Brenda's Arizona

Never bored

2012-01-25T11:13:00.000-07:00

Our garden is never boring.

Without a safety net

2012-01-20T07:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my trusty hiking companion, Shado, and I tackled Pass Mountain in the Usery Range.

Shado is a GREAT hiking companion. Except on trails you climb or descend cautiously. He hikes those with total abandonment. One leap, and he is down the descent. One HUGE leap, and he is over the boulder, awaiting you as you struggle upwards.

Shado is always on a waist leash. The leash is hands-free and utilitarian in other ways. Shado and I stay tethered. I am his safety net. I guess he would drag me to safety if need be. Ouch.

Photography was difficult. I had the wrong lens, no circular polarizing filter, too much morning glare, and too much scenery. And I had trusty Shado. We made it to the lookout, about 2 (? 3?) miles in. Then we hiked back out. Narrow trails. A few mountain runners passed us by.

I'm headed back out to Pass Mountain soon. Shado will go again, too. My trusty companion. If anyone wants to join us - let me know! We are silent hikers, we watched for birds and snakes, and we take photos along the way. Next time, right lens, right filter. And trusty Shado.

A song

2012-01-16T09:08:00.000-07:00

A pause in the day...

and a song.

What do you hear?

Pathway to the Secret Garden

2012-01-13T08:36:00.000-07:00

Mary: It's a secret garden.
Dickon: Secrets are safe with me.

from the book "The Secret Garden"

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Bokeh

2012-01-11T09:02:00.000-07:00

Word of the day:

BOKEH

Bokeh:

the blur in the out of focus area in a photograph.

Bokeh occurs for parts of the scene that lie outside the depth of field .

My husband is the constant reader/student in this family. BOKEH is his word of the day.

We are always learning here.

And 'bokehing'? It happens, too.

Sites along the ponds

2012-01-09T15:58:00.000-07:00

I will gladly take hints as to the species of the birds!

I know the heron (bottom of page), but can only guess at the rest.
All sited at the Gilbert Riparian Park, January 9, 2012.

The secrets of living...

2012-01-06T07:39:00.002-07:00

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living...

whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

These line are from the poem titled '53', by e.e. cummings.

Christmas sitings

2011-12-26T10:10:00.001-07:00

A day of merry viewing in our back garden.

Smarter than average

2011-12-19T07:48:00.001-07:00

It is easy to see that Shado is smarter than the average dog.

He plays hard, he runs hard.

And he rests when he needs to.

After playing hard at catch, Shado jumps up on the storage trunk in the back quadrant of the garden.

He rests.

He watches the scenery.

He observes his family.

He sniffs the air.

He catches his breath before pressing on.

And then he returns to leaping, spinning, flipping through the air.

Nothing is better than catching a high speed tennis ball!

And then, as any smart guy knows, you rest.

Last days on the road

2011-12-16T09:34:00.000-07:00

The last days of a trip always go by in a blur.

Even as a kid, I knew that.

I'd tell myself "I have to soak in every site this one last time."

I'd think of my eye and set my pupils' aperture to f5.6, thinking that EVERY detail would be imprinted in my memories.

Nothing could be left out.

Here are a few snaps of our last days on the road. The camera was snapping at everything...

Whether in a town or on the open road, everything deserves to be recorded.

These are mine...

until the next trip.

Remembering, at a glance

2011-12-11T12:01:00.000-07:00

Every trip has its favorite snapshots. You can just glance at the photos and KNOW where you were, what day it was, what you were thinking. Here are a few from the road.

A highway

2011-12-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

Life's like a road you travel on...

"Life is a Highway" is a song written by Tom Cochrain.

It is also the view out the car window.

If you're going my way...

Life is a highway.

Roadside Distractions

2011-11-30T10:45:00.000-07:00

Imagine the stories lived in these buildings...

These ruins remind me of lost puppies...

Roadside attractions in Wisconsin

2011-11-28T08:12:00.000-07:00

All farms.

Just farms.

To all...

2011-11-24T10:29:00.000-07:00

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

To family, to friends who are family,

to friends I have yet to meet, I give thanks.

Weatherford, Oklahoma

2011-11-23T10:25:00.002-07:00

Today's post is a history and science lesson. Our specific subject is Thomas Stafford, the astronaut.

Does his name ring a bell? It should, maybe, if you remember the Gemini/Apollo/Apollo-Soyuz space projects. Stafford flew in all of them. I wondered why his name was vague in my mind - not a "John Glenn" or "Neil Armstrong" kinda of name. But now I know Stafford as one of my favorite astronauts.

Amazing what a little education will do.

Why Stafford Air & Space Museum in Weatherford, OK? The town is Stafford's birthplace and where he grew up. But he chooses to start his museum tour with a reminding tribute to the Wright Brothers.

Stafford's museum includes hundreds of artifacts and equipment from the Gemini & Apollo & Apollo/Soyuz space flights. Here are some photos of the rockets and rocket boosters used.

Stafford's first space flight was aboard Gemini 6, in December 1965. The history lesson here is that Gemini 6 launched AFTER Gemini 7. It wasn't supposed to, but problems with Gemini 6 kept it from launching on its original date, and its next attempt also failed. So Stafford's flight is listed as "Gemini 6 A, Second Attempt". Yikes. 3rd time a charm?

Gemini 6A second attempt rendezvoused with Gemini 7 but they did not dock. Technology wasn't quite there yet... BUT, when Gemini 6A returned to earth, it splashed down only 11 miles from its target (an excellent splash down!), and it was the first 'splash down' televised live. 1965...

Stafford's capsule companion was Wally Schirra.

The all important space suit...

Trolly Tom knows its importance all too well.

NASA ground console.

Stafford also commanded Gemini 9 in 1966 (with astronaut Eugene Cernan).

In 1968, Stafford commanded Apollo 10. This was the Apollo that did everything EXCEPT land on the moon. It was the 'dry run' for Apollo 11 (with Neil Armstrong) and it included a lunar module. How tempting it must have been to ignore the rules and land on the moon....

Apollo 10 included astronauts Eugene Cernan and John Young.

From there, Stafford commanded the Apollo-Soyuz joint effort. Stafford is the guy who shook hands way up there in space with cosmonaut Alexey Leonov.

The all important ejection seat...

This pretty much covers today history lesson. I hope it has brought back some memories or encouraged you to read more about Stafford and other astronauts.

Our hours spent at the museum were such a guilty pleasure - I loved being a child again and recalling my vague memories of our space programs. Thomas Stafford's museum does an excellent job of reminding us all what we accomplished in space and how exciting each mission was.

If you get a chance, visit a space/air museum. The mystery and hope of these men will be unfolded. It is hard not to walk through the displays and feel the excitement of each program: Friendship, Gemini, Apollo, the shuttles.

These days, when Congress can't reach agreement on a budget, on taxes, on our future - it is worthwhile remembering that at one time, we had a dream.

First stop: Santa Rosa

2011-11-22T08:24:00.001-07:00

First stop: Santa Rosa, New Mexico.

Across the river,

The Route 66 Auto Museum

in Santa Rosa is fun.

Mustang Sally comes to mind.

The pink Coupe de Ville is certainly my favorite.

And then back on the road... eastward bound.

Tomorrow- OKLAHOMA!

Three travelers

2011-11-21T09:30:00.000-07:00

Three travelers gathered for their trip along Route 66 and other roads.

Major stops include the

Thomas Stafford Air and Space Museum in Weatherford, Oklahoma. Trolly 'Major Tom' is anticipating that visit.

Another stop is at the Green Bay Packers game.

We have cold weather clothes packed,

and Trolly Clay Matthews is ready for some hard hitting action.

And Trolly Priscilla is our tour guide.

Off we go!

A Girl Threw a Ball...

2011-11-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

I threw a ball into the air.

It landed, but I know not where.

(Toby has a better idea than I do...)

WHOOPS!

"The wind came up and blew around,

Would it please blew our tennis ball down?"

(waiting... waiting... waiting...)

"We heard a roll, a tremble of the roof,

He posed to jump, his paws aloof.

"He reached up skyward with strength and might

He'd claim this ball with brawn and fight!"

"He leaped, he leaped, he leaped very high!

And the ball rolled down, as if dropping from the sky".

CAUGHT!

"The wait was over, the ball returned to his glove,

The victory lap began, his eyes brimming with love."

And all is good once again.

Looking Back

2011-11-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

Maxine Kumin: poet, mother, gardener, writer, wife, friend.

Maxine Kumin: born just a few years before my own mother.

Maxine Kumin; Poet Laureate of United States, 1981-1982.

Maxine Kumin has become my newest favorite PLOTUS (poet laureate of the United States). Reading her poems is like having a conversation with her. Whether sharing history or gardening stories, you are there with her.

