Jeanne-Claude, Adieu

I was fortunate enough to meet Jeanne-Claude and Christo during a stop they made in Denver earlier in the year. I was given the assignment for The Met newspaper at Metro State College by my photo editor, Cora, and to accompany me, a young, pretty writer.

I was comfortable going to the Center for Visual Art, the artistic arm of Metro's art school, having been there to see some very impressive and very awful artwork.

I'd known about JC&C for many years, after some odd projects that really can only be understood by artists who train to look beyond appearances and rip the essence of objects and concepts and splat them on a wall. They did just that, throw convention back in our faces.

On this particular day, Jeanne-Claude and Christo were promoting their new project, another drapery-laden convection to tantalize the visual senses and make you ask, "What the hell are they doing?"

After listening to the pair give a presentation about the project and answer questions about financial logistics through their dollar-guru, the writer tentatively approached the pair. Her questions were pragmatic and straight-forward, but very little about JC&C was straight forward.

I listened to the interview, and at the end, the writer came to me and said she wanted a picture with the two of them, and I suggested she just go ask them. She approached them and asked Jeanne-Claude, "Can I get a picture with you guys?"

At that point, Jeanne-Claude's clown orange hair flipped and a thrill of horror crossed her face.

"Guys! Guys? Who are GUYS?" Jeanne-Claude said. "Dahling, I am not a guy, you are not a guy, we are women, why do you say that?

The poor, young writer was reduced. She had no answer, she hadn't paid attention to her speech, a carelessness of youth, and she was paying for it dearly at that moment. I have no doubt, she never said the word, "guys" ever again.

Christo posed for the photo, and the young pretty writer got her digital reminder to watch her speech and not treat all people as a homeboy. Their smiles are genuine as they smile for the camera, probably one of a million shots taken in their lives.

I only learned tonight that Jeann-Claude had died of a brain aneurysm last week, and I wonder how Christo will do without his muse, his inspiration, his mouthpiece and connection to the world. She was the wind that pushed the creative sails and in a way, she gave Christo the permission and freedom to create his larger-than-life monuments.

I have no doubt he is already using his grief to erect a edifice to his love, and it will probably have the color orange in it, somewhere near the top.

For Jim Ryan

Jim Ryan died on October 24, passing away with his family by his side.

I made this audio slideshow of the Sunday rehearsal, the Sunday before he died. It was something fun, and it didn't go to the paper. It was...For Jim.

Snowy Day Conversation With a Cat

Cat: I want to go outside, NOW.
Owner: No, it's snowing outside and it's cold.
Cat: I want to go outside, NOW!
Owner: Sure, let's go outside, it's not that bad out there.
Cat (now outside): Shit! It's cold out here! It's snowing! The wind is blowing my fur around! I don't look pretty! Feed me you nasty bitch, how dare you make me go outside.
Owner: I miss my dog.

A Man's Last Wish

Today I talked to a very old, very frail man whose last wish was to hear his chorale students sing for him one last time.

He lived in Conifer long enough to be recognized by the community for his work with the Stage Door Theatre and students from nearby Conifer High School flocked there for his expertise.

His time and energy given to young people encouraged their Shakespearean dreams and theatrical threads of Andrew Lloyd Weber. Those students will carry that attention, that personal expression given dress on their stages of life, forever.

He lays in bed, and typical words like, "frail" and "pale" come to mind, and he is those things. Such words can't convey the spirit of someone who, before a heart attack two weeks ago, was still part of the theatre scene in Conifer.

He snoozes during his answers to posed questions. He breathes, mouth open as if life is trying to escape.

Blankets engulf him, and his hospital gown is slightly askew, revealing thin skin and a boney shoulder. A humidifier softly bubbles, attached to the wall, and attached to his tracheostomy. A thin necklace chain holds a cannula in place as it winds around and disappears into his throat. The stubble on his chin is still groomed in an artistic goatee. Momentary flickers of wit, charm and grace light up his face, showing teeth that were made for smiling and dancing eyes that beheld the romance of theatre. He runs his hand with its paper thin skin through his thready white hair and he falls asleep, plastic medical bracelets dangling down along with the skin of his arms.

Today, he lives in a Lutheran's Collier Hospice, and as most people know, it's short term housing.

Tomorrow, students from his troupe were supposed to come and perform sections of their current production at the Stage Door Theatre, Les Miserables. He says his favorite song in the production is, "Take Me Home," and the irony is not lost on him.

The gathering was cancelled, and all he has is the dream in his head, where he can hear the music with young ears and see the stage with bright eyes.

The curtain is falling on this great producer.

Aspen Peak Cellars at Clifton House Inn

Need a nice place to go have a good meal, great wine, marvelous atmosphere and just a lovely time? Go to Aspen Peak Cellars at Clifton House Inn in Conifer. I have an article coming out next week about the place, and I think it's obvious I really liked what I saw. Check it out sometime. The restaurant, not the article.

Thought for the day

A thesaurus is only as good as the good words you already know.

Pre-Story Definition

I was sent a request for a pre-story, and not knowing exactly what that was, I asked Deb Hurley. This is what she sent me using the concept of Emily's Ride that's coming up soon. Here's her explanation and an example of what a pre-story should look like:

A pre-story (or an advance as I would call it) is a story telling people about what is to come. That's the focus. Afterward, usually the reporter has covered the event and writes the story about what transpired.

For example, last week you wrote a pre-story/advance about the meeting looking at the trails in Conifer on Sept. 23. In all likelihood you will cover the meeting on Sept. 23 and write a story about what happened.

So for the Emily's Parade/Ride, you will find out: what it is, when it is, where it is, what's new this year if anything, why it exists, etc.

In this case, the lead will be something like:

Hundreds of motorcycles will travel down U.S. Highway 285 on Sept. 26 as part of Emily's Ride. The third-annual ride and parade will begin at 8 a.m. Saturday, Sept. 26, beginning at Columbine High School and going along U.S. Highway 285 to Platte Canyon High School. The event commemorates Sept. 27, 2006, when a gunman entered Platte Canyon High School, held seven girls hostage and utimately shot and killed Emily Keyes.
etc., etc., etc.,

--more about what's going on
-- more about how people can get involved

This is one of the ways I learn best. I ask a question and I get an explanation and an example. Then I post it to a blog so anyone who's interested can see it. It seems to me this is an apprenticeship-type relationship, where someone who has the knowledge passes it on to someone who is learning in a one-to-one setting. I have always learned best that way, not sitting in a class suffering from a case of Deer In The Headlights Syndrome.

Some people are happy with this kind of learning arrangement, others are uncomfortable and think that learning should happen by trial and error. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

Now both you and I know what a pre-story is and how to prepare it. I'm looking forward to doing both a pre-story and the follow-up article for Emily's Ride. Despite the tragic circumstances and I hope the perpetrator rots in hell, I love motorcycles and the spirit of people on bikes. "Hang loose" is their motto. That and "Keep the rubber side down."

It's About Time

The AP Stylebook elaborates on the appropriate dispensation of time.

I never saw this in the stylebook, but it's succinct and to the point:

"They will meet at 10 a.m. Wednesday in the Courier office"

Time, Day, Place----Remember that, it's very important

Today's Editing Tips

Keep paragraphs short. Usually a paragraph in a story for a newspaper
is no more than a couple sentences.

In the opening of a story, identify the location and make sure you identify the people in the story with their relevance.
"...store owners Bona Jordan and Bob Adams..."

After the Who, Why, Where, When are taken care of in those first few paragraphs, toss in a good quote.

Here are your style/mechanics tips for the day:

The word "each" always takes a singular verb.

Highway is spelled out with the number.

----Courtesy of Deb Hurley and the story about the Pine Emporium

Barbie and the art of Robert Best

Decades ago, my mother told me that Barbie Dolls were designed just for me.

I had dozens of them, starting with the original red-lipped, black-haired Barbie in a black and white bathing suit. The Bubble Head Barbie came next, with her perfect do that to this day is still perfect, though she has laid in a box with her sorority of plastic.

Robert Best is an artist who renders images of Barbie fashions both past and current, and these 11 x 14 drawings are numbered, framed and sold.

I came across several of the images in a small woodsy shop with lots of elegant smelling lotions and greeting cards with hand pressed flowers on the front. Long swags of thick branches and intertwined flowers drape from the ceiling, and soft music mixes with the sound of small water fountains. The images are back in the corner in the children's section and they hold court with their heads held elegantly high just above the terry-teddy bears and books with frantic drawings. Barbie reigns over all, quietly and fashionably.

I go into that store occasionally and look at the dwindling fashion parade that lined the walls of the children's section and lament that my favorite image is gone. Barbie in the blue/violet floral gown that trails with sash and color, a dreamy elegance to unreal for a girl who grew up in stretch pants and rode horses.

At only $159, I could have taken her home and placed her on my wall, as a token of all the Barbies' wrapped and stashed in a fashion show held in a Roughneck Tuppeware container.

It wasn't that I knew I could dress like Barbie; I couldn't pull off sophistication even if wanted to. Her life didn't really inspire. She had the clothes, but not the anima, and she couldn't make up in wardrobe what she lacked in breath. Still, she was an escape, a kind of control in an uncontrollable world.

I was probably 12 when I bought my last Barbie, a last stroll down the pink aisle, and I lied to the checkout lady at the House of Values and told her it was for my little sister. She seemed somehow strange and wrong, like waking up and trying to remember a dream that was great while you were having it, but faded in the light of day.

