p.i.?

This afternoon included a visit with one of the elderly residents I had grown especially close to during my time as a social worker. As he showed me some of his old photographs, he noted that the photo on this card was of his 1st cousin Arthur. Then he asked me if I recognized his face. While I looked more closely--and with decidedly more curiosity--Mr. Bradley continued: "You know the 'don't squeeze the Charmin' guy in those old commercials?" I nodded, impressing myself with my rare media-knowledgeability. "That was him," he said. Eyes widening, I could think of nothing more sophisticated to say than Whoa--how cool!," which still seems sufficiently eloquent to me.
As Mr. Bradley happens to be one of the most honorable, kind-hearted men I know, I am quite certain that this is the truth. But for the sake of you all who do not know him, I shall try to do some sleuthing, for the sake of official verification . . .

under the sea [?]

This week has been another camp adventure, including my first attempt at having the students do a mural. We opted for an "Under the Sea" theme, rounded out when one other goofy counselor and I regaled [tormented?] them all with a dramatic rendition of "Part of your world" . . . and yes, if you are wondering, I am afraid I must admit to knowing the song word for word! But back to the mural: it all went, er, swimmingly? The inspired youngsters undertook such creative feats as Octopi, Mermaids, Jellyfish, and . . . Spongebob Squarepants?!?

putting the pieces together

I was so stunned to actually hear a live voice answering that I stumbled over my words until she interrupted to kindly request that I "get to the point" of the phone call. But I had grown so accustomed to wrong numbers and undeliverable email addresses that, as I dialed one last number yesterday, I had almost forgotten what I was going to ask. Once I had sufficiently collected myself, however, we determined that, though she did not remember it until I described the circumstances, this Doctor was indeed that little girl writing a letter to an admired author. She even told me that she still had some of Ms. Estes' books in her house, while still not remembering writing the letter. But eventually, she did recollect that school visit. And she confirmed the dates. By the time I hung up the phone, she was eagerly plugging me for more details about any other children whom she might remember from her school days, about the details of her own letter, about information I had found about the school itself . . .
I smiled for the rest of the day about it, excited that soon now, this doctor will have a photocopy of her almost-forgotten letter, forever proving the power of inspiration in the lives of children.

this is the chapel . . .

. . . where I intended to come for Mass this morning. But I'm afraid I had chosen it for rather shallow reasons, in that I was simply charmed by its external appearance. So it is probably poetic justice that I did not make it in time for the 8:00 am service. Instead, I took this photo and then continued on to the gallery that was next on my day's agenda. Yesterday I had met the owner of a gallery, and had promised her I would come to visit her place today. It turns out that while I was there with her, learning how to weave on her loom, another visitor arrived. This gentleman was the producer of a local news station, and had come to interview her about her vision for the business, and for the arts. She did her interview and then asked if he could interview me as well, as she thought my "story" was an interesting one. He did--had me sing as well. So there is, I suppose, the slight chance that I will show up here on the local news :-)

for lack of the real thing

The weather today did not cooperate with an outdoor photo, there being severe thunderstorms throughout the region. I was, however, pleasantly surprised to see this faux version of my recent obsession when it arrived for our celebrations. As you can see, it was "Open House Day," which meant that businesses throughout the state opened their doors with special festivities in celebration of the arts. At this particular establishment, that meant student and professional art work displayed throughout the house, plus some of the artists here to accompany their works. I, in turn, got to play "resident artist," as I was working on some sketches for my upcoming lecture at the university. So I camped out of the floor with my canvas, feeling slightly sheepish about my amateur work as I examined the impressive local works that surrounded me, Nonetheless, it was a successful day of artistic celebration, with an impressive turnout of folks eager to brave the elements in support of local culture.

the close of another day

So I'm still smitten with those wildflowers, especially when they are framed by a sun setting over the hills . . . can you blame me?

flowers and findings

The sun is setting on my first full day of research at a special children's literature collection. Thanks to a research grant, I was able to travel out here for a week to complete my project and then to present my findings for a university committee. It is solitary work and so inherently rather lonely--but I cannot complain. Especially when these wildflowers greet me from outside the window of my rustic room :-)
My day's work ended with a delightful discovery: while reading through "fanmail" that well known authors have received over the years, I came upon one that made me pause with curiosity. In 1958 a young adolescent wrote that she had been inspired by this particular author's visit to her school. Apparently the speaker told of how her stories were in large part inspired by her real-life experiences, both actual and those she read about in books. So this child wrote that she wanted to become a doctor when she grew up. And since hearing the author's talk, she had been "keeping her ears open" each time she had a doctor's visit: even going early so as to learn more. In addition, she was asking her mother for books about doctors and about the medical profession, which she had been avidly reading.
When I pondered this letter, I could not help but ask myself, So did she become a doctor? If so, that is quite a tribute to the influence we can have on others--especially on children--as we go about our own daily work . . .
So I did a bit of internet searching, and, lo and behold, I came across the child's exact name, listed as an "infectious disease physician," prominent, and published, in her field. I also found an email address. So what do you think I did? Why, of course, I sent her an email, quoting the letter I had found, and asking if she was that same scribe of a child. We shall see what I find out . . . ;-)

