tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-345429552024-03-21T20:36:51.497-07:00Tuxedo Junction: Mewsings in Black and WhiteThis is a catablog of sorts, plus it covers many additional interests including books, ephemera, art, writing, gardening and other interests. It could, from time to time, refer to chickens or goats. Or stone circles and labyrinths. Or possibly Hangtown Fry.The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-62850470946588221972013-03-17T11:09:00.000-07:002013-03-17T11:09:12.545-07:00GOTTA MAKE TIME
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">GOTTA MAKE TIME</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This year I set myself some goals. Not resolutions, mind you
– they are made to be broken because they are usually too overwhelming and
general. We all know the usual ones anyway…lose weight…stop a bad habit….stay
in better touch with friends and family…etc. Resolutions rarely have deadlines
or a beginning and an end.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I just set out some goals, particularly to accomplish
some things that I have put off, sometimes for years, because of other duties
and responsibilities. Care for the ill and elderly. Make money to pay the
bills. Always something with more importance than the things I want to do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">My father was a bus driver when my parents were married, and
from that experience he carried the mantra: Gotta make time. Gotta make time.
He loved driving but my mom put her foot down finally on the time spent away
from home, so he gave up bus driving and became a taxi driver. Gotta make time
didn’t always make sense when driving a taxi, but he learned the city so well
that he could find the shortest driving distance anywhere (which wasn’t exactly
what cabbies normally do. I remember taking a taxi in New York City and
watching the street numbers go up - then down, up – then down until I mentioned
the fact that we seemed to be going back and forth instead of taking a straight
route and he quit doing it.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Take a family trip to any place though, and the mantra took
over: Gotta make time. Gotta make time. He would rarely stop for a meal, and
even getting him to stop for a potty break took some serious threats. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I was talking with Gary the other day about how I had let
a similar sense of urgency take over my thinking, to the point that I put aside
my pleasures for the sake of keeping my nose to the grindstone of my business
and other concerns. Which, to be honest, is no longer necessary. It’s just a
mental state I developed (like the cat insisting I get up at 6 am instead of 7
since Daylight Savings time set in. I reset the clocks, but can’t find the
reset button on the cat.) Then I realized: the mantra actually works in my
favor. GOTTA MAKE TIME…to do MY things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">One of the goals, then was to make more time for art work.
Fine, but this was predicated on some more short-term goals. First, to clean up
the studio and organize it. It had become a catch-all for miscellaneous
furniture moved in from other rooms while we revamped them, stuff from my
ephemera business that had overflowed, materials saved for art projects piled
up hither and yon, cartons of stuff that were my mom’s that went in there for
quick storage after she died. I also wanted to finish a small bedroom redo and
use part of it for a sewing room. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I gave the studio a week which of course turned into a
month, but in the process we cleaned out a large wall closet by the stairs and
put the cartons of family stuff in it…removed stuff from the little bedroom, from
which we had already removed carpet and replaced with tiles, and painted the
walls. Stuff crammed in that closet was sorted and much of it disposed of or
stored the hall closet, and fabric and sewing materials from the studio and
hall closet were installed in the small bedroom, along with a sewing table and
machine and with a lot of notions going into the now-emptied dresser. The other
side of the room was rearranged with a small guest bed, side table, reading
lamp, etc. Tight, but cosy. We finally got pictures on the walls, curtains
hung, and called it finished. Once the junk was cleared out of the studio I
purchased a carpenter’s tool chest (on sale, and this floor model was scratched
so I got it for a further discount. Gary is always embarrassed when I start
dickering, but approves when the price becomes so reasonable.) Everything got
sorted (except for a few files left to finish) into a permanent place and my
work table was finally cleared! (I did get stalled on labeling drawers, which I
must finish because I can’t remember where I finally put things.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Then – predicated on setting up the studio, I had another goal.
