank the universe and the spirit found within it. Truly and repeatedly I will tell you, I am a blessed man.

I do not try to equate science to concepts of God. One is spirit, one is of the mind. They are separate and they are one. There is no conflict as I do not try to prove the presence of one with the ways of the other.

There is truth in both.

The Game of Art

2008-03-12T10:28:00.000-07:00

The “Arts de Mer Cruise” is an annual three-day art and craft excursion on the high seas of the Pacific Ocean that sails from San Pedro to Ensenada, Mexico. Anne Garcia, the cruise organizer, gathers some of the top crafted arts instructors on the circuit who teach a series of workshops to the cruisers on a variety of projects and art processes. This year’s theme was, “The Game of Art”.

This year marked my fourth year of involvement with the event and Susan and I treat this as a fun getaway and reunion with dear friends and like-minded art / craft enthusiasts. The workshop I presented was the making of a wooden box using picture frames and bits of wood lath. In essence, we altered the frame to serve as the bottom and lid of the box.

The blank wood served as an empty canvas onto which various surface design treatments could be utilized. The lid also provided opportunities for interpretation and design as collage elements and other embellishments could be applied or by using the acrylic sheet that came with the frame, the box’s lid could remain clear, allowing one to look inside. Oh yeah, the interior of the box also offered opportunities for decoration or other treatments.

As is the case with all my workshops, the students always come up with unique approaches and ideas. I was delighted with the quality of the work and the creativity displayed with each finished project. Shown here are just a few of the many interpretations expressed by the workshop participants. Good work, folks.

Although we look forward to each Arts de Mer cruise, we were informed that due to the reassignment of the ship, there won’t be a 2009 cruise. Anne is furiously working on a new event for later this year or early 2009 but until things are more settled with the cruise line, it appears that we may need to wait until 2010 to cruise with this fun crew.

Next Project - Henry Leo's Giraffe

2008-02-24T21:31:00.000-08:00

Going to try sewing again. I've needed to use it about half a dozen times lately but need a project to get back in practice.

While picking up supplies for my workshop, we spied the pattern below and knew that our psuedo-nephew needed one of these.

But I also knew that just any old color scheme would suffice, so I found the fabrics scanned below.

I've got until July of this year to finish. No problem, he says. Hopefully it will look something like a giraffe and not a three-legged horse. With horns.

Altered Art Boxes - Loteria and Le Jeu

2008-02-24T12:26:00.000-08:00

Two samples for the upcoming Arts de Mer Cruise. The theme this year is "The Game of Art."

I've got at least one more to finish as well as building a few in stages for demo purposes. Having a good time with these.

You will notice a change from the original "Loteria" box. Re-worked it completely, actually.

Loteria Box - "Altered Art"

2008-02-09T23:05:00.000-08:00

This March will mark the fourth year of teaching a short workshop on the Arts de Mer cruise. Mary Jo McGraw, Tim Holtz and Robin Knutson will also be presenting their cool stuff as well.

The theme this year is "The Game of Art" so in keeping with the theme, my workshop participants will be creating a box that can be used to hold game pieces, playing cards, ATC's or whatever else strikes their creative fancy.

The initial project was a paper-based box project, but given the time constraints involved and the complexity of proper box making, I changed course last month and began to look at various objects trying to determine if it could be altered into a box-like structure.

While in IKEA recently, I spied a pile of smallish picture frames and the project came together immediately.

The frames are stripped of everything except the actual wooden frame to serve as the box's top and bottom. The sides are made of wood lath, carefully cut to fit within the frame.

Chipboard, thin luan ply or mat board is fitted into the frame to serve as the box's lid and bottom. The lid should be collaged or enhanced before the rest of the box is painted.

Once dry, the box may be painted, finished or otherwise embellished as desired.

In keeping with the cruise's theme, I've used images from the Mexican game of "Loteria."

I love Loteria images and could almost see them used as a kind of Tarot, as each image seems to have a story to tell well beyond the label each one is assigned.

The legs of the box are made of chess pawns.

I'll probably touch up the finish as I got a little carried away with the "distressing" and I may place wee handles on each side of the lid. We'll see.

I've got to make a couple more samples in differing heights, but it is late and my muse is already snoring loudly in my ears.

Miss you, Dad

2008-02-02T12:09:00.000-08:00

Harley Clifford "Lefty" Tyson: Sept 5, 1928 - Feb 8, 1998

It will be ten years in a week that my father died. Last night, I dreamed of him. It was another one of the vivid dreams that I've been having lately and I recalled almost all of it upon awakening.

I remember talking to him as he reassured me in that "everything's goin' to be fine," tone he was good at delivering. He was generally right, not always, but usually his optimism was on target. I've done my best to adapt that outlook.

In this dream he hugged me strongly, warmly and kissed me on my forehead. I always thought that Dad had the strongest arms and he was unashamed to kiss his sons. As he turned to leave, my brother arrived and noticed I was crying. I told him about seeing Dad.

He turned to follow him and I warned him that "Jim, it's only a dream, but you better hurry if you want to see him." He thanked me and caught up with him for a bit before returning to tell me, "Yeah...only a dream. But, shit, it was good to see him."

Not much else remains of last night's dream, but I do realize it is the second time I've seen and talked to him in as many weeks. Life is a bit stressful right now, so it's no wonder I've turned to him for comfort.

Thanks, Pop. I think things will be okay...just need to get through this rough patch.

He wasn't a perfect man, but he was truly a man. And a truly good-hearted one. He loved life, the smell of lakes, fairness, ugly little dogs and the sound of old fashioned, twangy Rock-a-Billy. He hated Democrat senators, intolerance for the weak or down and out, strong wind and concrete that wouldn't set up.

He lived long enough to see me marry Susan, but didn't make it to my birthday. Mom sent me a birthday card after his death with his signature on it. He apparently had signed it before going into the hospital for the last time. As some of you know, it is one of my true treasures.

Not all that sure about heaven and such things, or that we'll see loved ones later on. But I do know that he's here (pointing to my chest) and will be until I discover if the rumors of an afterlife are true or not.

Miss you much, Dad. You'd like the new house and my bird feeders.

EDIT: After posting this picture, I am amazed how much my brother Jim, looks like him. I also have his mouth, but it's only evident when I shave my beard which I haven't done in years. I think I look a little more like my Mom's side of the family overall (especially my rascally Uncle Bob, Mom's baby brother) , which is not a bad thing at all, either! I had good lookin' parents.

Suzi Blu - The WWW Artist's Life.

2007-11-07T06:48:00.000-08:00

I'm a little late to the party on many fronts, and certainly in regards to Suzi Blu. I've just discovered Suzi via a friend's blog and I was immediately taken with her enterprising chutzpa and on camera charm.

Ms. Blu is a self-promoted mixed media artist who has painted and videoed a way to make a living with her art. She sells her mixed media paintings on eBay, maintains an online journal and offers short art and journaling video lessons on her YouTube channel, Suziblutube.

Her art is charming, some of it a little cute for my taste (not all, some), but I just admire her whole approach to living the artist's life.

She claims that she wants to be the "DIY Internet Queen". And I think she may hold that crown at present.

Good for you, Suzi Blu. Long live the queen.

Henry Leo: September 9, 2007

2007-10-21T10:23:00.000-07:00

From: Fraction, Matt
Ks in labor since 7 am, spirits high, epi just kicked in, 100% effaced, 7 cm dilated, kid should be here later tonight.
Sept. 9, 5:19 pm

I've been wanting to write something about the birth of Henry Leo for some time. He is the son of Matt and Kelly Sue, two people who have entered our lives in an unconventional way and who have not surprisingly found a place in our hearts. Not surprising once you meet them. Spend just a few minutes with either of them and you'd understand.

These are special peoples. And we love them. But I wasn't exactly sure what to say, until now.

Because they live smack-dab in the middle of the country and we live on the left coast, our contacts are mostly electronic. Once a year, there's the opportunity to share the same air, but it's not enough. Again, once you met them, you'd understand.

I once told Susan that Kelly Sue is the kind of woman I wished could have been another sister. After Susan met her and spent time with her she disagreed. "Kelly Sue's the daughter you never had," she revealed.

And it struck me that she was so right. It's not that I wanted to be KS's surrogate father, it's merely that she is the kind of strong-willed, intelligent, creative, talkative, beautiful and funny sort of woman that would have been the perfect daughter for me. If I would have been lucky enough to have one, I would want my daughter to have been seasoned with several pounds of KS's genes.

From: Fraction, Matt
Much love to you guys -
more soon
Sept. 9, 5:31 pm

Taking that a little further, I imagined that her amazing husband would have been the perfect son-in-law. Creative, supportive, intelligent, talented, a protective and loving and caring partner to his wife, inquisitive, good looking and able to hold his own during a debate - these are the kinds of things I would want my daughter to find in her husband.

I know I've said some of these things before, but I don't mind repeating myself when it comes to people and things that matter to me. I repeat myself often, just ask Susan, my patient wife.

And so it was that in the afternoon of Sept. 9, 2007 I got a text message from Matt that Kelly Sue was in labor since the morning and that their son, Henry Leo would no doubt introduce himself later that day.

From: Fraction, Matt
Henry leo 7 lb. 11oz. 19.25" Mother & son totally awesome.
Sept. 9, 11:16 pm

I've saved those text messages and look at them now and again, refilling the mind of our reaction, (immediate tears and cheers) and how happy, incredibly joyous we are for...Henry.

Yeah, we're happy for KS and Matt, that should be assumed from the outset - but I'm really pleased that Henry has been blessed with amazing humans for parents. Pardon the gushing here, but that little fellow has got some good things going for him from the beginning.

No silver spoons, but platinum parents.

He won't be spoiled (at least by them) but he will be listened to. And taught how to speak to and see the world with a voice that cares and with eyes that see beyond the obvioius.

He'll be taught to think for himself and encouraged to create.

He'll learn respect for those who deserve it, insight into those who do not, tolerance for those different from himself, understanding why those differences exist, and compassion and love people for what is inside.

He will also love dogs, learn to trust cats - some of them anyway, and always seek out new things and new ways of interacting with the world.

He'll learn to laugh, mostly at himself.

He'll read comics and his mother won't throw them away, unless they're old issues of "ANT".

He'll probably raise hell, ignore his parents when he's 16, get early bad grades in math (if that part of his brain is from his father) but do better later on because he is determined to do so (if that part of his brain is from his mother), wreck their car (not an original prediction, but I support it), leave his putrid socks in the hallway and generally be a kid who learns that "play" is as important to life as work - but balanced with responsibility.

To Matt and Kelly Sue, congratulations and solar flare warm hugs to you both.

To Henry Leo, welcome and count your blessings little fella.

To all three, we hope to see you soon because we miss you terribly...and love you even more.

Photos by Laurenn McCubbin, used without permission. I hope she doesn't mind.

10 Years and Counting

2007-10-09T21:59:00.000-07:00

My wife, Susan, and I will be celebrating our 10th anniversary this week. The other day we were talking about the last 14 years we've known and loved one another.

The anniversary will be a quiet time, just us at dinner, enjoying one another's company. I told her if anyone asks how long we've been married, I said we should simply tell them, "30 years."

"Why, because it seems like that long?" she retorted.

Looking down and then back up to her face in all seriousness, I said, "No, because it should have been that long."

If Art speaks to you, talk back.

2007-04-30T11:43:00.000-07:00

“Yay, let’s hear it for ART COLLECTORS!”

We heard this as we were leaving “Artwalk” the annual art festival held in the Little Italy section of downtown San Diego this weekend. No doubt, the tip-off to the commentator was the arms full of paintings and prints.

The art collector cheerleader was a fellow artist keeping watch over her booth, and the cheer went up from other artists and spectators. Though the shout out was nice, it certainly wasn’t necessary.

We just like art. It looks good on the wall and most of them make me smile, feel or think. Art that somehow speaks to you should do one or more of those things.

Our “art collection” is not extensive but expanding in styles, subject matter and sheer numbers. We’re striving to rid the house of all litho’ed posters and similar pieces by replacing them with original works or limited editioned, signed prints.

None of the work is overtly controversial. Some of the wood block prints are of Dia de los Muertos skeletons and I’ve got some allegorical works but nothing too political or overly shocking. It’s not that I don’t like shocking, but I’m not so sure I want to wake up every morning and look at it. The mug staring me back at me from the mirror is shocking enough.

“Piss Christ” didn’t necessarily offend me or cause me to blanch, and I can actually appreciate it on one or more levels, but I think I’d rather have a plein aire hanging above the fireplace.

But that's just me.

It was maybe 4 years ago that I first saw Kirsten Francis' work while a part-time printmaking student at the Art Academy of San Diego. The mythological and allegorical elements of her wood block prints grabbed a hold of me and actually inspired me to start a series of crow imagery. I was pleased to see her work at the festival and really pleased to pick up one of the prints I had admired a few years ago. Kirsten’s been doing this for a while which is doubly surprising when you find out how young she is. Her considerable talent truly belies her age and foretells a long, creative career.

Plein aire paintings make me feel good. They seem to calm my spirit and dammit…I just like looking at them. Michael Gulewich’s paintings immediately created that sense of peace when we walked into his booth. His settlings are familiar to me as I have traveled to many of the places he paints. Although he paints larger pieces, these three small paintings are little moments of serenity.

My favorite piece purchased was a simple but striking painting of a dove. Artist Ed Arambula is proof that life is unfair. Most of us would be happy if we were relatively good in just one art form or could render an image in one style or another. Ed however can do it all. Ed not only paints in various styles (from contemporary to figurative to expressive to impressionistic) but the talent-greedy bastard also sculpts. He’s probably a good cook, plays three instruments and sing too.

Maybe his feet smell.

Hopefully.

In all, five modest but appreciated works made it home. They will join the others that either hang on walls, sit on shelves or are otherwise displayed with love. Do yourself a favor, buy some art this week. Your soul will thank you and an artist (an endangered species for sure) will survive until the next art festival.

Tampon Crafts

2007-04-16T17:08:00.000-07:00

I truly believe that this is the perfect example using what's close to you when creating your "art".

If you ever get tired of making things out of popsicle sticks or pipe cleaners, try tampons.

Yeah, tampons.

This spooky ghost is a perfect example of Tampon Crafts - For any time of the month.

A little glue, two google eyes and faster than you can say "Boo!" you've got a Halloween decoration anyone would be proud to display. I think these would be perfect for Cub Scouts, don't you?