In the end, I was realized that Barbies' weren't designed for me, that I was just a molded consumer of packaged fashion, but I didn't care.

My mother then came clean with the true origin of my fame and told me that she named me after the nicest person she knew: herself.

The Process

You can always tell when the honeymoon is over when you start getting down to the business of figuring out the parameters of any situation.

Here's some things I've learned this week about newspapers, writing and photography:

1) Don't lose art.

2) As soon as your art is done, work it up, label it correctly, upload it and know where you've put everything.

3) If you have a very strong lead, let it stand as a paragraph all by itself. When you have this type of situation, stair step important information in the next couple paragraphs. When you have a real strong lead, chances are you don't have the four "W"'s in the first paragraph.

4) The four "W"s are: who, why, where, when. "What" is the rest of the story.

5) Get the four "W"s in the first paragraph of a story but make it really interesting.

6) Subheads in an article are used in a printed story when the transitions between sentences aren't real smooth or there is no other way.

7) It takes time to acclimate to a new news climate, but you'd better put a wiggle in it and get it done.

8) When given re-direction, write it down, make a note of it. If you don't understand it, ask for an example so you can see what it looks like.

9) Read the papers. Obvious, but read good writing and start to understand what bad writing is. Pay attention to what the writing you're reading is saying to you.

10) Keep a spreadsheet of your contacts and their phone numbers. Keep it up to date.

11) Get to know the people at the post office.

12) Always have a business card.

13) Keep your story information in folders and organized on your computer. Don't delete anything until you are SURE you don't need anything at the last second.

14) Reformat your cards as soon as you put them back in the camera. Don't wait or else you'll be looking like an idiot, standing there deleting 340 images of school kids. Then people at the tattoo parlor will be waiting for you and there will be new photos you've taken that you can't delete, so you have to scroll through and delete the old ones one at a time.

15) Five words are better than 17 when used in a story and space is limited.

16) Don't get too discouraged. Chin up.

Corbett's Auction House

Lot 971, cat picture.

In Corbett's Auction House, people mill around long tables filled with nondescript items, stacked on each other, someone's jumbled history.

On Saturday, it's a casual walk-through, garage-sale friendly. On Sunday it has the same air as roadkill, with vultures circling and waiting until the traffic clears long enough to land and pick up something tasty.

I admit, I was part of the vultures on Sunday, waiting to bid on a picture of a cat, circa 1915. I waited my turn and my friend Peggy did the bidding for me, and for $35, Lot 971, cat picture was mine.

The picture is muted grays and blues, and shows a young boy feeding a saucer of milk to a skinny, ratty looking cat. The sign on the door behind the cat says, "For Rent" and there's a caption in the lower right hand corner that says, "The Cat They Left Behind." The banner across the top of the image is curved like a public service announcement and says, "Be Kind To Animals."

The bidding at Corbett's goes super-fast, with numbers, chatter and witticisms that go along with rifle-shot transactions. The caller wears a straw cowboy hat, almost a uniform for any hawker in the midwest. I'm surprised at how quickly things move along. And how things that look valuable go for pennies and items that are titanic shows of bad taste generate the most intense bidding wars.

Hard to believe the crap people have in their homes. Brightly colored oil paintings of matadors and images of lions with real bars in front of the picture. Bronze urns with legs made of dragons intricately support even larger displays of dragons. Apothecary cabinets and home movies, stamp collections and sleepy eyed baby dolls. Modern Christmas displays for the yard and Boy Scout manuals. Music written for "black" musicians only, and Lenox china. It seems the collision of items make an image of someone's life, but at the same time, they don't. Sad to see someone's life picked apart by fat women in loud print tops holding greasy fish sandwiches from Dorothy's Catering and middle aged men with slick hair and big belts. Without the history that went with each item, they become ordinary stuff, ready to sit in someone else's basement until they're auctioned off again. It's a painful process to watch, and I probably won't go back to Corbett's Auction House again.

I have no history about where Lot 971, cat picture came from. Why is it in a dirty, ill-fitting frame? Why is there a tiny rock in the middle of the picture, between the print and glass?

For now, Lot 971, cat picture sits in the mountain house in Pine, with the lady who used to carry cat food in the trunk of her car and regularly rescued stray, injured or unwanted cats. Twenty six of them to be exact. I always made sure that they were cared for or put to sleep if needed, and all found good homes though some found their way back to the streets.

But never, ever did I walk by the cat they left behind.

The First Week

You couldn't ask for a better group of people to work with than the staff at the Canyon Courier.

The pace has been a challenge for me to get used to. I'm used to being chained to a desk for 12 hours with few breaks and the humiliation of having to ask someone if I can go to the bathroom. I think Doug has told me a couple times that my time is my own; work for 40 hours a week, don't get burned out, pace yourself and have fun. This is foreign to me.

When you start a job as a secretary, you get the feel you're going to be someone's gopher, someone's "person" to go step, fetch and be "agreeable." Starting this job, I realized that I was being treated as a professional. Treated like someone who has already proven that they have jumped through some hoops and has paid attention to most classes that I've sat in. The "orientation" doesn't mean learning how the boss takes his coffee, but learning what FTP to use when uploading photos, what format captions need to be in and learning what is generally accepted and what isn't.

No one got their knickers in a twist over anything, and I know I was praised more than once this week. That's unusual.

I'm used to people saying things like, "We're so glad you're here, nobody wants to do that job." Stuff like that.

"You handle the phones so well, and you don't seem to notice the noise and chaos."

That's not praise, that's condemnation. I think what they're really saying, is, "Thank God you're dumb enough to do this job."

That's not even anywhere on the agenda at the Courier.

(this paragraph was deleted, because a year later, I learned the truth about what I had said here)

So, it's been stories about the handkerchief lady and photos of a semi upside down in the Platte River. Talk about variety.

It's like a dream, these last few weeks, and I'm afraid it is a dream and I'll wake up and I'll never be anything else other than a secretary. But I did go to school, get my degree, do the work that got me a chance, and now it's all up to me.

The thing that is on my mind is my tiredness. I'm still acclimating to the altitude, the lifestyle, the slower pace. I'm almost afraid to relax, only because I'm not sure I could ever gear myself back up again to keep an insane pace of 12.5 hour days with bells and buzzers, angry patients and people with too much power and not enough sense.

And, no one in sight to give me a bathroom break.

New Things to See

Today was my first day as a Staff Writer for the High Timber Times, working out of the Canyon Courier office in Evergreen. The new person to the office has to bring donuts, and though no one eats them, they are a ritual for this group.

Deb Hurley Brobst was the first person I saw this morning and it was a welcome sight. She knew who I was and I knew who she was and I can tell it's going to be a great privilege to work with her. I told her I wish I could have taken one of her classes at Metro before she retired and she responded,

"You're going to get a one -on-one class with me here at the paper!"

So it goes.

Deb gave me a few pieces of paper with story ideas that are in progress and others that are sitting there waiting fro development. Learning the knack for knowing what needs to be done NOW and what can wait is something that comes with time. My first foray into mountain journalism was not a success; an early morning accident on 285 was big news, but the Colorado State Patrol wouldn't answer my calls, something frequent and annoying.

My email account was set up and I was given instructions about FTP (CyberDuck-thanks, Metro), what format to use to organize stories and photos, and the usual paperwork.

Soon, everyone is reading. Reading emails, news websites, other publications in the area and stories they're following. Doug's office is across from the desk where I'm currently sitting, and he hears all that goes on in the newsroom. People ask questions and he responds. There's no yelling, no fast talking, nobody that walks by and talks at the same time. People stand in front of you and talk TO you, not at you.

The newsroom is much like the newsroom at Metro. Thank God I spent some time there as a photographer for the Met. People find things on the Web, funny things and serious things alike and they share them with everyone. Everyone looks and pays attention. I'm so not used to this.

Deb was reading a local webpage and mentioned that the Victorian Tea was today. Pictures for that would be great for next week's paper. Did I have my gear? Yes, I did, as well as my laptop, power cord and stuff to write with. My first assignment was with half hour notice to go shoot this cute little event. I have to admit, there's a real pride in introducing myself as a writer for a local paper. An hour later, I was shooting and making sure I had correct spelling of names, correct ages and correct schools. Somehow, now those details are extra special important.

I edited my photos, which took me forever. THE shot was perfect except the subject wasn't a local child, and that's the focus with the paper. Local people, always local people.

I ended my day around 4:30 p.m. and headed home. Home to the hills where I now live and work. A few nights ago I woke up in the middle of the night when the bears were tearing through the neighbor's trash and wondered what the hell was I doing up here and not in some anonymous apartment in Lakewood working at an anonymous job.

My only answer is that today I went there for my first day and tomorrow I get to go back.

Moving on...again

So, I've accepted a reporter/feature writer/photographer position with the High Timber Times, part of a chain of five papers that keep the foothills' residents informed and entertained.

The position is an entry position, so I won't be getting rich, but the opportunities are great. Part of the deal is that I have to move up to the area somewhere between Morrison and Bailey to be "in" the area and part of it. I don't have a problem with that; flatlanders can only guess at mountain life. I know, because I'm a flatlander looking at those hills and wondering what's up there.

