Just prior to the autumn equinox sun and warmth clung to the last few days of summer. We headed north. The day was quiet. It was Monday and children were in school, adults at work. The northbound lakefront path was lightly traveled. We rode through Evanston's Lakeshore Historic District, past blocks of large, venerable homes that suggest lives of wealth and priviledge. Coming to the Northwestern campus we were met with the sight of scores of students rushing to their 10 o'clock class across the park like campus with it's imposing gothic architecture. I thought about the generation that seperates their life from mine, reflecting on what they might encounter as time moves forward.
We stop at Gross Point Lighthouse, a white finger pointing skyward surrounded by lawns and beds of late season flowers. Small waves created a soul soothing sound as they lapped against the shore.
We continue north to the Bahai Temple in Wilmette. It is contemporary beauty inspired by ages old tradition, it's landmark dome an intricate network of shapes and images. Surrounded by gardens, fountains and reflecting pools it's setting is calming and spiritual. As we near it a deer nonchalantly crosses the street ahead of us followed by a speckled fawn, playfully bounding after it as if aware of the few warm days of summer left before the cool, color filled autumn months and then the cold of winter sets in.
We moved onward to a nearby park. We admire the outdoor theatre there and revel in the mix of lake, clear, sunny sky and late summer green. Spying a tiny harbor which created a picturesque tableau of sailboat masts and trees with the temple's dome rising above we stop to take a photo.
Monday, October 12, 2015
Monday, September 21, 2015
Window to a World
It was the Friday after Thanksgiving. It is referred to as "Black Friday" in the retail trade. Traditionally it is the day stores have covered their annual expenses for the year and begin to show a profit putting them "in the black". I was up at an absurd hour to get to work and open a store at an even more absurd hour. As I looked out of my kitchen window, coffee mug in hand, I realized that mine were among only a small handful lights shining in the numerous windows in the cityscape before me.
Windows, to those inside they let light in and allow them to see out. To those outside they can allow us to see in. The artist Edward Hopper used windows extensively in his work. The patrons of the cafe in "Nighthawks" are viewed through a window. A cash register and display risers can be seen through the windows of one of the shops in the background. In another of his works the scene he is conveying is shown through a window. You are on the inside looking out.
In Amsterdam we caught views of the residents through the windows of centuries old canal houses. The interior rooms of many of these venerable structures seemed to have been "vanilla boxed", clean white walls replacing the ornate, verging on fussy, decoration of restored rooms such as those shown in the city's Loon Museum. All we saw seemed to contain an abundance of books. Some contained a collection hung on the austere walls. I recall the mass of antlers displayed in one otherwise spare room. In Rome one sees painted wood beams inside ancient buildings. The windows of St. Mark's Square in Venice showcase massive crystal chandeliers. My husband caught on camera a tender, almost intimate moment. A father and son stood in their window watching the canal traffic pass by.
Along Chicago's Astor Street, home to some of the city's wealthiest residents, curtains are not drawn over the expansive windows of the late 19th century row homes allowing you to view the luxurious, antique filled rooms of the urban elite. During the Christmas holidays trees festooned with lights and dripping ornaments become points of pride shared with one's neighbors in homes both massive and modest. In my neighbor hood a grand piano dominates the window of one apartment. I imagine the love of music which resides there.
We once resided in a high rise which provided us with a cornucopia of private lives conducted in the high rise across the narrow street. I remain amused at the lack of modesty of the ample woman tidying up her dining room after a Seder dinner clad only in her bra and half slip. There was the beefy man, towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair over his window sill radiator. On another occasion he restlessly paced back and forth while waiting for a date. There was the gay couple whose leopard print furniture was always covered with sheets to safeguard it from the fading effects of the sun. I began to suspect that the ornaments were hot glued to their artificial Christmas tree as they appeared to be placed in exactly the same spots year after year.
