For all who were not at City Hall yesterday, I'd like to share the gist of my initial address in my quest to become interim mayor.
Five months. That doesn't seem like a lot of time in the great scheme of things, does it? More on that in a moment. I first want to establish that I am well acquainted with the mechanics of local government. As a young journalist, I spent many years covering both state and local news, from city hall meetings -- like the one we're having today, to elections -- such as we anticipate here in the spring, to public works projects projects -- ranging from something as enormous as deep tunnel sewers in a large city, to getting a working snow blower in a small town. But in addition to my experience in journalistic and legal matters, I also know a thing or two about children. I not only grew up the oldest girl of 10 of them, but I've also been an educator for nearly 20 years. I have taught children of all economic backgrounds, ethnicities, and capabilities -- both physical and intellectual. One of the local papers reported that "Rukavina's focus seems to be on children." Well, yes it is. Because they comprise a large segment of this community's population. And what all of these children have in common is one thing: They are going to inherit, in a few short years, the vestiges of the mess that this country is in. I want to put a positive spin on that looming challenge. As interim mayor, I intend to light a fire under them -- to get them excited and interested in local government as a living, breathing entity that not only affects them, but which they themselves can positively and profoundly affect, long before they reach voting age. This is not only an important step in their development, but will also serve the rest of us well, as we all become older and they assume more responsibilities and control. I know something else about children, too. They are a lot quicker on the uptake than you or I. They have shown me time and again just how much they can learn in a few short weeks. What I can do with them in just five months as interim mayor could be astounding. On another note, you are all aware that this is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and accordingly, I am also doing this for all the women like myself who have to fight this insidious disease -- to urge all of them to dream big. I have already demonstrated that a 48-year-old cancer survivor can become the oldest person ever accepted into a dance major program in the history of Louisiana, and achieve a 4.0. I would love to show you what I can also do with the challenge of serving as interim mayor. Thank you.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
An Elevated Lifestyle
Back in the late 1970s, when I first began my newspaper career, I researched and wrote a piece about underground homes. Even in the smalltown, semi-rural area where I cut my teeth as a journalist, there were a few mavericks who opted for this type of residence. What fueled interest in such homes at that time was a combination of the energy crisis and heightened fear about the prospect of nuclear winter. But make no mistake about it -- these new age dwellers wanted you to know that their homes might be "low" in stature but high in amenities and comfort.
In fact, not long after I wrote my article, the founder of Celestial Seasonings Tea Company, John Hays, "carved out" what had to be the most opulent underground dwelling of all, in an Arkansas mountainside, complete with stalactites, in preparation for what he believed was the looming holocaust. This luxurious bomb shelter later became the subject of a layout in People magazine, when John's wife, several years later, decided that the couple was no longer in imminent danger and tried to sell the multi-million dollar property.
The property was sold to a fellow who thought it would make a fantastic nightclub; he fixed it up further and even added a heliport. The grand opening saw the likes of Michael Jackson, Liz Taylor, Tom Selleck and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Although the club was an initial hit, it closed after a year for not being sufficiently profitable. The property was sold again and again (in fact, at one point, back to the original owner) and went through various troubles until finally being converted into a lodge in 1998 which has served it well ever since.
Now I bring all of this up because the topic of underground living has been making recent headlines -- but not at all in the same way or for the same reasons as previously.
You see, in the several years that I've owned my "treehouse," I've come to love the feeling of sleeping in the trees, even though that might be a bit of a stretch -- literally. That is, if I reached my hand outside any window on the 2nd floor, I could touch one of the towering pines that surround my home, and so I feel I have made a presentable case for deeming this a "treehouse," which, by definition, connotes a physical loftiness. A sanctuary in which to transcend the travails of common life.
That is why I've lately become fascinated with the lives of underground dwellers, such as those romanticized in the former TV series, "Beauty and the Beast." TV magazine shows have focused recently on people who live in the underground drains in Las Vegas. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people there have found a niche in these dank, cavernous places, and somehow made them "home," with beds, books, perhaps even a rigged up shower. There is no ventilation, no light except for flashlights or candles. There is the ever present danger presented by co-residing black widow spider, as well as by the prospect of rain/flooding, which has claimed some 20 lives to date.
