January 31, 2004
Sharing
The summer of 1992, South Haven, Minnesota, on Lake Sylvia, home of James & Susan Stochl. Diane shares book with Matthew and Skibby; Matthew shares drink with Skibby.
View larger image
"I am always aware of the impermanence of street painting. Wind, sun, dirt, and rain constantly remind me as I work of the very fleeting nature of this type of painting. All day long, as I'm creating a new part of the picture, I can see the finished parts already fading. It's a challenge to retouch the picture and keep it fresh for spectators. I'm not disappointed when the painting washes away because street painting is performance art, it's very much like attending a symphony. When the music ends everyone leaves with a memory of the music. My work is the same except one is left with a visual impression. And much like musical recording helps preserve a moment, I photograph my paintings when they're finished. "
Rogers, Pittsburgh Post Gazette
View legible cartoon
January 30, 2004
The Return of Wolfman and Girlfriend
Every couple in America has one of these. Most are wise enough
not to diplay them in public, but we're willing to sacrifice our diginity
for The Blog.
I thought of Adam when I read this, but then I remembered Mona Lisa's Smile.
Ed's adult competition . Not to mention, who Ed is. Yesterday a faithful blog reader asked me if Chris were a man or a woman.
Just when you thought it was cold in New England, this sent by
Susan, from Lake Sylvia, Minnesota.
January 29, 2004
Two More
I may have this wrong, but I think:
Emily and Sarah McCarthy, Seah, Ginger, Laura & Kathleen Collins. Help me out here, Ginger,
Diane, anyone ... .
View larger image
Ned, Anita,Ginger, Brian, Helen, and Mack.
View larger image
January 28, 2004
More than years ago
How come I don't have a wife who looks at me that way? And where
do you get one? Amazon.com? Ebay?
View larger image
Greg, Bonnie and Dan Downing
Diane and Greg
Matthew wasn’t as excited about the mountain climb as I , so, in an attempt to rally support, I called Robby’s dad to see if he was okay with my taking his son up Monadnock in the snow. “As long as you get Robby to wear warm clothes.” I emailed Karen, Chris’s mom, and she wrote back that Chris needed to study for mid-terms which begin
Thursday, and had to work at 4:30 that afternoon. I then called Robby, it was about 9:30 AM, and I assumed his cell would forward to an answering service. Instead, Robby answered and I could hear a voice in the background.
“Robby, it’s Mike, where are you?”
“In English class, with Matt. Hey Matt it’s your dad.”
“Do you want to climb Monadnock tomorrow? if school is canceled.”
“Ahhh, maybe.”
“Well, think about it.”
I didn’t want to push the point or talk too long. Not after I realized that the voice in the background was his English teacher’s.
But all of that is moot. No snow. Not one flake. In defense of our meteorologists, this is the first really blown forecast in a while.
January 27, 2004
Wedding Dance
Ginger, her brother Paul, her sisters Barbara and Joan ( in green), and Brian
View larger image
Another photo from Ginger’s archives, this one and one or two to follow, of her wedding to Brian. The ceremony was held in the Old Cambridge Baptist Church in Cambridge which has a history of slightly left of center activist politics. Such as providing refuge for Guatemalans running from Pinochet. Peaquod’s offices, the therapy group both Brian and Ginger were a part of, was located in the basement. I have no idea what title the pastor/minister/rabbi had. I do know, unlike my sister’s wedding, he was not from the Universalist Life Church.
Many of these old photos are out of focus and it makes me wonder what was wrong with the technology in those days. Maybe that is the difference, today’s cameras compensate for the photographer. But this image is fine as a blur, after all, it’s all about the feet.
Last night I went to sleep relieved that yesterday’s posting didn’t offend. As I later wrote to Susan, it can be dicey writing about someone else’s father. Had there been a problem, I would have blamed it on Dan.
A Nor'easter is predicted for tonight and tomorrow and if schools are closed, I'm going to take the day off and climb Mt. Monadnock with Matt and his friends. If I can convince Matt and his friends to go, and his friend's parents of the wisdom of my fine idea.
January 26, 2004
A (Very) Brief History of Frank Canning
Diane and I have morphed into rigid ritualists. Not only do we brush our teeth everyday, shower every time we walk by the bathroom, and obsessively check our email, we also eat dinner Friday nights at the Sushi House and breakfast most Sundays at a local diner. Last Friday we were already seated when Dan joined us. He slid in next to Diane and when the waitress came by he smiled, pointed at Diane’s Chardonnay, and said, “I’ll have one of those.” Then, with his arms crossed, he looked at Diane and asked,
“So what was your relationship like with your father?”
Diane hesitated, missed half a beat and replied,
“It was good. I loved my father. He was smart and funny. A wry kind of funny.”
“You mean like Susan?”
“No, more like....Matthew.”
“Didn’t he give you math problems at the dinner table?”
“He could have.” Diane looked across the table at me as if I would have the answer. I thought, maybe Uncle Bill, but not Frank.
“We did have political discussions at the table. He loved debate. But my mother didn’t like it all, she would get up and do the dishes. His relationship with Susan was sharp; he sparred with her, but with me, he was softer. Tickled me, and when we were driving he would reach over and slap my knee. Like Michael does now.”
Dan looked my way.
“So you knew Frank?”
“Oh yeah. We went down to New City a lot. But I mostly knew his death, not his life. I was there once or twice before we found out about his cancer. I remember dinner on Scott Drive, when we argued about Macrobiotics. He said people died eating that way; I thought kinda narrow of you to choose a worst case example. Maybe he was testing to see if I could spar as well as Susan. Well, I couldn’t. Still can’t. Anyway, it was an embarrassing way to start a relationship. For me. I remember very early in his illness, he cooked lamb on the grill. A meal I’d heard so much about from Diane, but this time, one he overcooked. I saw mostly the frail Frank, not the Frank of legend. “
Dan turned back to Diane.
“Did he visit you in Somerville when you were living with Michael?”
“No. He helped me move, but he didn’t come back. I don’t think he approved of the apartment, he thought it needed work. He wanted to paint it.”
“Did he say anything about your living situation?”
“No, he was a liberal. He didn’t say that we were living in sin, or anything like that. Like my mother. Remember, Michael, when I slipped and told Flo I was living with you.”