It was brought to my attention that as we can see these people they could also see us. A friend remarked that two friends he had in the building across the street referred to our aged pet as "the cat that doesn't move. She had a favorite spot where the sun streamed in the window creating a circle of warmth where she would lay for hours.
In Costa Rica we were caught looking out at guests arriving for a party at the hotel we were staying in. Three handsome young teenagers, dressed in their best, looked up from the plaza in front of the room where the party was being held, saw us in the window and gave us a thumbs up. We probably should have remembered to turn off the lights in our room.
Windows, to those inside they let light in and allow them to see out. To those outside they can allow us to see in. The artist Edward Hopper used windows extensively in his work. The patrons of the cafe in "Nighthawks" are viewed through a window. A cash register and display risers can be seen through the windows of one of the shops in the background. In another of his works the scene he is conveying is shown through a window. You are on the inside looking out.
In Amsterdam we caught views of the residents through the windows of centuries old canal houses. The interior rooms of many of these venerable structures seemed to have been "vanilla boxed", clean white walls replacing the ornate, verging on fussy, decoration of restored rooms such as those shown in the city's Loon Museum. All we saw seemed to contain an abundance of books. Some contained a collection hung on the austere walls. I recall the mass of antlers displayed in one otherwise spare room. In Rome one sees painted wood beams inside ancient buildings. The windows of St. Mark's Square in Venice showcase massive crystal chandeliers. My husband caught on camera a tender, almost intimate moment. A father and son stood in their window watching the canal traffic pass by.
Along Chicago's Astor Street, home to some of the city's wealthiest residents, curtains are not drawn over the expansive windows of the late 19th century row homes allowing you to view the luxurious, antique filled rooms of the urban elite. During the Christmas holidays trees festooned with lights and dripping ornaments become points of pride shared with one's neighbors in homes both massive and modest. In my neighbor hood a grand piano dominates the window of one apartment. I imagine the love of music which resides there.
We once resided in a high rise which provided us with a cornucopia of private lives conducted in the high rise across the narrow street. I remain amused at the lack of modesty of the ample woman tidying up her dining room after a Seder dinner clad only in her bra and half slip. There was the beefy man, towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair over his window sill radiator. On another occasion he restlessly paced back and forth while waiting for a date. There was the gay couple whose leopard print furniture was always covered with sheets to safeguard it from the fading effects of the sun. I began to suspect that the ornaments were hot glued to their artificial Christmas tree as they appeared to be placed in exactly the same spots year after year.
It was brought to my attention that as we can see these people they could also see us. A friend remarked that two friends he had in the building across the street referred to our aged pet as "the cat that doesn't move. She had a favorite spot where the sun streamed in the window creating a circle of warmth where she would lay for hours.
In Costa Rica we were caught looking out at guests arriving for a party at the hotel we were staying in. Three handsome young teenagers, dressed in their best, looked up from the plaza in front of the room where the party was being held, saw us in the window and gave us a thumbs up. We probably should have remembered to turn off the lights in our room.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Degrees of Seperation - Patty Hearst
It was one of the great crimes of it's day, the kidnapping of newspaper heiress Patty Hearst. She was taken from her apartment in the middle of the night half naked, although that detail was quickly hushed up due to her father's influence over the media of that time. Her abductors were a ragtag, misfit group of militant activists who had dubbed themselves the "Symbionese Liberation Army". Their ransom demand was that millions of dollars of food be distributed to the poor. This turned into a fiasco when a near riot broke out during the first attempt of distributing of a portion of the demanded amount.
Eventually Patty became a victim of "Stockholm Syndrome" where a captive becomes attached to her captives and, in this case, sympathetic to their goals and ideologies. She had an affair with one member of the militant group during her time with them. Judging from photos he was kind of hot and, taking into account her distressed psychological state I was not unsympathetic to her goals and ideology. Her full immersion into the group reached a zenith when we witnessed famous images of her, captured by security cameras, in military style beret, holding a machine gun during a bank robbery. I recall a Halloween party several years later when a friend of mine went as Ms. Hearst using the grainy surveillance photos, and later posed images of the heiress, as her inspiration.