Other, more complex projects can be found on the website including a Menorah, a New Year's Eve ball and one of my favorites, the Blow Gun. There's even "You Tube" footage of the thing in action.

I would also be remiss if I didn't mention the Heart Earrings. They are very special.

No part of the tampon goes unused. The applicator tube lends itself to myriad ideas and I don't want to rag on these folks but I think the creative souls behind the website have opened the door barely a crack to the possibilities of this media.

Not only for each holiday season, I think they should have a project for each month. God forbid if they would ever miss one.

Perhaps they could do things like "tampon toys" too. I envision little trees, villages and frontier forts with cannons. Think "Lincoln Logs" but with an emphasis on Mary Todd.

Art Festering

2007-04-03T22:35:00.000-07:00

Artfest?

Art camp. Yeah, that’s what it’s like. Only there’s no little nose pickin, socially awkward, geeky little kids to deal with. We were all geeky grown ups.

Tracy and Teesha Moore produce a very unique art workshop event each year they call Artfest. Each year is a little different and it is now in it’s 7th year to be held at Fort Worden State Park located in Port Townsend, WA. Port Townsend is a Victorian seaport located on the Olympic peninsula, not real close to anywhere. An hour and a half from Seattle via highways and ferries, it almost seems secluded in a “no Starbucks in these here parts” kind of way. Well, there is one located at the local Safeway supermarket and there’s a McDonald’s but the locals prefer proper espresso in a chipped demitasse, thank you very much.

The workshops that are offered are generally one to two day affairs, just enough to whet an appetite but long enough to provide basic foundation skills for future study. The teachers are respected experts in their respective fields from artist jewelry to artist books to painting to printmaking to assemblage to deconstructions.

This year I chose to take classes rather than teach. It was a brief respite from the real world as Susan and I took a break from laundry, lawn work and long commutes. I really enjoyed the change from teacher to student.

Susan focused on creativity exercises and book arts while I brought my attention to dimensional work. Certainly, three short days is not enough to assume any proficiency but if nothing else, it recharges the artistic juices as you share the air with like-minded spirits and creativity is the order of the day. Fortunately that energy seems to be lasting until I reach the threshold of my own studio in a few days.

After getting home, I had to immediately repack the bags and hit the friendly skies again for the work that pays the mortgage. As I dragged my sorry ass onto the plane Monday morning, I longed for the smell of cedars, the greenness of ferns blanketing the wet hillsides and the feeling of doing something important for no one but myself. Jobs may fill the belly, but art feeds the soul. It really does.

A Lifetime Ago...

2007-03-05T18:07:00.000-08:00

Once in a while I will be reminded of things I did and people I knew from many years ago. Even though they may be missed dearly, for one reason or another, those things and those people are part of my past and not my present.

As mentioned on occasion, I performed as a mentalist for a good portion of my life. For a short while, I did this professionally. And every once in awhile, I would stage "spirit theater" or seances for special gatherings, friends and clients. And again, for one reason or another, I don't do the mentalist thing much anymore.

In that time, I would write articles for some of the magishing trades, including a quarterly magazine dedicated to spirit theater, entitled "Seance" published by Scott Davis. Scott was an enthusiastic and supportive follower of all things theatrically magickal. One of the issues focused on me as a performer and an elaborate seance I scripted and staged which was entitled "An Evening with Anna Hastings."

The script told of two lovers, separated in life but rejoined in the afterlife. Very sappy, very corny, very melodramatic and very commercial. The seance was relatively successful as a bit of spirit theater performed at fancy schmancy parties in Los Angeles, Newport Beach and Hollywood.

I was honored that Scott would dedicate an entire issue to me since I never held that I was very good at this stuff. But, that's another entry altogether. However, in all, it is a damned good issue and is often referenced by other, much more talented and creative magical practitioners.

The magazine had a moderate following and was certainly Scott's labor of love for several years. Anyone who has or had an interest in unusual and theatrical magic presentations referred to or hunts down old issues of "Seance". There really wasn't anything like it before and nothing like it since. In some professional circles, "Seance" magazine has become as legendary as "The Jinx" or "Magick" magazines of old. It was a bright, mysterious light in the darkened room of spooky magic.

But eventually Scott said all that he and his writers apparently had to say on the subject so he closed publication in the early nineties. Likewise, I lost touch with Scott as I moved onto other pursuits and places in my life.

So it was not but a few weeks ago, that I came upon a reference to the magazine on a magic history website. It mentioned that the rights to the magazine had been purchased by another publisher and that all of the issues were being bound together into a single volume. The combined material would have a new foreword written and publication would be limited to 1000 copies, a true collector's item. All copies had been sold within a year of publication.

Since I had gladly submitted the material to Scott almost 20 years ago willingly and with many blessings, the only regret I had when I found out about the book was that I didn't have an opportunity to buy a copy. My regret turned to discovery after turning to eBay, where I found occasional copies being sold for many, many dollars.

Last week, I bid on a slightly worn copy for more money than I should have spent...and won. It will be delivered to me in a few days.

I'm not sure how I will feel about seeing and reading it, however. Will it be like meeting a former lover for who you've always carried a torch? Or will it be like looking at pictures of your high school prom which cause you to shudder because at one time, you thought leisure suits and white belts were the hottest thing? Ever?

If nothing else, it will be interesting to look back and reminisce a bit and recall the spirits of times and events that seemed so very important and probably were on some level. I know I won't be haunted by those memories, but certainly enchanted. I'll probably read the book a few times, laugh at the audacity of inexperience and naivete and then give it to a friend. I may even think of the young girl to whom the seance was secretly dedicated, Donna Hastings, the very first girl I ever kissed as a very young lad. I'll let you know.

And if I decide to host a seance to bring back the spirit of Anna Hastings, you're invited. You can be the 13th guest...

P.S. I recently found out that "Seance" has been reprinted beyond the 1000 copies originally sold a few years ago. Current price is $75.00 each and is available at only the finer magic shops in your home town.

It's too late now, but...

2007-02-27T05:57:00.000-08:00

I've been wondering if I shoulda had kids. Or a kid.

There have been times, many times that I was really glad I did not. But now that the years are bumping into me, I have begun to wonder. Again.

This is totally self-indulgent, I know, so please forgive.

In the last year or two, I've actually looked into adopting but dropped it without discussion with anyone, including Susan, as an idea that was probably selfish and desparate to begin with. The topic would come up in a round about way, and in the end decided that if it were to happen, it should have been at least 15 years ago.

I've been told I would have made a good father. Probably. Hopefully. But it's a waste of time and a bit selfish and self-focused to ponder that for too long. Maybe I am writing this to let it go? Hmmm.

Some of my younger friends are having or trying to have babies. I am really happy for them if it happens. It makes my heart sing when I hear of it. "Joy" is a good word.

To their little ones, I'd love to become a surrogate uncle if I could and I'm sure the parents will appreciate an easy mark for a baby sitter now and again. The only downside of allowing me to be a baby sitter is that they will be spoiled beyond reason. Fair warning.

So, young friends, have them babies, okay? There's some Uncle-ing to do!

And forgive an old man if he gets a little weepy around babies.

Put Another Candle on my Birthday Cake!

2007-02-16T09:53:00.000-08:00

To all the Sheriff John Deputies out there who are sharing this day with me, let's sing the "Birthday Cake Polka" together.

Birthday Cake Polka

Put another candle on my birthday cake
We're gonna bake a birthday cake
Put another candle on my birthday cake
I'm another year old today

I'm gonna have a party with my birthday cake
Come on and take some birthday cake
Put another candle on my birthday cake
I'm another year old today

We'll have some pie and sandwiches
and chocolate ice cream too
We'll sing and play the day away
and one more thing I'm going to do

I'll blow out the candles on my birthday cake
and when I do, a wish I'll make
Put another candle on my birthday cake
I'm another year old today

(repeat above choruses)

Happy birthday to you
I'm another year old today.

A few years ago, I received a letter from John Rovick, KTTV's Sheriff John and my lunchtime companion when I was a little tyke. The letter was as gentle, kind and warm as I hoped he was when I watched him, constantly in the 1950's and early 60's. After I read it and remembered that time, I felt very, very old. But appreciative. He was especially appreciated when I was a very sick little boy and spent much time under doctor's care or in bed.

It made me think of much simpler times, filled with an innocence that was held in earnest and without embarrassment. I thought of my brother and the days and nights we shared in those days. Truly, those days were and remain a blessing beyond description. He is and was a great brother and I love him dearly. One of the best birthday presents I could get is to be able to spend more time with him. Well, I am grateful for the times we do have and the phone calls that come without reason.

Sheriff John, nay, Mr. Rovick, was kind enough to send a cassette of the "Birthday Cake Polka" he would sing each show to all those who sent in their names to the television station. As I woke up this morning, that silly song began to play in my head. I also remembered that as a young boy, I thought it odd that someone would have pie and birthday cake at the same event.

When asked if I felt any different today, I said to a friend, "No, just as worn out as I did yesterday."

Honestly, I am doing pretty well. Back at WW and the inches are shrinking...slow but sure. Also working out and taking care of this old husk a bit better these days. I may look like hell, but I feel a wee bit better than that.

To all the other members of Sheriff John's Lunch Brigade, Happy Birthday to You! Let's have some pie and sandwiches! And happy birthday to me. I am many "another year old today".

A Simple Valentine

2007-02-14T07:50:00.000-08:00

"I love you," he said.

He thought it inadequate to tell all he had to say. He wanted to say more, tell her how deeply he cared.

But it was enough, she thought.

Well, he recited his poetry and picked up his socks. Mostly. Some of the socks went missing for weeks and she hated it when he did his own laundry because he did such small loads.

That was enough, she thought. But there were other things.

He made dinner each night. And made extra so that when he traveled, she'd have some home cooked meals. He snored, but he made good chicken marsala.

He made her laugh. A lot. He listened to his gawd-awful music much too loud and couldn't carry a tune in a large pail, but he made her laugh everyday.

He liked to feed birds and grow flowers, both of which he did for himself. He tracked dog poo into the house, but his "garden of birds" was a place of solace, peace and beauty.

He kissed her for no particular reason. And rubbed her back without being asked. Both of those were nice, real nice.

And he lowered the lid on the toilet.

Yeah, that was it. He lowered the lid after he peed. She got hot just thinkin' about it.

A sunny spot

2006-12-20T17:05:00.000-08:00

I am not sure how to end this topic but I do have maybe a few closing comments. Last Friday, a florist package awaited us on the front porch. Inside was a rosemary bonsai from Kelly Sue and Matt, two of my most favorite people on this planet. Kelly Sue is a surrogate sister and Matt is my surrogate brother-in-law. They are very special people and we love them greatly.

The note inside read, “Rosemary for remembrance”. Their thoughtful gesture and the lovely miniature tree brought appreciative tears. How I wish they were in the room to embrace and thank personally.

Saturday morning, Susan and I headed to the local UPS distribution center to pick up a package that needed an adult signature before delivery. Thinking that perhaps a friend sent us a bottle of nice wine or other adult beverage as a Christmas gift, I was surprised when a smallish box was handed to me. Looking at the return address, my cheerful manner changed as I held the package even tighter.

While inside, Susan asked me who it was from, to which I silently waved her off. Once we were near the car, I told her, “It’s Heidi.”

Her cremated remains had arrived sooner than we expected and it is not surprising that after I opened the package to reveal a small redwood box that we cried once again. Unlocking the box was done after much fumbling with the small lock and I let out a soft, “oh!” when I saw the tiny plastic bag of gritty, white sand bearing her name written in black Sharpie.

“Honey…that’s not Heidi,” Susan reminded me. And though I knew it to be so true, I also had to pick up the packet, turn it over in my hand and feel the desiccated bone fragments crunch beneath my finger and thumb, just to find out if there was any recognizable sense of Heidi within the bag. Of course, there was none. It is merely a 4 ounce packet of desiccated bone fragments.

Yep, she’s really gone ladies and germs. Heidi has left the building. I really knew it, but apparently, I had to see, hear and smell with my own instruments, thank you.

Each morning for the last week, I have tip-toed past the area where her bed used to be so as to not disturb her. Before leaving for work, I think of making sure she is fed and watered. When I talk to Susan, I have to consciously stop myself from asking, “How’s fuzzy britches?” Coming home, I've found myself listening for the tinkle of her collar and upon hearing similar sounds, look to see where she is. Being mindful of this little dog became a part of my everyday existence. Heidi was a part of our identity, a bit of what each of us were. And now a portion of that is gone.

As we continued to drive, completing various chores, we spent the day sharing short memories of Heidi, how she came to be in our lives, (saved from Doggie Death Row - "DEAD DOG WALKIN'!") the times she made us laugh, (most every day) the times she pissed me off (I still hate stepping on dog poo in the middle of a rug - imagine that) and how she truly seemed to give more than what we gave to her (exquistely timed paws and heads rested on your lap - dog ESP, I swear). I thought of her final hours and her innocent suffering before the end came to her in the form of a peaceful, but very potent sedative. While we may have smiled and laughed more than once during our talks that day, the overall mood was one of melancholy and missing a loved one.

On Sunday, I found a bright spot in the family room for the bonsai and small box. They both rest on a shelf together near where Heidi would sun herself and rest her weary joints during the daylight hours. In a few weeks, I want to take her dusty remains and scatter them at a few significant places that hold meaning for us and that little dog.

I know I will save a little for the garden in back and I know I will scatter some to the wind as I thank her for being such a good dog, for loving us so easily and teaching us things such as being truly happy to see one another after even a short absence, that begging for treats or belly rubs works if you can do a trick and look up with soulful eyes, barking and growling only in dreams is an acceptable way to interact with the world, sleeping in the sun is an honest endeavor, a gray muzzle is not only noble but inevitable so just deal with it and waiting for a well seasoned piece of roast chicken is often worth it.

I want to thank all of the friends and strangers who have offered so many kind words of sympathy and understanding. Each word was felt deeply and is appreciated beyond description. To Kelly Sue and Matt, again, thank you...and give Captain Applejack a big hug from both of us.

Good night, fuzzy britches.

My dog is dying

2006-12-10T13:36:00.000-08:00

Hard to write too much at the moment, but I feel like sharing some of this with many of you.

