tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31682064371208634682024-03-15T07:49:22.755-07:00urbanitiesUrbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.comBlogger230125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-18734642095380979992024-03-02T08:15:00.000-08:002024-03-15T07:48:51.353-07:00March Blows In<p> <span> </span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibYJ-HIQ1btsPhNhF2z0autTI-dwLtLQB0bTB8S6xrz-UC_qaLqB-1F-3RUPQtejjUvO85bLUJWV19b_ip1FQ4RT6fVSfgc7ZuL5nWRcb8LTfo6AW96HxrJlbwexHUhmkvoMzDDNGyLD7EkORdofSbG4jdWVkNT069Muw76Ssj8q-Z9zdaSx4crrdcMulB" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibYJ-HIQ1btsPhNhF2z0autTI-dwLtLQB0bTB8S6xrz-UC_qaLqB-1F-3RUPQtejjUvO85bLUJWV19b_ip1FQ4RT6fVSfgc7ZuL5nWRcb8LTfo6AW96HxrJlbwexHUhmkvoMzDDNGyLD7EkORdofSbG4jdWVkNT069Muw76Ssj8q-Z9zdaSx4crrdcMulB" width="320" /></a></span></div><span><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span><span> And my camellia bush blooms, slowly. Now about six out of a potential hundred or more. March days move forward slowly, not wanting to raise hopes for the world.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> So to dispel the gloom (and gray rain), I tackle the mundane - which is to try making a friend of sorts whenever I'm indulging in commonplace and mostly frustrating household tasks. Like finding a solution to a window roller shade that will no longer roll. This involves a trip to Home Depot where my request for help with two domestic matters of little consequence produces just that: no immediate result. Just to make the tasks not seem quite so futile I challenge myself to engage on a human level (a little smile, a patient approach, a 'we are in this together' attitude). Instead of surly (I'm told 'we don't do that' at first try) when I'm breaking up a group of women employes talking together to get an answer, I strive in a small self-satisfying way to create fellowship. I come away with the name of a firm that will do it, providing I show interest in buying another shade. My second mission is to locate what may be called a food waste storage can, otherwise known as future compost. A genial man whom I meet walking the aisles volunteers to lead me to a shelf where a possible container might be found. Instead, we find a pail without a lid. He spends several minutes in the search. We conclude he earnestly and sympathetically agrees: nothing like that at the Depot (which doubles as a waiting place for out of work hopeful handymen bunching in groups) is useless and together we come up with the local hardware store where personnel answering my question (about where and what is a likely source for this object) by phone include the store's owner.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span>This is a sermon on how somewhat trivial chores can matter. I had to be taught to think 'common sense' . The lesson came from a fellow in the hardware store (where a sign read 'no ski masks allowed') who logically enough suggested unrolling the shade to see what might be in a label on the bar holding the fabric. Yes, there it was, my last name and the date of my last encounter with the maker of the shade.</span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> While I'm thinking basics - chores, camellias and such - I keep regressing to the habit acquired most severely during the pandemic: following carefully every day's New York Times Cooking column. The recipes with their reassuring vibe - yes, you can do it if you can read - and the calmly satisfying photographs attached. How and why they mattered so much in getting through a day - some lodestar, escapist fantasy of being able to cook and eat well.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> That's one reason but probably not the only one. The organizing fetish is a cover, an excuse, to imagine actually accomplishing something in the face of doubt. The effort is its own reward.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span>PS The prospect of turning a mix of unlikely ingredients into something digestible, even worth digesting, is another reward. Even, somehow, when results fail. Take cauliflower, green olives, almonds and feta for example. Suspense reigns throughout the trial... which is graded on a 'nice try but' level. So on to the next experiment: chicken thighs, dates, sweet potato and plenty of spices.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span>----------------------------</span></span></p><p><span><span><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEin4qLZwKUwBtQP3eS7Ua_uHajaYKRG74XflmZA3amtaDb-PZLOHfwkM6jyV3Yu3uCaWkdSmMjr3CNg89dpyKj3QtUed_h_N3xFSqB7BQPKtCfsGXlIwq8oBZD_dA7MgAiKUXmaeaMb1dyg3BbfidhQ5ddl1SU7gKkIykafMKcKCHaDSNlhCySuRh5kzyTA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1500" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEin4qLZwKUwBtQP3eS7Ua_uHajaYKRG74XflmZA3amtaDb-PZLOHfwkM6jyV3Yu3uCaWkdSmMjr3CNg89dpyKj3QtUed_h_N3xFSqB7BQPKtCfsGXlIwq8oBZD_dA7MgAiKUXmaeaMb1dyg3BbfidhQ5ddl1SU7gKkIykafMKcKCHaDSNlhCySuRh5kzyTA" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span> Another food story that also is news. Of a sort that at least patrons of Folger Shakespeare Library will welcome. After waiting through four years of renovations and suspense about a reopening date (now set for June 21 this year), hungry friends and supporters of the immensely impressive and handsome edifice on Washington's Capitol Hill will surely welcome the invention there (really a reinvention) of a well-supplied cafe in the Great Hall. Anyone familiar with the museum-library-theater complex should take a look at the lively scene imagined in this photo. Better, too, take heart in the democratic way the cafe space was named. "Crumble and Quill' was crowdsourced publicly and voted on dramatically enough down to the last ballot. The name surely will stand out among more common cafe titles of the town. A great salute to the wordsmith indeed.</span></span></span></p><p><span> Sherry surely. And crumpets?</span><br /><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span>PS Any devoted Folger fan might have noticed that I transposed the name of the new hangout: It should have been Quill & Crumb. So kudos to those who caught this. Or was it my subconscious wanting to trick a readeer?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCsh9RS6CzZBgtIh7tGLgBF9VruDVan_IxxZuGmtgOvJBpRZ5-zj-O6dkzvl9zFLu9bGv6xory8kqNUNd29RaYITQhsPlWOjc1A81GZxE5maGMbEZvnWS5kJ7tZ1yXLF5AFhvYtiD8ffohkdHI5vwJDxS2BQK747i7Rf4zy7FgPUCqfbRW0amAo_ACZ1T4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1500" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCsh9RS6CzZBgtIh7tGLgBF9VruDVan_IxxZuGmtgOvJBpRZ5-zj-O6dkzvl9zFLu9bGv6xory8kqNUNd29RaYITQhsPlWOjc1A81GZxE5maGMbEZvnWS5kJ7tZ1yXLF5AFhvYtiD8ffohkdHI5vwJDxS2BQK747i7Rf4zy7FgPUCqfbRW0amAo_ACZ1T4" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><br /> <br /></span></span><p></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-13183278535008640182024-01-31T13:37:00.000-08:002024-03-02T08:14:41.120-08:00February Frolic<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0PNTeOZghZ7Z9TPhkDnl89hWsDeu-w8gSxjk9efKlnPKf2OQnOPumjBNW7-8WGIi5jC-GzFeTSUkYzRJ3ZJd7adbWkuE-zrEJHMH1eqIc6wC1Y1F3NKGmmUT3JLyAnbafPVfBz7QcFrFswWHkiZROpbjbh070ee98Xf4AZWJFU-ZTtet8s9ufCUHMTAHT" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0PNTeOZghZ7Z9TPhkDnl89hWsDeu-w8gSxjk9efKlnPKf2OQnOPumjBNW7-8WGIi5jC-GzFeTSUkYzRJ3ZJd7adbWkuE-zrEJHMH1eqIc6wC1Y1F3NKGmmUT3JLyAnbafPVfBz7QcFrFswWHkiZROpbjbh070ee98Xf4AZWJFU-ZTtet8s9ufCUHMTAHT" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>The famous Folger Theatre above. See below.</p><p><br /></p><p><span> Best keep an open mind. February does not have to be the low point of a dismaying year in the world (wars and worry about wars, moral and political). Much else is conspiring to distract your attention, with thoughtful' and polished </span> in-person options.</p><p><span><span> For instance, the DC History Center's 'Book Talk" on February 23 is titled 'The Rise of Uber in DC." How did authors of that book come up with such a seemingly innocuous title when they are, it appears, calling out Uber's success here as 'a symptom of urban weakness and low expectations from local city politics.' The event drew an audience of nearly 100 representing (at a glance) varied ages and backgrounds. Katie Wells and Declan Cullen are the book's authors, taking a critical look at the power of corporate wealth to sway local government bodies (read here DC Council members of yore) for favorable legislation that ends up, in their words, as a 'disrupter' to the public's need for enlightened transportation policies. The team of two had spent years following 35 men and women and their experiences as partime drivers for Uber. The outcome wasn't satisfactory in most cases, even when workers such as the fulltime officer making $53,000 for the DC Housing Authority who could not escape the need to work two jobs - as government employe and UBer driver - to maintain a family. "We do not take care of each other enough," as an urban entity, the authors noted.</span></span></p><p><span><span><span>.</span></span></span> A controversy of sorts but not one recognized by those who favor the ease and convenience of ride sharing/personal control ways of moving around without having to worry about finding a parking space.</p><p><span><span><span><span><span> Ah, but this is deceptive because Uber/Lyft/others can be expensive, and the rider has only minimum control - though offered some choices - of price.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span> It' was certainly an unusual look at an unusual city. To ease any disturbing revelations, the Center recommended that attendees stick around for Apple's 'Friday evening DJ series, 6-7:30, taking place in the same building. (The former Carnegie Library is an historic building set in a welcoming park on one of Washington's most well trafficked areas. And note! The building is easily accessed on the Metro's green and yellow lines, Mt. Vernon Square, a few blocks away. Access for disabled patrons is provided and broad sidewalks ensure easy circulation for pedestrians.)</span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> Another tack might be: Uber's existence also speaks as a mirror of diversity in a city whose population and traditions are often cited as having a 'Southern' (read: white) cast. DC also is known as Chocolate City though statistics of late question the relevance as gentrification moves on. Drivers are often from so-called minority states and cultures. Their accents do not often lean 'South.' Would a recent ride going from Dupont Circle to the Navy Yard on a Thursday evening count as typical? </span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span> The passengers included a woman visitor from Puerto Rico on the last few days of her stay. Her speech was strongly accented - German - reflecting her original home. It was her first time using the Uber App that her host had strongly suggested she experience for this and any other future trips to cosmopolitan areas where Uber has invariably made inroads. The driver was a friendly Virginia native with a slight Spanish inflection in his voice. His family had come from a Latin American country before he was born and it turned out in a very few minutes of conversation that he was interested in possibly moving to San Juan - for the climate and for less expensive daily living. He <span> quizzed his customer on that last point, having heard her volunteer that she had been in PR for 40 years, first as an employe of an international company and now as a retiree widow with a grown daughter. She chose to live in a small town on the southwest of PR so was well versed and happy to share information. He asked quickly about the availability of a university and the best modes of travel back and forth to and from the US.</span></span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> No names were exchanged but he noted the name of her town and the passenger in turn said she would welcome him if he came.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Not quite a United Nations moment but perhaps revealing in its own way. A true cross section of the greater Washington area that can offer much more in quiet ways than politics in the headlines. Next week a chance to attend a National Archives event - hosted by the NA Foundation - free as many such are not to mention activities in perpetual motion at the fabled Smithsonian buildings on the Mall. