Clean Getaway

It wasn’t the warmest day. Grey skies precluded the sun and it rained off and on. I felt happy heading toward church.
Traveling at the posted speed of 45 on Spring Street, no one behind me, I see less than half a block away a red flat bed truck with a trailer pulling up from a construction drive on the left side of the street. As I neared him, he did the expected but unwise thing: He pulled out in front of me without even stopping and dawdle along at 25. The street is such that there are three lanes, a central turn lane even when there is no place to turn. I have used this lane to pass slowpoke cars, to their surprise it always seems.
This truck was no different.

I started around him. As I neared the cab of the truck he seemed irritated that I was passing him. ( In my opinion, proof that he was driving like a jerk to irritate me.) Since he couldn’t go any faster, he attempted to run me into oncoming traffic. There wasn’t any to speak of.
I pressed the pedal to the metal and more determined to go around him. He began tailgating and Gordo pulled the emergency break enough to put the lights on, and the truck backed off a little, and only momentarily. Then he was back, seemingly angrier than before. Gordo urged me to turn off and let him go. I felt the need to turn off into a neighborhood and just let him go by, since he was turning out to be more of a nut than I wanted to deal with.

I missed the first opportunity, and decided upon the second right hand turn. As I turned onto the street, I was surprised when the truck followed me there barely slowing down for the turn. Lucky for me, a grassy divide split entry from exit in this particular subdivision. In my little car the hairpin turn was easy to navigate and as soon as I entered, I turned 180 in my tiny car to make an exit. The truck wasn’t able to negotiate such a sharp turn even without the trailer. In this residential area, people parked on both sides of the street. Unless he found another street exit, he’d have to turn around. That was guaranteed to take awhile. By then, I would be long gone.
I love my little getaway car…

Continuing Ed

Our original Friday night haunt was packed out the wazzoo . Every parking spot taken every table and seat filled. I confess to being stunned that so many people are hanging out in coffee shops on Friday nights. Especially ours. Not on place to park even half a buttock.
We’re hanging at the ‘Bou on 23 which is a little out of the way, but all the same, its quieter here too. But, due to a service outage at this coffee house location I was unable to post my rant. As I consider this new information, after talking to a tech, it occurs to me that it might be why our usual location is so jammed.
At any rate, I’m drinking a half decaf half regular Fireside blend. It’s pretty tasty. On the counter in a latte mug, they are giving away small packages of mints in cinnamon, wintergreen and peppermint. So I took four packs of Hoof Mints for me and my beloved. On their board the question of the day for 10c of your order is, With what bordering country is Ethiopia in constant war?
Currently, I’m reading through three essay books, one on writing them better, knowing when and where to go deeper. Also the book defines the types of essays which, I really didn’t think much about. I’m hoping this book in particular will help me refine my future work and land more paychecks.
Another book I’m working through is Word Painting. There are times when this is more appropriate (like when I’m not writing fillers). I began reading it to add more color to my pieces. To me they lacked a certain amount of zingle, that element that makes them a pleasure to read. Some of my writing is as boring as police reports. Since it can be fixed with slight adjustments in thinking, I study.
It seems I’m always reading always learning. I think that’s what keeps me mentally sharp although some days I feel as sharp as dirt. I like to answer trivia questions sometimes. The one at ‘Bou is usually fun. The answer for the one today is Eritrea.
What about you? What are you learning about?

In Recognition...

I have a friend who uses one of his awards for a door stop. I've always liked that about him. He's about as self deprecating as I am.

We all know there are awards out there that, when they are granted, the ceremony is televised. Some people work their entire lives hoping to achieve some kind of recognition. Many of us work in less visible jobs, behind the scenes just doing our thing. I am definitely one of those. I didn't want to go into acting because I am not a spot light kind of girl. The camera doesn't like me as well as some others, I have a pretty typical body type that even when I work out looks like I need to work out and my hair is perfectly fine every single day except when it might be photographed. Fortunately, that look is "in".
I dreamed up every excuse to avoid attending the ceremony that wanted to award me for some act of benevolence I barely recall. But the woman who called me is so dear, and I like her so much, I said if my plans changed, I would reconsider.