As the back stories of the group were discovered one incident in particular stuck close to home. One member, Nancy Ling Perry, thwarted a burglary of her rented residence in my high school home town of Concord, California. As she kept the would be thief from ever entering the home it's interior was not a crime scene and the police, when they arrived, had no legal right to enter or search the house. Ms. Perry denied them entrance, perhaps, it was suggested later, because there may have been literature and arms stored there in anticipation of the group's later misdeeds. There was a news photo taken of Ms. Perry at the time standing in the front yard of the suburban ranch style home, her arms crossed, the expression on her face a mixture of defiance and anger.
The majority of the SLA members perished in an inferno during a violent confrontation with law enforcement. Three members survived and went into hiding. Ms. Hearst and a married couple, both university professors, Bill and Emily Harris. The Harrises were taken into custody decades later, recognized by neighbors after being profiled on "America's Most Wanted". Patty was captured several months after the inferno. Police found her in a San Francisco apartment with militant activist Wendy Yoshimura. Convicted of armed robbery, her 7 year prison sentence was commuted by President Carter and she was released after serving 3 years. Eventually she was granted a full pardon by President Clinton. She appeared in several John Waters movies including "Serial Mom" where she is beaten to death with a pay phone by Kathleen Turner for wearing white shoes after Labor Day. Ms. Turner's character in this film took the rules of fashion quite seriously.
In my late teens I dated, briefly, a man living in Berkeley, California. True to Berkeley fashion he eked out a living as a psychic reader and trainer. One evening he and several of his housemates were discussing whether or not their names were on file with the FBI, a badge of honor among certain social groups in those times. The principal reason they felt that they might be "on file" was that Wendy Yoshimura had visited them in the house they shared, apparently more than once.
A few years ago I read an article on the offspring of several artists and celebrities regarding their career choices. Among those profiled was the daughter of Patty Hearst. There is more than a passing resemblance between mother and daughter. Remarking to a 20 something how much Ms. Heart's daughter looked like her mother the 20 something remarked, "I don't know who Patty Hearst is". It was one of those moments that made me feel really, really old.
Eventually Patty became a victim of "Stockholm Syndrome" where a captive becomes attached to her captives and, in this case, sympathetic to their goals and ideologies. She had an affair with one member of the militant group during her time with them. Judging from photos he was kind of hot and, taking into account her distressed psychological state I was not unsympathetic to her goals and ideology. Her full immersion into the group reached a zenith when we witnessed famous images of her, captured by security cameras, in military style beret, holding a machine gun during a bank robbery. I recall a Halloween party several years later when a friend of mine went as Ms. Hearst using the grainy surveillance photos, and later posed images of the heiress, as her inspiration.
As the back stories of the group were discovered one incident in particular stuck close to home. One member, Nancy Ling Perry, thwarted a burglary of her rented residence in my high school home town of Concord, California. As she kept the would be thief from ever entering the home it's interior was not a crime scene and the police, when they arrived, had no legal right to enter or search the house. Ms. Perry denied them entrance, perhaps, it was suggested later, because there may have been literature and arms stored there in anticipation of the group's later misdeeds. There was a news photo taken of Ms. Perry at the time standing in the front yard of the suburban ranch style home, her arms crossed, the expression on her face a mixture of defiance and anger.
The majority of the SLA members perished in an inferno during a violent confrontation with law enforcement. Three members survived and went into hiding. Ms. Hearst and a married couple, both university professors, Bill and Emily Harris. The Harrises were taken into custody decades later, recognized by neighbors after being profiled on "America's Most Wanted". Patty was captured several months after the inferno. Police found her in a San Francisco apartment with militant activist Wendy Yoshimura. Convicted of armed robbery, her 7 year prison sentence was commuted by President Carter and she was released after serving 3 years. Eventually she was granted a full pardon by President Clinton. She appeared in several John Waters movies including "Serial Mom" where she is beaten to death with a pay phone by Kathleen Turner for wearing white shoes after Labor Day. Ms. Turner's character in this film took the rules of fashion quite seriously.