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>---------</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> <span> Enlightenment comes in various packages - and often deceptively as 'entertainment.' Thus, Folger Shakespeare Library's theater production of "Where We Belong" a one-woman autobiographical show, that explores in 85 compelling minutes the many contradictions in both our celebration and dismissal of native (indigenous) cultures. Indeed, our inability, as she notes, "to take care of each other." Alone on stage, the playwright and scholar Madeline Sayet, a member of the Mohegan tribe, shows physically and emphatically the importance of stories to the human condition. She begins by reminding the audience that they occupy land once inhabited by a tribe that was led by female chiefs. As 'chief' the actor - portraying several characters, including her mother - assumes a contemporary storyteller stance wearing boots, jeans, a colorful patterned jacket and plain loose blouse. Much of what she describes in words and gestures are the limitations of borders, the hardships of colonialism,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> the difficulties of overcoming prejudices and ignorance.To do so, she takes on the status of a blackbird - her name in the seldom spoken Mohegan language -who in flight, in the sky makes borders disappear. The set is a combination of ever changing light and cloud formations, abstract shapes above and below the sky, as Ms. Sayet portrays the difficulties of coming to terms with lost traditions and inheritance. Through March 10, in association with Washington's Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company.</p><p>Prejudice and exploitation are wars against The Other, the Different the Stranger. Wars seldom make peace but only give rise to new grounds for battle. Both between people and nations.</p><p><br /></p><p><span> It's worth noting how many talented women have assumed executive/director roles currently in Washington DC arts across the board. In museums and theaters and institutions of renown, the shift has been something of a revolution. And along with the 'trend,' is recognition of these women's diverse careers and backgrounds. Salut!</span><br /></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>--------------</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Also on the home front, where safety issues and crime are upbeat in many people's minds: Witness the increase in 'safety' personnel in and around Metro stations. Possibly, too, in changing attitudes of Metro personnel towards customers using the system. I had rushed out of my house recently, hurrying into the Eastern Market station</span> when I realized I had brought with me, instead of my 'senior pass' the DC Library card and several $20 bills. (Because I wasn't expecting to spend more than that on whatever plans I had that night. And because of scare stories about people and car jacking, holdups with guns by teenagers, not to mention paranoid homeless and crazy souls, I left ID and credit cards behind.) Lo to my surprise I couldn't even buy a card/ticket for my roundtrip excursion because the automatic system only takes $10 or below. I had a deadline; I was stumped, until the employe in the cage rescued me by allowing me to go through the gate free and saying he would call ahead to the person in charge of my intended stop where I could get help. Somehow this worked - that someone was really informed in time and could reconfigure somehow the machine that would return a $10 card with change in ten dollar coins. Yes, Sacajawea was going to be my travel mate that night. (See: The worth of certain such coins on the market.)</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>So polite they were, too. So non-threatening. So goes the urban lover's high wire existence. I walk gingerly these days, given all the warnings to 'be careful,' 'stay safe.' Who could not when there are 'ghost' police cars parked in public places that are empty of a driver. Does this mean pedestrians are free to get into one of these in case of imminent danger? No sign is attached...</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-84509047696863879892024-01-08T06:50:00.000-08:002024-01-08T07:03:50.182-08:00A January Thaw?<p> <span> <span> <span> <span> Can there be a thaw when there hasn't been a cold snap in months or recent memory, whatever is longer?</span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> But it is classic to look for one, maybe even to make one up in one's mind (which is the memory part after all). So I chose yesterday the magic number 7, which also happened to be my double digit birthday (yikes, yet again...), to go on a rant.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> What is a rant, exactly? Perhaps it is whatever a person </span>chooses it to be. I took the sound of the word over any meaning (that, if examined closely, is likely negative). I was embarrassed to be so old in the numbers game and was overcome with guilt. How come I'm still alive and reasonably sound in mind and body when others have met their maker, gone south, whatever. It was possibly circumstantial that I felt compelled to go social, to make the case for making friends out of strangers if only for a few minutes. I stopped a young woman from reading a book in a bookstore because she had picked up the title of 'Fire' on a bright red jacket.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> How come? I asked her. that is a provocative title and did you reach for it out of some felt need? Fortunately she wasn't taken aback but answered with a small smile: Well I'm majoring in the environment, she said </span>immediately. So this seems pertinent. Aha, a connection. I saw she was with a group and didn't persist. </span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> Upstairs in another shop above the bookstore I was waiting for some prints to be made of one of my grandchildren's drawings. I had superimposed on it some words of cheer thinking she might use it as an invite for an upcoming birthday. (Indeed, her father said she would like more of them for just that purpose. Or maybe he suggested that to her, no matter.) I was intent on explaining why I was doing this and wanted the other woman in the room to know it. That began a short discussion on grandchildren, on how and when they learn to speak and interact with the world. Another contact that drew the attention of the sales clerk since I let it be known that my namesake grand was in Montana. Lo and behold, the clerk had lived in the state, knew all about it, was immediately engaged. </span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> It's so easy to create conversation if you, the initiator, are at ease with yourself. But that is another story and has nothing to do with birthdays...and a rant, by the way, can be any determined action for any purpose. At least in my book.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-86874539479968367222023-12-13T10:18:00.000-08:002023-12-13T10:18:48.750-08:00December Descends...<p> </p><p><span> With a tsunami of Things to challenge our perception of what exactly is our tolerance of too much: too much to give and probably too much to get if you are able to participate in such exchanges. Why presents to and fro anyway? Are they thanks, reminders, guilt-reducers? Do they really count in the long run of family and social life? Growing older and thinking this way tends to put one in the category of curmudgeonry. So be it, and long live the 'jerks' who challenge the conventional but often mindless way of doing well, things.</span><br /></p><p><span><span> Well, sure, I can go on - that we are certainly living in changing times and bringing up and following tradition (tree, song, gifts, etc.) is a way of asserting oneself in the face of such troubling but inevitable facts. AI and ChatGBT are roiling our way of life in all ways. The more things change, the more they stay the same - but the same is what? We talk glibly of 'reality' and being able to recognize such a seemingly stable factor in our lives.With this new universal promise/threat hanging over us, how are we going to determine what is real and what is not? How to grasp the concept and still feel stable? Like challenging currents and high waves in a roiling sea, how do we keep our heads up?</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> A rollercoaster ride at least has an endpoint in sight. The ocean seems unlimitless but we can see borders, banks, beaches - barriers on land. Is staying sane, however that is interpreted, ever possible when we live under constantly questioning true vs false and might be lose sight of why that matters?</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> If the outcome (whatever that is) looks perilous, each moment is going to count all the more. Living in the moment, aware of others (and other things) around us, surely will help.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> Though unlikely as it is that my sermon will have any impact, maybe I can at least be thankful that I care... So hats off to contemplation, celebration, community and care.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-80528854945930612542023-11-13T11:36:00.000-08:002023-11-20T14:32:07.721-08:00Something about the word nova - as in November<p> Looking behind and also ahead: Could the word November have a direct connection to the Latin word 'nova,' meaning new? </p><p>That certainly applies to current days when we say goodbye to summer and prepare for new seasons ahead. And what a dramatic time it's likely to be- in all senses of the word. (Yes to El Nino snowfalls and to a blizzard of top notch theater productions on local stages.)</p><p>Bears know for sure, as they prepare to hibernate in winter by collecting a food supply that will last through to spring. The bear image is pertinent in many ways: a portent of hope as well as danger. (After all, bears must count on a fresh supply of fruit and other favorites goodies to be available in spring.) Which is why a quick silhouette of the animal on a cloudy backdrop during the latest production at Folger Shakespeare Library's theater of 'The Winter's Tale' is so effective and meaningful. It's just a quick look, an omen of sorts. Good and bad intertwined. Human folly and humanity's ability to change - to prevail. Art and nature in an uneasy balance - a constantly evolving relationship.</p><p>Which may be something of a stretch when it comes to discussing characters and their actions in one of Shakespeare's seldom seen comedies. Though Folger last put on the show in 2018 when the Library's executive director Michael Witmore declared - surprisingly - that the play was his favorite among all of Shakespeare's works. A surprise because to amateur eyes, the script seems a bit uneven and difficult to comprehend overall. The first half is a tragedy (a guy declares his wife an adulterer with almost no evidence, sends her to be killed and, as a consequence, loses his son as well), the second a resolution of sorts (guy repents - how and why? - and wins back her favor as well as gaining a daughter). The second part is played out in a sort of comedic celebration, oddly enough.</p><p>(Witmore said then 'as an artist you are changing things all the time' - that is the thrust of both art and nature, and the relationship between the two. He takes this play's theme to be the author's most direct conversation with an audience, but the interpretation is pretty high-minded and might not mean much to anyone not much of Shakespeare scholar, as Witmore is.)</p><p>So kudos to the brave cast tackling the work in Washington DC through December 17, a tease to what is promised come the new year, 2024. Aha, there is that symbolism again: a sheltered fabled building - home to more of the first folios (printings) of Shakespeare's canon than anywhere else - will blossom anew. Make way for a rock star renewal.... it is also the time when Dr. Witmore is scheduled to leave his post and hand it over to the next person to head one of the city's (country's?) most beloved scholarly institutions. </p><p>-------------</p><p>An image of a bear stays with me long after seeing the play. I take it to be a sign of strength and perseverance - in whatever seems most valuable: truth, kindness, curiosity. I'm reminded, too of a necessary look-back, through several 'winters of our discontent' during what is now simply labeled the pandemic. What is the paramount memory from those years? </p><p>I tried to capture the feeling of the days in monthly (usually) notes on this blog. It spoke to the pleasure of reading - and my inaccurate count of titles reaching upward to 300 books. What had I gained but the necessary ingredients (see 'bear'!) for a long mostly inward isolating hibernation. Are we now 'free' or is it merely another short period to roam about planning for whatever is the next siege?