“She said, ‘I think it’s time you come back home.’ “
“He was...a liberal? Dan seemed surprised.
“Yes, on social issues.”
“Looking at Wolfman and Girlfriend I can see why Emerson was upset about my choice of friends. I might feel the same way now.”
“Emerson must have been upset when you left Raytheon,” I offered.
“He was stunned. Couldn’t believe it.”
“What work did Frank do?”
“Worked for Bell Tel.”
“Was he an engineer?”
“Started as an engineer, but he moved up to management.”
“And his father?”
“Worked for Bell Tel too.”
And that was the end of the conversation. No closed loops, only a new topic- Dan’s diet - to take its place. I don’t know what Diane was thinking as she answered Dan’s questions, but it made me sad. I miss Frank because of what I know about his relationship wth Diane, Susan, and Patti. He loved them in a way that a parent should love his children- unequivocally. There were his daughters and then there was everyone else. I wished Matthew could have experienced that love from this playful grandfather. And I wish that Frank had known Matthew. He would finally have found another soul in the family to spar with.
January 25, 2004
Twice A Week Is Too Much
Ed Schmahl
When you get to a certain age, like me, a mere mumblety-mumble years old, there seem to be limits on your activity that didn't exist when you were a teenager, or a thirty-something, or even a forty-something. But I can't resist trying. When the call comes, I can't say no. The lure is too strong, the primal urge too powerful to struggle. I have to say, "Yes, yes, yes, now is fine, let's do it." For a year, it was just once a week, but now I'm called to double my efforts, and so I do what I must.
The siren song of the swing of the racquet, the "plock" of the ball against the walls, the magic of the three-dimensional trajectory between the bounce and the hit, all of these are irresistible. When I'm invited to play, I never turn down the request.
Patrick and I enjoyed our weekly racquetball games on a regular basis from 2002 to mid-2003, and then Dominic Zarro, a fellow worker at Goddard, found that I'm a racquetball junkie like he used to be, and asked me to play. We started playing regular r-ball just about the time that Katie got involved in the game. But what saved me from tendinitis ruin and knee mutilation was that the only day of the week that both she and Patrick could play was Thursday, and so we played "cut-throat", a 3-way game of racquetball. Katie, being a beginner, Patrick and I played against her left-handed, and what a relief that was! It was a kinder, gentler game, so much fun, and so relaxing, I didn't care who won. Unlike the 2-player games between Patrick and me, where it was a deadly serious duel to the finish, our cut-throat games were full of laughs and wild swings and left-handed misses. So playing an additional few games against Dominic on Saturdays every week wasn't the arm-wracker that it would have been if Katie hadn't got interested in the game..
Dominic, now in his mid-50s youth, used to be a really tough player back in the last age. His super-spinner 3-wall returns were absolutely deadly, and his left-corner serves were unhittable. But his love for pasta has gotten the better of him, and now being totally out of shape, I can exploit my left-right-left-wear-him-down strategy (which totally fails with Patrick). Just let Dominic miss his target once on that left-corner serve, and I'd set up a volley, returning first to one side, then the other, forcing him to run back and forth across the court over and over. I didn't try for "kills", and just set up returns to wear him down. So usually by the 2nd game, he was panting like a racehorse, and then I could beat him by increasing amounts like 15-10, 15-8, 15-4 in the next 3 games. Finally, not having the strength to do more than shuffle, he'd have to cry "uncle", and retire for the day.
Last summer Dominic took his family back to see his parents in Australia in Sydney, his home town. He had promised to himself that he'd do a lot of walking and keep fit while there so he'd play better r-ball when he returned. But his mom's cooking was too good, and he gained 10 pounds. So when he returned to Maryland, my wear-him-down strategy continued to work.
Katie, being more serious about school than racquetball (how could I raise a daughter with such strange priorities?) couldn't always play on the regulation Thursday. So once in a while, Patrick and I played our usual exhausting one-on-one. And a couple of weeks ago, the day after a tough 4-game series with Patrick, when Dominic called to find out if he should reserve a court at the Community Center tomorrow, I couldn't resist. I said, "Sure", and went to the medicine cabinet to call on Dr. Ibo-advil Motrin to get ready.
The next morning on the court, Dominic was "on". He was wired. His left-corner serves were bullets into the center of the bulls-eye, and his sneaky side-wall-front-grazer shots fell in place like they were ruled by a stylus. I squeaked ahead of him on the scoreboard, only because his precisely-repeated serves to my left have given me some practice, and I've learned to change my stance while waiting for the serve, so I can throw my body weight behind my weak backhand. I managed to win 15-13.
Strangely, however, after this game, Dominic didn't look tired. What happened? Did he eat Wheaties this morning instead of spaghetti? Did he have a double venti espresso before the game? He was still "on" as we started the second game, and his bullet serves to the left were more accurate than ever. He moved ahead 5-0. "I'm getting skunked!" I muttered to myself. He pulled further ahead, mixing up one side-wall-front-grazer shot after another. His lead reached 8-2. I bore down and got a few more points, and then it was 10-5. As the rallies and serves proceeded, I slowly crept up on him, and it was 13-11, but still his favor. He scored a point. 14-11. I scored a point. It was 14-12. He lost his serve when I returned a near-kill too far from him to return. Then I lost my serve when he dropped in a side-wall-front-grazer. He lost his next serve when I returned with a sidewall scraper. I lost my serve when he hit a killer return. It was still 14-12, and I refused to give up. We had traded 4 serves in a row without a score, but it was still "point-game" for him. He served a slow bullet to the left corner, I returned it. It was a hard one for him to return, and his shot was an easy one to my right hand off the rear wall. leapt towards the back, knowing just where I'm going to hit this one, and, and,...time stops.
Somehow my racquet gets in the way, maybe hitting the wall, and my pirouette that would turn me into position to catch the ball on the horizontal bounce spins out of control, and I take a head-first dive into the back wall. Meanwhile Dominic is at mid-court, waiting for the return, expecting a speed ball to come flying past him, but there is nothing but a couple of "splonks", like meat hitting concrete. He turns around, and sees me lying on my back, peering at the ceiling. My goggles have flown off somewhere, my glasses have been ripped off. He looks down at my head with a worried expression. Blood is dripping from my eyebrow where the goggles tried to penetrate. I'm just beginning to feel the pain in my forehead and right knee which seem to have hit the wall simultaneously. Dominic says in his Aussie accent, "Don't get up. Are you all right? What happened? Did you get knocked out? Wow, you've got a walnut-sized bump on your forehead. I don't think you're going to want to look in the mirror!"
