tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12723843668291066062024-01-21T21:52:38.143-08:00Frankly, I Do Give a DamnDavyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-41049330151355838592013-12-02T23:11:00.002-08:002013-12-02T23:11:17.837-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>HELLO!</b></div>
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Guess who has relocated his blog to Wordpress?</div>
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That would be yours truly.</div>
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To reach my blog these days, go to:</div>
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<b>http://davydmorris.wordpress.com/</b></div>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-60129733056410146792013-11-22T21:33:00.000-08:002013-11-22T21:33:52.326-08:00Texas School Book Depository<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwXSDGnegOwHU2mfhder-OqGiJYpv4ZKB9yeWemizbeuegnGW02ds_meInAeKRREeugO1OsTzPX80Dfgh1XP4JEvU91Uu1M3wr_g_0q7onXW-WQuJN1SLUihTT0nCvR0c-aFUTWY8z7BCl/s1600/JFK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwXSDGnegOwHU2mfhder-OqGiJYpv4ZKB9yeWemizbeuegnGW02ds_meInAeKRREeugO1OsTzPX80Dfgh1XP4JEvU91Uu1M3wr_g_0q7onXW-WQuJN1SLUihTT0nCvR0c-aFUTWY8z7BCl/s1600/JFK.jpg" /></a>I was only eight, trying to make sense of how the Texas schools related to the killing of the president. My third grade class had been sent home from school. I have no idea if my mother knew I was coming home. Since it was only a two-block walk, I found out soon enough.<br />
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All the curtains were drawn, my mother was in her favorite chair, pulled up close to the television, a box of Kleenex in her lap, used tissues surrounding her. She explained, but I was still confused, "But Mom--you voted for Nixon..."<br />
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"You just don't understand!" I understood the president was dead, I would come to understand that Lee Harvey Oswald worked in the Texas Schoolbook Depository, a high-rise warehouse in downtown Dallas with a sharpshooter's view of President Kennedy's motorcade. I would, over the next three days, find out a great deal more about the world.<br />
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As was my habit, I ended up two doors down the street at my friend Bobby's house. Their television was tuned into the wall-to-wall coverage as well. After the umpteenth reference to to President Kennedy as the first and only Catholic president," I asked Bobby's mom to help me understand the problem.<br />
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"But Ellie, why is it such a big deal that he was Catholic? Everybody's Catholic but my family..." She roared, perhaps the first and only time time she would laugh that weekend. I didn't understand what was so funny.<br />
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My housing tract was full of World War II veterans and their little baby boomer broods. German-American Catholics had founded the little community that became South San Francisco. As Irish and Italian Americans raised their standard of living, many moved out of the city to the nearest suburb (mine) that already had Catholic churches and communities. Hispanic families soon swelled the neighborhoods, likely for the same or similar reasoning.<br />
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My neighborhood was so Catholic, that one day almost my entire second grade class was missing. All five classes of seven year-olds had been combined into one group of five kids for the day: the two Jewish kids, two Protestants and me. It was First Communion day at St. Veronica's and the rest of the 150 or so second graders were at mass. So yeah, to me, the world was overwhelmingly Catholic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi739ps-R5gB3LqhQSSTfQhMYrqJehdTaV4mDa1ePUqvpCod9eujp67-ZxYIeD8p-jhcwyE99DZQuxq0E2XG0sw10T6z7FtEe4Ufg34nF6_d8ykDTNu0R73y0dtyOzmjxFkb8wwQeC-eira/s1600/Oswald.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi739ps-R5gB3LqhQSSTfQhMYrqJehdTaV4mDa1ePUqvpCod9eujp67-ZxYIeD8p-jhcwyE99DZQuxq0E2XG0sw10T6z7FtEe4Ufg34nF6_d8ykDTNu0R73y0dtyOzmjxFkb8wwQeC-eira/s1600/Oswald.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi739ps-R5gB3LqhQSSTfQhMYrqJehdTaV4mDa1ePUqvpCod9eujp67-ZxYIeD8p-jhcwyE99DZQuxq0E2XG0sw10T6z7FtEe4Ufg34nF6_d8ykDTNu0R73y0dtyOzmjxFkb8wwQeC-eira/s1600/Oswald.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi739ps-R5gB3LqhQSSTfQhMYrqJehdTaV4mDa1ePUqvpCod9eujp67-ZxYIeD8p-jhcwyE99DZQuxq0E2XG0sw10T6z7FtEe4Ufg34nF6_d8ykDTNu0R73y0dtyOzmjxFkb8wwQeC-eira/s1600/Oswald.jpg" height="320" width="0" /></a>My family made one of their intermittent forays to the First Baptist Church in San Francisco that weekend. It was important to pray for our country that horrible weekend. As I waited for my parents and older siblings to finish readying for church, I sat in front of the TV again. The newsfeed was coming in from the garage of the Dallas police station. "Oswald is going to be on TV!" I shouted, but no one came. Then, live on television, I saw the assassin get murdered. The on-camera death of the lone gunman from the Texas School Book Depository would forever be featured in perhaps the most infamous live moment in TV history. A handcuffed prisoner, surrounded by law enforcement officers in the bowels of their very own building, killed on my own television set.<br />
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Sometimes, the adult world just doesn't make any sense at all.<br />
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-23317484110224918062013-11-19T01:03:00.000-08:002013-11-19T23:56:42.027-08:00Cousin Stewart<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Golden Boy</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cousin
is a flexible term. Going back to Shakespeare, it could mean “close friend” or a generic relative of most any kind. Even if you limit the term to blood or in-law relations, I still
have lots of cousins. If my father hadn’t been an only child, my large family would really
be out of control. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTvi-VO-v92SjXYIASRYiKvvclT1NXCyIXIrm4SsRdG-HRRUp5ynlUemqqOEBVsR-LPDMn9mNV2MeTk66IRJXiIiOm0yKDypNWPeuHS8D8ZwO70a39L4MRCIvN5dIWc6X6dwoMk5NsXK8k/s1600/IMG_0497_young_boy_tall_unicycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I even went to school from K to 12 with two female cousins, one a year older, the
other a year younger. Their mother was my mother’s kid sister. Those girls had a family of first cousins on the other side of the golf course, the four children
of their father’s kid brother. Stewart, the second of those four; became my favorite cousin, hands down. Since he was a cousin-of-my-cousin, he wasn't a blood
relative at all. But there was no way to explain our relationship other than
“cousin,” so there it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTvi-VO-v92SjXYIASRYiKvvclT1NXCyIXIrm4SsRdG-HRRUp5ynlUemqqOEBVsR-LPDMn9mNV2MeTk66IRJXiIiOm0yKDypNWPeuHS8D8ZwO70a39L4MRCIvN5dIWc6X6dwoMk5NsXK8k/s1600/IMG_0497_young_boy_tall_unicycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTvi-VO-v92SjXYIASRYiKvvclT1NXCyIXIrm4SsRdG-HRRUp5ynlUemqqOEBVsR-LPDMn9mNV2MeTk66IRJXiIiOm0yKDypNWPeuHS8D8ZwO70a39L4MRCIvN5dIWc6X6dwoMk5NsXK8k/s1600/IMG_0497_young_boy_tall_unicycle.jpg" height="200" width="165" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He was three years older than I, a very quiet boy. My first memory of Stewart was coming over to his house when I was about six, he would have nine. Painfully shy, the lanky boy didn’t talk to me at all. He did get out his six-foot tall unicycle and
rode up and down the hilly neighborhood like the most agile of circus acrobats. He may not have been big on conversation, but Stewart sure did know how to make a lasting impression.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When I
was in junior high, my parents separated for the umpteenth time before an eventual divorce. My mother
decided that she needed to start becoming a regular at church again. As her youngest child, she took no excuses from me and I soon found myself spending time at the First Baptist
Church. I knew no one there except Stewart and his two younger sisters. He
still didn’t talk a whole lot, but the taciturn teen made it clear I was family and he took me under his
wing. We became instantly close, as if we’d been hanging out since that day with his unicycle years before.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Stewart’s
family took the moralistic tenets of the Baptist church seriously: No smoking,
no drinking, no dancing. My family was a bit more flexible. I never could
stand cigarette smoke, but I loved to dance and I’ve been known to liken
champagne to mother’s milk. Stewart became what we now would call my “designated
driver.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goofing with his sisters</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cousin Stewart
never wanted to go to college. He worked for Sears and later in an industrial gold
mine near Fairbanks, Alaska. In the spring,
he would drive a truck </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">from San Francisco </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">up to Canada and follow the Al-Can Highway all the way to Fairbanks.
When the ground thawed, they would resume digging for gold. When
the ground froze again in the fall, Stewart would return to California.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My
cousin would come up to visit me at college for a weekend of partying during those long winter breaks. I would party, he would just hang close. On his first trip to see me, I had prepared my female friends who'd become enamored of his photos.
“Stewart is a good-looking kid, kinda like the actor Jan-Michael Vincent. Only taller. But he doesn't drink and he won't dance," I warned them. Of course, a major part of the agenda that weekend was a college dance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Everything during his visit went just about as expected. Stewart and I had a good time together, but he was mostly a handsome fly-on-the-wall during the bacchanalian events. Then came the Saturday night dance. While I was on the dance floor, my friend Kira grabbed me and pulled me close. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Hey! I thought your cute cousin didn't dance?" There was Stewart, dancing like a stiff cracker with my friend Mary. "So..?" She asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Well, I guess he does now. Maybe you should just ask him to dance, then?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">She did. Stewart's reply? "Sorry, I don't dance." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Kira slapped me right across the face, hard, and stalked off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Stewart, what the hell?" I whined. "Why'd you turn her down?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"You know I don't dance," he said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"But you did, with Mary."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"I didn't have a choice, she dragged me out there." That didn't exactly take the sting out of my cheek.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I have lots of stories about my enigmatic, contradictory cousin. Mostly about skiing--water skiing, that is. His fluid athleticism intimidated me too much to invest in a snow ski trip when I knew I would end up skiing by myself anyway. Stewart would return to California permanently, got married and had two daughters. My cousin bought back his father's old ski boat, a wood-hulled gem that his dad built with his brother (my uncle Bob). My squeaky-clean tea-totaling cousin rechristened the boat "My Vice." As far as anyone could tell, it was the only vice he ever indulged.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With his wife and one of his daughters</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">After I moved back to California in '97, I was fortunate enough to spend time with Stewart and his family water skiing. Whether it was a long summer day on Turlock Lake or the week-long water-ski orgy during our four-family houseboat excursion on Lake Shasta, skiing with Stewart was something special. His boat was beautiful,and he certainly was a generous and patient teacher and host. But the best part of any ski day was at the end, when Stewart got in the water. Considerate to a fault, he always waited for his guests to exhaust themselves first before allowing himself a turn behind the boat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">When Stewart skied--on two skis, one or even none--he was a vision to behold. Calm, strong, graceful, acrobatic, I have never seen a more beautiful skier cut through the water, not even professionals. Our mutual cousin Jackie said he was the most gorgeous man alive when he was barefoot-skiing. She dreamed of those afternoons watching our cousin glide over the boat's wake like a bird on the wing. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">We believed he could walk on water if he'd cared to. Diligent, h</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">umble, kind, giving and quietly religious, he was the perfect embodiment of what a man should be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">But no man is perfect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Our cousin Jackie called me up one day with the most incredible of news: cousin Stewart, our golden boy</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;">, was dead. A suicide. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UU9R-RN0jrXJ-0dDhRbSO34Zd3TQbR_99XY5Ti5Jd88jr9lht0GIpMyU9gWwk8xSmgqPS530ybf2JzmVU99fPN67K6gZHc4mUPw2VN2Bn5IEwR656n047xpponfjgDrJ4l0cVRITdXH3/s1600/Stewart2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UU9R-RN0jrXJ-0dDhRbSO34Zd3TQbR_99XY5Ti5Jd88jr9lht0GIpMyU9gWwk8xSmgqPS530ybf2JzmVU99fPN67K6gZHc4mUPw2VN2Bn5IEwR656n047xpponfjgDrJ4l0cVRITdXH3/s1600/Stewart2.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stewart at 52</td></tr>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-2796998071356305002013-11-14T23:55:00.003-08:002013-11-14T23:56:15.021-08:00Reunions<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Uy_X7xz6xjHIog-gKMkqaaLya6uM4Hy4uVvcB8oB5EnEixcWUxgGZZllmuxCoeIEVwGaTHOXHE2ULS1fSsbrCowkyAtNvaUDYjUDV4GOuZrhagOM-m7BwifLCEB3JdiwAVJ6Mu5x1c_z/s1600/reunion+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Uy_X7xz6xjHIog-gKMkqaaLya6uM4Hy4uVvcB8oB5EnEixcWUxgGZZllmuxCoeIEVwGaTHOXHE2ULS1fSsbrCowkyAtNvaUDYjUDV4GOuZrhagOM-m7BwifLCEB3JdiwAVJ6Mu5x1c_z/s1600/reunion+sign.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The mere
mention of the word “reunion” sends many people running for cover. Of course, some
people love them, as I often do. Naturally, it depends upon the kind of reunion
that’s up for discussion: family, school, neighbors or the old gang from that
job you had ten years ago. Those last two usually revolve around some social
opportunity like a wedding or a funeral.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3OWz8Bogj0tn6-qGFr-c5IdX3U3agy4IlhecR1xGpxNYYBn-yIV5ri2xjjjRHcWn69c53moHCqaIVQKt52-33b9A6MEp8kjH9K-HgT7D8YoY9Da0vQC2Ly_Znz5-m2Npg1vnNMfY4U3gP/s1600/reunion+cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3OWz8Bogj0tn6-qGFr-c5IdX3U3agy4IlhecR1xGpxNYYBn-yIV5ri2xjjjRHcWn69c53moHCqaIVQKt52-33b9A6MEp8kjH9K-HgT7D8YoY9Da0vQC2Ly_Znz5-m2Npg1vnNMfY4U3gP/s1600/reunion+cartoon.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></div>
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Some
reunions I skip right off the top (they have to sound like fun), some are conflicts on my schedule, or the
effort is just too much to make them
worthwhile (ROI analysis). If the event has passed the screening process and I can make it
happen (and I <u>want</u> to make it happen), I go. I’d be hard- pressed to think of
any reunion I attended and regretted. These events are the epitome of the old
adage: It is what you make it out to be.”