</p><p>Meanwhile, much visiting about and collective memories are possible, more than ever, in Washington DC and environs. Attending a play with a live audience has satisfactions of its own. Even time out in a theater watching a film with strangers. And the rewarding search for public events that affirm companionship and strengthen the imagination. A notice about a college alumnae book club that will take place in a public space - yes, a downtown city park - for an exchange of actual books. In those surroundings it would seem any strangers could join.</p><p>At the perennially misunderstood National Building Museum (no connection to the Smithsonian, sorry), a homage to brick buildings as well as a lecture on the connection between music and architecture. Stay tuned, indeed.</p><p>-------------</p><p><span> And a few more words about the magic generated occasionally in a windowless ground floor 'salon inside an equally unusual Washington DC residential enclave called the Westchester. (The site consists of several apartment buildings near the high-and-mighty Washington Cathedral not far from Georgetown.)</span><br /></p><p><span>The salon typically caters to men and women (of all ages) who are primarily local - that is, to say, inhabitants of the enclave since no advertising of its services can be found elsewhere. It happened that I made the acquaintance of the salons' primary caretaker and leaseholder through one such impressive person,now deceased, the former owner of two good-size upstairs properties upstairs.</span> RUmor or fact would have it that many such people never leave or have to leave the coop for years - except, perhaps, to check in at a doctor's office or hospital.</p><p>So you don't necessarily expect the wholesome welcome spirit of a place that really has no norms: all ages, cultures, backgrounds are represented in this hideaway. YOu don't expect to sit down while a slim energetic 70-year-old snips away at the top of your head and quite suddenly, improvises his vision of what life must be after death. "There has got to be something, I've got to believe," and all he knows for sure that he would like to be buried under a tree - or become a tree in some fashion. Earlier W. has been busily trimming - more like harvesting a field - the busy white locks of a gentleman friend seated in the stylist's chair. They talk about the possibility of going to Cuba, to hiring someone who knows where all the good music is played and touring the country while W. learns a specific instrument either only found or was born there.</p><p>W, however, has no US passport. He is Peruvian by birth and never bothered once he married an American woman. He is afraid the US may not want to let him back into the country where he has a good life as a grandfather, a professional guitar player, whose hair grooming methods he learned from, at first, his sister ("because you have to have a job to fall back on," is how I understood her reasoning to be) then later from celebrity stylist London-born Vidal Sassoon. Sassoon had shaken up the industry before he died - at 84, of leukemia,a multimillionaire - with dramatic geometric cuts that undercut the stuffy balloon looks preceding his era. W. is also worried that, as a cancer survivor, he might not want to be far from his home turf should a relapse occur or anything might happen that would keep him away for a long time. Besides, as he often says, he loves his wife (a semi-retired accountant) and laughs when he says it - often - as well as loving her resistance to having any artificial color in her hair</p><p>All this when I finally - a half hour later- sit down with the long plastic protective bib and subject myself to the wicked chemicals that will give my unkempt tresses a soft blonde look. W is always full of chat (and always reminds he his wife objects to coloring but he still insists I should have hair color to match my eyebrows and skin, which seems an impossible task since my eyebrows are dyed daily with brush and my skin is objectively white..) My chat is about the new stove I just had installed and how bewildering digital dials (not really dials or buttons at all but something akin to finger pressure on a mysterious black surface) can be to a neophyte who is also a Luddite.</p><p>"Why did you have to get a new stove?" I hear from a tall think man listening in. He comes from Wheaton, a suburb of DC, and knows the personnel here well, it seems. His hair doesn't look at all neglected but he obviously is the next client. So goes the give and take. Letitia, the Philippine born license holder, and her sister Elizabeth run the place. Tall Man teases her about not taking any time off, asking about her son (a physician in training in Norfolk - four years to go minimum). She demures, taking a rare minute to sit down before going moving over to another set of mirrors where she will put a client in tiny rollers and significantly - I've no doubt - brighten the woman's day with a combed out hairstyle.</p><p>Letitia is a workhorse, up to to her job at 7 until closing, everyday but Sunday, W only does a turn on Friday so his time n W insists on a photo before the next nearly hair-bald man moves over to the chair. "He is a famous pianist," W says. No names are exchanged though it's a rigorous challenge trying. Piano man teaches a the Levine school nearby. We never really hear how anyone else came to cherish W's ministrations we are so engaged in the moment. I learn in the course of a minute how Piano Man learned from a Japanese man (profession?) that to strike your hand on the opposite arm several times daily will alleviate creeping arthritis. Truly I think it works. I say how my Pilates trainer always spends time exercising arms and fingers in my weekly workout, and how the fabled Taylor Swift is a master of manipulation with her left hand in her recent concert appearances around the globe. I've recently seen the film version, fixated on the way she cajoles, entices, connects with vast audiences this way.</p><p>W. questions with a sly laugh about what else such a talent might do...breaking a potentially serious conversation and sending me on my way. A pity, because it turns out that piano man had his childhood debut on the stage of a theater in a town in Montana where y son currently lives - and that I taught once upon a time at the Uof M in Missoula during the same years where he was 'matriculating.' I never learn his name but a solid connection is made. How peculiar such bonds in so few moments. What happened to him after graduation I may never know.</p><p>But first: photos, always, each client in turn.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-19960453611188364712023-10-24T09:50:00.004-07:002023-11-13T11:38:49.771-08:00Number Ten Come and Nearly Gone<p> <span> </span><span> Which is what happens when the world erupts in turmoil and a person's everyday life shrinks in comparison.</span></p><p><span><span> How Oct. 7 will be forever marked on the calendar of humankind's indescribable inhumanity to man (women, children, the sick and old, even the unborn). Who knows the consequences beyond whatever the curse of the gods sends down - and allows mere underlings to blame whomever they chose.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> It may seem to have taken a </span>tremendous ego drive this month to want to travel forthwith on a 'trip-for-no-reason' to a Mediterranean country blessedly free at the moment (and for past decades) of strife - beyond, that is, an election to office of Spain's political leader. To take time off to share in positivity, the attitude of living life to the fullest in a minimalist way. That is - to enjoy each day on its own with no expectations and no connection to the tragedies taking place elsewhere.</span></span></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-90283305756526997962023-09-11T12:31:00.002-07:002023-09-25T16:22:11.772-07:00September 'Maybees'....<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><span> So goes hopes for a predictable season when heat has abated and what counts as normal could return...</span><br /></p><p><span>how banal one's hopes can seem these days.</span></p><p><span><span> Many my thoughts still focus on the uneasy transition between so called rural and urban life - i.e. travel between small town Montana (largest city that is) and the paradoxical place that is Washington DC. How same and how different the two can be. A Native American (Crow) artist named Ben Pease, speaking recently at the Yellowstone Art Museum in Billings, described Billings as a 'border town, ' representing a clash of cultures between the two worlds. His talk was on how much art and culture are related but seldom considered in that light. The importance of images and their influence in our lives. The border, of course, between life then and now, when there is a revival of interest and consternation over the past existence of schools on or near reservations intended to try taking the 'native' out of young children and turning them into what passed as 'regular people, stripped of their cultural background.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span>-------</span></span></p><p><span><span><span> A more than slight change of subject. To wit: the curious </span>palavering involved in getting some straight answers on minor health matters (which, to some in other circumstances, might seem major). A late night barefoot run-in with a very solid chair leg produces a broken baby toe. It wiggles quite a bit and starts to swell. Still, I can sleep and desperately want to do so in spite of the ache that can seem like pain depending on my position in the bed. I forget that I should immediately surround the feckless bone with ice and keep doing so on days to come. But tomorrow I am hosting a neighborhood backyard 'get to know each other' party and by no means can I not be on my toes, so to speak (literally and figuratively).. The event, held during one of the record heat days, goes into twilight to take advantage of the absent sun. A slight breeze comes up. Cleaning up afterwards takes energy and action so the toe is left to worry about itself. </span></span></p><p><span><span>Online I see little can be done, or so I read: little toe has to be taped to its 'buddy,' neighbor, which doesn't appear very solid itself. Still, I mostly ignore what I now surround with the tightest sandals in my closet. Only later does it occur to me to think there might be complications. Medstar Urgent Care is not far away. I have left a message for my primary care doc whose nurse repeats what online med web sites tell me: not much can be done unless a metatarsal might be involved. (The slim vital connecting link to the rest of the foot.) But how would I know unless I went for an Xray, and so back and forth. Three days later I'm in the waiting room, then on the X-ray table, then awaiting diagnosis, which seems not to show terrible news. At least I read it that way: there has been no 'displacement,' I read in between the jargon of health care reporting. Which I take to mean not too complicated and maybe even a clean break. I send a copy off to the portal where I expect my doctor will see it and might even respond. </span></span></p><p><span><span>No such luck. I buy more tape and even gauze because it looks good - like I should be cosseting the digit more respectfully. I find that I can easily tear the tape by hand (after struggling with scissors) and can even try this late in the day to soothe it with more ice. Even at night: a cellophane wrapper holding ice that inevitably leaks onto the bed. The Urgent care center calls twice - two different people - reminding me that I have been referred to as osteopedic doc. I hold out for simpler solutions and instead keep a boot on my foot, as it seems I saved this awkward man-size (seemingly too large for my thin foot) device from another such accident several years ago. Yes, Medstar has the record on that. But didn't I manage then not to overdo any invasive action - on the advice of another osteopedic doc.. And didn't I survive in fine shape, so much so that I am now a walking fool - so that I could survive a pandemic by strolling/hiking miles a day outside?