These creatures, which call to mind the "Omega Man" mutants who can't stand daylight, periodically emerge to make their "living," scouring the slot machines for coins and credit slips, "earning" as much as $500 a day. Yet, they still cannot permanently pull themselves out from their hovels. As it turns out, many of them found their way into this lifestyle via drug and alcohol dependency which they now claim to have beaten, although a few still fear coming back up in to the general populace due to outstanding drug-related arrest warrants.
Reading between the lines, it also seems that these folks have found a strange comfort level in living immediately below the glitz and glamour and cacophony that defines the Vegas strip. And who's to say which is more aberrant?
This way of life is getting a lot of press because of the ongoing deep recession that has affected all of us.
But, it is actually nothing new. Decades back, stories abounded about the "mole people" of New York such as this one dating back to 1990: http://www.nytimes.com/1990/06/13/nyregion/in-tunnel-mole-people-fight-to-save-home.html
And now that more people than ever are out of work or underemployed, uninsured or underinsured, such tales of Hades-esque survival are resurfacing: http://www.nypost.com/p/entertainment/notes_from_the_underground_cBpY2m15R9J0ysIm58QK1M .
Not exactly the kind of New York that would ever show up in a segment of "Sex and the City," but compelling nonetheless.
Oddly, resorting to the underworld is not relegated solely to major metropolises: http://www.clickorlando.com/news/14673988/detail.html
In these times, I am more grateful than ever to be "above ground."
In fact, not long after I wrote my article, the founder of Celestial Seasonings Tea Company, John Hays, "carved out" what had to be the most opulent underground dwelling of all, in an Arkansas mountainside, complete with stalactites, in preparation for what he believed was the looming holocaust. This luxurious bomb shelter later became the subject of a layout in People magazine, when John's wife, several years later, decided that the couple was no longer in imminent danger and tried to sell the multi-million dollar property.
The property was sold to a fellow who thought it would make a fantastic nightclub; he fixed it up further and even added a heliport. The grand opening saw the likes of Michael Jackson, Liz Taylor, Tom Selleck and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Although the club was an initial hit, it closed after a year for not being sufficiently profitable. The property was sold again and again (in fact, at one point, back to the original owner) and went through various troubles until finally being converted into a lodge in 1998 which has served it well ever since.
Now I bring all of this up because the topic of underground living has been making recent headlines -- but not at all in the same way or for the same reasons as previously.
You see, in the several years that I've owned my "treehouse," I've come to love the feeling of sleeping in the trees, even though that might be a bit of a stretch -- literally. That is, if I reached my hand outside any window on the 2nd floor, I could touch one of the towering pines that surround my home, and so I feel I have made a presentable case for deeming this a "treehouse," which, by definition, connotes a physical loftiness. A sanctuary in which to transcend the travails of common life.
That is why I've lately become fascinated with the lives of underground dwellers, such as those romanticized in the former TV series, "Beauty and the Beast." TV magazine shows have focused recently on people who live in the underground drains in Las Vegas. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people there have found a niche in these dank, cavernous places, and somehow made them "home," with beds, books, perhaps even a rigged up shower. There is no ventilation, no light except for flashlights or candles. There is the ever present danger presented by co-residing black widow spider, as well as by the prospect of rain/flooding, which has claimed some 20 lives to date.
These creatures, which call to mind the "Omega Man" mutants who can't stand daylight, periodically emerge to make their "living," scouring the slot machines for coins and credit slips, "earning" as much as $500 a day. Yet, they still cannot permanently pull themselves out from their hovels. As it turns out, many of them found their way into this lifestyle via drug and alcohol dependency which they now claim to have beaten, although a few still fear coming back up in to the general populace due to outstanding drug-related arrest warrants.
Reading between the lines, it also seems that these folks have found a strange comfort level in living immediately below the glitz and glamour and cacophony that defines the Vegas strip. And who's to say which is more aberrant?
This way of life is getting a lot of press because of the ongoing deep recession that has affected all of us.
But, it is actually nothing new. Decades back, stories abounded about the "mole people" of New York such as this one dating back to 1990: http://www.nytimes.com/1990/06/13/nyregion/in-tunnel-mole-people-fight-to-save-home.html
And now that more people than ever are out of work or underemployed, uninsured or underinsured, such tales of Hades-esque survival are resurfacing: http://www.nypost.com/p/entertainment/notes_from_the_underground_cBpY2m15R9J0ysIm58QK1M .
Not exactly the kind of New York that would ever show up in a segment of "Sex and the City," but compelling nonetheless.