For years I have wanted to participate in an International Collage Exchange. It’s
pretty simple. You make 13 collages of about 8x10 and send them off to New
Zealand. One can be earmarked for sale. One is donated to a public art
collection. The others are exchanged with other participants and you receive
back 11 or 12 (depending on if one sold) collages by other artists. It’s all
for fun – the works are put on the website, the donated item joins a “live”
exhibit, and you receive a dozen pieces of art from all over the world. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4iVxoAsyj-hoKA5phEVSO26GUvb9EIMRvxVCSN1j6uSgqpi2OXe1vF1aTdEzb69r8jJ9yTgpiy84_s9mRs9EYQo4imfXRGeWGBzaI9_DxTwydvrycXfHORuDRICdnhS95Dxd3/s1600/astrologiae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4iVxoAsyj-hoKA5phEVSO26GUvb9EIMRvxVCSN1j6uSgqpi2OXe1vF1aTdEzb69r8jJ9yTgpiy84_s9mRs9EYQo4imfXRGeWGBzaI9_DxTwydvrycXfHORuDRICdnhS95Dxd3/s200/astrologiae.jpg" width="169" /></a>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.outofsight.co.nz/Dale/collage.htm"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.outofsight.co.nz/Dale/collage.htm</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I made the deadline the end of February, since the work was
due in New Zealand by mid-March. Danged if I didn’t make it on the evening of
Feb. 28. I sent them off, and then danged if I didn’t find one of them in the
scanner a few days later. Determined to “complete” this project I mailed that
one off, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Three goals accomplished in three months. Not too bad. There
is more, but I must remember: Gotta make time. Gotta make time for ME. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Some of the collages submitted decorate today’s blog. I
enjoyed making them so much that I will probably start working on some for next
year. </span> </div>
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The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-84604287172545008002012-12-14T12:34:00.002-08:002012-12-14T12:48:31.792-08:00Icky Sticky Christmas Tree Sap<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Icky Sticky Christmas Tree Sap</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A friend’s Christmas letter describing a search through the
woods with his daughter for the just-right trees, and the “pruning” done by her
goats on the way back through the pasture, reminded me of the remedy for
pitch-covered hands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It also reminded me of the days that we raised goats. Let
me tell you right off that goats are smart, endearing, funny, empathetic,
sometimes ornery, and very, very clean. They do NOT stink – except for the
bucks during breeding season, when they exude an odor that would fry your
brains, and engage in other “sexy” (to a goat) activities that the uninitiated
deem disgusting. Just ask a female goat – all this turns her on to be receptive
to the male’s advances. I once knew a buck named Don Juan, who lived up to his
name – he would kiss, cuddle, coddle, nudge and noodle around with a doe until
she was out of her mind with breeding fever. In other words, humans did not
invent foreplay. </span><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLMLNmax_USIXbyFlmcZlTdJiMSipSZJ3z9qdDug6voraPv5-1FirpKD9EDvkBnhWCTRfoIee7EZflUzmaYo-BKYIiHU1d1X3Ze_6xFPWpo5kflDMM1pr0QaVhJXM-zUkyeHg/s1600/easter+postcards+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLMLNmax_USIXbyFlmcZlTdJiMSipSZJ3z9qdDug6voraPv5-1FirpKD9EDvkBnhWCTRfoIee7EZflUzmaYo-BKYIiHU1d1X3Ze_6xFPWpo5kflDMM1pr0QaVhJXM-zUkyeHg/s200/easter+postcards+001.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They are also particular about what they eat, and where.
They won’t eat anyplace that they have defecated. It’s a matter of internal
health, to avoid parasites. They do NOT eat tin cans, or other non-organic stuff.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
do eat things you don’t want them to – they are partial to rose bushes for
instance. But they also eat blackberry vines, nettles, cockleburs, and poison
oak and ivy, which makes them welcome guests where those things grow. You have
to be careful when they are eating poison oak. You can understand the book
title, “Never Kiss a Goat on the Lips” if you think about it. Of course, a
poison-oak-free goat really needs a good smooch now and then. Take my word for
it: they are irresistible. (And yes, they will eat wood-pulp paper: it’s
cellulose after all.) And they do have a very healthy appetite for tree matter,
especially young tender fir boughs.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In light of that, a shirt-tail relative by marriage of
mine used to have a Christmas tree farm. No poison spray was used, and when
they trimmed the trees to conform to public taste for shapeliness, she’d give
me a phone call to come get some branches if I wanted them. I’d take the van
and fill it with young tender boughs that the goats not only liked to nibble,
but that they also would bed down on when they were fresh. </span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And she taught me this one marvelous trick for cleaning
the hands afterward: put a tablespoon or two of shortening in your hands and
rub it in, then wash off with soap and water. Not only does the shortening saponify the
pitch, it leaves your hands wonderfully soft. </span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExXRiT-f06KMp94fz6Q85PsEOtTf_NEB6PO4a-iGDsZqKmDitzis1O7r_-UkRXA0N9ajjrTrjtJBtadOiHLpipBqOZkh6ouxvpiGk-e_qBrSuOX44cf0PdURmjWcQcLeeFqgC/s1600/fir+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExXRiT-f06KMp94fz6Q85PsEOtTf_NEB6PO4a-iGDsZqKmDitzis1O7r_-UkRXA0N9ajjrTrjtJBtadOiHLpipBqOZkh6ouxvpiGk-e_qBrSuOX44cf0PdURmjWcQcLeeFqgC/s320/fir+tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A friend of ours owns a third-generation tree farm, started
by his grandfather and still being harvested and replanted in cycles. Our
friend has been falling and hauling and sawing trees for nearly 50 years. Once
he came over and cut down a dying fir tree for us, and when he was finished he
asked if we had some gasoline or kerosene to clean his hands. I brought out the shortening and he protested, but tried it. He stood there after the “treatment”
turning his hands over and over, and then said, “And to think that I have been