What's NOT there is a plethora of places to live. Oh yah, you can move into an 1860's cabin that's been updated and carries a noble history of being Kit Carson's grandmother's home (I have to look up who Kit Carson is, do you know?) and is available, all 850 square feet and $650 a month. The walls inside are dark, dark wood with a low ceiling and a kitchen area tacked on like something out of Little House on the Prairie. Tall grass inhabits the "back yard" that is complete with a sagging chain link fence. You'd think this place would sit amongst tall pines that whisper and creak with the wind, but it sits behind the InterMountain Humane Society's main office and next to the row of 8 dog kennels. To the right is the Panda Kitchen with the pungent aroma of seafood and ginger mixing with the smell of woodsmoked pizza from the drive-thru pizza stand next door. Dogs barking, Chinese food, wood smoke, and noise from the "285 Rush" completes the auditory picture.

Did I mention the front door isn't a standard size and nothing I own except my MacBookPro would fit through it?

I'm not sure there's enough room for me, my stuff, my cats and the ghosts that must inhabit Kit Carson's grandmother's house.

I did make the mistake of walking into one of the many real estate offices up there. A promising wall of places advertised rustled from all the open windows in the place, but all have been rented, and the agent there began pressing me to "buy" something up there.

One place is a "lease with option to buy" at the bargain price of $99,000. This two bedroom, one bathroom, one floor open planned gem sits in the middle of a development at the end of a two lane country road 6 miles from Hwy 285. There are neighbors on both sides and aspen trees that line a shallow creek in the back. The house across the street looks like a Highlands Ranch wannabe and is uninhabited. I'm told the owner is very motivated, what with the divorce and all. I don't know, because it means going back to two cars, the Grand Prix AND the Jeep. No way those roads can be managed in winter by my low-riding town car.

If you're drawn by the mountains and have an itch to live there, this is the time to buy. There are beautiful homes up there for half the cost of something comparable down here. Hwy 285 is a manageable drive and it is beautiful up there. If you haven't purchased a home in the last three years or you're a first time buyer, you get an $8000 bonus for buying right now. Something to think about, although I don't qualify.

This is turning out to be more of a challenge than I first thought; I wish I would have had some time to find a place while knowing I had the job at the paper. My lease is up in a week and right now, there's no place to call home, sweet home in them thar hills.

Camp Fickes

Below is the edited story that ran in the High Timber Times this week. This story was my "audition" for the paper, and apparently, I did well enough. I saw the printed version today in a newspaper kiosk in Pine Junction. Odd to see a photo you've taken staring back at you from a kiosk.

The story is about a rifle range now open to the public that was built on an WWII training facility. Kind of like a social documentary class except with live ammunition.

Here it is:

In the small valley between Green Mountain Peak and Little Craggy Peak near Bailey, laughter and camaraderie mix with the sounds of small-arms and rifle fire. A hum of enthusiasm rises from loose file formations of young men who await their turn to shoot — and their deployment to the battlefields of World War II.

Armed with newly cast patriotic enthusiasm, their 10-day stint at Camp Buffalo is filled with stories of triumphs and tears, celebration and swagger. The only thing louder than the men and the rifle shot is the distant roll of thunder from an approaching storm.

In 1943, the 22nd Base Headquarters and Air Base Squadron from Lowry Air Force Base created Camp Buffalo. On the site today, 9 miles south of Bailey, is Camp Fickes Rifle Range. Camp Fickes is now open to the public and hosts a variety of ranges and services for those know how to shoot and those who want to learn.

Richard Bowman manages the Buffalo Creek Gun Club, which oversees the operations at Camp Fickes. Started in 1962, the club has tried to revive the area and provide facilities for amateur and professional shooters alike. On July 4th weekend, the Colorado State Service Rifle Championships and Colorado Regional High Power Rifle Championship were held at Camp Fickes, with about 100 people showing up to demonstrate their shooting skills at different skill levels. These modern marksmen are using the same scrubby plain as those who practiced with weaponry during World War II.

The range was named for a Lieutenant Fickes, who along with two others was struck and killed by lightning in the engineer’s mess tent during the Camp Buffalo days. At that site today is the Roger Nolan Pavilion, a wooden structure that features picnic tables and a roof tall enough to store goods out of the reach of the local bear (named Boris or Borina, they’re not sure).
At Camp Buffalo, recruits were taught gun, rifle and submachine-gun skills and trained for combat readiness. The camp had a mess line that fed up to 180 men per day, latrine and infirmary facilities, and a newsletter.

Shooting at ‘The Pits’
The main feature of Camp Fickes’ long range is “The Pits” — a long bunker made of concrete nestled into a berm that protects the bunker and the pit crew inside it. A row of large frames holds targets, and their greased frames are manually raised up and down. Shooters can come here for target practice, to sight in a new rifle or to spend time with others who enjoy this out-of-the way place.

Jason Laird, 52, of Evergreen has been shooting since he was 10. Today, he’s sighting his Sharps Buffalo rifle, the Billy Dixon model from the 1870s. Legend has it that in 1874’s Battle of Adobe Walls in Texas, this model was used by frontiersman Billy Dixon to shoot a man off his horse at a distance of 1,500 yards. But for Laird, a shorter distance is in his sights.
“I like to shoot at 200 yards most of the time, and this is the only other 200-plus-yard shooting range around,” he says. “The next closest is Briggsdale, and I don’t want to go that far.”

Bowman watches as Baird fires off a couple of rounds at the targets at the far end of the range — targets that are held up by discarded political signs.

“We needed something that would hold up in the weather, and old political signs work great,” Bowman says. “We just called up some of the political offices, and they were happy to donate them.”

Baird checks his marks with a Nikon scope set up next to his rifle, and Bowman inquires about Baird’s success in shooting parlance:

“Are you on the paper?”

Paperwork is something Bowman is familiar with. The newest addition to Camp Fickes is the Boy Scout Range, a short range built by Scouts in 2007 to fulfill requirements for their Eagle badges.

It took two years of working in cooperation with the Forest Service to get the Boy Scout Range approved. The Forest Service looms large in this area, and especially in Buffalo Creek, which has suffered from wildfires and their aftermath.

“When the bans were in place, Camp Fickes was the only operation that was open, and if you wanted to smoke, you had to sit in your car with the windows rolled up,” Bowman says.

Bowman is constantly trying to think of new ways to get people up to Camp Fickes and laments the loss of interest many might have in shooting since the advent of video games.

A nonprofit venture, Camp Fickes is hoping to add to its current 60-member base. Each member pays $215 in dues a year. Daily fees for the public are $15, with full use of the ranges during the regular business hours, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. Saturday and Sunday. Camp Fickes covers 47 acres and is at an altitude of 8,100 feet (a 1943 Camp Buffalo newsletter extolled the virtues of “no mosquitoes!”).

Bowman, who has a degree in business administration with a double major in accounting and finance, doesn’t need a scope to see that business needs to pick up.

“The Forest Service has given us the opportunity to be open to the public, but if we don’t have enough visitors, we’ll be closed,” he says.

The busiest season is coming, though; the end of summer sees an increase in people preparing for hunting season. The range recently ran its first advertisement, and it hopes to generate more business by continuing to get the word out.

One of the keepers of Camp Fickes’ history, Bowman is proud of the work done here as he and other members try to collect bits and pieces of the past and share them with those who will listen.

Today, as in the time of Camp Buffalo, the afternoon storms move between the peaks and into the valley. The rain begins to stream down from the tin roof of the Buffalo Creek Gun Club’s main building to the dirt below, sounding like a thousand feet marching out of time across the hard earth.

Thunder echoes overhead. And one can’t help but think of Lieutenant Fickes and his few minutes of fame.

Rage Along the Front Range

It was a dark and stormy night.

Starting about 10:15 p.m. on July 20, the first few pellets of hail began to hit my north-facing garage door. It didn't take long for the sound in the garage to echo through the house. Like waking somewhere unfamiliar, I was unsure what was going on and the noise became more deafening. The storm began to dump huge amounts of rain and hail, destroying trees, plants and anything left outside.

I remember being scared out of my wits, half-awake, half-asleep and my first thoughts were of confusion and fear. I got dressed, not sure what I was going to do, but my car was out in that and I wanted to get it in the garage. I opened the garage door and hail flew through the garage, hitting the far wall. I had to shovel hail away from the garage door, it had piled up to about 6 inches. I ran to get into my car and pretty much started it and gunned it. After closing the garage door, the roar continued.

I grabbed my video camera and was only able to get a few seconds of video before I had to close the door.

The street flooded on both sides, with a ribbon of hail in the center, the hail and rain coming down shredding the trees and pounding the carport across from me. Lightning cut through the hail and the thunder couldn't match the sound of the hail on the garage door. This went on for about 10 minutes.

News stations were on the air covering the storm, Misty Montoya from KCNC was Tweeting reports of damage and emergency calls, and there was an armageddon feel to the whole evening.

The most damage was done in the WheatRidge area, including where Kate and Jason live. Their house had moderate damage, with the greatest damage being their roof, garage windows, shredded leaves on everything, and a garden that was stripped bare. WheatRidge looked separate and apart from the rest of Denver that day, and the cleanup is still progressing.

It was one of the few times I've really been scared, but I'm grateful I live in an apartment building with at least some protection on one side of my home.

Reports say we had a tornado come through here, and I believe it. I don't know how people who live in the Midwest do it, living like that would make me a nervous wreck and I'd have to drink more than I already do.

Colorado weather is never dull, that's for sure.

Camp Fiske

Steeped in military lore and legend and the linguistic spaghetti that is the military vernacular as I write my story on Camp Fiske.

HTML thoughts

HTML is

&%$#*&!, in the %$*&!