Heidi, The-Wonder-Dog is dying. She is in a great deal of pain, discomfort and confusion. Nothing we can do right now except make her as comfortable as possible and make it through the day and night to see how she does tomorrow.

It is very likely that we will take her to the vet to put her down, to ease her pain and let her go to wherever good dogs go.

Dammit, this is hard. I know, I know, everyone has had a good dog that dies at some point. But I really don't care. This is my dog and it is my pain that I feel.

Susan, of course is in as much pain or more. Heidi was her constant companion, and maybe even the child we never had. Susan and Heidi spent many days together when I was away, working in the Bay Area for almost 2 years. They bonded even more than Heidi and I did. I might have been the one who brought home the kill from McDonald's, but it was Susan who was sought out for comfort and succor.

Yeah, Heidi was our surrogate child and fuck you* if you think that's stupid or silly. If it seems that way to you, then stop reading and keep your comments to yourself...this post will mean nothing to you.

I've heard it said that a pain shared is halved. If that is true, then I cannot imagine what it would be like to carry this alone. For either of us.

It is amazing how these little creatures can sneak into your heart, create a warm space to reside and be part of your daily thoughts and important characters in fanciful dreams. It's amazing how they seem to rely on us for just about everything, when in reality we rely on them for so much.

I'll edit this later. Just thought I'd share for a bit. Maybe it helps.

ADDED 12/11/06: As the day progressed, Heidi's condition worsened. She was displaying signs of dementia, her back legs stopped functioning and she began to soil herself repeatedly. When she lay there and whimpered with each breath, there was no waiting until morning to handle it.

The phone call to a nearby 24-hour Urgent Vet Care was easy. The drive over there with the knowledge of what we must do and what outcome would result was not. Hard, wracking sobs mixed with rain-slicked roads made the trip a bit treacherous, but Heidi's soft moans kept me focused to get there as soon as possible.

The wonderful staff at the Vet hospital was immediately accommodating, understanding and kind. After a few brief forms were filled out and consolatory remarks expressed from everyone, Heidi's suffering was ended. It was peaceful and as graceful as these things can be.

The number of times that Susan and I cried, sobbed or just paused in grief-inspired reflection last night is lost to me. For the last month, both of us have wiped a tear after witnessing some other sign that her time was nearing the end. It seems that all we need to do is to recall her fuzzy face, sweet ways or observations such as that she never barked, except in her dreams, and the heart stabs return.

Certainly, most dogs are good dogs and have their own charming dog-ways. It's just that Heidi was our good dog and now she is gone. Our home will be a little less human with her not in it.

I'll add more in a bit. I need to thank this mongrel of extremely questionable parentage for doing so much for us. I should mention that whenever folks asked us what kind of dog she was, it was generally, "pure bred pound terrier" which seemed to satisfy just about everyone who asked. To be honest, there was no telling what various breeds were added to the soup to create Heidi. All I know is that it resulted in a very fine companion and sweet natured family member.

*Many years ago, we had a new neighbor that stated the obvious when she said something like, "Oooh, you don't have kids - so your dog is your surrogate child I guess - harrumph!" Standing in the street with her and another neighbor (Alison, who loved Heidi, too) I answered, "yeah...and your point is what?" Alison was so flustered that she merely said, very loud, "Gawd...what a bitch!"

The creepy new neighbor lady turned away suddenly and went back inside to suck on her wine bottle. Okay, that's not kind. I apologize. So maybe it was vodka, but I really think the old bat was drinking most of the day away. I'm a little sensitive when it comes to the child - pet comparisons. Geesh, I'm not a total nut, I know the difference between the two, for goodness sakes.

One you gotta send to college, the other gets rabies shots.

Magishing Memories #1 - Freckles

2006-10-09T22:30:00.000-07:00

After graduating from college, I was a professional magician. For about two years, I paid life expenses magishing.

I starved.

It quickly became apparent that to really do this, you needed a couple of things; (1) you needed to be away from family from Wednesday afternoon until Sunday matinee and (2) you needed talent. Since I had issues in both categories, I only did it for the aforementioned two years.

But it provided me with some incredible memories and experiences that I could not probably find in any other venue available to me. The grind and hustle was exciting for a young man still finding his position in the lifeline, but eventually I discovered I didn’t need so much the hugs of strangers. Now, an occasional kind word of unexpected, out-of-the-blue-approval and appreciation from folks whose name I will not learn goes a long way to supplement that which comes from persons from who I have memorized the freckles on their back. Memorizing the freckles of a son, daughter or spouse became more important than I ever thought possible.

But I digress. This is about magishing memories and an attempt to put them in some sort of order.

Magishing Memory #1:
It’s been said that “People love a mystery, enjoy a puzzle and like being fooled for fun.” Not necessarily. At a show for a DeMolay* formal dinner, a cocky young man who turned out to be the group’s President or Alpha Dog DeMolay or some other grand title, tried repeatedly to spoil my act.

When performing for a social group, it is not uncommon to use the group’s leader in the act, to provide him or her with some stage time. This is especially important if the effect being performed will make them shine. The reason for doing this is repeat bookings, good word of mouth and a higher potential for a unsolicited tip. If you can make an alpha dog look smart, strong or clever in front of any of the beta females, a folded twenty passed via a firm handshake is more likely to occur. In this instance however, the guy decided that he would attempt to turn the tables on the performer and in short, make the trick fail.

Without going into minutiae and giving away any magicain's secrets, I became aware about half-way through the routine that he had sabotaged the trick. This might be best compared to a standup comic facing a loud, rude, profane and potentially dangerous heckler.

After discovering his dirty work on stage, I momentarily paused as if in concentration and looked at his most satisfied smirk. A knowing glance passed between us as his look of “try to get out of this one, magic man” came into focus. I nodded and silently accepted his challenge and decided to remove the gloves and strap on my magician's brass knuckles.

I carried on and quickly worked through the problem and successfully completed the routine to a rousing round of applause, laughter and amazed looks.

But I did so at his expense. Before the routine arrived at its no doubt amazing denouement, I made sure he was made the recipient of embarrassing comments (much to the delight of the audience, I might add) and silly moments that passed as comedy. Ultimately, he appeared the complete fool.

Today when I think about that show, I am more than a wee bit uncomfortable for what I did to that guy. We were about same age, but I showed an immaturity that is embarrassing now. In truth, I didn’t handle it so well and I know that I could have achieved a pleasant result for all in attendance without resorting to magical fisticuffs.

Yeah, I won the contest but victory was not so pure, not so appealing. I suppose I learned more about me than what I was trying to "teach" to the young man that night. It just took about 20 years for me to figure that out. I wish I could apologize to the young man.

In the canon of Magishing Memories, it’s not a pleasant one. But it’s one that I dredge up now and again. Even now as I I consider it, I think it’s a pretty good memory to have.

*DeMolay is the official youth group for the Order of the Masons. The Order of DeMolay takes its name from Jacques DeMolay, who gave his life rather than betray his friends. Sounds like a prison gang to me, but what do I know?

Out Of The Closet

2006-09-01T16:07:00.000-07:00

I suppose it was only a matter of time before the truth was revealed. But I feel it is my duty to my friends and family to finally admit something that only a very few know. Those that do have been supportive and understanding and I appreciate this so much. Without them, I don’t know who I could talk to about this, “coming out”.

I am a fan of Project Runway.

I am a married, straight male and have gone as far as recording episodes if they would have been otherwise missed. At the earliest opportunity, generally the next evening after a new episode is recorded, dinner is eaten while watching.

I have been a fan of PR since the first episode from the first season. I did not tell my wife about this but she soon learned about this after walking in on me and asking, “What are you watching?”

I hushed her into silence until the commercial break came. Then the stammering and stuttering started. You would have thought I had just got busted watching kiddie porn. But once the words came out in order, the flood gates were opened. My gushing proved to be enough for her to join me and we were hooked. During and after each show, we talk about it and how good or bad the designs were that week.

The reasons are myriad for my fandom. The soap opera antics of the designers are amusing. The comments of Tim and the judges are often funny. Or bitchy, which can also be funny. The models are hot. The clothes and designs are often fascinating and engaging. It’s fun to out-guess the judges and honk at the bad outfits. But mostly, it’s watching talented, creative people engage in the whole process of, well...of creating. The challenges are met with varying degrees of success and I thoroughly love watching it all play out.

Of its kind, I don’t think there is a better made show. It is great TV. It’s a show that can be talked about because there is some substance to it all, or so it seems to me. There is something tangible that can be seen, touched and experienced. The outcome seems to matter a bit more because the winner (in fact even those lower on the list) is given additional opportunities to create even more interesting fashion designs with the promise of seed money to start their own line and/or job offers.

It also creates opportunities for viewers to discuss and decide what makes good fashion and see how the process works. In many ways, the show is somewhat like a true documentary rather than just a contest show. Unlike other “reality” shows where the competitions are based on being a lying shit head or merely stronger and luckier than your opponent, this show demands more. It’s great to watch a contest show where the truly talentless are "Auffed" and the smart, creative types rise to the top. The results seem more meaningful as a result.

Plus you get to watch young models get dressed.

Art Unraveled 2006 – Wine, Women and Waxed Linen Thread

2006-08-25T16:00:00.000-07:00

“Art Unraveled” is not unlike other art workshop retreats. There are numerous short classes offered on a variety of art and art/craft topics including paper arts, jewelry making, painting, drawing and fiber related subjects. The workshops are either all day or half day sessions. This was my second year of teaching at AU and must admit that it is time well spent.

I can’t say that it is the class offerings that makes it a special event. It is not uncommon to see the same instructors making a kind of circuit between similarly organized and mounted events. Art and Soul, Artfest, and the well remembered and loved Art Continuum retreats are just a sampling of the art workshop weekends that one can attend over the course of a year.

This may sound trite, but what makes it a special event are the people in attendance. Good natured folks (admittedly mostly women attending this thing) who are there to have a good time, learn a few things and eat too much.

Linda Young organizes AU to the last detail and the attention shows. The event runs smoothly and everyone is made to feel like the attention was undertaken just for them, personally. Complaints are minimal and generally the gripes are from folks who bring the grief upon themselves. They’d complain if they were buried in a solid gold coffin. 99.9% of the attendees and teachers are all smiles, regardless of the lack of sleep each receives during the course of their participation. Who can sleep when there are things to solder, shape, color, glue, stitch and transfer?

But complaints do occur now and again and though I have not received any about my classes, touch wood, I have been witness to some of it and have made the following observations:

The beefs are generally based on the fact that the student didn’t read the class description close enough to understand what the hell was going to happen in class. “But I thought I was going to make this and we ended up making that.” Well, folks…read the class description carefully. If you don’t understand the nomenclature, ask before assuming something.

"I don't get it...it doesn't look like yours..." (said with a whine, please)
The project is not working out as it should because the student doesn’t listen to instructions or pay attention. If the REST of the class heard it and got it, I think you need to look in a mirror to find where the weak link might be.

Your project will NOT be perfect nor will it look like the instructor’s sample. This is the first time you’ve made the thing; it should take practice and increased skill to make one that may be more apt to meet with your muse’s approval. You are making a model, a practice piece for future reference.

“It's not working…this is too hard…you’re going too fast…” (again, a nice whine accompanying each statement)
You can get it if you’d merely stop whining about your lack of understanding. It better be hard to do, otherwise everyone would be making one of these. You’d probably do better and move along a little faster if you just concentrated on learning the skill or construction or technique or whatever it is you are doing rather than share with the world your inability to do any of those things. You can catch up, don’t worry about it. The teacher and the rest of the class will NOT abandon you. Despite what each of us secretly wishes for, this is not "Survivor" so you will not be voted off the island.

"Her classes are too expensive...it costs too much to go...lower them so I can attend..."
You're correct, the classes are not cheap (but people, they ain't that expensive, either) because instructors are often not in it for purely altruistic motives. Some pay their mortgages through teaching classes and selling wares at the shows. However, teachers are NOT getting rich. Even those who have authored dozens of books often live very modestly. In fact, no one is getting rich doing this. Fortunately, most of the teachers and vendors I know do this because they enjoy meeting the people and are passionate about their art.

Certainly it’s not for the notoriety. It’s not that hard to get on the Carol Duvall show. If you can’t afford the class fees, don’t take the class. I know, it's not fair.

Remember, despite your deepest and most sincere beliefs, the world does not revolve around you. We instructors do care about you and want you to have a great time. We will help you in class as much as we can and provide as much one-on-one attention as we can afford without ignoring the other attendees. We want to give you good value for the money you paid but we don’t owe you our soul.

That covers most of the general complaints I’ve observed people make. I think it would be sad to be those people. Ya pays hard earned money, spend good daylight hours in a classroom all weekend and all you can do is to bitch because you didn’t finish the project? Do yourself and the other attendees a giant favor. Stay home. Or shut up. Or both.

All righty then, ahem, that being said…I had a wonderful time meeting some wonderful people over the course of a wonderful week. This is a retreat worth a three-peat.

Lisa R, Traci B (one and two), Juliana C, Lynne P, Richard S, Kelly K, Olivia R, Kathie S, Susan LK, Ginny, Michael DM, Chuck and all the rest - I have no complaints. We had a ball even though I ate too much and still need to catch up on my sleep.

See you all in a few. Can't wait.

The Basic Rules of Life - FINAL TIPS

2006-07-26T16:50:00.000-07:00

Some Final Tips:

Get (or watch) a dog; they can teach you faithfulness and how to enjoy the fun aspects of life.

Get (or watch) a cat; they can teach you subtlety and how to enjoy the pleasurable aspects of life.

Travel; learn everything you can about other cultures, ways of living and faraway places. You will soon learn that the farmer in a small village in India has the basic wants, needs and questions as you do.

Memorize a poem or two; that way you have to read a few before picking one out. Poetry may be difficult to understand sometimes, but it’s worth the effort.

Learn a skill outside of your chosen profession; there is a confidence in being able to say, “well, if this doesn’t work out I can always build houses again.”

Watch a play, at least once a year; the only thing better than reading a play is watching it performed live.

Go to a museum, any museum now and again.

Call old friends once in a while, but don’t bug them. They’ve got their own lives now, too.

Fall in love. Get your heart broken. Fall in love all over again.

Learn to cook. Learn to clean. Learn to sort laundry and iron your shirts.

Take a hike. Watch a sunset. Watch the sunrise. Do this alone and then with someone else.

Pay your bills on time. Buy on credit as little as possible.