pouring poison on my hands all these years!”</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, if you venture out to collect a tree for Christmas or
Chanukah or Solstice or whatever and it bleeds all over you, try rubbing in
shortening and washing it off in hot water with soap. No hard scrubbing needed! No
stinky chemical smell, no chemicals leaching into your skin. </span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb4-NXCbMR-n8s7uDx4prJOddOgPVjTbgtr69nSXy4WAkg15A6LKvmmFq3NVLncVKlESDk1YWM_khDTAKCHKpnKW1r1pULpVn8Qaqd7qNY2T6BiBJQUQenTHshWopkbkWuFee3/s1600/house+in+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb4-NXCbMR-n8s7uDx4prJOddOgPVjTbgtr69nSXy4WAkg15A6LKvmmFq3NVLncVKlESDk1YWM_khDTAKCHKpnKW1r1pULpVn8Qaqd7qNY2T6BiBJQUQenTHshWopkbkWuFee3/s200/house+in+snow.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who knew? Now you do!</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Happy holidays to all, whatever you celebrate.</span></div>
The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-41256737474014786692012-11-11T18:19:00.000-08:002012-11-19T17:35:01.411-08:00Discovering Myself in Cronehood<br />
<div class="WordSection1">
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIAfa9P18bhOWu2-IpBEuPedVSFvgKhqlvS3YIHutrBK2rIwhiD5KaIU0CHDfRpjr5Gy6PdwFqXRlKXfDpqfetBz4j4hbR72cnBxsQYceARyQj5Xx1Wl7oIg_UQYH99o4XxCc/s1600/storyteller.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIAfa9P18bhOWu2-IpBEuPedVSFvgKhqlvS3YIHutrBK2rIwhiD5KaIU0CHDfRpjr5Gy6PdwFqXRlKXfDpqfetBz4j4hbR72cnBxsQYceARyQj5Xx1Wl7oIg_UQYH99o4XxCc/s320/storyteller.jpg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As
I approach my seventieth year, I am continuously reminded by some of my women
friends, as well as by publications dedicated to women’s issues and awareness,
that I am in my “crone” years. I am now of an age when younger women (and
possibly even young men) are supposed to look to me for guidance, counsel, and
sagacity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My diverse range of life
experiences have supposedly lent me a flavor called “sage.” It is assumed that
I have developed profound wisdom based on this nearly three-quarters of a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>century of living.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I
don’t feel wise. In fact, for the most part I feel confused, disappointed, and
baffled. I am far less certain of what I know than I was when I was in my
twenties. Then, issues were clear and goals were well-defined. These days when
I consider an issue, I am deeply aware that issues have histories, have sides,
have clear spots and murky areas; have, in fact, a great many human factors
behind their every aspect. An issue that I could hold up like a sphere of clear
glass four decades ago now sits heavily in my palm, a multi-faceted polyhedron
filled with opaque smoke and ever-changing oil slicks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Goals
were easier then, too. Anything seemed possible, with the long roll of years
ahead for opportunities to present themselves and for plans to proceed to
realization. Looking back, I realize that no matter how well one plans, there
is no way to prepare for the numerous unexpected events, disasters, turning
points, missed opportunities and choices one will face in proceeding down that
road of years. Now I see some of my goals as ingenuous, others that were noble
but that were shattered by the circumstances of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYpegXYQDaj191nodQkKwf3safPK5RSY9Smy4v-t5YPoeL3D8chEJ2-eCRjyPiIjlwladgcg2z6-xCqKn8P9w0qju_NthQ0wobGSAjfSAtSJ-2T7fUO4tgH_ilnoRe2VHxmLZm/s1600/kate.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYpegXYQDaj191nodQkKwf3safPK5RSY9Smy4v-t5YPoeL3D8chEJ2-eCRjyPiIjlwladgcg2z6-xCqKn8P9w0qju_NthQ0wobGSAjfSAtSJ-2T7fUO4tgH_ilnoRe2VHxmLZm/s200/kate.jpg.jpg" width="145" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There
is a quotation that I have seen attributed to John Lennon that is one of the
more profound little aphorisms that I have adopted, no matter who uttered it
first: “Life is something that happens when you are busy with other plans.”
Only the experience of years of living can reveal the validity of this phrase.
In most cases, it is a poignant reflection on what might have been. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">However,
I refuse to linger on what might have been. The depression brought on by
thinking in those terms is equaled only by its pointlessness. Perhaps that, in
itself,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is the beginning of wisdom. In
the end, whatever wisdom I have acquired has been through living, through life
experiences, and not from some higher enlightenment. The greatest lessons, in
fact, have been far too mundane to be called enlightened. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">To
be sure, some of those lessons were passed along to me by older women whose
advice I sought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As
a new (and very young) mother, I agonized over the decision I had made to give
my baby a pacifier when information was published that criticized pacifiers as
being emotionally addictive. My elderly landlady at the time listened to my
anguish, then melted it away by saying, “Well, I always figured it was easier
to take away a pacifier than it was to cut off a thumb.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
was this same landlady who gave me another tidbit of her wisdom. Once, when she
was extolling the virtues of her late husband and their “almost-perfect”
marriage of over fifty years, I asked her the secret. She summed it up in one
terse phrase, “Never go to bed mad.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"></span><br /></div>
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCRPURm2AJr2biCuDCpyyWKZvBgkKt9a4nBLuem1N87YkyCHfhtyxqSSGdphO849Jj3Qh47LGdkgHd2haUmF_McNP5JMMphASiRGJPqu6uZJD90vtjv2i2lWewZhlSx_nOLGs/s1600/losing+my+mind.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCRPURm2AJr2biCuDCpyyWKZvBgkKt9a4nBLuem1N87YkyCHfhtyxqSSGdphO849Jj3Qh47LGdkgHd2haUmF_McNP5JMMphASiRGJPqu6uZJD90vtjv2i2lWewZhlSx_nOLGs/s200/losing+my+mind.jpg.jpg" width="144" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Years
later, when I was distraught over the constant bickering of my two
young-teenage daughters, I appealed to an older friend, the mother of seven.