Time began again. After feeling my forehead, and checking the signals from my other body parts, I decided I was sort of OK. Gradually I turned around from my seated position, putting all fours to the ground, keeping my right leg straight while standing up. Dominic looked seriously concerned, but I didn't feel woozy or wobbly. I said, "Maybe we shouldn't try to finish that game. I'll give it to you."
Fortunately it was a Saturday, so I could sit on the couch in the living room wearing a cold patch on my forehead ministered by nurse Beth. The walnut mostly receded by the next day, and by Monday I just had a weird yellowish blob below my hairline, just enough to scare little children and worry their mothers. On Thursday I played Patrick 3 games, and survived. But on Saturday morning, the neck aches and shoulder throbs were back. Dr. Ibo was consulted. Then my Aussie friend called, "Are you up for a game at 10?" he asked. My forebrain whispered, "No, No", but my limbic brain shouted, "Yes, yes. I'll be there. I'm leaving for the gym now." The scratch must be itched, and the urge must be followed.
The competition: Katie & Patrick
January 24, 2004
Fishermen
Matthew, Jim & Skibby
If Matthew were awake, he could tell me how many times he’s been to
Minnesota to visit Jimmy and Susan. I think it used to be and may still be,
more times than years he is old.
View bigger fish
Diane asked me the other night if I knew where this photograph was. I said, no, but that I’d look. We have unlabeled boxes of pictures in various places, that contain unlabeled photo envelopes, in which are unlabeled photos. I knew it would be a fun hunt, but a time consuming one. How time consuming, I could never have guessed. It was in the same box of photos as those below, of the Candee sisters and the BMW. In a closet in Ginger’s house.
Photo taken in our apartment on Beacon St. in Somerville, and because there is no simple description on the back, I going to guess the year is 1973. Btw, rakkity lived with us in that apartment. And as I recall, we were responsible for him meeting his wife, Beth, his near death experience in front of that house, and his successful career as a solar astronomer. (How right you are, Beth, encouragement, we don't need)
A closer look at the braided cook
January 23, 2004
Incarnation
Joan, Ginger, Cathy and Barbara Candee
View larger image
This photo isn't only about the two, young, stylishly dressed women. I mean it was at the time ... .
View blurrier image
A few things:
About image quality. I think my scanner is reaching the end of its life. I get scan lines that never appeared before, and they take a certain amount of filtering to reduce, but that also makes the images less distinct. Plus, we're scanning old (ancient?) photos that weren't necessarily all that great at the time. And, many were developed on matte (read: pebbly) paper that presents its own scan issues.
If you have a smallish monitor and have your resolution set at 800 x 600, then the small images are huge and the larger images are pointless to click on. Also, the format of the page changes so that all the recent entry links sit at the bottom of the page. If your resolution is set high, as mine is, or Dan’s ( running an impossibly small 1900 x 1200), then the present format works fine.
Obviously I can’t accommodate everyone, but viewing the blog at the Schriebers has prompted me to once again reduce the size of the small, main page images. If this change is not good, let me know. I’m a crowd pleaser, and will follow majority opinion.
For what it’s worth, I buy inksell inks from inksell.com. They are a third the cost of Epson inks and almost never clog. For color photos they take longer to dry, but so what.
January 22, 2004
Golden Years
Photo of Chris's grandparents-in-law circa 1930.
They didn't have great means but what a classy photo. Both lived well into
their 90's. Though as he used to say "the golden years...they're not so
golden".
View larger image
January 20, 2004
Wedding Party 1970
Susan & Jimmy Stochl
Frank, Florence, Patti, Diane.
View larger image
January 19, 2004
Coming of Age
Matthew is a robust driver, showing loads of confidence, and even a few seasoned Boston driving habits. He is, however, still learning about driving in the snow, and yesterday’s near accident is, I believe, mostly the result of my not taking him to the open playground of a deserted shopping mall.
Impatient to get to Daryl Sullo’s for the beginning of the Pat’s game, he and Robby Nadler hopped into the truck, while Diane and I futzed in the house. I watched from the window as he drove up and down the snowy driveway. Accelerating, braking, skidding, creating perhaps, a mini-mall experience. I worried as he accelerated backing up, afraid that without enough slick surface training, he would plow into Diane’s nearby car.
When we finally walked out to the truck, Diane hopped into the back seat with Robby, and I climbed into the front, passenger side. As Matthew began accelerating down the driveway, I reached over and pulled the gear shift down into four wheel drive. Normally I leave it in two wheel reasoning that he may someday drive his BMW in the winter. And besides, I thought it wise to toss a safety net between all that testosterone and the layers of ice and snow on the road.
We pulled out of the driveway, drove down Central, made a right on Martin and a sliding rear-end-wanting-to-break-loose, left turn onto Maple, Daryl's street.
“Matt, if we were in two wheel drive, you would have slid into those trees.” Concise verbal parenting in lieu of that trip to the parking lot.
He often remarks on the difference between two and four wheel drive, but I’m not sure he believed me. He didn’t slow down. Daryl’s house is a half a block from that turn, and In front of his house, between the end of his driveway and a telephone pole, is a comfortable car’s length of parking space. And that’s where we were headed.
I saw the skidding stop in front of the telephone pole coming; I had witnessed the practice sessions in our driveway. But the realization came too late - I didn’t have time to say, “Matt, what you are about to do is inappropriate for these weather conditions.”
Fifteen feet from the pole, he hit the brake peddle and instantly - the annoying ABS chatter. Good system in theory, except we weren’t stopping, we weren’t even slowing down. We were, however, about to make a horrifyingly abrupt stop. That’s when Matt flicked his wrist to the left, guiding the chattering truck right on by, inches from the pole. He didn’t panic. He didn’t lock up with both feet on the brake, praying that the truck would stop. He could have, many people would have, but Matthew again showed his innate accident avoidance skill. And that, more than anything else he does in a car, reassures me. You know, In another month he’ll be on the road alone.