</span></span></p><p><span><span>All of this to say how I was eager to test the latest medical experience - recent CDC advice to sign up for free government Covid tests (noting expiration dates may not be important, depending.) and could do so by ordering them online (as long as I am an individual and not a company) or by calling an 800 number. The latter is what I choose, considering it the ultimate test of this behemoth's efficiency ( and in view of the fact that distribution of the latest CDC recommended vaccine booster is apparently mired in confusion.) Hah - and hooray. I'm delighted to say the robotic voice completed the job by phone, enough so that I have tracking info, expecting the goods in less than a week's time. An (almost) done deal.</span></span></p><p>Well, what do you know...</p><p><br /></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-53402456437605169742023-08-12T14:37:00.025-07:002023-08-24T12:11:18.587-07:00August is an august transition between our fascination with July and whatever is to come...<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><span> Of course the title makes little sense but it does fill in some time until we can really come to grips with a new month, the harbinger of the future when schools are back in session and Congress wrestles with itself and duties to escape or ignore.</span></p><p><span><span> Meanwhile, vacation troops are moving around everywhere - full flights, errant weather, </span> unreconciled needs. The grizzled man on my left aboard a short stretch ( $371 for 50 minutes of airtime on Southwest, between Buffalo and BWI) complained how he had had a bad accident recently and how it took several months to get recompense. He lived in Florida, was returning from what I took to be a family visit. He seemed to want me to know why he was bent over, awaiting the wheelchair to speed him onward. On my right was a woman from South Carolina returning from a visit with family up north where she previously lived and so had been immersed in doctor checkups, with former stalwart helpers. Lupus, she said - and there are two strains. She had </span>great-granddaughters presumably scattered around. A five hour airport stay awaited her until her connection. "Last time I just ate crab cake." Now just why strangers felt the need to dwell on their miseries but I dared assume that each was fully engrossed in his/her physical health to the less interesting subject of the wellbeing of the country at large.</p><p>Of struggles elsewhere, a portion of my sympathy goes to the city of New York facing criticism from so many ends. The New York Times recently devoted an entire editorial asking for, it would seem in their word, a 'resurrection of the greatest city in the world.' It opts for 'grit and ingenuity,' two qualities I would guess are the ones most often in short supply. Especially in the summer's heat madness, where escape from the immediate environment is more pressing. So go back to the drawing board, you leaders and developers. We NYC lovers are helpless except to cheer you on.</p><p>And back at the ranch figuratively speaking: where I am part of the month is suburbia Montana, far from the fabled mountain surround, where some residential communities are landscaped with a mix of real grass and stones, pines and aspens, picture perfect. Where the houses all seem constructed of similar materials in a different design but somehow can all seem similar. What unites them is a stone pillar by the curb within which is the mailbox erected just-so to allow a postal truck driver (likely out of the familiar uniform) need not get outside to deliver the paper goods. And the giant trash pickup conveyance has similar restrictions: cans of uniform size and height that allow the single driver to control a huge mechanical arm to reach up, out, down, around and over dumping contents from the comfort of his seat.</p><p>Ah but rural suburbia can be different in so many ways. Conversation styles vary but the custom is to acknowledge strangers while walking or biking on paths built by the town for outdoor exercise. Drivers exercise restraint when backed up in what is considered heavy traffic: no or little horn beeping. Patience wins the day where, of course, the views are fine so why complain. A 'town ranch' is no surprise to see in those burbs, little or big. Horses grazing in a sublimely wide grassy field. And on some days of mottled weather a mountain can resemble a cloud and vice versa.</p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-3956259567833524082023-07-14T14:37:00.014-07:002023-07-30T08:08:55.998-07:00My July - and Why<p><span> Why so much heat in so many places, why now? </span> To be determined...as 90 degrees and higher takes over and humidity most days is way up beyond comfort. What is the 'good' about summer anyway, except for the longer light.</p><p><span> Apart from the discomfort, what use, too, is the well-meaning </span>off-putting question a person sometimes says to another person he/she knows only slightly. "How Are You?" or "How Have You Been?"</p><p><span> Well, I could say, "I've an itch in one eye that is bothersome but not fatal. My </span>microbiome seems to have taken over my life, becoming unruly in the most embarrassing ways. It seems to have its own mind about things. And I've arthritis in one index finger that shows slight swelling. My bunion isn't getting any better either. Skin dry and liable to bruise at the slightest bump. "</p><p><span> Better perhaps might be the answer "Well, I know how I've been but how about you?" Wait to see what unfolds. You might get a litany of woes that will take your mind off your own physical and mental condition. Surely, that someone has troubles far more difficult than your own. You just have to ask.</span><br /></p><p><span><span> Or maybe switch the conversation to: What are you up to? Because that is a more positive approach - the assumption that a person before you has energy, is not ailing, conceivably would like to talk about his/her own interests and might lead to a discussion of the interests you two have in common.</span></span></p><p>------------------</p><p><span><span> No photo needed - if you are alive and aware while walking the streets of the US capital city, called, dismissively, a 'District'. Much to see and appreciate if you are in good enough health to stomach the air, pollution, smoke, etc. Go out early or late. Another question often heard in social scenes: 'And what do you do all day?" That is directed at almost anyone without a Title, so beholden to denizens of the fabled bureaucracy. The implication is that, if a person is not noticeably employed, he or she must be 'subsidized,' whether privately or publicly, or in that indefinite phase called retirement. Hence, what comes often is a sense of freedom not to be pegged at all. Often a longtime resident finds he/she relates well to a neighborhood simply by being a longterm rental or owner. A more innocent inquiry such as 'where are you from? stems from a common assumption that no one likely has been born in the DC. It sparks a conversation along neutral lines and can lead to a rich conversation of one kind or another.</span></span></p><p><span><span><span> Or just look at the vitality of the sidewalks: the guardians of the pre-school age children going by in little wagons like trains or walking hand-in-hand in groups, all with their water bottles and (some) </span>sunhat. Do they have sunscreen on them, I wonder? Are they even cognizant of their surroundings, with buses and cars whizzing by? Then the dog walkers doing choreography as they marshal their pets adroitly on pedestrian walkways. The Eastern Market plaza one morning was filled with young people dancing in some elaborate joyful formation in the tune of an inchoate boombox. The dancers singing in identical t-shirt each with a partner and some shorter ones matched with tall. Adolescents. "Singing for the Light," as the shirts read. What was this all about I wondered. "Singing for Jesus," I was told when I asked a woman standing by who looked like a chaperone. I didn't ask further, thinking maybe a Christian summer camp embracing public space with abandon. They looked thoroughly engaged, and happy. Likely they had practiced often together and took as their right the chance to show off on public property. </span></span>Probably no permit was requested - likely not even required.</p><p><span><span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span> Having a sense of wonder: It's all about being in the moment. And understanding why that sense or abandonment to the scene is so difficult to acquire. How, perhaps, only with time and years a person can really learn to live in the moment, to appreciate diversity in the widest way. The shapes of people and buildings, the sounds of city or country life like a symphony (not always pleasant). To go with the flow. That terrible cliche that mindfulness 'experts' have exploited for gain. Whatever the conditions, a hot mid-summer time has some advantages. Fewer people in public, many on vacation. A better time to shop for the everyday necessities and repairs. Taking each day as it comes. Knowing you are at nature's whim in so many ways. </span><br /></span></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span> Take time to make time: engage others, try the small talk with strangers. Show a smile when the children go by. Say hello to dogs since their owners likely will respond. Make friends in superficial ways in order to improve your image of yourself. Surprise can be its own reward. It takes considerable self-effacement. .Create your own </span>wellbeing by assuming strangers like to be surprised. It's primal.</p><p> So to the market on a Sunday afternoon for good cheese and sword bites but also to be a social animal. From the cheese man two slivers of the same kind of cheese (he drops it from a knife into my outstretched palm) and an exchange with a woman asking for something I don't quite get - it is her accent, rounded vowels. I look at her and smile as if to ask what she is ordering. 'It's my New Zealand accent," she confesses, and, yes, I say it is different from the Australian, at which point she smiles at my observation."Best place to get the best cheese," I remark and she nods in agreement. We could go on from there but by now her purchase is in her hand. Hooray for soccer I say - New Zealand now being host to women's soccer World Cup now getting frost page status.</p><p> I turn to leave so not to miss the chance to talk to the young man vendor at an outside stand the frozen meat (organic, etc.) and CBD bottles beside tables of wonderfully fresh greens and radishes. A vendor at the cheese stand inside suddenly appears - looking to buy. I pick up a $6 bag of basil - and I'm on my way home. At the traffic-free intersection, closed off on weekends, I stop to admire a small group of solidly mature men in red t-shirts singing accapella with a director offering introductory remarks before each tune. No pieces of music in sight. Simple old songs rendered full of heart. 'Take Me Back to West Virginia.." . So goes an amble through my 'hood. But I always look around carefully to see where the 'mystery man' - bearded and athletic - has claimed space for his shopping cart (and more) full of assorted (miscellaneous with a capital M) belongings. At one point, on a quiet sun-filled day, he sat fully clothes atop one of the splash pad's sprays looking fully content, almost like a portable statue.</p><p>So go the wonders of a city stroll.</p><p>-------------</p><p><br /></p><p>Not so wonderful the slow release of water from a ceiling pipe above the downstairs kitchen and front 'sitting room.' It made me scared, unhinged - emotional than I expected - as though my own body were being invaded, stripped down. A sanguine plumber appeared the next day to rip apart the offending spot that sent a load of dirty water onto a plastic tarp on the floor. It's surreal and revelatory to be confronted by the floor boards of a 150-year-old wooden house. As though one were somehow looking back on the history of the manse. An encounter with ghosts in physical form. Solid and strong boards, one hopes, from a time when old hard trees were used for construction in my Capitol Hill neighborhood. The offending pipe not so much so - blackened with age, emitting ugly marks on pristine walls of white and gold. The plumber measures and saws a small copper replacement to stop the leak. A gaping hole remains for days - oppressive in its way of showing the fragility of things native to the world. I'm still shocked at my own fragility in response, confused about the source of my reaction. That big ugly gash - like a wound on the house and on my spirit. I did not calm down until two days later.