Maxine Kumin reminds me of my mother, Elsa. I know they could be friends, they could write letters using fountain pens and linen paper. Mama could withdraw into her world of thoughts and words, and her organized phrases and sentences could be second only to Maxine's. They would converse with only their written words, but they each would speak to the other.

Looking Back in my Eighty-First Year

by Maxine Kumin

"Instead of marrying the day after graduation..."

Mama married my father before graduation.

"...I should have taken that fellowship

to the University of Grenoble..."

Mama said she would have traveled, too.

"...I, who had never been west of the Mississippi

should have crossed the ocean

in third class on the Cunard White Star..."

Mama said she has visions of Paris, of Madrid, of Barcelona.

"... How could I go?

Passion had locked us together.

Sixty years my lover,

he says he would have waited.

He says he would have sat

where the steamship docked..."

"Would Papa have waited for you, Mama?"

"Oh, I don't know," Mama replied. "He was always impatient, always going places. I don't think so."

"But he loved you, Mama," I whispered. "He loved you."

"Yes" Mama whispered back, her eyes brimming with tears. "He loved me, didn't he."

"... Hand over hand,

flesh against flesh for the final haul...

...lover and long legged girl."

He loved her. How could she go?

Looking Back in My Eighty-First Year
by Maxine Kumin

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20085

Pure Gold

2011-10-25T06:46:00.000-07:00

"What kind of bird are you? I asked

and put on my glasses, the better to glimpse

such wing and color, such flashiness."

American Goldfinches

"... fly in hiccups, flash their gold, a flock

of such birds called a charm,

from the Latin carmen, meaning song."

- from the poem For the Birds: A Charm of Goldfinches

by Cecilia Woloch

Our backyard is full of tiny goldfinches. The charms are heard before seen; the songs are happy, chirpy, a per-chic-o-ree.

Look up, there in the tree - the charm is there. The glimpse of yellow becomes a wall of gold.

A charm, a song. Pure gold.

Sophie wonders

2011-10-18T14:44:00.001-07:00

The happiness of the bee and the dolphin is to exist.

For man it is to know that and to wonder at it.
-Jacques Yves Cousteau

The joy of watching the bees,

as seen through Sophie's eyes.

A seat on the plane

2011-10-05T21:01:00.001-07:00

B-17G Flying Fortress Sentimental Journey

B-17s were heavy bomber aircraft. Over 8000 G models were built, and some were converted to other uses besides 'bombing'. But most were bombers with 13 'guns'.

B-17s are HUGE aircraft. Massive. Five gunners 'man' the guns, and five other crew members are aboard. A gunner sits in a little bulb located underneath the aircraft. Another sits in a "bulb" at the tail. One above sits in a bulb above, and two more at the sides/at the 'waist'.

On one single Thursday during World War II, the aircraft took a beating. 77 B-17s were shot down, destroyed, crashed. 680 airmen aboard those B-17 were killed.

Randall Jarrell, U.S. Poet Laureate (1956-58), imagined the day all too well. He wrote a poem titled "The Death of a Ball Turret Gunner".

Jarrell sees the belly gunner/ball turret gunner in ways we can't imagine.

"I hunched in its belly..."

Jarrell envisioned the gunner facing

"black flak and the nightmare fighters".

And then the most sickening imagery:

"When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose."

NO! I scream. NO.

And I add one more PLOTUS to my spreadsheet.

Sometimes I am sorry I do.

Changing of the guard - er, birds.

2011-09-29T09:44:00.000-07:00

Seasons change, and so do the birds at our feeder.

This guy needs a lesson on his manners.

DON'T eat the tube that feeds ya!

The birds are molting. They actually look furry!

And what appears to be our first goldfinch.

They 'winter' here, so I wonder what this guy is doing here so early. Maybe the economy affects their travel choices, too?

Being an astonaut

2011-09-21T11:28:00.000-07:00

My Father Holds the Door for Yoko Ono

In New York City for a conference

on weed control, leaving the hotel

in a cluster of horticulturalists,

he alone stops, midwestern, crewcut,

narrow blue tie, cufflinks, wingtips,

holds the door for the Asian woman

in a miniskirt and thigh high

white leather boots. She nods

slightly, a sad and beautiful gesture..

(- by Christopher Chambers , as profiled by

Ted Kooser, US Poet Laureate 2004-2006

American Life in Poetry: Column 88 )

Are you ever surprised how a poem can stick in your thoughts? Not in a sad wistful way, nor in a sing-song golightly way. But in a "what was that again?" questioning way.

Just like brushing up against a famous person, a truly famous person... you can't quite grasp it again, but the poem sticks in your memories. My brother and I once ran into the John Glenn, the astronaut. I don't know if he was a senator yet or not - but he certainly was a famous astronaut. Illya and I had decided to spend a hot sticky afternoon riding the elevators in an upscale hotel. Up and down we rode, greeting people at each floor as they entered the spacious elevator. Illya would play 'conductor', pushing the floor buttons for everyone on board. I stood behind all the passengers, not noticable but noticing. It was delightful way to spend our time. Then John Glenn boarded. THE JOHN GLENN. Illya looked at me, I at him, our mouths gaping and weird noises coming out of our lips. I don't remember the rest... and I can't quite capture it again.

Just like Dad holding the door for Yoko Ono - the moment is gone. Does it really need to be remembered?

And thinking of astronauts... E. and I took Sophie the dog to a festival. Hundreds of people - and every kid asking to pet Sophie. Kids always ask "What is her name?". Their parents ask "What kind of dog is she?" We respond that she is a Gordon setter mix. "A what setter?" We are asked over and over. Gordon. Like in.... Like in Gordon Cooper, the astronaut!!!

That answer doesn't work. "Oh, you mean like Jeffy Gordon?". Everyone knows Jeff Gordon, #24. Except me. I'm sticking to my astronauts.

September basking

2011-09-16T11:29:00.000-07:00

"Happily we bask in this warm September sun,
Which illuminates all creatures..."
- Henry David Thoreau

All except Sophie.

She wearily waits for me to finish mowing the lawn.

She waits for her chance to run

to play

... and to bask.

Sigh...

Migration begins

2011-09-11T10:09:00.000-07:00

The birds who visit our backyard feeders are changing.

Migration time has begun.

Autumn may begin at any day, at any dawn.

We may awake one morning and feel the damp cool night air still lingering. Sunrise might be a little later. And the birds who visit our feeders are different ones.

"You travel in neat kin groups over latitudes.

You prefer to eat the seeds spread on the ground.

The centuries have changed, there are new numbers.

We are counting on many things, including you."

-Old Acquaintance by Mark Jarman

Be safe, dear friends. I keep your songs in my heart.

It's the style here

2011-09-09T12:40:00.004-07:00

A few weeks ago, I visited the local Farmer's Market, with our dog Sophie in tow. Sophie is well behaved (or she wouldn't go!), and she likes to visit the lady with home-made jerky for dogs. Sophie is NOT a small dog; she is easy to spot and she does capture every child's eye.

"So, your dog has great Grinch Toes". Two young girls approached me with this comment, and then asked to pet our dog. "She has the best Grinch Toes I have ever seen! It's the style now for dogs, you know," as the taller girl pointed to Sophie's feet.

Grinch Toes?

While the girls petted the dog, I studied paws. Grinch Toes? What the heck are Grinch Toes?

(Very top photo & 2nd photo= Sophie's g.ts.

3rd photo = Shado's gts

Gus' are next, as he reclines on dog bed.

Then Toby. He's not camera shy - stick my cute face in the snap!

Last, Gus and Shado modeling together)

I think I have the picture now.

Grinch Toes...

" And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow, Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?"

A Primer for dove season

2011-09-01T10:17:00.001-07:00

Gambel's Quail

September 1st.

Dove season opens today in Arizona.

Gambel's quail are not doves.

Nor are sparrows, love birds, finches, hummingbirds or bees.

Some urban hunters seem to think any bird is a dove. Some hunters awake at dawn, dress in camouflage, hit the land just past the freeway, set up their rifle and coffee cup, and spend the next hours shooting. "Plunk plunk plunk".

During this dove season, the game is mourning dove and white dove.

Nothing more.

Please shoot wisely. We hear you at dawn, we see the debris later. A discarded coffee cup. The scrunched up Egg Sandwich wrapper. The abandoned box of donuts from the local grocery store... a few cigarette butts. The empty shotgun shells.. sure, this debris we will pick up. A shot hummingbird, finch, love bird, or sparrow is not acceptable.

Not a dove.

Yesterday I came across a poem on 'The day before Opening Day".

Texas, Arizona. It is hot. It is September 1. It is opening day.

"The heat is impossible

Cooling bills are high

Fires are raging..."

