• I flipped away the afternoon again at the Rotary Club’s annual Pancake Day, where I foolishly tried to expand my exalted reputation by attempting to make a cake with the shape of a Salvation Army Shield. I blistered the edge of my hand on the hot griddle and experienced the same agony of defeat as poor Lindsey Jacobellis. After that, Dana and I went into the city for the Gallery Hop, so I could participate in the reception at the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning. The “Art of the Alphabet” exhibition was a hit with all ages, and the original print of my letter H was the second one to sell. Steve Houston of Texas bought it for his daughter because all of the images present in the montage held significant meaning for him and his family. Quite remarkable.
Archive for the ‘Food’ Category
Tales of the Graybeard Prospector VIII
Friday, February 17th, 2006
Tales of the Graybeard Prospector VII
Friday, February 10th, 2006• Opening a statement from the Social Security Administration did not get my day off on the right track, and it began to go downhill from there. Fortunately, I was able to recover a bit by putting some good sales moves on the Republican candidate for Boyle County Judge Executive, who will definitely need a high-credibility graphic image as part of any success campaign to unseat the entrenched incumbent. After that, I attended the opening of “4 Seasons — 4 Directions,” Kathleen’s inspiring collage exhibition at Danville’s Community Arts Center. By evening, Dana and I were in Berea with Lee and David, eating delicious Thai food and learning English Country Dance—so the day ended fully back on its proper rails.
Various & Sundry, part thirty-two
Wednesday, February 1st, 2006— Month of January workout totals: Swim-5; Bike-2; Run-2; Lift-8; Yoga-13
— Most who know me are aware that I ran—this is where I always have to stop and clarify or say something like “traversed under my own power,” since “ran” is not appropriately descriptive nor entirely accurate—50 miles on my 50th birthday. Later that same year I finished the Chicago Marathon under five hours. That’s my experience with long-distance running. At times I wonder why I didn’t keep it up, but usually I just wonder why I still feel any need at all to stay in running, biking, and swimming condition to be within striking distance of performing a triathlon. Well, it’s important to cross-train, I tell myself, and besides, staying in triathlon shape is not extreme, it’s just what I consider the baseline of physical fitness. I used to think of extreme as my friend who completed over 80 marathon runs, including one in all 50 states and all 7 continents (yes, I know, Antarctica). Or maybe extreme could be defined as competing in “Ironman” triathlons—a 2.4-mile swim, followed by a 112-mile bike ride, and then a 26-mile marathon on top of it, all in one day. And then I heard about the Hardrock Hundred, a 100-mile race that takes place in the mountains of Colorado. Is that extreme or what? Actually there are those who don’t think that’s enough of a challenge, and push the idea of extreme out to the borderlands of madness—the World Championship Quintuple Iron Triathlon. Believe it or not, that’s a distance equivalent to five Ironmans. There’a guy from Louisville who did it. He finished seventh, with a time that set a new U.S. record. A 12-mile swim, 560-mile bike, and 131-mile run. After four days, nine hours, and 40 minutes, he hobbled across the finish line, his body well into the process of cannibalizing his own muscle tissue. Do you think that’s extreme? Now try this—next November there’s a race in Mexico that requires ten Ironmans in ten days, and the Iron Kentuckian is thinking about an attempt. When I heard that I thought about the Athenian warrior Phidippides, who ran what’s considered to be the first marathon in the year 490 BC. He expired. We’ll keep you posted.
— The previous blurb brings to mind a recent article in Money Magazine that one of our clients brought to our attention. Jason Zweig explains in “The Thrill is Wrong” that the new science of “neuroeconomics” is helping investors understand that brain metabolism may cause us to make bad money decisions in much the same way we make bad decisions about food, drink, drugs and sex. Maybe they should add exercise to that list.