Oddly, resorting to the underworld is not relegated solely to major metropolises: http://www.clickorlando.com/news/14673988/detail.html
In these times, I am more grateful than ever to be "above ground."
Friday, September 18, 2009
Last one out, please shut off the lights ...
There's a reason, I'm beginning to see, that I have somehow found myself residing in a treehouse of sorts in Mandeville, Louisiana. It's apparent that divine intervention led me to a place which -- although creating the inherent need for me to commute quite a bit -- offers me solace during stressful times.
It's not just the stress that is concomitant with continuing to assemble a new life after Katrina.
And, it's not just the stress that accompanies the enormous medical and financial challenges I've dealt with since May 2008, arising from the actions of an unscrupulous dentist.
There's something else going on. Something much bigger. It's the animosity that people display these days. Ted Kennedy dies and the Times Picayune's comment section below the story is bursting with largely vitriolic barbs, seemingly written with great pleasure. Not only do the posters jab at the deceased, but at each other, with a "can you top this" relish.
Just when I wonder if perhaps this is something attributable to demographics, I read, several days later, in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel (the newspaper of my hometown where I maintain a very modest lake retreat), that the Wauwatosa (suburb) school superintendent now regrets his decision regarding our president's recent address to school children. Seems that Mr. Ertl actually "banned" the address from being heard. And now -- perhaps due to not gaining as much support for his decision as he'd anticipated -- he waffles after the fact.
You know, I remember these comic books we received in grade school in the early 1960s, during the Cold War. They actually more resembled the type of graphic/comic works that have become quite the trend as of late. The ones I recall reading as a 10-year-old portrayed Russians as being sinister creatures lurking everywhere, under my bed, just outside my door, in the closet ... just waiting to pounce upon me and turn me into a Communist.
Well, I have news. The bogeyman is alive and well. And he's right here, even in my bucolic semi-rural setting. He lives in you and he lives in me, every time we pre-judge and condemn, every time we practice intolerance, every time we react with knee jerks and fear and ignorance, instead of with compassion, independent judgment, critical thinking, and the willingness to lend consideration to the beliefs and ideas of others.
We don't need anyone else's help to diminish our country and the principles upon which it was founded. We are doing just fine on our own.
It's not just the stress that is concomitant with continuing to assemble a new life after Katrina.
And, it's not just the stress that accompanies the enormous medical and financial challenges I've dealt with since May 2008, arising from the actions of an unscrupulous dentist.
There's something else going on. Something much bigger. It's the animosity that people display these days. Ted Kennedy dies and the Times Picayune's comment section below the story is bursting with largely vitriolic barbs, seemingly written with great pleasure. Not only do the posters jab at the deceased, but at each other, with a "can you top this" relish.
Just when I wonder if perhaps this is something attributable to demographics, I read, several days later, in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel (the newspaper of my hometown where I maintain a very modest lake retreat), that the Wauwatosa (suburb) school superintendent now regrets his decision regarding our president's recent address to school children. Seems that Mr. Ertl actually "banned" the address from being heard. And now -- perhaps due to not gaining as much support for his decision as he'd anticipated -- he waffles after the fact.
You know, I remember these comic books we received in grade school in the early 1960s, during the Cold War. They actually more resembled the type of graphic/comic works that have become quite the trend as of late. The ones I recall reading as a 10-year-old portrayed Russians as being sinister creatures lurking everywhere, under my bed, just outside my door, in the closet ... just waiting to pounce upon me and turn me into a Communist.
Well, I have news. The bogeyman is alive and well. And he's right here, even in my bucolic semi-rural setting. He lives in you and he lives in me, every time we pre-judge and condemn, every time we practice intolerance, every time we react with knee jerks and fear and ignorance, instead of with compassion, independent judgment, critical thinking, and the willingness to lend consideration to the beliefs and ideas of others.
We don't need anyone else's help to diminish our country and the principles upon which it was founded. We are doing just fine on our own.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sometimes an ordinary notion ...
It's been 8 years since 9/11. A little over 4 since Katrina. And, gosh, how many years, or months, or weeks, or days, can we say since THE RECESSION began? No wonder, that feeling unsettled has become my modus operandi.
Of course, we know it's important to be present and to live in the moment. We're told that all the time by many who are sagacious on paper. People who never really needed reason to be counseled about fixating on the moment at hand. But when the timeline of your life really is a roller coaster, it's not so romantic a notion.