Then my plans changed. Realizing I'm fresh out of excuses, I reconsider the award, and attend the ceremony which is more about the kids and their accomplishments. Thre of them speak about two unconventional schools in my county. How it worked for them. When someone is into their third year with only 5 credits and they suddenly catch a vision for their future, they conquered subjects that were previously ruining their self-esteem.

Some of them were growing by being around horses, others were doing it by being around art. They were able to get through their tough times, get their credits and graduate. The next thing they know, they have 10 credits in a year and graduation is actually on the horizon instead of a pipe dream.

It always blows my mind to hear about the 180 degree turnaround.

The first part of hopeless is still hope.

I believe in long shots, underdogs and against all odds. Every time somebody comes back from the edge of almost didn't make it my belief is confirmed.

And even hearing that would have been payment enough for me.

But, they gave me a beautiful MVP certificate and an even more beautiful diamond shaped crystal with Brilliant engraved in it.

You know what?

A pat on the back is a nice experience every now and again.

Thanks, I needed that.

In the Beginning

Have I always loved beginnings? Sometimes not. Beginnings are fraught also with many unknowns, many hiddens. The beginning of a baby’s life, when every dream could still be realized, every hope fulfilled and the most amazing life any two parents could imagine seems possible. The beginning of a trip when it is full of unrealistic fantastical promise. The beginning of a book, like a new love interest before you get to know them: Both are perfect .
At the beginning of a new job I envied those already comfortable there, already in the flow, already taking their jobs for granted. In a new city, I envied those who made themselves right at home wherever they were making it look as though they had always been there, living their lives.
I don’t always despise beginnings. On the mornings that I was first to walk the beach, or only thought so because the ocean erased all traces of those who had gone before me, I felt like the only person in the world at the beginning of time.
I’m three years into a writing career and every time I pull out a new notebook or click on the new page in Word, I restart, begin again. Every story, every article every essay. Maybe it is the continuous supply of new beginnings that keeps me interested.
What are you beginning?

Do You?

Why do you write? A question as old as writing itself. A question with as many answers as writers. Instead, let me ask not why you write, but do you like writing?
I read this morning in a work shopping book by Alan Ziegler that he like to have written, a sentiment shared by Dorothy Parker.
When I was an artist, I loved to have created. To me the reward dwelt in the end product, the mosaic, the painting, the photograph. I started to realize some processes weren’t as fun as others. It became a battle to finish the projects I’d started. I called it losing heart.

When I lived in Florida, I heard the phrase, “Getting there is half the fun.” I’ve since adopted this sentiment in dealing with all my creative ventures. It helps me decide if certain projects are worth investing in. I used to think I wanted to make stained glass projects. I don’t. I like looking at it. I saved myself thousands of dollars and a small fortuen in bandages. If it’s not fun getting there, maybe it’s the wrong vehicle for the trip.

I enjoy writing. If half the fun is getting there, published, I am more in love with getting there than being there. The Island of Published is like being on a vacation. I can’t really live in a vacation spot. It’s a great place to visit and absorb the local flavor, but the novelty wears off all too soon. Besides, if you live there, it’s no longer a vacation, it’s home.

I do like to have written. Somewhere hidden in my computer is an ever growing file of essays that I hope to polish for submission this year, one for every working day. It’s only May. I think I can get my 13 in play and make my goal of 100 submissions.
So back to the question: Do you like to write?

So We Could

Since we became a nation over 200 years ago, how many people have given their lives so we could remain a free country? In Ohio alone over 175 men and women have died for it.

Since the Constitution was written guaranteeing our freedom, how many of our rights have we given away? I get disgusted with politicians and lawmakers. What new laws? But if I don't pay attention, they will take what I am not willing to give.