— After delivering my finished exhibition print to the Carnegie Center, Dana and I had a nice carnitas dinner in Lexington and then settled down to watch a late screening of Memoirs of a Geisha. I knew I’d enjoy it—actually, much more than Marshall’s “Chicago,” even though it’s garnered less acclaim—as I knew I’d enjoy “The Last Samurai,” because I can easily overlook the flaws in a picture like this. When the production design for a Japan-based story is this awesome, I can never leave the theater disappointed. I must make a note to check out any movie with set decoration by Gretchen Rau. It bothered me that they cast the two female leads with Chinese and Malaysian stars, but I think I was bothered more by the idea of it, going into the theatre, than during the feature. Ziyi Zhang deserved an Oscar nomination. It’s a powerful story, probably a better book, and almost worth the outrageous ticket price. Ken Watanabe is excellent once again, and I always get a kick out of seeing Mako pop up with his trademark scowl, even for less than a minute of screen time.
Completing another weekend circuit
Sunday, January 8th, 2006We drove to Indianapolis yesterday to deliver late Christmas
presents and spend some time with Bruce. He seems to be doing quite well at home. I can’t describe how marvelous it was for Dana and me to eat supper with him, seated at his own dining room table, which he hasn’t been in a position to do for almost ten months. Source of all blessings, be praised!
While on the road today, we had lunch in the highlands of Louisville, at an eatery recommended by Brendan and Bob H, too. Although we had to wait awhile for a table, it was a tasty meal and a unique setting. There’s only one word that can adequately describe Lynn’s Paradise Cafe— PSYCHEDELIC!
Various & Sundry, part twenty-nine
Sunday, January 1st, 2006— Year of 2005 workout totals: Swim-73; Bike-28; Run-41; Lift-22; Yoga-9
— Month of December workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-0; Run-4; Lift-3; Yoga-8
— I’m satisfied with how I was able to maintain a good momentum of swimming during an unsettled 2005 that didn’t exactly lend itself to regular exercise; plus I’m pleased with how I managed to regain regular yoga practice at the end of the year (it helps to be watching Lisa Bennett-Matkin). Nevertheless, an odd tenderness in the right knee will cause a delay in my return to running form, but I’m expecting it to be a huge year for cycling instead. Brian M gave me his “hardly used” Shimano pedals—look out!
— Once again, my family had its annual Hot Wheels car race. When I try to explain this event to the uninitiated, the listener nods politely and probably can’t get past the idea of little boys playing with toys. My description fails to capture the rich generational traditions, the competitive repartee, and the comedic tone, not to mention the feast of delicacies, snacks, and tempting junk-food delights. And we have our announcers—two of them—so jaded and sarcastic that “real-life” fans would have long ago beaten them to a pulp in the parking lot after their summary dismissal by speedway executives.
— I humiliated myself last night by making the classic blunder of bringing a movie that I’d never watched to a get-together with friends. William H. Macy let me down with his dreadful “The Cooler,” and who in the world wants to see his saggy buttocks anyway? I suppose we salvaged the evening to some degree by attending the wildest midnight scene in Danville—the annual three-inches-of-confetti-on-the-floor bash at the Hamlins. It’s rowdy, loud, and lots of fun, if you don’t mind digging the little colored stuff out of all those personal nooks and crannies that WHM so gratuitously displayed to the whole world.
— I finished another Grandy-bo piece this morning (my tenth) that Caitlan ended up getting during the Clan’s Chinese (Chine-Yine) gift exchange. I’m finally achieving the loose, spontaneous style that I’ve been after for quite a while. Rita’s photo show was particularly moving for me, as though my torch had been passed to a new generation of documentarians. She’ll get better at editing down her images to a more focused presentation, but it was the kind of montage that I used to have such a passion for, and I’m happy that someone else wants to pick up where I left off. Now, if I can only convince her to take over the Seitz Reunion portrait…
— Our family gathering today was filled with much love, perhaps more that usual, if that’s possible. The gesture of generosity that was extended to Dana and me took us by surprise, and brought emotional closure to a holiday season that had seemed somewhat diminished by an inability to carry out our usual traditions at the Town House. What a thoughtful, caring thing to do! It made us realize that a tough, draining year was behind us at last, and how much everyone has missed Bruce.
