175. Love

On the anniversary of my mother's and step dad's wedding I was lucky enough to attend my friend Anne's wedding to her fiance Craig. We had a full and wonderful day thinking about the celebration of love and on that note... good night.

174. Gnome

Today we are in Snohomish, Washington. When I come to a place like this... a beautiful place with trees and houses with more land than a postage stamp and a horses and fresh air... I feel that I failed desperately. I want to leave my current life in dirty and crazy LALA land and move out and on. Likely impossible at this point in my life. I have a fantastic job and a newly remodeled house. Stuck until retirement but then I can think of a few hundred places I will move to. Until then... I will help Jerome, the gnome and his travels, and live vicariously through him.

173. Author

I didn't learn to read fluently until I was in the third grade. It could have been LAUSDs crazy approach to learning called "whole language". An experiment gone totally wrong. Or may be I just had an undiagnosed learning disability - who knows. But eventually I learned to read. The lasting effect is extended to my fear of writing. I hate it. I am uncomfortable doing it - like stage fright. I had hoped this blog would help me over come some of that anxiety. May be just a little. I realized today that my poor writing skills likely make me a better photographer. Everyone has the need to communicate effectively - I'd rather do it visually.

- excuse the typos...posted via Windo's iPhone

172. Obsidian

volcanic

glass

rock

sharp

black

shinny

... beautiful

171. Record of Light

Ansel Adams photograph of Mt. Williamson is a perfect photograph - and I don't use that word lightly. I often favor works of art that are so deeply flawed by accidents that they simply can not be repeated. An artistic genius is someone that continues to make those accidents happen without record of effort or labor.

But Mt. Williamson is not an accident - it is a record of pure technical perfection and study. I have spent years looking at it. Even though I have never been a fan of Adams' work I can respect his unmatched skill in fine art black and white photography. To see his work in person is transforming. Most images are shot on an 8x10" view camera that renders a negative so large that no film grain disrupts the printed image. Many of his prints are 20x24" on glossy paper. The tones so rich that you are sure you are looking at an image made of wet cream and black ink. If you breath too close the image might slip off the wall - melting into a puddle of perfect middle gray on the floor.

This weekend I was driven to take my own photograph of Mt. Williamson. I knew my shot would pale by comparison. I was like a contestant on American Idol that had chosen to sing a Whitney Houston song - I just didn't have the chops to pull it off.  I did realize what I didn't like about landscape photography - that I can't control the light. Adams shot of Williamson is so amazing because the side light gives the mountains volume,  and the illuminated clouds separate these front mountains from the almost obscured Mt Williamson in the back. I waited for the light to cooperate, but it didn't. You either just have to be lucky, or spend a lot of time waiting. My Mt. Williamson is so flatly lit and a fence kept me from reaching the boulder field.

Ansel Adams, "Mt. Williamson," 1945

170. Shoot first

As a child I spent several late days of summer in Mammoth Lakes camping and fishing with my grandparents. Grandpa loved to fish and his patience never worn thin no matter how many fishing lines were reeled in empty - of everything including a hook. And if you fished, you learned to clean fish no matter your age.

When my grandparents died (my grandpa a few months after my grandma) we all got together at Lake Mary in Mammoth to spread their ashes in the creek that ran behind their favorite camping spot. Camping spot number 27 in Coldwater Campground. The week that the extended family spent that August in Mammoth at Lake Mary was necessary and healing. Our grandparents were our glue that kept us all together. We were all mourning and spending time doing what our grandparents loved - together - and this made the pain lessen.

As grandpa would have wanted, we did a lot of fishing. We started at the shore only to discover a bear would make rounds around late in the afternoon. She would saunter up to a fisherman, wait until they would back away in fear, pull up their stringer of fish, eat every last one, and then move onto the next victim. She continued this tactic as she circled the lake. Then she would disappear into the forest to sleep off the full belly and return to check out our cabin porch in the middle of the night to lick out our cooler or BBQ. On day one we were scared of her, but by the end of the week we found her antics charming.

This was 2004 and in the last six years we have told and retold the story of the bear at Lake Mary. On Sunday we returned to Lake Mary and hiked up to some of the higher lakes that feed into it. We walked along side a local and he updated us on our favorite bear. She continued her favorite afternoon laps around the lake and for a few years had a couple cubs that followed along after her. Last year in September she approached a man in this same manner. The man went to his car, retrieved a large caliber gun, and shot the bear dead.

