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

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For much better pics, check Adam’s Photos

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!!!!!

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It is so much easier to scan and post photos than write something worth
reading.
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Frank, Diane, Florence and Susan.
Click here for more family photos.

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………….

The Requested Photograph – Martha Burr & Diane Canning,
Wellesley College 1969
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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 targetís upper body. I couldnít get a clear shot — not without collateral consequence. It hadnít 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 wasnít moving, that was for sure. It wasnít good. And it was the least of my problems.

Three years ago, when Iíd started to set this up, Iíd known the risks. I donít 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 — whoíd 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. Clockís ticking. Back to it then. Move a little right of the Spirit, get a clearer angle on Christís 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 havenít taken a two-week vacation in accessible memory, but weíd 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.

Iíd 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 donít 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. Iím told heís 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.

Itís 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.

Itís 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 — weíre 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 didnít work.

Of course, I donít 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 momentsí notice is tense, frustrating work, but itíd be too hard to spin it into compelling drama. Suffice it to say we had a way out; then we didnít; 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 ìsomeoneî 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 werenít installed exactly where theyíd been shown in the sketches. Off by a couple of feet, actually. But I wasnít 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 weíre 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 — donít need this, never thought of that, wonít 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 weekendís consecration ceremonies, pick it up again later. So fire it up. Is it on? Oh.

It IS on………………. Kinda underwhelming, isnít it? 16 fixtures, and………. nothing.

That was the hardest part to get around. I had presented these expensive fixtures as ìweakî, hence a whopping 16 of them. But while the Holy Spirit had moved, it had actually gotten closer to the lights, which shouldíve 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 ìsawî 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 wouldnít work, or by doing so, miss some opportunity to in fact give them what theyíd 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 Iíd judiciously put in the bid package, and turned ëem on. Now THAT has Spirit! Wonít change colors, but what a difference. Could it be better? Well sure………… We could backlight it……. Clearly the materialís 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 30í 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 canít 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. Iíd 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 pieceís potential, and while weíve yet to see the result, weíre 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 Christís 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 whatís left? Focus the rest of the lights, then set into doing the one thing Iíd 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. Iíd only partially gotten to some of the other lighting projects Iíd been expecting to do that week, as Iíd been otherwise fully embroiled in this fiasco. Stressful effort — mental anguish — is in many ways more tiring than physical effort (not that Iíd really know, getting far more of the former than the latter, alas). After less than a week, I felt Iíd 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 itíd have somewhere to roll down (backwards). Twice. Did I mention, itís a BMW? Solidly built……. Iím not.

Adrenalineís 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. Iíve just had an illuminating conversation (that unavoidable pun) with Father Joe and the director on the symbology of the pieces and what is ìknownî and not known about The Crucifixion, a conversation which has deepened all our appreciations of the work. The lightingís okay, and will get better, and weíre all warmly appreciative of each othersí commitment. The artís beautiful.

The remaining four members — three pastors and the director — begin to rehearse a part of the next dayís ceremony, though I donít yet know that is what theyíre 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 itís all now in someone elseís 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, Iím 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.

Chiclets

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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 ñ her mother did the same.”

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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?”

Florence and Diane at two years, five months.

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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.

Susan, Diane, Frank and Florence – 1954
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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 wasnít 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.