My kids and I were watching old episodes of The Office on DVD the other day. Jim took Dwight's "company" stapler and suspended it in jello. It was there on Dwight's desk, floating in a dome of goo, and I thought to myself, "Someone was actually given the job of making that jello mold and carefully placing that stapler so that it would be in the center of the gelatin when it set up."
I could be that someone.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Float Like a Butterfly . . .
Yesterday was Muhammad Ali's 65th birthday. NPR made this announcement and then relayed one of Ali's quotes: "If you even dream of beating me, you better wake up and apologize."
Gotta love that.
Gotta love that.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Interesting Old Covenant Rule
I am rereading the Bible this year. The last time I did this, I read the New International Version, but this time around I am reading The Message, a newer translation in "modern English," though sometimes the choice of words makes me think the translation team is a bit Mr. Rogers-ish. (I really admired Mr. Rogers. I grew up watching him and cried when he died.) Anyway, today I got to this verse from the last book of the Pentateuch, the book of Deuteronomy, chapter 22, verses 6-8.
When you come across a bird's nest alongside the road, whether in a tree or on the ground, and the mother is sitting on the young or on the eggs, don't take the mother with the young. You may take the babies, but let the mother go so that you will live a good and long life.
I thought that passage was intriguing, sandwiched in among all these lengthy and, to me, rather burdensome, strict and harsh rules concerning sexual conduct, ceremonial uncleanness and how to get rid of it, sacrificial policies (wow - that's a LOT of animals) and a long list of offenses punishable by death. It stood out, and not just because it gives people the right to relieve a mother of her children, but it asserts that she must go free. There's even a reward for doing this. They're talking birds here, and I give my loose interpretation tongue in cheek. I guess I was surprised to find this verse and wonder what the true significance is.
The next verse reads: When you build a new house, make a parapet around your roof to make it safe so that someone doesn't fall off and die and your family become responsible for the death.
We don't have a parapet around our roof, but we bought the house as is.
When you come across a bird's nest alongside the road, whether in a tree or on the ground, and the mother is sitting on the young or on the eggs, don't take the mother with the young. You may take the babies, but let the mother go so that you will live a good and long life.
I thought that passage was intriguing, sandwiched in among all these lengthy and, to me, rather burdensome, strict and harsh rules concerning sexual conduct, ceremonial uncleanness and how to get rid of it, sacrificial policies (wow - that's a LOT of animals) and a long list of offenses punishable by death. It stood out, and not just because it gives people the right to relieve a mother of her children, but it asserts that she must go free. There's even a reward for doing this. They're talking birds here, and I give my loose interpretation tongue in cheek. I guess I was surprised to find this verse and wonder what the true significance is.
The next verse reads: When you build a new house, make a parapet around your roof to make it safe so that someone doesn't fall off and die and your family become responsible for the death.
We don't have a parapet around our roof, but we bought the house as is.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
So That's What That Is!
I made a short shopping list today: coffee, crackers, cream cheese, Chicken & Stars (soup), chocolate milk and cereal. Walking out the back door, I noticed these items all begin with the letter C. Wow.Walking through the Metcalf's Sentry's beautiful produce section, I came upon this lovely fruit that I had never seen before. It's called Ugli and was $1.99 each. I remember seeing it in Lois Ehlert's book, Eating the Alphabet - a standard on any family bookshelf with kids under about age 7 or 8. She illustrated fruits and vegetables for each letter of the alphabet. U is for Ugli fruit. Well, then. Here it is. I haven't tasted it yet. Last week we tried a persimmon. It was just bloody awful. I hope this one tastes better than it's name. Sure is pretty.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Anticipation
This was our first sight of the warehouse from the south side of the river. No wonder we wanted to come back here with our cameras after first seeing this while geocaching. Gives you an idea how large the canvas was.
Oh, the Joy of Rust
Imagine how I felt when we found piles and piles of these rusty panels along the train tracks! I wanted to take the brightest one in the middle home and hang it on my garage, but it was just too darn heavy. They were about 11 x 7 inches long. They are used to hold the railroad ties in place along the tracks. There were hundreds of them in neatly spaced piles as far as the eye could see.
Squish?
I see an S, a possible E, then a Q . . . and then I give up. Can anyone read this? I just call it Squish.
Oy
I call this one "Oy" because that's all I imagine I can see in it. What about this one - what do you think it says?