Pick up your own trash and don’t litter.

Grow something in a garden.

Learn to write letters. Write them and send them. This is becoming a lost art.

Learn to draw or paint or sculpt of otherwise engage in some sort of arts or crafts.

Appreciate your parents. They’re humans too. Learn what you can while they are still here. Remember, life is short and while they may oft time infuriate you, walk in their shoes for a while. You could learn a great deal.

Start saving money now. Sock it away and leave it the hell alone.

Be generous with your money. Take care of your own needs and then help as many people as possible with what you have left.

Over-tip breakfast waitresses. They work harder and faster than any other mealtime but the meals cost less.

Stay active, but learn to relax. Balance is the key to this.

Do the right thing. Always.

The Basic Rules of Life - PART FOUR

2006-07-26T16:36:00.001-07:00

The Rules - Part 4

Moderation in all things.
Too much of anything is not good for you. Life is a balancing act and success in life is finding that balance. A glass of wine with dinner, each day is not going to hurt you and in fact may be good for you. Three glasses of wine is probably over doing it. One cheeseburger a week won’t kill you. One a day will cut off your life a little sooner than you’d like. Too much exercise, too much fiber, too many vitamins, too much work, too much sleep, too much of anything probably means you’ve got a problem. Step back, examine the imbalance and adjust.

Moderation in all things, but have passions.
If there is something that you really enjoy, then forget all you have been told about being moderate. Immerse yourself in that thing with open and loud passion.

Shut up and listen.
You can’t learn anything by talking all the time. Listen to the experiences of the old and the guileless observations of the young. And if you are alone, quiet your mind and just listen to the wind. There are things to be learned there as well.

Be patient, kind and helpful…
…to the young, ill and aged. For at some point in your life you will be all three.

Smell a tree and remember it.
Appreciate nature and notice it whenever you can. Nature is not always pretty, but it is always true. Even if you don’t learn a single cosmic truth from nature, its just good for you to get outside once in a while. Watch at least one sunset a week. Learn the name of at least 5 birds and their songs. Press a flower in a phone book and then look at it. Look for animal tracks near streams. Remember the smell of trees and rain. A more intoxicating perfume has yet to be manufactured by anyone.

Walk when you can, drive when you must.
You see more cool stuff and it’s good for you. Don’t always park close to the front of the store. Just pick a place and park the car. Then walk. Take walks when ever possible. It’s one of the simple pleasures of life that we miss dearly if we couldn’t do it. If you don't want to walk or it really is too far, then ride. It's amazing what you miss when you drive. Smelling stuff for instance; the smells you encounter when riding is always a surprise.

Success =?
What is success? Well, that depends on who and what we’re talking about. Plus, the definition varies from person to person. But I know there are some commonalties among all successful people. Successful people are happy of who they are and who surrounds them. They may not enjoy their job, but they enjoy some activity that may be funded by their job. Money is no gauge of success. I know of many miserable, rich people. They may be good at just one thing and lousy at everything else. Success comes from within and is determined by the individual’s standards and not by others. You’ll know when you become successful. Don’t worry if not another person on earth recognizes it.

The Basic Rules of Life - PART THREE

2006-07-26T16:36:00.000-07:00

The Rules - Part 3

You are not your car.
Way too many men equate their motor vehicles with “who they are.” For some reason this extends into their own sense of being men as well. Because of that, they will drive too fast, cut off other drivers and get mad on the highway when they can’t have their own way. It is amazing to me that someone could get shot because they passed someone on a road. A car is merely a way to get from one place to another. If you’ve got air conditioning, a comfortable seat and a good radio, the trip is more enjoyable. But the way a car looks, how new it might be or how fast it can travel has nothing to do with the person behind the wheel. A serial killer can buy a Mercedes and more than a few millionaires are known to drive old pickup trucks. You can’t buy status.

Don’t look at the label, look at the seams.
Designer labels are just a piece of cloth. Buying a shirt, pair of pants or shoes because someone has placed a designer label on them is a waste of money and they don’t pay you to do their advertising for them. You can’t buy status.

Make a fool of yourself.
Dance. Laugh. Be silly in front of dogs and babies. For goodness sake, don’t take yourself too seriously. If you do something stupid, laugh along with everyone else, but don’t make it a point to make fun of others. I am sure that if you look at your own actions, there is plenty to laugh at.

Smile.
I don’t know why, but it is harder to be happy than it is to be sad. Smiling, just because you can, will make you feel better. Really, when you are feeling really crappy, try cracking a smile. After a short while your attitude and behavior will improve. Trust me, it works.

Don’t get married.
Unless you are really sure you want to do so. Staying married is the second hardest thing a person can do. If you find someone who you love in spite of his or her idiotic, sloppy and mindless ways then by all means marry that person as soon as you can. Chances are, they may love you in spite of your idiotic, sloppy and mindless ways as well. A happy marriage is a rare and wonderful thing…and worth fighting for. But for God’s shake, choose wisely. Think to yourself, “Do I want to get old, really old and tired and bored and upset with this person for the rest of my life?” If the answer is yes, marry that person and don’t look back.

Don’t have children.
Unless you are absolutely, 100% and really sure. Having children is easy but raising them is the hardest thing a person will ever do in his or her life. There is no task more difficult. Anyone can make a baby, but it takes patience, skill, money, time and more love than you thought possibly existed in the universe to raise a child. There may be no greater joy than for a parent to see their children grow and find happiness. But if you decide not to have children, then don’t. There is no shame in choosing this path. By doing so, you may be able to help the others who are raising children by spending time and energy on which they may be running a bit low. There is great joy in becoming a favorite aunt, uncle or mentor to young people.

The Basic Rules of Life - PART TWO

2006-07-26T16:27:00.000-07:00

The Rules - Part 2

Treat women more equally
I suspect that because most men realize, deep inside that women are better than they are, they treat them as if they were not. Women should have the same opportunities and advantages as men in all areas of life. When they are denied these things we, as fellow human beings, lose a bit of dignity. Also, remember to give more than you expect to receive in all relationships, intimate or otherwise.

Listen to music
Music is a joy beyond words. Good music can transport you, create emotions and cause other internal changes that science cannot fully explain. It just happens. Turn off the TV and put on some music, any music.

Old music is better than new music
Good music is music that lasts. There's probably a good reason why some old music is still being played. New music may be fun, (and there is no harm in having fun), but classic and classical music works magic on the soul. It is not important that you understand the music, it is just important that you listen.

Buy a good stereo system
If you can’t go and listen to music being played live, invest in a good stereo system. Buy the system with your ears and not with your eyes. Flashing lights, fancy dials and so forth do nothing to enhance the sound.

Don’t watch TV
Reading is one of the great things about being a human. So far, no other species on the earth can read. Books, even relatively bad ones, allow you to shut out the rest of the world for a few moments. You can be alone with your thoughts and let your imagination soar with the words before you. The average book is better than most movies and is always better than even the best TV show. I could go on for three pages of why TV is the ruin of our modern culture, but let me summarize my feelings this way: It is better to sleep than to watch TV, unless you aren’t tired. You are better off doing just about anything else than sit in front of the television. When in doubt, pick up a magazine.

Watch TV By Appointment
If you must watch television, pick your programs, because there are a lot of really good shows on television. Make a conscious effort to choose those programs which you enjoy. Once the program is over, turn it off and do something else. I love TV but it can be an incredible time waster so make sure the time you waste is by choice and not by default.

Read.
Oh, I suppose I already said that. But it’s not a bad idea to mention it again.

The Basic Rules of Life - PART ONE

2006-07-26T15:47:00.000-07:00

The Rules - Part 1.

Do the “right thing”.
When making a decision, ask yourself, “Is this the right thing to do?” If the answer is based on good moral values such as honesty, integrity, truthfulness, fairness and other virtues then you will be miles ahead of most of the world.

Seek approval of yourself.
If anyone must approve of what you do and who you are, it is yourself. If you do the “right things” in life, you will be able to look yourself in the mirror and approve at who you are looking.

Don’t seek the hugs of strangers.
The hugs of strangers do not last and don’t matter. Seek out the hugs, compassion and approval of those who count, such as family and real close friends. The applause of the crowd fades as soon as you go home. Some people may like you and some may not. You must try your best to not let the fact that some folks don’t care for your presence in their lives bother you.

Don’t sweat the small stuff.
And most of it is small stuff. Worry about the big issues that affect your life. If you sweat every minor detail about your life, you may miss your children’s first steps, a smile from your spouse or a good sunset …you know, important stuff.

Don’t worry.
Don’t worry about things in which you have no control. It is a waste of time and causes heart attacks, strokes and killer headaches. If you have no control over a situation, it does little good to worry about it. Concern is appropriate, because you may find a time, place and opportunity to act on an issue that has been previously beyond your control. But until then, you may as well worry about unchangeable things such as the sky is blue, the moon changes shape and politicians are corrupt.

Tell the truth.
Telling the truth is vital. Even if you have really screwed up or in a situation that you dislike greatly or forgotten to pick up milk on the way home, the truth is important. Be honorable and own up to the mistake. If you tell the truth, you won’t need to have a good memory to cover the lies. After getting caught in about three lies, no one will believe you ever again…they will always doubt you from that point on. There is only one situation in which the total truth may not be wise. If your wife asks you, “Honey, do I look fat in this dress?” always, always tell her that she looks fine. Kingdoms have fallen and men have lost their lives for being too truthful in this question.

Women are different.
Okay, let’s get one thing very clear. Women are different than men. They process information differently have different skill levels in many areas and are generally physically smaller than men. That is not to say they are inferior to men. In fact, I have a great deal of information and experience which has shown to me that they are better than men in most respects. They live longer and their plumbing is more efficient. Plus they are much better looking than men are, even in the morning before a shower.

The Basic Rules of Life - INTRODUCTION

2006-07-26T15:36:00.000-07:00

Written for my nephew, Travis for his 21st birthday. Since I didn't have any children of my own, I can pass this onto nephews and nieces without having to have proved any of the things mentioned. Maybe it's just a lot of hot air, but it was blown out in earnest.

The Basic Rules of Life

- Or -

“Trust Me On This One…”

Introduction
Life is easy. You inhale. You exhale. Your heart beats for a while and then it doesn’t. If the doctors get to you in time, you live for a while longer. Life is a gift from God or the universe or whatever or whomever. It’s a mystery, but for most humans, living is easy.

Staying alive is a little tougher, but it’s not all that hard. Eat well and take vitamins if you don’t. Work out a little, just enough to keep your heart strong and your muscles flexible. Stay away from tobacco for the major portion of your years on the earth and drive safely. Look both ways before crossing the street. Don’t pet dogs that don’t know you. Don’t pick up snakes that make noise. Use sunscreen. People are living longer than any other time in human history and it may be that some people are living longer than they should. But the fact remains that with the medical advances made in the last century, normal life expectancy is nearing the one hundred-year mark.

Living a good life is not easy however. It is the third hardest thing you can do. The second hardest is staying married and the hardest is raising children…but we’ll talk about that later.

These “Rules of Life,” are my rules and perhaps no one else’s. Most of them have been revealed to me through one of three ways; 1) Observing other successful people and keeping good notes on what they do or don’t do, 2) Recognizing the obvious and 3) Making big mistakes and recognizing the error in my judgement. The third item is perhaps the most revealing in that the lesson(s) learned may have been obvious to others but were a mystery to me at the time.

The purpose in writing this is to maybe help you in deciding what rules you wish to adopt for yourself. Its been said that advice is worth what you paid for it. And that is generally true. If, however, you find some seed of truth in the following pages, then I’ve succeeded in this small endeavor. The most important thing to consider is that this advice (“words o’ wisdom,” fireside chat or whatever you wish to call this) is given with a great deal of love and caring.

Suffice to say I’ve made a fair share of errors in my life. I am trying to point out a few items that could serve as directional and/or caution signs as you travel along this much too short of a journey called “LIFE”. Imagine it as a crudely drawn road map with no specific highway numbers listed and only the “Road Closed,” “Curves Ahead” and “Bridge Out,” signs identified.

Before you begin, remember to wear your seat belt. Even if you followed all of the directions given, you will no doubt find yourself on some bumpy roads and down an occasional dark alley. But not to worry, it makes the journey more interesting in the retelling.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Nine (last section)

2006-07-06T12:05:00.001-07:00

Thanks again to everyone who has written regarding this little story. I am pleased you liked it enough to visit now and again to read each section, in order. This story has resided in my memory for a long time, so it is nice that it is seeing the light of day for a few more folks.

This part concludes the story, no other parts to be added, nothing much more to say about it. If there is any post script to the story it is the fact that I was not to be blessed with children but hope that other fathers and other sons fulfill my final wish for this special place and time.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART NINE, (last section)

The smell of diesel fuel reminds me of the toilet paper torches we would create to light the way to the evening campfires. If you soaked a roll of toilet paper in diesel fuel for a couple of hours and then position this "wick" on the end of a pole, the effect as it burned looked like something out the middle ages. The camp fires were put on for the entertainment of the campers during which we would lead everyone in silly, easy to remember songs, tell tall-tales, relate border line off-color jokes and generally make complete asses out of ourselves. Often we would attempt to light the fire in some unusual fashion. Stick matches placed inside a ball point pen spring would come to life if one simply applied the juice of a 12 volt car battery via buried wires to the spring. On one occasion we utilized a small Napalm stick, smuggled over from the war, with near disastrous results. Though we were warned to treat the material with respect, we had no idea how hot of a flame it could produce, and that even the tiniest amount coming into contact with your skin will stick to you until the fuel is exhausted. I still have the burn on my hand to prove it.

The sound of "Taps" rushes back the sight of stars literally filling the night sky. Because the camp was so large in area, communication was done via the call of a bugle. Bruce, a chubby faced, Pillsbury doughboy of a lad, was our camp bugler and his talent belied his tender years. We were notified of meal times, assemblies, the raising and lowering of the flag, weekly fire drills and the like, to the strains of a brass horn made more beautiful with his expert skill. There is a bugle call for every significant happening at camp and it takes little time to recognize what each melody signified. My favorite call was "Tattoo" which is the traditional call for soldiers and sailors to return to their quarters, played fifteen minutes before the haunting rhythms of taps. It isn't heard very often, except in old Calvary movies. Believe it or not, I miss this comforting and lyricless song.