Christmas musings
Sunday, December 25th, 2005• Nobody can recite the Holy Bible like Charlton Heston, and I do mean nobody. Christmas morning isn’t set until I watch his performance of the Nativity verses, filmed at the ruins of a Roman amphitheater. Sometimes I just want to shut my eyes and listen to the masterful shift of his voice characterization from Angel to Blessed Virgin to Shepherd to Magi to the 12-year-old Jesus in the temple doing “my father’s business.” And I always enjoy how he portrays the angel telling Joseph that Herod “is dead,” almost as if the heavenly being takes grim satisfaction in the opportune demise.
• My TV-Show Fantasy Wish List for Santa: I want a sprawling hacienda like Big John Cannon’s, on a ranch like The Yellow Rose, with a horse just like Jason McCord’s, and a fully stocked pull-down gun panel like the one James West had. When I need to be in the city, I’d like a Robin Masters Ferrari so I can commute to my urban pad, just like the apartment Jim Phelps lived in, with a big John Gnagy studio attached, plus a closet with an Alexander Mundy wardrobe. I suppose that’ll do for this year, Santa, unless you want to toss in a hovercraft, custom-built by Benton Quest. I’ve been really, really nice.
• I don’t know how long ago the “Oyster-Stew Eve” tradition began, but now it wouldn’t be Christmas for me without it. We gathered once again last night at Mombo’s, and it was a full house with all the Hellyers in attendance. Bubb played the temperamental stew chef, but his main course was superb as usual. I could have done without the bizarre homily that gushed on about everyone’s favorite computer racketeer earning his media sainthood. Oh well, there’s got to be a reason church hierarchs would exile a pastor to the boondocks of rural Kentucky. After what I’ve learned about the downfall of the precious parish in Richmond, nothing is going to surprise me about the bewildering judgments of those running an institutional religion that long ago lost its way. Give me a simple family Christmas Eve, with loving hugs, wall-to-wall cousins, Yorkies under foot, Jaybon’s vino, mud room goodbyes, and the lasting brilliance of a Dadbo who combined the sleep-inducing benefits of warm milk for the kiddoes, with a dose of aphrodisiac for Mr. and Mrs. Claus.
Magic Island
Wednesday, December 14th, 2005I saw Joan’s mention of Aunt Carol’s game.
Beverages included? What about spices?
Ok, ok…
If I spend any more time, I’ll just keep fiddling around with them, so here are my picks—
Corn, tomatoes, spinach, almonds, eggs, cheese, avocados, vanilla ice cream, strawberries, and raspberries.
And we get to share, right?
How about if we add to the game?
I wasn’t there at the genesis, but what if we discovered a chest on Magic Island containing three books—a Holy Bible, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language (unabridged)—and each of us could pick three additional books, which the chest would produce for our group library. There would be no other books on Magic Island—for the rest of our lives.
What three volumes would you choose?
Here are my selections—
The I Ching (or Book of Changes), The Odyssey of Homer, and James Clavell’s SHÕGUN.
When faced with picking books with pictures or books with words, I chose words. When faced with making more universal choices or being selfish, I decided to be selfish.
What about you?
Would you pick a how-to book, a cookbook (not a bad idea), or a collection of reproductions? Literature? What about a book with blank pages—no other books on Magic Island means just that—or a work you’d want the other inhabitants to read?
Nobody knows how long the chest’s magic will last.
Hurry, but choose wisely…
Happy Birthday to Marty
Monday, November 21st, 2005Yesterday I went to church at the Salvation Army, which inspired me to write a Thanksgiving prayer, so I treated myself to a sandwich at my neighborhood hang and wrote it out. I saw Tim and Jo Ann, learning that they’d been able to buy the infamous “Banker’s House” on Perryville Road and were in the midst of moving. They said that if they didn’t do it before the holiday, they might be too busy until January (Jo Ann) or April (Tim). Yep, that sounds about right for those two. I wondered how far into seven digits the sticker price climbed. They asked me how Bruce was doing. Given Tim’s long, long recovery from his accident, these are two people who understand the meaning of “slow progress.”