I have been trying to make sense of this news for the past 24 hours. One of my happy memories is now tarnished by another act of idiocy by man. I don't believe it was an accident - the only reason he had a gun in Mammoth was because he was hoping he may be able to use it.

169. Eye Opener

There is a photograph of Ansel Adams' that I believe is perfect. It was taken by him when on assignment for the Farm Security Administration to document life at Manzanar - the Japanese Internment camps during World War II.  It is not of the camps, but of Mount Williamson,  the majestic back drop to the barren and harsh camps where the people of Japanese decent (and primarily American citizens) lived for many years after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

What I know of Manzanar I know through the FSA photographs of both Ansel Adams and Dorothea Lange. Every time I drove home from Mammoth on the 395 I intended to stop by the Manzanar Museum. May be it held kernels of information about these photographers and their experience at Manzanar.  We stopped today.

The first thing I noticed was the oppressive heat - something that is hard to communicate in photographs. My head started to pound and my stomach did a few flips.  As we entered the museum Curtis and I split up and headed in different directions. The first document I read was Executive Order 9066 - the law was so straight forward and cold. Persons of Japanese decent, whether citizens or not, needed to report to an internment camp with little other than a few personal effects and bedding. Before the end of the one page document I became over whelmed by emotion. It was hard to reconcile the ideals we are taught to believe in as Americans when faced with the reality of our history. I tried to imagine receiving the order and what it would mean to my life, my liberty, and my happiness. Unable to earn a living, these victims were unable to pay their mortgages and most lost their homes and businesses.

Wandering around the museum I saw only a few images by Adams and Lange. Instead, many of the images were taken by Toyo Miyatake - some one I had never heard of. Miyatake was a professional photographer that owned a successful studio in Los Angeles prior to the executive order. He was forbidden by that order to bring any of his cameras with him. Not able to completely comply, he hid a lens inside his coat lining, eventually hand built a camera out of scrap wood in the style of a traditional wooden lunch box to prevent its discovery. During the time he was forced to live at Manzanar he made thousands of photographs on contraband film smuggled in by white friends.

I realized the reason I became so over whelmed by this museum was because of these photographs made by Miyatake. His images captured all aspects of the residents' life - good and bad. The images made by Lange and Adams were images made for the government - to enlist support for the centers. One of Lange's most famous photographs captured a prideful young Japanese-American saying the pledge of allegiance. Ansel Adams was asked not to photograph to guard towers sporting machines guns because it would communicate the wrong idea.

When the war ended the United Stated dismantled the camps as quickly as possible - all the internees had built and created. Hopefully we could all forgive and forget? Langes images (even though mostly positive) were hidden in the Library of Congress archives and not publicly exhibited until the mid 1970's. Ansel Adams published his image of Mount Williamson - one of his typical Sierra Nevada landscapes that has nothing to do with Manzanar. His other images of the camp at Manzanar also lived in the Library of Congress for years.

Today, I went searching for something totally different than what I found. What I found was painfully hard to accept. The museum is there so we don't repeat our mistakes. If you ever travel down the 395 please take the time to stop at Manzanar.

168. Picture this

Picture students completing a college degree and never having to set foot in a classroom. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Better yet it could be possible.

- excuse the typos...posted via Windo's iPhone

167. Water falls

Long day. Late night. Loved it. More tomorrow.


- excuse the typos...posted via Windo's iPhone

166. Jews Don't Camp

When I send out a email asking if the mothers of my girl scouts want to join us camping a common response is "Jews don't camp." Jews will send their children to summer camp, but tent camping out in the woods without showers is pushing it. In the end the statement is really a running joke and not reality. Many of my Jewish friends have camped with us and love it. Of course this is a broad over statement but alive with a bit if truth.

I think about the Jews exodus from Egypt. Didn't god make them live in the wilderness (camping) for several generations to learn how to be free. Only after many, many, many years of camping were they ready to return and reclaim their homeland.

My biological father is Jewish and my mother Catholic. They divorced by the time I was four, but I do remember one camping trip. There was much tension and excitement in the days leading to that trip. So much so that I remember it even though I was only 3 years old. I remember shopping for all the gear - fancy lantern, camp stove, pots and pans that nestled each other, multiroom tent. Cool stuff. I remember trying to squish all the gear and the family of five into the white Mercury station wagon. It seemed like a long drive and eventually we got there - I don't know what site we went to. Not long after we arrived my father severly cut his hand and considering he was a surgeon we had the rush back to civilization to save his hand and career. That was the only time I almost camped with him.