I love my treehouse in the semi-woods. And, I love my Sarah Crewe garret in Wisconsin. And, I don't mind working hard to hang onto both of these places. But, I do mind working at my main job in an atmosphere in which I really don't know, from day to day, what will happen in terms of staff, much less raises, bonuses and such. There's a pall, like a heavy duty nun's umbrella that casts a shadow so vast that sometimes I have to stretch very hard to see the sun.
The truth is, I wouldn't mind these days being a little bored. To have a routine that is fixed and stable long enough for me to exhale for a minute or two. And I wish that for those of my friends whom I know to be going through similar breath-holding.
It's not easy to be optimally creative when what's just outside the proverbial cave is potentially ominous.
So, tonight I won't write of the traveling I've done, the people I've reconnected with, or the various irons in the fire that I've got going on these days. Instead, on this anniversary of an event that took more than a little of our collective innocence away, I'll just sip a glass of red wine, take a hot bath, and pray for a tomorrow for all of us that contains just a little more joy and a little less stress.
Good night.
Of course, we know it's important to be present and to live in the moment. We're told that all the time by many who are sagacious on paper. People who never really needed reason to be counseled about fixating on the moment at hand. But when the timeline of your life really is a roller coaster, it's not so romantic a notion.
I love my treehouse in the semi-woods. And, I love my Sarah Crewe garret in Wisconsin. And, I don't mind working hard to hang onto both of these places. But, I do mind working at my main job in an atmosphere in which I really don't know, from day to day, what will happen in terms of staff, much less raises, bonuses and such. There's a pall, like a heavy duty nun's umbrella that casts a shadow so vast that sometimes I have to stretch very hard to see the sun.
The truth is, I wouldn't mind these days being a little bored. To have a routine that is fixed and stable long enough for me to exhale for a minute or two. And I wish that for those of my friends whom I know to be going through similar breath-holding.
It's not easy to be optimally creative when what's just outside the proverbial cave is potentially ominous.
So, tonight I won't write of the traveling I've done, the people I've reconnected with, or the various irons in the fire that I've got going on these days. Instead, on this anniversary of an event that took more than a little of our collective innocence away, I'll just sip a glass of red wine, take a hot bath, and pray for a tomorrow for all of us that contains just a little more joy and a little less stress.
Good night.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Bigger than Picasso?
Blessed be the month of August. On one hand, it is deplorably hot and humid in Louisiana. On the other, it is the month in which I get a reprieve of sorts. Ballet camps are over. Children's ballet lessons are on hiatus until the fall. And I have met my latest magazine deadine in good stead.
So, there is much I could be catching up with. But instead, I have chosen to do summertime things. Yesterday, I rose fairly late, then browsed briefly through Barnes & Noble (which, in Mandeville, is in a tasteful, laid back shopping center -- no malls in this neck of the woods -- with an assemblage of pines offering nice curb appeal).
Then on to a hair salon for a "serious" haircut. The salon is named after the owner who is named after a goddess. A good omen, I'd hoped. Over the years, I have resorted to taking a scissors to my own mane, due to traumatic experiences with "professionals" who are either hearing impaired or simply don't really care about the customer's stated specifications.
The end result was okay. I'd asked for layers -- lots of 'em -- as I have a great deal of natural wave that I'd rather not have to keep fighting into submission. I got some nice layers, although I would have preferred hanging onto more length. However, hair, unlike many other aspects of the human body, can grow quickly back. Anyway, it is a fait accompli for now, a great haircut for the dog days of summer.
Today, after 9:30 Mass where we were once again graced by our wonderful storytelling priest, I found myself driving past the intersection where I'd normally turn onto my street and kept heading straight towards Ponchatoula. From Mandeville over the bridge to the quaint town of Madisonville on the Tchefuncte River, and then nothing but miles of country road flanked by unwieldy shrubbery, wildflowers and all manner of tree life taking shapes and forms as if in some kind of strange competition.
The area prior to Ponchatoula is Bedico. It's hard to explain. You can't see much of any type of community. Most of the homes are (apparently) well off the main roadway. The homes that lie alongside the road are in no apparent pattern. Everything from shanties to one sort of Gone With The Wind inspired mini plantation. Besides that, there are a few Baptist churches, one or two independently owned gas stations, and a storage facility that boasts temperature control.