The pedigree

2011-08-29T08:53:00.001-07:00

I'm still working on my spreadsheet of poet laureates. Each time I read another PLOTUS' poem or biography, I grab my spreadsheet, add another tidbit of information, and then I sit back in awe of these people.

Sonnets. A few PLsOTUS wrote sonnets. When we think of sonnets, Shakespeare usually comes to mind. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day..." Sonnet 18. Shakespeare is credited with writing over 150 sonnets, often reflecting on his love for a woman and mostly all in iambic pentameter.

Iambic pentameter. That means it is written with five (penta) beats to the line. Usually the beat goes like this:

da/DUM/da/DUM/da/DUM/da/DUM/da/DUM

to/BE/or/NOT/to/BE/that/IS/the/QUESTION.

Got it? (I had to count to be sure it really had five beats. And yes, some of Shakespeare's finest sonnets were not stand alone poems, but married into his plays).

OK, not all sonnets are iambic pentameter and not all reflect on a love for a lover. I'm not going to go into Spenserian sonnets or Petrachan sonnets in this post. I'll wait until I add that column to my spreadsheet...

BUT, the point is, some of our PLsOTUS wrote sonnets!

Louise Brogran, poet laureate 1945-46, often wrote of love and grief. Sonnets suited her style.

"Since you would claim the sources of my thought
Recall the meshes whence it sprang unlimed,"

(poem titled SONNET by Louise Brogran, 1923)

It is not hard to feel the love and anguish in Brogran's poem.

And Billy Collins, poet laureate 2001-2003, wrote a sonnet, too.

"All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
and after this one just a dozen

to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans..."

(from Sonnet, by Billy Collins)

You get the idea of Collin's sonnet, too.

The sonnet column on my spreadsheet of PLsOTUS has a few more entries. But sonnets have a pedigree. Sonnets can be pure; maybe they should be. But like dogs, pedigrees don't always mean much. Our dogs?

Their pedigrees aren't apparent.

But I look at each and I see a sonnet.

A poem of love in perfect rhyme.

Morning mourning

2011-08-22T08:34:00.001-07:00

"I used to call them morning doves,

those birds with breasts the rosy color of dawn,

who coo us awake..."

(from After Reading Petersen's Guide by Linda Pastan)

Mourning Dove - Zenaida macroura

Common and widespread in many suburban and agricultural habitats. Usually in small groups. Forages mainly on the ground for seeds. Our most slender dove...

Song: A mournful hooting ooAAH coo coo coo; often mistaken for an owl. Sometimes also a strong single 'pooooooo'.

(from The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Western North America, 2003)

But when the book said Mourning Dove instead,

I noticed their gray ash feathers,

like shadows on the underside of love.

( Linda Pastan)

Each morning, our back yard is full of mourning doves. It is hard to mourn at the break of the day.
Their shadows are like the underside of love...

The kid from Kansas

2011-08-19T09:12:00.000-07:00

"... all at once, he is full of dread for the future and he's thinking, Oh no, what have I done?" (from Percival's Planet by Michael Byers, 2010, p. 353)

These imaginary thoughts are attributed to Clyde Tombaugh, the kid from Kansas. It is imagined he thought them in 1930 upon his discovery of the planet Pluto. Clyde, the kid from Kansas. The kid without a college degree, without a credit to his name. The kid who, in his spare time, built lenses and mirror he ground himself while helping on his family farm. The kid who impressed one person at Lowell Observatory with his fine work and was hired sight unseen. Clyde, of all employees at Lowell Observatory, found Pluto. This kid from Kansas is now full of dread for the future (p. 353).

Widow Percival (Constance) Lowell did not like Clyde. Mrs. Lowell owned the purse-strings of Lowell Observatory, and only at her command did the Observatory search the skies. Only through her gratitude and monies did the observatory operate. Mrs. Lowell rarely made an appearance at the observatory, and when she did, everyone prepared for it. Mrs Lowell, in her widow costume of solid black (including the hat and veil) would demand the reports of her employees, question them on the search for Planet X, and then leave them with the fear of funding being cut or denied. She ridiculed Clyde Tombaugh, calling him 'Mr. Tom Tom'.

(permission to use this photo granted under GNU Free Documentation License)

And so night after night, Clyde was relegated to taking photographic plates of the skies or comparing his plates by using a blink comparator. And when Clyde matched his new image to one on a plate from a different night/era, he knew something was up. The closer he studied his images and compared his to others, the more assured he became. The more assured he became, the more he dreaded the future. Clyde was not supposed to be the one to find Lowell's Planet X. Clyde, this kid from Kansas.

I am captivated by Clyde Tombaugh. He found something that wasn't his. He lost something that wasn't his, too. When Pluto was downgraded to a dwarf planet, Clyde was already deceased. But Clyde's widow, Patricia Tombaugh, says Clyde would have understood. The science is there to back up Pluto's dwarfness. And Clyde would see that and accept the difference.
There is something about Clyde, this kid from Kansas. Clyde Tombaugh just wanted to search the skies; he just wanted to do his job. He didn't want to play the games with the egos, with Widow Lowell, or with fame. He just wanted to find 'things', whether planets or comets. He wanted to search the skies.

"What am I supposed to do," he whispers. No one else in the world alive has done what he has done. No one in the whole world he can ask for advice. (p. 403)
I'm only Clyde.

And what Clyde found is that there is always solace, somewhere. Tonight, look up into the skies. Look at the stars. The same stars that Clyde Tombaugh searched through 90 years ago. The same stars that Percival Lowell hunted through. And Galileo. And thousands of others, millions of others.

Solace. Clyde Tombaugh. And you.

The Consultants

2011-08-15T09:07:00.001-07:00

U.S. Poet laureates were originally known as 'the Official Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress". It took an act of Congress in 1985 to change their official title to Poet Laureate. Imagine, Congress actually achieved something 'back then'.

The first Official Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress was appointed in 1937. Joseph Auslander had no official job description and no official term of office. But he was a poet, known for his poems on war and on the German occupation of Europe. Auslander served as the official consultant until 1941.

I immediately started organizing a spread sheet of poet laureates, sortable alphabetically, by the year of their term in office, by their poetry style and by their noteworthy poems. I find it is good to be organized this way.

Many of the PLOTUS (Poet Laureate of the United States - but is plural PLOTI?) are familiar names. William Carlos Williams. Robert Frost. James Dicky. Gwendolyn Brooks. Robert Penn Warren. Rita Dove. Many of the PLOTUS are not familiar names... too many to list here.

But I have them listed on my spreadsheet.

And I am working my way through the list, adding tidbits of information about each as I come across it. Sometimes I find a hint of the poet, the 'person', when reading a poem s/he wrote. Sometimes I find it in a press release about her/him. And sometimes a hint of it comes across in an interview.

Donald Hall. PLOTUS 2006-2207. The bits and pieces I knew about him could fill a thimble. Now I can fill a coffee mug.

Donald Hall. At first glimpse of him, I thought he was C. Everett Koop's older cousin.

Donald Hall. His wife, Jane Kenyon (also a poet) was 19 years younger, a former student of his, and she died much too young. Hall himself has 'battled' cancer since 1989. But he keeps his sense of humor, his poetry skills strong.

PLOTUS (PLOTI?) recently have defined their term with a mission statement. Robert Pinsky's term is known for his 'Favorite Poem Project'. I was teaching high school at the time Pinsky started the Favorite Poem Project. Our Junior and Senior English classes were all caught up in the excitement of the project - each student searching poetry anthologies for the ONE poem that struck them, stuck to them, one that became their favorite.

PLOTUS Ted Kooser (2004-2006) chose a poem a week for national newspapers to print. Joseph Brodsky encouraged poetry to be displayed/available in airports and hotel rooms. I note these on my PLOTUS spreadsheet.

Donald Hall hoped to encourage poetry reading on TV. PBS most likely. Hall is quoted as saying "People listen to it a good deal, the poetry reading is popular. I have lived long enough so that I have seen poetry increase enormously in audience. I know that it is not so many people as go to the dog tracks one night in Florida, probably."

Right now, Donald Hall is my favorite PLOTUS. He writes about his wife's death in a way that many of us know. The fear, the knowledge, the overwhelming sadness. I know he knows it. I know it, too. The early morning phone call to tell me my father had died. My hsuband's phone call when he found his own mother dead. The call about Peter's suicide.

"It was reasonable
to expect.”

"...There's nothing to do.”

(from Last Days by Donald Hall)

But my PLOTUS spreadsheet has many blank spaces, many columns to be filled with poets, with new knowledge.

I hope you take time to know a PLOTUS. Just pick one and read.

Labels and such

2011-08-11T07:57:00.000-07:00

Meet Philip Levine.

He is a professor.

He is a Pulitzer Prize winner.

He is an anarchist poet.