After my parents' divorce he moved to Colorado. He taught me to love the outdoors and explore nature. We spent the summer rafting, hiking, riding horses, building forts, but camp? Never. Possibly because Jews don't camp. Who knew?



- excuse the typos...posted via Windo's iPhone

Location:Laurel Mountain Rd,Mammoth Lakes,United States

165. Between

I had little time to concentrate on taking any photographs today. Much of the day was spent finishing up one class and another starts tomorrow with a camping trip to Mammoth. As soon as I got home I started packing and organizing so that we can leave early tomorrow morning.

I did have about 5 minutes to myself at work to sneak over and take a peek at the new extension to the building that I work in. It will house the department's new digital darkroom. I am fairly sure I am not supposed to be checking out the site, but it is hard to resist the desire to explore the new and giant space.

During my investigation I did find an interesting spot. The old building and new extension to the building are not butted up next to each other like I had originally thought. There is a two foot hallway between the two structures. It is too narrow to allow foot traffic through. I suppose it will eventually be closed off, but today it was open, the sun was setting, and I got a cool quick shot.

164. Vacation

I have the last meeting of one of my summer school classes tomorrow - six weeks just whizzed by. The building that contains the photography lab has been under construction for sometime and hopefully all work will be complete before we head back to school for the fall term. Most of the summer I had to lecture over a jack hammer destroying the floor above my head. One day we didn't have power. Often the main entrance to the building was blocked by construction material. There is dust everywhere. The mounting room has no door - really. But as a class we pressed forward, learned, and in the end had a wonderful summer. I have truly enjoyed this class of amazing and interesting individuals.

Last night, a class I team teach with Prof D. in geology started. The class is mostly online except for a four day camping trip to Mammoth Lakes. So as one class finishes another begins but the difference is I won't be stuck in a building, much less one under demolition. I will be teaching out in the field and helping students learn in an active environment. My favorite way to teach and I believe their favorite way to learn.

163. Face Off

A bit of a one liner... "Honey, don't bite my face off."

162. Hand

Every one can use an extra helping hand but my mom has needed a bit more than a little help in the last year. She relies heavily on me to help her with shopping, meals, groceries... but I work and have a family. I have that feeling when you have too much on your plate and you feel like you are doing a lot of things half ass instead of a few things really well. I have been operating on quantity no quality lately. My mom is going to Norway tomorrow - a life long dream. I am so thrilled for her. And at the same time it will be wonderful not to worry about her for a couple of weeks.

161. Girls

Another camp out in the backyard. Tons of fun, games, and sugar. The girls get more interesting everday. But tonight I am exhausted from the day - so goodnight.

- excuse the typos...posted via Windo's iPhone

160. Diversity

Why I love LA? It just never gets dull. I spent much of the day in Malibu with my students at a millionaire's house in Malibu full of rare works of art. Only in LA.

159. Dream On

I went to a workshop on studio lighting the other day. Setting up always takes way longer than anyone anticipates. By the time we got around to actually lighting and shooting the model I had to take off. I never got to touch the medium format digital back camera tethered to the Mac Book Pro.

I still had a good time with the iPhone. It continues to surprise me. It will never have award wining sharpness, but because it is always on me I really do take a ton of photographs with it. Every now and then I get lucky with it.

My dream? To own a camera capable of manual exposure that is the size of an iPhone. Its lens? As sharp as a Leica.  Some day... it could happen.

158. Details

It seems odd to me to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars designing a space for a specific purpose and then to paint it the wrong color and render the space less effective than it could be. In a digital darkroom the walls need to be a total neutral gray for proper color correction. Olive green seems like an odd choice... 

157. Whatever

156. Photogenic

Abigail wanted to be the photographic subject of tonight's blog. As I was wondering around the house she kept getting in front of my lens. Comedy is her style and all the photographs are her making funny faces - all contrived. In the end this one while odd was the most genuine expression.

155. Fun

Temporary out of ideas tonight and the family helped out with the creativity. Love the collaborative process and results.

154. Stray

I intended to give the pet stories a break tonight - but then came Tugger. We went to celebrate a friend's birthday down the street and found a dog out walking himself. He was well groomed, chubby, and had four identification tags.

The first number listed was a dead end - no answer. The second number was a city (as opposed to Valley) area code that was answered by a man in Florida. He said he left Tugger with a dog sitter and would call us back. About 45 minutes later a women with a British accent called panicked and ecstatic that Tugger was safe. She was in Westwood and wouldn't be able to pick up Tugger for at least a half hour.