Along the way, I also saw for sale a vintage orange pickup with cream colored roof and a red sports car. A stuffed armchair in faded plaid was there for the taking. And signs affixed to telephone poles offered phone numbers for vinyl siding, tree grinding and such.
I arrived in the "antiques capital of America" shortly before noon. Since no shops were yet open, I went to Paul's Cafe, which is straight out of Lake Woebegon. Right before I entered the eatery, I noted that in front of the shop next door, which sells religious articles, was a display -- a resin version of the 10 Commandments tablets set upon an easel. Immediately behind them in the window was a sign advertising how to get certified to carry a concealed weapon. Interesting juxtaposition there.
I stood for a moment allowing a man in a Stetson and his missus to leave before I entered and proceeded to the sink in the back hallway to wash my hands. About half of the tables were full --it was not yet peak time at the cafe, but I opted to sit at the counter where I bravely ordered onion rings and an Abita beer. I don't think I've had onion rings in 15-20 years, but it seemed like the thing to have at the moment.
As I munched away, I thought of what a far cry this was from the fare I'd seen whipped up in the movie "Julie and Julia" last night. I'd gone with a friend and even though I'd had the foresight to pick up the tickets that afternoon to avoid standing in long lines in the muggy weather, I hadn't counted on most other people having the same idea. The theater was almost completely full when we entered leaving us no recourse but to sit in the 3rd row from the front, which I couldn't recall doing since childhood. My friend swore that when Julia Child was served this beautiful plate of fish in a Paris restaurant early in the film, she could actually smell the butter. It was that kind of movie -- just had you aching for some splendid fare, preferably al fresco in some cool night air with great companionship.
And yet, here I was the next day, making onion rings and a frosty beer my choice of 'delicacy.' Well, in Rome -- or, in this case, Ponchatoula ...
After leaving the cafe, I wandered in and out of a few shops. The last was one of those antique stores that is chock-a-block with vintage items that must have taken years to find their way to this destination. The owner was sitting comfortably behind his makeshift counter, chatting away with an old friend.
"Do you need some help?" he asked good-naturedly.
"Doesn't everyone?" I responded. We laughed together like old friends. I swear there is something about these communities and their Americana appeal that brings out a relaxed side of me -- as if there is nothing more pressing to do that day than muse about everyday things. And so we did. We spoke of the double-edged swordedness of the internet, the escalation of crime even in smalltown America, and eventually, of the recent passing of an artist in the town.
Bill Hemmerling was a window dresser for a Sears store. He didn't even know he was an artist until the last few years of his life. He was an innocent man who one day approached a furniture store and asked if he could have a go at decorating its front window display. He put his paintings in that window, and within no time, his Louisiana themed works, laced with pathos and history, were embraced by art collectors throughout America.
The antique shop owner (who sold me a vintage bookcase and hauled it into my vehicle for me, for the total price of $131) said that "Bill" had been a close friend of his. "I do some painting myself," he told me. "You know, Bill made a new painting every single day. He never was at a lost for subject matter. Me, I was always trying to find something new. But not Bill."
He became emotional when describing the funeral of Hemmerling, who succumbed to cancer after his glorious but all too brief artistic career. "You know Rodrigue, the blue dog artist?" he asked me. I nodded. "Rodrigue told me, in all seriousness, that in years to come, Bill's fame will surpass Picasso's."
The shopkeeper still keeps a couple stack of postcards of Hemmerling's work on the counter. I took a couple of them as lagniappe to my purchase. It's funny -- I actually touched, with my bare fingers, a Picasso sculpture at the Milwaukee Art Museum, last spring (it only lasted a split second and I couldn't help myself right before the security guard gave me a cautionary glance). But these postcards, they're the closest I've gotten so far to the work of this small town Louisiana folk artist.
So, there is much I could be catching up with. But instead, I have chosen to do summertime things. Yesterday, I rose fairly late, then browsed briefly through Barnes & Noble (which, in Mandeville, is in a tasteful, laid back shopping center -- no malls in this neck of the woods -- with an assemblage of pines offering nice curb appeal).
Then on to a hair salon for a "serious" haircut. The salon is named after the owner who is named after a goddess. A good omen, I'd hoped. Over the years, I have resorted to taking a scissors to my own mane, due to traumatic experiences with "professionals" who are either hearing impaired or simply don't really care about the customer's stated specifications.