(this was written in code and it looks like it works!)
I've discovered writing code is a lot like being married. Lots of hard work, frustration and sweat, but when it's done right (write) it's a beautiful thing, works well and looks good. However, there is no code that can be written that can make a man put his dirty clothes in the hamper and not on the floor.

Albuquerque

I've been going to Albuquerque for the last 13 years, a very regular trip that I usually tell people I'm going to visit some friends for the weekend. That's part of the truth.

About 13 years ago I was introduced to a spiritual path while working at an acupuncture clinic in Lakewood. The owner had recently joined a spiritual group after having a few of the devotees in his acupuncture classes. These few devotees were some of the first students of a guru from New Mexico that was teaching the tenets of Light and Sound teachings, a very very old system of beliefs first begun by Lao-Tze thousands of years ago. These students had an energy about them, a wisdom and presence that was hard to define. They didn't wear flowing robes or Birkenstocks, they were doctors and massage therapists and literature majors and film/video producers. I joined these people after watching closely for quite a while, making sure there were no catches, that no one would make me wear a purple running suit with white tennis shoes and drink green Kool-Aid. No one has asked me so far and they never will.

MasterPath was founded around 1989 in South Dakota by Gary Olsen. As the leader of MasterPath, he teaches how to embrace the teachings of Light and Sound, a precursor of many facets of Buddhism, Sikhism, Taoism, Christianity, Muslim and Oriental philosophies. Light teachings tend to be more like institutions such as churches and paths that change the condition of a person's outer life without requiring a sacrifice of accountability for the life led within. MasterPath takes spirituality out of the temple built by man and puts it back where it belongs, in the student's own body. Sound teachings incorporate that which can't be seen, but can be felt as a vibration of love wisdom and guidance. Both are of the same; yet one takes the student farther in consciousness by appreciating the Light, but following the Sound. Students, called chelas, follow these ancient teachings that instruct the student in the process of spiritual enlightenment. People today scoff at the notion of other systems of spiritual advancement that don't involve sitting in a church or ashram. Whatever. I'm not interested in following the crowd. Never have been, never will be.

This path doesn't allow for proselytizing, or use guilt and coercion to get new members. I have only spoken to a couple of people outside the organization about it, and then only after they asked me about it. I do know people who are great at bringing people to "The Path" as we refer to it, but bring someone, don't bring someone, it doesn't matter. The MasterPath doesn't care if you come to their door, eventually the soul will find its to whatever belief system it needs at the time. This is the one I need at this time, and this weekend was one of the meetings with the Master.

I've met Sri Gary many, many times. Sri, pronounced "shree" is simply a title, like Mr. or Mrs., yet the connotation for Sri is one of "teacher." And teach he does. We gather every 3-4 months to listen to Sri Gary speak and each month the chela receives a discourse, a writing that is tailor made to the chela's current initiation. Initiations vary in length and are numbered from 1-12. The length of time it takes to complete the initiations is a personal and private affair, a time-table set forth without the mind's cheap influence and a schedule that the chela needs not worry about. All things unfold in their proper season and at the proper time. It's one of the best things about MasterPath; time and space are an illusion that you can either embrace or ignore. Embrace it when you have to be accountable for your daily life, but ignore it if it messes with your spirituality.

The Path can be hard sometimes. I have always listened to the voices outside of me, and so to go inside and take charge of my being has been hard for me. For me, what I though I knew to be true about myself was shown to me as being incorrect. It's disconcerting to think you have all aspects of life wired up and you're good to go. That's the downside. The upside is that you find out so much more about yourself and about the incredible aspects of yourself once you get past all the scabby crust. Nobody else tells you this stuff, you figure it out as you go. You get to own the power of figuring these challenges. The days of me listening to someone from the pulpit tell me I'm a sinful loser with the wrong shaped head and therefore can't possibly be from the chosen tribe of Israel are over. Hard to believe anyone ever falls for that hooey. I know I did.

MasterPath allows me to find my own way with the guidance of a Sat Guru, or "True Teacher." In this most ancient form of spiritual learning, you're given the tools you need to be successful and those tools don't consist of standing in weird positions or eating only vegetables and not having sex. Ever. It teaches you to live your life and incorporate all aspects of it that work and leave behind that which needs to be left behind. I fell in love with it because it gave me a lot of work to do in my own life. I never liked the idea that you could go out and do whatever destruction you want and you can fall on your knees and ask for forgiveness and it's bestowed without accountability. MasterPath believes in the concept of karma, and if you don't want to pay for it, don't do it to begin with. A simple premise with huge ramifications.

Meetings are also held in San Diego (usually the winter seminar) and regional meetings are held on a less frequent basis in such cities as Seattle, Chicago and Phoenix. MasterPath has members from all over the world, and you can attend either in person or via internet or phone lines. I'm unsure of how many members there are at this point; I don't really care. I'm a member and always will be, regardless of what people think about me and my involvement. This Path has me too busy keeping my nose to MY grindstone to worry about what other people think.

The next meeting for MasterPath is in September in Albuquerque, again. I'll be there because I get so much from actually attending the seminar or regional in person. My discourses will continue to arrive each month and I will work on the insights given to me this weekend, relaxing more with my contentions about myself and trying to make a better connection with one of the many forms of contacting the Sound Current. As awful as it is to fly into Albuquerque, I'll probably do just that, but hoping for no bad weather in Denver to cause hours-long delays in Albuquerque.

So if you're curious about MasterPath, ask me sometime. I'm not worried about it. Everyone I know is doing just fine with the life they have and the choices they're making. As a matter of fact, I'm proud of all my friends, both the ones on the Path and the ones not on the Path. My friends are genuine and honest, sincere and open. I'm lucky to have them all.

As for the tough stuff that can come with facing your foibles and moving ahead through the slosh that is life, as the Master said once: "Even if the stable is full of shit, keep digging; there's gotta be a pony in there somewhere."

Anecdote Assignment-Draft

Yes, yes, I'm taking another class. It's a writing class, far from the throws of journalism, but is a course in crafting words and language. I'm into it. A professor asked me recently why I was spending so much time learning how to be a photographer (an average one at that) when my real skill is my writing ability, something that comes easier than f-stops and rear curtains syncs. The answer? I don't know. Don't ask me questions like that. The heart wants what the heart wants.

Anyway, the assignment is to write an anecdote. Here is the first draft of a true anecdote, one I'll never forget.



Even at 12 years old, I knew the only reason my mother went to church was to look at Reverend Baker.

Reverend Baker was the minister at the First Congregational Church, a tall, slender man with movie star looks. Each Sunday in church, as the processional wound its way to the pulpit, his romantic resounding tenor sang Cecil F. Alexander’s lyrics, “All Creatures Great and Small” and my mother’s spirit was renewed. His boyish looks and sandy colored hair was too much for my good Christian mother to withstand and he was frequently invited to our home.

My mother was a vivacious, boldly beautiful woman whose French Canadian/Scotch heritage and serious dyed blonde hair gave her confidence no ordinary woman should have. She had a flair for drama and mystery, and when she drank she was utterly charming and intoxicating until she got mean and started to break things. She sometimes didn’t need to be drinking to break things, occasionally when she wouldn’t get what she wanted, she’d bust a cup as an announcement of her disapproval. She was used to getting her way; that was for sure. Even in her 40’s she could sell dentures to a dog if she wanted, and she learned how to parlay her good looks and big boobs into pretty much whatever she wanted.

Subconsciously, what she wanted was the reverend.

One afternoon, the good reverend and his six-year-old daughter (a chaperone, no doubt) came by the house at mother's beckoning and there we all were, my precocious mother, the reverend, his six-year-old daughter and me. Congregated outside on the driveway, my mother was as animated as ever with her guests, gesturing in a manner that brought attention to her bosom and hosting a coquette smile, she did everything but bat her eyelashes. Laughing at one of her own witticisms, she threw her head back and laughed almost wickedly, and at that moment, God smote her for her indecency and her dentures popped out onto the ground. Not one to miss a beat, she bent down, picked up the errant choppers, wiped them once on her slim Capri slacks and popped them back in her mouth, expertly guiding them back to their home port. True to form, she continued on with her monologue like nothing had happened, besting the beast of embarrassment.

Now I know better than to say anything to the queen of beauty about her dentures. However, the reverend’s six-year-old daughter hadn’t been schooled in the ways of flirting women and their dental cleavage that leave-age.

“Daddy, what were those?” she innocently asked, pointing to where the errant dentures had laid.

“Honey, some people have bad teeth and they have to have someone make them new teeth so they can eat and smile and be happy,” he offered.

“But daddy, why did they fall out? She continued.

Soon the reverend and his young daughter left, and by the time they pulled out of the driveway, I’m already through the house and out the back door, heading towards the skinny woods that bordered our property. Waiting on the top of the hill, it was almost dark when the sound of breaking china stopped.

Mom didn’t go to church as much after that.

Commencement 2009

Metro State College held its Spring 2009 commencement ceremony at the Colorado Convention Center on May 17, 2009. Over 1400 graduates received diplomas, adding even more people to the already challenging workforce, but the day was about celebration. I walked in December 2008, and photographing it was much less stressful than making sure I was in the right line. However, I always deal with issues of intense darkness and strobes, so true to form, I had to work out how to make images come out okay.

My favorite part of the event was the commencement speech given by former Rocky Mountain News editor, Rob Reuteman. He posted a copy of the speech on his Facebook profile, and I copied it and saved it. I really liked it.

It was fun to be there and watch so many friends from different departments graduate. Where do we all go from here? One line from Reuteman's speech stated that: "it will take awhile to make their (your) mark, and if it doesn't happen in the first two years, that doesn't make them a failure." I'm glad to hear that.