</p><p>----------</p><p>Closing out the longest month warmest (it seems to have been), I read a 'cool' story about the time recently a Los Angeles Tesla made waves (tracks?) in the small SE Montana town of Ekalaka, pop. 400, as reported in the state's very independent and substantial online publication called the Free Press. How a couple visiting a museum in that town were delighted to find unusually enough an electric charger attended to a public light post in what passes for a main street. Lo and behold the curiosity, fascination and disturbing revelation that perhaps this couple, innocently enough, were 'stealing' a considerable amount of the locale's electricity supply. Innocent because who would even be able to estimate the sum? Turns out that the conscientious couple appealed to authorities when asked if they knew what they were doing. (No,not really, just doing the usual necessary plug-in operation.) Somehow a calculation was made, so $60 was handed over to rectify their error....</p><p>Ah, the contrast between the large and small, the emotional and physical contrast for people like me who journey between such worlds.</p><header class="entry-header" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 677px; padding: 0px 0px 1rem; position: static; width: 677px;"><h1 class="entry-title entry-title--with-subtitle" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: utopia-std; font-size: var(--newspack-theme-font-size-xxxxl); letter-spacing: -0.01em; line-height: 1; margin: 0px 0px 0.3rem; word-break: break-word;">What happened when a Tesla came to Ekalaka</h1><div class="newspack-post-subtitle" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-family: futura-pt; font-size: 1.25em; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 2.3em;">A Los Angeles couple, an electric vehicle and an unattended utility outlet energized the gossip mill in the 400-person eastern Montana town last week.</div><div class="entry-subhead" style="align-items: center; box-sizing: inherit; justify-content: space-between; left: 0px; max-width: 240px; position: absolute; top: -5px; width: auto;"><div class="entry-meta" style="align-items: center; box-sizing: inherit; flex-grow: 2; flex-wrap: wrap; font-family: ubuntu-mono; font-size: 0.7em; margin-bottom: 0px; width: auto;"><span class="byline" style="box-sizing: inherit; display: block; margin-right: 1.5rem;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">by</span> <span class="author vcard" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: bold;"><a class="url fn n" href="https://montanafreepress.org/author/edietrich/" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: black; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; transition: color 110ms ease-in-out;">Eric Dietrich</a></span></span><span class="posted-on" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin-left: 0px;">07.27.2023</span></div><div class="sharedaddy sd-sharing-enabled" style="box-sizing: inherit; clear: both; min-height: 32px;"><div class="robots-nocontent sd-block sd-social sd-social-icon sd-sharing" style="box-sizing: inherit; 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margin: 0px; order: -1; width: 677px;"><img alt="" class="attachment-newspack-featured-image size-newspack-featured-image wp-post-image jetpack-lazy-image jetpack-lazy-image--handled" data-hero-candidate="1" data-lazy-loaded="1" decoding="async" fetchpriority="high" height="675" loading="eager" sizes="(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px" src="https://montanafreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/Untitled-design-492.png" srcset="https://montanafreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/Untitled-design-492.png 1200w, https://montanafreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/Untitled-design-492-300x169.png 300w, https://montanafreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/Untitled-design-492-1024x576.png 1024w, https://montanafreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/Untitled-design-492-768x432.png 768w, https://montanafreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/Untitled-design-492-400x225.png 400w" style="border-style: none; box-sizing: inherit; height: auto; max-width: 100%; position: relative;" width="1200" /><figcaption style="box-sizing: inherit; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: var(--newspack-theme-font-size-xs); font-style: italic; line-height: var(--newspack-theme-font-line-height-body); margin: 0px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; width: 677px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">The front page of the Ekalaka Eagle featuring an “unidentified electric vehicle” discovered charging on the population-400 town’s Main Street. <span class="image-credit" style="box-sizing: inherit;"><span class="credit-label-wrapper" style="box-sizing: inherit;">Credit:</span> Eric Dietrich / MTFP</span></span></figcaption></figure><article class="post-116392 post type-post status-publish format-standard has-post-thumbnail hentry category-long-streets entry" id="post-116392" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(17, 17, 17); color: #111111; font-family: utopia-std, Georgia, serif; font-size: 20px; margin-top: 0px; width: 677px;"><div class="entry-content" style="box-sizing: inherit; position: relative;"><aside style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 32px 0px; max-width: 100%;"><amp-analytics style="box-sizing: inherit;"></amp-analytics></aside><aside style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 32px 0px; max-width: 100%;"><amp-analytics style="box-sizing: inherit;"></amp-analytics><amp-layout amp-access="popups.id_92669" class="newspack-popup newspack-inline-popup " id="id_92669" role="button" style="background-color: #eeeeee; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; clear: both; color: black; display: block; font-size: 0.9em; padding: 0.5em 0.75em;" tabindex="0"><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px !important; margin-right: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px; max-width: 100%; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Thank you for supporting Montana Free Press and being a part of our community. </span>Your membership makes this and all our reporting possible.</p></amp-layout></aside><aside style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 32px 0px; max-width: 100%;"><amp-analytics style="box-sizing: inherit;"></amp-analytics></aside><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 32px 0px; max-width: 100%; overflow-wrap: break-word;">An “unidentified electric vehicle” — actually a Tesla Model Y — accused of siphoning power from the local electric utility energized the gossip mill in the small eastern Montana town of Ekalaka last week, prompting front page newspaper coverage, a frantic apology and, in the end, much jawboning about the future of transportation in one of the most remote counties in the lower 48 states.</p><p></p></div></article><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></div><p><span><span> </span><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span> </span><br /></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-52077549262598287712023-06-07T07:50:00.007-07:002023-06-29T08:50:45.423-07:00June Too Soon<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbttKpLq3Dj98wJQTrXZiB3WJ9nSvMZVpl7c106Fi69JhYxLWXYb7l_tUqwijzibMYyaYccsDRIlQRaF2mHg_XqO-vbq6ylKNW7T6NfwdqYab9plu5p-73MTaTNz_IxiH8yOOPPTRCJmucevHGyxxCfdfKMnRiKM0JUoFrzN0guB14djB9gr4-xqaHqFeS/s4032/IMG_1459.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbttKpLq3Dj98wJQTrXZiB3WJ9nSvMZVpl7c106Fi69JhYxLWXYb7l_tUqwijzibMYyaYccsDRIlQRaF2mHg_XqO-vbq6ylKNW7T6NfwdqYab9plu5p-73MTaTNz_IxiH8yOOPPTRCJmucevHGyxxCfdfKMnRiKM0JUoFrzN0guB14djB9gr4-xqaHqFeS/s320/IMG_1459.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span> In a pre-Solstice wave of decent weather (ie no or low humidity), the wildfires in eastern Canada plaguing the East Coast the have sent a reminder that changing climate conditions are ever with us to 'temper' the most sanguine of minds. Smoky haze, high pollution counts. Bye bye to blue. And yet, pleasant surprises are ever with us, too. A person can always find reason to celebrate in new ways. Hence, on June 2, my seemingly inconsequential but remarkable trip home to DC from the MSP airport in an all-new A321N (NEO - yes, the proper title) Delta aircraft. Two weeks old and the first time transporting commercial passengers. An overhead interior filled with soothing soft checkerboard patterned ceiling; wider aisles; quieter sound. All together a novel experience. I felt compelled to celebrate - to ask for a bubbly drink. The attendant happily obliged with a small tall can of sparkling wine produced by an all-women California enterprise, appropriately titled 'Femme.' See photos...</span><br /></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-29208931774865638322023-05-16T07:51:00.005-07:002023-06-07T07:39:19.674-07:00Skipping Ahead...to May<p> <span> How did April slip away? Thirty days, into a morass of </span>decrepitude, overall laziness, insufficient energy - to do what? How does a person mark monthly achievements anyway? A short memorable excursion to the Big Apple in ideal spring weather, celebrating the long ago passing of a friend from Covid most likely pneumonia as a cover. Consult the wee datebook and find no discernible uptick in enlightenment or possibly even what might pass for joy among the living. But joy often is transitory and barely discernible. It can happen in the most unexpected ways.</p><p>Which brings me to what many some people might consider an entirely superficial pleasure that can take up time without any conscious notion of time passing - going shopping. What's more, shopping in a superbly equipped Goodwill emporium. The word emporium is used judiciously and correctly - for such outlets, many of them, sell used goods operating in a very formal fashion under their own terms. On a single ground level are arrayed clearly the items for men as separate from women, though often the two are mixed. (As in: extra large t-shirts perfect for women wanting a loose feeling over swim suits or even as substitute sleepwear.) </p><p>The back of the store is a well regulated jumble of miscellaneous home and hobby goods - the usual mix of frames, dishes, TVs, utensils, what-have-you. Everything you didn't think you needed until now. There is no need to rush through the place, barely even any need at all when you first enter with a friend, taking an hour out of the day to browse with nothing in mind but the filmiest goal of all: to buy something at a bargain price, to feel somehow free of the overpriced commercial marketplace. A treasure hunt - a game women play best.</p><p>We see few men the morning when a friend and I walk into an especially welcoming Goodwill store just off to Route 50 in Arlington, Va. Shoes to note are placed above the racks of, well just about every item of clothing a person could want. Signs point to the bargain color of the day - lavender strings are 50 % off, we see. My friend has an especially astute eye for worthy purchases; her sense of style is innate. It is admirable and not transferable.</p><p> We both have a casual incentive for prowling widely here: she is about to travel late spring to a cosmopolitan city where temps can be cooler than average. Probably she could find suitable duds in her own closet but the thrill is finding one 'extra' that will mark the trip as special. Besides there is satisfaction an ego jump, in choosing a treasure out of all the mayhem spread before us. The mingling of garments is such that seasons don't matter. She can pick out like a flying gull going for a fish in the sea the singular perfect enhancement to her wardrobe, which she always does. This time it is a light wool black and white top that registers 'designer' even though the label isn't well known name. Sometimes the thrill is pouncing on fabric that is above and beyond the polyester norm. Other times it is casing the aisles long enough to find two unrelated items - Merino wool sweater and heavy cotton Adidas trousers, for example. Casual wear elevated with that interior gleam of 'I've just invented something, just for me.'</p><p>It helps to have that motivation. In my case I was intent on sniffing out the right color top to match the multi=colored silk scarf that had inspired the previous purchase at a high-end well-branded women's clothing of a boldly colored linen trouser suit and jacket. No real style but what I challenged myself to create on my own. It was never a question of real need - maybe only the need to brag about buying a skirt for 6 dollars, a sweater for 3.