The feel and taste of ice cold mountain stream water recalls the fact that many of the water sources made available to us came untreated and sweeter than can be imagined. At the time we had little worries of contamination in the high creeks and wells. Once you've experienced the ultimate freshness of untouched, natural water, nothing else dare be labeled "water." Water today tastes of plastic or unspecified chemicals. Bottled Canadian glacier or imported French spring water cannot compare. It was a simple pleasure but one that was appreciated even then.

The sight of fog recalls a late night moonlit hike. My brother and I decided well after sundown that we would join a small group of scouts who had been taken for an overnight hike and campout far into the woods. As we climbed the trail to the distant outpost, we noticed that we did not require our flashlights to see our way over the rough terrain. The full moon reflected off of the light gray granite, and one could easily read a map in its glow. Half way up, the trail rounded a bit allowing us to view the small town of Idyllwild twinkling below us. We took in the entire scene with silent admiration then noticed a low fog bank creeping over the mountain pass just a few miles north of the slumbering hamlet. The blanket of fog soon covered the entire valley and their few streetlights now appeared as glowing halloed pearls. My brother and I turned to each other, smiled and climbed onward towards the moon. Years later I learned that he too had been touched deeply by the tableau that God seemed to have painted for our personal delight.

But most of all I remember that the summer of '69 was a special time in my life. No longer would I fail to understand the deep need for people to strive to make a better world. That the world was full of incredible pain and suffering and amazing joy is now fully grasped. What was most significant is that I realized this at the time.

My last day at camp was full of saying good-bye to my friends, the promise to get together for a hike or whatever and of arranging rides down the hill and once again to home. Some time during the day, I missed the car full of staffers with whom I was to travel and had to call my parents to pick me up. It was an hour and a half trip from my home and after a brief scolding they assured me they would be there soon.

As I waited in the main assembly hall I realized that the only persons left were myself and Mr. D. The forest was incredibly quiet, the noise of young boys laughing and shouting to each other gone for another year. I looked around inside the hall and gazed at the rolled up campaign hat hanging over the fireplace and smiled a small grin. Walking over to it I noticed the filth of dirt and sweat covering it. Turning to the large picture window that looked towards the large granite spires and the Jeffery Pines moving softly in the first chilling wind, and with it the promise of autumn.

I began to cry, for I knew I would never return to this place as a boy. The next time that I imagined that I would enjoy these mountains and this camp may be with my own son. Behind me, Mr. D walked over to me and placed an arm over my shoulder.

"What's the matter, son?" he asked.

"I'm going to miss this place." I answered.

"So will I. But it will always be here."

"I suppose."

"It will. It will always be here and here," he said pointing to my head and chest, "so trust me, you will never forget this place and never forget this time."

He hugged me as I cried a little more. He then began to laugh as he pointed out a small ground squirrel that had stretched out on his stomach just beyond the window, unaware of our presence. The squirrel seemed to be breathing sighs of relief.

"It looks like he's glad were gone," he offered.

We both laughed at the small animal that had survived one more summer of over eager boys bent on disrupting the calm of the woods, yet taking with them a part of the wilderness experience.

Camp Emerson still conducts summer programs for boys of all ages. It still provides memories and stories for those who will listen and take note. The trees still have the scent of vanilla, the lake still offers late night canoe rides and a smelly old campaign hat still hangs over the fireplace.

I will never forget that wonderful place. Even the thief we call time cannot take away the summer of 1969. It slumbers in my heart and in my mind, awakened now and again by a familiar sound or smell.

I will never forget.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Eight

2006-07-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

I have not changed any names in this section. Mr. D deserved open recognition and remembrance. My brother still holds this man very close to his heart.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART EIGHT

Some of the staff looked upon the fact that we had a cook to prepare all of the staff meals as either a curse or a blessing. The staff's cook was Frank Delgado. "Mr. D" was not too well known by myself, however, my brother was assigned as the commissary director and the cook's assistant. My brother, Jim, related that though his was a demanding boss, he was also given to an extremely odd sense of humor.
He would often walk into the kitchen while the dishes were being washed and announce, "No smoking in the kitchen!" all the time puffing furiously on a pipe, then suddenly walk out.

On occasion, to liven meal times up a little, he would walk into the dining room and tell everyone it was time for "the auction." He then would drag out an old Navy duffel bag and produce various used items, which we would then bid on. Using just about anything we could barter with, from candy bars to pine cones, the staff would engage in outbidding each other for old coffee pots, beat up frying pans, and army packs.

He would begin, "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, (and if any females are in this room, I want to know about it), this coffee pot is unique in its class. You will notice that the inside is caked with so much coffee residue that one no longer needs to use coffee grounds to create the perfect cup of Joe. Just add boiling water and voila' you have a brew fit for a king." Continuing, "What am me bid for this personally embroidered army pack? This fashion accessory matches any color you may be wearing, as long as you are wearing olive drab and why just look here, please notice the initials on the flap, it reads U.S., that's right - "us"!

Mr. D also was a veteran of past wars, and though he rarely spoke of seeing action, it showed. He was a little man with a protruding stomach and a back that was bent and terribly humped. His entire body was covered with albino-like splotches. Jim told me that he had been seriously burned in the Second World War during which he served on a submarine in the South Pacific. Apparently, Mr. D's sub had been hit by enemy fire causing the survivors to seek refuge on the surface.

The surrounding waters were covered in a deep film of burning submarine fuel. During the course of his attempts to rescue his fellow submariners he received burns over most of his body. For several days they fought off shark attacks and exposure to the sun. Frank Delgado was decorated for his heroism and for the injuries he sustained in the war.

Later, in civilian life, Mr. D started and led a Boy Scout troop in the city of Watts. The troop was the first black scout troop in Los Angeles. A short documentary was made recalling his life and was broadcast in the early 1960's. Like so many of the adult leaders in the scouting movement, Frank Delgado gave unselfishly of his time in an attempt to build the character and to enhance the lives of young boys growing up in a confusing and dangerous world. Certainly, if one looks to people like him, a great deal can be harvested through his example.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Seven

2006-07-06T11:52:00.000-07:00

It's odd to me that I still recall this old bastard. I remember how mean I thought he was, but could not refrain from listening to his old stories. One thing is for certain, thank goodness I have met very few people like him in my life.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART SEVEN

In 1969, and I suppose certainly now, being a Boy Scout was very difficult for a youngster of junior or high school age. Membership in the organization was generally kept secret from non-scouting friends and certainly from the girls with whom you attend class. There are many reasons for this, the greatest of which has to do with the uniform.

The scouting program is based on providing certain experiences and guidelines to young boys. These experiences; such as hiking, camping, and other outdoor activities help to build a boy physically and create a sense of self reliance and esteem. The scouting tenants of responsibility, honesty and providing aid to others are designed to create a positive moral basis. This is at a time in a youngster's life when many other influences are at work which can be destructive and oft times dangerous. Today there are controversies regarding the sexual preferences and religious beliefs of scouts and scouters that were not issues of concern in 1969. But for myself, the program was one in which I personally believe had a very positive effect on my life.

However, and perhaps unfortunately, scouting has many military influences that in the eyes of some people detract from the success of the program. Scouts spent time engaging in patriotic ceremonies, marching in formation, saluting and attempting to achieve certain ranks or badges. This influence was most apparent when you examined the emphasis on the wearing of the uniform. The uniform was designed to make all of the boys equal in dress, create a certain sense of "belonging," and discipline. During the late 1960's and early 70's anything related to military practices or anything resembling the armed forces were considered by many, especially by young people, as reflecting a negative model for anyone to embrace.

Not surprisingly then, many of the adult volunteer and professional scout leaders, “scouters,” had military service records. Although I held that the then current military presence in Southeast Asia as being reprehensible and morally corrupt, I was still drawn to the stories that these adults would relate to my eager ears. There were two older men that worked at the camp who captured my imagination and in the case of one individual captured my respect.

Tom Hardweld had been the camp's rifle range instructor for many years prior to my arrival as a staff member. Tom, or known simply as "Hardweld," was about one hundred and thirty seven years old, smoked hand rolled cigarettes and cursed the foulest language recorded in history. His skin had the appearance of a bran muffin with extra raisins, his legs were spindly and bowlegged and his right eye was completely white with cataracts. He could always be seen wearing one of the old fashioned Boy Scout "Campaign Hats," which he had rolled in a manner that more resembled a cowboy hat than any officially approved head gear. Despite his near blind condition he could hit a bull's-eye from twenty miles. His skill with firearms was absolutely bewildering and often took on legendary proportions.

Hardweld was at once frightening in appearance, abrasive in attitude and short in temper. Here was a man who proclaimed that children would make quite adequate target practice but spent every free moment working with them.

During the summer of '69 a new rifle range shelter was being built and Hardweld was found many times walking on the roof rafters twelve feet off of the ground much to the worry of everyone. On several occasions I would walk up to the range to bring him a cool drink and listen to his colorful memories.

He had spent a great deal of time in the armed services and had rode horses in the now non-existent Calvary. "I remember chasing Pancho Villa up and down the Mexican Border for weeks on end. That son-of-a-bitching Mexican was as clever as a coyote," he laughingly said. "Never did catch that brown bastard. It was like trying to catch a mouse with boxing gloves!" he added. He would pause, look me right in the eyes with that one clouded eye, and laugh out loud, hack and light up another cigarette. I never knew if he was testing my resolve to stay and listen or telling an out and out lie. Whenever I looked at him I recalled Edgar Allen Poe's story, "The Tale-Tell Heart," and the protagonist's obsession with his victim's evil eye.

"Why there was one time on an Arizona Indian Reservation that I had to hand out food and blankets to the Navajos. Those people couldn't speak a single word of English and the women were as ugly as I have ever seen." Continuing, "I tell you boy, it looked like a goddamned bread line."

Though I listened and sometimes smiled, I rarely added anything to these talks. His obviously racist attitudes bothered me greatly. And though I sought him out I never really liked the man.

One morning, Hardweld was walking on the roof of the near completed range shelter putting on shingles and fell about thirteen feet, unable to move. We placed him on a stretcher; all the while he was cursing and writing in pain.

"I need a smoke. Somebody give me a cigarette, somebody give me a god damned cigarette," he demanded.

Finally someone produced a lit Winston and placed it in his mouth. The curious thing is that the only people at the scene were staff members, none of which were allowed to have tobacco. As we were carrying him down the hill to the waiting ambulance, we noticed that he had dropped his hat. I found it lying on the ground near the place he had fallen and put it on my head. As he was being transported to the hospital I hung the hat over the fireplace in the main assembly hall for safekeeping.

We learned that he had broken a leg and his hip. He never left the hospital. Hardweld died several months later.

His belligerent, cantankerous attitude and hateful behavior was unwanted and unnecessary. He was probably a man of his time but the old bastard lived a bit longer than he should have. Fortunately, his hate died with him.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Six

2006-07-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

I was young enough to be a bit naive about hate and prejudice. I was old enough to know the difference between right and wrong, even if I was just an unenlightened middle-class white kid from the suburbs.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART SIX

It was during this summer that the first African-American staff member was hired. Kelvin was fourteen at the time and came from a very influential and somewhat wealthy family in Riverside. His father was a Doctor of Education working for the school district and his mother was an instructor at the local junior college. Kelvin became one of my friends at camp, but often kept to himself for reasons I did not understand at the time. Each week we would catch a ride together as our parents took turns hauling us up and down the mountain at the close of each weekly session. During the ninety minute trip we would speak of favorite music, TV shows, movies and books, compare hiking, school and girl stories. Kelvin went to a private boarding school which fascinated me.

Upon hearing that he spent most of the school year away from the watchful eyes of his parents, I began to envy his good fortune. He had his own dormitory room (complete with stereo and television - HEAVEN!), attended classes with the very best of teachers and participated in field trips to museums, historical monuments and other privileged events. How cool it must have been, I thought, to be able to come and go as you like, see the things he has seen and do the things he has done. But just underneath his stories I sensed a particular loneliness.

"My parents come up about once a quarter and we do things. They take me to dinner, we go shopping, maybe catch a movie. It's pretty neat," he said without a smile.

One weekend, his mother and father were going out of town and Kelvin was to spend the weekend alone at the camp. When my own mom heard this, she insisted that Kelvin spend the weekend with others. "Honey, you just come home with us. Make sure you grab your laundry and we'll take care of that as well."

I was a little surprised at this concern displayed by my mother, and pitied poor Kelvin that he would have to give up the chance to spend a couple of days of freedom at the insistence of a very stubborn woman. Kelvin seemed delighted at the prospect and was waiting in the car before I had even begun to find and pack all of the week's dirty underwear and tee shirts.

The weekend at home was very uneventful. Dad cooked greasy hamburgers on the grill, we rode bikes into a nearby orange grove, watched TV, teased my little sister, played fetch with my dog, threw dirt clods at the whiny, booger-eating neighbor kid, played with my slot car track, grabbed a Slurpee at the 7-11 store, looked at a dead cat on the road and read a couple of old "Doctor Solar" comic books. Your basic boring weekend.

On the way back to camp, Kelvin was more animated than I had ever seen. He wouldn't shut up. The entire hour and a half he talked about how great a cook my father was, how stupid the whiny neighbor kid proved to be, "He just stood there as we nailed him with that huge clod!" he roared and that he had won most of the slot car races.

As we unloaded our gear from the car, I gave my dad a hug and kissed my mother. They told us to be safe, call when we can and so forth. As I turned once more to wave good-bye, I saw Kelvin reach for my parents and gave both of them a long warm hug. Smiling, he turned away and later told me that he thought my mother was pretty and that my dad could tell a good joke. He then very quietly thanked me for the good times we had shared. Walking further from the cars he became quieter. Nothing more was said about the weekend.

It was late on Wednesday after the evening meal that the camp director made a very strange request. He asked each staff member to write and print the following words: "Keep Digging Son, A Bigger One Is Needed." Each person was given a felt tipped marker and instructed to sign their name at the bottom of the paper. All the slips were collected by the Camp Director who shut himself with two other adult staffers within an adjoining office. We were told to remain in the dining hall until called.

One by one, each boy was called for. No one could understand this strange exercise. It wasn't until an hour later that I was summoned. As I approached the office door, it suddenly struck me that Kelvin had not been present the entire meal.

The camp director, Marvin, and the other adults sat across from me at a long table. Marvin looked at me with a surprisingly stern look and asked me, "Why did you do it? We know you did and we have samples of your handwriting to prove it!"