But a word to the wise: don’t subject your spouse to these more often
than once, if you want to stay married that is.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGQZH8Mt0PlRqUhGXHX-iVK02Y7Uo6-nDA6jwVLI7i_fqBdet7IuyzYyTJM7Gqs2QN7yfHhXtJbrBYgYUBSKY39VS6F0LKd9fITaDu_eAcygNN3RZfuYI2FJcSsakH9fBqI6CMAc1zzzLn/s1600/Party+gang+for+Milly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGQZH8Mt0PlRqUhGXHX-iVK02Y7Uo6-nDA6jwVLI7i_fqBdet7IuyzYyTJM7Gqs2QN7yfHhXtJbrBYgYUBSKY39VS6F0LKd9fITaDu_eAcygNN3RZfuYI2FJcSsakH9fBqI6CMAc1zzzLn/s320/Party+gang+for+Milly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
family reunion I attended recently was centered on my aunt’s 90<sup>th</sup>.
The actual reconnecting with her and my cousins was just as warm and affirming
as I’d hoped. The pleasant surprise was how much fun and interesting it was to
meet their relations from the other side of their family, those who are unrelated
to me. The common platform that brought us together was enough to break the ice
and more. Soon we were sharing stories and perspectives, feeding off of one
another’s enthusiasm. It was great fun.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzxqodzBJDbBDjZ0lqpA2DBk60hWaRgbyUFS6bqZCEv5f8VKGRJ6vk4BzvhfefYSyYu9IXNyzeUkQ2ZHI4ZlN2BawJbxNYTp7YvTp5J0jj1rblSOEXXIw9BsQhWF79-2bO9Jeyv3gAjl90/s1600/r&s+HS+reunion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzxqodzBJDbBDjZ0lqpA2DBk60hWaRgbyUFS6bqZCEv5f8VKGRJ6vk4BzvhfefYSyYu9IXNyzeUkQ2ZHI4ZlN2BawJbxNYTp7YvTp5J0jj1rblSOEXXIw9BsQhWF79-2bO9Jeyv3gAjl90/s1600/r&s+HS+reunion.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></div>
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The
classic vision of a reunion is school-related. Some dread these like the
plague: “I didn’t like those people when I was in school,” “I’m afraid my ex
will be there,” or the ever-popular “I feel too fat.” My favorite is “Who else is
going?” Why don’t you go and find out? Heavens knows? It could be as whacky as
that classic comedy, <i><b>Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion</b></i> (click on the link to refresh your memory).<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/%C2%A0http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYPnUrREbRg"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYPnUrREbRg</span></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxmG1T21TnUwTc5-zeL8Yytcc1Enmbzuj5fOOw7t36XWvvtUmJ-MW5V2axuRz-WnYZf-rvGjzt4m8DuTDo0DDNgdAmiBf_4WGMXwlFAihQu5zlRWwwqsx0OH1STNozNXpPvScMDtRaOc_/s1600/IMG_0627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxmG1T21TnUwTc5-zeL8Yytcc1Enmbzuj5fOOw7t36XWvvtUmJ-MW5V2axuRz-WnYZf-rvGjzt4m8DuTDo0DDNgdAmiBf_4WGMXwlFAihQu5zlRWwwqsx0OH1STNozNXpPvScMDtRaOc_/s1600/IMG_0627.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my fraternity Little Sister Susie and my roommate Kevin</td></tr>
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Just
last month was a reunion at my college. University of the Pacific no longer has
a football team (sadly), so they don’t focus on a football game. They can get
creative. For years this meant holding the event in June, but I (for one)
complained that it was too darned hot for outdoor activities in Stockton that
time of year. Add to the above list of complaints: “I don’t look my best bathed
in sweat.” And don't we all want to look our best at a reunion?<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_zBgWy0WxKTISuCvpdXJIxenQfH5Ipb24aDcf-H0cGY98w0cEaNpBf31ra1u8Pr6pYQF9CS_9e0ctiS-58FkkdGrs84pYgXbC_8h3UW7WyPGNkJLT473mBUqg-pcSFXBlBgU-Ixc5q9am/s1600/IMG_0616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_zBgWy0WxKTISuCvpdXJIxenQfH5Ipb24aDcf-H0cGY98w0cEaNpBf31ra1u8Pr6pYQF9CS_9e0ctiS-58FkkdGrs84pYgXbC_8h3UW7WyPGNkJLT473mBUqg-pcSFXBlBgU-Ixc5q9am/s1600/IMG_0616.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With two of my Theta sorority favorites, another Susie and Luann </td></tr>
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Recently,
my college reunions returned to October. Hooray! Of course, it now conflicts
with other reunions as October is just that perfect time of year for such things.
This year shouldn’t have been a
conflict with my high school's reunion. However, the university rotates events to
focus on selected fraternities and sororities. This year, they featured my frat and the
sorority where I worked in food service (Yes, I was a “hasher” at the Theta house). I love my frat brothers and my Theta girls.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Was it
fun? In the words of my best bud Mike, “I wish I could’ve been there.” The
pleasure I get at a reunion is not so much “reliving old times,” it is reinvigorating the positive
connections with people whose friendship and company I enjoyed (and still do). There were satisfying
connections with old friends, catching up on newer times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;">But what
of the high school reunion that I blew off? I followed up with another friend and old
neighbor John, who did attend. Even though we were blended with the rival high school surprising number of my old high school classmates had
attended. Hearing some of the names made me smile and think, “”I wish I
could’ve been there.”</span></div>
Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-34031595452189410482013-11-08T21:14:00.000-08:002013-11-08T21:14:34.998-08:00Quince<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEPZCVLggM4kV5J1SE1mrwIr7XqsLEK-NY_gXaPOm06wBhEprLBZmU4MuHCvA3Forj6r_-6xhbaAm9B8oLRd-l5dGo9EjzYzhYHS1UenEMsDky9RQUufZ2fkZX9ioGuLD1A3WTfCT1_PS/s1600/quince+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEPZCVLggM4kV5J1SE1mrwIr7XqsLEK-NY_gXaPOm06wBhEprLBZmU4MuHCvA3Forj6r_-6xhbaAm9B8oLRd-l5dGo9EjzYzhYHS1UenEMsDky9RQUufZ2fkZX9ioGuLD1A3WTfCT1_PS/s200/quince+flowers.jpg" width="140" /></a></div>
<br />
One summer day, when I was a college, I spent some time
working on my father’s place in near Sebastopol in Sonoma County. One particular afternoon, I was
helping him dig a new septic line. It was pretty hot, and I worn out, and pretty darn hungry.<br />
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“Lunch?” My dad said,
“You want lunch already?” It was pushing 1:00 mind you. Yes I wanted lunch. I needed fuel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbuxD2EsxqEqaLvExQ0YcOe_i6CvScuSIL5Ooq9WWBpTbl_X0REjNdFvptLfCoUveO-lrr1iehMP8LrVgWyaElntZ9Sutj95tBJY1eQ5sEKcg3QtOjJ8YsfrlZsIkKQeWsszVrbIRgvcKp/s1600/grav+apples.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbuxD2EsxqEqaLvExQ0YcOe_i6CvScuSIL5Ooq9WWBpTbl_X0REjNdFvptLfCoUveO-lrr1iehMP8LrVgWyaElntZ9Sutj95tBJY1eQ5sEKcg3QtOjJ8YsfrlZsIkKQeWsszVrbIRgvcKp/s1600/grav+apples.jpg" /></a>“I’m a growing boy, Dad. I need something for energy,
even if its just an apple. .”<o:p></o:p></div>
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My father scowled. This was a very touchy subject. After my father left my mother, he and his
new wife had settled on this five-acre apple farm. My father didn’t feel he had
to pay alimony or child support, so he didn’t. “I don’t have a dime, judge. Everything
I own is in apples,” he’d claim. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So one day, he and wife #2 showed up at the home he'd abandoned. They presented fifteen year-old me with a
dozen or so boxes of Gravenstein apples. “You can make apple sauce, apple pie,
apple butter…you won’t go hungry,” my stepmonster cackled. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dad never paid up. My mother arranged for me to get
free lunches at school, and I learned the benefits of hanging around my
friends’ houses around dinner time to score a meal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Three years later, I’d been coaxed into augmenting
my summer income by helping my father with some projects. “Free room and
board”, he promised. “And I’ll pay you what you’re worth.” I thought it might be a chance to mend fences with my father. </div>
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After five hours of
manual labor in the hot August sun, lunch seemed to be a reasonable request. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnVe-WzgxwRsdMynUZvXE7TdhtSi5xnHP184h4nN9CySoyRIHUzXnWm5fW0Rp4xZjFZPnNmJvTn5KKaUiJg8QvnJV4iW96xcDcGFj1DAkO8Fu_-AgNz3xmz9ft48ET11aV8nyZB9FKPrv/s1600/apple+harvest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnVe-WzgxwRsdMynUZvXE7TdhtSi5xnHP184h4nN9CySoyRIHUzXnWm5fW0Rp4xZjFZPnNmJvTn5KKaUiJg8QvnJV4iW96xcDcGFj1DAkO8Fu_-AgNz3xmz9ft48ET11aV8nyZB9FKPrv/s1600/apple+harvest.jpg" /></a>“I’ve got a better idea,” Dad said. He walked over to a
nearby tree and plucked a rather strange-looking fruit. He tossed it to me,
along with a pocketknife. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“What’s this?” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The fruit of the quince,” he replied. “You never heard of it, college boy?
It’s in a lot of the food you eat every day. Have a bite.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthN0Pxfgjmgsbsl-nTaUmiVd9g81r794AKp_srfsg_IzB26UG8GrfFyvb9rXQ2RoS3Ld8irArmElobwcKkFRAxFC0oPV2mrhi_YLsf-3wZpW0lSrJby6i6po7T17BNt2BlUZIOVNON2P4/s1600/quincew+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthN0Pxfgjmgsbsl-nTaUmiVd9g81r794AKp_srfsg_IzB26UG8GrfFyvb9rXQ2RoS3Ld8irArmElobwcKkFRAxFC0oPV2mrhi_YLsf-3wZpW0lSrJby6i6po7T17BNt2BlUZIOVNON2P4/s1600/quincew+II.jpg" /></a>Yes, I was a city boy, a suburban kid. I’d done a lot of hiking
and camping in my day, I even lived on a farm one summer. But there was still a
lot I didn’t know about the more agrarian side of life. Of course, you’d think that I’d learned to be
wary of my father’s odd sense of humor by then, too. </div>
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I sliced a wedge and took a big
bite. Sour, bitter and tart only begin to describe the explosion of horrid tastes that seared my mouth. Major food ingredient? Well, yeah,
technically. Quinces are a source of pectin, an essential element in the processing
of jams and jellies.They are not fit to be eaten raw and unripe by anybody. I bent over our newly-dug ditch and retched.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Lunchtime!” my stepmonster yelled.</div>
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“Well, c’mon,” Dad said. “Hurry up…you said you were
hungry.”</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY25bh_s0Sl0lzVi6yObdPP9QpRmd_tQL4YXN759yf_Dpv4GP7wxjWqTo6wzWi6QcgyD4ci0AmRWy-4_rQql3D8QmvFAB48wBA6fST0XjGXw0UJbLugdWfb68-szKr6sJxZLcjB0Q4jOoX/s1600/220px-Quince_flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY25bh_s0Sl0lzVi6yObdPP9QpRmd_tQL4YXN759yf_Dpv4GP7wxjWqTo6wzWi6QcgyD4ci0AmRWy-4_rQql3D8QmvFAB48wBA6fST0XjGXw0UJbLugdWfb68-szKr6sJxZLcjB0Q4jOoX/s200/220px-Quince_flowers.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pretty flower of the quince tree</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-13819924703445497222013-11-05T23:56:00.000-08:002013-11-06T01:01:04.693-08:00Pittsburgh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGzSdEj2QsFWuys3SiJvKDSkQ7ij_h7MLo12Vv0nO4lzYs3oyvfCIpfCOJa5Ei0aYxtPcHwNhIzqRB5VokmSkf-6rau05nA8aaXe1NB7KoFi2yC7d8GgfZe1H5BOgZmvNDC2ympoKmu6vW/s1600/Pittsburgh+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGzSdEj2QsFWuys3SiJvKDSkQ7ij_h7MLo12Vv0nO4lzYs3oyvfCIpfCOJa5Ei0aYxtPcHwNhIzqRB5VokmSkf-6rau05nA8aaXe1NB7KoFi2yC7d8GgfZe1H5BOgZmvNDC2ympoKmu6vW/s1600/Pittsburgh+night.jpg" height="204" width="640" /></a></div>
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I'm talkin' 'bout Pittsburgh with an “H” on the end, not the small
California town on Susuin Bay. The Three Rivers town, where the Allegheny and Monogahela Rivers meet to form the Ohio. Home of the Pittsburgh Pirates, Pittsburgh Penguins
and the Steelers. I can tell if you’re from “the ‘Burgh” if you pronounce
their team’s name “Stillers.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVDeDTVAF6QOrSe23ZRGxP1QK_558toeyKCzB5XCQxlrhM7ZaPf120fAvC6kNB75iM6PWvPo5vQXQiqsO8Hl1XWT2dIP_AKJT-dDmmsa7SQ1FEHM5gyQRcXqFe929svDySsgNGhHJIwDEr/s1600/Pittsburgh+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVDeDTVAF6QOrSe23ZRGxP1QK_558toeyKCzB5XCQxlrhM7ZaPf120fAvC6kNB75iM6PWvPo5vQXQiqsO8Hl1XWT2dIP_AKJT-dDmmsa7SQ1FEHM5gyQRcXqFe929svDySsgNGhHJIwDEr/s1600/Pittsburgh+day.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1IC_lCigYcErMT33oqOmHWjM1p3VRTF0_KnuKSGWUOZP7wLaTbsnriD34_LXwxh371eDiou6GfHbOUXMFgHXX3_lA7FKJ79AWn3NyIZKE2_ly2JAgv13fzUdPfWghZj2NCjrfEX_5JeQO/s1600/P{ittsburgh+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1IC_lCigYcErMT33oqOmHWjM1p3VRTF0_KnuKSGWUOZP7wLaTbsnriD34_LXwxh371eDiou6GfHbOUXMFgHXX3_lA7FKJ79AWn3NyIZKE2_ly2JAgv13fzUdPfWghZj2NCjrfEX_5JeQO/s1600/P{ittsburgh+map.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
If you were in the Deep South, you might hear an expression such as:<br />
"Y'all are a buncha damn fools."<br />
In Pittsburgh, that translates as:<br />
"Yinz jag offs!"<br />
<br />
There is a whole range of unique Pittsburgh dialectical