In my late teens I dated, briefly, a man living in Berkeley, California. True to Berkeley fashion he eked out a living as a psychic reader and trainer. One evening he and several of his housemates were discussing whether or not their names were on file with the FBI, a badge of honor among certain social groups in those times. The principal reason they felt that they might be "on file" was that Wendy Yoshimura had visited them in the house they shared, apparently more than once.
A few years ago I read an article on the offspring of several artists and celebrities regarding their career choices. Among those profiled was the daughter of Patty Hearst. There is more than a passing resemblance between mother and daughter. Remarking to a 20 something how much Ms. Heart's daughter looked like her mother the 20 something remarked, "I don't know who Patty Hearst is". It was one of those moments that made me feel really, really old.
Friday, August 21, 2015
Minnesota 2015
Minnesota, it was virgin territory for me. But, through travel via trains, planes and automobiles, and for one memorable afternoon, the back of a motorcycle, I feel I have now made it's acquaintance. I was able to experience both the urban oasis of the twin cities and the relative wilderness of the north.
I am a city dweller. I like to have my cultural arenas as well as my physical necessities a short walk, train or bus ride away. Densely populated urban areas, correctly planned and managed, are enviormentally efficient places. I, by living in a city, use less land and travel shorter distances resulting in a smaller impact on the enviorment. This density allows us to turn more land over to a natural state. Much of Minnesota is left to this state. I enjoyed the discovery of an area with wilderness vast enough to allow nature to be left to itself.
On the flip side I enjoyed, just as much, the opportunity to experience the art, culture and laid back, friendly vibe of Minneapolis. I felt welcomed. It, through a combination of design and chance, has managed to maintain much of it's history. Too many American cities have destroyed the old and replaced it with faceless new. Minneapolis processes an eclectic charm that spoke to me. Since my return I've said more than once that, if they had to evacuate Chicago and I had to make a new home elsewhere, Minneapolis would be a top contender.
Thank you to my wonderful family, my travel buddy and the state of Minnesota. I had a lovely and memorable time!
I am a city dweller. I like to have my cultural arenas as well as my physical necessities a short walk, train or bus ride away. Densely populated urban areas, correctly planned and managed, are enviormentally efficient places. I, by living in a city, use less land and travel shorter distances resulting in a smaller impact on the enviorment. This density allows us to turn more land over to a natural state. Much of Minnesota is left to this state. I enjoyed the discovery of an area with wilderness vast enough to allow nature to be left to itself.
On the flip side I enjoyed, just as much, the opportunity to experience the art, culture and laid back, friendly vibe of Minneapolis. I felt welcomed. It, through a combination of design and chance, has managed to maintain much of it's history. Too many American cities have destroyed the old and replaced it with faceless new. Minneapolis processes an eclectic charm that spoke to me. Since my return I've said more than once that, if they had to evacuate Chicago and I had to make a new home elsewhere, Minneapolis would be a top contender.
Thank you to my wonderful family, my travel buddy and the state of Minnesota. I had a lovely and memorable time!
Minnesota 2015 - Train Through the Wilderness
As we left the small resort where we had our final dinner we paused a moment to read the historical marker adjacent to the winter ATV trail across the dirt road. The marker suggests that the trail follows the track of a train that traveled through this almost complete wilderness built to serve the logging companies that operated there. Apparently the ride on that train was rough, not for the faint of heart. The sign further noted that when the trains got to their destination they were "splattered" with the remains of the animals they had struck along the way. That was the exact term used, "splattered". As I returned to the car I thought that perhaps the U.S. government department in charge of historical markers should invest in a thesaurus.