“What did you do when they fought with each other?” I asked. “If I intervene,
they both turn on me and tell me to stay out of it.” “Well,” she said with a
benign little sigh, “I just went in the bathroom with a good book and locked
the door until it was over.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Perhaps,
after all, this is the wisdom that can best be passed those younger than
ourselves. We surely cannot advise them on the larger aspects of their
lives...what career to choose, whom to marry, the meaning of their lives. They
do not want our advice, won’t take our advice if offered, and often our advice
is out of date. What we can give, and give wholeheartedly, are these tiny chips
of reality from our own experience of daily living. We can dispense them like
chocolate chips, sweet and palatable little morsels, or – in some cases – like
withered raisins that encapsulate a tiny bit of energy and truth no matter how
aged they become. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhPLlTAEwj1z5VFl9M37n1MwPAC__iEZ-M-tQKQqEr8VNhZKOvIOZel1tbMRTj7szeTGSthOq9nNdzQivreMsyJk7RYjs7GU4hZTcynvpreazaq0e0jO79KQHD3qg3ygLaKoi/s1600/crone+image+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhPLlTAEwj1z5VFl9M37n1MwPAC__iEZ-M-tQKQqEr8VNhZKOvIOZel1tbMRTj7szeTGSthOq9nNdzQivreMsyJk7RYjs7GU4hZTcynvpreazaq0e0jO79KQHD3qg3ygLaKoi/s200/crone+image+1.jpg" width="146" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Some
of my crone-sisters are adopting habits such as dressing in flowing skirts and
embroidered cloaks, with garlands of flowers in their hair and lighted candles
on their Goddess alters. I think what startles me most is that these
contemporaries are even calling themselves crones. Until recently, I have been
thinking of myself as middle-aged. Suddenly being inundated with offers for
senior citizen insurance, prepaid burial offers, and the obituaries of younger
friends, has brought me up short. I realized that I must have passed through
Middle Age but I failed to notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_5ZCSp9NrsxFKSqEqA2kGtMLLDORKeEYh4tGF2W7pQ0C8LPPGPD9V-0qRnuYd15EIrWvWKmLpcK_ZwjG4e8PkTnYJznBTA6lxTJE0Q5hD9URtDiwGbHnVWF6GtYz6fOQVAS1/s1600/bree.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_5ZCSp9NrsxFKSqEqA2kGtMLLDORKeEYh4tGF2W7pQ0C8LPPGPD9V-0qRnuYd15EIrWvWKmLpcK_ZwjG4e8PkTnYJznBTA6lxTJE0Q5hD9URtDiwGbHnVWF6GtYz6fOQVAS1/s320/bree.jpg.jpg" width="233" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Perhaps
that’s why I don’t feel ready for long skirts and garlands. I still feel
comfortable in the jeans and sweatshirts I have worn most of my life. I love
garlands but if I tried wearing one on my head, within minutes it would tilt
like a tarnished halo and slide into the candle flames, igniting my hair and
anything else flammable in the room. Heck, I don’t even have a Goddess alter,
although I do acknowledge a small piece of female-shaped driftwood that I stuck
in a rock niche in the garden, and I sometimes chat with a burl on the side of
a hoary old oak tree in the back yard that very much resembles a wood sprite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
fact that I have noticed, or adopted these images does tell me that I may be
ready for cronehood. I can only hope that it’s ready for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
</span>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-50346233688333590312012-10-15T19:02:00.002-07:002012-10-15T19:02:59.475-07:00News from Western Oregon: RAIN!
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Sunday, October 14, 2012<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Seldom is rain “news” around here, but after a
dry period from July to NOW, we finally had some rain Friday night. Not the
huge downpour I was hoping for, but a good steady rain for a while and a few
showers. There’s a Sou’wester coming in later today which bodes for heavy rain
and considerable wind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">This is the second-longest dry spell in our
part of the country in recorded history, the longest being in 1942. We natives
have been getting pretty fidgety – they don’t call us Webfoots for nothing. I
was so excited that I got up in the middle of the night Friday to look out the
window. It was wet, was about all you could say for it. No frog-strangling
street-washing puddle-making downpour, but at least wet. I went back to bed and
must have been dreaming about rain; because I woke up thinking that I felt
raindrops on the end of my nose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">But when I opened my eyes – it was just her
Highness, Fiona the Feline Princess, licking my nose. “Oh, hello!” she says.
“Are you awake? Then you might as well get up and fix my breakfast.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>6:30 am.