If we shut down the Christians, who will pray for our country?

If we silence the writers, who will speak about injustice?

If we don't care for our brothers, who will care about us?

If we are at war with each other, how can we have peace elsewhere?

If you are free to worship and free to travel, thank a soldier.

If you can walk down the street and don't worry about car bombs on your street, or any street on your map of destinies, thank a soldier.

If you sleep at night, expecting a relatively normal tomorrow, thank a soldier.

They have sacrificed so we could be free. Let's don't take that for granted. Lets show up at the parades and applaud them wherever we see them. Let's write and let them know we support them.

We may not all agree on the war, but we agree on one thing-- those are our people over there defending us. Let's be unified in our gratitude.

Thanks to the friends and relatives that I've had the privelege of knowing, who have fought and or defended this great country:

Adam Wein, Robert D Wein, Sue Hagan Medlin, Renee Jemmings, Frank Hagan, George Hagan, Bob Weesner, Tim Ricker, Rick Siemienski and Faye Helfin.

And if I've forgotten anyone, please let me know.

Waiting

Not Ya Mama's

If you were raised in America, you may never have heard of Russian Potato Salad. If you try it let me know what you think of it.

Russian Potato Salad

1# thin skinned potatoes
Caper dressing*
2 medium apples unpeeled
3 medium sized carrots thinly sliced
1 small red onion chopped
1 medium green pepper, seeded cut into strips
1 can (1#) pickled beets, drained and diced

Boil potatoes until just tender when pierced 20-25 minutes.
Meanwhile prepare Caper Dressing.

*Stir together:
1/2 cup of oil,
3 Tbsp each: white wine vinegar and capers.
2 tsp of honey, (or Splenda),
1 tsp. each: dry mustard and salt,
1/2 tsp dill weed
1/4 tsp. each: pepper and paprika

Drain potatoes, cool, peel and dice directly into dressing. Also dice apples into dressing (prevents browning). Add carrots, onion, green pepper, and beets. Stir lightly. Cover and refrigerate for 6 hours or until next day. Enjoy!

Aloo Ka Bhurta

I thought of all my friends who love international food but face a holiday keen on typical American fare: brats, burgers and hotdogs (I can literally hear arteries clogging up like the pre-long-weekend-traffic on friday afternoon...) I occasionally enjoy a mustard/mayo potato salad, but maybe you're like me:tired of the same blase side dishes. Over the next few days, I'll share two favorites. Today Indian. Tomorrow, Russian Potato Salad. This one is on the zippy side. On a scale of one to ten, this is a solid six. If you like zippy make it as is. If you prefer less heat, leave out the red chilis, or use a 1/4 tsp. of red pepper flakes.

Aloo Ka Bhurta -- Indian Potato Salad
3/4 # potatoes -- 1/4 tsp. turmeric
2 Tb oil -- 1/3 chopped tomatoes
1/2 Cup chopped onion -- 1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp ground cumin -- 3 Tbsp Chopped Cilantro
2-3 dried chilis broken -- 1 green chili chopped

Boil potatoes, cool and break into lumpy mash with hands. In skillet add oil, saute onion, cumin seed and dried chili till brown.

Add potatoes to skillet, sprinkle in turmeric, tomatoes, green chili and salt.
Blend in 3/4 C. of water and cook till bubbling. Remove from heat and cool.

Stir in half of cilantro and garnish with other half. Chill till needed.
Is also good warm, and room temperature.

Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow. Swedish proverb

I have an 18th century retirement plan. After seeing investments bottom out, iconic industries vaporize and the dollar lose value, the point of saving for thieves seems pointless. I’ve always been a little concerned about a society that says, on one hand, don’t put all your eggs in one basket and then saves a nest egg. One egg. Can you put an egg in more than one basket?

If the goal for so many was to find a way out of “working every day” to enjoy benefits later, why does anyone die within the first year after retirement? Whose idea was retirement?