terminology, much of it indexed to their particular gastronomy. I worked in Pittsburgh for more than a year in my
twenties and loved the town—all Western Pennsylvania, in fact. It's fun to learn the language--literally. From the "chipped ham sammitches," "kilbassa," "pisghetti" dinners or" hoagies," there's a lot to love. For a glossary of Pittsburghese, cut and paste this link:</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> http://www.pittsburghese.com/glossary.ep.html?type=nouns</o:p></div>
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My last visit to the ‘Burgh was on the occasion of a
baseball trip that I took with my good friend Mike. We connected with
my old buddy Mark, who I’d met during my two-year Pittsburgh sojourn in the
early Eighties. (Mark and I met in a night class at the University of
Pittsburgh).</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheMwL8qRbusOANXvaqQc2YfBfRpG_MB2BgEEQjYaLqWD6nBcn85dxuEEORIFnq7vfD0VBmg6YoGZG-9zCYbo411ZLLDJ3Ju-p22wbZzRp5clHb9EsRdFvwFuu9A-ffKJwYN7gi8YdyG4JR/s1600/Pittsburgh+ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheMwL8qRbusOANXvaqQc2YfBfRpG_MB2BgEEQjYaLqWD6nBcn85dxuEEORIFnq7vfD0VBmg6YoGZG-9zCYbo411ZLLDJ3Ju-p22wbZzRp5clHb9EsRdFvwFuu9A-ffKJwYN7gi8YdyG4JR/s1600/Pittsburgh+ball.jpg" /></a>I do not remember who won or who played against the Pirates game, but that wasn't he point. Mike had never been to the ‘Burgh before,
and even though he didn’t recall Mark from my wedding many years before, they got on
famously. Easy conversations were struck up with random seatmates ,
fellow pedestrians coming to and from the stadium, folks in line for a kilbassa or Iron City beer. We sampled the local cuisine, drank in the view of the golden-colored Allegheny Bridge and the lovely cityscape
that formed the right field backdrop, and we laughed the night away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“This is the best ballpark—next to AT&T—in the majors,” Mike said. Quite a statement from my fellow SF Giants season
ticket-holder. “But this town is flat-out great. The people are so damn <i>friendly.</i> I really mean it. Lots of
places claim to be friendly, but everyone here walks around with a great
attitude and they’re sharin’ the love.” That feeling is contagious: cue "What a Feeling," the hit song from <i>Flashdance, </i>filmed on location when I was living there.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrfMmWWS6kaADik48EAXDjguFRGE0NOgKLqnZGSjdIYjROo0X3nzptPanph8vT9gECDJ0yW5Uea4QPDX1oyecA-65eq38rbmadv_OyX8Erv1qqlmTfWIo6UHICkMHElr4QOa7XFlUixrS/s1600/flashdance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrfMmWWS6kaADik48EAXDjguFRGE0NOgKLqnZGSjdIYjROo0X3nzptPanph8vT9gECDJ0yW5Uea4QPDX1oyecA-65eq38rbmadv_OyX8Erv1qqlmTfWIo6UHICkMHElr4QOa7XFlUixrS/s1600/flashdance.jpg" height="200" width="197" /></a></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrfMmWWS6kaADik48EAXDjguFRGE0NOgKLqnZGSjdIYjROo0X3nzptPanph8vT9gECDJ0yW5Uea4QPDX1oyecA-65eq38rbmadv_OyX8Erv1qqlmTfWIo6UHICkMHElr4QOa7XFlUixrS/s1600/flashdance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ILWSp0m9G2U<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkqsyEwUINrVep0fNpfAs_CNJxzH8OSmhZDKeIK-odG6NXRststB9POen0pISwS__kjklW81ECDClqlPQIYEMMqSOopCKSPwrTPdZIXXd8ZJuZOWuQ88VR0rBGd9D7viYH86xMKk3UmrW/s1600/Primanti+Brothers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkqsyEwUINrVep0fNpfAs_CNJxzH8OSmhZDKeIK-odG6NXRststB9POen0pISwS__kjklW81ECDClqlPQIYEMMqSOopCKSPwrTPdZIXXd8ZJuZOWuQ88VR0rBGd9D7viYH86xMKk3UmrW/s1600/Primanti+Brothers.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a>For our brunch the next day, we went to one of my
favorite old haunts. Primanti Brothers is a restaurant and bar in the Strip
District, a warehouse neighborhood sandwiched between the hills and the
Allegheny River east of downtown. Mark
had introduced me to this true slice of life in the Three Rivers City decades
before. Then, it had been difficult to find Mark in the warren of streets clogged
with produce carts and delivery trucks. My how times had changed. This time, I found that most of the
neighborhood buildings were the same, but spiffed and polished. Restaurants and
retail establishments dotted the area. The Strip District had become trendy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BcPnsu92t5DYlLcBCl48zpBHyG1wRjROV8Be5xzpgorAMAv_FQJTgDVRSmYeQ3rQ2VeNtlx_9dCFLMaZVjikfRRc91WJ_n7Rv4_5WtRyvBD3BW8USr4FYWKVw67hG0YFBlMyEvw3tdJS/s1600/Pittsburgh+sammitch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BcPnsu92t5DYlLcBCl48zpBHyG1wRjROV8Be5xzpgorAMAv_FQJTgDVRSmYeQ3rQ2VeNtlx_9dCFLMaZVjikfRRc91WJ_n7Rv4_5WtRyvBD3BW8USr4FYWKVw67hG0YFBlMyEvw3tdJS/s1600/Pittsburgh+sammitch.jpg" height="152" width="320" /></a>Primanti Brothers was still the same, homey eatery, and packed with customers as always, but now there were nearly as many polo shirts as overalls
filling the joint. Their soups are now world-famous, but it’s the sandwiches we
come for. Fries and slaw are piled high on top of your sandwich or burger—my favorite is pastrami and cheese. It may sound a little off, but it tastes mmm good! Just keep your cardiologist on speed-dial, will ya? Framed and signed photos of TV celebrity chefs and
travel hosts who’ve made the pilgrimage may don the walls, but this destination restaurant hasn’t
lost any of its unique flavor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pittsburgh is definitely charming. <o:p></o:p><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVd7JiGsOMqzwJ3YcwjYvaquhwHZbTGRpMqg9c2QrQYF2hlDdJcFHKeb7GzzD0ubYdm2dcAYS2WvSiDIKarHcgY7-lMT8J6_HIaQqD5EBeVzuYX9R4I-w9LdraJqBrlIe4PrBm1sQhQug2/s1600/pITTSBURGH+sTEELERS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVd7JiGsOMqzwJ3YcwjYvaquhwHZbTGRpMqg9c2QrQYF2hlDdJcFHKeb7GzzD0ubYdm2dcAYS2WvSiDIKarHcgY7-lMT8J6_HIaQqD5EBeVzuYX9R4I-w9LdraJqBrlIe4PrBm1sQhQug2/s1600/pITTSBURGH+sTEELERS.jpg" /></a>Reinvented as a center of
education, medicine and high-tech, the ‘Burgh retains the unique character of
its rust-belt roots. Pittsburgh's dramatic location and idiosyncratic natives will surprise,you. It's a special and essential community that is a truly American experience.<br />
<br />
Go, Stillers!</div>
</div>
Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-50512193457716571182013-11-01T16:46:00.002-07:002013-11-05T20:47:59.993-08:00Oleander<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPXa29dH2DGUY4ajC1hTSFbvH90RkVo61ub5pKjqPp2YcLYmnTxlG_lZhDLmZcyMqm-sKcPIbKk94BkRQ3YQuGWfUE1tzYGEXDyxP0geWuyGJoOJ1MZxKQsUBCxxqnJqEvhHJRwdgtqXu/s1600/oleander+close.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPXa29dH2DGUY4ajC1hTSFbvH90RkVo61ub5pKjqPp2YcLYmnTxlG_lZhDLmZcyMqm-sKcPIbKk94BkRQ3YQuGWfUE1tzYGEXDyxP0geWuyGJoOJ1MZxKQsUBCxxqnJqEvhHJRwdgtqXu/s1600/oleander+close.jpg" /></a>“I live in the Oleander district,” he said.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">“Oleander?” He had no idea what a significant place that plant had in my memory.</span></div>
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“Yeah, it’s a pretty nice part of Bakersfield—have you ever
been?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, I, I…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Look, it’s a pretty neighborhood, even if the plant is
poisonous.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah, oleander grows like crazy in this heat—wait!
Poisonous?” I had a different take.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m sure you heard the story about the Boy Scouts who died
using oleander branches to roast hot dogs…” he was shaking his head in disgust.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What, really?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Just an urban legend,” he waved his hand dismissively as if
he were erasing a chalkboard. “Gosh, don’t get upset. Check it out on
Snopes.com—it’s all a bunch of hooey.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Hooey?</i> My new
acquaintance was a forty-something who sometimes talked like a
seventy-something Okie. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah, but oleander can still be deadly—take it from me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXM28PRuXQbVcJJHxTMqbMssqX8Zsyeb8akpD7gzJi256WygoyrBdOXC-nm1H8AudcQQj0zTATJsF_RieOV3bGJkXyq1Duf5dxHKCRbKQt9ju4jfYwlppyuIiYXIcXboa0ouMmg0tmtIq-/s1600/oleander+median.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXM28PRuXQbVcJJHxTMqbMssqX8Zsyeb8akpD7gzJi256WygoyrBdOXC-nm1H8AudcQQj0zTATJsF_RieOV3bGJkXyq1Duf5dxHKCRbKQt9ju4jfYwlppyuIiYXIcXboa0ouMmg0tmtIq-/s1600/oleander+median.jpg" /></a>My experience related to a bad car accident when I was
seven. Returning from a long trip from San Francisco to Mexico, our station
wagon flipped into the median of US 99 just north of Merced. Intermittent
strips of oleander bushes line many of California’s highway medians, including
that one. Perhaps our car would have had a softer landing if that’s all there
was separating the north and southbound lanes of that freeway. But it wasn’t.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our car was impaled upon a hidden danger lurking beneath the
lavender-colored greenery: a 40” high concrete post. It was one of a series of
obscured pylons topped with steel rings (their original purpose was to be
chained to its neighbors as a deterrent to illegal u-turns). It staked our
spinning, sliding vehicle, perhaps preventing us from careening into the
on-coming traffic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When the spinning stopped, I was pinned under my parent’s
bodies in a cloud of dust and shattered glass. The only movement was the slow
settling of oleander leaves and disturbed soil settling over a mass of rendered
luggage, clothing and bodies inside our crushed vehicle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“They’re dead, they’re all dead!” came a scream from the
rear of the car. I could see my sister Sher through the tumult, standing like a
bloodied flamingo on her uninjured leg, quaking, crying. The horrible scene was
all tinted red, as if I looked through rose-colored glasses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>So this is what it’s
like to be dead?</i> I thought. <i> Just looking at the world moving on without me,
in slow-motion?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Luckily, there were no fatalities, all seven of my family survived. First my mother, then a sister, and finally
the others began to cough. Slowly they moved. A woman appeared behind the car
and hugged my flamingo sister. A man’s face appeared above me and called down
into the overturned vehicle, “Are you alright in there?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifiU_zhNO4i0lBiqnYhEFBrCMvC3y6MvhyiQ4Vay7S2nnMIQNxYu1_uPc0shLLqvMQEzCQ4scoRdLLdq7CEBmkKfHqIFQ8fBnv1f94LQ5hz7DyXrO1DZA4_1UZS38GKlk0X0n9xPZhCtFY/s1600/oleander+w+truck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifiU_zhNO4i0lBiqnYhEFBrCMvC3y6MvhyiQ4Vay7S2nnMIQNxYu1_uPc0shLLqvMQEzCQ4scoRdLLdq7CEBmkKfHqIFQ8fBnv1f94LQ5hz7DyXrO1DZA4_1UZS38GKlk0X0n9xPZhCtFY/s1600/oleander+w+truck.jpg" /></a>We were very lucky, but we weren’t quite all right: my
sister’s leg, my mother’s ribs, and my eye were the main casualties. Strangers hurriedly
pulled the remaining six of us from the broken grey Chevy wagon. The stench of
spilled oil and gasoline was everywhere. After I emerged from the wreck, every
person, family or not, looked at me and covered their mouths, horrified by the
bloody mess where my left eye should be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A white cloth appeared and an anonymous lady placed it over
my eye. “Don’t move this until the ambulance gets here,’ she commanded. My
sister retrieved the sombrero we’d picked up in Tijuana, hoping to raise my
spirits. It was very hot that August afternoon, so my mother settled me down in
the shade of a nearby bush to await the ambulance. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything was quiet once again, even the rushing traffic
seemed silenced. My sight was obscured
by blood caked over my one good eye. My
mouth was soiled with loamy dust. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2iPXZcQR9qTRcxiIt9e1_jcw5DHaZLV6iM7lcEob-Vkm3wZyRpp5-fg9co0M4nndahFGPkGNCirs2aZofAxHB9P4a2ze-5NyUImUD__VtX-JpCWuONoBpfU-px9Qm3o2TETSgP-pX-7Iq/s1600/ollie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2iPXZcQR9qTRcxiIt9e1_jcw5DHaZLV6iM7lcEob-Vkm3wZyRpp5-fg9co0M4nndahFGPkGNCirs2aZofAxHB9P4a2ze-5NyUImUD__VtX-JpCWuONoBpfU-px9Qm3o2TETSgP-pX-7Iq/s1600/ollie.jpg" /></a>“What’s that funny smell, Mom?” I asked,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t worry, honey, it’s just the oil from the car.” The Samaritans
had righted the station wagon somewhat, believing it would suppress any fire
hazard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, Mommy—I mean the sweet, flowery smell.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was oleander. The oleander that masked the dangerous
pylon that ripped open our wildly careening vehicle, nearly killing my family.