The cat won.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I did anticipate either running out in a
downpour to get soaked, or sitting in the van to hear rain on the roof and
watch it run down the windshield. I like to watch rain running down windows,
but our house has such long overhangs on every side that rain rarely reaches
the windows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">But I finally found a video (OK, accidentally)
that satisfies my need – or will when the “real” rain starts. Best of both
worlds and it’s warmer inside the house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><o:p><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FbvVoq-ZnbE">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FbvVoq-ZnbE</a></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Monday, October 15, 2012</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The storm failed to appear on Sunday, except
for about a five mph wind briefly in the morning. In fact, the afternoon was
mostly dry and fairly sunny, although we did have overcast all day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Today started off mildly enough. I glanced out
the kitchen window when I went for my first cup of coffee, and three fawns,
just losing their spots, ambled down the middle of the street. Since it had
rained again during the night and pretty much cleared the air of the pollution
that has been hanging over our bowl of a valley, I finally started the day
without sneezing my face off. Which Fiona truly appreciated. I have startled
her at times so badly that she ran for cover. Besides, when the sneezing bouts
started before I got her food dishes ready, it was gustatorus interruptous, a
condition she did not appreciate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">But things changed this afternoon. By 3 pm it
was so dark from the gathering clouds that I had to turn on lights. The rain
finally arrived. So – although we haven’t had the high winds (which we don’t
need, living under large trees) the rain is finally pelting down with vigor, a
steady thrumming on the roof (for some reason I’m reminded of a passage in an
Oscar Wilde story) and the gutters are (yes!) sweeping colored leaves furiously
to the sewer grates, which I hope were adequately cleaned out prior to this. I’m
curious to see if the street repairs done by the city will eliminate the “lake”
that usually forms at a certain intersection. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">A huge tension was growing across the
population as the rain-free days passed by without a hint of moisture. Now it
has largely dissipated. And my intention of dancing in the rain has also
dissipated. I put on some wool socks and I’m watching out the window, warm and
dry and relaxed. Fiona is, as usual, curled in a ball on the back of the couch,
which is covered with her “VIP” blanket. (Gift from True Value – it says DIY on
the other side, which suits her not at all.)</span></div>
The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-79581234775092023422012-10-14T12:41:00.003-07:002012-10-14T14:41:54.383-07:00Back In The Junction AgainIt has been a long time since I posted on this blog. Why? You might ask. Or not. Whatever.<br />
<br />
A series of events brought me to a crashing halt. My domain name expired, which I didn't know until nothing worked. I got that straightened out, but then more problems came along. My mother opted to have me provide 24/7 care of her daily needs. She just decided she wanted to lie in bed and "be served." Her doctor was really helpful: "At your age, you can do anything you want." So she did. Kept me running, I can tell you. I need not go into it all, but it became a full-time nightmare.<br />
<br />
We were finally able to place her in a nursing home, but within a few days of "getting my life back" I suffered an accident that, 2-1/2 years later, I'm still trying to recover from. Meanwhile, two of our beloved cats expired. First Tibbs, who just collapsed and died a few hours later at the vet's. <br />
<br />
Spike was the worst. He was one of those cats that just wriggle into you heart and wrap themselves around it. Smart, funny, endearing, empathetic (anyone got sick, Spike was there until they recovered, a steady "nurse-companion.") He had a lingering illness which the vet and I worked to identify and treat, but we never nailed it down and his heart just finally quit from the strain. <br />
<br />
So since then I have been trying to re-imagine my business, make many changes, and in the course of time I lost track of my information to access this blog. It goes back to the domain issue: I was using an email address that was serviced through the domain, and I never got that reactivated. So there it sat: visible and a source of frustration (meanwhile I started two others) until I finally figured it out. <br />
<br />
No-one really needs to know all that, unless someone notices the time break and wonders why it happened. <br />
<br />
So we carry on with only one "Tuxedo" cat - Fiona is still very much alive, although sometimes you wouldn't notice it. She more than attests to the "cats sleep 80 percent of the time" rule of thumb. Trying to get her to play is a task and anyone trying mainly gets a workout in frustration. Oh, she'll chase the thing-on-a-string every once in awhile, for maybe three minutes. Then she flops on the floor and says, "Bring it to me," and will bat at it from a reclining position as it whizzes past. <br />
<br />
This then becomes a more personal rendering of life on the hillside. There is lots to see and a lot to ponder.<br />
<br />
Remembering Spike:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It looks as though the formatting for this blog is screwy. Let's quit and see<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where is my book? Where is my beer?<br />