</p><p>You cruise the aisles anonymously. There is no pressure to buy, to try. At the end of the hour you might well end up, as I did, with seven items costing a mere $40, including tax and a wee donation to round out the sum. The receipt tells me of the special savings - how I somehow managed to save $3.75 on each of two items mysteriously listed as 'women's sweater and women's pajamas. Never mind that original purpose is entirely irrelevant. The cashier stuffs my lot in a large plastic bag and tells me to 'have a good day,' or a familiar pleasantry that somehow cheers us on our way out the door with a sense of gratification and a sense of feeling time well spent.</p><p>Besides, it's all going to a good cause isn't it? The stacks of donor merchandise piled up outside the building under big tents, handled by employees in blue short with experienced efficiency: a reminder of how (but really?) the stuff can be recycled or somehow reinvented into funds for the less fortunate, as the saying goes. Money for training and rehab. Whatever. The name Goodwill says it all.</p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-17415379159309355462023-03-24T13:51:00.004-07:002023-04-22T12:34:13.878-07:00Spring, At Last the Sun<p> </p><p><br /></p><p>So onto April and its blithering weather. But also to the flowering forth of a Kwanzan cherry tree so dependable and bountiful that it spreads over four backyards on Capitol Hill. All hail the mighty beauty, for baring mighty winds, the stately plant shows its flame for three weeks running. </p><p>Then beware: Petals float down invariably, coating the ground in a pink carpet that inevitably crumbles into brown.</p><p>Another month soon gone, and mighty May is upon us. Surely a good month for travel in any hemisphere.</p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-90403788919458948632023-02-10T15:38:00.006-08:002023-03-24T13:41:54.703-07:00Moving on through February<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><span> My hair guy maintains a chair in a salon in the Westchester complex in Northwest DC. </span></p><p><span> He needs to talk and I need to listen while he does his work. This most recent encounter took place in the first half of the month on a Friday as usual, five weeks or so since our last encounter. He bustles around, he challenges the norms of his profession. I help with the foil squares that contain a poison (dye) to give me the low lights disguising more or less the lethal white strands of hair. "You don't want to touch it. You can't deny its danger." Which is why his wife never tried and </span>instead cuts her white hair short. Today's conversation went from the wife who took away his motorcycle long ago after she found their 14-year-old had made a key and went off on a wild ride. She did it when her husband was away. 'I was mad at her for about a day but what could I do." He never bought another one. He is a wonderful guitar player and a cancer survivor now down to138 pounds so he can at least can get back to running..if he dares. </p><p>Our conversation: He tells me about time he had his long dark shoulder length locks cut by hair product emissary Paul Mitchell; how today's parents are not doing their job; how he always stands up when an 'elder person' comes into the Metro (or a room I suppose); he banters with other clients coming and going and a colleague who has the chair next to his in this low ceilinged outpost. "You've got to drink water, drink eight glasses a day," he implores. He says this is necessary especially for older people, for health in general. </p><p>And he sweetly reassures me that I need not worry about my ever increasing age, which continues to baffle me - why so well so long. "Because you are getting god's reward for being such a good mother when you were younger."</p><p>Always a sermon and then a pat on the back.</p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-27889756477734226132023-01-06T11:39:00.004-08:002023-03-24T13:45:49.791-07:00new year to cheer or fear: January<p> <span> Time to take stock, whether in facts or feelings. Much news comes out of census reporting - if you are statistical </span>minded - now that the past decade's assessment has been (mostly) tallied. Of national and rural/urban living. It seems the urban population in the US has - no surprise - increased: we are now 79% urban vs 20.4 % rural. Definitions have changed, too, so that an urban area is now 5,000 people and above and there are now 2,646 urban areas in the US, Puerto Rico and US islands. </p><p>How this matters, of course, is how much federal support - in funds and services - is given to different areas. That's a fight at the national level by and large, where elected representatives and agency heads are critical.</p><p><br /></p><p>------------</p><p><br /></p><p><span> On a less sweeping scale, my thoughts focus on yet another periodic conversation with my hair care specialist . While I sit covered in plastic sheeting and a towel, he cuts and talks, sprays and enlightens. We gossip a bit over another woman client whose feud with yet a third client means he cannot really keep up a relationship with both since they both live in the same residential complex where he works. The two women have had a spat over a job that is apparently the reason for their existence, as relatively useless and unimportant it would seem to be. The one cannot stand to be in the same room with the other. Then there is the ultra-rich client who confesses her facial makeover at age 38 cost $23,000 and made it look like a 16-year-old. The problem with the botox-plus-surgery for yet a fourth woman is her total self-absorption as she must be constantly reassured of her good looks. Her droopy mouth has gone but not her fear of its eventual return. How she must be constantly on guard.</span></p><p><span><span> He is a trained musician who recently joined a group performing what he calls Peruvian </span>waltzes, folk rhythms he now hums to me when I ask. And his wife the accountant who would like to retire but whose boss begs her to stay on until his cancer treatment is over - and longer, too, just in case. His treatment has left him a thin man without much taste for food and a perilous weight for a tall man of only 140 pounds. He sees a trainer once a week to learn how and whether certain exercises will improve his body, to grow muscles - which he finds ridiculous since 'the age thing' never can be overcome. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> I'm the client but perhaps am I also a therapist of a kind - sitting in front of a mirror, welcoming the ministrations of a professional whose hands are flitting back and forth, chop chop, while I am embalmed in his chair. He likes someone who can respond to his talk. We go back and forth:his wife (always), his grandkids, the ways of a diminishing world. He is diminished - he should be 20 or more pounds beyond 140 and he worries about this. He worries about the price of a personal trainer - $85 a session, he confides as though it were a secret shame - helping him in some way to sustain - not quite build - muscle. His style has changed since the chemotherapy. He applies the same low lights (not highlights - I don't know the difference), I hold the 4 inch square foil while he bends hair strands around them. This is a coloring job that will blend with the gray and not let gray get the upper hand. I sense a weaker yet obliging hand. We are really four people: two bodies and two mirror images.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span> </span></span></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-15776494842416862522022-12-08T05:52:00.005-08:002022-12-14T16:32:37.240-08:00After A Long Lag.....<p> </p><p>In reflection in mid-December:</p><p><br /></p><p><span> <span> Staying quiet on the page can be interpreted in many ways. The best excuse is having no excuse, except - perhaps - using </span></span>full bore silence to reduce the noise in the world.</p><p><span> What has a period of silence (metaphorically speaking) meant for those of us lucky enough to enjoy such privilege I wonder?. I recently came across this line:</span><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 17px;"><span> </span>"The list is the origin of culture,” the writer Umberto Eco said</span> - a quote I picked up in the New York Times food column<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 17px;">, and lists exist “to make infinity comprehensible.” </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 17px;"> Because without a doubt one of my solemn habits during enforced quiet during the worst of the Covid scare was being </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">able to read, download, and keep lists/piles of favorite recipes from the Times' food editors and contributors. A now-heaving load laid away in a closet, having very little meaning otherwise. It exists to remind myself how the act of cooking is never the same as the art of cooking. I acted to keep myself well fed - well, enough so - and create a hobby of sorts that had great benefits.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><span> That same NYTImes cooking column I quote had another quote from a Japanese author/poet Shonagan:</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">“In life, there are two things which are dependable. The pleasures of the flesh and the pleasures of literature.”</span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 17px;">Look her up. Yes, a woman. She wrote the witty 'The Pillow Book' about a thousand years ago.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><span> Not to be able to read can be equated with being unable to eat. Not to enjoy either is the end of the line...</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><br /></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-58674034280567320362022-09-12T14:26:00.009-07:002023-03-24T13:49:50.963-07:00Lo, the Equinox, etc.<p>A Visit</p><p>The sandwich is a clue. Only a few bites taken out of a roll filled with tunafish. "My wife puts things in it," Wsays, dismissively. It was well after noon and he should have been hungry., but instead his mouth is protesting. "My tongue is funny," he says. Understandably, since he is recovering from several weeks of chemotherapy, during which he dropped nearly 30 pounds. His voice has changed to a lower register, ("sexy," I tell him - but he doesn't warm to my comment.) He is slower in his movements now. </p><p>I was flattered to hear from him. Byphone: to think he took the initiative to reach out when I had not thought he was up to working again. This vibrant talented man, challenged by the prospect of cancer that may or may not have spread, he wanted to join the world again. A definitive test would be coming up in early December, he says. </p><p> He would work only one day a week, he says - Friday. I suspect he had contacted me, knowing I might be good for conversation that would involve lighthearted banter of the kind we had together in the past. I don't know whether I am there for him or for my own need to improve long neglected locks. I sense he is hungry for public life again, for interactions with customers whom he knows appreciate his talent. He has a rare gift, being able to improve and improvise a most unruly part of the body - thinning hair.</p><p>He has weakened considerably, relying on outsize amounts of protein and respect for the virtues of plain water. He shows me the tubes of edible protein 'my wife makes me take.'. He holds up his arm to show me the loose skin on his under arms. I sit in the chair while he selectively lathers some blonde dye on my head- nothing that I had asked for but he insists in his own confident manner and reasoning, saying simply 'you will look younger, you are energetic." Yes, at 86, I have an unusual amount of that mysterious force . My old dyed highlights were fading; the back of my head was entirely white."To have the best of both worlds," I say jokingly. He doesn't smile, so I'm not sure his humor is back entirely. I am philosophical about the process of aging and resigned to ignoring some of the vanity involved in 'keeping up appearances.' </p><p>Snip, snip, lather lather.