He is a voice of the industrial heartland.

He is your new Poet Laureate. Remember poet laureate?

"A poet laureate (plural: poets laureate) is a poet officially appointed by a government and is often expected to compose poems for State occasions and other government events".

An anarchist for our poet laureate. Oh, Mr. Levine, I so love you!!! PLEASE make a difference in our government - please be the voice of the industrial heartland.

"The windows don’t see anything: they’re black,

eyeless, they give back only what’s given;

sometimes, like now, even less than what’s given,"

(from Detroit, Tomorrow)

Anarchist poet seems a harsh label for Mr. Levine. How about we just call him a humble observer who has soften over the days.
Poet laureates usually promote a 'pet poetry project'. The goal is to broaden the poetry audience and to encourage people to see poetry without the astigmatism of the word 'poetry'.
Mr. Levine's proposed project? "...people would be asked to name the ugliest poem they could think of."

Oh, Mr. Levine, you already have me thinking. And laughing... And wondering where the anarchy is in your soul. I see a pretty nice guy here!

(No, not our dogs. Ours don't ride in the bed of our truck...)

The ugliest poem... think about it. I bet at least someone will suggest:

"There once was a girl from Nantucket...

Changing the rules

2011-07-10T12:57:00.003-07:00

The times are a-changing.

We found out last week that the Oxford comma is no longer necessary. And the publishing industry scrambles, adjusting to the new rules.

The Oxford comma is the serial comma. "I went to the dog park with our dogs, Vinnie, and Lucky." In this sentence, you know I took our dogs plus 2 other named creatures (in this case, two non-resident dogs named Vinnie and Lucky). The Oxford comma tells you that Vinnie and Lucky aren't our dogs, but friends who went with us.

Without the Oxford comma, the sentence would read "I went to the dog park with our dogs, Vinnie and Lucky."

OH NO, when did we get two more dogs? No wonder Sophie looks worried...

The Oxford comma isn't named for the Oxford dictionary but for Oxford University. It was used by the writers,editors, and printers at Oxford University Press. Until last week, the Oxford (serial) comma was correct in our 'American English' (per "Eats, Shoots, and Leaves" by Lynn Truss (pg. 84). But several style manuals have ignored the serial comma for years (IE, the AP manual). Even the Brits who don't go to Oxford dislike the serial comma.

So now we are in a quandry. Do Vinnie and Lucky belong to us? Or are they just friends, riding along to the dog park? Does Sophie need to worry about her domain? Can this house stand two more big dogs tromping through the hallways, sleeping on the doggy beds(,) and eating the dog food?

My favorite reason for keeping the Oxford (serial) comma is clarity. When Aunt Bella died, her will stated, "I leave my $5 million dollar estate be divided equally to Betty, Freddie, Barbie, Jim and Susie." Should Jim and Susie be one entity, or are they separate? Is the $5 million to be divided among five or four?

This is serious, folks. Jim and Susie might just be you someday.

Sophie is assured that Vinnie and Lucky are non-resident carpool companions.

But are you sure you'd get your share of $5 million?

Summer's respite

2011-07-06T08:08:00.000-07:00

Respite

A temporary suspension of punishment; reprieve.

(Dictionary.com)

Respite

a short period of rest or relief from something unpleasant

(wordreference.com)

Respite

an interruption in the intensity or amount of something

(unscramble.net)

Respite.

Where were you?

2011-07-02T09:04:00.000-07:00

Where were you when the power went out? That is the question everyone seems to be asking today.
A photo, from Channel 3 News shows the cause:

I was home. No great story.

E. called on the cell from his work. No power, no work. He'd be home in an hour if the power didn't come back on by then.

Soon a banging knock at the front door told me all was not well with our neighbors. It was Drew, our across the street neighbor. "You got power?"
Obviously not. The door bell wasn't working...
"Damn. Damn." Drew repeated this several more times.
He continued: "I was writing a paper for an online class I'm taking. Using my laptop. Haven't saved in 2 days. Think it's still there?"
You can tell Drew was 'angry'. His choppy sentences/phrases gave away the seething, burning anger inside of him.
"What about your laptop battery? Is it still charged? Is the laptop still on?" I asked this knowing it was a dumb question. Of course not. His laptop battery only held a charge for the first few minutes, then it failed. And he failed to save his work.
Drew stomped back home, determined to find an internet coffee shop or fast food place that still had power. Good luck.

Five minutes later, another knock on the front door. This time, a timid knock. It was Jason, the kid from next door. Jason is going to grow up to be a nerd. But right now, he is a music lovin', computer game lovin' geeky kid.

"Your power out?" he asked as soon as I opened the door.
"Yep."
"Do you think I did it? I was playing a computer game... You think I did it?"
"No, Jason - it was transformer blow up at the substation. If you look way over to the south, you can see the black smoke. See it?" I pointed southward.
"Oh. Yea. Well, I thought I did it. You see, I was playing a computer game that my parents told me not to play. And they're not home, so I thought I could play it without getting in trouble - you know what I mean? And then 'BAM' the power went out! I ran out and looked at the circuit breakers, but none look blown. Are you sure I didn't blow a breaker? My dad's gonna kill me if I did."

"You're BUSTED" I laughed.
The look on his face broke my heart.
"No, no, Jason - it wasn't you. You didn't cause it, really."

Anyway, I invited Jason in for a glass of warm lemonade. He seemed plenty upset and needing to explain his reasons for playing the 'game'. It turns out it isn't a 'bad game' - it's a game he is supposed to play with his little brother - meaning, he can only play when his little brother is home! Which he wasn't...

Warm lemonade. A heart to heart talk. I heard his dreams - he wants to grow up and be 'just like E'. He wants to be an engineer, smart, talented, handsome, have a fast car, lots of dogs, and cool games. He wants to be E.

Jason's a good kid. He'll go far with his dreams. If he doesn't get BUSTED along the way.

Walking around the block

2011-06-29T10:56:00.000-07:00

There can be something very cathartic in a walk around the block.

My father used to tell us this all the time. Every problem could be solved by walking around the block.

Every burden could become lighter; every fear could be diminished by just taking that walk.

Even in the best-selling book The Paris Wife by Paula McLain (the story of Hadley Richardson, Ernest Hemingway's first wife), Hadley uses the walk around the block technique to clear her head. "... the way I used to painfully fixated on it disturbed me so much I had to walk twice around the block in a stinging wind before I was calm enough to return..." (pg. 39, The Paris Wife, Ballentine Books NY, 2011)

My mother, Elsa, had a different opinion. She taught that everything could be solved by sleeping on it. A problem at work? Sleep on it before pouncing on it. A huge request by a friend or family member that is out of your norm? Sleep on it before promising anything, denying anything, arguing anything. This, too, is very sage advice.

I often found I couldn't sleep on something without first taking a walk around the block. How can your sleep when your mind is struggling to resolve something? At least take that walk to put your mind in order, then sleep on it.

My next home must be like this one - long blocks, lots of walking/thinking/struggling room. I need a good walk before sleeping.

Do you?

Believing Peter

2011-06-27T08:48:00.002-07:00

A young co-worker died last week. He died a graphic, violent death --- self inflicted.

Where does his family, his colleagues, his friends, go from here?

We bargain. We rationalize. We try to justify. We pull out the Elisabeth Kubler-Ross books and remind ourselves of the five stages of grief. Many of us stop at anger. Few of us make it all the way to acceptance.

And along the way, I stumbled across the book "The Believing Brain" by Michael Shermer. An interesting book... that points out that maybe we all are constantly changing our belief systems to justify an act, a sight, a belief. Buried in this oft footnoted book is a wisdom - when we know an outcome, we write the script that leads up to that outcome.

My colleagues are all writing their own scripts for Peter's death. I am, too. We all have help in that Peter left a suicide note for us. The note is both the first AND last chapter of our scripts. So we all have the Prelude and Postlude written. And each of us wants the last ten minutes of Peter back. We each BELIEVE we could have helped him.

We each, individually, rationalize Peter's death. Peter rationalized his death, too.

Some of us believe he was depressed. Many of us don't believe that. Some believe he was angry. The rest of us don't. Some believe he hurt someone and suffered guilt. Most of us don't. Some believe he was just a sensitive guy who mostly feared hurting others, feared life.

We each have a Believing Brain. Peter had his, too.

Peter's chair at work sits unused. His favorite pen sits alongside the computer keyboard. The mouse pad he brought from home (Star Trek!) still is there. Only his name has been removed from the workboard and schedule. We are all sharing his work load.

None of us can share his Believing Brain...

No one can.

Will Batgirl save 'em?

2011-06-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

Will Batgirl save the Dynamic Duo?
Oh, the TV shows I missed while living overseas...