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<br />The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-1161934436707858902006-10-26T23:52:00.000-07:002006-11-15T08:17:52.820-08:00WHEN CATS RUN WILD<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/threestack2.1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/400/threestack2.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Lee had yelled a “word” about<br />the hairball on the rug,<br />so the cats were in the cattery<br />feeling very snug.<br /><br />“I say – that’s one big cat down there,”<br />said a reverential Spike.<br />“Oh, let me look!” Fiona cried<br />and then she hollered, “<em>YIKE!”</em><br /><br />“That’s not a pussy-cat,”<br />said Tibbs with wisdom rare,<br />“<em>That </em> is a wild bobcat –<br />I’m glad that we’re in <em>here!”</em><br /><br />It’s true. For the first time in the 15 years we have lived here, wild bobcats have shown up in the back yard and around the neighborhood. We can only assume that they are following dinner – that is, the wild turkeys that turned up recently. (See my previous entry on the turkeys.) <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/200px-Bobcat_sitting.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/200px-Bobcat_sitting.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /> Bobcats can grow to about 36 inches in length and weigh in around 30 pounds. Not huge, but pretty big by housecat standards. Their prey can range from insects, frogs, and rodents to mid-sized animals such as rabbits, hares, and yes – housecats! They have been known to kill deer, usually when they are bedded down. <br /><br />The danger of wild animals and street traffic is one reason that our cats are housebound. The cattery gives them 24-7 access to the second-story deck where, as you can see, they have several levels of viewing and resting platforms, catwalks, a natural branch to climb and scratch on, as well as litter boxes, cat beds, and fresh water. They have access through a cat flap cut into a piece of Plexiglas and inserted into one of the windows. <br /><br />The other half of the protection angle is the birds. We have many hanging feeders and a wide range of wild birds, and we prefer not to make them cat food. The hummingbirds that hover <em>inside</em> the cattery from time to time are at their own risk. <br /><br />Only once has a bird been caught around here. One day there was a flash of movement through the house and then a black-and-white flash through the living room and down the stairs as Spike went after whatever it was, followed by a horrified shriek from my mother who was at the bottom of the steps.<br /><br />I dashed down the stairs and found Spike huddled at the bottom, a small brown bird clasped in his paws. The bird looked totally pissed off and Spike looked utterly pleased but puzzled. “What do I do with it now that I caught it?” he seemed to ask. <br /><br />I eased the wee creature from between his paws and examined it. There was no damage and a quick identification explained the event – it was a Chimney Swift that had apparently entered the house through the upstairs fireplace. Spike followed as I carried it back upstairs and turned it loose from the deck, a kind of dejected expression on his face at seeing me throw away this exciting new toy.<br /><br />Perhaps the event of the bobcat will convince some of my neighbors to keep their cats inside. Although some of them profess to love the birds also, they are aware that their cats prey on our songbirds. This is an ecological disaster. Here are a few facts that I gleaned from the Internet, from reliable scientific studies:<br /><br />In 1987, Peter Churcher and John Lawton asked the owners of cats in a Bedforshire, England, village to keep any 'gifts' brought to them by their cats; owners of 78 house cats participated (all but 1 cat owner in the village), with the researchers extrapolating from these findings to estimate that the 5 million house cats in England were responsible for killing approximately 70 million animals each year, 20 million of which are birds. [PB Churcher and JH Lawton, 1987, "Predation by domestic cats in an English (UK) village. Journal of Zoology. (London.) 212:439-455.]<br /> <br />A four-year study in rural Wisconsin by Coleman and Temple confirmed the UK findings; 30 cats, radio-collared for various periods of time, led researchers to conclude that, in Wisconsin alone, cats may kill 19 million songbirds and some 140,000 game birds in a single year. [JC Mitchell, 1992. "Free-ranging domestic cat predation on native vertebrates in rural and urban Virginia." Virginia Journal of Science, Vol 43 (1B):107-207.]<br /><br />Richard Stallcup of the Point Reyes Bird Observatory estimated that of the 55 million domestic cats in the US, excluding Hawaii and Alaska, some 10% never go outside, and another 10% are too old or slow to catch anything. Of the remaining 44 million, a conservative estimate is that 1 in 10 cats kills a bird a day - this would yield a daily toll of 4.4 million birds - or 1.6 billion cat-killed birds in the US each year. ["Cats take a heavy toll on songbirds / A reversible catastrophe," Observer, Spring/Summer 1991, 18-29, Point Reyes Bird Observatory; Native Species Network, Vol 1 Issue 1, Fall 1995.]<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/liger.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/400/liger.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><H2 align=center> Hercules the Liger</H2><br />Of course, there are much larger wild cats, even around here. We have evidence of cougars in the woods from time, and one was spotted on the street a few blocks from our house several years ago. Now, <em>that </em> would be a site to give a kitty pause. Although for a really big cat, you have to look for a liger! (Don’t show this to Spike – he would faint for sure.)The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-1161223980247612852006-10-18T19:01:00.000-07:002006-10-24T17:56:13.386-07:00Printers, Spiders, and Green Peter Part 2Hmmm...being new to this blogging gig, I'm not sure what happened, but I couldn't post the rest of the photos for the previous blog. So here are the "visuals":<br /><br />Ann's type cases:<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/typecase.0.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/typecase.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/wingdings.2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/wingdings.1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />The fossil that had Bob so ebullient:<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/fossildock.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/400/fossildock.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The Trap-Door Spider nest spotted at the base of a rotting stump:<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/trapdoor2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/trapdoor2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/trapdoor.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/trapdoor.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Green Peter Lake and Mountain:<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/greenpeter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/400/greenpeter.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-1161222312013995202006-10-18T18:27:00.000-07:002006-10-18T19:00:21.476-07:00Printers, Spiders, and Green Peter<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/spikemood.0.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/200/spikemood.