Saturday, January 06, 2007
More Junk to Photograph
The light was overcast this morning, perfect for taking photos, so I called Dad and he agreed to join me on a little outing. We drove over near a geocache we had done last fall, and where we had seen some really nice graffiti. I drove and took a road I had never even seen before, which got us right to the trailhead behind the Badger Home. I was pleased.
We set off down the trail, which runs parallel to the river and some railroad tracks on the north and a huge mountain of garbage on the south. Just beyond the hill of garbage is Doyne Park Golf Course. It's almost like they bulldozed a bunch of buildings out of the way north towards the river, then built the nice slab of greensward on the leftovers up top, leaving a forested-over hill of detritus to spill down towards the river. Between the hill and the river is our trail. Our side of the trail, below the garbage ledge and away from the sun, is an amazing collage of old bricks, cement slabs, twisted metal and trash, laced through with indestructible garlic mustard, buckthorn and the trunks of resilient trees that have stood their rocky, littered ground. The photos don't really look that bad, but when you're standing there, in it, I suppose it's a testimony to how nature will overcome, literally, in the end. There are large sheets of rusted metal (my favorite) that have become one with the trees, trunks growing through and around them, encasing them in bark. There was a pile of younger trunks and branches in the midst of which I noticed a metal pipe. It blended in perfectly with the living limbs touching it.
I got a few photos of nice rusty remnants before we found the bridge which would take us across the river and to the railroad tracks, beyond which is the perfect tagger's canvas - a large, white warehouse, gleaming with brilliantly colored graffiti. Finding a chainlink fence and gate locked on the other side of the bridge, we snuck around a narrow passageway between the end of the bridge rail and the gate. Doing this required stepping around the fencepost on about a four-inch strip on concrete, clinging to the chainlink to swing around over the river about 25 feet below to the safe ground on the other side. I didn't mind doing it, but found it made me nervous to watch my Dad after me. We got out and began to walk back in the direction we had come along the trail, except now we were on the north side of the river and following the railroad tracks. Looking up, Dad noted a road right alongside the warehouse. It appeared to go straight out to State Street, where traffic was skipping along. I guess we could have just drove in that way and parked a few feet from the building, but then we wouldn't have had such a nice hike along the trash trail.
We were walking toward the graffiti when a truck came driving right down the tracks with its headlights on. I thought we were going to get yelled at for being back there, but the driver just waved as he passed by. We found wonderful piles of rusty metal track parts on our way to the warehouse. Then there was the graffiti itself, so large, complex and, to me, indecipherable. The smaller, simpler words are easy to read, but the larger, highly stylized mottos escape me. Who does these things? They're really very well done. I collected a bunch of spray can lids and took a photo of that, too.
After we had our fill of shooting, we headed back to the bridge and crossed over to the trail once more. On our way out we met a family: a mom and about four kids, and their pet boxer, Diamond. The first young child to reach me looked up eagerly and said, "Someone left their underpants in here." Somehow, we had missed the underpants, but I found a perfectly usable teaspoon and my dad found one orange golf ball to add to his collection.
We set off down the trail, which runs parallel to the river and some railroad tracks on the north and a huge mountain of garbage on the south. Just beyond the hill of garbage is Doyne Park Golf Course. It's almost like they bulldozed a bunch of buildings out of the way north towards the river, then built the nice slab of greensward on the leftovers up top, leaving a forested-over hill of detritus to spill down towards the river. Between the hill and the river is our trail. Our side of the trail, below the garbage ledge and away from the sun, is an amazing collage of old bricks, cement slabs, twisted metal and trash, laced through with indestructible garlic mustard, buckthorn and the trunks of resilient trees that have stood their rocky, littered ground. The photos don't really look that bad, but when you're standing there, in it, I suppose it's a testimony to how nature will overcome, literally, in the end. There are large sheets of rusted metal (my favorite) that have become one with the trees, trunks growing through and around them, encasing them in bark. There was a pile of younger trunks and branches in the midst of which I noticed a metal pipe. It blended in perfectly with the living limbs touching it.