Of course, I had no idea of what he was speaking and didn't know at first how to react. I smiled, thinking that this was some kind of bizarre joke or stupid Boy Scout test of which I had not been informed. When my smile was not returned I knew they were serious. "What are you talking about, Marvin?"

"Why did you write those words on the bathroom wall? We don't care how or what you think of Kelvin, but we want you to admit to the act and all will be forgiven," he continued. He then took me into a nearby bathroom and showed me their cause for concern.

On the wall of one of the toilet stalls was written in felt tipped marker,

"Kelvin is a Nigger."

I was dumbfounded. All at once, the cryptic message we wrote earlier made sense. My heart sank as I imagined my friend, Kelvin, finding these words written directly at him. It was if the real world was crashing in on our sequestered, safe and sheltered world in the mountains and the entire place was somehow in need of a cleaning.

My parents grew up in the south and because of that, were a product of another time. A time when that word was as common as clouds. But in spite of that, we were instructed at a very early age that this was a hateful and shameful word. My mother often referred to it as "the nastiest word in the world." Regardless of their conservative politics and indoctrination, hate is easy to see when it is worn on the outside. Words can hurt, we were told, and there are just some things that you never can say without hurting another. My father often reminded us to judge people by what was found inside and not how they seem to be by simply looking at them.

"The poorest man you may meet could turn out to be your best friend and the plainest looking girl may some day be your most beloved sweetheart," he would say. "I've met many people who may look like they don't have the sense to tie their own shoes who were the smartest humans walking this tired earth."

My protestations and declarations of innocence came stumbling out. Partially out of shock at the act of thoughtless hate another had committed, and partially from the fear that they suspected me of this terrible thing. Kelvin always seemed a little quiet for my taste in friends, smarter by far than most of the other staff members, had always been there to help me when I needed it and was the first to laugh at my stupid jokes. In other words, he wasn't my best friend, but as good a friend and better than most of the guys I called "friend." But before I could go on, I asked where Kelvin was.

With a touch of sadness, Marvin explained that his parents were told of this by a call from Kelvin. His parents were understandably and indignantly upset. They had driven up that afternoon and took Kelvin home for the rest of the summer. Without saying much more, I knew that one or perhaps many around me were capable of doing something very wrong to someone who did nothing wrong.

It was a long time later that I began to grasp the loneliness that Kelvin was experiencing. The only black kid among a bunch of white kids, parents who no doubt should have been more involved and other factors of which I can only imagine. All of which probably created a very lonely young man. It was also much later that I heard that Kelvin had become a successful computer programmer and software designer. Although I have long since lost contact with him, I hope that he is filthy rich, lives in a big house and is happy beyond imagination. Success is the most comforting forms of revenge.

We never did find out who placed those foul words on the bathroom wall. It didn't really matter, someone did and that was enough. From that day on, I listened for any hint of racism that might be displayed by my fellow staff members. There were some racial comments made now and again, generally weak attempts at humor. But when it surfaced, we quickly commented, "hey, that ain't cool..." or something along those lines.

From that day on, I trusted and called only a few others my real friends.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Five

2006-07-05T13:51:00.000-07:00

Trying to catch up a bit, so posting another section today. I wish I could express fully how terrible this event was and how horrible each of us felt who participated in our escapade. Suffice to say, I learned a lot from this.

As before, if you are just joining the story, it is advised you follow the links on the right to begin the story from Part One.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART FIVE

By 1969 several Marines who had been sent to Vietnam during the early stages of the conflict began to return home, their tour of duty completed. It was also during this time that the United States was hopelessly divided on the issue of our involvement in that foreign war. The story of America in Vietnam has since been related in many ways and any single narrative cannot express the entire expression of emotions, events and reflections concerning this portion of our country’s history. The story is best told in individual tales. My current understanding of the war has only recently begun to come into focus and the vision that I have is indeed an ugly one. My first glimpse into the reality of the war was very different than the television news footage to which we were exposed daily, and which captured my attention but with little understanding.

Each camp season an active duty Navy or Marine paramedic would spend several weeks with the camp staff to serve as on-site emergency medical personnel. The GIs got to relax a while in the mountain air and on occasion be required to repair a skinned knee and perform first aid training, while the scout camp had access to expertly trained medics. Talking to the "Doc's," as we called them, was one of my favorite activities for they were full of stories of overseas adventures and experiences and were a never ending resource of the most disgustingly filthy jokes ever to be told. Both of these talents delighted me.

This summer was unique in that we had been assigned two Marines from the same unit who were being discharged soon. Both of these Marines were friendly, if a little quiet, but fast with the jokes and amazingly seemed to enjoy our camp food, which we considered to be one step up from lake algae. According to them however, "Marine Cuisine," was a contradiction in terms. Slowly, the camp staff grew closer to the Doc's, which resulted in an occasional story of Vietnam. Their stories would center around leeches and snakes, the look, feel and nature of the jungle itself and on rare instances the nature of "Charley."

The skinned knee business had been slow that summer and our marine Doc's jokingly requested that someone break a leg or something as they were extremely bored and had actually read all of our Playboy magazines. That evening, a group of us decided to liven up their dull existence by staging a fake emergency.

Our victim was to be Eddie, one the smaller staff members, wrapped in bandages and decorated with ample amounts of ketchup. After we were certain that the Doc's were fast asleep, we hauled Eddie on a stretcher up to the First-Aid Shack, which also served as their sleeping quarters. We excitedly beat on the cabin's door and called out, "Doc, Doc, Eddie's hurt - hurry! Doc..."

Suddenly, both men flew out of the door in their boxer shorts and began to bark out orders, calling for a Medivac, and demanding additional supplies. Their eyes were wide open and their faces were racked with concern. Their voices were excited and filled with soul deep fear. We all began to laugh as they began to tear at the fake bandages and Eddie's clothing. It was only then that they realized what was really transpiring. Each of us waited for them to join in our laughter or to be chastised with some good natured name calling, but it didn't happen.

Both of them stood slowly looking at us with disappointment and controlled anger. A long moment of silence followed and the larger of the two said, "This is not funny boys. God dammit, we thought we were still in 'Nam." As he finished those words he began to cry.

Immediately each of us started to tell them we were sorry, that it was only a joke, and that we didn't mean anything by it, everyone stepping on each other's words. But no amount of apology could undo the terrible pain we had caused. For a brief moment we had inadvertently transported them back to the hell on earth from which they had just escaped. They turned without another sound to try and go back to sleep. Shamefully, we walked in silence back to our tents with the terrible knowledge that our practical joke had injured someone in ways we could only begin to understand.

The next morning the perpetrators of the folly were called in to the Camp Director's office and were soon joined by the Marines. They explained that they understood that our prank was all in fun but there were things we needed to know about.

For the next hour they began to tell us a story of the Vietnam which the public would not hear for many years. They told us of the incredible horrors, the gut wrenching vision of hands-on death, the sleepless night fear, and of the paranoia that no one was going home alive. They further explained the reason they were taken out of action a couple of weeks before their actual tour of duty was completed.

Both Marines were the only survivors of a unit that had been ambushed in a rice field at night. All of their friends were dead and their pain was amplified since as medics they were unable to save any of them. Many times they would pause in their story telling to compose themselves and then continue. Looking beyond their eyes, the demon of fear and the monsters of war were still very much alive deep within their minds and memory.

Fortunately, I never had to face those particular demons myself, but I am often reminded of their existence whenever I see or hear of young men and women marching off to fight and kill other young men and women. As I look back over history, with very rare exception, I ask myself this simple question, “…and for what?” The demons and monsters of war may know the answer, but they ain’t saying.

They’re just laughing.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Four

2006-07-05T11:54:00.002-07:00

Thank you all, for the kind words you have given me in this endeavor. It pleases me that you are enjoying the story and the site. I think we are 2/3 the way through the story now.

This section is for my new friend, Anne. Thanks, Anne, for the advice.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART FOUR

The ensuing unbearably awkward minutes of small chatter revealed the basics that were important to a fifteen year old, where she went to school, (in nearby Banning), what subjects she enjoyed, (science and art), her favorite musical groups (Beatles, Doors and Turtles), that she was indeed Vickie's cousin, and most surprisingly, that she had been looking forward to meeting me.

The surprise of being a part of some devious plot of my older friend and her cousin was embarrassing and removed any bit of confidence I may have had in past dealings with girls. I usually never had a problem with speaking with girls. They had always fascinated me and I enjoyed their company over the company of other boys my age. They seemed to be a little wiser, more interesting, and certainly easier on the eyes. But now, I was having some problems putting together words in any coherent fashion. I thought I was dull, far from clever and probably not very funny.

This was perhaps the first time that I was entering into a conversation with a girl with the expressed desired outcome to be potentially romantic. The approach was completely foreign. And it wasn't working.

At some point, I decided to just step back and stop trying so hard to impress her. It was so much easier to just talk to her as if there wasn’t any romantic potential. I found it was much more fun to make her laugh because it was enjoyable to see her smile, rather than trying to make her like me or think I was a clever young man.

My nervousness went away, and I found that I was really enjoying myself and her mere presence. Plus, she was looking at me with those big brown eyes.

Rick and I spent over two hours talking and laughing with Donna and Vickie. They were to be at Buckthorn the entire summer just as we were. Plans were made to meet again, camp telephone numbers and addresses were exchanged. They promised to come to one of our campfire programs and to definitely keep in touch.

As we left the girls to return to our camp I was filled with a sense of incredible vitality and sexual energy. Rick evidently recognized my pleasure of the successful first meeting.

"I think she likes you, Terry"

"Really, do you think so? Jesus Rick, she's beautiful! My god, I am in love," I exclaimed.

Rick merely shook his head and smiled.

Donna would prove to be my first love. We met several times, took many walks together, eventually held hands, told each other how much we liked each other and how glad we were to have met, and so on. During many of our walks I would share my expanding learning regarding the trees, constellations and the birds of the area.

"This tree is a Jeffery Pine," I began. Picking up a bunch of the tree's needles I continued, "There are three needles in each grouping, and if you smell the bark, you can detect the smell of vanilla bean."

Both of us leaned into the tree's truck and took in the sweet scent. As our faces came together, Donna kissed me on the lips. I had prayed every night for a month for t his to happen, but had not expected it so soon.

We didn't speak for many minutes as the kiss continued and grew in intensity. Eventually we found ourselves on a soft carpet of pine needles, never breaking the embrace or the kiss. The embrace and kisses were awkward, yet unabashed. Rather than embarrassment it seemed the perfectly natural thing to do. It was as if we both understood that while we may not know what the hell to do, it was perfectly acceptable to admit ignorance and find out together. It was safe to be ourselves.

Our young, passionate, interludes continued the entire summer, and at our last meeting, late one evening we found ourselves again in each other's arms. Yet despite our increasingly fevered intentions, we did not have intercourse. It was at this last meeting that Donna also asked me to make love to her. But either fear, the desire to maintain a kind of limited purity to our short time together or just understanding that a few years needed to pass held me back. I remember telling her that I loved her deeply and that is was probably not the right time for us to go any further than we had at that point. I remember distinctly Donna saying nothing to me for a long time as she looked into my eyes and stroked my hair.

Finally, she broke the silence, rested her head on my chest and said, "Terry, I think I will always love you."

We then tickled each other until we feared our laughter might reveal our hiding place to anyone nearby. We dressed, walked slowly to her cabin, embraced and kissed each other one last time. I promised to write when school started again, turned and walked with a full heart back to my tent.

When the school year began we exchanged several letters and spoke on the phone a couple of times. I don't remember who stopped writing first, but I never saw her again. Each time I pass through Banning on the freeway to Palm Springs, or when ever I smell the bark of a Jeffery Pine tree, I feel the presence of a young fifteen year old girl with long brown hair and her promise of always loving me. Without a doubt, there remains in me a particular love for Donna, (or perhaps the memory of her) and occasionally dream of our first and last meetings.

I hope she dreams those sweet dreams as well.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Three

2006-06-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

I was such a wimp.
As before, start from the beginning before reading this section. Thanks.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART THREE

Saturday morning arrived.

Much too early.

Everyone had talked about the previous evening's events well into the night and after finding another six pack of dad-beer, I learned the deep, personal meaning of the words "first hangover", with incredible insight. Breakfast was a Snickers bar which after downing I made very serious plans to sleep a few more hours when suddenly, Rick came back into the tent. Jumping upon his bunk and he loudly proclaimed, "The time is nigh, there is diabolical adventure awaiting us, my young charge!"

I simply groaned in protest, hoping he would simply shut up. His flair for the dramatic was wearing thin.

"You will arise from the ashes of experience like the Phoenix. There are mysteries to share and secrets to create. I am going to show you something today very few lads of your few years have witnessed," he continued.

Again, I said nothing, certain that he had finished the rest of the demon Budweiser and hoped he would re-create right before my aching eyes Ray Milland's performance in "The Lost Weekend."

The passing out cold part.

"I will give you one hour to bathe your putrid smelling flesh and get dressed in anything except a Boy Scout uniform, and to meet me at the rifle range. And oh yes, bring your hiking boots. You are about to follow the yellow brick road to Oz. We are crossing over to the promised land. I am going to reveal to you the secret trail to Camp Buckthorn!" The last few words were spoken inches from my face in a tone of hushed reverence. Knowing the full impact this would have on me, he leaped up and flung open our tent flaps, laughing wildly as he headed for the shower room.

I rose from my bunk on one elbow and grinned as if I been handed the keys to a brand new 1969 Mustang Convertible. Camp Buckthorn. The magic in that name echoed in my surprisingly clearing head. Camp Buckthorn. Twenty-six miles away if you traveled the winding mountain roads which lead to its closely guarded gates. Camp Buckthorn. The existence of a secret trail to its outlying environs had been speculated on for many years, which would reduce the traveling distance to only two miles. Camp Buckthorn. The closest camp in the area where it was well renown to inhabit that creature which held much interest, yet a great deal of mystery to me; girls.

As I made my way to the showers, I resolved to speak frankly with my parents next weekend and confess my old transgressions. I further resolved to create new ones just two miles away.

The trail, as revealed to me by Rick, was located near our camp lake and beyond the rifle range by several hundred yards. If one were not actually looking closely, it would be very easy to miss. The entire hike lasted only about forty-fivw minutes, but as we rounded the last switchback and our eyes rested on the roof tops of the Buckthorn cabins, I knew I was a world away from where our journey had begun.