Yet it was that fist of concrete punching through the metal of the station
wagon which held us—along with those cushioning floral bushes—and that may have
saved us from an even more hellish fate.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I rested in the shade of the oleander and inhaled its faint,
sweet smell, sheltered from the heat of the sun and the stares of well-meaning
strangers in my blood-stained orange-striped shirt, straining to hear the
distant wail of an ambulance siren rushing ever closer.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLz2DyEZ5TaDgy8C800i69wUWAe4xjeOPCLUVCbrRa0QEPAo5KLaLjWuZvAnH5b12yX6n7yCQmGGxnF28wZnvOrVNHAuof_rIGKx9eBab3db5gqLjQ7tE2mu4dVnj5GoNHcMrlvffeIXx/s1600/accident+best.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLz2DyEZ5TaDgy8C800i69wUWAe4xjeOPCLUVCbrRa0QEPAo5KLaLjWuZvAnH5b12yX6n7yCQmGGxnF28wZnvOrVNHAuof_rIGKx9eBab3db5gqLjQ7tE2mu4dVnj5GoNHcMrlvffeIXx/s1600/accident+best.jpg" height="198" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">I'm in the orange-striped shirt, under the oleander, held by<br />
one sister who is wearing my sombrero.<br />
My mother in the green dress tends to my<br />
sister Sher while we await the ambulance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-64716700474482327072013-10-28T23:28:00.001-07:002013-10-28T23:28:26.437-07:00Needles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoFPWri8wE5snRRRbeNPDzu-OBuu-UHoNpEkTV90jex5V31uuMZeniwU_MIxA2k9unIQqklWDEC0mFQ2kqeHVB9FO5qPyuTQrXTXDnlOQ203uZ-1itPH64ndBcz8Fz2S-RtP_bPniiiiVO/s1600/Needles+wagon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoFPWri8wE5snRRRbeNPDzu-OBuu-UHoNpEkTV90jex5V31uuMZeniwU_MIxA2k9unIQqklWDEC0mFQ2kqeHVB9FO5qPyuTQrXTXDnlOQ203uZ-1itPH64ndBcz8Fz2S-RtP_bPniiiiVO/s1600/Needles+wagon.jpg" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re from Needles?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, so? Are you going to make jokes about my home town?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, I wasn’t. I met kids from all over California in my
college days; most didn’t want to hear crap about their roots.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, I always wondered: is Needles, California so named
because of the intense prickly heat, the proliferation of cactus, or what? Hot
it definitely is. Death Valley is the all-time champion for record heat in
California (and likely the entire USA), but sandwiched between the Mojave and
the Colorado River, Needles is the hottest town. They clocked a record 125
degrees one July day in 2005.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-31BXF5D7Uej7VlqfUsGy-gi9vcTit7OKODNyLeW9rLf8FAuB93YCD0pMLix-NCK0lMHO4EIqyK0WsJ_M_vP2RltUm1a4enupj73WS316R8hx53LG_QDkaxPEf60FTCaCDjSCZ9EVot3/s1600/Needles+temps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-31BXF5D7Uej7VlqfUsGy-gi9vcTit7OKODNyLeW9rLf8FAuB93YCD0pMLix-NCK0lMHO4EIqyK0WsJ_M_vP2RltUm1a4enupj73WS316R8hx53LG_QDkaxPEf60FTCaCDjSCZ9EVot3/s1600/Needles+temps.jpg" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that wasn’t my first thought. For me, Needles conjures up
an entirely different and decidedly unfunny image.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was a child in South San Francisco, my family would
travel most summers to Colorado (my father’s birthplace) and Missouri (my
mother’s). We’d travel east on US 40 through Donner Pass (which later became
I-80) and return by the infamous Route 66 through Needles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjey_zEQol8L_QLiqweSA3JHsJX-LEu9XaRr-IMXFKrsY60dMWhPw1JqUKAV7eNHcUsIgjWDaHd_jihazGkJB-9Q3ecuXud5WjDzVWImHOudLeVCo1M4zoRNqgDeJjiujStio__X-y_LYto/s1600/Needles+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjey_zEQol8L_QLiqweSA3JHsJX-LEu9XaRr-IMXFKrsY60dMWhPw1JqUKAV7eNHcUsIgjWDaHd_jihazGkJB-9Q3ecuXud5WjDzVWImHOudLeVCo1M4zoRNqgDeJjiujStio__X-y_LYto/s1600/Needles+map.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Five kids in one
station wagon for days at a time with no air conditioning, just a burlap bag
strapped the front grill for cold water. Did I mention no air conditioning?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On one such trip, we crossed back into
California and climbed the hill out of the Colorado River gorge to the flat
Mojave plateau.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLERk23fwcbjP179PGtGi1S_TmtStVlg2lQhnUgyo0WP5ta3bTnsmXrWmnreMCh57AH6coG3vN31C6kaGhbL1AMDOtMcn_-kLvhW2kyeZKkfKJEwny3XW09Q9WHsWmTtCBxH3UBl3fqSaB/s1600/Route+66.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLERk23fwcbjP179PGtGi1S_TmtStVlg2lQhnUgyo0WP5ta3bTnsmXrWmnreMCh57AH6coG3vN31C6kaGhbL1AMDOtMcn_-kLvhW2kyeZKkfKJEwny3XW09Q9WHsWmTtCBxH3UBl3fqSaB/s1600/Route+66.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How hot is it?” I whined, knowing that this was the hottest
spot of our trip. It didn’t help that we were stuck in stop-and-go traffic just
outside of town with nothing but more desert ahead. Soon enough, we saw flashing red
lights that signaled a traffic accident. A California Highway Patrolman was perched
on a motorcycle giving instructions to each driver as they came alongside.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s a pretty bad accident just ahead, ma’am,” The
uniformed officer growled at my mom from behind his dark shades. “We’re only
letting one car go at a time, so change over to the left lane. Do you have any
kids in there?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfq3NNWPBjC8V-dj67d9mXu6GDTmetUitefwV0PUfdO4SDOAIqf8zozH6ynjqkSHdnm4m51iZOlo8jtClqQKkEbC549M9KRPahs3E8IqyseUuAHuMKrW6r3ED6II97qbtSw51YJ_HUC_Q6/s1600/chp2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfq3NNWPBjC8V-dj67d9mXu6GDTmetUitefwV0PUfdO4SDOAIqf8zozH6ynjqkSHdnm4m51iZOlo8jtClqQKkEbC549M9KRPahs3E8IqyseUuAHuMKrW6r3ED6II97qbtSw51YJ_HUC_Q6/s1600/chp2.jpg" height="120" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Only three today,” Mom said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, you’ll need to have them hide their eyes when you
pass the accident—it’s pretty disturbing for small children.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sister immediately covered me with a jacket, and I
pretended to cooperate while our Chevy wagon inched forward. When I heard my mother gasp, I whipped off the jacket
and looked out the side window. I wish I hadn’t. When you think of the word
“decapitated,” you might think of Marie Antoinette and the guillotine. I think of a body behind the steering wheel
of a mangled Cadillac being extracted from the underside of a semi-truck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Omigawd!” My sister hissed, looking at the carnage, then at
me. “Did you see that bloody mess?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah,” I mumbled, stupefied by the crippling the 120-degree
heat, paralyzed by the sight of a headless woman in a fur coat pinned in the
driver’s seat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She must've taken her eyes off the road and didn't see that truck until it was too late.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wiped my brow and said the first thing
that came to my ten year-old mind: “She was probably adjusting her air
conditioner…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhup7q14PivP5sr1jUTQkqKynVgXQ3C4WDE8erMdvaF5KuxiXrCwvuGEWtGEcldQkTrOHNWGPuhxYy92WmwxkXDvZQLX5KF3b0_K8oUMpfZ5yCUiXZ7Y9k0u2ThiIcHMV5-YF6vcb2-cQAC/s1600/Needles+and+River.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhup7q14PivP5sr1jUTQkqKynVgXQ3C4WDE8erMdvaF5KuxiXrCwvuGEWtGEcldQkTrOHNWGPuhxYy92WmwxkXDvZQLX5KF3b0_K8oUMpfZ5yCUiXZ7Y9k0u2ThiIcHMV5-YF6vcb2-cQAC/s1600/Needles+and+River.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The eponymous Needles that gave the town its name</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-30714724767557299662013-10-25T01:02:00.002-07:002013-10-25T01:02:31.151-07:00Milly<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: both; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: both; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: auto; padding: 6px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifoJBMXwlYYhDKa2MoYpiAeXsWIfwF-372YxRoVgPypokHYlG62EnUMmNYjXnvhifha5beeNq95W_BQa2J3F1FVrpoI34ZfkLwbxp8FlSsrO4XzD2o4ObLD5ZJxUfXfnNHdHLGyVyA1TCR/s1600/DSCN0205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifoJBMXwlYYhDKa2MoYpiAeXsWIfwF-372YxRoVgPypokHYlG62EnUMmNYjXnvhifha5beeNq95W_BQa2J3F1FVrpoI34ZfkLwbxp8FlSsrO4XzD2o4ObLD5ZJxUfXfnNHdHLGyVyA1TCR/s1600/DSCN0205.JPG" height="240" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Cousin Elly, Aunt Milly and me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Milly and Clyde Perrine were high school sweethearts and the
eternal couple. Clyde met his buddy Ed’s kid sister in high school in San
Francisco and immediately offered to carry her books. Idaho-born Clyde joined
the Army during World War II, but he never forgot that girl, even while he
manned a tank in the Battle of the Bulge.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcP-6lyp84DSbm4nhZzPXWB2lvb6RdIA-ySpLz5O7j9cIdASTmlFG8kp-3ovWEYaSUIqEA7MtT3kcD6nuh8W2JukrYFFKtwhqKkE4jBabtcbauWEdlSijxrru6ISoZ2VcKkSuHVRtLBTX/s1600/Clyde+inthe+army.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcP-6lyp84DSbm4nhZzPXWB2lvb6RdIA-ySpLz5O7j9cIdASTmlFG8kp-3ovWEYaSUIqEA7MtT3kcD6nuh8W2JukrYFFKtwhqKkE4jBabtcbauWEdlSijxrru6ISoZ2VcKkSuHVRtLBTX/s1600/Clyde+inthe+army.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milly's favorite soldier, Clyde</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They married in San Francisco in 1946 and after a few short
years relocated to the northeast corner of Oregon, near Clyde’s native Idaho. They
were married for more than sixty years, produced two marvelous daughters,
created innumerable friendships and even co-founded a church. They are all-American icons, essential Oregonians, my aunt and uncle.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8AgFjM9CVtFdu5EIWEtf60xmaH_RoQE609vDYy34brYO68hfEBe1uhccNTqu5Sv4bXcRMtt2wn53mWPme29Iw0CEiRfxBheFiZCUms1uew2ryMxXc-VELTA9ekSoiPOxrFHNmdWXE7eG/s1600/Milly+and+Clyde+married.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8AgFjM9CVtFdu5EIWEtf60xmaH_RoQE609vDYy34brYO68hfEBe1uhccNTqu5Sv4bXcRMtt2wn53mWPme29Iw0CEiRfxBheFiZCUms1uew2ryMxXc-VELTA9ekSoiPOxrFHNmdWXE7eG/s1600/Milly+and+Clyde+married.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milly and Clyde on their wedding day in 1946</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, Milly is technically my second cousin; Milly, her
brother and my dad were all raised together like siblings in San Francisco near
where I grew up, loving her as my only paternal aunt. Sadly, Uncle Clyde passed
on more than a year ago. It’s easy to forget that Clyde’s gone, his spirit
remains with the family in so many ways.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSuw7VJ3Q2DoiXoyoup6T4pvBVoWumIP_markRwVo781GkuE_eQzxBG8rpBYy7ls1StBiKhQfxxKe1vHa7QEdqtOAQTgPvPmZjpDHV0egoRt4RZjBmgwhLl91lYnIETO6CLT9eW0Sh81o/s1600/Clyde+and+Melanie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSuw7VJ3Q2DoiXoyoup6T4pvBVoWumIP_markRwVo781GkuE_eQzxBG8rpBYy7ls1StBiKhQfxxKe1vHa7QEdqtOAQTgPvPmZjpDHV0egoRt4RZjBmgwhLl91lYnIETO6CLT9eW0Sh81o/s1600/Clyde+and+Melanie.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Clyde and his granddaughter Melanie January 1, 2012<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAATFHUMNn3CXjr9riwHEJDluE-vLPtWaMYeWtAbeP5W3C6tmo7WKFGa6IUNk4vTej1PyyTly3DzJ9kYbxHhkDN9ydA-dmKZcHNziA-Afd6xVa2JpNudwqjXv_cCBiCmeAC1UE3FwEI4r/s1600/IMG_0489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAATFHUMNn3CXjr9riwHEJDluE-vLPtWaMYeWtAbeP5W3C6tmo7WKFGa6IUNk4vTej1PyyTly3DzJ9kYbxHhkDN9ydA-dmKZcHNziA-Afd6xVa2JpNudwqjXv_cCBiCmeAC1UE3FwEI4r/s1600/IMG_0489.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Last month, there was a weekend of celebration in honor of
Aunt Milly’s 90<sup>th</sup> birthday. Woo hoo! Milly’s got many of the
expected aches and pains for her age, but she’s still the same good ol’ gal
that won Clyde’s heart seven decades ago. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh40TSo9UGdfJzo1KZZFCZJH-nLWAYpkEty2oXtDi5Iam7eK7hgDY2U0RkTvavozHJzqnooXkznS5pHlSHk3cJkIL9vh43RWH7LrCAYT4kSJodaC1r9CuPay3v2c5XtbxNSwRU3jXIwu44W/s1600/IMG_0490.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh40TSo9UGdfJzo1KZZFCZJH-nLWAYpkEty2oXtDi5Iam7eK7hgDY2U0RkTvavozHJzqnooXkznS5pHlSHk3cJkIL9vh43RWH7LrCAYT4kSJodaC1r9CuPay3v2c5XtbxNSwRU3jXIwu44W/s1600/IMG_0490.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Milly and her son-in-law, another Ed!</td></tr>
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Milly may not be riding high in the saddle these days, but
she’s definitely sharp as a tack. She could still sing the Welsh lullabies that
her grandmother (my great-grandmother) learned as a little girl in Wales before
immigrating to the USA in 1865. Sadly, I don’t know any Welsh myself; I last heard
that lullaby when my great-grandma sang it for us at her 100<sup>th</sup>
birthday celebration in 1963. There’s some longevity in them genes, to be sure.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihcD_AyfOtR4_Etf778fjqY75YqgCq_B5giSl6ZxWRlFd3sXaEOUxJk1SII4HEA8XXzoEZKU5x6iIhtcAUrhvbpmo7CqT5MY-rrxmBsif-67HlFIAVaDGqLP-FViZt3kBwT0v-p0eB3pj4/s1600/IMG_0484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihcD_AyfOtR4_Etf778fjqY75YqgCq_B5giSl6ZxWRlFd3sXaEOUxJk1SII4HEA8XXzoEZKU5x6iIhtcAUrhvbpmo7CqT5MY-rrxmBsif-67HlFIAVaDGqLP-FViZt3kBwT0v-p0eB3pj4/s1600/IMG_0484.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sumpter Valley, Oregon</td></tr>
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Milly’s celebration was pretty low-key, split between her
Bow and Arrow Ranch in Oregon’s bucolic Sumpter Valley and a friend’s home in