I don’t remember exactly what I said after the truck stopped feet beyond the pole. Maybe nothing, maybe a few squeaks in a high-pitched teenage girl kind of voice. I did, as Diane and I were driving off, call him on his cell phone to offer compliments on his cool under fire. And to drive home the other point I’d been making, “If we were in two wheel drive, the rear wheels would have let go and we would have broad sided that pole.”
January 18, 2004
Great Meadows
Our lunch yesterday at La Provence included the usual topics (work, writing, photographs, wood stoves, TV’s, movies (Big Fish), Adam’s mangled finger, and death. The purpose of our meeting was not lunch, but the walk with Mr Schreiber’s dog, Butter, who is likely to die in the next few months from an aggressive form of cancer.
Mark S wondered how different Butter’s experience of death, from our own. I sat back, scornful we could even “go there,” while others discussed consciousness, the experience of loss, what our last thoughts and actions would be, reporting back after the event, etc. We then cut our usual three hour lunch short by an hour and drove off to Great Meadows in Lincoln.
A contemplative pose? Maybe.
Zooming in
View larger image
For much better pics, check Adam's Photos
January 17, 2004
Reaping the Benefits
Adam Kibbe
Image repeated from the July 03, 2003 addition log entry, the day Mike, Matt and Robby insulated our sunroom. In this recent spate of subzero weather, the room has still been comfortable to inhabit. The radiant heat in the floor helps (mostly just keeps the tile from feezing our feet), but the quality of the insulation is paramount. Thanks, Mike!!!!!
View infinitesimally larger image
Wolfman and Girlfriend
It is so much easier to scan and post photos than write something worth
reading.
View scarier image
January 16, 2004
Canning Family (Early Years)
Frank, Diane, Florence and Susan.
Click here for more family photos.
January 15, 2004
Substance of Light
By now those who have the interest, time and fortitude have made it through (at least some) of the previous post. Having let your rich imaginations dwell with this for awhile, the following images (click here) are now available, against which to check your internal vision -- snapshots from a quick trip into the church this afternoon to manage some control system issues. Do read the quote in the above image first.............
Wellesley
The Requested Photograph - Martha Burr & Diane Canning,
Wellesley College 1969
View larger image
January 14, 2004
SANCTUARY
by Adam S. Kibbe
First, apologies for the length. A telling was requested, this is what I came up with, The Editor approved. It could've been longer.
Secondly, why no pictures? Because you all have rich imaginations and deep internal lives and will surely paint this better than I could photograph it. And it's not done, anyway. And so. My tale.........
No matter how you sliced it, the Holy Spirit was running interference on the target’s upper body. I couldn’t get a clear shot -- not without collateral consequence. It hadn’t even looked good on paper during strategizing, where the oversimplifications could have easily trapped the unwary -- and this was real-time, line-of-sight, hard reality. And the Spirit wasn’t moving, that was for sure. It wasn’t good. And it was the least of my problems.
Three years ago, when I’d started to set this up, I’d known the risks. I don’t know that my employers did, and living the outcome was another matter. Plus, time was quickly running out. Now that the colors had failed and every last reprieve been snatched out from under us, all at this, the 11th hour. Exhausted, I wondered -- who’d set this up this way? Not me. Three years come down to 5 days, targets known only from sketches -- hardly sane.
But time is time, and flame will rise at the appointed hour, prayers be answered (or curses hurled), smoke swung in appeasing arcs, judgment rendered. Clock’s ticking. Back to it then. Move a little right of the Spirit, get a clearer angle on Christ’s head. So. Next.
Somehow the Europeans -- notice how Americans (like me) use that word as if it denotes a separate species -- manage a one-month visit back into their leisure lives each summer, and somehow their economy survives, their schools educate, their borders hold, the planet spins. I haven’t taken a two-week vacation in accessible memory, but we’d stretched this one -- to visit my folks in Albuquerque -- to 12 days out of the office, and I was in that groove. What I needed now was a graceful, phased reentry. Not what I got.
I’d already had several major lighting projects lined up for completion by end of first week back, and I did get most of Monday to survey the backlog and plan, which was quite reasonable. But then George called. They don’t fit. Three years in the planning, and now this.
My fault, maybe -- I specified them blind. I went over this fact with Andy, the head electrician, when we met several months prior to this do-or-die week to strategize, asked that he examine clearances before ordering anything. But then a transformer vault exploded on him while working at another job, a hospital, molten copper and flash-heated oil punching through a containment wall and almost annihilating his hands, damaging much of his body. But miraculously sparing his eyesight. I’m told he’s up and about, with a great attitude.
And so it fell to George to catch up to this runaway freight train and herd it into the station. That not more fell through all the available cracks is yet another miracle.
It’s all about the art, and about a church that never closes closing for one week to put in sacred art -- controversial art -- over which they have agonized for years. And the lighting that will give this art life. A huge cross made of a canyon live-oak split vertically. A Corpus of exquisite detail, rendered realistically in diaphanous bronze mesh and floating finally free of the cruel iron spikes still left in the twained trunk, one palm turned up to heaven, one facing us. And rising towards a luminous band of interpretational light and flame and spirit. The Holy Spirit.
It’s not arrogance that would make me think I could successfully gauge all the physical relationships and sight lines and individual material qualities and illuminate these objects to the fullest of their potential, realizing the dreams of both the artists and the congregation. Nor sheer stupidity. Not exactly. I simply had no choice. The ineffable Holy Spirit piece had been delayed years while the same artist searched for the perfect tree for the cross. Or waited while it grew, or came to him -- we’re not sure why this took so long, while the Corpus, by a separate artist, waited in storage. But I never got a model, or the real thing, not even a sample of the material. Just a description, and a sketch.
I built in flexibility, thought through all the pitfalls I could imagine. The hardest part was color. Being the Holy Spirit, sheer white was its common rendition. But the client wanted it to glow as with flame for Pentecost, at other times be blue. Or purple. I designed a way to do this (I thought), convinced them to spend the money. But it didn’t work.