In the meantime, the kids were playing with Tugger. He had plenty of pets and carne asada. He struck gold on his little adventure out of the back yard.  He was delightful.

About 10 minutes after the British woman called my cell range again. This time it was a woman with a heavy spanish accent wanting to know the address. She ended up hanging up on me several times and I finally sent a text with the address. The Latina showed up first. She pulled up in a BMW SUV loaded with so much junk that it seemed like she was living out of her car and she was so loaded that she fell out of the car. She explained that she went by the house to double check how the dog may have got out. She couldn't figure it how he escaped. She said it in a way as if she was accusing us of stealing him. With in a few minutes of her arrival the Brit arrived. She was a large blonde woman that had tears streaked down her face. She didn't say a word to the Latina. The Brit gave me a large hug, thanked me for saving her dog's life. She removed Tugger from the Latina's messy car and placed him in her car. The air was think between the two ladies. They said good bye and drove away.

Of course my mind started to fill in the blanks. I thought may be the two were room mates tired of each other. The Latina has let the Brit's dog out of the yard one too many times. The story Curtis made up was more interesting. He recited a story of one lover jilted for another. The Latina left by the Floridian in favor of the Brit. If only Tugger could talk.

153. Oscar

Back to the pet stories... this one is about Oscar - in photographs, forever the silhouette.

It was 1998 and Curtis and I had just returned from our honeymoon in June. The Lakers were in the playoffs and we drove up to Paso Robles to visit my Grandpa for a combined birthday/Father's Day party. While hanging out in my cousin's backyard I heard the mewing of a young cat. I looked over the fence to see a creature that resembled a black hamster. I had never seen a black hamster, much less one that sounded like a cat. Oscar, as we would later name him, was young, very young. His eyes were barely open. His ears were flatten back against his head (hence the hamster look). My cousin explained that the mama cat was a young, feral cat in the neighborhood. She assumed that an owl had eaten her along with the other kittens in Oscar's litter. Oscar had been smart enough to hide in a junk pile in the neighbor's yard and stay clear of the owl. Not bad for someone born deaf, dumb, and mostly immobile.

June in wine country is hot and it was obvious that Oscar wouldn't make it another day on his own. I asked my cousin what she intended to do about the little guy. Her response, "Nature will take care of itself." I couldn't accept this. I went over to the neighbor's house. Knocked on the door and asked him what he was going to do about the struggling kitten desperately in need of an intervention. He looked at me like I was crazy and again said, "Nature will take care of itself." My response? "Call me nature!" I climbed into his back yard and picked up the tiny kitten.

We drove home that day in horrible traffic on the 101 between Santa Barbara and LA. The back drop to the ride was the Laker's game on the radio. Oscar sat in a box lid in my lap mewing softly. The next day we took him to the vet and discovered that he wasn't likely to survive the next couple weeks with human parents - he was simply too young. We purchased kitten bottles and formula, but he would have none of it. Oscar scooted (he wasn't yet walking) over to the dog's food bowl and nursed on kibble. Right in between two large dogs - he was fearless. Slowly he grew and gained strength. He had the will to survive.

Curtis wanted to find him another home. We already had two dogs and another cat. But I begged to keep him. In the end I got my wish. We named him Oscar in honor of my Grandpa - Bert Oscar Westberg.  My Grandpa Bert passed away in January of 2004 and we miss him dearly but think of him often. Oscar the cat spends most of his time sleeping between the two of us and he is no longer a little guy.

152. Riots

A friend posted something on Facebook today that got me thinking. The verdict of white transit officer Mehserle for shooting a black youth in the back was about to be announced and she was anticipating trouble in Oakland tonight.

In the end of April 1992 I finishing up my bachelors degree after transferring back to USC. Rodney King, a black man had been beaten by white police men a year previous and even though a trial was in process it wasn't in the fore front of many Angelenos thoughts. A bunch of us were hanging around the outdoor courtyard in the art department when the verdict that acquitted the white police men of all chargers was announced. My friend Delta, a black woman, turned to me and said, "Girl, get your white ass back to the Valley." I laughed and ignored her warnings.

I had an important on campus meeting that night. A few months earlier a crazy architecture student sprayed an art piece of mine with glue. It was ruined and the only way to gain restitution was to "sue" him in student court. That night, the night the LA Riots began, I had my day in court. We entered the student meeting room late in the afternoon. The agenda was long and they didn't address my item until almost 9 o'clock.  Once the student officers heard my case, they soon found in my favor. The meeting was adjourned.