Minnesota 2015 - Country Roads and Wildlife
In the upper portion of Minnesota 2 lane paved roads sometimes seem a luxury. The road as well as the driveway leading to the cabin are packed dirt and gravel. Deep, dense wilderness graces each side. In some spots the sun shining through overhanging trees dapple the bare ground of the tiny road with light. Sometimes we traveled through tunnels of green, the dense foliage obscuring the sky. In some areas the trees looked as if they had been trimmed, a 30 foot tall hedge looming over us as we drove, with the car top down, along roads that had no names or numbers.
The paved roads roll up and down, veering off into crazy, unexpected turns like a roller coaster. They follow the terrain. They do not, like some cross country thoroughfares, blast through a mountain or hill to remain straight and unwavering, they commune with them, caressing their curves and changes in elevation.
The wilderness hides the wildlife. Save for the one that jumped across the road some distance in front of us while driving down a forest encrusted stretch my travel buddy remarked on the lack of deer. He has feeders at the edge of the woods that surround the cabin. He fills them with table scraps and corn. Moments after he said this, a deer, as if waiting for us, stood in the yard in front of the cabin as we approached. Startled, it bounded into the tangle of trees. Later we watched from the windows as a doe, accompanied by two speckled fawns, emerged from the brush to feast on the food we had left for them. I saw my last one on my final morning checking the feeder before returning to the protection of the trees and undergrowth.
The chipmunks were almost fearless. They scampered around the deck and along the railing. They dashed around our feet picking up the peanuts we tossed to them, shoving them in their cheeks before scurrying off to stash them in their burrows, insurance against winter's long onslaught.
Red breasted hummingbirds visited their feeder. Other tiny birds picked at the sunflower seeds, the ones the greedy chipmunks had not already made off with, in the tin plates nailed to the deck railing. A family of ducks grazed in the deep grass on the slope that leads down to the lakes edge and the call of a loon was heard in the quiet air in this place where man's footstep is gentle and unobtrusive.
The paved roads roll up and down, veering off into crazy, unexpected turns like a roller coaster. They follow the terrain. They do not, like some cross country thoroughfares, blast through a mountain or hill to remain straight and unwavering, they commune with them, caressing their curves and changes in elevation.
The wilderness hides the wildlife. Save for the one that jumped across the road some distance in front of us while driving down a forest encrusted stretch my travel buddy remarked on the lack of deer. He has feeders at the edge of the woods that surround the cabin. He fills them with table scraps and corn. Moments after he said this, a deer, as if waiting for us, stood in the yard in front of the cabin as we approached. Startled, it bounded into the tangle of trees. Later we watched from the windows as a doe, accompanied by two speckled fawns, emerged from the brush to feast on the food we had left for them. I saw my last one on my final morning checking the feeder before returning to the protection of the trees and undergrowth.
The chipmunks were almost fearless. They scampered around the deck and along the railing. They dashed around our feet picking up the peanuts we tossed to them, shoving them in their cheeks before scurrying off to stash them in their burrows, insurance against winter's long onslaught.
Red breasted hummingbirds visited their feeder. Other tiny birds picked at the sunflower seeds, the ones the greedy chipmunks had not already made off with, in the tin plates nailed to the deck railing. A family of ducks grazed in the deep grass on the slope that leads down to the lakes edge and the call of a loon was heard in the quiet air in this place where man's footstep is gentle and unobtrusive.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Minnesota 2015 - Lake Series #4
It is late afternoon. The wind is still. The lake lies flat and quiet serenely reflecting all that surrounds it. We watch the clouds in the blue sky, a shade of blue one dreams of, floating by overhead on it's surface. A family of ducks swim by. The ripples that trail them causes the image to waver for a moment. As the water stills the sharp focus of the reflected images returns. Trees on the opposite shore are joined, trunk to trunk, with liquid twins. Soon the wind will rise up again and the lake mirrors spell, lake those in a children's fairy tale, will be broken. But for now we sit quietly, enjoying the sensation of two world's contained in one.
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