Baker City. There were neighbors, church friends, townsfolk, her daughters,
some of the grandkids, a couple of great-grandbabies, and a passel of Perrines
(Clyde’s side of the family); close to one hundred celebrants in all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMQhHuWxlPS9IFamN8xN9XBNK6gI1zkmavoy_rrMyIZKXLkS0En2yMak31XztCy1Er3PQInVwPBw6Tur1r5jaYslS3O0nmkRCclJj3IP8qbzAvkywnWTbI289saEobp7QsbQxG1Mh4HQA/s1600/Party+gang+for+Milly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMQhHuWxlPS9IFamN8xN9XBNK6gI1zkmavoy_rrMyIZKXLkS0En2yMak31XztCy1Er3PQInVwPBw6Tur1r5jaYslS3O0nmkRCclJj3IP8qbzAvkywnWTbI289saEobp7QsbQxG1Mh4HQA/s1600/Party+gang+for+Milly.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Aunt Milly in her purple raiment, with the family at her 90th</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNMUsa3drLcQas_LbvNOEjTXmTZJg3LIBlkVWL7AA0cgG4PVP7-sSBENb4aMfAtXpmsIN7LCCXU0YWMKL45dtoLhQd4AG0KDLYnBEmauMW3f_MAhCeC92-pNiNlnHOZhBQkXLRpJK2jW7/s1600/IMG_0486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNMUsa3drLcQas_LbvNOEjTXmTZJg3LIBlkVWL7AA0cgG4PVP7-sSBENb4aMfAtXpmsIN7LCCXU0YWMKL45dtoLhQd4AG0KDLYnBEmauMW3f_MAhCeC92-pNiNlnHOZhBQkXLRpJK2jW7/s1600/IMG_0486.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the party</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZw6ywz1TGwy4t7wer6TcW9Sxd0RcPfN_7l4hIqsVYEMiWL03W75rwNrZBQ5cHGhp4DzUxVpnIca7ifuilnKZdvNJxxr9n9pvdGHXAMp0ETyIqwjKj5EvLaIh8Lh1vO2Di3MARSQhJ5yvY/s1600/IMG_0447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZw6ywz1TGwy4t7wer6TcW9Sxd0RcPfN_7l4hIqsVYEMiWL03W75rwNrZBQ5cHGhp4DzUxVpnIca7ifuilnKZdvNJxxr9n9pvdGHXAMp0ETyIqwjKj5EvLaIh8Lh1vO2Di3MARSQhJ5yvY/s1600/IMG_0447.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old house at the Bow and Arrow Ranch</td></tr>
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When the weekend was over, Milly and some of her kin stayed
to close up the ranch. Winter’s coming and the Sumpter Valley gets quite a bit
of snow. Milly is back in an assisted living facility in central Oregon. My
aunt is a bit sad to be 200 miles from the beloved ranch where she raised her
family and “kept tabs on Clyde” for more than half a century. The good news is her daughter Elly and
granddaughter Laurie take good care of her, visiting just about every day—and
dear ol’ Clyde is always nestled close in Milly’s heart. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYxc1F2qbYTbdw2TYRPVdHYDppJxsCfHFiSQDVTyhALtYHBd5NQeqcxyxJFhAAUNzTxhx1uSMWcUhjiRFbitEkldf5kbYyUPJqY4Y5o5TtANZWAWsjZr2g0jT1EdWzYC4FLxurrZW8fv-r/s1600/Milly+in+Oregon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYxc1F2qbYTbdw2TYRPVdHYDppJxsCfHFiSQDVTyhALtYHBd5NQeqcxyxJFhAAUNzTxhx1uSMWcUhjiRFbitEkldf5kbYyUPJqY4Y5o5TtANZWAWsjZr2g0jT1EdWzYC4FLxurrZW8fv-r/s1600/Milly+in+Oregon.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">My wife and I visiting Aunt Milly in 2012<br /></td></tr>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-83444067637575409312013-10-19T08:59:00.000-07:002013-10-19T08:59:03.454-07:00LA Stories<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
“Isn’t it nice that the kind of people that prefer Los
Angeles live there?”</div>
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~ Herb Caen, <i>San Francisco Chronicle</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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True San Franciscans—old San Franciscans—are supposed to
have nothing but disdain for all things Angeleno. I don’t, I like Los Angeles,
I enjoy myself whenever I’m there. Okay, so <i>do
</i>I have some reservations about LA, but I channel all that bad karma toward
the Dodgers. Them, I hate. Dodger-hating is wonderfully cathartic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYeOIVgH5nrw5sPy0uFpe2vlaTtKZCZ2-9wwSP1Ke7R8Er1ap73Ez6ycQNgo5XFGLhPm4k6uti3AHaRMw_j8uNz8PtkUebczxb-CsEPefNU3RrYCl8G7QKSbz3M6J9Yj4abir1N4YORd7/s1600/Marilyn+in+a+box.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYeOIVgH5nrw5sPy0uFpe2vlaTtKZCZ2-9wwSP1Ke7R8Er1ap73Ez6ycQNgo5XFGLhPm4k6uti3AHaRMw_j8uNz8PtkUebczxb-CsEPefNU3RrYCl8G7QKSbz3M6J9Yj4abir1N4YORd7/s1600/Marilyn+in+a+box.JPG" height="320" width="216" /></a>My first visit to LA began the day they discovered Marilyn’s
body. Our family of seven managed to have a great time, once we got past the
shock of Miss Monroe’s suicide. I swam at Santa Monica, visited Graumann’s
Chinese Theater, went to Marineland in Palos Verdes, hit all the rides in
Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Then we visited the Movieland Wax Museum. Apparently, their wax
figure of Marilyn Monroe had just arrived. In a macabre attempt to capitalize
on her headline-grabbing demise, they had torn the front off her packing crate
and dressed her in a strapless sequined cocktail dress with a white fur stole—still standing in her
coffin-like crate. It was a chilling visage, especially for a seven year-old. It
was years before I returned to LaLa Land.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In college and my early twenties, I made many new friends
from Southern California. One particular friend, Bob, lived in Marina Del Rey near
LAX. He wanted to get to know San Francisco better, and I had to admit I needed
to get beyond the SoCal amusement parks. We discovered easy-to-get standby
flights between LAX and SFO costing less than $20 each way. I became a
minor league jet-setter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bob and I developed a system: on alternate months, I would
spend one weekend with Bob in LA, then he would come to San Francisco the next
month for my famous tours. Bob showed me Griffith Park, Venice, Malibu,
Manhattan Beach, Huntington Beach, Newport and Pasadena. We attended football
games at the LA Coliseum and made an appearance at dreaded Dodger Stadium. I discovered art at the Getty Villa and LACMA,
fossils at the LaBrea Tar Pits, even Magic
Mountain. (We cannot recall all the details of parties in Westwood, Venice and the Hollywood Hills).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXlQ2BbFOOBVj6bQj8aig8-6IrHWsHlkhGQ9kifvJXnmwysTKdAibffYdxE4bLZaiI_83cEFiTuJ7u8gXEaCDBtgZ7KXvQ6RkBLcOONNyaQxAO4msB4mBNW2rkg34uKL1VcMzLGf89wp9/s1600/Hollywood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXlQ2BbFOOBVj6bQj8aig8-6IrHWsHlkhGQ9kifvJXnmwysTKdAibffYdxE4bLZaiI_83cEFiTuJ7u8gXEaCDBtgZ7KXvQ6RkBLcOONNyaQxAO4msB4mBNW2rkg34uKL1VcMzLGf89wp9/s1600/Hollywood.jpg" height="286" width="320" /></a></div>
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“I think I’m beginning to really like LA,” I told a friend over
drinks at one San Francisco watering hole. “I’ve got lots of friends down there
now, and there’s always something new and trendy…” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Merely pleasant islands floating in a sea of shit, drowning
all the star-struck Wanna-Be’s,” he said. Okay, the air was uniformly brown and
the freeways painful to travel, but I thought that might be overstating it a
bit. Though I had to admit most of my friends did aspire to careers in 'the (Motion Picture)
Industry.' Some were even gainfully employed in entertainment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEk1vLWuCIylibCEFkkDyZDjjjPxZ_OmbNyw_H9MibgklRuFf2_BjNRsw26bn63v7mDyUgVt2l2XYTRhMMw8PQEde468en81ytPF28mf3lUu8Zh9Osqf6BOGLgqlZeGEnZ-YFwORr8Jm9/s1600/ucla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEk1vLWuCIylibCEFkkDyZDjjjPxZ_OmbNyw_H9MibgklRuFf2_BjNRsw26bn63v7mDyUgVt2l2XYTRhMMw8PQEde468en81ytPF28mf3lUu8Zh9Osqf6BOGLgqlZeGEnZ-YFwORr8Jm9/s1600/ucla.jpg" height="149" width="200" /></a></div>
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Years later, my oldest son matriculated at UCLA and we moved
to Bakersfield, only 90 minutes to the north of campus. After one football game
at the Rose Bowl (and many hours in LA gridlock fighting our way back and forth
between Pasadena and Westwood) my wife and I found ourselves with a free Saturday
evening in LA. We headed to the nearby
Getty Center, the arts complex perched on a hilltop overlooking the LA Basin.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTGHE2zesVJvKYYaESK06g-KrUb5wnyH4hSMXyCp4iOvBDZIDZUahnNnyPpvMTOUnEuWE4mBr9o_uWhydX0B4YLyUJLg3qmrHiQjUVnqr3ULlu_IsTd5NFhcbxuU6KQkVk79TAezgGwBf0/s1600/getty_center+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTGHE2zesVJvKYYaESK06g-KrUb5wnyH4hSMXyCp4iOvBDZIDZUahnNnyPpvMTOUnEuWE4mBr9o_uWhydX0B4YLyUJLg3qmrHiQjUVnqr3ULlu_IsTd5NFhcbxuU6KQkVk79TAezgGwBf0/s1600/getty_center+day.jpg" height="127" width="200" /></a></div>
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We emerged from their tram at the top of hill and were
amazed at the beauty of the Getty’s dramatic setting. The tasteful architecture,
plazas, fountains, sculptures and gardens were exquisite, surely—but then there
was the view. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUm0E9GrOhmEdXHcpmKQ9e9YW9MlEkz_PCxPrHaxdiiwzipLUesM4t3wALnXFO2kJGxDKWWMteBhGOqi2kn8CL7qeO0Y2n9jn-UK0wd-8Zqw4oXI-dRqy4kItnakkMYPn28rZ7ADeFO9Z/s1600/LA+sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUm0E9GrOhmEdXHcpmKQ9e9YW9MlEkz_PCxPrHaxdiiwzipLUesM4t3wALnXFO2kJGxDKWWMteBhGOqi2kn8CL7qeO0Y2n9jn-UK0wd-8Zqw4oXI-dRqy4kItnakkMYPn28rZ7ADeFO9Z/s1600/LA+sunset.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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The night before it had rained, and the air was washed clean and
clear. Now, as afternoon slipped into rosy twilight, Los Angeles shone like a crystalline
vision of what it could be. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhx91yctuokHTjUCd97Z3sS7PJY6PFMGlao4iyI_x8B0_vCdeYGE8P3W8mN0KrRHOZCFqMUXtNa0no5JfRN3iczgLowpkMu7R6H8OOAE_PoH47dt5v2CFL3Uu2eNd80lBgj9Jjjv4NBjl/s1600/LA+fromGetty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhx91yctuokHTjUCd97Z3sS7PJY6PFMGlao4iyI_x8B0_vCdeYGE8P3W8mN0KrRHOZCFqMUXtNa0no5JfRN3iczgLowpkMu7R6H8OOAE_PoH47dt5v2CFL3Uu2eNd80lBgj9Jjjv4NBjl/s1600/LA+fromGetty.jpg" height="209" width="320" /></a></div>
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I inhaled the fresh-scrubbed air and drank in the incredible
Technicolor vistas. From the snow-dusted Mount Baldy to the northeast
to the wooded promontory of Palos Verdes to the south of me, Los Angeles spread like a star-studded quilt that stretched from sharp-edged mountains to the boundless
sea. For the first time, I saw the promise of Tinseltown bedecked in its finest
raiment; at that moment, I felt what the pioneers, the dreamers and
the schemers all must have believed: Los Angeles could be a city of angels.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-26289431332232146912013-10-16T00:47:00.001-07:002013-10-16T00:47:37.451-07:00Krakatoa<div class="MsoNormal">
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<o:p> </o:p><i>Krakatoa, East of Java</i>
sounded like a cool name for a movie. It was a major box office hit in 1969, the
year I turned fourteen. Life at fourteen was definitely a mixed bag. My brother was off in Vietnam, my two oldest
sisters were boys crazy (‘nuff said) and other older sister was booked as a
babysitter around the neighborhood seven days a week. Who could blame her?
Staying home was no picnic: the family
business was struggling, finances were precarious, my father was always
“working late,” and my parents were, like Vietnam, in constant state of
undeclared war.</div>
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Movies were a great diversion from the angst of my daily
adolescent travails. There were westerns (<i>True
Grit, The Wild Bunch</i>), costume dramas (<i>Anne
of the Thousand Days),</i> gritty contemporary New York (<i>Midnight Cowboy</i>) and the irreverent romp <i>Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid</i>. But for an adolescent teenager
looking for purely escapist adventure/disaster flick, the movie of that year
was <i>Krakatoa</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The name “Krakatoa” was strong, powerful, elusive, and exotic.
“East of Java…” evoked the South Pacific, warm waters, palm trees, beautiful
natives, the melody of foreign tongues and Polynesia rhythms. Hmmm. But was the
story of an exotic island erupting in one of the biggest explosions ever known a
true tale or Hollywood fiction? Fact or fantasy, I was okay either way—but I
needed to know. The teaser in the Chronicle made the film sound like a
Polynesian version of the Atlantis legend, so it could go either way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I got out my encyclopedia and looked up the island. Yes, it
was a true story. In 1883 the island volcano blew sky high, tsunamis killed
nearly 40,000 people. The mere sound of the explosion is reputedly the loudest
in recorded history, audible up to 3,000 miles from the volcano. <i>Cool!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I got out my atlas, and searched for the island to the east
of Java. It was nowhere to be found. <i>Of
course not, it blew up a hundred years ago</i>. I went to the library to solve
the riddle: Krakatoa was WEST of Java, not east. How could the studio make such
an obvious mistake? My faith in Hollywood was dashed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwwjmSq6pjTspDPlmxioYRKpJgKnuBvgLIvzbjcjqD4bNkdlC87ArVuDEEmYJpi7HjIa38ErWn9nKiZxqGGsZYfbv1u8rEZI13OD_hPzVoDVW6ISKWe4dgindeazixeUCiKgsPxJ1g4Oi/s1600/Atlantisthelostcontinent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwwjmSq6pjTspDPlmxioYRKpJgKnuBvgLIvzbjcjqD4bNkdlC87ArVuDEEmYJpi7HjIa38ErWn9nKiZxqGGsZYfbv1u8rEZI13OD_hPzVoDVW6ISKWe4dgindeazixeUCiKgsPxJ1g4Oi/s1600/Atlantisthelostcontinent.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a>The first reviews of the movie pointed out the error. The
simple mistake itself got a great deal of press—was this what cynical producers
were looking for? Free press based upon a movie mistake right in the title?