The end result was okay. I'd asked for layers -- lots of 'em -- as I have a great deal of natural wave that I'd rather not have to keep fighting into submission. I got some nice layers, although I would have preferred hanging onto more length. However, hair, unlike many other aspects of the human body, can grow quickly back. Anyway, it is a fait accompli for now, a great haircut for the dog days of summer.
Today, after 9:30 Mass where we were once again graced by our wonderful storytelling priest, I found myself driving past the intersection where I'd normally turn onto my street and kept heading straight towards Ponchatoula. From Mandeville over the bridge to the quaint town of Madisonville on the Tchefuncte River, and then nothing but miles of country road flanked by unwieldy shrubbery, wildflowers and all manner of tree life taking shapes and forms as if in some kind of strange competition.
The area prior to Ponchatoula is Bedico. It's hard to explain. You can't see much of any type of community. Most of the homes are (apparently) well off the main roadway. The homes that lie alongside the road are in no apparent pattern. Everything from shanties to one sort of Gone With The Wind inspired mini plantation. Besides that, there are a few Baptist churches, one or two independently owned gas stations, and a storage facility that boasts temperature control.
Along the way, I also saw for sale a vintage orange pickup with cream colored roof and a red sports car. A stuffed armchair in faded plaid was there for the taking. And signs affixed to telephone poles offered phone numbers for vinyl siding, tree grinding and such.
I arrived in the "antiques capital of America" shortly before noon. Since no shops were yet open, I went to Paul's Cafe, which is straight out of Lake Woebegon. Right before I entered the eatery, I noted that in front of the shop next door, which sells religious articles, was a display -- a resin version of the 10 Commandments tablets set upon an easel. Immediately behind them in the window was a sign advertising how to get certified to carry a concealed weapon. Interesting juxtaposition there.
I stood for a moment allowing a man in a Stetson and his missus to leave before I entered and proceeded to the sink in the back hallway to wash my hands. About half of the tables were full --it was not yet peak time at the cafe, but I opted to sit at the counter where I bravely ordered onion rings and an Abita beer. I don't think I've had onion rings in 15-20 years, but it seemed like the thing to have at the moment.
As I munched away, I thought of what a far cry this was from the fare I'd seen whipped up in the movie "Julie and Julia" last night. I'd gone with a friend and even though I'd had the foresight to pick up the tickets that afternoon to avoid standing in long lines in the muggy weather, I hadn't counted on most other people having the same idea. The theater was almost completely full when we entered leaving us no recourse but to sit in the 3rd row from the front, which I couldn't recall doing since childhood. My friend swore that when Julia Child was served this beautiful plate of fish in a Paris restaurant early in the film, she could actually smell the butter. It was that kind of movie -- just had you aching for some splendid fare, preferably al fresco in some cool night air with great companionship.
And yet, here I was the next day, making onion rings and a frosty beer my choice of 'delicacy.' Well, in Rome -- or, in this case, Ponchatoula ...
After leaving the cafe, I wandered in and out of a few shops. The last was one of those antique stores that is chock-a-block with vintage items that must have taken years to find their way to this destination. The owner was sitting comfortably behind his makeshift counter, chatting away with an old friend.
"Do you need some help?" he asked good-naturedly.
"Doesn't everyone?" I responded. We laughed together like old friends. I swear there is something about these communities and their Americana appeal that brings out a relaxed side of me -- as if there is nothing more pressing to do that day than muse about everyday things. And so we did. We spoke of the double-edged swordedness of the internet, the escalation of crime even in smalltown America, and eventually, of the recent passing of an artist in the town.
Bill Hemmerling was a window dresser for a Sears store. He didn't even know he was an artist until the last few years of his life. He was an innocent man who one day approached a furniture store and asked if he could have a go at decorating its front window display. He put his paintings in that window, and within no time, his Louisiana themed works, laced with pathos and history, were embraced by art collectors throughout America.
The antique shop owner (who sold me a vintage bookcase and hauled it into my vehicle for me, for the total price of $131) said that "Bill" had been a close friend of his. "I do some painting myself," he told me. "You know, Bill made a new painting every single day. He never was at a lost for subject matter. Me, I was always trying to find something new. But not Bill."
He became emotional when describing the funeral of Hemmerling, who succumbed to cancer after his glorious but all too brief artistic career. "You know Rodrigue, the blue dog artist?" he asked me. I nodded. "Rodrigue told me, in all seriousness, that in years to come, Bill's fame will surpass Picasso's."