It sounds like an ideal adopted from the rich by the common man hoping to appear rich, and insidiously stained the fabric of the American Dream.



I'm a big believer of living in the moment. What if there is no later? What if later doesn't hold the now perspective all things remaining equal? How can I trust myself or my spouse not to have an incapacitating illness or medical event that would prevent enjoying the twilight years?
While I think that living the life of leisure sounds nice, I point to Noah and others in the Bible who worked until the end. Their duties may have changed but it didn’t sound like they were running from golf course to cruise ship, shopping their guts out and smoking cigars with their feet up for days on end.
“In most countries, the idea of a fixed retirement age is of recent origin, being introduced during the 19th and 20th centuries - before then, the absence of pension arrangements meant that most workers continued to work until death, or relied on personal savings or the support of family or friends.”
Income taxes were enacted at various times until 1894, but were not imposed after 1895 when an 1894 tax act was found to be unconstitutional. (Wikipedia.)

It seems that it was easier to help out your neighbor or your family when the government didn’t have their Dysart sucking money out the pockets and souls of hardworking people. When social security started, the ratio of people paying in and people collecting was 42 to 1. Now it’s 2 or 3 to 1. Add to that government pillaging, higher taxes (15 -25%) and social security funds aren’t so secure. What’s a safe investment?

Where rust cannot corrode your investment, where moths will not destroy the fruit of your labor? Economies crash, prices seem to elevate regardless, and a savings can be annihilated in one devastating medical emergency.

I’ve decided I don’t mind working until I die,
investing in people, faith and God.

The Butterfly of Creativity

“Happiness is like a butterfly, the more you chase after it the more it eludes you. But if you sit quietly, it will come and rest on your shoulder.”

When I hung out with artists, we talked about creative influences, we talked about art, color schemes, mediums. Only once in all the years I created, did I understand the word muse. And then, it had been half of the downtown gallery name. A Muse. Which I likened to amuse. Amusement.

Since hanging out with writers, muse is spoken about and gets taken a little too seriously even in Christian circles. That concerns me.

According to Greek mythology there are nine muse, goddesses who inspire artists, musicians, writers and poets and that these immortal beings are the daughters of Mnemosyne who were fathered by Zeus.

When a writer wants to be inspired, they call up the muse, or attempt to. It seems they are fickle. They don’t like to be commanded…
I once saw a movie starring Albert Brooks called The Muse. He gets fired from a writing job and suddenly hits a wall. A successful friend suggests for a muse. He rushes to get this muse and get his life on track.

Truthfully, I don’t remember how it ends. I just remember that if he’d spent all his energy trying to write instead of entertaining and pacyfying the muse, he’d have been farther along.

As I sit in front of my PC this morning, I’m glad to know the source from which all creativity springs. I never lack for ideas, and don’t have to waste time finagling favors from an overly sensitive muse.

PC Freeze

It never ceases to amaze me how a computer that was working perfectly fine one minute can fritz out in the next. Yesterday I wrote a scene in my screenplay while listening to Bob Dylan’s Blind Willie Mc Tell. It repeated several times before I noticed, instead of moving on to the next song. In an attempt to shut it down, I failed to remove the disc.

I couldn’t budge it to work with or with out the disc. Then my Final Draft program failed to work. I shut it down and tried to restart Final Draft. An error message explained that Final Draft could not be found. I hit the start button, the menu opened and I clicked on restart.
Nothing happened. Three times nothing happened. I went to the power button and held for ten seconds until the computer screen blacked out. It’s sort of the Vulcan pinch for computers.
When I rebooted, of course the computer recognized it had shut down under less than ideal circumstance. But after accepting the option to restart normally, the computer opened up same as always. Music program intact, my script changes intact.
How does a shut down reset a computer?