Arguably so. I saw the movie. The story was classic disaster flick material,
not too different from the 1961 potboiler <i>Atlantis, the Lost
Continent</i>. It was a satisfactory vehicle for 1969's state-of-the-art
special effects. </div>
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But Krakatoa is WEST of Java. True, the extant title sounds
more romantic, but it was WRONG. Is this how the real world worked? Whether it
be in politics, family matters, business or the movies—wasn’t truth what really
mattered? For the first time, I suspected not. </div>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-46636595660170849162013-10-14T00:59:00.003-07:002013-10-14T00:59:50.869-07:00Jack Kerouac<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So you think you know Jack Kerouac, "Father of the Beats," author of the Fifties seminal novel/memoir <i>On the Road</i>? So did I. San Francisco's North Beach neighborhood was ground zero for the Beat Generation.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotDLElHyhpokwl26GXpleEAU7Q-yd2l_AfS5Hx-l8vO3_aPkXm0EEVr7dnA5q0vWbHTAmEEcf5zr3bAehDoZhXpheFnsyzbzkcH_VqpgvD3BY714-RJ1dHoOoTnTwohuPiAYYMU7K5_PX/s1600/Maynard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotDLElHyhpokwl26GXpleEAU7Q-yd2l_AfS5Hx-l8vO3_aPkXm0EEVr7dnA5q0vWbHTAmEEcf5zr3bAehDoZhXpheFnsyzbzkcH_VqpgvD3BY714-RJ1dHoOoTnTwohuPiAYYMU7K5_PX/s1600/Maynard.jpg" height="200" width="135" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maynard G. Krebs</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPTPlI7yLZO6aPhZFvhUVbswRaRW6dz7SvbYamkdhDcjyusrPn9J3Rv1d5pVNgYxFHEFPCPnllChhf2iTWjqrwRuMOpuX1URb_jA0bm20xdpPGKtEV1KBMFyVD6aiKT8rYI8Fxl916Hxf/s1600/Gilligan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPTPlI7yLZO6aPhZFvhUVbswRaRW6dz7SvbYamkdhDcjyusrPn9J3Rv1d5pVNgYxFHEFPCPnllChhf2iTWjqrwRuMOpuX1URb_jA0bm20xdpPGKtEV1KBMFyVD6aiKT8rYI8Fxl916Hxf/s1600/Gilligan.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gilligan</td></tr>
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Beatniks, as we called them, were an oddity that my father made fun of, that main stream media mocked. Are you old enough to remember Maynard G. Krebs on TV's <i>Dobie Gillis? </i>If you are, you know what I mean. Smoke-filled coffee houses filled with grim wastrels in <br />
goatees and berets spouting incomprehensible poetry, right? Not a very pretty picture. Even poor old Bob Denver got tired of the beatnik persona, upgrading to Gilligan on that eponymous castaway island...<br />
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San Francisco columnist Herb Caen dubbed the Beats "beatniks" in the era of the Soviet Sputnik as a way to paint the budding counter-culture movement with a Red brush. Beats like Kerouac hated the term and never used it.<br />
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His real name was Jean-Louis Kerouac, born to French Canadian ex-patriots in Lowell, Massachusetts. He was a football star who broke his leg playing for Columbia University, ending his athletic career. Jack turned his energies to the literary movement blossoming in New York City alongside fellow Columbia students Allen Ginsberg and Lucien Carr. Ginsberg introduced him to other soon-to-be-famous writers such as William S. Burroughs and Gregory Corso. Allen Ginsberg also introduced Kerouac to bad boy icon Neal Cassady and they all fled to San Francisco.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-FGT93sAeJQPJKCjQ9_yb1fW5vPYP4JMSLQj13ESBFZ5eN1nXxgCHXJPCOeJfGvgRtDO5PtWlO5yW6-oY35p67IH1_himRO6-NBH_IBoImW6VnXmLHw7FHLjE7ptaBDOSezb28GELjOGy/s1600/Jack+and+Neal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-FGT93sAeJQPJKCjQ9_yb1fW5vPYP4JMSLQj13ESBFZ5eN1nXxgCHXJPCOeJfGvgRtDO5PtWlO5yW6-oY35p67IH1_himRO6-NBH_IBoImW6VnXmLHw7FHLjE7ptaBDOSezb28GELjOGy/s1600/Jack+and+Neal.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac</td></tr>
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Kerouac and Cassady would develop one of the most famous "bromances" in American literary culture. Their travels and sexcapades of the late Forties were fictionalized by Kerouac many times over, but most significantly in 1957's <i>On the Road; Kerouac portrays himself as </i>Sal Paradise and Cassady as Dean Moriarity. Earlier this year, a movie version of <i>On the Road </i>was released with great critical reviews but only modest commercial success. I thought it was wonderful. Kirsten Dunst and Kristen Stewart are the love interests (and in this movie, Kristen Stewart actually can act:<br />
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<span style="color: red;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZhM-AcCzNU&feature=player_detailpage</span><br />
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I was researching the back story for the protagonist in my own novel when I first began to seriously consider the Beat generation and their effect on American culture. My attitude began to melt in the face of the incredible strength, creativity and life stories of these real-life characters. Iconic literary works emerged from this group of outcasts who were trying to carve out a place in post-war American society for alternative thinkers. Through the Red Scare McCarthy Era and the conformity of Eisenhower's America they persisted to live, love and write about their march to the beats of many different drummers. <br />
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Earlier this afternoon, I convinced my wife and another couple to catch the finale of the Carmel Film Festival. The film was the cinematic depiction of Jack Kerouac's novel <i>Big Sur. </i>It was interesting, disturbing, stimulating, upsetting and enlightening.<br />
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<i><span style="color: red;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=irzMIbx_0Oc&feature=player_embedded</span></i><br />
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Jack Kerouac, like his pal Neal Cassady, had personal demons that he attempted to drown in alcohol and other drugs. Neither man survived the attempt; Neal died at 42 in 1968, Jack Kerouac died the following year at the age of 47. Their lives were truncated by self-destructive tendencies, leaving behind a trail of broken hearts and shattered dreams. Yet many from around the world are still haunted by the legacy of Jack Kerouac and his fellow Beats. Books are written, movies are produced, college students read his books, and San Francisco has memorialized him with a street paved in literary quotations.<br />
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The next time you are in San Francisco, take a stroll down to the intersection of Columbus and Broadway, where North Beach. meets Chinatown. You'll be standing in front of City Lights Bookstore, Kerouac's favorite haunt in San Francisco, a true icon of that or any other era. Walk through the crowded stacks on three floors of eclectic books. You'll see the Beat Museum across the street to the east, and two of Kerouac's famously favorite watering holes, just across Jack Kerouac Street, Tosca and Vesuvio. Step on in and have a drink in Jack's memory.<i> </i>Say a toast to those writers who have given their all in the name of their craft; their words live on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTPJh3mlXueqTs1Z11E1afAwLDkVaza53yexv047VPknHOYjZDb9nHtvgClFxcQCcfvLxOvEa7j2P43sCNoq8tTnSqtd_JncR58EVMWe7k50innzNluS3TUcFTODgoyeuU8o1s2-Nw9sn/s1600/jACK+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTPJh3mlXueqTs1Z11E1afAwLDkVaza53yexv047VPknHOYjZDb9nHtvgClFxcQCcfvLxOvEa7j2P43sCNoq8tTnSqtd_JncR58EVMWe7k50innzNluS3TUcFTODgoyeuU8o1s2-Nw9sn/s1600/jACK+3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jean-Louis "Jack" Kerouac 1922~1969</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</i>Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-81275390513094579712013-10-09T23:31:00.001-07:002013-10-09T23:31:45.115-07:00Istanbul was Constantinople<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cS-mDbZVGXvLy5uE8yWJNoYIQtDO38_g44h7DaOLB8FiQfVIQXW1EiDiQXt8KQ-blsd18Xc54ErVwsLQtyTWiGgWDodswoeeJuVe5XqpY3mp3y8OBIqJzZynoi0HtrJ5RlBcwTqL4ai5/s1600/Istanbul+old+art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cS-mDbZVGXvLy5uE8yWJNoYIQtDO38_g44h7DaOLB8FiQfVIQXW1EiDiQXt8KQ-blsd18Xc54ErVwsLQtyTWiGgWDodswoeeJuVe5XqpY3mp3y8OBIqJzZynoi0HtrJ5RlBcwTqL4ai5/s1600/Istanbul+old+art.jpg" /></a></div>
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Istanbul is one of the most exotic and romantic cities in
the world. How could it not be? It is the only city in the world that straddles
two continents (Europe and Asia). It is perched at the mouth of the Bosporus,
the easternmost channel that connects the Aegean Sea to the Black Sea. It was
the fitting destination for my epic cruise into history.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTbhwoEK9Frdrpkgc_EzajjLDZMIv8MHM-oKIK4K60CYqbiijmkILRmhgtKStWBs7-_2t7v-m0LrzXo2No1qeUfyoyUEzQvIOByK2iMJfCia6z3zOHG4jMDP7xr3Fl0JgQXQCa7Lh3gpe/s1600/Istanbul+map.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTbhwoEK9Frdrpkgc_EzajjLDZMIv8MHM-oKIK4K60CYqbiijmkILRmhgtKStWBs7-_2t7v-m0LrzXo2No1qeUfyoyUEzQvIOByK2iMJfCia6z3zOHG4jMDP7xr3Fl0JgQXQCa7Lh3gpe/s1600/Istanbul+map.gif" height="165" width="200" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxsp3L433qxf2O2LFF-HwCFSHjRk7-ieSAFhaCIgtDyeTI-9Mh6K64jPIOJKIDFhiXg4mHWIjle2k8J3xTvRDedaADYJshwUboGxeEl3aoCZw_QVMt8AL-n_z3RrycdRO3D5EoAUVG856/s1600/Hagia+Sophia2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxsp3L433qxf2O2LFF-HwCFSHjRk7-ieSAFhaCIgtDyeTI-9Mh6K64jPIOJKIDFhiXg4mHWIjle2k8J3xTvRDedaADYJshwUboGxeEl3aoCZw_QVMt8AL-n_z3RrycdRO3D5EoAUVG856/s1600/Hagia+Sophia2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hagia Sophia</td></tr>
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I’m not alone in my praise for this stunning city, it has
starred in numerous books and motion pictures, too. It is the eastern terminus
for the fabled Orient Express train route (Paris-Vienna-Istanbul). Born of
Greek immigrants three thousand years ago as Byzantium, Roman emperor
Constantine abandoned the city of Rome and moved his capital from Italy to this
location in the Fourth Century A.D. He renamed it “the City of Constantine,” Constantinople. One hundred and fifty years later, the Emperor Theodosius erected the Hagia Sophia (Holy Wisdom) church, an incredible monument that stands today, 1500 years later.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After 1100 years as the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire (aka “the Byzantine Empire”), Constantinople was conquered by the Turks who immediately made it the capital of their Ottoman Empire for the next 450 years. Sultans of immense wealth would rule from there, reigning over an empire that once covered the entire eastern Mediterranean and southeastern Europe. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOvoiI6QocrZLjzG5wWPeXQoMTEmboJc7YJ3NhhEjSKhuEhm0cc_LvyszZ7NKQmq-8S-ol6i6FuehB-wsjgUMiS5v15Sh91KewM4ETAVu6Qeg_g5qscgjtqZsjY9k26SL01etWT_EswVK/s1600/topkapi-emerald-dagger-museum-palace-nadir-shah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOvoiI6QocrZLjzG5wWPeXQoMTEmboJc7YJ3NhhEjSKhuEhm0cc_LvyszZ7NKQmq-8S-ol6i6FuehB-wsjgUMiS5v15Sh91KewM4ETAVu6Qeg_g5qscgjtqZsjY9k26SL01etWT_EswVK/s1600/topkapi-emerald-dagger-museum-palace-nadir-shah.jpg" height="218" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sultan's Topkapi Dagger</td></tr>
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In 1923, the new Republic of Turkey officially discarded the Roman name of Constantinople. The name Istanbul is derived from the Turkish vernacular for “Going to the City.” So yes, Istanbul was definitely Constantinople…<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0z04L7qmn-QchhADJ_ZtdBmQOU19vgHveEfbpvZ7ZIKS2QSCVAbngUzRRuMs3dw2DSar13XyLwPXiz3PSXBDNb02HC4k0wUt3HzRBx9cSn03aEW4vnvj_e8gdf8G03d9u8l9_0O1ysGF9/s1600/hagia+sophia+aerial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0z04L7qmn-QchhADJ_ZtdBmQOU19vgHveEfbpvZ7ZIKS2QSCVAbngUzRRuMs3dw2DSar13XyLwPXiz3PSXBDNb02HC4k0wUt3HzRBx9cSn03aEW4vnvj_e8gdf8G03d9u8l9_0O1ysGF9/s1600/hagia+sophia+aerial.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bosporus</td></tr>
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Sound familiar? It
should. There was an addicting summer ditty that captured the minds of American youth in
1953, which was covered by artists ranging from Bing Crosby and Ella Fitzgerald in ’54, Bette Midler in ’77 to They Might Be Giants in 1990:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Istanbul was Constantinople<br />
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople<br />
Been a long time gone, Constantinople<br />
Now it's Turkish delight on a moonlit night…<o:p></o:p></div>
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It goes on and on...you might not be able to get it out of your head. You may have caught the tune on TV being sung on
<i>Get Smart, Jack Benny, Cold Case,
America’s Got Talent </i>or <i>Tiny Toon
Adventures</i>. Still humming the tune? You can go whole hog and click on this link to see a charming
and addicting video of their version by way of Warner Brothers cartoons:</div>
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<b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgc3F1XZTAw">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgc3F1XZTAw</a></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZoLsQJsBVmazBImMnwfAlMdfLATYfcHFEWNm_JdFc_oUIGXLd1mhEmVl_Uf1VaPmI3xTEznNMlD_UBxxvt1FxvuQQ1q-RScnasw5gLIPTb_rUrjhFqHkkVe0XgUk6BMdpkf-vmSb7nEZ/s1600/murder_on_the_orient_express_ver4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZoLsQJsBVmazBImMnwfAlMdfLATYfcHFEWNm_JdFc_oUIGXLd1mhEmVl_Uf1VaPmI3xTEznNMlD_UBxxvt1FxvuQQ1q-RScnasw5gLIPTb_rUrjhFqHkkVe0XgUk6BMdpkf-vmSb7nEZ/s1600/murder_on_the_orient_express_ver4.jpg" height="200" width="137" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_G-kZhBZLLWOUtM6adFjYAQzM5ByJFK3fc5MISs6uYwqUZL5gsOAV7uzPTxaSUv-JAD3DUsOJm8SQxkZk7wDalybPbB1DUk1TM30xgD45sVHcqw0nN5mhBN0n318Jp5zIohe3OEc9E9N/s1600/Bond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_G-kZhBZLLWOUtM6adFjYAQzM5ByJFK3fc5MISs6uYwqUZL5gsOAV7uzPTxaSUv-JAD3DUsOJm8SQxkZk7wDalybPbB1DUk1TM30xgD45sVHcqw0nN5mhBN0n318Jp5zIohe3OEc9E9N/s1600/Bond.jpg" height="200" width="164" /></a>Istanbul was one of James Bond’s favorite destinations,
too. Look for Sean Connery’s Bond in <i>From Russia With Love</i> (1964), Pierce
Brosnan in <i>The World is Not Enough</i>
(1999) or Daniel Craig in <i>Skyfall </i>(2012).