I got a few photos of nice rusty remnants before we found the bridge which would take us across the river and to the railroad tracks, beyond which is the perfect tagger's canvas - a large, white warehouse, gleaming with brilliantly colored graffiti. Finding a chainlink fence and gate locked on the other side of the bridge, we snuck around a narrow passageway between the end of the bridge rail and the gate. Doing this required stepping around the fencepost on about a four-inch strip on concrete, clinging to the chainlink to swing around over the river about 25 feet below to the safe ground on the other side. I didn't mind doing it, but found it made me nervous to watch my Dad after me. We got out and began to walk back in the direction we had come along the trail, except now we were on the north side of the river and following the railroad tracks. Looking up, Dad noted a road right alongside the warehouse. It appeared to go straight out to State Street, where traffic was skipping along. I guess we could have just drove in that way and parked a few feet from the building, but then we wouldn't have had such a nice hike along the trash trail.
We were walking toward the graffiti when a truck came driving right down the tracks with its headlights on. I thought we were going to get yelled at for being back there, but the driver just waved as he passed by. We found wonderful piles of rusty metal track parts on our way to the warehouse. Then there was the graffiti itself, so large, complex and, to me, indecipherable. The smaller, simpler words are easy to read, but the larger, highly stylized mottos escape me. Who does these things? They're really very well done. I collected a bunch of spray can lids and took a photo of that, too.
After we had our fill of shooting, we headed back to the bridge and crossed over to the trail once more. On our way out we met a family: a mom and about four kids, and their pet boxer, Diamond. The first young child to reach me looked up eagerly and said, "Someone left their underpants in here." Somehow, we had missed the underpants, but I found a perfectly usable teaspoon and my dad found one orange golf ball to add to his collection.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Profound Discoveries
In the last 24 hours, I have discovered (at least) three things that really work: Scrubbing Bubbles bathroom cleaner, yoga, and Tylenol PM.
Latest Favorite Poem
This little bit is by Don Marquis (Archy and Mehitabel). It is now on our refrigerator, replacing the one about the plums that William Carlos Williams wrote.
Honesty
Honesty is a good thing
but it is not profitable to its possessor
unless it is kept under control.
IF you are not honest at all
everybody hates you
and if you are absolutely honest
you get martyred.
Honesty
Honesty is a good thing
but it is not profitable to its possessor
unless it is kept under control.
IF you are not honest at all
everybody hates you
and if you are absolutely honest
you get martyred.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Happy New Year
Today I went into my daughters' room to see what all the noise was about. I found that Laura was "renovating" her large, walk-in closet.
"What the heck are you doing in here?" I ask as I see she has all the shelves down and is pounding nails into the inside of the door frame.
"I'm redoing my closet, painting the wall, then putting it all back together," she answers, obviously trying to make me feel okay about whatever it is she is doing.
"Do you ever think of asking before doing these things," I reply hastily. "No one ever gave you permission to -- wow! That's really good," as I turn to the left and finally notice the mural she has painted on the closet wall. It's a painting of a man that she modeled after a photo from a National Geographic magazine. You can see it below. I also notice the inside of the closet door is splashed in all sorts of acrylic colors, dripping down the wood all the way to the floor. I glance quickly at the carpeting, expecting to see a mess, but there's just green carpet, thank God.
"If we ever want to sell the house, I can paint over the door," she adds with more calm-down-mother tones.
The nails, I am told, are for a large, doorway-sized loom she somehow plans to anchor down to the floor. Once this is under way, her younger sister will no longer be able to enter the closet. No matter, that. The artist must make art.
"What the heck are you doing in here?" I ask as I see she has all the shelves down and is pounding nails into the inside of the door frame.
"I'm redoing my closet, painting the wall, then putting it all back together," she answers, obviously trying to make me feel okay about whatever it is she is doing.
"Do you ever think of asking before doing these things," I reply hastily. "No one ever gave you permission to -- wow! That's really good," as I turn to the left and finally notice the mural she has painted on the closet wall. It's a painting of a man that she modeled after a photo from a National Geographic magazine. You can see it below. I also notice the inside of the closet door is splashed in all sorts of acrylic colors, dripping down the wood all the way to the floor. I glance quickly at the carpeting, expecting to see a mess, but there's just green carpet, thank God.
"If we ever want to sell the house, I can paint over the door," she adds with more calm-down-mother tones.
The nails, I am told, are for a large, doorway-sized loom she somehow plans to anchor down to the floor. Once this is under way, her younger sister will no longer be able to enter the closet. No matter, that. The artist must make art.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