a wine glass and a toothbrush

It was my first stint as a wedding photographer. And it was a challenge, to be sure--but an immensely rewarding one. One of the aspects that struck me the most about it all, about my role in it, was the importance of simply being there . . . of keeping my "eyes," both the real and the photographic varieties, wide open to the moments: the expected moments, of course [all 576 of them!]. But most significantly, in my opinion, to the unexpected moments. Like this one. A veil waiting to be donned. Alongside the wine glass used when the bride needed to calm herself from a pre-ceremony breakdown. And a pink toothbrush . . . because everyone needs a pink toothbrush handy, wedding days notwithstanding :-)

a shady tree

I had my students explain their artwork to the rest of the class this morning: expecting more shyness in response, I was pleasantly surprised to see how unabashedly expressive and proud many of my young artists ended up being. And you must imagine the word "artiste" being said with a flagrantly exaggerated French accent, as that is what I used in class :-)
Riley, for instance, gestured broadly towards his canvas as I held it up for all to see: "This is my tree," he began. "And there is the sun. The tree is holding up her branches, see--she's shading her eyes from the sun, 'cause she's hot."
It was, incidentally, quite a hot day today . . . and the campers had just been happily romping in the creek before coming into art class.

home findings

Strange the things you miss in your own backyard . . . or front yard, as the case may be. Here I am, back in my "home town" again, and today I make a discovery: after photographing fruit trees in the Caribbean, I find a brimming one here in my own yard that I hadn't realized was anywhere close to actually bearing fruit. I think it might be a peach tree but stay tuned . . . I'll keep you posted with confirmation :-)

as it was

It was the first time I have seen my mother dance. She clung tightly to my stepfather, her tear-stained face resting on his shoulder. Next to me, my brother wept at the sight, covering his face with his hands. I hesitantly rested my hand on his hunched shoulder, longing to reach out in a big sisterly love but restrained by my own discomfort at seeing his tears. He cried out of a pure, loving joy at the closeness of our family that day. And he cried because he saw the touching beauty of our paralyzed mother being supported by her husband as the emotions of such an intensely significant day overcame her.
My own reaction, however, was decidedly more conflicted. I wanted to see it as beautifully moving; I even wished that I could also be moved to tears, as I had been earlier, as the bride and groom said their vows, and when I spoke in tribute. But I could not. Instead, my eyes were glued to Mom’s feet. My practicality overruled emotion, and I held an internal debate as to whether or not I needed to walk over and straighten Mom’s feet for her. You see, her right ankle had done what it habitually does, weakening so that her foot leaned precariously to one side. What I knew was that this means she had been on her feet for too long, lessening her mobility and her flexibility. Sometimes she cannot feel the foot when it does this. But other times it is painful for her.
So as I watched, all I could do was worry about that foot and wonder if I should disturb the dance floor in order to walk over and readjust her feet.
Sometimes, I guess, the grit of life interferes with what would have been just a pretty picture. Because the harsh reality is that I cannot simply let go of my identity as a duty-driven eldest child. So as much as I longed to just treasure the moment for its beauty, I was powerless to manufacture those emotions. I envied my brother’s youthfully intense emotions, but it would be senseless now for me to waste energy regretting that which I no longer have the innocence to possess.
At the age of nine I grew old. And now, at the age of 28, I still find myself struggling, at times, with the daily realities of a life that is what it is, and not necessarily as it should be.
But you know, I don’t mind that so much. When it comes down to it, who really wants it all to be a bed of roses anyhow? It is only through weathering the storms that we can really savour the joys.
And so yesterday I decided against “fixing” my mother’s foot. I stayed right where I was, feeling what I felt—and marveling at what my brother felt. The moment was what it was . . . and that is exactly what it should have been.

. . . and pretty maids all in a row

Stopping to chat with my garden-growing, rose-donating elderly friend this afternoon, I noticed how lovely she was and asked if I could take her photo. She protested, claiming that she looked horrid. I told her she was beautiful. She dismissed me with a wave and a "pshaw," yet obliged as I took out my camera. She is beautiful, is she not? :-)

old mother hubbard . . .

Old Mother Hubbard, she lived in a cupboard . . .
Eating her curds and whey?
Maybe I don't know so much about Old Mother Hubbard,
But I've still got something to say.

Cause I've got a mother--a young mother, maybe,
But a mother who's better by far,
Than any cupboard-abiding Old Mother I see,
And here's why Mom raises the bar:

For starters she's gallant--so daring and bold,
She braves any challenge she sees.
For instance she zips down the slopes, in the cold,
Past all, on her handicap skis.