</p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-68868167417054007872022-09-12T14:25:00.005-07:002022-09-12T14:25:57.080-07:00 August Disappeared<p> But not without traces. Summer was losing the battle with mother nature (why a mother, when father time is a more exalted title?). Across the country/countries and the world, convulsions of sorts in terms of extreme and unpredictable weather. September shows progress - of a kind. Stay tuned for further unworthy ruminations.</p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-36453214492650368882022-07-09T09:36:00.006-07:002022-07-18T17:17:57.967-07:00July Joy<p> Long light nights, warm life-giving sun, a reason to swim and wear as little clothing as possible.</p><p>This is the case if you are among the lucky souls, which is a relative term. To be lucky is to know how to enjoy whatever is positive in your life and that, of course, is relative to the place and time in which you live.</p><p>My digressions on being a part-time rural person (that is, living in a city or town of 100,00 or so people surrounded by landscape no sculptor could design) as well as a citified urban patriot putting up with all the detriments of place that 700,000 people call home. But a patriot to the self-serving cause of knowing how to take advantage of what a Big City offers. My Big City is a Federal District squeezed between two constitutionally registered states. My vote is practically nil because I live here; my opinion barely counts. Whereas in the rural hinterland , I can easily believe my actions can make a difference.</p><p>On a day to day level, the contrast is clear. I can live in a district and not own a car without undue hardship. This is impossible in the rest of the country unless you cling to a really big City existence like New York. The multitude of choices I have in my district are beyond compare, I believe; it takes only assiduous attention to the offerings. Today, for instance, through the mercies of a friend who alerted and then accompanied me, I attended a free lecture at the Library of Congress, open to the public though barely publicized. The talk by scholars doing research under a beneficent grant of a donor named Kluge is a monthly occurrence and this time also included all you can drink and eat reception - standup basically. </p><p>This takes place monthly within a half mile of my house, a freestanding mid-19th century wood structure that is almost a common sight in my environs.</p><p>What would be comparable in outlying areas, I can barely guess although I'm ignorant of possibilities in many respects. Could I compare an evening in a modern utilitarian public library with a structure established in part by one of the country's founding presidents? How much do the surroundings in such a place influence our sense of gratitude? </p><p><br /></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-29617182362351394592022-06-13T15:22:00.007-07:002022-06-18T09:56:23.247-07:00June - Already?<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><span> No telling what the weather gods will send down in the 'shoulder month' (spring into summer) but omens so far are less than encouraging. Floods, record heat, etc. Coping is the cry.</span><br /></p><p><span>Imagine you are one of some 76,000 Afghans released into the world (mainly into the US) after the fall of Kabul and having no real guidance on how to cope. Never mind weather when so much else is the bedrock of your existence. (Don't dare imagine the fate of the thousands of US-affiliated Afghans left behind.)</span></p><p><span>One couple is not a fair sample but perhaps their story shows how it is possible to survive - but not to thrive - with the help of some Americans offering guidance. The couple in their twenties who settled into Virginia through family contacts now count on Medicaid and a few thousand government dollars to start a new life. There are what are euphemistically called cultural differences to contend with. </span></p><p><span>For instance, the woman speaks very little English and will not venture out of the house without a relative. She won't speak up in a social setting without the presence of her husband. She turns down jobs - money they very much need- since she is insecure in settings with strangers. Her better-educated husband, on the other hand, has better language and coping skills and has made a life for himself as a part-time barista during the day. Then during early morning hours, the pair are contractors for various delivery services (Amazon, Door Dash, etc.) earning $125 between 4 and 8 a.m., after which he will take a break to sleep before reporting to his day job. They cannot earn enough to allow them to rent an apartment alone apart from their family hunkered down in a Virginia suburb of DC. The family, apart from the young husband ,are wary of taking jobs they feel will diminish their stature in the world. A man trained as a doctor will not let himself be hired as a nurse, for instance - even when the chance of promotion (not to mention a salary) could raise his status. Perhaps the notion of self-sufficiency, or what Americans consider their birthright - self-promotion, is foreign to them. In the past they have had comfortable lives and reliable friends and family to count on. </span></p><p><span>Of course, there is a story behind a story as always. The words 'cultural differences' means different things to different people. To the Afghans, perhaps, their willingness to come to dinner conflated with their custom of bringing something to the table. Maybe food - maybe the main course. But, of course, it would have to be Halal and vegan to suit the tastes of one or both of the Afghan invitees. The problem is that nothing was made clear ahead of time. The couple would bring the food, they indicated. Then in a last minute call from the host, they said a medical emergency had delayed them. The wife had mysterious pains. Nothing was said about the promised meal. So the host went to work creating a menu she thought would suit the Muslim-vegan faith: pasta with a spinach pesto. A few phone calls later - delaying the dinner time for well over an hour or more - the couple arrived with a big pot of food: lamb and rice. Halal or not, no explanation. It certainly wasn't a vegan meal all the way. Had the young husband meant he wasn't strictly Halal, only that he didn't like meat?</span></p><p>Host's dilemma: what food to put on the table? My friend the host decided to serve up the original menu she made, only the wife - stricken, it now turns out, with a migraine - never had seen pasta and had not idea how to eat it. So the couple ate very little or nothing and left early before any mention of dessert. Also, the suffering wife objected out loud when she was served a cold ginger drink: too strong, she said. </p><p>Can there be a satisfactory ending to this story? </p><p> </p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span><br /></span></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-84084750102494056722022-05-01T11:27:00.014-07:002022-06-21T14:23:31.717-07:00MAY-be<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaxSnJeGbTU9rtER1oxV415q59cOgFEksXlsBIXJ1epV_8A8z3ZpynsIF0JD2nNEiZpFpjeHswLlfJN82lhB2elIAmdGaN_NbJx-6bCmPOo78c4BFGKeswgzhaXY6qU6ns4ydfXe8An5Qh6Zs59hzsL44W09ghgoSIJPfmWCEywtXaUVfBsveqRLSR1A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaxSnJeGbTU9rtER1oxV415q59cOgFEksXlsBIXJ1epV_8A8z3ZpynsIF0JD2nNEiZpFpjeHswLlfJN82lhB2elIAmdGaN_NbJx-6bCmPOo78c4BFGKeswgzhaXY6qU6ns4ydfXe8An5Qh6Zs59hzsL44W09ghgoSIJPfmWCEywtXaUVfBsveqRLSR1A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNL2Q9hAG5RVjYCI86A--AdZFs3GZsR9juSU_5gR1RaVSWDEGUOAzjMEjaadwZFJwHL4IEMhf_WKD6qAZweWBDruc50Hsf7Mk4TsuB79E-WwsYYvGhJ6KFZGuF_qJEgfY9cm7ltVLVinsSbg3H4GX2g5qq1XAEZ63FpZDjZryeBvoespm6UaLn-MBWaQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNL2Q9hAG5RVjYCI86A--AdZFs3GZsR9juSU_5gR1RaVSWDEGUOAzjMEjaadwZFJwHL4IEMhf_WKD6qAZweWBDruc50Hsf7Mk4TsuB79E-WwsYYvGhJ6KFZGuF_qJEgfY9cm7ltVLVinsSbg3H4GX2g5qq1XAEZ63FpZDjZryeBvoespm6UaLn-MBWaQ" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span> </span>Note: May 25 marks the opening day of an exhibit by Washington's own Sam Gilliam at the Smithsonian's Hirshhorn, shown above arriving at a reception held the day before in his honor. He is 88 and still working. The show, entitled "Full Circle," is a collection of his latest creations, what he calls tondos, done within the last two years - his first solo show at the museum. It's coupled with a conventional wall-size painting called 'Rail' from 1977. The latest collection is well-named, as though to imitate the building's own circular shape. The dense brilliantly colored panels inside the round beveled edge frames reflect similar pioneering abstract work he did in the 1960s. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The sun will shine, the world will recoup. Anything can happen to the mind in good weather..</span></div><p></p><p>Even so, I keep returning to the compulsion for reading, even sometimes, trying recipes put out by the New York Times on what seems a daily basis. A complete escape and total immersion in the contemplation of sensuous living. After many attempts and failures, I still can't resist trying again. Which may be the point. Trying yet another involved dish meant for 4 or 6 when I'm only one not very often a very hungry soul. Because I know I will lose does not seem to phase me. And I also know that, in the right mood, I'm an able cook using nothing but spontaneity with a few less ingredients.</p><p>The immediate above photo is reason for cheer - leftover from the April notes.</p><p>Whenever there is an upper, there comes a downer. Abortion, not reform or building up the infrastructure, now takes center stage in the US political scene. And lack of trust and faith abounds in lesser ways. Each of two trips on Metro today I saw random customers - young and middle-aged - opening gates or leaping over entry gates without paying, with nary a shameful face in sight. I asked the attendant in the booth why he didn't at least try to stop them, even try calling them out. </p><p>What can you do? he replied. Everyone does what they want. The system is broken.</p><p>---------------</p><p>To try for another upbeat note.</p><p>Onto people with faith of another kind and what they do about it - and I do mean faith literally. </p><p>Matt Blakeslee, for instance, was a pastor in the large evangelical Faith Chapel in Billings Mt., for almost ten years. The 39-year-old entrepreneurial-minded man had gone to a local Bible College and felt a call to service. But eventually the call wasn't enough. "I felt I wasn't fulfilling myself," he confesses. As pastor of a super-large congregation, calls seldom were on his own behalf. It's the nature of the job.</p><p>He quit the day job and didn't earn any salary for the next three years in order to start a nonprofit in downtown Billings, Mt., to breathe life into an old Art Deco movie theater and create on an adjacent street a fine arts venue for 'independent' feature films. He did it almost from scratch. What made it possible, he insists, is the helpmate at his side, his physician's assistant wife with a steady job. He started with a rundown building that was a former car dealership and bowling alley that grew into a single screening room coupled with a bar.</p><p> ArtHouse Cinema emerged as the center of a coterie of fans who relished the communal aspect of movie-going. (Similar, I suspect, to why large religious congregations bond.) It's an ongoing effort ,though at present he keeps a staff od 9 with plenty of fund-raising mechanisms in place. He controls what is shown is on the very much larger and more dramatic Babock Theater screen around the corner with its shiny and flamboyant marquee. A different program entirely is offered weekly at ArtHouse venue, that is also the site of film seminars and - usefully enough - because of the bar , conversations over 'a glass,' as the Irish might say,. Grand plans are afoot for two and three more theater spaces to provide more flexibility and exposure. He and his wife bought their own house in the midst of life's changes way back in 2008, for a low six-figure that now has ballooned in price three times. Similarly, he hopes to see live theater-going expand in the properties he now owns or manages.</p><p> It takes strong vision and persistence but the call has been returned from a community that believes in the cause.