Yarn tale

2011-06-22T17:21:00.000-07:00

It started out simple enough. A skein of baby yarn being knitted into a child's blanket.

And then the adventure began...

Across the living room

Short cut across one doggy bowl...

Out the first doggy door...

Across the backup water bowl....

Shado thinks it went through the second doggy door...

Out the second doggy door and across the patio...

Through the second gate to the backyard....

Where it was discovered... in Sophie's mouth.

What a yarn of a tale!

The desert, solitaire

2011-06-17T10:30:00.000-07:00

Desert mornings always bring me back to Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire.

Vast mornings, animals crawling along the desert floor, heat building, sweat falling.

Sunlight so bright - you cannot squint enough to block it.

Water in your canteen - so hot it burns your lips.

And wild horses who have no need for a stable, a stall, or your hay.

In Desert Solitaire, Abbey presents a story titled "The Moon-Eyed Horse". The moon-eyed horse wasn't a wild horse, he was an independent horse. He had a been owned, tamed, branded. He was a gelding, a worker. And he had problems. Once he got free, he never returned. Abbey wanted to find him and keep him. But Moon-Eye had no use for Abbey, no use for being kept. For ten years, Moon-Eye had been a desert horse. He had no need to go back.

Abbey searched and searched, and did find Moon-Eye and tried to coax him to his side. "You've been out here in the wilderness long enough, old man. It's time to go home."(pg. 165)

Moon-Eye watched Abbey. And watched.

"My head ached from the heat and glare and for a moment I wondered if this horselike shape in front of me was anything more than a hallucination." (pg 166)

“But that horse wouldn’t come, though I waited a full hour by the sun. The horse moved only once in all that time, lowering his head for a sniff at a bush near his foreleg.” (pg 167)

"He waited. I squatted on my heels and passed my forefinger, like a windshield wiper, across my forehead, brushing off the streams of sweat. My head felt hot, damp, feverish. "What's the matter with you, Moon-Eye?" (pg 168)

"The horse stood motionless as a rock. He looked like a part of that burnt-out landscape." (pg 170)

“We waited then, the horse and I, enduring the endless afternoon, the heartbreaking heat, and passed the time as best we could in a one-sided conversation. I’d speak a sentence and wait about ten minutes for the next thought and speak again. Moon-Eye watched me all the time and made no move.” (pg 170)

Finally, Abbey gives up. "We faced each other across some fifty feet of sand and rock. No doubt for the last time, I tried to think of something suitable to say but my mouth was so dry, my tongue so stiff, my lips so dried-out and cracked, I could barely utter a word." (pg 171)

followed by "... (I) started homeward, trudging over the clashing stones and through the sand down-canyon towards my pony and Salt Creek. Once, twice, I thought I heard footsteps following me but when I looked back, I saw nothing." (pg 171)

The desert, solitaire.

Quotes from Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire, Ballantine Books, NY, 1968.

Dry heat

2011-06-14T15:21:00.000-07:00

Arizona in June.

Mornings are cool.

Afternoons are hot.

But it is a dry heat.

In June.

Splay

2011-06-13T08:46:00.002-07:00

SPLAY

–verb (used with object)

1. to spread out, expand, or extend.

2. to form with an oblique angle; make slanting; bevel.

3. to make with a splay or splays.
4. to disjoin; dislocate.

–verb (used without object)

5. to have an oblique or slanting direction.

6. to spread or flare.

Toby, splayed.
(enbiggen photo for full splay effect)

All squirrely with James Bond

2011-06-11T06:12:00.001-07:00

If you have squirrels stealing your bird show/feed, check out this other bird feeder.

It is a squirrel proof bird feeder. Our local Wild Birds Unlimited store has them, but it appears they can be purchased online. If someone has one - does it work??

I love the description of the squirrel proof bird feeder: The Squirrel-Proof Bird Feeder is weight-sensitive, so when a squirrel gets on the feeder the feeding ports close, denying access to the seed.

It sounds like something straight out of an old Sean Connery "James Bond" movie. And we know James Bond always found a way... will the squirrels?

(As for Cyndi and Stumpy's bull snakes and roadrunner bird feeder attraction - I didn't see a bird feeder for you. I'll watch more James Bond and see what he comes up with...)

The condominium

2011-06-10T10:25:00.000-07:00

Last month, E. and I bought a bird feeder. We knew our back garden was a haven for finches, sparrows, mourning doves. A feeder seemed to be a dandy idea.

The birds seemed to think it a dandy idea, too. Through out the day, the little finches would show up and feed, chat, watch. They'd fly in and out, just like little planes at a little airport.

And the doves would feast on the spilled seeds. I even got to where I'd 'accidentally' spill seed - and then sit and listen to the coo as the mourning doves waddled in the garden.

But then the grackles started showing up. Grackles are big, mean, nasty. They'd fly in and take over the feeder. Their "caw" alone would keep the little birds away. I hated the grackles - they are scavengers, and our feeder is not scavenger fodder.

A baby grackle might be cute... but he doesn't remain cute for long.

A cage. A cage around the bird feeder is the answer. A cage big enough for the finches, but too small for the grackles. Believe it or not, such a cage is made. And it works!

We now have a condominium feeder. The finch are happy. The mourning doves are happy. The grackles are gone. And the back garden is alive!

68 degrees, two more dogs, and grapes

2011-06-09T07:34:00.001-07:00

The wrap up from yesterday's blog:
This morning it is 68 degrees outside. I am reporting from our house, Arizona.
High today will be 101. Sunny. Humidity? Low - as in 9%.

Two of our dogs didn't make yesterday's blog. I have a need to be fair to all, so here they are:

Sophie

Gus

OK, now I feel better.
Ashley, the grapes vines are growing!!! I have denied them any pruning, hence they have overtaken the corner wall and arbors. No grapes yet (red flame and thompson seedless), and no leaf-eating critters, either. Just healthy, erupting leaves and vines. After this past winter's freezes, I feared the vines were dead. But, as good bare root plants do, new shoots and stems sprung forth, producing walls of green.


Grapes

And I offer up one of our pumpkins, growing in the garden cove. It will be long gone before Halloween. Pie, anyone?

Pumpkin

And the quilt top. The one photo that is the hardest to show.

Quilt

Today, we will learn the final steps to quilt building. Then we are free to grow or die, as quilters. I can't wait to grow!

Thank you all, for your comments yesterday.
Oh, yes, Banjomyn, Rosie Grier did needlepointing. Another art/talent to explore!

8:55 am, 50 degrees, grey and cloudy

2011-06-08T10:01:00.004-07:00

8:55 am, 50 degrees, grey and cloudy.

Not 50 degrees, not cloudy

No, we aren't talking about Arizona.

50 degrees and cloudy is the daily weather report from my pen-pal, my blog friend, in Minnesota (Hi, Jo!).

OK, I admit we only have an online relationship. We "met" when one of us wrote a comment on the other one's blog. I don't exactly remember how it all started. But we "met". And we wrote. I think we started writing about our dogs, as her dog Stella looks a lot like our dog Shado. Common ground, so we wrote.

Our Shado, my bond with Jo.

From dogs, we progressed to books we read, to movies we watch, to hobbies we have. Jo reads a lot. And my list of 'to read' has grown a mile from her. We found out we both enjoy Powell's book reviews and interviews, we both use our library cards weekly (or more), and we both enjoy complex themes in our books.

Then we started on movies we have watched. My 'to watch' movie list has grown, too. And TV shows? She knows the oldies, right down to the cast of characters from "Homicide: Life on the Street". Pembleton is her favorite.

And Jo loves to quilt. I am just learning. Jo guides me; she takes a task I find daunting and reassures me that it isn't. You know what? Jo is right. Step by step, each cut, each stitch, each 'rip out' is easier than my brain wants to visualize.

So, I finished my first quilt top. Not a work of art, not spectacular. But I'm bouncing with excitement that it even looks like a quilt! And Jo? She is 'dazzled' by the photos I sent her. Dazzled!!!! WOW! I bounce again.

Jo is the next door neighbor I don't have.

Jo starts every email to me with her current weather report. Which is where I started this post. Though I may never meet Jo, though Shado will never sniff Stella, though our life paths are so different, I am with Jo when I read "8:55 am, 50 degrees, grey and cloudy".

June

2011-06-01T10:35:00.003-07:00

June.

In the desert.

In Arizona.

Six words. Three nouns. Three that bring on a mindset, a memory, a feeling.

It all started with a chance to spend part of a summer counting cattle on Bureau of Land Management land. Land that the BLM allowed ranchers to use for cattle grazing. Not cactus desert, but scrub-oak desert. Creosote. Shrubs.

And our job was to do the cattle census.