Afterwards I puttered around at home, taped plastic around the air conditioner in the mud room, and managed to fit in a nice cross-country run on Mack‘s Trails with Milton and Jim before joining the Strocks for an evening of relaxation. Terie invited me to share a delicious birthday dinner for Marty—venison chili with cornbread and salad, followed by cake and ice cream (mounds of it!), plus a DVD thriller with Kathryn Morris.
Later on, Marty and I both realized we were still in front of the tube watching, for no reason, a Will Ferrell movie with Mike Ditka that stunk to high heaven—because we politely assumed the other wanted to—so we promptly re-adjourned in front of the PS2, enabling the Galactic Empire to capture Hoth, the ice planet, and closed our night with a burst of energy.
Moral of the story— If you’re going to eat two bowls of chili, birthday cake and Breyers, be sure to run hills for five miles first.
Or maybe eight.
Wood smoke and orange hats
Sunday, November 13th, 2005After the Gallery Hop in downtown Danville on Friday night, I went to David’s cabin to prepare for the 2005 deer hunt. Before sunrise on Saturday morning, Greg and I crouched below the rocky outcrop and saw a doe move around the point. I thought the visibility was too dim for a clean shot and was comfortable watching her move on. Not long after that, David shot a doe at the front tree-stand with his antique double rifle. That position proved the place to be throughout the opening weekend of rifle season. Stuart took his eight-pointer there Sunday evening, but that’s a whole story in itself.
My favorite time of the weekend was Saturday evening, before the weather changed. I watched two squirrels frolic for over an hour among the dry leaves until they retired to tree-top clusters, each of my senses acutely aware of the woodland environment in all its minute detail. Venus pierced the gloaming as a fiery sun finished painting the autumn colors a more vibrant shade of orange. I saw no deer, but it didn’t seem to matter.
On Sunday morning, sitting in the rain at the rear stand, I saw two does heading away from the knob-top clover field, no closer than 50-60 yards. Since I held a lever-action carbine with no telescope, it wasn’t a good shot for me (for the second time in as many days). Later, David was observing the area from the same stand at dusk, without a rifle. Firing his .45 revolver into the hillside, he attempted to spook a big buck moving on the same trail I saw my does. He was hoping to push him toward Stuart’s position at the front of the knob. It worked. As a result, enough meat became available that Dana and I filled our freezer and more, even though I had no personal kill this year.
When I was back in town someone wanted to know if I’d “shot Bambi,” and I sensed more clearly than ever the gulf between people who hunt and those who disdain it.
I went for decades without going on a traditional hunt, after putting it aside in my twenties when I chose to give up eating meat, but I never lost a respect for the tradition gained from Dadbo. Eventually I reintroduced flesh to my diet and became a fisherman. A profound reconnection with the natural world and an evolving appreciation of the shooting sports opened my mind to the idea of harvesting meat firsthand in the woods.
I honor the philosophical purity of strict vegetarianism, but anyone who consumes meat consents at some level to the killing of animals to sustain their life. Participating in the act with full consciousness, attuning the senses to a wild environment, experiencing the synchronicity of engaging a particular creature, and valuing it as a gift of nourishment from the Great Spirit is an activity that puts me directly in touch with ancestors—my hunting namesake, his Appalachian frontier forefathers, medieval Slovaks, first-millennium Norsemen, tribal Neolithics…
There’s no way to explain all that to someone who was never vouchsafed the hunting tradition. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying to understand it myself.
Man readmitted to hospital after beeting
Friday, November 4th, 2005• An excerpt from Dana’s most recent update:
“Last night Pam went out to celebrate a new job, and I prepared a
gourmet meal for Bruce—venison medallions with balsamic reduction and
celery/pear puree, plus a side dish of steamed fresh beets.