Another trait of my mother that puts her beyond
The realm of your average Plain Jane,
Is a wit that's too sharp to ever be conned,
And sense of humor that keeps us all sane.

One time, for example, Mom came in the door,
Calling her rambunctious crew all around,
To say she had just bought a treat for us four:
A "six-pack" at the store, she had found!

The truth is that while she was there at the grocer,
She'd seen what had given her pause:
A "beer" touted as non-alcoholic inspired her
To play a prank on her dearest young ones!

Fact is I could prattle for ages on end
About all the ways mom's a marvel.
But by the time I was done I'd have to extend
This poem to the length of a novel.

So here I will close with a simple word more,
To say that it's high time, I gather,
That this woman who's truly a "mom" to the core,
Is soon going to be a Grandmother!

the unnamed painter

Something about this pertly pink painter struck me as picture-perfect when I passed. So I was happy to see him still at it on the way back home; this time I stopped behind the bush to pull out my camera and snap the shot. It was a rather cumbersome process, digging the camera out of a full sack, putting down the flowers I was carrying in my other hand, and lowering my sunglasses in order to see properly for photographic purposes. By the time I was poised and ready, the realization that I should have asked him permission to take his photo finally occurred to me; but I fear I must confess that I was too hot at the time, and preoccupied with getting home to prepare for Youth Meeting, to do as I should . . .
But this anonymous gentleman has, I hope, in his unknowing heart, kindly allowed me to post him here :-)

the sweetest fruit?

Remember the "thieving grass" post? Well today I met that "grass":
Passing by the field, I saw 3 brown heads quickly dart down to avoid being spotted. In my best stern teacher voice, I ordered them out and told them they should know better than to trespass: "Boys, get out of there this minute--you know you're supposed to go straight home after school!" I stifled a laugh as they dashed to heed my order, awkwardly squeezing back through the narrow wooden slats of the gate. And then I snapped this shot of their smug faces, sticky with mango juice . . . I've heard it said that stolen fruit is the sweetest kind :-)

that angel for you

Ok, here's your sand angel, Kel :-) It was, I think, my first--and I consequently discovered just how difficult it is to get trillions of grains of sand off my sticky [but tanned!] skin, and out of my hair . . .

April 30

There once was a boy, Alex his name--
A fine young chap, destined for fame.

This lad, you see, was born with a knack
For seeing the plenty where others see lack.

Take, for example, his identity:
A simple case of multiplicity.

American-Canadian, but in Africa born--
When claiming his race, he felt rather forlorn.

Till one happy day, in a flash of brilliance,
He heard of a term that made perfect sense.

"So that's what I am!," he said with a grin,
Doing the Happy Dance with a whirl and a spin.

And from that day forth, each stranger run into
Was promptly introduced, with no further ado,

To Alexander Thomas, a fine gentleman:
A green-eyed and blond-headed African-American!

So on this 30th of April, I must take the occasion
To wish my little brother a fire-cracking, heck-raisin'

"Happy Birthday!" my dear, and all love to you always!

must be one of those [maternal?] days

My path crossed this afternoon with twin boys walking home from school. As they passed, they greeted me with a "Happy Mother's Day" wish. I cheerily thanked them, and then thought, Now that's odd. Am I looking especially maternal today? Perhaps I'm still wearing traces of last night's pride over my Youth Choir's first performance? Who knows . . .
And on a not entirely unrelated note, my photo today is of the set-up that was taking place on the beach today. As I took the photo, I thought about how the pre-ceremony look of it was, to me, more beautiful than the standard wedding shots that will, I assume, be taken this evening.

that thieving grass

. . . but i guess not everyone around here likes the grass :-)

keeping it clean

Taking the bus back home from a trip into town, I found myself next to a fellow who, judging from the smell of things, was apparently coming straight from "work," in his Trash Pick-Up uniform. He also was a proudly dredlocked, colour-bearing Rastafarian. For the entirety of the 45-minute ride, he talked without seeming to stop for breath, lecturing us all on the woes of "the man," who gets nothing from the government, on the power of the people, and on the ways of the island.
As he talked about the island, a tourist behind us interjected to query our Rasta friend as to whether there was a drug problem here on the island.
Still without a pause for breath, Rasta jumped into this issue. "Oh yeah, man. Big problem. We got big problems. People here on the island, they just don't know what to do, so they do drugs. Big problem. Yeah man. Me, I don't do too much . . . "
At this point I looked at him and, wondering if I had heard him right, asked if he had just said "too much."
In the middle of his speech still, he didn't hear me and kept going. The bus driver, however, from the front, tossed back an affirmation that indeed, that's what he had said.
Tuning back in to Rasta Man, I caught the remainder of his explanation:
" . . . I don't do the cocaine. I don't smoke. I stick with the clean grass--straight from Jamaica. That's the good grass . . ."
I feel very informed now, I dare say, being ignorant before now about the merits and origins of "clean" grass.