Of course, I don’t know this yet when first George calls me. Just that a side project, undertaken to combine two messy projects into one, has a big hitch. Now I need an alternate fixture. Finding suitable architectural-grade fixtures on moments’ notice is tense, frustrating work, but it’d be too hard to spin it into compelling drama. Suffice it to say we had a way out; then we didn’t; then we did; then not, and so on. And on and on. Clock ticking. Of course, money was also involved -- how MUCH for overnight freight, and from WHERE? What would any good crisis be without the cost of the crisis for amplification?
Having spent hours on phone and email, pulled some strings, and been availed of some minor miracles, we closed up one night with things looking up. And then awoke on the second-to-last day to find someone had arrived overnight and (arguably legitimately) taken from the warehouse all 240 fixtures, of which we needed but 20. In another kind of zone entirely, I suggested that “someone” go after that truck and beg or steal back what we needed. He came back with 12. We took them.
By then had come my first day on site. There was more than one problem by then. I already knew that the artists had miscalculated something, and the pieces weren’t installed exactly where they’d been shown in the sketches. Off by a couple of feet, actually. But I wasn’t worried -- lights can be repositioned, and the relative positions of the three art pieces had been maintained. So I came in to see where the installations -- both art and lights -- stood.
Meet the rep for the control system, but we’re not ready, so please come back the next day. Meet the rep for the high-tech, color-changing-LED lamps that will give the Holy Spirit its many looks, make sure all the parts are correctly connected before firing it up. But guess what -- don’t need this, never thought of that, won’t be able to be controlled by the main control system. But the needed parts could be traded for. later. Okay, plan B to get us through the weekend’s consecration ceremonies, pick it up again later. So fire it up. Is it on? Oh.
It IS on................... Kinda underwhelming, isn’t it? 16 fixtures, and.......... nothing.
That was the hardest part to get around. I had presented these expensive fixtures as “weak”, hence a whopping 16 of them. But while the Holy Spirit had moved, it had actually gotten closer to the lights, which should’ve made the effect stronger. Unfortunately, it moved from being in front of them, where it would transmit and reflect some light, to being directly under them, where the lamps “saw” mostly the edge of the ribbon forms and spilled most of the light straight through onto the floor, scattering next to nothing forward. No life. No spirit.
We achieved some improvement by refocusing other lighting but were well short of expectations. The artist was respectfully optimistic but had to catch a flight, left me to make it right. My direct client muted her disappointment, but to say she was angry and crushed would not be an overstatement. I was in an agony of guilt and indecision. To bail on the whole idea, admit it just wouldn’t work, or by doing so, miss some opportunity to in fact give them what they’d envisioned, play hero? Or both.....?
We removed the high-tech lamps, rewired the fixtures for their normal low-voltage halogen use, installed some of the extra lamps for other fixtures that I’d judiciously put in the bid package, and turned ‘em on. Now THAT has Spirit! Won’t change colors, but what a difference. Could it be better? Well sure............ We could backlight it....... Clearly the material’s best aspect is transmitted light. What would that look like? Well, let me bring in some equipment and show you. Next day, a lone lamp tottering on the end of a 30’ sectional pole swaying dangerously (putting the now priceless art at risk), we reach a new vision of the potential of the piece, and while we know we can’t make it happen for the consecration, we know it WILL happen. Better. Better.
And the now-too-many-fixtures directly over the piece can be subdivided into groups and lensed in different colors and maybe give us not so much crow anymore, but cake -- both to have and to eat. I’d like to say it was my technical genius, but perhaps better, it was collective will and vision. As a group, we refused to give up on the piece’s potential, and while we’ve yet to see the result, we’re confident. Though confidence was something I was mostly out of then and there. And I had other fish to fry.
The Corpus. The angle. In the scheme with the weak colors, the other lighting had to miss it entirely lest it wash out the colors. Now that we were cooking with gas, we could afford to graze the Spirit -- which threw a slightly undesirable shadow but got a good angle on Christ’s upturned face. A clear shot. Acceptable consequence. Next.
Oh yeah, the miracle fixtures had been picked up by one of the electricians, who drove many hours into Connecticut and back to get them. But they were finally here and would get installed before the place got its final cleaning. Not enough time to wire them up, but that can come later. They were a gravy afterthought anyway.
So what’s left? Focus the rest of the lights, then set into doing the one thing I’d actually expected to be doing this week -- reprogramming the control system and its new components to accommodate the new lighting into the preprogrammed scenes set up for daily use. This involved much discussion about relative levels and strategies regarding what is linked to what, but was anticlimactic and went fairly smoothly. At 8:00 on the night before the main event..........
That last night. To call that week a marathon is but an approximation. I’d only partially gotten to some of the other lighting projects I’d been expecting to do that week, as I’d been otherwise fully embroiled in this fiasco. Stressful effort -- mental anguish -- is in many ways more tiring than physical effort (not that I’d really know, getting far more of the former than the latter, alas). After less than a week, I felt I’d been back from the Southwest for a month, Albuquerque long forgotten. But I pushed hard at those other jobs and made some headway on that last day. Then headed back out to the church, an hour or so late to rendezvous with the electrician, and go over status before starting reprogramming.
But my car had frozen up in the single-digit weather. Its seven or eight-year-old battery was just not up to stirring the frozen sludge in my crankcase (okay, I was a grand or so past the scheduled oil change, too), and it gave up the ghost.
So I tried to push start it. By myself. Needing to go uphill first so it’d have somewhere to roll down (backwards). Twice. Did I mention, it’s a BMW? Solidly built....... I’m not.
Adrenaline’s a potent drug, and I was feeling fine after Lukas generously jump-started me (though I would limp painfully for days). I raced into town and parked (nowhere near the church, unfortunately) aimed downhill -- just in case -- and trudged through the biting, Arctic chill with my armloads of gear, up to closure.
5 hours later, after finally setting the presets (with an unexpected five members of the committee in vocal attendance), I begin to clean up. I’ve just had an illuminating conversation (that unavoidable pun) with Father Joe and the director on the symbology of the pieces and what is “known” and not known about The Crucifixion, a conversation which has deepened all our appreciations of the work. The lighting’s okay, and will get better, and we’re all warmly appreciative of each others’ commitment. The art’s beautiful.