“Pam came in after I’d gone to bed, so she wasn’t apprised of the menu. In the middle of the night when she helped Bruce with the ostomy, she saw what she thought was blood and called the doctor. At 5 am, she woke me and said we were to take Bruce to the ER. I drowsily pulled on my jeans, put on shoes, and drove them to the hospital.
“While we waited for results of ordered tests, we were all talking and
Bruce said something about having beets for dinner. Then it hit us. It
wasn’t blood; it was beets. We all were laughing when the resident came back in, and we confessed to the false alarm, which was confirmed by a negative result on the test for hemoglobin.
“Our mirth was short-lived, however, as they had determined that his
white blood count was too high. They said they would start him on an
antibiotic and send him home. Later they said they wanted to keep him
for diagnostic tests until tomorrow. By this evening, they’re saying he might stay 3 to 5 more days.”
(The “headline” is Bruce’s quip, so he’s keeping his sense of humor.)
Home again
Wednesday, September 21st, 2005After tasting my smoked salmon again, I decided that it
didn’t come out so badly (it should get better with some
practice). I unpacked, reorganized, and sorted through my
email. Read over and thought about the report James
prepared on Mombo’s Trust. Got a nice reply from Kyle (no,
by Heaven, he’s not a God-cursed Spaniard!) and learned
that BCA accomplished his assigned missions. Checked out
the “Invasion” pilot on ABC. Wasted my time; it stunk…
Day Six at Barefoot’s Resort
Saturday, September 17th, 2005We decided to sleep in little today, which comfortably set the day in a “play it by ear” mode. I prescribed myself some peaceful moments at the end of the dock, casting for morning pike above the weed beds, hoping for an extraordinary hit, but no luck. On our salmon run we motored directly to Gravely Island and set to work. It was another magnificent day, and getting “skunked” out on Lake Huron would still have been worth it, but JD proceeded to catch a two-pound Coho to prevent that distinction. Bill provided some superior piloting, keeping our submerged gear moving steadily over a 60-to-70-foot depth at the edge of the drop-off along “Salmon Alley.” It turned out to be a very relaxed day when we got back. I did some sketching and got in some good swimming time. I grilled and ate one of my salmon steaks at our traditional Saturday night “feast.”
Day Five at Barefoot’s Resort
Friday, September 16th, 2005Yesterday’s conditions were spectacular—clear skies and calm water, so we got in a good day of fishing. The early-morning “zinger” was seeing a big pike with a half-eaten fish in the clear water off the starboard (shore) side on our way out to Yacht Entrance. It confirmed a positive turn in the ecology of the Les Cheneaux. Bill and I each boated a small salmon with some well-considered work in the zone off Boot Island. With the weather remaining glorious, we headed over the reef to “Salmon Alley,” hoping to find a Chinook near the shipping lane. JD came up with a decent Coho instead, the biggest fish of the day. When we snagged our lines in unfamiliar waters near Strongs Island, due to our worries about the presence of Indian nets at East Entrance, we figured it was best to call it a day.
Our good buddy Mike had arrived on Wednesday afternoon. He treated us to some perfect BBQ chicken from the grill that night. Mike doesn’t fish, but loves to relax near the dock while we’re out on the water, which I’ve come to learn he doesn’t do very often with his fast-paced lifestyle as a top salesman in the food service industry. Last night, after the five of us enjoyed an evening at the Islander Bar in Hessel, he dropped his bummer bombshell on us—a diagnosis of aggressive rheumatoid arthritis, a potentially crippling medical condition. It’s been difficult to think about anything else since, because now I can see he’s moving much too slowly for the dynamic guy I’ve known. I felt odd when he watched me do my third channel swim yesterday. Before supper on the day he got here, I discovered a ten-pound boat anchor during my daily swim—a quarter mile out, naturally—so I got the brilliant notion to carry it back with a lifesaving stroke. It didn’t feel very heavy at first, but it was a real challenge not to drop it before I made it back. I’m sure I said some kind of cocky remark to Mike after the meaningless feat, not aware yet of his progressive debilitation. The ego can be nothing but trouble, for the most part.