I could hear voices and laughter wafting through the trees, many of which were immediately identifiable as belonging to females. My heart was pounding in my throat as Rick and I sauntered closer. I attempted to appear as if I had been a longtime Buckthorn resident, but as we encountered the first group of girls, it was quite obvious that we were outsiders. Maybe it our hiking boots or dashing good looks. Maybe it was because we did not appear to belong at a church camp.

A friendly, yet cautious woman who may have been twenty years old, came up to Rick and asked, "May I help you, gentlemen?"

"Oh God," I thought, "we were no more than ten steps into this foreign land and we have been identified as enemy agents!"

My worldly friend, however, in his usual confident tone, simply smiled and answered, "Why yes, we're looking for Vickie Rogers. Could you tell her that Rick is here and if she has a moment, we would like to talk to her."

"Sure, just wait here."

As the young woman left us standing near the group of young girls with whom she had previously been speaking and laughing, I turned to him and asked, "Vickie, who in the hell is Vickie?"

"Shut up, Terry. She's a girl I go to school with and I knew she was going to be here today. And if you are lucky, her cousin is here to meet you too."

Little did I know that Rick had planned this rendezvous for several weeks, and that part of the plan included me meeting Vickie's younger cousin.

Several minutes later an attractive blonde seventeen year old girl, accompanied by a shorter brunette walked towards us.

"Rick, you made it!" she called out.

For the next half hour Rick and Vickie talked between themselves, exchanging stories of the still early summer and the previous school year. I smiled at her cousin, and even may have said hello, I'm not sure, but I couldn't keep my eyes off of her.

Finally, I officially broke our silence, "My. Name. Is. Terry," I stuttered, as I extended my hand.

She returned the handshake and said, "Hi, my name is Donna."

Donna. This incredibly striking beauty had a name. Donna. She stood as high as my chin and had straight dark brown hair that reached her tiny waist. Her large brown eyes shimmered in the pine filtered sunlight and her hand was as soft as velvet. Donna. Her smile was not forced, nor nervous, but was proffered for me without hesitation.

Miss January immediately vanished from my mind forever.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part Two

2006-06-27T19:06:00.000-07:00

I really advise reading each section of the story in order. I have changed the names of the characters, slightly, in the event they do not want their names found here via a Google search. This section is a bit long, but I wanted to keep the narrative somewhat cohesive.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - PART TWO

The staff always arrived one week early to prepare the grounds for the city boy onslaught. I was to be in charge of the nature lodge, which meant that I had the dubious honor of de-winterizing a 50 by 25 foot log cabin filled with the ancient and moth eaten tanned hides of dead animals which lined the walls and high peaked ceiling. It always seemed interesting to me that here, in the nature lodge, a building dedicated to teaching young impressionable minds the importance of respecting wild living creatures, at a Boy Scout camp, an organization whose major emphasis was the incorporation of a wilderness program for city and suburban trapped boys, hung the stuffed and mounted trophies of large, vanishing critters.

On one wall one could gaze up at the decaying hides of a large grizzly bear and buffalo, on another the mounted head of a huge bull moose, and in one more corner, perched on a Manzanita branch, with wings spread and beak frozen open as if giving a warning to all that passed, rested the most beautiful American Bald Eagle to be seen anywhere. It was a shame that none of these species could be found, or were ever known to exist, in the woods that was now their permanent residence.

There were numerous animal cages and terrariums of various sizes to clean and refurbish awaiting the small animals and lizards that would soon be captured by the over zealous pre-teen boys arriving in seven days. I set up my own weather station which I had brought with me from home, the product of a recent science fair project. With the addition of a few other displays on soil conservation and wild edible plants, several colorful charts of birds, trees and star maps, the room eventually took on the ambitious feel of a mini-natural history museum. Once satisfied everything looked right and exciting I buckled down to study the subject for I was to expound on the entire summer. For, with the exception of what little I learned about clouds while playing with the weather station, (the one my father actually built) I knew precious little about nature. If the truth were known, I couldn't tell a Steller's Jay from a Mountain Chickadee. But by the time the first campfire smoke stained face looked up to me and inquired about finding the North Star I had learned a great deal. Fortunately, I kept up my studies the entire summer and will attest to the fact that by the closing of the summer camp session my knowledge was considerable. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and provide the early summer campers the same in-depth program that the later campers received.

Despite our assigned duties and responsibilities, our primary concern and top priority was the creation of our staff quarters. The staff was assigned one of about fourteen "camp sites," (actually just relatively flat areas spread about the hillsides among the trees), but was special due to the site's access to electricity. Our housing consisted of twelve family style, canvas tents erected on eight-foot square wooden platforms, placed in three rows of four. The most desirable tent locations were along the back row next to tall shady pines. In the middle of the day these tents were quite comfortable and cool. The other tents, however, were placed in the open away, from even a single leaf's shade, and were infamous for melting candles and warping record albums. Of course, newer staff members were assigned tents along "Oven Alley."

Two staff members were assigned to each tent and each was allowed two electrical outlets. With the addition of multiple extension cords, one could set up a fan, a small stereo, a hot plate and a lamp. If you were truly destined for ultimate coolness, you would install a ultra-violet "black light" to illuminate one of several fluorescent wall posters. With a little effort and imagination, a tent could reflect the personality of its inhabitants. Or perhaps one’s desired personality.

The staff area was roped off from the prying eyes and annoying commotion of younger, and certainly unwanted passersby. A rustic, ranch-like entry gate was erected from pine logs replete with a swinging hand carved wooden sign which read, "Resurrection City," in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King's Poor People's Campaign encampment on Washington D.C. the previous summer.

The final touch to Resurrection City was the installation of "Radio B.S." Radio B.S. was comprised of a speaker positioned in each tent and wired from the best stereo set owned by Keith Baxter, a bespectacled, skinny, nose picking, junior staff member. Keith later was to grow up to be a successful radio personality in the San Francisco Bay area, playing jazz and blues. But as the official announcer of Radio BS, his choice of music left a great deal to be desired.

Keith had brought a whole collection of 60's bubble gum music like The Archies and Bobby Sherman. One evening his albums mysteriously vanished to be replaced with The Rolling Stones, The Doors and Cream. After some covert negotiations, Keith played an entire summer of Jim Morrison only after his good copy of "Sugar, Sugar" was returned unscratched.

Each morning "Reveille" was followed by the increasingly mellow voice of the now cool Keith Baxter. "Rise and shine, children of God, it is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Rise and shine, greet the new day with a smile, and how would you like your powdered eggs this morning?" Suddenly, the sweet sounds of Mick and the boys would belt out "Honky Tonk Women".

The camp itself was actually quite impressive. We had an Olympic size pool in which you could swim a mile and receive a real cool patch to sew on your trunks if you did eighty-eight laps without resting. There was a small lake for boating and fishing, complete with a lodge to store canoes and other aquatic paraphernalia which we delightfully christened "The Oar House". Two large fire ring amphitheaters, large enough to seat the entire camp and special guests lay at opposite ends of the camp. Various simple wood frame "lodges" were scattered among the trees and were utilized as program centers or would house The Trading Post.

The Trading Post was probably the most important building to these youngsters. At the trading post, campers purchased necessary craft supplies, whittling knives and other important Scout paraphernalia. More importantly however, a city kid could find refuge in this wilderness in the form of an overly syruped Pepsi and a tasty Butterfinger. Since, as a camper you had to do your own cooking, I am certain to which, if the trading post had not been available, many of them would have suffered severe malnutrition.

All of this was spread over several square miles of incredibly beautiful wilderness. I often marveled as to the ability of these woods to maintain a primeval pristine quality after this annual assault. Yet each time I returned, the trees, the speckled granite rocks and the deep carpet of pine needles appeared as fresh as it did before the first eleven year old hatchet wielding boy on a quest for virgin fire wood ever approached this place.

Truly, one of the things I have learned about nature is its resiliency. Looking at the marvelous patterns set into the face of a weathered granite cliff or the ability of a fire scarred Jeffery Pine to prosper and grow stronger provided me on more than one occasion reflections of the insignificance of my day to day problems and crises. If something as simple as that rock face can only look more interesting and incredibly, more wondrously beautiful as time and the elements pound against it, I am sure I can survive this traffic jam, tax audit and quarrel with the wife.

The entire week was full of hauling tents, camp stoves and other outdoor living equipment up and down rugged hills and through the trees. But, finally, as Friday evening of this preparatory week approached, the camp director, a tall Mormon with a hearty laugh and sense of fun, announced to his very tired staff that the camp was ready to receive campers. The rest of the evening and Saturday would be our own.

Now this proclamation was not one to take lightly. I savored each word as he spoke. My imagination took flight at the idea that we as a collective group would have almost thirty-six hours of relatively unsupervised time on our hands - for there were only five adult staff members and over twenty junior members. The odds were in our favor that we could engage in some sort of mischief without fear of discovery by anyone over the age of 25. The other factor, which we took into consideration, was that of the five senior staff members present, two of them were between the age of 18 and 20 years old. This fantastic situation could not have been better planned for a group of boys just beginning to experience wet dreams and old, worn out Playboy magazines. The fruits of our week long labor would no doubt be harvested this weekend. Unfortunately, our plans would not pan out as expected but reap rewards which would be collected much later that summer.

As we left the meeting, Rick pulled me aside and told me to get my swim trunks and to meet him at the Oar House in fifteen minutes. The hour was late but there was at least a good hour of daylight left, so I was instructed not to waste a single second. Not having a clue as to what he had in mind I followed orders and found him a few minutes later at the lake placing two canoes into the water. Rick, being on the aquatic staff had access to all sorts of boats and other water toys.

I grabbed a paddle, took one of the canoes and paddled out to the middle of the lake to a buoy which he had indicated was to be our rendezvous point. Rick soon joined me and without a word took hold of the small buoy and began to pull the anchor rope into his canoe. I could barely make out a small white shape coming to the surface.

With one final tug the anchored ice chest was brought into his canoe. Unsealing its tightly secured lid he revealed his precious secret booty.

There, still floating in ice and muddy lake water was an untouched six-pack of Budweiser. "Bud" the beer of my father, and a drink which I still had yet to acquire a taste suddenly took on aspects of Solomon's Gold and magical nectar in my mind. Thinking that now was as good a time as any to begin training my palate, I gratefully accepted his offer of a cool one.

The first beer is always the best one and the most quickly consumed. This I had learned from keen observation in the presence of my carpenter father at the end of a hot summer day on a construction site. But the second beer is the one to savor and truly enjoy.

We were alone on the lake, the sound of crickets and bullfrogs starting to wander in amongst the soft rippling sound of water being pulled with each paddle stroke. The aluminum canoe acted as a resonator for the gentle lapping of water against its sides. We spoke quietly but not often, and though our canoes drifted apart, our voices magically carried across the surface of the lake. We spoke of hoped-for girl friends at home, of school beginning in fall, (perhaps already realizing the shortness of this summer), and we began to talk about our lack of experiences and how we must alter that sad fact.

Before long but well into nightfall we met once again near the ice chest marker buoy which he had carefully replaced. The beer was now working on our minds as we drifted onto more serious topics, no doubt sounding extremely wise and precise.

Rick said, "You know if the war is still on in two years, I am outta' here. I am not going to fight in that stupid, wicked place."

"You’d go to Canada?" I asked.

"Bet your ass. There's just too much I want to do in this life before I have to exit the world," he proclaimed.

I thought for a moment and realized that there were a million things I still wanted to do before I died. But dying seemed such a remote concept. I had never let my mind wander in that direction before.

Rick continued, " ... and the bitch of it all is that we will probably get blown up by the damn Russians before we reach 19."

Rick took obvious pleasure in cursing out loud, away from the ears of parents and/or other authority figures. I joined in his pleasure, but did not have his expertise in the skill.

"Why would the damn Russians want to bomb us?" I offered, "I see no reason why anyone would want to invade this country. If you ask me, we will probably blow ourselves up and we will glow in the dark for a thousand years and the Russians will simply wait till then and walk in and set up shop without a single shot. Rick, its nothing but a waiting game, who is going to kill themselves first. If it's not the bomb, it will be the pollution. If it's not the pollution, it will be some drug crazed maniac dumping acid in our water. If not that, it will simply be our inability to get along. God, I do not want to die and don't plan on anyone else deciding that fact for me."

By now we were well into our third beer, laying back in our separate canoes staring into the full star lit moonless night. Rick raised up with his hands on the gunnels, smiled and said, "you know, there is hope for you yet. I predict a future member of the Students for a Democratic Society is now being formed among these pines," and began to laugh.

I was surprised by my seemingly radical stance, which I had suddenly taken. But I told myself, well, what's fair is fair and anybody can figure that out. We were silent once again as our mortality began to drift into our minds. I finally asked, "What do you want to do before you die?"

Rick thought for just a few seconds and answered, "Have an orgasm with someone else present, learn to appreciate the taste of scotch, fall in love with a European woman, watch the sunrise over a Scottish lake, visit Lenin's tomb, see Morrison in concert and climb Whitney from the west side. How about you, my man?"

My answer came slowly, for this was a very important question I thought, as if an incorrect one might be placed on my permanent school record to haunt me forever. The sex part was easy. Certainly loosing one's virginity was high on the yet-to-do list. I had little desire to drink scotch and I would have rather met John Lennon than see Lenin's rotting corpse. It suddenly occurred to me that it would be best to rectify really bad past sins before having to deal with the possibility of a vengeful, memory-like-an-elephant, permanent-record-reading God.

"I would apologize to my parents," I finally said.

"For what?"

"For lying to them when they should have known the truth."

"About what?!"

"For simply lying to them for things I did and either blamed others or not having a reasonable answer for events. Your parents don't lie to you, but to stay out of trouble you lie to them and then you feel like crap for a while because they probably really know the truth and just deal with it."

Rick knew the sincerity in my voice, "Well kids are supposed to lie and get caught so that you learn not to lie when you are older. It's just the way it works. OK, now what else would you do?"

"That's easy, fall in love with a tall blonde that looks like Miss January" I answered instantly.