We walked out of the student center to an eerily empty and quiet campus. We had no idea that anarchy had broken out while we were inside modeling our own form of democracy. In 1992 there were no cell phones or texting. I had no idea what was happening until I saw a palm tree on fire on the 110 freeway. The city streets were practically deserted.

My parents, boyfriend, and roommates had been watching hours of angry people destroying the city on television. Much of the violence just blocks from the USC campus. My love ones had no idea why I wasn't home. Why I hadn't called. If I was OK. On television they watched two videos the media obsessively looped - only adding fuel to the fire. The first started it all - the white officers beating Rodney King. The second - a new video from the early hours of rioting. A video of a white truck driver pulled out of his car by an angry mob and beaten lifeless.

They were all thrilled to know I was alive and well. We spent the next several days watching the violence peak and slowly burn out. It took 6 days. The National Guard was called in to gain control over Los Angeles.  A curfew was imposed to try and quench the violence, looting, and insanity. In the San Fernando Valley, my white ass was very safe. Little of the riots reached the Valley. But it was terrifying watching the lawlessness. Unbelievable.

This was my last week of college. All but one of my finals were cancelled. The one final I did take six days after the violence began had two national guardsmen standing outside protecting the classroom. A few days later my graduation was also marked by many, many national guardsmen assuring that no violence occurred. It was a beautiful and peaceful day.

USC is located in South Central Los Angeles. It was at ground zero for the riots. Buildings were destroyed on all four sides of the campus, but the USC campus was untouched. Why? The national guard did not deploy until several days into the riots. It is something I have thought about for years now. The riots were driven by angry, young men that were lacking in economic and educational opportunities. USC must provide promise and opportunity to the surrounding community for it to have come out unscathed. As I think back today on the time of the riots a knot forms in my stomach. So much of what caused the riots 18 years ago has not been remedied. The bad economy, lack of opportunities, colleges turning away young students eager to learn... a recipe for yet another disaster.

151. Rest

Not feeling great. 

Nothing to say but here is a shot for the day taken from my bed.

150. Stella

So yet another dog story... there are so many.

We were living in our small house in Encino, before we had adopted Miles and before we knew Arthur would be sticken with cancer. We were not looking for or needing another pet. It was labor day weekend and we were flying to Curtis parents' house in Tucson to visit for his mom's birthday. I was due to pick up Curtis at work on the way to the airport and had a couple of errands to run.

Some kids from down the street knocked on my door. They had lost their dog, again, and wondered if I had her. They didn't give their dog food or water so she often ran away. She knew I was a sucker for strays and always came by... this time I had not seen her. I had already told the children that if their dog ran away then I would not return her. They just didn't know how to take care of an animal.

I had a couple hours so I decided to run by the animal shelter and see if their little dog was there. Her name was Lizzy. The pound is a depressing place and all the dogs let you know it. It's loud and smells. There was one dog that sat quietly in the back of her cell during all the insanity. But is wasn't Lizzy. She wasn't there. I instantly feel in love with this quiet dog and just couldn't leave her behind. Without discussing it with Curtis, I adopted her. We would later call her Stella. Conveniently the shelter required Stella stay there for the weekend with a pick up on Tuesday.

As I hurried out of the pound to get to the airport and a man came walking up with the neighbor's dog, Lizzy, in his arms. What are the chances? I found Lizzy, but I couldn't give her back to the kids... they weren't taking care of her. I had a plane to catch. I ended up running Lizzy to a boarders. I hustled home, picked up Arthur and ran him to my mom's house for the weekend. I was so late.

When I finally picked up Curtis I made up some excuse for being late and probably broke several laws in order to make the flight. We ran through the terminal OJ style and just made it as they announced the final boarding. We took our seats, buckled up, sealed in a capsule that took off into the air, and then I told Curtis what I had done. In the scope of a couple hours we went from owning one dog to three. He wasn't happy.

149. Arthur

Another dog story... dog stories seem to be popular these days, so why not?

I had just finished my sophomore year of college at USC and was transferring to UCSB the following fall. In retrospect I am not sure why I was transferring other than to try and save money on tuition. I was single, looking for a new apartment in Santa Barbara and not looking for a commitment. I was happy at USC and was close to all my mentors and advisors. The School of Fine Arts offered me a summer stipend to help out in the office and I accepted.