Freedom Service Dogs

I have been working to make an audio slideshow for Freedom Service Dogs organization and the "delivery" date was today. The slideshow was used at a fundraiser at Elway's to promote donations for this Colorado non-profit. It will end up on their website as part of their efforts to raise awareness and funds.

The people at this organization are some of the nicest people I have met at any non-profit I've been around, and I had a really good time putting this together. I spent a few days just hanging around and trying to capture images of all the events that go on during the day. The next project I'm doing is an audio slideshow on one of the trainers, and I already have a lot of images to use and just a few more and some audio.

Their training methods are really interesting and I've never seen dogs trained without any sort of negative reinforcement. These dogs long to work and please their owners, and only special dogs rescued from shelters get a chance at making the grade. The trainers are incredible as they work with not only dogs, but people who are challenged in some way or other. It doesn't matter to them, two legs, four legs, they help everyone.

Take a look at the first slideshow, and thanks for looking.

Mother's Day

I have a rather slanted viewpoint on Mother's Day. Years of being required to do MD service kind of soured me on the whole affair.

If you bought flowers, you were criticized because that was a wasteful gift, chocolates would make her fat, and cards and honest displays of sentiment were met with harsh disapproval and the seeming air of disdain. If Christmas isn't Christmas till somebody's crying, then Mother's Day isn't Mother's Day until someone felt guilty.

I worked hard to make sure the MD wasn't approached in the same way. Most of the time for MD I was given space, the thing that I wanted most after three kids, two cats, one dog and a husband. Space is what I wanted most.

Today, I have lots of space.

Kate will engineer a marvelous but simple dinner complete with courses from appetizer to dessert, and she won't break a sweat doing it. I can always count on flowers (which I DO love) from Kate and Jill and a perpetual look of apology from Paul. I know if he could he would, but he can't so he won't.

We all sit at her large table and talk, listening to the stories of the places we've been and what we've seen. Most people had children for an assortment of reasons, continuation of the family name, someone to take care of you when you're older, the occasional Ooops: lots of reasons. I had a couple of Ooops, but once I realized the potential here, to send people out into the world to find cool things and come back and tell us all about it. Kate, a former journalism major went to the UK, Europe, Egypt and New Zealand to find stories. Jill's gone to Hawaii, Costa Rica and Canada to find what's interesting, and Paul goes to the mountains and shoots things with his friends. All interesting places to see and things to do.

We laugh hard at the stories that are shared, and it's the best part of getting together. I wish I had video of all the stories being told, but thanks to the above mentioned MD hostage taker, video is taboo in this family. Cameras get shot angry looks since years ago we used to get video'd eating Thanksgiving, Easter and Christmas dinners. She would video baseball games, but not graduation ceremonies, and that damn video camera was everywhere, all the time. Part of the reason why I've been reluctant to pick up a vid-camera. It gets met with disgust and resistance. Thanks, Gloria.

So MD comes and goes, but not without me referring to it as as hostage holiday. The top winner is Thanksgiving, followed by MD and then Christmas. Many years of research has gone into this dissertation on holiday stress, so I know of which I speak.

My kids always make MD a good day. Though I still encounter some resistance into what I've chosen to do academically, photography, writing, audio, VIDEO and the world of social networking (they can't believe I have a FaceBook page) it's mostly a pretty good time.

I also appreciate the friends in my life who acknowledge maternal status without acknowledging the implied time factor.

I guess after 32 years of MD, I'm a veteran of this holiday, and have worked hard to not make it a bad day for everyone. But at some point, I'm going to have to drag out the video camera. Some of the stories are too funny to not be caught on tape. What a shame that certain things in my kids' lives haven't been documented because of of bad memories. We never get that time back again. Ever.

Final Test Question and Answer

1. Briefly explain the difference between lying and embellishing in a resume or cover letter.

Embellishing on a resume or cover letter is using $2 words to describe a 2-cent accomplishment. Lying means the accomplishment was stolen by a thief who thinks the reader can’t put two and two together.

Busted and Surprised

The sight of flashing red and blue lights in the rear view mirror creates a sinking horrible feeling. Especially when you're being pulled over for the infraction of driving over the lines of a turn lane. The Englewood policeman was young enough to be my son and kept admonishing me to "drive carefully." I think he repeated it three times. A trip to the Englewood court, a brightly lit space where large windows overlook the light rail station at Englewood, with soft-rock favorites playing in the background was my next stop. When I arrived, three women were reviewing an Avon catalog and they smiled when I came in.

I was given three choices. Pay the fine, take the points, Pay the fine, take reduced points, Pay the fine, take a defensive driving class and no points. I chose the latter.

The class was held in the Englewood Library's Andersen Room (ironic, I used to be an Anderson) and signs at the entrance pointed a group of 30 vehicular felons to where they were going to spend the next 4 hours. I've been in classes like this before, like the time someone put a joke Brillo pad condom in Marvin's mailbox at work, and someone took offense to it and the whole staff had to sit through sexual harassment awareness training. Good thing the offended person wasn't at work the day I gave Susan Quintana an anatomically correct male cupcake from Bakery La Sensual for her birthday and a totally inappropriate birthday card that had to be unfolded to truly appreciate. They made me and Susan sit on opposites sides of the room due to our giggling, but I digress. Every one of these type classes are designed to create awareness of infractions by implementing guilt and horror to defer before mentioned negative activities. In short, they make you feel bad.

Darold Sloan doesn't operate that way. Sloan is the designer of the course entitled, "Develop a Defensive Driving Attitude by Thinking about Driving." Part of Martha's Mountain, Inc. Sloan teaches classes in both defensive driving and alcohol awareness. Sloan, a long-time local police officer and former police chief in Grand Junction, uses newspaper clippings, personal experience and one video clip to get his message across about driving safely and the consequences therein. He makes clear, up front, that listening to whining stories about the policeman said or how you've been wronged will only waste time. However, he does ask for people's experiences with situations that he covers in class.

"Anyone been T-boned? How about lose a tire while driving? What about tailgating? Ever had someone do that to you?" he asks.

He continues with tips on how to control speeding (cruise control), how long to wait before entering an intersection from a stoplight (3 seconds), driving in bad weather (slow down, way down), and which lane to drive in (right) and deadly driving hazards (everything that's not nailed down or has more than 2 legs). Moving steadily through the subjects and allowing for breaks at healthy intervals, Sloan covers a lot of material with humor and humility. Of all the traffic transgressions, he's the first to admit that he's done what he says not to do.

Right before the last segment on drinking and driving, he hands out the diplomas. For anyone who leaves, they're about to miss the best part. Sloan covers the well-worn table that tells how drunk you are after x-amount of drinks. He deconstructs a traffic accident where a young mother was killed and how the coroner determined what the blood alcohol level was of the drunk driver. Then he plays the video...only three minutes long.

The video is a news broadcast from 1996 from a Grand Junction TV station documenting the apology and humiliation of the Chief of Police who was pulled over for drunk driving. That police chief? Darold Sloan. The video shows Sloan, younger, humiliated and contrite as he apologizes to the police officers and citizens for his slip, a slip that destroyed his career and through his own calculation cost him $2,000,000 in lost wages and retirement. Housed in the Gunnison County jail for 2 days, he plead guilty and watched his career end. Dismissed from the department, he was unable to get a job and found doors closed to him due to his DUI conviction. Now sober 11 years, he briefly discusses his path from drunk to sober, crediting his wife for her ultimatum that put him in rehab.

"I got lucky; rehab stuck with me." he admits.

Still feeling the effects of the DUI conviction, Sloan teaches several times a week, repeating the same information to other groups of people who choose class over points, but his closing discussion has everyone's attention, whether you're angry or indifferent about being in class.

Ending the evening, he thanks everyone who attended. His demeanor is that of an honest man, the kind that has been humbled and has figured out it's the most honest way to live life and have people listen to you. He politely asks that you fill out an evaluation form to help improve the program for future crazy drivers. As people filed out of the library and into the parking lot, people got in their cars and most began to adjust their mirrors as Sloan instructed, and one participant mentioned she was worried about backing out, a point Sloan makes about a person's vulnerability to accidents when you back out of a parking place. Talk about effective teaching.

As I pulled into traffic on Hampden, making sure to wait three seconds before entering the intersection, I could hear in my head Sloan's parting words to the class:

"See you in the right lane!"

Chinatown

I don't know what I was expecting in Chinatown.

A lot of red, maybe. And many many places to eat.

What I experienced was a small area that is thick with people, sights, sounds and color.

The people: Many different cultures come together in this small Oriental island in the city.

I heard many different dialects of Asian language, none that my ears could discern, but I knew approximately where they were from.

I was surprised to hear so much French. Frenchman whose children carried the same D300 camera as me, sans the strap.

German, which I recognize from living there for a few years, languages spoken by Norse looking men with their strapping wives, picking through the $1.88 t-shirts.

Italian. Lots of Italian. I asked a tall, well dressed Caucasian lady who was standing next to the cable car stop sign how much the cable car cost, and she became shy, shook her head and hurried back to her husband. So much for assuming who to talk to. What you think someone should be speaking is startling when they use a completely different language.

It's a little disconcerting.

I noticed that few people who live in the area made any sort of eye contact. No one looked at me, or spoke until I went into an apothecary and rummaged through the shelves of endless boxes printed in Chinese with few English words. The lady behind the counter seemed surprised that I knew I was buying Curing Pills, a downward-bearing Qi patent that works for upset stomachs of all kinds.