I remember that old wooden bridge. Our red Galaxy 500 whined just a little going up and the boards clattered slightly under the tires. My pregnant mother acted as thought the whole thing might collapse under the weight of the car.
Thankfully, for a five year old the word 'collapse' holds no meaning. It didn’t sound good. She held herself stiff as a corpse, not even breathing out. I looked out the window of the car. A silver blue river snaked below, thin as string.
“Oooooh, look! Water!” I said. My sister and two brothers crawled over the seat to the passenger side. Mother inhaled sharply when the weight in the car shifted as three little faces plastered up against the glass to peer down into the gorge.
“Sit down and stop moving!” she said through her teeth. I felt her fear in that moment. For a flash, I saw our car falling through the air. I wanted her to relax. Maybe she didn't know what I knew.
“Don’t worry, mom. If the bridge breaks, we’ll fly like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”
“Bang Bang!” the one year old said.
Mother’s eyes slid to my father who navigated the car to the other side with out incident. He smiled and commented on his brilliant son. She complained about the rickety bridge she never again wanted to ride over again.
Ever since then, I’ve dreamt of bridges falling down.

Minds Alive

"These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. From each of them goes out its own voice...and just as the touch of a button on our set will fill the room with music, so by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart. "
Gilbert Highet

"Writing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo."
Don Marquis


I only wrote one article and yet it reverberates in our family even now, before publication.

Riding Around the Block

I read an article this morning about what some writers do to get around writer's block.

All of them seemed to take inspired short-term remedies: solitaire topped the list, followd with going for a walk, gardening, reading, fixing an item that needs attention and cleaning.

I try to take a walk everyday. Sometimes that isn't possible and those days seem to drag on until I start cleaning. I clean sometimes. I'm not a neat freak by nature. When my brain is working in overdrive, left to my own devices, I'd ride the wave until it crashed. It could be a few hours or a few days.

Currently the house is pretty clean.

Even when I'm not blocked, but need a bigger bolt of inspiration, I drive to the grocery with no music. I take a digital recorder only to find I'm self conscious about talking into it.

Gordo bought me a table saw several years ago. I know he thinks I've forgotten about it, but I haven't. We recently bought new furniture for the living room. It looks like a larger room, in part because the books are missing. they are currently hogging up precious space in his office.

I have plans for building low rise book shelves that can be stained or painted. I'm a big recycler and have lots of scrap wood from a home construction site and I'm itching to work on the shelves.

Who knows? If I keep careful notes and take photos, I might be able to write a how to article on how to make inexpensive shelves... see, writer's block cured.

So if you see a wall of bookshelves, or a new wing on my house, I guess you can guess if I still feel blocked...

But tell me. What do you do to get around writer's block?

Blue Road

Where does a blue road lead?

The weather has been pretty unstable lately, euphoric and sunny one day with breezy near 70 temperatures only to plunge into somber greyness and rain.

While the weather is not the root cause of depression, certainly it can magnify it to some degree.
One friend from my distant past who never showed any sign of being depressed, ended his life.

But when you were down, when you traveled the blue road that seemed endless, how did you get through it?
What did you believe in?
What do you think of, lean on or rely on to help you?

Thanks for the Wonderful Day

Mother's Day is one of those days that I fall in love with my family all over again. Not because of the gifts, which were super. A spa day gift box from my daughter, Sam. Gordo gave me my own personal flock of pewter angels (Love Hope Peace Faith). He's seen me drive. He knows I need them. The Chris Tomlin CD is wonderful.

The biggest surprise of the day: A new camera (with which I've been spending a lot of time trying to acquaint myself). As soon as I figure out how to email pictures or download them here, you'll be seeing some amazing stuff. I can't wait! ( Thanks!)

But I fall in love with them because if we spend the day together, we eat great food and generally laugh a lot. They are too funny. I'm blessed to have such a great kid. With her input, she helpsme to be a good mom.
Thanks princess. I love you.

Five or Less

"If we encountered

a man of rare intellect,

we should ask him

what books he read."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Five or less:

What are you reading?