Luxuries? Not likely. A partner, a tent, a warm sleeping bag (nights in the 40s), cotton long sleeved shirts (days in the 100s, no humidity), a water tank down the path, and a notebook journal that belonged to the BLM. My own notebook. And a few books, novels mostly. Leon Uris. Annie Dillard. Terry Tempest Williams.

After our second day, I knew all I wanted to know about Dave, my census partner. Married (his wife trusts him), no kids. Third semester graduate student, no job prospects. May try applying at the BLM. He brought "The Gulag Archipelago" for reading. He didn't read much, but he didn't talk much, either.

Days were driven by imagination. Counting birds. Drawing rough sketches of animal footprints we'd spot on the dirt trails. Trying to figure out what the brands on the cattle stood for/described.

By the 5th night, I no longer dreamed of winning the French Open, of holding a tennis racket in my hand and throwing the ball up into the air, stretching into it with power as I served. No, by the 5th night, I dreamed of buzzards I saw circling before dusk. I dreamed of their flight. I dreamed of air, of thermals, of soaring. I dreamed of nature.

Two of us spent 3 weeks counting. Miles from civilization (human), we were only disturbed by the cattle as they wandered by. Most of the cattle were on their way to the water tank. So we rotated shifts, counting, reading, doodling, dreaming. After the first days, we hardly talked to each other - more likely than not, we talked to the cattle.

Food and fresh notebooks arrived to us once a week by a guy on horseback. I recognized him from the BLM office in Tucson. When he arrived to our camp, he'd give us the latest news (abbreviated), ask if we needed anything, and then he'd collect our filled notebooks and leave us. During the first week of our census taking, I anticipated his visit. I looked forward to the horse, to the man mounted on it, to the fresh voice. By the second week, I dreaded his visit. He disturbed my senses. My ears were violated by his voice, my eyes by his presence.

I only cared for the cold nights, for the smell of the sun baking the earth at mid-day, for the millions of stars at night. I longed for the activity of the flycatchers, the nuthatchs, the thrashers. Their calls and movements kept me alert, alive. The movement in the sagebrush entertained me.

I cared for the journey of nature.

In June.

In the desert.

In Arizona.

It's going to happen...

2011-05-25T12:59:00.000-07:00

We found a package on the front porch.

A small package, like a book. Wrapped in brown paper, like an old grocery bag.

Our name and address were printed on it. But no return address was visible.

The stamps in the top right corner looked to be re-used, as if they didn't apply to this delivery.

The package was in the cubby hole of the front door post, where our postman often leaves his delivery.

We ripped the brown wrapping over. Inside? A book.

Not just "A" book, but "THE" book."THE" book that will help us defend ourselves from lawn warriors -

- the garden gnomes.

But, mind you, we haven't been worried about any garden gnomes/warriors. Our garden seemed to be gnome free. Until now...

Now we have suspicious activity every day. The Radio Flyer wagon has been tipped on its side.

Crop circles are appearing in the vineyard.

The dogs' tennis/fetch balls are constantly being arranged in weird patterns, similar to arrows pointing to the pond.

The patio chairs are rearranged. It now looks like the Mad Hatter had his tea-party here.

The solar lights we have in the flower bed have been re-directed. They all point to one spot on the patio floor - as if it were a dance floor now.

We both agree - it is time to read the book.

Before the gnomes do.

Earth: a globe

2011-05-22T17:10:00.000-07:00

Billy Collins new book of poetry is now in my hands.

"Horoscopes for the Dead". What a gruesome title, what enjoyable poems.

From the poem "The New Globe", page 39.

"It was a birthday gift..."

"...glows from within at night..."

"... all its multicolored countries..."

"... its blue pelagic expanses..."

"... You will not see a seabird or a fellow sitting on a wall..."

"Just don't get lost like me..."

The blue planet.

Earth.

Terra.

Beautiful.

Don't fly away

2011-05-17T08:17:00.001-07:00

Hummingbird, don't fly away...

Remember Seals & Crofts song "Hummingbird"?

I can barely hear the refrain in my head.

Asking the hummingbird not to fly away.

Hummingbird, don't fly away.

She flew away.

But she came back, just like the song in my mind.

The project vacation

2011-05-15T11:32:00.000-07:00

I started to find Estes catalogs and rocket magazines all around the living room.

Old catalogs, new catalogs...

Old magazines, new magazines.

Then rocket model kits started showing up in our work room.

Big models.

And suddenly, E's evenings were quietly spent working on these models.

It doesn't take long for me to put 2 + 2 together.

Vacation time is coming up soon. Without a word expressed, I know vacation time will include launching rockets out in the country.

Any smart rocketeer knows that rockets can get lost. You shoot one off - and it goes 'haywire' without a warning. One second your rocket is sitting on the launch pad, waiting for you to push the 'GO' button. The next instant, the rocket is sky high - and you never see it again.

So you build spare rockets. Lots of rockets.

You build and build and build.

You sand, you paint, you apply sealant.

You add decals.

And if you are me, you go on the offense.

I don't want to be left in the ~~dust~~ rocket exhaust.

So I start building too.

My contribution is a little Alpha III. It is simple. Plastic fins, no paint. Lots of decals. And it is very short.

My Alpha III is the little orange rocket is on the right.

The masked rocket on the left is E.'s project, a missile.

Our goal?

FUN.


(I made this one... a Ticonderoga Pencil rocket!)

And isn't vacation all about FUN?

2011-05-10T08:32:00.005-07:00

Alleged ducks.

E. loves to share reasoning philosophy with me. Yesterday, our theme was inductive reasoning.

"If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck."

And there is the elephant test:

"It is difficult to describe, but you know it when you see it." This reasoning was actually used in a court case (Cadogan Estates Ltd v Morris).

As was "I know it when I see it". This phrase was used by Justice Potter Stewart to describe his threshold test for pornography in Jacobellis v. Ohio.

The medical profession also uses adages. "When you hear hoofbeats behind you, don't expect to see a zebra". In other words, what is an obvious diagnosis might not be. You might have a zebra.

And politics?

"You can lead a fish to water but you can't cure its fin rot." John Buckle, a British politician.

"A man with a watch knows what time it is. A man with two watches is never sure." I must go check my watches. I believe I have gone on too long here.

Alleged watch.

What is your alleged favorite adage?

"Back yard" vacation

2011-05-07T11:48:00.000-07:00

My folks were always great at planning vacations that led us to our own 'backyard'.

Not our literal backyard. But our 'country of resident' backyard.

Like living in Los Angeles and going to Disneyland for the day...

In other words, a vacation that is more fun than just a day trip, but still isn't very far away.

A side-trip that all your visitors/company takes based on your advice.

In this case, living just miles from the Taj Mahal.

And finally remembering to go see it.

Quite the vacation!

Where are you going?

2011-05-06T07:54:00.001-07:00

Vacation dreaming...

Where are YOU going this summer?

Is this the right place?

2011-05-03T13:49:00.000-07:00


Sorry about the focus...

The blur of the thermometer has me totally dishevled.

I had to blink once, twice, again.

Okay, truth is - the heat is on. But 133???

And the second truth is that we moved our outdoor thermometer sensor.

We have been moving it a lot lately.

We're trying to find the right spot for a true afternoon reading.

I know, I know - a little white shelter, sanctioned by the NWS and NOAA.

That's not going to happen.

So, for now, the sensor is in the gazebo.

125? Not likely.

5% humidity. Pretty close on the mark.

Rainy clouds? Not a chance.

But the message is loud and clear:

Welcome to summer!!

Head-on, no problem

2011-05-02T11:03:00.000-07:00

Life's problems are easier to deal with if we meet them 'head-on'.

Photographing planes?

Why not, head on?

Paradise in the garden

2011-04-30T08:35:00.000-07:00

Time for breakfast?

Time to share!

My little cove is also a bird haven.

Unusual nose jobs

2011-04-29T10:52:00.000-07:00


Atwater, California

A minor collection of nose art

(and not nose art).

Our wild, wild West

2011-04-27T08:17:00.000-07:00

The white desk phone

2011-04-21T07:47:00.000-07:00

bRing... bRing.
The white desk phone rang.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I nearly jump out of my skin every time it rings.

bRing... bRing.

The white desk phone has a distinctive ring. A short ring, a pause, and then another short ring. Relentless. Loud. It will play its ring up to 20 times unless someone answers it. I don't want to be the one who answers it.

The white desk phone DOES sit on the corner of my cubicle desk. Its clones also sit on three other desks in the office area. I am the low person on the totem-pole. And I don't want to be the one who answers it.

bRing... bRing.

I look across the rows of cubicles to Will's office. Will has a real office. It's the first one along the wall of offices. He has glass walls that overlook the cubicles. He has blinds he can pull down those window -walls. He has a real door into his office - a door so real, it not only locks - but it requires you to swipe your office ID badge along the scanner AND punch in the door pass code.

bRing... bRing.