Even Ben Affleck visited Istanbul in <i>Argo</i>.
Or how about the fun jewel-heist romp <i>Topkapi
</i>(1964) or the all-star version of Agatha Christie’s most famous book, <i>Murder on the Orient Express</i>
(1974)? More darkly, famously, rent <i>Midnight Express</i> and experience the horrors of
Turkish prisons with an American neophyte busted in a failed drug
smuggling attempt (1978).</div>
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At more than 14 million citizens, Istanbul is one of the
largest cities in the world. Its dramatic location and multi-cultural
population remind one of San Francisco, only ten times as large with more modest
hills. Its famous harbor, the Golden Horn even inspired an historical connection
to San Francisco; American soldier-explorer Captain John C. Fremont first spied
San Francisco Bay in 1846. In his journal he opined that the enormous potential of San Francisco Bay
surpassed even the fabled Golden Horn of Constantinople, and claimed that its beautiful strait that opened to the Pacific was surely a “Golden Gate.”</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBLlvht-k6F5RHB-QCar605l32AOzyUEUE8A3vFqT3L8Qe0ZJIpCKNokOSsbVE3yQ9mXKqqADednN2yWT49f4lq2jxsfOQoFpHHziUp6cN9mXBCuiAU6x1LHXtx7Tlcr3mfVZ3chsa3BS/s1600/ggb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBLlvht-k6F5RHB-QCar605l32AOzyUEUE8A3vFqT3L8Qe0ZJIpCKNokOSsbVE3yQ9mXKqqADednN2yWT49f4lq2jxsfOQoFpHHziUp6cN9mXBCuiAU6x1LHXtx7Tlcr3mfVZ3chsa3BS/s1600/ggb.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Golden Gate</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKTirHqfuQXZep7VOE-zku_nIc-e4LmEbxqAauUiculb4yggW24ozVuQTpeXVNuYX1TQjuPOLayZ8fPb0L0010LH7dxZACj1852YNc8SAKJ4e-inJ2Bq26FhxxjOhkP8x2PJX6_bSi9Sk/s1600/golden_horn2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKTirHqfuQXZep7VOE-zku_nIc-e4LmEbxqAauUiculb4yggW24ozVuQTpeXVNuYX1TQjuPOLayZ8fPb0L0010LH7dxZACj1852YNc8SAKJ4e-inJ2Bq26FhxxjOhkP8x2PJX6_bSi9Sk/s1600/golden_horn2.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Golden Horn</td></tr>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“To this Gate I gave the name
of “Chrysopylae” or “Golden Gate” for the same </span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">reasons that the harbor of
Byzantium was called Chrysoceras, or Golden Horn. </span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> ~ John C. Fremont, June 5,
1948<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></em></div>
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No wonder it seemed as if I’d been here before; like Paris and Florence, Istanbul feels like a version of home. </div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Now
go ahead and sing that happy, silly tune…</span></em></div>
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So take me back to Constantinople<br />
No, you can't go back to Constantinople<br />
Been a long time gone, Constantinople<br />
Why did Constantinople get the works?<br />
That's nobody's business but the Turks<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-13491531713458615842013-10-06T17:02:00.000-07:002013-10-06T17:02:49.740-07:00Hector and Achilles<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkMaAc0myrmT5GBquucOteQxGN54fqXolWDDfUtavKxPXq6nEzF2cvKJFkRQXNya2ZcP9oomdtCMPYeubwlos7-2uRQFyD2Lg1UGPpYymhb1P6_qZ-Y1jsge5nm2ZCNE0FGPYNLmMd-Ux/s1600/troy+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkMaAc0myrmT5GBquucOteQxGN54fqXolWDDfUtavKxPXq6nEzF2cvKJFkRQXNya2ZcP9oomdtCMPYeubwlos7-2uRQFyD2Lg1UGPpYymhb1P6_qZ-Y1jsge5nm2ZCNE0FGPYNLmMd-Ux/s1600/troy+map.jpg" /></a>“Hector,” I said. “If the dog is a male, I want to call him
Hector.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’d just moved to California, and my wife said our two sons
(eight and five years old) deserved a dog and a pool to assuage their trauma
after our move from Virginia. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sYsHyEvXHa929LXg25OpcG7EgJJRTE33o2f8JBEGDYCewkD5rD22Ruz_Z7uI3as3vJoULuNs3gunQTpKEbGp95KqhHxB-QfXk8iFtagv3ceLkLqaWvJdnxf84YF-ZFIFifov_D6Kvx-M/s1600/dog+look-alike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sYsHyEvXHa929LXg25OpcG7EgJJRTE33o2f8JBEGDYCewkD5rD22Ruz_Z7uI3as3vJoULuNs3gunQTpKEbGp95KqhHxB-QfXk8iFtagv3ceLkLqaWvJdnxf84YF-ZFIFifov_D6Kvx-M/s1600/dog+look-alike.jpg" height="195" width="200" /></a>I’d gotten a dog, Duchess, as a seven-year-old. The German shepherd-golden
retriever mix was really supposed to be the family dog, but as each member of
my four older siblings got social lives and moved away, she became more and
more my own. She lived twelve wonderful years and became a family legend; my
siblings had very little luck with dogs thereafter.</div>
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In the years since, I’d come across more than one dog who’d
been named Achilles. “Achilles wasn’t such a great hero, especially compared to
Hector—no matter what the Greeks say,” is what I thought then and what I believe
now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I first became acquainted with the mythical Hector vs.
Achilles battle of the Trojan War when I was eight. We had two sets of
encyclopedias in my childhood home: a complete set of Collier’s bought from a
door-to-door salesman the year I was born, and World Book—but only volumes A
through H, bought singly at the grocery store. I loved to read encyclopedias.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghiDTJGRC7Quc0V9Ax_WhYOq1gCTzNOfwgDyC81yWCZYsnBXdwGib8wEdluqc7KzO7GzmGlW9eOnv6klJYjzQ9YTWe2_LzFnrmunjILP1io_GvcQa4h6B0Yuth4dBIkTI802iVolUHKKLl/s1600/trojan_war.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghiDTJGRC7Quc0V9Ax_WhYOq1gCTzNOfwgDyC81yWCZYsnBXdwGib8wEdluqc7KzO7GzmGlW9eOnv6klJYjzQ9YTWe2_LzFnrmunjILP1io_GvcQa4h6B0Yuth4dBIkTI802iVolUHKKLl/s1600/trojan_war.jpg" /></a></div>
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I stumbled through the ages and sciences of World Book’s
volume “H” one day, and came upon a magnificent color illustration of two
Greek-looking warriors, locked in mortal combat. The entry stipulated that it
was a titanic conflict and the penultimate event of something new to me: the
Trojan War. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The next year I was in the infamous Miss Westbrook’s fourth
grade class. On one trip to the school library, I discovered an oversized
edition of <i>The Illiad and the Odyssey. </i>Miss
Westbrook was impressed with my knowledge of the family man Hector, prince of
Troy, and the great warrior Achilles, a demigod impervious to injury save his
infamous heel. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevsneVAzOYhTc6FjTpRM9U_p4wn7ejJGAUtA16xAV85avc5difXzVK8lfuNk1oqJXu5w1IIKYr1Ntd5_bcYpyA2_NTI7c-NrEtpFwytyYGClfUxqrusAb-lSCv22G6S3IDkZ7pS_txrJr/s1600/Achilles+pouting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevsneVAzOYhTc6FjTpRM9U_p4wn7ejJGAUtA16xAV85avc5difXzVK8lfuNk1oqJXu5w1IIKYr1Ntd5_bcYpyA2_NTI7c-NrEtpFwytyYGClfUxqrusAb-lSCv22G6S3IDkZ7pS_txrJr/s1600/Achilles+pouting.jpg" height="146" width="200" /></a>That was my problem with Achilles. Hector was a royal, sure,
but he fought only with his wits and human skill. Achilles had his Olympian
protection. Hector was strong, wise and loyal; he was a loving husband, a doting father, a model son and a great leader of Troy. Meanwhile, Achilles was a pouty primadonna who selfishly squandered his god-given gifts. Just read <i>The Iliad </i>if you don’t believe me. He
was no Brad Pitt.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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This past Tuesday I fulfilled my dream and finally stood upon
the hill of Hisarlik in Turkey, the site of the archaeological dig that reveals
historical Troy. The wealth of evidence unearthed there coincides with Homer’s
ancient account of war between Greece and Troy which lends credence to many
details of <i>The Iliad</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFa_KLHfpvYuqVBCNIuYw9QmWCUGcwRpjB0TTuvyauJMuw_Ep7kFAPxI6wBfWklFmcqO6SWcxacJwBgG_4evoeUpjfEFNz3fGvmr0G_FiT-_E2AMCwiVn2By7dPSQ1DV_Dww15UT1hbVvf/s1600/walls+of+Troy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFa_KLHfpvYuqVBCNIuYw9QmWCUGcwRpjB0TTuvyauJMuw_Ep7kFAPxI6wBfWklFmcqO6SWcxacJwBgG_4evoeUpjfEFNz3fGvmr0G_FiT-_E2AMCwiVn2By7dPSQ1DV_Dww15UT1hbVvf/s1600/walls+of+Troy.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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While no archaeology yet confirms the existence of either
the prince Hector or the warrior Achilles, their classic fight-to-the-death
below the walls of Troy still resonates. Looking toward the distant ships cruising
through the Dardanelles strait from the remnants of great walls, it was as if I
stood atop the fabled battlements beside Hector’s beleaguered father, King
Priam, and his wife Andromache.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>I
blinked and could see the titans clash, their swords clanking on shields,
helmets glistening in the bright Aegean sun, the fate of the ten-year war
hanging in the balance. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The outcome was inevitable: when a demigod and mortal hero
clash, the wise bet is on the demigod. Though Hector was defeated, the flawed
hero Achilles then desecrated Hector’s body by dragging it behind his chariot
in front of the walls upon which I now stood, some 3200 years later. Some hero.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PD1bONwaKPSoY7kJZCUy0o_q-FSJBpEyadGHIK-Vx22K8ZgyVmG9a0hl3L3qdUdqHfatMVvnD1NfBX9s1Wov9oN_TMWtedXMSpdYSKyVoI42TC5bX2uyVT-zSBwFmUpmfInsg9Zio_-7/s1600/dragging+Hector.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PD1bONwaKPSoY7kJZCUy0o_q-FSJBpEyadGHIK-Vx22K8ZgyVmG9a0hl3L3qdUdqHfatMVvnD1NfBX9s1Wov9oN_TMWtedXMSpdYSKyVoI42TC5bX2uyVT-zSBwFmUpmfInsg9Zio_-7/s1600/dragging+Hector.jpg" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<i>I
blinked again, and imagined Hector’s brother Paris on these very walls. He
prays to his patron goddess Aphrodite to let his arrow find Achilles’ weakness
should he have one; Paris draws his bow and fires, mortally wounding Achilles
in his famously vulnerable heel…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Within weeks of our move to California in 1997, we bought a
German shepherd puppy. Yes, we named him Hector—he was a heroic dog,
befitting the honorable name. He gave us twelve years of love, loyalty, and joy. We miss him very much.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxvPFQjpJi6yfPuinM3syoWxrRKrUHFJBFnt8oSHj34o62fK7Uks6aheVpRiNhHnvCUmbWCh8Eet0dp2xjY2gLZf-SkThJFTFJu_hZzFrSI-uFoAPPQIbQq7LidaJVc6OXVy9Oyx66KUf/s1600/jd+and+hector.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxvPFQjpJi6yfPuinM3syoWxrRKrUHFJBFnt8oSHj34o62fK7Uks6aheVpRiNhHnvCUmbWCh8Eet0dp2xjY2gLZf-SkThJFTFJu_hZzFrSI-uFoAPPQIbQq7LidaJVc6OXVy9Oyx66KUf/s1600/jd+and+hector.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In loving memory of our Hector (1997-2009)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-3503969879874200952013-10-03T12:01:00.000-07:002013-10-03T12:01:05.580-07:00Greece is the Word<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Greece is the time, is the place, is the motion</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>
</i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Greece is the way we are feeling</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Greece is the
word. </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">(With fondest
apologies to Alan and Barry Gibb)</span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVsjOL8aavSdO3xfkpxlWkCsWE4A2Dmm--L3DXAB2uCZVYDk5JCFU5R9J4bJuc6sGiuV1mGov5qf2prhGT-eRYqPsOv2BvrzQqtZp097rSDsa5VG3xbOm6zS6nl6jugbG3dDPhIzkL0ITr/s1600/acropolis460.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVsjOL8aavSdO3xfkpxlWkCsWE4A2Dmm--L3DXAB2uCZVYDk5JCFU5R9J4bJuc6sGiuV1mGov5qf2prhGT-eRYqPsOv2BvrzQqtZp097rSDsa5VG3xbOm6zS6nl6jugbG3dDPhIzkL0ITr/s1600/acropolis460.jpg" height="208" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Okay, so I’m
talkin’ a different kind of Greece than the brothers Gibb. Historical Greece,
beautiful Greece, poverty-stricken Greece. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">This country is
all that I expected—the good and even the sad, but also the ugly. Greek history
is well known to me, of course (old history teachers never die, they just move on
to another era). The Acropolis and its battered Parthenon were exactly as I
pictured them, yet surprisingly more beautiful, their location even more
spectacular. Yet, Athens is home to fully 50% of all Greek residents; it is
overcrowded and peppered with garish graffiti.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">My personal
Greek odyssey began in Athens, but then we escaped to Delphi, the alleged “navel
of the world,” perched on an idyllic hillside, dramatic and inspiring. One
could imagine the ceremonial rites of the Oracle and understand the ancients’
sense of spirituality among the cypresses and bright marble edifices.</span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The journey
continued to the Greek islands which were wonderful in expected and unexpected
ways. Delos is an uninhabited island of ruined sanctuaries and abandoned habitations.