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />“You have been neglecting our blog!” Spike complained. <br /><br />And he’s right. It has been a time of busyness – a series of retirement parties for Gary, an annual gathering of our AAPA friends, preparing for autumn, buying books and listing them to sell, a trip to Seattle for the Antiquarian Book Fair. Blog thoughts occurred often but they have been…neglected. So have art projects, garden work, and other matters NOT including the cats, no matter what they say!<br /><br />Gary worked for Eugene’s daily newspaper, the Register-Guard, for 43 years: ten as a pressman, and the last 33 as a computer programmer. With ten years before that as a pressman at the Roseburg News-Review, he has 53 years of employment at only two companies. Not many can say as much. (Of course he had the usual teenage jobs before all that.) He was royally feted by the company, his department, and even by his pals in his weekly hiking group, who turned him into a human compass in a private ritual atop their favorite butte, Baldy. <br /><br />AAPA is the American Amateur Press Association. It’s a national organization for hobbyist and retired professional letterpress printers. With letterpress becoming popular again among artists and printers, I’d suggest checking out this organization if you are interested in printing. Many of the members are getting “older” and looking for younger folks to take up their presses and supplies. <br /><br />The Oregon Delegation of the AAPA meets annually, the locations rotating but always featuring a potluck picnic. This year we met at the home of members Bob and Ann Rose, who live on the Santiam River. Ann is the hobby printer – Bob is a professional geologist. <br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/vandercook.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/vandercook.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />I always covet Ann’s gorgeous Vandercook press – many’s the time I have suggested to Gary that we could have a press (if a smaller one) but it’s not the press that takes up the space, it’s the type cases and equipment. So mostly I contribute pieces of writing at the request of members who actually do print - although one of these days I’ll surprise them all and turn something out on the computer for one of the monthly bundles. <br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/garydean.0.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/garydean.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Gary (left) posed with our noble leader; Dean Rea – a longtime newspaperman, editor, and journalism school professor - also retired from the Register-Guard. Both are looking healthy and prosperous (not to mention fit) in their roles as retirees! Although Dean recently started doing stories and photos for a small weekly newspaper in our area since they had no one covering school sports. He maintains that it’s appropriate, since he started his journalistic career at a weekly. <br /><br />Bob has been busy collecting samples of fossils of flora from our region. It’s hard to describe his enthusiasm – rapture? – when showing a tiny slab that reveals a dock-like plant structure. “Just to pick this up and know that it has been there for 40 million years, and was never before seen by human eyes,” he enthuses. Of course most of his specimens require infinite care to clean and expose, and study to determine their place in the family of plants and the Earth’s geological span.<br /><br />While circled on the lawn for the annual meeting, one member spotted the web of a trap-door spider that generated a lot of attention. By the time I got to see it the spider had evidently grown tired of responding to fake alerts and it did not make an appearance, but its tunnel-like web was fascinating none-the-less.<br /><br />We drove home past Green Peter Lake, with Green Peter Mountain rising behind it. Green Peter Lake was form by the.…um….erection of Green Peter Dam. We pondered the meaning of the name, and sure enough, in Oregon Geographic Names author Lewis McArthur states that the name should be interpreted at its most suggestive meaning.<br /><br />Driving through Sweet Home I had a giggle at sign on a diner that indicates the intrusion of upscale ideas into small towns: “SPECIAL: biscuits with sausage gravy, and a small mocha latte.”The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-1158600990810540422006-09-18T10:24:00.000-07:002006-10-17T13:47:52.206-07:00CIRCLES, SPIRALS, LABYRINTHS....<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/Spiketummy.0.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/Spiketummy.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><em>Now, who is that at our door?</em> Spike wondered on Saturday morning. He took up his usual position under the hall table to get a good look at visitors as they come in the front door. Sometimes he greets them cautiously. Sometimes he has a look and heads downstairs, perhaps to return during their visit, and perhaps not. But in this case, he rolled over on the hall floor to display the lovely white diamonds on his chest and tummy - the ultimate friendly Spike greeting.<br /><br /> <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/DSCN0198.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/DSCN0198.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The three women – Nancy and Claudette from Ashland, and Anne from here in Eugene, are labyrinth facilitators. They create labyrinths for hospitals and other organizations and they were interested in visiting Gary’s backyard effort. After touring our garden, we drove over the Anne’s to see her more organic labyrinth – she had used Self-Heal (Dubhan ceann chòsach) or Prunella vulgaris, a tough Oregon native groundcover in her pathways, where Gary had used gravel. <br /><br />During the visit to Anne’s she shared some photo albums of visits that she and her husband, Ron, had made to places like Carnac and Gavrinis. Gavrinis is a place I have always wanted to visit – so much so that I included it in a poem titled MAZES:<br />(See the end of this blog for the poem)<br /><br />Later, Gary and I talked about spirals and labyrinths, and the fact the circles (and spirals) are found in the cave and rock art of earliest cultures all over the world. And as usual, I was plunged into contemplation about the origins of things and found myself asking: was the spiral conceived as a concept before people tried to draw it, or did various cultures imbue it with mystical properties after discovering it? Because a spiral is a very easy thing to draw, even though the creation of it seems a little magical. All