Will is our program director. A tall, young engineer, Will exudes a quiet confidence. Don't know the answer? Well, let us find it, let us examine the facts, the material, the history. We don't need to know everything - we need to know where to go to find out the clues to piece a correct answer together.
Will is charge of every ounce of information shared in this secure building. Two acres of engineers, working in cubicles, working at test stations, working at design, build, test. All TEMPEST secure. All safe.

bRing... bRing.

Will's office door is open. But his office lights are turned off. Will won't be answering the damn white desk phone. And I don't want to be the one.

bRing... bRing.

Wait - Harold has a phone back in his area. Maybe he'll answer. Often it is for him anyway. Often it is the customer returning a call Harold initiated to them. Which meant Harold called using HIS white desk phone. So it is only fair that Harold be required to answer this annoyance. I don't want to be the one.

bRing... bRing.

Of course, Harold is probably at lunch. One thing about Harold - he is predictable. Lunch every day, same day, same place, same turkey on rye sandwich. Harold is retired military, and he likes nothing better than predictability by all of us. So, predictably, the phone call isn't for him or he would be there - and since he isn't there to answer it, it can't be for him. I know I can't see Harold's semi-office from my cubicle. He's positioned way down the hall, around the corner, where all the spare parts are stored. You know how it is - you buy something in bulk, needing only 10 or 12. So you put the spares in a labeled container with a copy of the purchase order/receipt. Right? That is how Harold does it. Orderly. Precisely. Under control. So, he has a warehouse full of labeled, documented spare parts. Predictable.

But Harold isn't going to answer this white desk phone. And I don't want to be the one.

bRing... bRing.

This phone ringing is getting to me. It seems to grow louder with each ring. Damn it! I hate this white desk phone. I didn't ask for it! In fact, it wasn't even "mine" when I started here; it was my boss' responsibility. But in the corporate effort to 'share responsibilities', she decided to 'share' the white desk phone with me. Why me? Because... some questions you don't ask. And as for this white desk phone? I don't want to be the one to answer it. EVER.

bRing... bRing.

We have been trained in the protocol of answering this white desk phone. You never identifiy yourself. You never identify your location, your status, your colleagues, anything. You answer with a simple "Hello". Not in question form, but as a statement. No cordiality is allowed. Just "Hello".

bRing... bRing.

I don't even know the number to this white desk phone. I couldn't call it from home if I wanted to. And if I called out? Well, for starters, that is a major NO NO. And, secondly, the white desk phone's number is scrambled. Anyone receiving my call wouldn't have any idea who was calling them, either. We're TEMPEST here, remember?

So that leaves Barry to answer the white desk phone. Please, Barry... answer it.

bRing... bRing.

Barry has an office. Glass walls. Blinds on the glass. Door that closes. And locks. But his door doesn't require a secret code to get in... it just requires a key. Barry often talks to the 'customer'. Barry is our contracts manager. Anything with 'costs' is Barry's communication. Barry is the one who has to call the 'customer' on the white desk phone when something contractually changes. Did we spend half the allotted/paid for hours of production but only got a third of the work done? Barry has to call them. Did we under-estimate the supplies we needed? Barry tells them. Are we ahead of schedule? Barry calls.

bRing... bRing.

So why doesn't Barry answer? I don't want to be the one to answer.

Almost every time the white desk phone rings, it is Rolland calling in. Pronounced like Holland. Rolland. Most people call him Roll. Like 'hall'. Roll. Roll's last name is Lepard. Some of us call him Rollepard. Whenever Rollepard has called for me - MOI? - it has been to ask which of our engineers is working on which task. Who is testing which part, who is designing what change, who is writing the program. Rollepard has no idea who anyone is among us, but he still wants names. I'm the mistress of the charge numbers - coded numbers assigned to each task. I am the mistress of earned value, of budgeted cost of work scheduled, of actual cost of work completed. I usually know by heart who is doing which job and how much money has been spent, but when Rollepard asks me, I stop and pull out my copy of the weekly green sheets. I always double check my facts before speaking.

bRing... bRing.

It can't be Rollepard for me. No one has changed tasks since he asked last week. No one is behind schedule, no parts have failed, nothing has changed. Our spending has been simple level of effort - a continuous flat line. The phone call can't be for me. And I don't want to answer the white desk phone.

bRing... bRing.

Okay, the truth is, the white desk phone scares me. It scares the hell out of me. Whether Rolepard's or anyone else's voice - I am intimidated. I am nervous. My palms grow sweaty. My heart rate jumps. My skin tingles. My voice comes out in a stutter. My mind grows blank.

I don't want to answer the white desk phone.

bRing... bRing.

BUT, I do.
"Hello"

"Hey, is this Pizza Hut?"

"No"

"Yea... I think I dialed the wrong number, right?"

Click.

I hate answering the white desk phone.

Seeing red

2011-04-20T08:08:00.000-07:00

Arizona is gorgeous.

The sunshine in Arizona is gorgeous red.

- Cecilia Bartoli

... And so are the cars.

B-17 over Arizona

2011-04-15T10:53:00.001-07:00

Above is a video (in HD) of the B-17

"Sentimental Journey".

It is filmed flying over 'our' neck of the hills/desert/our spot in the country.

This aircraft was used in World War II, and now it resides at the Commemorative Air Force Museum, just a few blocks from our house.

Yes, you can take a ride in the Sentimental Journey, if you want. We catch it buzzing our house most days, and always on weekends. I still run out and look up at it, fascinated by its size, its gun turrets, its history.

Almost any day of the year the CAF Museum is open.

Almost every day, I wonder about the airmen who flew in it. Who sat in the belly, in the little enclosed bubble, looking at the world below him? Who folded himself in the tail turret, an easy target? Who sat way up front in the nose, underneath the pilots? Would you?

Or the big dome on top - great sky view, but another easy target.

WHOOPS!

I hear it flying over the house right now!

I have to go out and wave. You just have to!

Lost...

2011-04-14T08:18:00.000-07:00

Our rose garden has engulfed me.

Anyone need a bouquet?

A friendly guy

2011-04-11T08:36:00.000-07:00

Friends are as companions on a journey, who ought to aid each other to persevere in the road to a happier life.

-Pythagoras

The dinner conversation

2011-04-06T08:09:00.000-07:00

I asked: “So, we don’t know where he’s at, right?”

E. glared at me. “We don’t end sentences in prepositions, okay?”

“I didn’t. I said “We don’t know where he’s at, right?” I ended with ‘right’.”

“Well, that is just like the Harvard joke,” he said.

Huh? “What’s the Harvard joke?”

“You haven’t heard? The freshman goes to Harvard. He’s walking across campus and stops to ask a senior “where is the library at?”

“The senior says “Here at HARVARD, we don’t end sentences with prepositions. Rephrase your question!”

The freshman does. “OK, where is the library at, asshole.”

So it is.

Right?

Jumping Teddy!

2011-04-05T07:54:00.000-07:00

This post is in reply to Sandra's comment yesterday.

Jumping chollas are common in my neck of the ~~woods~~ desert.

Any vista, any road side stop includes chollas. And we mostly just call them 'chollas'. We don't differentiate between/among the species.

Why don't we care the type of cholla we see? Let me see if this helps:

Jumping cholla are also known as the hanging chain cholla. Other names for this cactus include chain fruit cholla, cholla brincadora, teddy bear cholla, finger-leaf cholla, and velas de coyote.

Teddy bear chollas also jump and stick to your clothing.

Chollas are common in desert gardens, along hiking paths, on most any highway leading out of Phoenix.

A long-time resident just gets used to seeing them, gets used to being stuck by them, gets used to living (and walking) around them.

A cholla by any other name is always a cholla. It is food, it is protection, it is a home. It is a cholla.
So, Sandra... I'll hunt for a better photo of a teddy bear cholla. Even if it is a chain fruit cholla. And I encourage my blogging state-mates Chris, Cyndi, Kathy now of Texas, Diane, Christine... add to my meager knowledge!

Class dismissed? This was fun!

cylindrical stems

2011-04-04T06:45:00.000-07:00

Cholla

Chollas are a genus of cacti. Mostly found in the southwest United States, chollas are also 'found' in Central/South America and Australia.

Chollas are 'Cylindropunti' - meaning they have cylindrical stems. Not flat stems.

There are pencil chollas. Teddy bear chollas. Christmas chollas. jumping chollas. Cane chollas. Dog chollas. Silver chollas, diamond chollas.

Sometimes, you just find dead cholla. Everywhere. In abundance.

Tilted? shifted?

2011-04-01T09:19:00.001-07:00

Colorado

I am not one to freely experiment with Photoshop™ . I tend to become overwhelmed... and after a ~~few minutes~~ an hour or two, I realize I have forgotten my intended outcome. I tend to accept my photos "straight out of camera".