Today’s weather was almost as pleasant as yesterday’s, so we basically replicated the course of action from Thursday’s expedition. After a “strike out” at the “Booty Zone,” we tried “Salmon Alley” and Bob scored his first ever salmon, a nine-pounder. Bill came back with a small pink, and then I was “up to bat.” I targeted some work in 60-to-70-foot waters, but had no hits for the rest of the session. I remained in the captain’s role when we visited the bay near the dolomite-loading port later in the evening. I was still in standby mode until a few minutes after 8 o’clock when a fish with some apparent size to it hit the port-side “dipsy-diver” line. It’s a wild feeling when the adrenals kick in after so much tedious effort, but that’s what salmon fishing is all about. JD performed an excellent netting action to help get my King into the boat. It’s appearance—a skin tone that lacked a degree of silvery gleam—indicated it was on the way to spawning waters. When we got back, it weighed in almost 12-1/2 pounds, so I steaked out most of it, fillet-cutting the tail end. It seemed to take me forever. I’m pretty slow at the fish-cleaning table, but what need is there to be in a hurry?
Day One at Barefoot’s Resort
Monday, September 12th, 2005Dana and I left Augusta early, barely catching the first ferry across the Ohio.
Wick had already told us that he’d never seen a day that the ferrymen hadn’t
operated due to fog, and today it was so thick we couldn’t see the other side until
the last moment (kinda spooky). We missed the rush hour in Cincinnati and arrived
at my good friend’s Tipp City house in time for Dana to make her rendezvous
with her chums from Wright State days. It was tough to say “bye” to my sweetie
after such a precious day together, but we parted and I continued north with Bill
Barefoot. I expected it to get cooler when we traversed Michigan, as it usually
does, but it stayed warm instead, all the way to the Upper Peninsula. We arrived
at Barefoot’s Resort and settled into Cabin One. The last patrons were leaving
for the season, so we had the lakefront to ourselves. After grilling a tasty
supper, we stayed up too late in fairly heavy conversation, and then took a boat
out into the channel for a midnight drift, soaking in the reality of being back in the
Les Cheneaux.
Honoring that day in ’82 when it was just our 9/11
Sunday, September 11th, 2005It’s been a while since the sleepy voice inside my pillowed head murmured, “Yes… a perfect day.”
Our 23rd Anniversary celebration was in full swing by midnight. Dana and I had arrived at our B&B abode only a few minutes before, drastically delayed by a leisurely dinner at a winery across the Ohio near Maysville plus our unfamiliarity with the route to Augusta. It would have been easier to find our destination by river, since it was right at the waterfront, but this is not 1805, so we traveled by car and twice missed our turn before we located the historic Thornton Marshall House. I knew that the adverse circumstances would be a strong indicator with respect to the personalities of the proprietors, and indeed they were. Despite that fact that we arrived hours late, after they’d left more than one voice message to our dead-zone phone, our hosts met us with good cheer, warm hospitality, and a bottle of Chardonnay chilling in the spacious second-floor bedroom above their art gallery and antique shop.
The next twenty-four hours defy description—by this mediocre scribe, dear reader—so forgive a mere laundry list of the activities that filled our “perfect day” with aesthetic delight, Epicurean pleasure, and a deep soul satisfaction born of true companionship:
• Waking up to the throaty horns of barge boats working in the fog, as a magical ambient light flooded our riverside chamber.
• Our sunny walking tour of old Augusta, which survived a fiery attack by Morgan’s raiders, and a tasty buffet lunch at the Country Inn.
• Kayaking with my sweetheart up the surprisingly clean Ohio and exploring a quiet Kentucky tributary.
• Enjoying our spectacular window view of the wharf, as we listened to Eric’s “Cooler” and relaxed with generous Jerome’s old vine Zin.