The shopkeeper still keeps a couple stack of postcards of Hemmerling's work on the counter. I took a couple of them as lagniappe to my purchase. It's funny -- I actually touched, with my bare fingers, a Picasso sculpture at the Milwaukee Art Museum, last spring (it only lasted a split second and I couldn't help myself right before the security guard gave me a cautionary glance). But these postcards, they're the closest I've gotten so far to the work of this small town Louisiana folk artist.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
They just keep goin' and goin' and goin'
Today marks 20 consecutive days now of wearing the same pants to the office -- and still no one has noticed/commented. What started out as an experiment in frugality during this recession has started getting more and more interesting.
Note: I do not wear the pants on casual Fridays because that would be unnecessarily pushing this little experiment. However, every Monday through Thursday, the pants go to work.
I initially wore the same blazer with the pants, but even I got a little sick of that early on, so I began rotating two different blazers (like the pants, from Goodwill).
I may, however, have to go back to wearing the same blazer each day, just to see if that makes a difference.
The result of this experiment so far:
1. People really don't notice all the little (and sometimes big) things about us nearly to the extent we think they do. (Even if they did, you can hardly be fired for wearing the same outfit to work each day).
2. It's kind of nice not having to wonder what I'm wearing each morning. Sure streamlines getting ready.
Note: I do not wear the pants on casual Fridays because that would be unnecessarily pushing this little experiment. However, every Monday through Thursday, the pants go to work.
I initially wore the same blazer with the pants, but even I got a little sick of that early on, so I began rotating two different blazers (like the pants, from Goodwill).
I may, however, have to go back to wearing the same blazer each day, just to see if that makes a difference.
The result of this experiment so far:
1. People really don't notice all the little (and sometimes big) things about us nearly to the extent we think they do. (Even if they did, you can hardly be fired for wearing the same outfit to work each day).
2. It's kind of nice not having to wonder what I'm wearing each morning. Sure streamlines getting ready.
Monday, June 29, 2009
I think that I will never see, something lovely as a tree ... house
Heavenly night. An hour and 15 minutes from the time I leave the New Orleans CBD (which abuts the French Quarter), I arrive back at the treehouse, where it smells divine. After 114 degree heat advisory, the rain has come. Not the torrential variety like we had last night, which created a plethora of lakes around the treehouse and makes me run to unplug everything that could possibly fry from lightning, but the steady, gentle, comforting kind that makes the air smell achingly sweet and fresh, and nourishes the staggering pines that surround me.
Several people asked me in New Orleans over the weekend when/if I was moving back to the south shore. They still don't understand that I'm bitten.
Bitten by all things small and wonderful. Like alighting from my car to see kids learn the basics of baseball on the green expanse out back. Like neighbors sitting on porches greeting me by name as I walk from my trusty Rocinante to the mailbox where a letter from my mother awaits. I know who's retired, who's working and where, and who's nuts. They, in turn, know me as the lady whose piano they hear while taking their dogs out for their nightly constitutionals. They like it, they say. So professional sounding, they say. Where could I find critics this generous in the city?
The thunder begins to rumble from a distance. The air conditioner hums contentedly. It's time to drain the pasta, have a glass of table wine, and curl up with a book from the library of children's literature at the top of the stairs. No ballet teaching tonight -- the children are enjoying a 4th of July holiday from the school all week.
A treehouse is a wonderful thing on a rainy evening in late June in Mandeville.
Several people asked me in New Orleans over the weekend when/if I was moving back to the south shore. They still don't understand that I'm bitten.
Bitten by all things small and wonderful. Like alighting from my car to see kids learn the basics of baseball on the green expanse out back. Like neighbors sitting on porches greeting me by name as I walk from my trusty Rocinante to the mailbox where a letter from my mother awaits. I know who's retired, who's working and where, and who's nuts. They, in turn, know me as the lady whose piano they hear while taking their dogs out for their nightly constitutionals. They like it, they say. So professional sounding, they say. Where could I find critics this generous in the city?
The thunder begins to rumble from a distance. The air conditioner hums contentedly. It's time to drain the pasta, have a glass of table wine, and curl up with a book from the library of children's literature at the top of the stairs. No ballet teaching tonight -- the children are enjoying a 4th of July holiday from the school all week.
A treehouse is a wonderful thing on a rainy evening in late June in Mandeville.
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