The remaining four members -- three pastors and the director -- begin to rehearse a part of the next day’s ceremony, though I don’t yet know that is what they’re doing. I hear the beginnings of a prayer, assume this is an impromptu, personal benediction -- of the process, if not the art pieces -- and instinctually stop and bow my head. I who have not bowed my head in prayer in a House of God in decades. I am grateful for the pause, for the good will, for the knowledge it’s all now in someone else’s hands. No words form in my mind in offering to what most would know as deity, but I pray, nonetheless. Or at least, find myself open to their prayer, which is simple and eloquent, easy.
Then they start practicing the three swings of the Censer, I finish my packing, and with some weary good wishes and goodbyes, I’m off into the night with my armfuls of gear, now limping slightly, through the frigid night in the direction of my distant car. It started. I went home.
January 13, 2004
Diane and Scout
What I’ve always known about Diane. She doesn’t take sides, unless Ginger is involved; she loves sleeping in tents but not outside of them. Hills, whether hiked or biked, need to be conquered quickly. She can make a meal out of mushrooms en brochette but will pass on dessert if it doesn’t include chocolate. Her favorite classical song is Honegger's Une Cantate de Noel, and her favorite movie is To Kill a Mockingbird with Sundays and Cybele a very close second. Her favorite book, also, To Kill a Mockingbird.
That’s why, when I needed a followup to my latest hunt-down-the-psychopathic-serial-killer, crime thriller, I pulled her thirty-five year old copy of TKAM from our bookshelf.
Scout’s description of her hometown:
“There was indeed a caste system in Maycomb, but to my mind it worked this way: the older citizens, the present generation of people who had lived side by side for years and years, were utterly predictable to one another: they took for granted attitudes, character shadings, even gestures, as having been repeated in each generation and refined by time. Thus the dicta No Crawford Minds His Own Business, Every Third Merriweather Is Morbid, The truth Is Not in the Delalfields, All the Bufords Walk Like That, were simply guides to daily living: never take a check from a Delafield without a discreet call to the bank; Miss Maudie Atkinson’s shoulder stoops because she was a Buford; if Mrs. Grace Merriweather sips gin out of Lydia E. Pinkham bottles it’s nothing unusual – her mother did the same.”
View taller image
January 12, 2004
Neck Bone
Chris's children: Michael, Caroline, and Matthew
Matthew (the one above) woke the other day with what might have been a stiff neck.
"Mom, have you ever, when you were young, or even yesterday, felt like a
bone was sticking out of your neck?"
January 11, 2004
August 1949
Florence and Diane at two years, five months.
View larger image
Steven called at 2 PM Saturday to tell me that water was finally flowing through his kitchen faucet. “Wonderful,” I said, and I then left for my weekly dump run, and 3 PM pickup of Matthew from his work at the convenience store. When I got home, Karen’s voice, mildly frantic, was on my answering machine. Water was pouring from three different places into her downstairs bathroom. She had called every plumber and none had called back. No surprise, I thought, they are all out fixing broken pipes.
I arrived carrying my rather modest assortment of plumbing equipment, including a new torch Matthew had given me for Christmas. The appearance of the bathroom was worse than Karen’s description. Towels used like sand bags to contain growing pools of water on the floor, and water spraying, streaming and dripping from the ceiling. And about that ceiling.
Tile. Not only over the tub, but everywhere. I guessed that the burst pipe was above the tub, under the kitchen sink, and the other leaks were caused by rivers that flowed away from the source. With my 22 ounce framing hammer in hand, and standing on the tub, I whacked the ceiling, only to have my hammer bounce back like a hard ball on phony turf. Uh oh, I thought. Tiles set in concrete. Beautiful white tiles. I flipped my hammer over, using the claw side and whacked some more, chipping holes in the tile, in the concrete and finally through to the joist space where I could see the fractured, spewing pipe.
I could draw this story our forever - I won’t. But I do have to say something about their house. It, like others in this exclusive neighborhood, was built by a collaborative of architects who thought it wise to bring a boxy California style, two level, flat roof, mostly glass house, to New England. In the summer, the interior hits to a suffocating 120 degrees, and the winter brings a tepid sense of dread when newspapers warn about flat roofs collapsing under snow loads. Color those feelings yellow. But that’s not the worst part.
The house is built on ledge and the water main that feeds it is so close to the surface of the ground that the town provides a water allowance which permits Karen and Steve to leave their water running throughout the winter. This prevents: the main from freezing, the town from having to excavate should it freeze, and the house from turning into a useless solid block of ice. Because it was still zero out, I had to do most of my work with the water on, torrents of water spewing here and there (there were no separate shutoffs to the offending pipes). I knew when I did shut off the water, there could be no dilly dallying. .
With much help from Karen (Steven had to take Annie to a soccer game),
I cut out the broken section of pipe, soldered a connecting fitting, cleaned up and drove home. Steven called to thank me for the work and asked if he should keep the water running in his kitchen sink. I said, "Yes."
This morning, the phone rang at 8 AM. It was Steven calling to tell me the hot water wouldn't turn on.
January 10, 2004
Metuchen
Susan, Diane, Frank and Florence - 1954
View larger, grainier - it's an old photo, what do you expect - image
I woke up this morning to six below and frozen heating pipes. After I positioned my space heater and hair dryer over the ice cold copper, the phone rang. It was Steven Varga wondering why his kitchen faucet wasn’t working. It took me a minute or so to convince him that his pipes were probably frozen, and to impress upon him how important it was to thaw them out. And not to leave the house until water was again running through that faucet. Before the conversation ended, he sounded sufficiently alarmed, but to further make my point, I sent him this photo passed to me by Shiny Dome.
January 09, 2004
Close Encounters of the Mac Kind
Chris R
If you've ever spent time in an Apple store, the thing that grabs you is the sleekness of it. No CompUSA here, it is ultra modern with people wearing black shirts with white Apples on them. Sleek geeks if you will. I purchased a 20 inch iMac with great fanfare, quite excited about it. Upon using it, what was glaring to me was how the fonts looked. Somewhat shadowy, as if an adjustment needed to be made, very different from my other iMac. You can adjust this, to a point, in the system preferences, under Appearance and Displays. I've become quite familiar with them.