</p><p><br /></p><p>Here see a sublime image of the gloriously flamboyant facade of a </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGsw_cGiadw-k3mvqhLDW6iGNt18f174GTkmKDxFQ4YEISOfSdh9vwkh2NkLQYqHP6vipvnCLRKDxJzfyMnUglmo5B49TFmzfdWJ7A0JkBW5AKh9BhGXjXQ0Zb3PdxBa-RtaDs_T9Sc9hUIOUVHH9Rgq8cQdUTKpX2HRHlizfnPXwsYLsSAEr7WytzXg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="213" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGsw_cGiadw-k3mvqhLDW6iGNt18f174GTkmKDxFQ4YEISOfSdh9vwkh2NkLQYqHP6vipvnCLRKDxJzfyMnUglmo5B49TFmzfdWJ7A0JkBW5AKh9BhGXjXQ0Zb3PdxBa-RtaDs_T9Sc9hUIOUVHH9Rgq8cQdUTKpX2HRHlizfnPXwsYLsSAEr7WytzXg" width="160" /></a></div><br />flamboyant 1907movie theater, one of which is still alive and in the continuing process of renovation thanks to the vision of Billings' Matt Blakeslee and his loyal supporters in a town with a population of 109,000 people.<p></p><p><br /></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-41933279307918707382022-03-30T18:34:00.007-07:002022-05-04T17:42:27.903-07:00April means renewal, doesn't it?<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><span> That question doesn't get answered easily, given the fraught times we </span>are in. Maybe the best we can do is hope for change. And meanwhile hope to stay well enough to avoid total isolation on a run from something invisible.</p><p><span> Still, a little walk can be uplifting in unexpected ways. Seeing unlikely signs of charm and humor posted occasionally on the front yards of private property. 'We Support Ukraine' sort of signs aren't exactly what I mean, since they read 'impersonal' without a name. Today I unexpectedly came across the written verse of a lovely Louis Armstrong melody laboriously </span>hand printed on a white board tacked up to a black stand near the sidewalk and was immediately cheered. I remembered the day in New York when I went with a friend to see the musician's home down an ordinary residential street in Queens, not far from a subway stop. This was before the site had become an education center, a well publicized homage to the great man who lived humbly among the gold spigots chosen for his bathroom. How simple and how real it was, and how strange so few people knew about it back then.</p><p><span> Coming later from a visit to the nearest Safeway, I was still smiling. All the more reason at that moment because a policeman or security guard in the store had handed over to me quite spontaneously a single red balloon on a long red string. How can I fail to mention that I had gone to the section in the store in search of a single flower to go atop a wee pastry I had bought as a birthday present for a young friend? Seeing no such lonesome bud, I laughed and asked if I could have a balloon - one of the bunch the man was holding, curiously enough. (My last trip to that same store I saw a much fancier balloon with a price tag of $17.95; astronomical I thought, until a local retailer who sells such notions said there was a helium storage....a statement I knew not how to refute. Possibly he was joking...)</span></p><p><span><span> With that red balloon in hand, I walked home in a strong wind that made the thing twirl and whirl. A tiny brown dog coming towards me was cowed by the sight. It immediately went into a barking frenzy. And no wonder. He/she doesn't often see a dancing balloon on a walk. A few blocks on I encountered an older couple </span>emerging onto the sidewalk from their house. They smiled at the sight, </span>incongruous enough, of a neighbor carrying a balloon in the middle of the day. 'The Red Balloon - the story,' the woman laughed, when I asked if perhaps she was having a birthday of her own. If so, I would have handed it over on the spot ...</p><p><span> A recurring theme for the determinedly mobile is how often a person can be surprised on a street.</span><br /></p><p><span><span> A Metro ride and then short walk to a shoe store in Dupont Circle produced a timely encounter - though rare enough on its own. Two young men in bright yellow vests stood outside the store on a corner to waylay passersby and ask them to contribute to the International Rescue Committee - for Ukrainian refugees now pouring into Poland. The two were refugees themselves after a fashion. Each had come from Kabul a few years earlier to start new lives when they felt they could not advance at home. The one was a pilot in training most recently in Slovakia...</span><br /></span></p><p><span> Which reminds me to mention why I was in that particular Safeway that day. I had judged a quiet Thursday to be the perfect time for a </span>second required shingles vaccine - the shringrix or whatever it is called to protect from insanely annoying and painful rashes caused by, of all things, leftover chicken virus in an older person's blood. I can't explain the science only the reaction I had was nothing like any vaccine I can remember ever. Easygoing at first, then slowly the swelling, redness, tenderness and soon the exhaustion. All a tiresome nuisance as I had big plans for Friday and I had to struggle to stay upright, intact. Soreness way beyond any memory. No way to predict such things, no way to deal with it except sleep and any artificial balm around. It took three days for normality = or what passes for that these days - to return.</p><p><br /></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-64109384419287285592022-03-30T09:03:00.005-07:002022-03-30T18:33:53.557-07:00March Madness Indeed<p> Enough said. A month of ups and downs by almost any measure. Use weather as a chart. Up to 70s and down to 20s, a roller coaster drumbeat. Covid hits home everywhere with a new variant. I try to rally a first cousin into some awareness of why she should not doubt the value of the vaccine. She "doesn't trust the government" and won't say more, except that she was hospitalized at some point with the virus. The son who lives with her and her husband (husband has had a stroke of unknown origin) had forcibly removed her from the hospital on grounds she 'wasn't getting any better,' taking her home and watching over her. Presumably with more attention (i.e. the loving medicine..) than what she could get among other patients. Did she not receive the treatment drugs authorized? She doesn't know, doesn't question her son's move, when she tells me on the phone how her memory has changed. She can't find the letters to spell out the name of the small Indiana town where she lives. I decide not to go after her anti-government stand, not on the phone when she is so obviously suffering from the disease. She is cheerful, repeating much of what she has told me before about her family - she is now a great grandmother. She laughs. Humor is what we have, she says, and an occasional visit from a friend basically involves laughing.</p><p>I commend her spirit and withhold any sense of shame of blame on her behalf. She lives on 100 plus acres in country where cell phone service is rare. She can't quite explain why. Nor does wifi work. I had been sending emails to an old address that never made the target. She keeps saying how she had 'got along' before with a massage business, the comfort of helping people be more comfortable. She is pleased with the photographs I sent her in a Christmas card - when the only reply I received was a note saying she was unable to send cards this year. She didn't mention Covid then.</p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-23129284554166402472022-02-08T10:00:00.006-08:002022-03-30T08:56:30.305-07:00February Follies<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><span> <span> Not exactly a folly to feel captivated by the New York Times cooking </span></span>column. (see previous notes) The almost-daily review of their editorial suggestions on recipes and assorted cultural artifacts online is comforting, even at a distance. There is the thrill of imagining the results should you, eager reader whether hungry or not, seek to bring forth by creative action something both visually and sensually stimulating. Often that is enough to mend the day's listless mood. The mind's eye takes over from descriptions (and photographs) on the page. Long live vicarious living and all that. Such are the needs of pandemic days when everyone, each in his/her own way, feels trapped in a lull: past, present, future. Where do we invest our energy? </p><p>Bring on the wintry chill, then get to love: French Union-Braised Lamb Shanks with Barley and Greens and/or Roasted Orange Chicken</p><p>Take refuge/heart from whatever is near.</p><p>It isn't a mystery why an obsession with recipes is so strong, especially during pandemic light (or whatever the current phase should be called). It gives the feel of connection - with lovely and varied tastes, and with others equally engaged in productive efforts.</p><p><br /></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-78028488126686455032022-01-07T09:36:00.005-08:002022-02-08T10:01:17.532-08:00A January Thaw?<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><span> A thaw would be a relief from many things, for many reasons.</span></p><p><span><span> </span>What else can one expect after two snowfalls in four days (counting the nights)? This is a month that is best lived day-to-day in search of sun and anything else conductive to good health and personal welfare. The country now more than ever is in search of its democratic foundations and a way out of the misinformation tide threatening to drown all civility.</span><br /></p><p><span><span> I had, for a while, at the top of a list of notably negative signs the titles of notably popular books (at least on one December poll). 'The Bitch Is Back.' "Thug Matrimony' and 'Empire of Pain,' plus Congress member Robert F Kennedy's anti-Fauci rants. But there is only so much ill will a person can absorb before rejecting omens of any kind.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> Especially when one's birthday falls on the date of the Christian Orthodox Christmas. Bring on the lights and flowers and celebrate.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> At this point in the pandemic (capitalized or not?) it makes sense to identify the many different emotions and patterns of daily living can be attributed to what for most people is a very attenuated life. At least a life lived to the fullest. Lessons or habits learned throughout a seesaw nearly-two-year scourge?</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> I write in haste, the two that occur to me: how important it is to keep a schedule - but not too perfectly; and the </span>necessity of reading at least one book a week. Book titles are my diary of sorts. The object of holding on to some sort of daily schedule is to know how and when to break it. Finally late January 2022, I do just : I become a tourist in New York City - traveling by train to Manhattan and staying two nights in a hotel while visiting friends whom I have not seen and barely talked with in two years. In normal times such a trip would involve theater and some semblance of social life. For one couple who are keeping strict discipline to be apart from strangers inside a building, this involves dinner outside under a plastic tent. A single heater bar overhead sustains us - barely - along with the handout plastic packet revealing a sheet of shiny silver mylar to cover our legs. A compromise, always the compromise. To enter museums it is necessary to order a visiting period ahead online and to give proof of ID and vaccinations at the door. The upside is fewer people around, a less crowded city, and a vague sense of time suspended. I miss the absence of </span></span></span></span>spontaneity: strangers communicating. The mandated mask policy inhibits such a thing. </p><p><span> As for getting through ordinary days, I am not the only person I'm sure to fall prey to addiction to New York Times cooking column or App or whatever comes with my print subscription. Sam Sifton is my guide most of the time. I ignore the lures of games and crosswords in favor of parsing recipes and treating them as treasure hunts: do I/will I have the ingredients to try this or that new or familiar challenge and what will happen as I must boldly reduce each one by three-quarters. (The live-alone syndrome.) Mainly I fail in the attempt, being an impatient soul, but I end up with some sense of being on a journey that substitutes in some small way, for being out in the world.</span><br /></p><p><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><br /></span></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3168206437120863468.post-44056440822781343552021-12-08T17:28:00.005-08:002021-12-08T17:28:50.339-08:00December Decides<p> <span> </span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span>About our pandemic future. Will we be able to adjust to future requests (demands) for protection? Boosters forever?</span></p>Urbanitieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17176112626323198876noreply@blogger.com0