No longer a student, I parked on the farside of the LA Colosseum a several blocks away and would walk the rest of the way to campus. One June morning the gloom was think enough to be defined as a drizzle, I started to cross Exposition Blvd and looked down to find a golden dog lying lifeless in the gutter. I thought he was dead until his soft brown eyes looked up and caught mine. He couldn't stand well, one of his legs was lame. I scooped him up and carried across the street to the art department office. He weighed nothing. At the time I had the coolest boss. And as time has made my memory soft I can only remember her first name, Brie. It was obvious that the dog was starving, so Brie gave me money to buy two hamburgers from the on campus Carl's Jr. He gobbled them up, but they didn't stay down long. He needed more than TLC, he needed medical attention. Brie grabbed her keys and off we went to take him to the vet. He was horribly mal nourished with a broken leg that started to heal before it had been properly set. The vet ended up keeping him for several weeks.

Brie paid for all the medical bills and named him "Art" for the art department. She convinced me that I could handle taking care of a dog. So I changed his name to Arthur (sounded more dignified) and I took him home. Until the move to Santa Barbara, my "home" for the next couple of weeks was a studio apartment I was sharing in Hollywood. The building didn't allow dogs and three steps into the door Arthur and I ran into the building manager. As I was trying to explain that the arrangement was temporary Arthur lifted his leg and peed on the lobby sofa.

To avoid the manager I spent much of the next few weeks at either one of my parents' house. The first night at my mother's Arthur ate a whole roast off the kitchen counter - the one and only time he took food off the counter. At my father's house he snuck up stairs and chewed up a pair of costume made dress shoes - again an act that he never repeated.

It was a rough start to a new relationship but once we got on the road to Santa Barbara, Arthur and I worked things out. In the 9 years we lived together I can honestly say that I ended up needing him more than he needed me. There is something about a stray dog that has found a good home... undeniably loyal.

148. Boom

Small microscopic creatures invisible to the naked eye.

147. Miles

All of our pets have interesting stories. I thought I would tell Miles today.

Curtis and I were newly weds living in a small house in Encino. We had no children and had just lost another beloved dog, a golden retriever named Arthur. My sister Sarah came to spend the summer with us and I brought her to her friend Deanna's house for a play date. Deanna's mother, Caroline, raised australian shepherds. I mentioned that the breed was Curtis' favorite, but that we were morally against purchasing dogs. I was totally surprised when Caroline said she may have a dog for us. The last litter had produced some promising pups and the family decided to keep one for future breeding. He was almost a year old and had failed to grow to an ideal height considering the breed standards. Caroline had had him neutered and was thinking of finding a new home for him. We talked for a long time about our recently departed Arthur. I was still emotionally frail from losing Arthur and was afraid to get attached to another animal. She seemed to want to "try" out the placement to see if Miles would be a good fit for us.

About a week later she brought him to our house and dropped him off. We didn't hear from her for months and in those months feel completely in love with him. We called her many times to find out about medical records, recent immunizations, preferred foods, but she never returned one call. We went on with our lives. We had Miles groomed, shots given, started training...

Then all of a sudden in September she called and wanted him back. She would not listen to any reason and harassed us with one phone call after another. We even consulted a lawyer and were sure we were legally the owners. But after weeks of harassment, I finally mailed her a letter explaining the pain she was causing us, and Curtis brought Miles to her in sobbing tears. For the second time that year we had to live through the pain of losing an animal member of our family.

A few weeks went by. Our nephew Nicholas was born. I found out I was pregnant with Katie our first child. I contracted a terrible flu and was so sick that I couldn't make it to a good friends'wedding. Instead I stayed up most of the night coughing and finally feel asleep just before dawn. Moments later the phone rang and it was Caroline calling. It was 5:30 am. She was outside in our drive way with Miles. I opened the front door. She handed me the leash. She said, "Sorry" and nothing else. She drove away and we never saw or heard from her again. We were so thankful to have him back. That was almost 11 years ago.

Today, our dear Miles passed from cancer. May he rest in peace.

146. Ugly, again.

Our first ugly tomatoes off the vine recorded ala Weston. It took months to grow them, a half hour to photograph them, and a minute to eat them.

145. Magic Wand

If I had a magic wand:

I would make my mom healthy again so that she could spend more time with all her grand children.

I would give all humans empathy so they could better understand eachother.

I would convince Katie that she really is smart and beautiful.

I would get Abbey to understand that every injustice has nothing to do with her.

Curtis could stop worrying.

I would never stop teaching, still live in Van Nuys, shop at Target, and drive a Saturn.

I would beg for patience.

Forgive and let go.


- excuse the typos...posted via Windo's iPhone