Michael came over to check it out and agreed that things did not look as sharp as perhaps they should. We called Mac support and after being guided thru the above named preferences (for the umpteenth time) it was decided that perhaps something may be wrong with the display. "Go to a store and look at another one" Michael wisely suggested. But as I had looked at one in the store, albeit before I seriously decided to buy one, I thought they looked better and decided to take mine back.
I entered the Apple store at the Chestnut Hill Mall and was ushered to the "Genius Bar". Angry people returning computers and quite a few ipods inhabited the bar. Everyone had a story. No one could just say what was wrong with their computer, they had to say what they were doing when it crashed. Daniel, the "bartender" as it were, was very patient with all of them. To pass the time, I looked at the pictures of geniuses over the bar. There were 4, Jane Goodall with a monkey, Martin Luther King, John and Yoko, and the far left picture was of a man whom I did not recognize. I kept looking at the Goodall picture, and the monkey was looking up her shirt. I wondered which of them was supposed to be the genius.
When it was my turn Daniel said "how can I help you".
"Who is the genius on the left?" I ask.
"Heisenberg".
Silence.
"He was a physicist. That's a young picture of him" (sweet Daniel thought that somehow that was the reason I didn't recognize him).
"I thought it was Steve Jobs".
Daniel laughs. "That would be very presumptuous".
And we're off and running. I explain to Daniel what my font issues are. He opens system preferences and does everything I had done previously. He did say you can't use OS 9 fonts on the flat screen panels, they don't look sharp. So he picked an OS X font, which still looked off to me. I ask Daniel to hook me up to the internet, so I could show him my email panel as this is where it was the most glaring. Daniel doesn't think it looks off. So what do I decide to do, exactly what Michael had told me to do in the first place. I proceeded to have Daniel show me every single flat screen panel in the store. Lo and behold every one of them looked exactly as mine did. I ask Daniel if others return their computers for the same reason. "No, there's nothing like a flat screen". Great, I think to myself, my computers not damaged, I am.
I go back to the bar and look at my computer some more. Of course, by this time, the "bar" was full of other people, which was fine as I needed time. I begin to feel protective of my machine. I decide I need help with my decision. At 10 of 8 I call my friend Joe, who happens to be a psychologist. I figured I had this 10 minute window at the end of the hour to get him. But I had to call information for his number. I mention to information that he is a psychologist so she wouldn't look for a residence, and I immediately realize that those at the bar think I'm calling my shrink for guidance regarding my decision. Alas, he doesn't answer.
I then call Michael who, thank God, is available. We discuss the fonts. Michael tells me to give it time and think about it.
As I sat there obsessing about the fonts while admiring how beautiful the screen is, every sales person in the place came up to me and said "let me try one thing" and proceeded to go to the system preferences. I was too timid to say that had been done before as I thought perhaps a miracle would happen. One of the odder sales people even came over and swiveled my screen and said "this screen is so beautiful" and kissed it. He kissed my screen. "Don't touch my screen" I say. And he did it again. "Beautiful" he repeats. My nerves. I say again "don't touch my screen" and he proceeds to tell me that he washes all the screens in the store and tries to sell me screen cleaner.
Then I got my miracle. Or at least my realization. A customer at the bar next to me told me that he has two screens, a CRT and an LCD. He explains the scientific differences between the two (channelling Heisenberg perhaps?) and said it's just a matter of preference. "You'll get used to it". He then tells me his story of why his computer was in there. I listened patiently and nodded sympathetically as that is what one does. At the bar.
I needed someone to tell me I'd get used to it. For some reason, I couldn't come to this conclusion myself. But as soon as he said it, coupled with his affection for his own little lap top which though currently crippled he clearly loved, I was convinced that this baby was coming back home.
I call my husband, explained that all the machines were the same and mine wasn't broken. "Why are you still there, just return it and come home. Don't settle". That not being what I wanted to hear I call Michael back and tell him my decision. "I'm taking it home". He agrees that having it over the weekend and giving it more time is the wise choice, and admits his bemusement about my predicament. I'm just grateful he's awake and validating.
When, two hours after I left the house, I come trudging in with same computer in hand, spouse looks at me. "No complaining about the screen" he said.
"Not to worry. I'm settled".
January 08, 2004
Play
Brian, Peter, Joan, and Michael
View larger image
Matthew typed, “ playstation 2 grinding noise,” into Google and found multiple sites, mostly message boards, with probable repairs for his game. He chose the repair that looked most promising, two pages of instructions beginning with, “This will fix your problem. You're going to be surprised when you find out how easy this is.” Matt printed the instructions, picked up the Playstation and together we bounded upstairs.
The message board guy was right about one thing. The process of the repair was easy. Pop the cover of the Playstation, plug it back in, and, with the innards exposed - including, I might reluctantly add, all the electrical components- reset the toothy white disc that controls the angle of the DVD. The angle of the platter is critical to how smoothly the disc spins, and whether the laser beneath it will read information. You get either the game or the movie, Playstation doesn’t discriminate, or the dreaded and present, “No Data Read.”
To change that angle, we were supposed to rotate the white gear wheel an eight of turn, pop a disc in, see if it works, if not, continue to rotate by eighths, until it does. Except it never did. Matthew and I, lying flat on the bedroom floor, worked side by side. I used my screwdriver to pull the small metal stop away from the gear, and he’d use his to advance the wheel four notches. With each advance, we would look up expectantly at the TV, frown, then rotate a few more notches. We succeeded in getting the disc to spin almost chatter free, but not to play the DVD.
Diane called us down for dinner ( butternut squash, apple soup and spinach quiche) and before my first spoonful, I turned to Matthew and said, “What we need is an occasional success. If you had my father instead of me, you’d have nothing but successes.”
“But what about the BMW?”
“What about it?” I answered defensively, “It was the warped head he couldn’t fix, and he couldn’t find anyone he thought competent to grind it.”
Diane jumped in, “But I thought it was engine overheating that he couldn’t fix.”
“Oh yeah. Okay, that was a problem too and he never did figure that one out. So there is one, so-called failure, in fifty years. Matt, how many failures have we had?”
“You mean in the last week?”
January 06, 2004
Newlyweds
Helen Josephine and Leroy O'connell, Malcolm and Helen Virginia Miller.
Helen in her wedding dress.