In Denver, a box of Curing PIlls will set you back $10. In Chinatown; $1.75. I bought 8 boxes, all they had.

Iconic figures such as Buddha and Shiva can be purchased for a couple dollars, yours in jade or brass. The one thing I noticed is that the shops all sell the same thing. The farther into Chinatown you go, the cheaper the price.

Depending on what street you're on will dictate what products you'll find.

Some streets deal mainly in merchandise and trinkets, another street fruits and fresh vegetables, a couple streets away harbor fish markets and windows filled with chicken feet or geese hung from a chain the form a bouquet of dead birds.

The streets are separated by the ever present hills of San Francisco and the loud incessant noise of the trolley gears under the street.

What I heard in Chinatown was endless hawkers and the little old man with the diatribe on poster board that wished everyone who walked by a "Happy Day!!" His signs catalog problems with China/US relations as well as his experiences with the San Francisco police who he believes treated him poorly. The term in Oriental Medicine for his dichotomy of philosophy and actions is "shen disturbed."

San Franciscans use their horns a lot while driving, few fingers were seen, but in Chinatown, the have no compunction about yelling at the consumers who come through their village and get in their way.

That little old lady couldn't have been more than 4 feet tall and Scott bumped her accidently and pushed her into me, and I got a thorough tongue lashing which I couldn't interpret. Personal and familial inventories cross the linguistic understandings of all cultures. According to her, I was clearly born under the sign of an ass. A large one at that.

Kyle Bisio shared with me that he didn't like Chinatown. He thought it all looked the same, stores offered the same stuff, people were rude and there were a lot of them, and the place smelled of dead fish, urine and incense. Very observant, that Kyle Bisio.

I did find myself being drawn back to Chinatown a couple times. The movement, architecture, prices and candied ginger brought me back to just watch the show.

I wondered why the panhandlers up on Van Ness didn't come down here to this teaming section of town, crammed with color, laundry hanging from fire escapes as in an old 50's movie, and ask for alms where the pickin's were good. They'd been accompanied by the songs in 5-note octave being played by old men wearing silly hats and serious expressions, who could teach them a thing or two about street performance.

The silly-hat men's simple wooden collection boxes had ample proof of their effectiveness.

Chinatown will remain a special place for me. I liked it better than I liked San Francisco overall. I suppose I'll have to go back some time and see if I can rectify my tempestuous relationship with SF, but I'm not the only one who feels that way.

Friends who were on the trip and are now home post their thoughts on Facebook, the posts express the joy of going somewhere new, but as Dawn says, she's glad to be back in "simple Denver."

Amen.

Spaulding Wooden Boat Center

Freda lay in darkness.

Waiting and wanting in a watery grave, the sleeping beauty, like so many ladies, was neglected and forgotten. Classically beautiful and vibrant in her day, her fairy tale ending was waiting on the distant horizon.

Freda, a 32-foot gaff sloop built in 1885 was rescued by the Spaulding Wooden Boat Center in Sausalito, Calif., and now sits in the middle of the large wooden building.

Nicknamed the Matriarch of San Francisco Bay, she's not sitting in water, she's in a kind of dry-dock, a place where boats sit out of water for repairs and improvements. Her keel and frame are visible, held together by a series of vice grips that mold the ship's shape into her old, swift self.

Spaulding facilitates a way of shipbuilding long lost in the world of metal and steel. It houses resources to complete repairs on wooden boats, and contains a school dedicated to the preservation of ship-making and the painstaking details and investment of time and energy.

The Arques School of Traditional Boatbuilding is housed next to Freda’s dry-dock berth, and students apprentice up to 10-15 years to ensure their knowledge and skills will float. The wood frame building sits over shallow water and smells mostly of varnish and wood, mixed with sounds of hammers and chisel. The bright natural light spills in through the high windows and the place is as calm as a sea with no wind.

The atmosphere is timeless and transformative.

Other boats wait their turn in the yard, for repair to their hulls, refurbishing or refitting.

Steve Howking of Sausalito, works quietly under cloudy northern California skies, his appearance as worn as the wooden ships he repairs. Scraping the hull of an anonymous barnacle clad hulk, Howking enjoys repairing the damage that occurs when beauty is traded for time. With traditional tools, Howking digs to find good wood, and as a regular employee of Spaulding, this is a daily occurrence for him.

The Spaulding Wooden Boat Center is a main fixture on the Sausalito waterfront near the marina and just west of the Bay Model. Started in 1951 by boat-lover and concert violinist Myron Spaulding, this non-profit is dedicated to the preservation of ladies like Freda, in whatever shape they may dock.

Classes that teach the community about sailing, woodworking and history are offered on a regular basis to kids and adults, giving land-lubbers an opportunity to get their feet wet in the world of boats. Students of Spaulding get to create projects not within the sterile white walls of an anonymous classroom, but carve and create within the shadows of Spaulding’s maritime history.

Always in need of money for restoration projects, donors can buy one of Freda’s pepperwood frames for $1200 or donate to any other program keeping maritime history afloat.

In a few years, Freda will be ready to go.

For now, she's getting the care she needs after her owner let her founder and sink. Freda’s individual frames carry a plaque noting the name of the sea-loving patron who made that frame possible and the cards line up from bow to stern. Freda continues to bring attention to Spaulding and no doubt she is Spaulding’s masthead.

In this age of fast boats that jet by her berth, she brings awareness of the days of wooden nails and handmade sails. Her plight brought craftsman and cortege together for a rescue and she is in turn raising the skills of students and masters alike.

For Freda, she is now in safe harbor, far from high seas and swells. Soon she'll be back out there, sleek, beautiful and cared for.

Godspeed, Freda.

Lit votives twinkle inside Old St Mary's Church in San Francisco's Chinatown. Built in 1854, the 1906 earthquake damaged it as well as a destruction by a fire in the 1960's. Some of the restoration involved painting over some of the gilt and murals. The old-world atmosphere in this ancient church in this modern city transports church-goers into a spiritual realm of Catholicism and mysticism.

Loud cable cars defy the hills outside the old cathedral which is now a parish church inside Chinatown's boundaries. It contains brightly colored stained glass windows, marble statues and a large granite altar. Large dark wooden pews elicit a calm presence and lilies grace the altar in preparation for Easter Sunday, the next day. Odd to find such a Catholic presence inside the gateways of Chinatown, a community filled with oriental tradition and beliefs.

Outside standing tall above the chapel is a clock-tower that has a carving that says: "Son Observe the Time and Fly from Evil".

San Francisco

When you see a small portion of something, you don't get the whole picture. Simple enough.

San Francisco was a whirlwind kind of trip, not in that way where whirlwind implies fun and sun. Whirlwind in that within a few square blocks, everything changes. Drugs, crime, mental illness are all distant concepts until you try to walk down a gray canyon of concrete with several thousand dollars of camera equipment. It becomes more about avoiding becoming a story or statistic, just another person in the gray canyon, battered and broke.

For Rent signs are like tombstones that mark the graveyard of businesses buried by the economy and chased out by the walking, incoherent dead. The real public servants are the stationary icons that provide commentary on the world around them. San Franciscans have probably heard it all before, but to the newcomers, it's an distraction from the snippets of inane phone conversations spoken by the "suits". The lady in the wheelchair on the corner of Market and whatever who has her broken foot on the neck of San Fran:

"You're walking across the street wrong!!!"

"Hey stupid, it's your fault!!"

"What the hell is wrong with you??"

"Hey! Fucking tourists!! Go home!"

For this service, you're expected to drop a coin in the cup, as a sort of acknowledgment of their status and wisdom. Truly, value for money. Go home? Hmmm.

Our hotel on Cathedral Hill is an old hotel that spent good money on updating the lobby, probably because they figured that once you rented the room with the torn sheer curtains and stained carpet, you're so tired, you'll take anything. The dirty windows look out over an assortment of businesses and views. Tommy's on Geary with their neon sign that says "Hot Corned Beef Cocktails." Actually, it should read "Hot Corned Beef" and underneath it, "Cocktails." I think they alternate days so as not to confuse the canyon public. On Wednesdays, both signs are lit up. Probably to let the guy who walks around having a conversation with his wife on his cell phone that it's Wednesday, even though he doesn't have a cell phone or a bluetooth device.

"Honey! If you're married to me, you need to be a psychologist! I may have to divorce you for this!"

The one advantage to our pay for Internet hotel is the close proximity to a variety of foods. Gabe and I found the Wing Lum Chinese restaurant a few blocks from our Shangri-La on Van Ness, and though it's many blocks from Chinatown, the food is great. The difference with this little restaurant with its makeshift Koi tank, red lacquer paintings, aloe plants, a Christmas-land music box and bowl full of stacked oranges and limes is that here, the owners smile at you and greet you. Father into Chinatown, it was a different story. If you want good food and really cheap. Go to Wing Lum. Tell them the lady with the all the cameras sent you.

Anything you want to eat is there in those blocks surrounding Cathedral Hill, named for it's many churches that adorn the hilltop, as if to say, "Hey! See us?" Oddly enough, you can walk into these churches without being accosted by anyone. We were warned to stay away from the area near Cathedral Hill called "Tenderloin." I must not be a very good journalist; I complied.