To the Ones

Pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt!!

You know who you are, you try to run me off the road, inflict doubt and derail my writing. I'm not quitting, I'm not stopping and I'm not worried.

And if you're wondering what this is all about, it isn't you.

Thanks for stopping by.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

Like A Mile of Climbing Roses

When you were a mother to me, you drew from generations of solidly Christian women and guided me spiritually and you always spoke the truth. When I was such a mess, your wisdom was like a pair of rails that led me always back to Jesus, keeping me true.

You never once condemned me. Instead, you believed in me, defended me when I felt the most alone. You sat next to me, rubbing my arm while questions were asked. You strengthened me to answer them honestly. You made it easier to do right, live in the light and stand up for what I believed in. Your love was like water to a parched land.

You helped me become a better mother, because you spoke in love. And when I spoke to my daughter the same way, it changed our lives. You unfailingly pointed me to the Bible and its infinite, timeless wisdom and sound experience.
You helped me through the most tragic parts of my life. Your words were like bandages on the wounds of my soul. Because of what you faithfully sowed in that ploughed-up soil of my heart, beauty grew there, love abounded and loyalty blossomed like a mile of climbing roses.

You helped me find my way, my voice and the love of my life. Because of the seeds you planted I will continue to grow into a better friend, mother and wife. Because you loved me, you added so much to my life.

Thank you for taking the time.
Thank you, Vera Hassell, for being a mother to me. Happy Mother's Day!

The Long View

Preserving Innocence. What is innocence?

From my perspective, the loss of it it complete when one realizes that the
world is not always good or fair and all of its dwellers are not benevolent.

I've heard people talk about protecting the innocence of children as though we are depriving them of much-needed knowledge. Is this true in every case? As parents and guardians isn't it our job to do everything in our power to protect their youth?

Do we have to allow various groups to plough up the soil of trust to have misinformation planted in the minds of the next generation?
Who is guarding their minds?

A Sailboat Story

My friend wanted me to tell you this story because we were talking about the tailor made blessings from the Lord.
It started a couple of weeks ago when a covenant bible study group was talking about icons of faith.
My mind went to icons of people, specifically the image of a sailboat always reminding me of my dad.
Not long after that, my father passed away.
A few weeks after he was gone, I wrote a poem called My Dad is a Sailboat. I was very happy with the way it turned out.

Two months after he was gone, when two brothers and I were sorting through stuff, the kids went through a box of Indian beads and related items. Sam ended up with the bulk of it.

However, the day we came home with those personal belongings, we were still raw with emotion and a strange obsessive materialism that wasn’t me. I didn’t NEED the stuff I’d brought home. It was as though I was looking for him in those items.

“Mom, I found something I bet you’ll like.” Sam held up a little brass sculpture about 2 ½ inches tall.

A sailboat. When I saw it, I knew I didn’t need anything else.

And really, I didn’t need the sailboat, but I like it and will remember him every time I see it.
Sam and I called that a postcard from Heaven. Peace replaces the weird materialism.

Anyway, that’s the story. I hope you liked it.

Rain Power

I'd just returned home when the rain really started coming down. I like the sound of rain. I like sleeping with the window open and listening to it tapping the aluminum spouting and dripping off the lilac foliage and the shushing sound it makes when cars drive on wet roads.
I'd settled into bed, pulled up the sheets and began winding down.

And then it happened.
The sound of rain tapping and dripping became magnified when all other competing sounds flat lined. The power had gone out. Instead of fading quickly to Nature's sweet lullaby, I began worrying.

What if the sump pump fills up before the power comes on? What about taking showers in the morning, and breakfast? What about coffee? How will my we get the car out of the garage? I drifted off to a sweet sleep between 11 and 12, still no power.

A few hours later, I awoke alert enough to notice the rain had stopped. I resumed my worrying, I heard the sump pump kick on, run and shut off. I looked to see the night light on down the hall.