At that precise moment in time, God, or the Air Force, was no doubt listening in. The crickets were the first to grow silent, and the frogs soon followed. As the realization settled in that it was suddenly very quiet my eyes were snapped onto a reddish, purple glow in the northwestern sky. The light seemed to fill the western portion of the camp as the glow moved towards and over us. Trailing behind the pulsating orb was an apparently twenty mile yellow tail. This large mass was followed by a half dozen smaller but similarly streaking red-purple forms. Time froze until the objects passed overhead leaving their shape and color etched into the upper atmosphere and our retinas.

Rick and I looked at each other and thought it was either aliens or the apocalypse, in any case our only words, in unison, were "Oh Shit!"

As we scrambled to bring the canoes to the shore I was certain that I would never to have the opportunity to explain all of my sins to my parents and that I would no doubt pass through this world without having experienced all of its earthly pleasures.

We quickly jogged back to our tents finding the rest of the staff huddled around a radio, listening for a news report of the certain end of the world. About twenty minutes later we discovered that Vandenburg Air Force Base had aborted a missile launch gone awry. The pieces of the rocket had re-entered the atmosphere causing a fantastic display for Southern California residents. It seems that God and the President of the United States had given me a reprieve and another chance to redeem my short, but obviously wicked past.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part One

2006-06-27T16:03:00.000-07:00

What follows is the first installment of perhaps a 4-6 part story that I wrote a bazillion years ago. I've edited it a bit, but have not taken the time to rewrite any major portions. I will post the first two sections today and then look over the next portions in a week or so, or sooner, we'll see.

It's somewhat of a "what I did last summer" story, but it all happened almost 40 years ago. All of the events are true and the dialogues are somewhat accurate...at least in spirit, filtered through the gentle sieve of time and sweet memory.

THE SCENT OF VANILLA - Part 1

It was the summer of 1969 and the summer of my fifteenth year. It was the summer during which I never felt so grown-up and realized before it was over that I would never feel so young. It was the summer during which I learned about the true nature of man and the possible nature of God. It was the summer that I saw the face of hate, of fear and of pure love. It was the summer of 1969 during which I and my world changed forever.

Each summer since the age of 12 years, I would embark upon a pilgrimage to Camp Emerson, a boy scout camp nestled in a primeval forest high in the San Jacinto Wilderness. The San Jacinto Mountains are located directly east of Palm Springs, California. This small range is unique to Southern California, for it most closely resembles the magnificent Sierra Nevada Mountains much further north. On the eastern portion of the range is an impenetrable face of jagged, geologically newborn granite. Towards the west, the mountains slope more gently into verdant meadows and valleys that eventually lead to the temperate plains of Riverside and beyond. The mountains exist as a kind of Sierra mountain range in miniature. John Muir once said that the San Jacinto Mountains were Southern California's own "Range of Light". When looking up into the crags and sheer faces of the many granite spires that surrounded the valley, in which the camp was sequestered, the comparisons to Yosemite come quite readily.

Camp Emerson was the only large summer camp for the Riverside County Boy Scout council, and had the proud tradition of being the oldest youth camp in the western states. A bronze plaque on one of the walls of the main assembly room proudly proclaimed this honor, which went largely unnoticed by everyone except the oak tree faced permanent caretaker, preferring the title "ranger", who made his home on the camp grounds. Each of the younger staff members secretly wondered if he was one of the founders of the camp in the early 1920's. On several occasions he had been mistaken for Old Mr. Emerson himself, whose picture rested on the mantle of the cave-like fireplace in the main assembly hall.

Two summers prior I had been hired as a camp counselor. At the age of thirteen, I was to be the youngest staff member ever in recent memory. But now, at the advanced age of fifteen, and a survivor of two summers, I had the distinction of being one of a very special group of veteran staff members. To an eleven year old Boy Scout, away from home for the first time, I appeared to be a hardened, well-tested and experienced mountain man. I knew that this year would be special. This would be a glorious summer.

My best friend, Rick Palmer, was sixteen and was privileged with his own wheels. At camp. God, what debauchery we would engage in I dreamed. Rick had been my roommate the previous year and we found we had many things in common; a dark, twisted sense of humor, a penchant for satirizing the Boy Scout fundamentals and a fondness of perusing the pirated copy of his father's Kama Sutra, the Hindu Book of Love and Sex. I distinctly remember, after trying to imagine that people might actually attain those pretzel-like positions while in bed, that there was a very good possibility his parents had indeed attempted more than a few of them. His parents, although a handsome couple, just could not be pictured writhing in ecstasy and abandon, making gravity-defying love in order to be closer to Shiva.

Parents were never thought of having sex. Regardless of the fact that our presence on this planet depended on it, each of us were certain that the only reason mom and dad screwed was to propagate the species. Sex for pleasure was no doubt reserved only for young childless couples according to our reckoning.

Playboy magazines were forbidden in camp. Despite that seemingly ridiculous rule, crates of them were smuggled in. Hoarding, but dividing the voluminous quantity seemed to be the best tactic in the face of surprise inspections conducted by the adult staff. Hidden copies would often be discovered and the offending scout would suffer the disciplinary action of listening to endless rhetoric relating to the evils of sexual fantasy by older men whose imaginations had left them many years ago. I always wondered what happened to those confiscated magazines. Surely, they were promptly destroyed to prevent further mental contamination.

Second offenses resulted in a phone call to one's parents and this seemed to be a rather effective deterrent. This was especially true if your mother was informed of your fall from grace. It is my belief that moms were mostly concerned with the realization that their sons were somehow no longer the adoring boy-child they knew but were being transformed into pubic-hair sprouting, gas-belching, girl-humping, uncivilized young men. In other words, reflections of the men they married.

Dads on the other hand seemed to understand the fascination that these books of wonders held for us. Questions regarding the exploitation of women had yet to be thought of, but good 'ole pop could be depended upon to remember what it was like to be a young teenaged boy. Our loss of innocence was an event that many fathers awaited anxiously. It was as if this turning point would create an unspoken stronger bond between sons and fathers.

With the caches of contraband safely ferreted away, more pressing duties were placed before us. We had a camp to prepare with very little time in which to complete the transformation. It seemed that it was forbidden that we would leave creek beds untouched, there were bridges to be built. Forget about sleeping on the ground, there were wooden platforms and large tents to erect. There were fire rings to construct and firewood to be gathered into large stacks.

What was once a quiet, pristine forest needed to become a bustling, organized and tamed compound readied and prepared as a place to teach young boys in the true ways of the wilderness.

A Red Cape

2006-06-20T11:54:00.000-07:00

I was a sick kid. A relatively minor birth defect went undiagnosed for years until it required major surgery at age 10. But until then, every couple of months I would collapse or become bedridden until the astronomically high fevers, delirium, abdominal pain and severe nausea passed. Books, comics and the gray-blue glow of a tiny screen wrapped in a monstrous wooden cabinet became my frequent companions. It was during these down times that I became a devotee of Superman.

How I wished, with all of my heart and soul to be him. Like so many other tykes, a bath towel tied around my neck served as the beginning and end of my costume, but that was when I was needing to fly or save the world. My younger brother, Jim wore glasses and for that I was a bit jealous because the key costume piece to become Clark Kent required the donning of spectacles. After feigning blindness, my wise mother provided me with lens-less frames. Suddenly my eyesight improved to the point of x-ray vision. But it wasn’t until my 7th year on this planet under the yellow sun did I acquire an honest-to-goodness Superman outfit.

On Halloween of 1961, Mom presented me with the costume of my true identity. A pair of old pajamas dyed blue in the washing machine, a length of red ribbon appliquéd into a rough “S”, an old sheet sewn and properly dyed to serve as a cape and a pair of red socks was all that was needed for me to become the real and only Superman. To me, it was an exact replica of what George Reeves wore on TV and what I saw on the pages of Action Comics. In the back of my mind, the costume was the only missing piece and it was certainly only a matter of time before super powers would manifest inside me.

On Wednesday, November 1, 1961 I rose early from bed and donned my costume again, this time under my school clothes. With perceptible confidence, I strode about the playground, fearing no one and keeping an eye out for others who may require my assistance in their time of need. But nothing much happened and after school, feeling somewhat depressed that a peaceful day had passed; I joined my brother, Jim, for the short walk home. Before we reached our front door I stopped him and drew him aside.

Looking all around, I opened my shirt and showed him that he was safe from harm, because I was wearing the costume. He looked at my S-adorned chest and said, “Terry, why are you wearing that?” For a moment I was surprised that he failed to recognize the significance to what he was bearing witness. But gathering my thoughts, I said in my most sympathetic tone, “I am wearing it…just in case…” with the hope that those words would explain all. He merely shook his head and went inside for our afternoon snack.

At some point, Jim must have failed to keep my secret identity to himself. After the third day of my wearing of the costume, Mom came to my room before I said my bedtime prayers. “Honey, I need to wash your Superman outfit now…we need to save it for next year, okay?” she offered. Reluctantly and embarrassed, I removed the costume from under my cowboy pajamas and handed them over.

“Mom, I really want to be Superman someday,” I explained. She asked if it was because Superman could fly. I shook my head, because I understood that flying was probably not going to be an option any time soon. She asked me why then it was important to be Superman.

“Because he helps people and always does the right thing, and he doesn’t worry about who knows about it.” I explained further, “he often does it in secret…he stops the bad guys, he doesn’t get hurt and then flies away before anyone gives him money or a parade because he knows that he’s done a good job and that’s all he needs.”

I imagined she smiled, because my face was turned towards the floor, again embarrassed at my obviously childish beliefs. She then said something that I wouldn’t comprehend for a few more years, “Sweetheart, you don’t need a cape to do that.”

With a kiss she tucked me in and switched off my Roy Rogers bedside lamp and said what she always said before sleep arrived, “Sweet dreams and may God rest on your pillow.”

That night I dreamed of flying, righting a wrong, stopping bullets and dashing away before the reporters showed up.

Holocaust Memories

2006-06-15T17:39:00.000-07:00

My wife's father, Henry (Henrich) lost his first family, a wife and son, at Dachau. Although not officially classified as a death camp, per se, the few stories he told of it certainly do not diminish the horrors there. His identification tattoo is visible in many snap shots made of him when Susan, my wife, was a young woman.

An innkeeper by trade, he owned and operated a relatively successful roadside inn and restaurant near the Czech, German and Polish borders before the war. After the invasion of Poland, Nazis forced Henry and his family, like so many others, to the Warsaw Ghetto. He recalled that many of life's basic necessities were in short supply in the ghetto and that cloth, fresh produce, meat, shoes and butter were just a few of the things that were held to be very precious and incredibly hard to obtain.

At some point in time, a pair of good shoes was traded with a German guard for a large block of butter. For some reason or another, the shoes were not needed by any of his family members and the butter would not only be appreciated, savored but divided up and used to trade for other things as well. Bartering was the primary method of goods exchange since cash was virtually useless in the ghetto.

When the family brought the delicacy home, they quickly discovered that what appeared to be a solid block was actually a small pasteboard box covered with a thin layer of butter. They were devastated at the deception and had no recourse but to accept the cruel trick and carry on. He bitterly recalled this specific instance because it was then, I believe, that he abandoned all hope and his faith. It seemed that he had lost everything at that point and could not envision any chance of survival. Ironically, he was one of only a few of his family (brothers, cousins, etc.) that did survive the war.

After being liberated by Allied forces, he met Susan's mother, Hilda, who had lost her husband in the war. Her husband was a German soldier, killed in battle on the Russian front, well before the end of the war. She had a young son, Peter, who recalls a few details about meeting American soldiers, some of them from a black regiment. He had never seen a person of color before that time and innocently thought that the dark color was some sort of military camouflage which could be washed or rubbed off. The African-American soldiers politely obliged the child's curiosity until they demonstrated the color's permanence and he realized his misunderstanding. He recalls being delighted as this discovery as he thought being dark would be an advantage for hiding in the night from the German enemy.

Another of Peter's interesting memories was of the time the Americans gave him a chocolate bar which through sign language and the GI's pigeon-German he came to understand was a special treat. Since he had never seen a wrapped candy bar before he began to eat the bar, wrapper and all. The Americans gently teased him and laughed which greatly embarrassed him. His feelings of shame are still vividly recalled.

Hilda converted to Judaism (she was raised a Lutheran) and married Henry who raised Peter as his own. In 1953, they were able to immigrate to Cleveland, where Susan was conceived and born.

Susan recalls being raised in a home that contained an amalgam of cultures, Jewish and Christian, German and Mid-West American, sometimes celebrating holidays for both faiths and eating foods from both parts of the world. Her maternal grandmother, solid German stock fresh from the old country, helped to raise her when she was an infant. This naturally resulted in the infant Susan speaking German before learning English some time later.

Even today, we celebrate a secular Christmas (from my side of the equation) and a couple of Jewish holidays and practices; the lighting of Yahrziet candles, for instance. Though she is a self-described non-observant Jew, her Jewish-ness is always there, like a soft hum or an underscored chorus. In turn, there is a deep appreciation for things Jewish. Yiddish is spoken with an American twang and latkes are sometimes served with salsa.

Last fall, we traveled to Washington, DC for work and like any well-planed boondoggle, were able to tack on a few personal days to the trip. With much anticipation we took this opportunity to visit the Holocaust Museum and spent most of the day there. "Visit" isn't the right word. "Pilgrimage" I think is more appropriate. Among other things, we wanted to list Susan's father in their survivor registry.

So many emotional moments occurred during the visit but most significant was when we examined the Warsaw Ghetto exhibit. The exhibit featured various striking photographs and artifacts including a section of cobblestone street that was traversed to access the exhibit. The stones were from one of the main thoroughfares in the Ghetto. As we read the sign telling about the stones, Susan crouched down, gently touched the stones and said very quietly, "Daddy walked on these..." and softly wept. I joined in her tears and answered, "He very likely did, sweetheart."

The heartache and grief that is experienced when one considers the Holocaust extends to much more than just the camps. The effect on Henry was profound as he began to drink more and more with each passing day. Henry and Hilda were separated many times as Susan was growing up. His relationship with Peter and Susan was always strained, never satisfying.

The tears that fell on those smooth stones were for the pain felt by her father as well for lost parts of her childhood when his actions and words reflected the devastation and hopelessness that perhaps never went away completely and certainly was never fully healed.

Henry died about 20 years ago with Hilda following soon thereafter. Susan's understanding of her father, of what he was and what he was not, has improved since then though she freely admits that she could only begin to grasp the even the most basic aspects and effects the Holocaust had on him and in a real sense had and has on her.