So a few weeks ago, I was captivated when I looked over E.'s shoulder and saw he was "photoshopping' a photo he took - and he was getting great results! Enbiggen any of these photos to see better.

Seattle harbor, from the Space Needle

This technique is called 'tilt shifting'. You 'create' a diorama-like photo of one of your own photographs. COOL!


Downtown Wautoma, Wisconsin

I have wasted whole mornings 'creating' tilt-shift'-ed images from our old photos. Hours I could have been writing letters (ha!), cleaning house (haha!), walking dogs (sorry, guys!) or reading books (sigh).


Super Bowl Champions!!!

If you have Photoshop, or are just curious, take a second/hour to read the step by step procedural on tilt shifting.

If you have a great ideas - or photoshop addictions - post them in the comments. I find my brain always has room for one more tidbit - and the house doesn't need cleaning that badly.

Not in MY Garden

2011-03-29T13:17:00.000-07:00

A follow up to yesterday's post:

While walking Shado the dog, I saw this in a desert garden.

Shado and I both were perplexed.

What do you think the 'boy' did

to deserve this punishment?

The poor guy was stuck there,

in that position, for a week.

He finally disappeared...

In my garden

2011-03-28T11:08:00.000-07:00

I am writing in the garden.

To write as one should of a garden one must write not outside it or merely somewhere near it, but in the garden.

Frances Hodgson Burnett

Defining Spring

2011-03-21T15:46:00.000-07:00

SPRING

VERB:
- to rise, leap, move, or act suddenly and swiftly
- to be released from a constrained position
- to come or appear suddenly, as if at a bound
- to split or crack
- to leap over

NOUN:
- a leap, jump
- a source or fountainhead of something
- elasticity or resilience
- an issue of water from the earth
- a source or fountainhead
- the season between winter and summer, characterized by the budding of trees, growth of plants, the onset of warmer weather.

- a line from the quarter of a vessel to an anchor on the bottom, used to hold the vessel at its mooring, broadside to the current.

- the point at which an arch or dome rises from its support.

ADJECTIVE:

- of, pertaining to, characteristic of, or suitable for the season of spring.

- resting on or containing mechanical springs.

SYNONYMS:

jump, bound, hop, vault.

recoil, rebound.. shoot, dart, fly.

start, originate. emerge, emanate, issue, flow.

bend, warp. resiliency, buoyancy. origin, head. vernal.

SPRING!

(definitions from Dictionary.com)

Typing into the night

2011-03-17T17:10:00.000-07:00

My dad used to apologize to us kids that he wasn't the best father around. As a child, I mostly ignored his comments but would wonder what a 'best' father was like. Did he give his only daughter a tiara for her 5th birthday? Did he let her have as many puppies as she wanted? Did he make a rule that said she didn't HAVE to clean her room every week? Did he buy her a horse she could ride every day? Did he offer to pay her education through Yale or Harvard or Stanford?

When I reached adulthood, my dad would continue to repeat his mantra. "I am not the best Dad around." Suddenly I reached the age where I knew he didn't have to be the best dad around - he just had to be my dad. I knew Dad tried hard at everything he did. He was competitive that way. He was driven - not just in his work, but in his golf game, in his evening of game of basketball HORSE down in the driveway, in his way he cared for his family.

And then when Dad retired, he decided he needed to write. By then, he and my mom had moved to a summer home in the mountains. A couple weekends a month, I would drive up to their retreat and deliver their mail, the latest local news, and endless reams of typing paper for Dad's project. Every six weeks I included a new typewriter ribbon and more "White-out" for his mistakes.

And every day, Dad would type. He'd put his typewriter on the breakfast bar; he'd sit at the barstool for hours, pecking away at the keyboard. He'd chew his pipe. He'd drink endless mugs of coffee. He wouldn't talk - he'd type.

Mom and I used to wonder to each other "What can he be writing?". When we'd ask him, he wouldn't answer. He'd frown over his glasses, he'd clamp harder down on his pipe stem. And he type with a newer fury.

So Mom and I decided he was writing his memoirs. Pages and pages of his history. Each finished page was removed from the typewriter and put in a manila folder. Page after page filled the folder. Pages of words, of whiteout stripes, of coffee stains. Pages we never had a chance to read.

Today, I think of Dad as I read Billy Collins' poem Royal Aristocrat

My old typewriter used to make so much noise
I had to put a cushion of newspaper
beneath it late at night
so as not to wake the whole house.

...one burst after another
as my wife turned in her sleep.
I was a single monkey
trying to type the opening lines of my Hamlet,
often doing nothing more
than ironing pieces of paper in the platen
then wrinkling them into balls
to flick into the wicker basket....

... Such deep silence on those nights —
just the sound of my typing
and a few stars singing a song their mother
sang when they were mere babies in the sky.

We never found Dad's memorior. I have no idea where he put it, if he finished it, what it said.
But he was still the best Dad in the world.

Camp letter #2

2011-03-16T10:50:00.001-07:00

Dear Family,

I hope my letters from camp aren't boring. I know you will be home soon, so you will probably see me before you receive this letter. Oh well.

Today was another trip to the dog park. We go at the crack of dawn. Sometimes only 2-3 other dogs are there when we arrived. But it is nice and cool that early, and we get a lot of running time. I have a new friend, Emma. Toby and I like to play 'keep away' with her. We get her tennis ball and we RUN away from her. It is very entertaining.

Emma

Yesterday.... we had the dumbest craft to create. I think the dumb camp counselor read about making ear covers for dogs --- as if we need them here in the desert!

Anyway, she cut sleeves off an old t-shirt and put the sleeve over our nose and then pulled it back to our ears. Anyway, I will NEVER EVER do this again - and neither will Shado. Don't you agree we look stupid? And to think it was 80 degrees while we were 'crafting'. The camp counselor owed me lots of POOL time for this awful activity.

So, today:

pool time, dog park time, more pool time.

But I think siesta time is coming up soon. I can see that Shado is already checking for light leaks.

I won't be far behind. Camp is tiring! The bearded camp counselor has us playing 'catch the ball' three times a day - you ought to see the other guys jump to catch balls! I wait until the ball bounces, and then I steal it. But the bearded guy always finds another ball to throw - so no one chases me much.

Off to nap. I'll sure be glad when you guys get home!! I hope you haven't forgotten me...

I'm waiting for the call that I can come home!

Letter from camp

2011-03-14T10:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Family,

I arrived safely at camp. I know you shed a few tears when you dropped me off at the camp pick-up site, but I was excited. I could feel something in the air - the excitement of camp! The bow that you guys stuck on me before I left? It came off the minute I arrived in camp. It isn't cool to walk around these guys with a purple and green bow around your neck, ya know?

Anyway, they replaced the bow with a bandana. We all wear bandanas here, as if it meant something. Well, maybe it does at the dog park - people think we are special, all wearing bandanas - we are easy to spot in a crowd (of dogs).

The first thing the 'people' here at camp did was get the pool ready. Even before it was filled with water, I was in it. LOVELY. Relaxing. OK, no water jets to try and grab with my mouth, no pool sweeper hose to chase around - but LOVELY none the less. Sophie watched me from the side of the pool - I think she is one of those scaredy girly girls, the kind who doesn't want to get her hair wet. Well, we will see.

Anyway, pool time was fun. When I got tired of the pool, I got to sit on a porch swing with cushions. No one cared that I was wet. I guess the cushions are used to this treatment. I kept waiting to hear "Vinnie, GET DOWN, NOW!" - but no one said it. Three other dogs were playing fetch and chasing tennis balls in the grass, so I just stayed my mellow-self and veggied while other camp games progressed. Just the basic stuff the first day, ya know.

After playing fetch, Sophie joined me on the swing. The human with the beard sat between me and Sophie - as if Sophie was even my type. But she is a flirt. And she is VERY BOSSY.

Okay, day is done and I gotta catch some ZZZs. Tomorrow is dog park for starters. I hear the pool 'opens' at 5:00 a.m., when the humans get up. I plan on being the first camper in the water!!! Before bed tonight, we are watching a movie (The Day of the Jackal from 1973 - I think that is before my time) and sharing a big bowl of popcorn. I think the humans forgot how I got popcorn farts last time... OH, maybe they didn't forgot... the mandate from the kitchen is "NO POPCORN for the campers!". That's me.

OK, peeps, that is all from me today, DAY ONE at CAMP.

More soon.

love,

Vinnie and my fellow/fella campers!

Take the long way home

2011-03-12T19:23:00.000-07:00

Some times, the best part of a trip is the long way home.

Just sit back, soak in the scenery, and take the long way home.

Your life? Doesn't compare to anything on the long way home.

I love this long way home.