I'm not saying SF is bad. I've lived in places like this before. Seattle is much like San Fran, but I was homeless in Seattle for a while after my grandmother's husband made us leave their 4,000 square foot, 3 floor, 6 bedroom house because my then 2-year old daughter was making too much noise. I remember my grandmother telling me in her yellow, high ceiling, linoleum floored kitchen that I needed to leave; I was her granddaughter, but he was her husband. She handed me $100 and told me to pack. I left, stepped onto a bus to downtown Seattle and stepped off the bus into homelessness. Lucky for me, the YMCA had rooms for $6 a night, but you couldn't leave your stuff in the rooms, you had to pack them around till the evening when you could go back and get a room. The two of us lived off donut holes from Winchell's and leftover burgers abandoned by cleaner looking patrons at the McDonalds at 2nd and Pine. But that's all I have to say about that.

I've been in the places like Cathedral Hill and it's OK to be there. Youthful enthusiasm meant all the writers and photographers got good stuff, and had a good time; for them it's a new world. For me, I would have liked a hotel away from the canyon and closer to the water, but I got to the point where I could walk through the streets and regained some of my skills at street survival. Like riding a bike, I guess.

San Fran wasn't all bad. The light will make you a better photographer. I can shoot Colorado and New Mexico Sun, Northern California clouds are a lesson all in their own. The architecture is beautiful, although I was afraid to look up much, the streets are crowded with people who tell you to get the hell out of the way.

My response? "Sir, this is hell."

You can walk almost anywhere without a problem. Well, problem is relative. Those hills are big, and the bigger ones have little steps to allow for more control while walking at a 20-degree angle. The view from the top is great, but I guess I'm used to views a little higher than 200 feet above sea level. Ten thousand feet, now that's a view.

Transportation is easy to use, but renting a car for one day let me get my bearings and a chance to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge, a compromise on my goal to walk the bridge. My one indulgence was a $5 ride on a cable car on the last day as I headed back to the hotel to pack for my Frontier flight home. It was fun, especially because you can put your camera at f22, shutter speed at 125, stick your feet straight out and take a picture of cars as they go by. Your feet are in focus, the distance is in future, and the cars are blurry. Good times. It made me wonder as I sat on the cable car photographing my feet as cars drove by if San Fran had started to get to me just a little bit. Hmmm. Perhaps the people on the cable car wondered about me, not seeing the whole picture. Photographer? Journalist? Mother of three?

Maybe I didn't get a chance to see the whole picture on San Fran. Cathedral Hill just wasn't high enough, I guess.

A Letter to a Teacher About an Assignment

Hi-

I'm just whining here, just for the briefest of moments.

I've signed up four social doc classes and am about written out in terms of Greg Lopez. You can only say the guy is a Jedi master of words only so many times. Or maybe take the Star Trek approach: "Captain Lopez, the Klingons are attacking! Quick! Write something that will dispel our angry ignorance with phasers of unity and sympathy!" Or how about the Sex and the City approach: When I realized Mr Write (get it?) was right there, but until he would commit to writing more than 1000 words at a time, I couldn't pencil in our future." Or the Matrix approach. Neo-Lopez: "What you read may be real but what you must realize is there is no assignment."

Sorry. Post SocDoc Syndrome. From 0 to punchy in 5 days.

I'll get back to work, but it'll stink. Like a pile of dog crap in the noon-day sun.

:)

Barbara

Being nasty in Monterey

Traveling makes people tired. Weekday rooms are inevitably quieter than weekend rooms.

Saturday night saw the last crit, with a game concocted to have a little fun with Kenn. He's taken to saying "Afghanistan Banana Stand" instead of using the customary colorful parlance for describing a photographer's skill. We decided that every time he said "ABS" we would take a drink of our bottled beverages and slam them down on the table. Unfortunately, he only said it once, and didn't get the joke. Kenn, on the other side of the fence. We were by far as loud as the group twice the size last year. Dominic filled in where 10 other people were missing. You could also hear him 10 rooms away and knew you were heading in the right direction towards the conference room. Like a lighthouse of sound.

The room next door had been quiet all week until the party-goers showed up and made noise until after 2 a.m. The parking space in front of our room was taken by a behemoth truck, so I ended up parking in front of their room. The noise continued, the usual good time sounds of loud voices, laughter and ego. I'm an early riser and after missing a few hours sleep and a few of Kenn's crits, my nice-o-meter was registering two stops under. Drew was the perpetrator. Around 9 a.m., the plan began to unfold. Standing in the room, pushing the lock button twice makes the horn honk. The first round consisted of 4 honks in a row, a mobile alarm clock that aimed straight at their $99 a night room. Several other single honks over the next 20 minutes produced an angry person who kept opening the door looking for the offender. Door closes, and Drew pushes the lock button twice again. Door opens. Door shuts. Drew decided to go out for a smoke, cigarette in one hand, remote in the other. One of Drew's many talents is his poker face. Honk. Door opens. Drew's just standing there, smoking. Innocent. Remote in his pocket. Smoking. Door closes. Honk. Lady comes out and asks, "Do you know who's honking? They woke us up!."

The Battle of Wits

My mother used to say the two hardest things are smart kids and smart dogs. She never had to deal with either, and I have had to deal with both. Except it wasn't a dog, it's a cat.

Nina is a purebred Ragdoll that came from a cattery in Ken Caryl about 5 years ago. Ragdolls are a fairly new breed out of California, founded about 1962. The stories of the legendary cat breeding lady who engineered this breed is shrouded in cat show lore. I fell in love with the breed from the claims of their friendly and charismatic personalities. Their fur is unlike any other breed, it's insidious and soft and is mostly free from tangles. They are large animals, with females weighing in around 12-18 lbs and the males can get upward of 20 lbs. They're big cats with big feet and they don't do well on uncarpeted surfaces because of the tufts of hair that stick out between their toes like Wolverine's knives. They can't get good traction and it's funny.

I found a local breeder who had 9 kittens to sell, part of a menagerie of 15 cats and an intact male. Good catteries will let you meet the parents, siblings and aunts. Females with the right characteristics, markings and come from good mothers are usually bred or sold for pet quality. Males who are not show quality or breeding quality will be neutered and also become pet quality animals. Meeting the parents and seeing how the family was raised indicates a healthy cattery and a better chance at a well adjusted kitten.

Nina is well adjusted, all right. She was indifferent when I came to the cattery, and was content to just be near the center of attention, which was me. I wanted a female kitten and she was the last one. I missed the chance to adopt her and her beloved sister by a few days, the sister went to a family that never saw her, and just placed an order for her. Soon, she was shipped to her new, unknown owners. The lady at the cattery said Nina cried for her sister for several days.

Nina's personality continues to be one of indifference. Until you go away for a few days. Panic. Until there is no food in the food bowl. Outrage. Until the litter box hasn't been cleaned in the last few hours. Rules.

Her favorite rule is that she gets the rocker. It's hers. We have a discussion daily about me getting my butt out of my chair so she can lay there. Seven, eight times a day, the rocker stalker is there. She furtively and systematically skulks and silently hops into the rocker as soon as I get up. Her Snoopy's vulture stare starts the rhythm practiced like a well rehearsed dance.

Ever watchful, ever beautiful, the rocker stalker is one smart cat. She has memorized my habits and waits patiently for my move. Even now, she is waiting...

Gaps in Time

There's so much that has happened in the last month, and I feel remiss in not documenting it in my blog. Dumb things like getting my Facebook page up and running. Learning Twitter and how to use it. Coming to understand more about Wikis and how to use them. Trying to understand what online teachers want from me and how do i ferret out the tiny details of their knowledge and make it my own. Taking a class on portfolio presentation and feeling totally inadequate. Not too much for a month.

Doug Bell is a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist and teaches the class on Fridays. He talks about the aspects of the journalism market as it is today and has hopeful insights and advice for students who are graduating at this time. We review resumes, talk about interviewing skills and will work our way toward portfolios. My resume received a grade of "B" but he didn't really like it. He felt overwhelmed by my huge variety of skills and that it's confusing. Pick a focus. Pick a passion, that's what he says. Write your resume to that focus. My problem? Jack of all trades, master at none . There's work to do.

Doug also has sent Noelle Leavitt, President of the Colorado chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists who gave a spitfire talk and then took the class to the Press Club to get a feel for the place. She had great ideas, websites and resources and I've checked them all. Some interesting stuff to be had if you know HOW to look at things and not from behind a newspaper.

Though Doug really didn't like my resume, he did like my "Personal" section and told me not to change a word of it:

"I shoot, I write, I problem solve. I love my Mac, tolerate my PC and use Nikon as my mantra. I love knitting, art history, Mexican food and Margaritas. Of all the characters on Sex and the City, I'm most like Carrie. Except without the shoes."

Nervous Changes part deux

In order to cancel the big cable package, you have to take the box back to Comcast. The box AND the remote. I didn't realize how attached I was to the remote until the customer service lady asked me if I wanted a moment alone with my remote before I turned it in. I left it sitting there as sad looking as a dog watching its master drive away down a country road.

I came home and plugged the cable wire that used to be attached to the box onto the old tube TV. Big mistake. Turns out the only thing keeping the TV working was the cable box. It no longer had any volume control, and when you try to change the volume the TV turns off. I'm sure I scared the hell out of the lady upstairs because at one point, the volume jumped up to the full setting. It was on some loud commercial with screaming guitars and scantily clad women yelling, "Woohoo!" and since I was sitting right in front of the TV, I got it full blast.

I think I'm deaf in one ear now.