you need is a fat round stick, a skinny pointed stick, a length of string (or vine or leather thong), and some smooth soft earth or sand. Tie one end of the string to the fat stick so that it doesn’t slip around, and poke the stick firmly into the earth. Tie the other end of the string to the skinny pointed stick and then, keeping the string fully extended, start drawing a circle using the center stick as a pivot point. If you have attached the string to the fat stick so that it doesn’t slip, it will start winding as you go around, and almost magically you will be describing a perfect spiral. <br /><br />Of course spirals occur frequently in Nature, from small snail shells and the Nautilus, from plant tendrils and seed heads (such as the sunflower), from cobwebs and snake coils and the flight of hawks, from whirlpools and hurricanes, to the shape of galaxies. And it takes no feat of imagination to transfer this mathematical beauty to images of both inward and outward spiritual journeys. <br /><br />Even Spike has some affection for this topic. When he throws himself down on the smooth hall floor like that, it’s an invitation to “spin” him in circles. He does seem to like it, although he wobbles when he walks after a good whirl. Whether or not he achieves any mystical connections from such a journey, he doesn’t say.<br /><br />MAZES<br />by Lee Kirk <br /><br />Six thousand years ago<br />the artisan of Gavr’inis<br />carved these joyous spirals<br />in this great slab of stone.<br />Superb as art, they still must be<br />regarded as inspired sentinels<br />guarding the tunnel<br />to that most ancient tomb;<br />mazes to lead the seeker<br />into the heart of infinity.<br /><br />We are not surprised to find<br />that maze, that symbol, repeated<br />at every place and time that<br />humankind has pondered<br />the greatest mystery: Life,<br />and Death, and Life Beyond.<br /><br />Petroglyph and pictograph,<br />carved or painted on the stone;<br />channels opened in the Earth,<br />or earth heaped up in sinuous mounds;<br />design on pots and leather,<br />or woven into cloth;<br />pathways and plantings<br />of boxwood or yew:<br />the message is the same.<br /><br />I once read the clue:<br />make all your turnings to the left. <br /><br />Or was it to the right?<br />I recall the words of the woman<br />(who would be startled by <br />the appellation “old”): <br />“If you’re being chased<br />by an elephant, make two<br />right-hand turns. The animal<br />will fall over, because elephants<br />are all left-footed.” Is that <br />some kind of key<br />to this amazing business?<br /><br />Was it some archetypal cue<br />that prevented the patrol cop<br />(this related by his friend)<br />from ever making a left-hand turn?<br />“Even on an emergency <br />Code-4 call, he’d make three<br />right turns to avoid a left.”<br /><br />In our darkest dreams, we run<br />through mazes with far too many<br />turns, and never any exit.<br />Our minds are riddled like the burrows of moles,<br />filled with tunnels <br />whose tall-tale threads<br />are tabled in our memory.<br /><br />On Iron Mountain we discovered<br />inscrutable etchings in cold, damp earth.<br />Some ancient map? Ah, yes and no!<br />the tunnels of pocket gophers,<br />bottoms left, the tops dissolved<br />with the melting of the snow.<br /><br />Animals and humans; we use<br />these labyrinths to confound<br />our enemies, to confront our fears.<br />What comes next we have yet<br />to learn, nor can we know<br />if the path of the maze<br />leads truly to the core.<br /><br />The artist of Gavr’inis<br />carved his faith<br />in these ebullient sworls:<br />the joy of being alive,<br />in site of living in doubt.The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34542955.post-1158458895668288022006-09-16T18:43:00.000-07:002006-09-20T01:02:00.086-07:00The Tails of Two Kitties<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/pals.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/pals.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"Look," said Fiona. "What is that in our front yard?"<br /><br /><em>What indeed</em> thought Spike, peering through the window. His spirit sagged a bit. Since Fiona had joined the household at the age of 5 months, Spike had been the Wise Big Uncle. Hadn't he taught her the fine arts of grooming, polishing her fur and even licking inside her ears and between her toes? Hadn't he coached her on the etiquette of wrestling - when to submit and when to assume power? (Admittedly, this game had changed somewhat as she grew older - and larger!) Hadn't he taught her what was allowed in the house and what was not - and how to get out of trouble if you did what was not?<br /><br />But now, here he was being asked to tell her what <em>those creatures</em> in the front yard were, and he was mystified. They were like nothing he had seen before.<br /><br />"Well," he said finally. "They walk on two legs and they appear to have feathers. So I assume that they are some sort of birds."<br /><br />"Oh," Fiona said dubiously. "But they are so much larger than any birds I have seen. They are quite a lot larger than the Crows."<br /><br />Spike agreed, noting privately that even if they were birds, he was glad that he was a housecat and not out there confronting these giants. Crows were intimidating enough, even when one was protected by the netting on the cattery out back.<br /><br />Here is what had the attention of the two tuxedo cats:<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/smallrowturks.0.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/smallrowturks.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/bigturk.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/bigturk.jpg" border="0" /></a> There were at least 15 of these wild turkey in the front yard. This is the first year in anyone's memory that they have appeared in our neighborhood. Most likely they have been driven out by the logging on the 80-acre woods behind us. Now they appear somewhat regularly, each time in larger numbers. They seem quite casual about it, strolling down the sidewalks, picking through landscaping, and crossing the streets as though they have done it for years. Nor are they particularly wary, and a patient photographer can easily become part of their ignored landscape by just standing still for a while.<br /><br /><br />They can still be traffic stoppers, though!<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/1600/manyturks.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6762/3807/320/manyturks.jpg" border="0" /></a>The Surly Old Bookbroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05155593529738375577noreply@blogger.com7