I turned over, drifting back to blissful repose. I'd overdone my work out--the first in just over two months. Every muscle throbbed and ached.

But the power was back and I went to sleep anyway.

Gratified

Our yard is pretty good size if you consider that we use a walking mower to cut it. I find it truly gratifying to mow the yard.We divvy it up between three people and each shear a portion. Sam and I split the backyard. Sometimes, if I can get the lawnmower to turn over, she and I cut together, like a contest. Her area rolls uphill to the lilac bushes which are in full bloom. I don’t want to remind her, full of big, fat, lilac-overdosed, lethargic bumble bees.

My portion meets the pines whose fragrance I enjoy immensely but she doesn’t want to be near, because she thinks pines are full of ticks. (I have had no incidences) at any rate, I find yard work therapeutic and satisfying because of the instant gratification. There's the visual: you can see it’s been cut, the fragrance of cut grass and the mental satisfaction of knowing you've lopped the heads off of hundreds of blasted dandelions.

I try not to think about them sending out longer and longer taproots or the fact that they bud closer to the ground the second time, thereby missing the blades altogether.

Instead I focus in the moment, the lawn with grass as smooth an even as pool table felt. And a tall glass of iced peach tea for a job well done.

Thoughts on May 4th at Kent

There are two things etched into my brain about May 4th. The runaway girl's screaming face over the body of one victim, and the CSNY song, of which you will find neither here.

But feel free to visit my blog bud to see both.

OSU did not accept me into their interior design program. A week later, a letter from Kent State arrived.

"You've been accepted..."

In Ohio it was still on the consciousness of everyone. My youngest brother was an infant when it happened. When I came home for Christmas break in 1981, my then 12-year-old brother asked me a question that through me for a loop.

"Why are you going to a school where they are shooting people?"

"Is that what you think? That they are still shooting at people there?"

"Well, yeah."

"No. It was a day that happened over ten years ago."

I could tell by the look on his face, he didn't believe me. And he worried about me going back.

On campus, one of the guys from Verder Hall silkscreened one color t-shirts with a bull's eye on the front and back. Above the targets were the words: Kent State Student. I don't know if he sold many or got shut down.

I didn't think they were funny, and told him he was sick. But, some were determined never to forget.

Once I was leaving English class and walking around the student center for a change of pace. On the ground someone had taped the outline of a body on the ground. Everyone gave it a wide berth not wanting to walk on it. Music in the air The Doors, the Beatles, Hendricks. I felt like I was in some kind of weird time/space bubble stuck on repeat.

I wasn't there the day the four were killed, nor do I actually recall the day with any clarity. I have never seen the National Guard in formation on a campus. But I did feel a deep sadness for what had taken place there. I went to see the memorial plaque that was in the ground and the one at the back of the parking lot beside Prentice Hall. (Pictured above) My hall, not pictured here, was Verder, to the left of Prentice while looking at this photo.

I remember feeling so disappointd that the memorial for them was so small. I've heard in recent years it's been expanded. I haven't been back to see it, or the campus or Kent since I left. And the way things are going, it'll stay that way.

Bread of Mind

"Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested."
Francis Bacon

Geneva Circa 1950's

This Geneva photo was taken in 1950 while dad was in the Navy. The man in the center looks a lot like my dad at that time in his life, mid-20's.

But when I blew up the photo, the man is distinctively Italian. Not my dad. Maybe his photo tomorrow.

Fire Rainbow

The Fire Rainbow is said by some to be the rarest natural phenomenon. In a Google image search this same image reoccurs many times. Not many variations of the clouds, which have to be Cirrus, at least 20 feet in the air with just the right amount of ice crystals and the sun has to hit the clouds at precisely 58 degrees.

Photo Essay

Saturday I inherited a collection of negatives and black and white photos.

Dad was a Navy photographer and stored pictures in little yellow envelopes marked Official Navy Photograph. I hope they don't want them back...



Here's a shot labeled Beirut early 50's. More to follow.