• Strolling down to the Beehive Tavern for a delicious gourmet supper and getting invited (three times!) to come back for their 20th Anniversary party later that night.
• Meeting Heather on the sidewalk (a fellow graduate of DAAP) and accepting an offer of a personal tour of her design work on the Rosemary Clooney House (those brown eyes!).
• A stop near the riverbank to look downstrean at a painterly sunset over water (those frontiersmen sure knew how to pick a spot).
• Experiencing the surprise celebration for Chef Luciano “Sean” Moral and the fulfillment of a 20-year vision for his tavern and the restoration of Augusta’s riverfront, with the most extravagant “potluck” spread I’ve ever seen (alas, too sated to exploit it).
• The spontaneous song fest, including “My Old Kentucky Home” on the harmonica, and Sean’s operatic serenade for his family and friends (We were stunned to discover his “O Solo Mio” was absolutely magnificent!).
• Watching fireworks over the river (20 rockets—one for each year) as the stars came out and the carriage horse ended her long day with enough spirit to gallop down the street.
• Oh yes… leaning over a candle to look at something before bedtime and singeing the hair on my head (1805 was dangerous, man).
Weird, wild stuff
Friday, July 8th, 2005Just for the heck of it, I googled for the word “Bruce.” Although he didn’t come up on the search, Bruce will get a kick out of the fact that Bruce Campbell topped Willis with the first listing, and that Bruce Lee was next, beating out Springsteen. Bruce Cockburn made page two. Lenny Bruce didn’t show up until page ten, and no Robert the Bruce until page 14. I didn’t see Jenner until 52 or Boxleitner until 61.
When I google for “Bruce” and “Uncle John,” we come up as the fourth item. When I add “Indianapolis,” we’re number one.
Even Uncle Bob, who has forgotten more about computer science than many programmers will ever learn, is amazed at Google’s penetration. When he googled for his home base, “Broadwing Farm,” it came up first, with the Dixon Design page that exhibits our work for the farm’s “Red Crow Hot Sauce” a few listings down.
I wonder how long it will take for this particular page to be catalogued within their system?
(ps — Bon Voyage to Uncle Bob, Aunt Carol, and Joan. Be sealed in angel armor…)
Various & Sundry, part twenty-one
Thursday, July 7th, 2005— If we need another grim reminder that the world is at war, this story makes it clear that we’re all potentially in harm’s way—especially when we leave the homeland—as Joan, Aunt Carol, and Uncle Bob are planning to do this weekend. Manolo, get out your Blessing Engine. Meanwhile, the rest of us will pray—hard.
— Speaking of Bobs, I’ve known a few in my life. A Bob is never wishy-washy, but invariably an exceptional guy (occasionally you’ll encounter one who is distinctly uncool), and always makes an impression. This Bob is one of my favorites, and so I’ll do my part to extend his 15 minutes of fame.
— At Aunt Alma’s funeral I talked to cousin Don (accomplished musician and former CEO of Rolodex), and, without any prompting from me, he declared Centre professor Vince DiMartino as the greatest living Jazz trumpet virtuoso. Hmm… At the Brass Band Festival, Vince gave the honor to his friend Allen Vizzutti. Anyway, here’s a montage I made from shots I took during the Festival, so you can see the world’s finest trumpet player in action, whichever one he is!
Runnin’ back to Saskatoon (I mean Indianapolis)
Monday, June 13th, 2005About ready to hit the road one more time, and I wish I could see Bruce without having to go into that hospital environment again. If I’ve had enough of that place, I can only imagine what my son is going through, now that he’s been there for over twelve weeks. The idea that it could be another twelve (according to one of his docs) is too much to process right now. But here’s something encouraging that I learned from Uncle Bob this past weekend: His before-the-England-trip stress test results were very good. So that means if we eat smart, don’t smoke and get regular exercise, we can overcome our family history of predisposition to cardio-vascular disease. That’s a message not just to me, but to my whole Clan!