View larger image
January 05, 2004
Burris Ewell
Diane watched Bowling for Columbine Friday night, and Saturday morning deviated from her usual religious-like devotion to the Globe to describe most of the important scenes. One of them, the welfare mother who drives eighty miles to her two minimum wage jobs while her six year old, home without proper supervision, shoots his six year old playmate.
Reminded me of this scene from To Kill a Mockingbird.
Scout, in the first grade, complains to her father, Atticus, that Burris Ewell is forced to attend only the first day of school.
“Let us leave it at this,“ said Atticus dryly. “You, Miss Scout Finch, are of the common folk. You must obey the law.” He said that the Ewells were members of an exclusive society made up of Ewells. In certain circumstances the common folk judiciously allowed them certain privileges by the simple method of becoming blind to some of the Ewells’ activities. They didn’t have to go to school, for one thing. Another thing, Mr. Bob Ewell, Burris’s father, was permitted to hunt and trap our of season.
“Atticus, that’s bad,” I said. In Maycomb County, hunting out of season was a misdemeanor at law, a capital felony in the eyes of the populace.
“It’s against the law, all right,” said my father, “and it’s certainly bad, but when a man spends his relief checks on green whiskey his children have a way of crying from hunger pains. I don’t know of any landowner around here who begrudges those children any game their father can hit.”
“Mr. Ewell shouldn’t do that --.”
“Of course he shouldn’t, but he’ll never change his ways. Are you going to take out your disapproval on his children?”
Malcolm Miller - 1940
View larger image
January 04, 2004
Guesses
Matthew and I worked for another half day on the BMW, tryiing to solve the starting problem. If we jump it, the car starts, but left to its own battery it cranks away in descending gasps. Dimitry suggested that we change both ground wires, and the only one left was the battery negative to the engine block. It’s attached in a near impossible to reach place, beneath the carburetor and behind a series of rubber hoses. But Matt, contorting his arms like Plastic Man of the Fantastic Four, managed to release the cable.
Thinking it was a corroded ground at the engine block, we (okay, I) decided to connect the new ground elsewhere. This time, near the shock strut, where it would be easier to reach. I know, the inescapable corollary is looking for a lost object, not where it was lost, but where the light is best. But I really thought the new ground was a good as the old. We sanded the nut and washer, scraped off all rust from the metal strut housing, and attached the cable. Matt then hopped in to start the car. Nothing. Or nothing beyond solid clicking sounds, as if the solenoid couldn’t engage the starter motor.
“Are you sure the new ground is a good as the old one?” Matt asked.
“We tested it with the ohm meter, and the needle moved, so I’m guessing it is.”
“How many times can you “guess” and have it be right? I mean, this is a car. Don’t things have to be more than guesses?”
“Good point, let’s flatten your arm with my framing hammer and see if you can put the cable back where it belongs.”
Matt squeezed his arm in again, and, with much effort and pain, screwed the cable to the block. This time the car did turnover, but with the same weak, cranky sounds.
No more guessing - next stop, Sawyer’s Automotive repair.
Christmas 1952 - Helen, Michael, Brian, Joan, Peter
View larger image
January 02, 2004
Home For Christmas
Adam Kibbe
Our family gets together but infrequently. Come high school age, the children of families such as ours were sent to school in the United States from our expatriate home in Venezuela, gone from the nucleus for many months at a time. With college, that gap widened to years, and as if by habit, we now do well to see each other every two or three years. Absurd by the live-near-or-with-mom-and-dad-until-they-die New England standards, but perfectly normal for those of us to whom those last two adjectives can’t readily be applied.
My parents now live in the foothills of the Sandia mountains, which form the eastern border of Albuquerque, where I was born 43+ years ago. Not at this house. Nor even one that we can say exists anymore. We left “The States” when I was three months old, and after 20 years or so in Venezuela with my father in the employ of U.S. Steel, my parents returned to the last stateside city in which they’d lived, and they’ve yet to leave again. This is their second -- and likely last -- house there, a sprawling old faux-adobe house once owned by Berke Breathed (he of Bloom County fame -- Opus was often drawn in what is now my father’s computer loft). From the entry side, one gazes immediately up at the mountains which give Albuquerque what grandeur it has.
Ivan met his “supernumerary” great-grandparents this Christmas, and they he, and for the first time. The Boston Bunch -- me, Tricia, Luke, Amy & Ivan -- all caught a mid-morning flight out of Logan and were having supper that evening in the Southwest with Jack & Betty (Mark stayed home with his girlfriend, Michelle, and with other plans, and less in debt than he’d’ve been had he come -- but he chauffeured, godbless him).
We traded generous presents, stayed up “late” (given the two-hour time difference) talking, especially around the dining table, and had many a memorable (good and bad) meal out. We visited the fabulous Albuquerque Aquarium, spent a night in a charming B&B in Santa Fe called The Four Kachinas, did a fiendish jigsaw puzzle in tag team shifts, and propped up the New Mexico economy with all manner of art purchases in both towns. And we took turns herding the two-year-old whirlwind that is Ivan. It was a visit rich in all kinds of ways, from the interwoven families and generations, and the spice of green and red chiles, to the pack of four coyotes that loped through the yard on their way up into the mountains one morning, much to Ivan’s (and our) delight. Hard to say when next we’ll meet again, and what challenges age and distance will add to the mix, but I feel more in touch with my roots and with all of my family for the experience.
Should you wish a few more images of our trip, click here. And Happy New Year to you all!!!
New Year’s eve, after many from-scratch margaritas, but before our sumptuous feast.
View larger image
January 01, 2004
Joan
Joan arrives and Brian acquires an alert, intelligent look.
I don't believe the two events were related.
View larger image
Matthew told us tonight, about walking home the other afternoon. He was near the bend on Central St, maybe a half mile from home, when a a guy in a white sedan pulls to a stop and asks him, “Are you so and so?”
Matt replied, “No.”
The guy gives him a long look and then says,
“Well, you’re going to see something amazing, anyway.”
He then drives away, down the street and around the curve. Less than a minute later Matthew sees the same car approaching at about sixty miles an hour. When the car gets to almost where he is standing, the driver spins his steering wheel and does a perfect 180 degree, sliding turn, so that he is now in the opposite lane and heading back the way he came.
No more words are exchanged. Demonstration over, the guy in the car simply drives away.