I called Matt and he came over to check out the problem and diagnosed that the TV was a piece of crap held together by only the magic duct tape of Comcast electronics. Thanks to his discount at Best Buy where he's a master commercial installer, I have a TV that's smaller than the computer screen on my desktop PC. It's a better picture, but I can't see it from all the way over here. The old tube TV was about 50 pounds of 25" and this new TV is 10 pounds of 22". Aesthetically, visually, and remotely, this thing is smaller, but the goal was to watch less TV. When I said I wanted to watch less TV, I didn't mean watching a SMALLER TV.

I did also discover that the $16 package through Comcast has a lot of my favorite channels, including, unfortunately, the channel that shows Ghost Hunters.

Ghosts in HD.

Lordy.

Nervous Changes

I looked at my Comcast bill the other day and decided it was finally time to get rid of my cable TV.

I'm going almost cold turkey on this. I'm going from the "Silver Package" of a couple hundred channels to the basic 2,4,6,7,9,13 and well, that's it. I don't think I even will have access to OnDemand anymore, the last banyon of the "I'm bored."

I've been contemplating this for a very long time, and I'm nervous about doing something so drastic. I really think I've wasted too much time watching TV as a sort of escape from the challenges of living alone. I have a lot of things that I like to do and want to do more. Photography: I have a killer Alien Bees set-up I haven't practiced with in a while, as well as film, video, antique cameras and my trusty Nikons. Schoolwork: that helps me more bankable to employers. Artwork: in the form of my pens and inks. Friends: what an assortment!

True to form, I have my way around my self-imposed video hiatus. Thank goodness for things like HULU and my stout collection of DVDs. For $80 a month, I can go to see a few movies at a theatre or buy more DVDs. And I can always bother my kids and go to their houses and watch TV. Matt and Jill have a 52" plasma screen, Jason and Kate have my old 48" big screen with 8 speakers with surround sound and Paul, well Paul has even less cable than me.

I know people who have given up TV and are perfectly happy; Jason and Kate got rid of the TV upstairs and now if you want to be a vidiot, you have to make a commitment and go in the basement to watch it. Other people at school have given up TV and I see their productivity skyrocket. Surely, I can benefit from not having the boob-tube so readily available. The ole' google-lantern really needs to have less of a place in my day.

So, so long to Nip/Tuck, ESPN Drag Racing, Spike and the Food Network. Goodbye to my DVR and the 65% full contents. At least I won't have the hell scared out of me anymore by Ghost Hunters. Time to have a new assumption about my day and what's in it.

R.I.P. my beloved DVR.

January Picture a Day

The first month of the Picture a Day project is done, and it's been fun so far. Every day at 4:25 p.m., my alarm goes off to notify me to get ready to make an image. When I'm at the photographer's meeting at the The Met student newspaper at Auraria, a few alarms go off since most people doing the project are from the The Met. The photo editor, Cora, tolerates our interruptions of her staff meetings on Thurdays with the veteran patience of a seasoned parent.

Like a good photojournalism student, I have included a caption for the image, where I was, what I was doing, what was important to me on that day. This project kind of morphs into a diary, and captions are needed, because I guarantee I won't remember why I photographed eggs for today's entry.

Here's a link to my Picture-A-Day blog. Take a look at the images so far.

The Process

I keep looking at my blog and wondering why I haven't posted much lately. That doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about things and hammering away at making something work.

Work.

If you listen to a person talk, they will tell you exactly what's in their heart and words on a page will tell you exactly what a person is thinking.

Work has been on my mind as of late. There's not been a lot of shifts to be had at Cr@ig, and something about having a new degree makes it hard to continue to sit in one place and do exactly what I was doing before the degree. I'm not naive enough to think a piece of paper would change everything, I gave up on fairy tales decades ago, but I guess I still hoped.

I spend a lot of time working on individualized resumes for each position I apply for. For anyone who has sat with a career counselor, they'll tell you it's the thing to do. Print out the job description, highlight the verbs and find appropriate places in your resume to plug those words in. If you think about it, there is a small vocabulary that goes into a job description. Write, edit, manage, evaluate, document, maintain, research. These words could be contained in any number of job descriptions, and chances are you've done the job, it just wears a different dress or different pants. Consequently, I have many, many resumes that have a lot of clothes in the closet.

I've had a pretty varied work history; hospitals, bargaining units, title insurance, social work.

The job I was happiest at was being a gas and electric meter reader for the old Public Service Company of Colorado. Walking in weather conditions from -25 degrees to 105 degrees was a good time. Dogs, people with guns, endless quiet suburbs and sub-sub-basements in Denver. An average route totaled about 12 miles, some days you walked longer, some days were ridiculously short. I had one route, a cycle 08, that if you started at 8:00, took a break around 9:15, you would be done by 9:30. Great route, right there on Lincoln from the Blue Cross building to the windshield replacement place by the Colorado Ballet. The nice thing about PSC was that no matter how many hours you worked, you were paid for a full eight. Get done at noon, paid till 4:30.

The cycle 08 made up for my cycle 20, which was Larimer St. from 20th to 25th, Lawrence St. and part of Broadway. I read all this before the stadium was built, and the character of the area wasn't tainted by purple and gray. The best compliment I ever had in my life was on Larimer at 20th, one morning when one of the local working girls standing in front of the little grocery told me she could get off Larimer street if she had a body like mine. Old Russell used to sit behind his desk at the auto repair shop on Broadway and 25th with a loaded 45 within easy reach to shoot the rats that inhabited the building, and he'd throw the carcasses over the back fence and try to hit one of the homeless people who held court in the back alley. How can you not love a job with those working conditions? I certainly did.

I made great friends at PSC, and I could hardly wait to get to work in the morning. It was challenging and fun, a challenge because I read about 100,000 meters a year, and you were only allowed 1-2 errors for every 10,000 meters read. And fun when my fastest route was after the new handheld computers were introduced and I read 995 meters in 25 minutes with no errors. Do the math: that's 39.5 meters a minute.

Jobs like that are no longer available, or else I'd still be there. I wouldn't have left it, wouldn't have expected anything else from myself other than keeping my bad knee (acquired after a customer let a Chow-Chow loose on me) going. Automation is a good thing when it comes to ATMs but not when it means you lose your job.

So, I've expected something else from myself and now I have a degree and a wider vision of the world. Sometimes it feels like the degree means I'm turned down for a better class of job, but only them that has them can lose them.

I'm so looking forward to working full-time again, learning new things, making new friends and seeing what I can come up with. I know there's something out there for my incredible skills, talent, dependability, creativity, wit and charm. And humility.

There is one job I wouldn't ever want to go back to. In 1973, I worked at Casa Bonita.

As the big, dancing Purple Monkey.

Never again.

Manitou Fruitcakes

Manitou Springs held its 14th Annual Fruitcake Toss yesterday, with a respectable sized crowd that diminished as the weather turned winter-like. The remaining crowd consisted mostly of entrant's families, the truly curious, a Discovery Channel film crew that hoarded most of the good shooting locations, and one dumb kid who had a haircut that looked like a cross between Darth Vader's helmet and Punk Rock Barbie. He did his best to get hit with flying fruitcakes; possibly his sights were set low enough that being hit by a flying fruitcake would qualify for his 15 minutes of fame. I didn't ask his name since he wasn't even nailed by any fruitcake shrapnel.

We probably should have headed for Denver after the "event," but Dawn, Drew, Jason and I stayed in a little bed and breakfast that clings to the side of the Manitou valley. Agate Hill Inn's Garden Cottage is where we stayed, complete with a view across the valley, a full kitchen, a roaring gas stove and much to the delight of the crew, a hot tub. I personally stay away from hot tubs, since I have my own theories about water displacement and the use of harpoons.

We ate pizza and drank, watched movies and the snow come down. Lots of snow. When I woke up this morning, there was ice on the inside of the window and reportedly 14 inches of snow on that steep, narrow hill. After that chilly, three dog night, we had a B&B breakfast of home-made waffles and strawberries but much to Jason's chagrin, no bacon.

Jason and I headed down the hill to visit an ATM, get a Diet Pepsi and maybe even a package of bacon that we could surreptitiously cook in our little kitchen. The place that was closest and open that early on a Sunday morning was a little converted gas station-mini mart that's next door to the liquor store. Last night, it seemed like a good place to bookmark for those little trips for things you spend change on but would give a million for if they weren't readily available. Besides, the guy behind the register wearing a red bandana and welding googles looked nice enough.

This morning, the cranky knitter was there and we could do only wrong.

"Don't wipe your feet in here, the carpet's getting wet!"

"Don't you have anything smaller?"

"The ATM is RIGHT THERE!"

I was tempted to ask her if she had recently lost one of her knitting needles, but I didn't. Chastened, we left without the bacon, possibly as atonement for thinking it was OK to wipe your feet on one of those rubber backed rugs, or use a $20 bill.

Yes, Manitou has interesting history, beautiful scenery, and apparently quite a few people that don't spend much time in front of the television set. They're out in the shed hammering away at pieces of lumber and in hardware stores looking for PVC pipe big enough to launch a 4 lb. fruitcake.

I found this bumper sticker on a truck up that was parked in one of the little lanes above the B&B. I was taking a walk, and I walked for an hour and enjoyed the soft, falling snow coupled with the subdued mountain light. It was quiet, utterly quiet. The kind of quiet you need to sort through troubles, make decisions, and view your life and see what needs work, what needs love, what needs discarded. In the middle of this Colorado beauty, I realized:

"What the hell am I doing out in the freezing cold!?"

The bumper sticker? The truck probably belongs to the kid with the Darth Vader/Punk Rock Barbie hair.