At the Great American Brass Band Festival
Saturday, June 11th, 2005Because I’m not in 5k shape, I decided to lend a helping hand at the early “Run for the Brass” event, and we had a wild scene at our water stop. The unusual 2005 course had people lapping walkers while the leaders were moving in the opposite direction. A bit complicated, especially with participants crossing in front of each other to grab cups of water. So I had everyone yelling instructions in both directions, but the guys with headsets couldn’t hear us and just did their own thing—crazy! The rest of the day was ripe with superb music and the best of family and friends. The parade was fun, I got to meet the entire Helmers caboodle (Holly, Hayley, Halle, Hannah and Henry!), Bob got a new pair of Brooks at DBF, Marty and I grilled lamb kabobs, and then we all set up at our picnic tables (perfectly located on campus, thanks to Pat) in time for a delightful evening that included Mombo, the Simpsons, plus Joan and her chums. To top it off, Gov Ernie was there to smooze the crowd, we managed to sneak a little Mondavi Zin, some digital close-ups at the foot of the stage came together nicely, and I had an opportunity to straighten everything out with Chuck (we’ll be able to pick up our bronze bowl soon, consummating that long-standing barter deal that desperately needed to be resolved). BrassRoots and Rhythm & Brass were outstanding, so we want to go back to the Festival on Sunday to hear them again, along with the DiMartino/Osland Jazz Orchestra (DOJO).
I’d better stop rambling!
Goats Do Roam
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005Dana and I enjoyed a splendid dinner and evening of conversation at Lee and David’s, hearing all about their recent trip to South Africa. They shared stories and photos of Durban, Capetown, and their stay at a private reserve in the bush. As if that wasn’t hospitable enough, they sent us home with an unusual red vintage.
They see a plate of them and weep
Friday, March 4th, 2005Spent three hours today in front of a hot griddle at Kentucky School for the Deaf making pancakes for the Danville Rotary Club. Once a year I adopt my little-known identity as the greatest fried-foods artist since Neolithic times. Usually this annual fundraising event is scheduled around the middle of February, which enables me to show off by making heart-shaped pancakes. This year the timing was off, but did that stop me?
Modesty eludes me when it comes to my Rotary pancakes. I suppose they can only be described as perfect. Just ask any of my numerous pupils (the community’s best and brightest). That they hold me in total, ring-kissing awe on this particular day allows them to act like they don’t know me the rest of the year.
As far as Dana is concerned, it just makes me smell like grease.
Ah, the sorrow of genius…
Various & Sundry, part two
Wednesday, January 26th, 2005— While watching a bit of today’s White House press conference, I thought about the meaning of leadership. Leadership is not saying, “We’re all in this together; I understand and appreciate where you’d like to go; Believe in me, because I’m the person to get us there.” Now, that may be the mark of an organizer, a facilitator, or a consensus builder, but a leader, by contrast, is one who says, “I’ve thought about this and I have a vision; We need to go where I’m pointing my finger; Do you see it, too? Follow me and I’ll get us there!”
— When I was in Middle School (used to be called Junior High in those days) I had a teacher who stayed after school to help young guys who wanted to start building their bodies… not the acknowledged athletes, but just ordinary guys who didn’t know anything about weightlifting (and who did in small-town Ohio in 1964?). He showed us how to make our own barbells out of scrap pipe and coffee cans filled with wet cement. He called it “Muscle Club.”
— Jack LaLanne turned 90 last year and he was still working out every day. Here are three of his maxims: 1) Do something healthy and positive each day; little things make a difference. 2) Concentrate on the moment; put all your energy into what you’re doing today and what you’ll do tomorrow. 3) Be a role model; motivate your friends and loved ones by being supportive.
— At lunch today I put a leftover salmon patty, tofu, broccoli stems, soy milk, and two raw eggs into a blender and mixed the resulting goo with oatmeal, wheat germ, and brewer’s yeast, hoping to create some type of health burger. I think I’ll just end this little story now, if you don’t mind.