Visiting there was truly like stepping back in time, with only our distantly
anchored ship to recall us to the 21<sup>st</sup> century.</span></div>
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</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mykonos is
renown as a arty place for jet-setters, yet I was completely charmed by its
narrow alleyways and petit cafes clinging to the sea, it’s patrons sprayed by
the mist of errant waves crashing only a body length from their tables. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrJdvGmF_CAermaortHsh0IVXoHR1OHfJlMV-fD5-EwqM6BeiZ4bBCVX3B4sKMOAz6EEOLidUYVes1Y1XaqhdNuMs87WAyfC_M82gKlq3Tq_x44nNhq_Ncr2upUKt6eGqrcvaM7JkxFjss/s1600/santorini_main_image_-_revamp_cropped_445x280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrJdvGmF_CAermaortHsh0IVXoHR1OHfJlMV-fD5-EwqM6BeiZ4bBCVX3B4sKMOAz6EEOLidUYVes1Y1XaqhdNuMs87WAyfC_M82gKlq3Tq_x44nNhq_Ncr2upUKt6eGqrcvaM7JkxFjss/s1600/santorini_main_image_-_revamp_cropped_445x280.jpg" height="201" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fabled Santorini
looked like snowy icing atop the cliffs of Thira, precariously crowning the
edge of an sleeping subterranean volcano. Beyond the tourist shops and fancy
hotels, we found Akrotiri, Greece’s Pompei, to be the likely source of the
great myth of Atlantis.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Surprisingly
subtle Rhodes was an eclectic mixture of ancient Greece and Rome, dominated by
the legacy of Crusaders with their beautiful walls, castles and churches. I was
surprised by another revelation: the magnificent Palace of the Grand Masters is
an errant reconstruction that reflects Mussolini’s Fascist fantasies during the
Italian occupation of the 1930s and 40’s: beautiful, charming, even
inspiring--yet seriously flawed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Patmos was a
small island with a small village, embracing the brief yet lasting legacy of St.
John and his Revelations. But is in Patmos that we can no longer escape the
cold realities of the Greek economy in free fall. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Greece is
floundering in their worst recorded recession after six years of “austerity.”
Mismanagement by inept Greek politicians and draconian demands of creditor
nations and the European Community have had a devastating effect. “The Persians
wiped out our famous 300 Spartans 2500 years ago—is there anyone now who will
take out our 300-member parliament, please?” said one Greek speaker at a
Village Forum I attended.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The once-proud
birthplace of democracy is in deepest despair. This protracted depression has
resulted in a “brain drain” of professionals and a generation of Greek youth
who cannot afford and education, or cannot attain one in shuttered or
retrenched Greek institutions. “Most parents who can afford to send their
children abroad for education, don’t; they fear their children will never
return to our depressed country,” said another speaker.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">18-29 year-old Greeks who
seek work face an unemployment rate estimated to be as high as 65%. With nearly
two out every three young citizens unemployed, there is much anger and crippling
despair. Many idle hands have saturated the capital of Athens with graffiti,
evidencing their frustration. I shudder to think of this as evidence of a
future that might befall even the greatest economy on Earth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirYaG0JPc-C2SAQSV1hU_6GGZI8bO62_03FFfs0MugAHrI5XY8uCfuACtBou8xnAoskwIqe5dPGkioB1yOKf0H5kNT9vXVV-PzPrUdxmQYoRqIQ47dqUZHqJruLsG-k3P02onogYT6lxvF/s1600/greek_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirYaG0JPc-C2SAQSV1hU_6GGZI8bO62_03FFfs0MugAHrI5XY8uCfuACtBou8xnAoskwIqe5dPGkioB1yOKf0H5kNT9vXVV-PzPrUdxmQYoRqIQ47dqUZHqJruLsG-k3P02onogYT6lxvF/s1600/greek_0.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></span></div>
Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-61310863073171344322013-09-29T06:54:00.000-07:002013-09-29T06:54:14.744-07:00French Twist<style>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">“F</span></b>rench twist” evokes visions of a
hairstyle, or perhaps a donut made of braided dough—preferably glazed with
chocolate. I am sailing among the Greek islands under the tricolor of France
aboard the ship <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">L’Austral, </i>Tonight,
we’re cruising from the ancient port of Rhodes on its eponymous island toward
the island of Patmos farther up the Aegean Sea.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmdIKSfvEmI8dXO-9SJ0UEdTA16KH5RvVU_plnigvEwAwMr1mfjRI0bYnB1q3xy5Wd4TXCnTSX0EJfzZP4qS2q3_zANwUMh9nvLouFdOU8LWtsbIEiPwWMHVQPr85Qf5_2iDsjnMQXVYPx/s1600/1374950_10201415719533222_183639998_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmdIKSfvEmI8dXO-9SJ0UEdTA16KH5RvVU_plnigvEwAwMr1mfjRI0bYnB1q3xy5Wd4TXCnTSX0EJfzZP4qS2q3_zANwUMh9nvLouFdOU8LWtsbIEiPwWMHVQPr85Qf5_2iDsjnMQXVYPx/s1600/1374950_10201415719533222_183639998_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Now on the far side of fifty, I readily acknowledge the
compilation of my own bucket list. These lists are populated with dream
destinations and activities that I hope to accomplish before crossing the
proverbial River Styx. Forgive the Greek mythological reference—did I mention
that I’m writing this from my cabin while I cruise the Greek islands?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Check one big one of that bucket list…</div>
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I knew that the shipboard experience might be less Greek
than I had anticipated from the very start on Wednesday. Our shipboard orientation began
shortly after casting off from Greece’s main port of Piraeus. “Bonjour!”
announced Captain Jean-Philippe Lemaire’s with a hearty welcome. His accent was
thick, but with enough concentration I could decipher his message. The
social director’s impermeable French accent, however, would have challenged even Julia
Child’s extensive linguistic skills. Yes, it would be a French crew on this
French ship--I just wish I could understand the overhead announcements.</div>
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The theme carried over to our shipboard menu. Croissants, sauce
bernaise, escargot—the menu offers certifiably French cuisine<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(which thankfully, I love).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To those grumps who sneer at the very wet
scrambled eggs at the breakfast buffet, I say: order an omelet and quit
complaining. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At a loss for the Greek
word meaning “thank you,” I acknowledged our waiter’s attentions by saying “Merci
beaux coups.” </div>
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He brightened, “Monsiuer, you speak French?” <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxYCtxtb3B4yMaJ79Aeq9Gd7UqVVInII4BJrSqPC4FoTGFNF0glS9dSCHKw0DxOrU-HotkOubtwiXLLIeLPpJmxwf10oYJjGDG56W-0iUq5j-x3QCrOe0Ni3gHr6oF1JaL0mXOtEOQKwIo/s1600/558321_10201415703292816_175715771_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxYCtxtb3B4yMaJ79Aeq9Gd7UqVVInII4BJrSqPC4FoTGFNF0glS9dSCHKw0DxOrU-HotkOubtwiXLLIeLPpJmxwf10oYJjGDG56W-0iUq5j-x3QCrOe0Ni3gHr6oF1JaL0mXOtEOQKwIo/s1600/558321_10201415703292816_175715771_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I blushed, “That’s about all of my French.” He was nonetheless
quite pleased; he gives me a bit larger pour of the wine every time.</div>
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Last night, we cast off for our next port of call at 10 pm.
After a sumptuous feast of stuffed guinea fowl and foie gras, we joined some
friends at the outdoor bar on the top deck for farewell cocktails. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I settled down with my glass of Greek wine and
scanned the panorama of Rhodes’ crenelated battlements and the commanding Palace
of the Grand Masters illuminated against the dark skies of a moonless night.
These stone works are the handiwork of the Medieval Knights of St. John more
than 700 years ago. No, they weren’t Greek knights either; they were Frankish
veterans of the Crusades. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq6rwcWisMUVhhcEC467sKUYZvshlcQP_nhY7qixPprjrv-o9gro8GkNC-jGShCOR0k8Ozjx1rcoGVneEVqsQGfxxuoglrr4pRHztaTKgUZqD-dJoTrr7tZs-pelCCPceTPX4VB1Dux5qt/s1600/1231161_10201415701932782_2096840285_n-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq6rwcWisMUVhhcEC467sKUYZvshlcQP_nhY7qixPprjrv-o9gro8GkNC-jGShCOR0k8Ozjx1rcoGVneEVqsQGfxxuoglrr4pRHztaTKgUZqD-dJoTrr7tZs-pelCCPceTPX4VB1Dux5qt/s1600/1231161_10201415701932782_2096840285_n-1.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
Suddenly, five members of the crew dressed as sailors
skipped onto the poolside deck below us, dancing to an unfamiliar tune. One
girl followed with a ballad or two that sounded very much like the famous French
chanteuse of yesteryear, Edith Piaf. As our ship slipped out of port and past
the lights of Rhodes, the dancing sailors returned with their finale: a Gallic
version of the Village People’s camp classic “In the Navy.” We cried “Bon
voyage!” clinked our wineglasses and happily toasted our fabulous Greek
vacation with a decidedly French twist. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vive
le France!</div>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-36974799707175508612013-09-25T12:39:00.003-07:002013-10-08T22:15:55.311-07:00Education<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxrrb-b3yzgx2RwOY0QvYxgf6OGGp9nvPgdBzmbqznveC_ShYpIpwbZ9HOEWUqhk4ghDcUlFpb9RWy6POsHo1PNUnkDJlwivSuASX9ko8dWJ6HHMBMcMd3bcWyNfATQGHMhJb2ns12Pel/s1600/grant+wood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxrrb-b3yzgx2RwOY0QvYxgf6OGGp9nvPgdBzmbqznveC_ShYpIpwbZ9HOEWUqhk4ghDcUlFpb9RWy6POsHo1PNUnkDJlwivSuASX9ko8dWJ6HHMBMcMd3bcWyNfATQGHMhJb2ns12Pel/s1600/grant+wood.jpg" height="320" width="267" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>"E</b></span>ducation is the key to dreams:
developing them and fulfilling them,” Mom said. I knew she was right. I caught
the college bug from her; I can’t say why my four older siblings didn’t. I may
have been the first person in my family to graduate from college, but I wasn’t
the first to attend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother, Dorothy,
tried three times at three different colleges. In her case, three strikes took
her dream out.</div>
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Education wasn’t too important to
my mother’s dad, that’s for sure--especially for a girl, and most especially
for his daughter. My mom was living on a small Missouri farm when it came time
for high school in the fall of 1937. Her father said there wasn’t any need for
her to go to high school; she was needed to work the farm. “Schoolin’s fer
boys,” he said. Luckily for my mother, her maternal grandfather thought
otherwise; he paid for a hired man to take my mother’s place in the fields
during the school year. Free to pursue her dreams of education, my mom became
the valedictorian of her seven-person class four years later.<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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My mother Dorothy earned a
scholarship to Carson-Newman College in Tennessee, which she attended along
with some more support from her grandpa (much to her father’s distress).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But after one year, the scholarship ran out
and her grandfather died. The twin blows brought Dorothy down, but she was far
from out; Mom wasn’t through. She earned some money and got some help from her widowed
grandma. She started college again, this time at Southwest Missouri State
Teacher’s College in Springfield, a short drive from home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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My mom loved her new roommate, a
California girl also named Dorothy. They settled confusion by calling the
roommate “Dee” and my mother “Max,” short for her detested middle name, Maxine.
When Dee’s parents came to visit from San Francisco, my mother buttonholed
them, begging the Burdetts for stories about their California. My mother had
lived in Taft, California from age one until she was eight. She always wanted
to return. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Unfortunately, Dorothy’s grandma and
last benefactor did not survive that school year. Her choices were to go back
to the farm or strike out on her own. Dorothy chose to set her course for
California, the land of her dreams. She headed to San Francisco, where she
figured she had a place to live and wartime jobs were plentiful. I heard this
story again from Dee’s dad (who I called “Grandpa Burdett”) years later. He
told my mother, “If you’re ever in San Francisco, you can come stay with
us.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grandpa looked at me and said, “And
you know, one day I came home from work and there she was, sittin’ on her
suitcase on my front porch in San Francisco…”<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1272384366829106606" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1272384366829106606" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ClQBR6jcf6n9aH3GiuG7GH_rIwXzjVkTiV8HEuSdhtJBQ7DgKg47CX2CTQC49OauGA0lmL7paABv6LxVNZlu_xF2aOej5vmkvzvkRY1LWNOihiz9U4e67x08462yu78SjXewglg2GKKo/s1600/GGB+and+The+City.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ClQBR6jcf6n9aH3GiuG7GH_rIwXzjVkTiV8HEuSdhtJBQ7DgKg47CX2CTQC49OauGA0lmL7paABv6LxVNZlu_xF2aOej5vmkvzvkRY1LWNOihiz9U4e67x08462yu78SjXewglg2GKKo/s1600/GGB+and+The+City.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"> </span></div>
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Dorothy landed a job as a “Winnie
the welder” in the Kaiser shipyards, building Liberty ships. She made good
money and used it start college for a third time, at the University of
California, Berkeley, taking night classes.</div>
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When the war ended, the shipyards
started to wind down. Workers were laid off—women first. My mother couldn’t
afford those night classes anymore. Then she met my dad. Six weeks later, they
were married. Five kids in nine years killed her dreams of college forever—well,
almost.</div>
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In 1973, her youngest child
(yours truly) went off to college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
divorced mother soon found a new place to live, with her old college roommate
Dee, also a recent divorcee. She moved to Palo Alto and got a new job: as the
executive secretary to the director of the Hoover Institute at Stanford University.
Mom finally got back to college, but in a completely different kind of way.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdKc7sDhygHzsKHGA62J5IMdtNtWEtTVXphH2xkBIjwyUYb1GQ6mcnd9ycfQhoxM9BAZp9sIBe7brwZN788d7WmQhnm2Mvz4Cf4-oRggnXLK9A-HKF1ActmE64WPBIagHHj7FL2MehRP9/s1600/Hoover+Tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdKc7sDhygHzsKHGA62J5IMdtNtWEtTVXphH2xkBIjwyUYb1GQ6mcnd9ycfQhoxM9BAZp9sIBe7brwZN788d7WmQhnm2Mvz4Cf4-oRggnXLK9A-HKF1ActmE64WPBIagHHj7FL2MehRP9/s1600/Hoover+Tower.jpg" /></a></div>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-39613026471521505942013-09-21T10:56:00.001-07:002013-09-21T10:56:24.298-07:00Dorothy Does California<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBev5H6L-V0J97TVxBuIIEnN7jNNx_szgxGHut2HhK1vNdTu9vrfjLOHAjsh9EfD1N7oF-M0Y4nfCyS_mPk8USdnAC0WkFk56PLDEnnz2WD5eD2PMKT4kdAQc_kqyqUJvRU0-2UsGlxBDq/s1600/Dorothy_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBev5H6L-V0J97TVxBuIIEnN7jNNx_szgxGHut2HhK1vNdTu9vrfjLOHAjsh9EfD1N7oF-M0Y4nfCyS_mPk8USdnAC0WkFk56PLDEnnz2WD5eD2PMKT4kdAQc_kqyqUJvRU0-2UsGlxBDq/s1600/Dorothy_001.jpg" height="200" width="140" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mother Dorothy, circa 1977</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Ooh, you've got to sit down and watch this movie me," my mom said. "It's called<i> The Disappearance of Aimee</i>. It's history, about a lady I saw when I was a little girl..."<br />
<br />
It was 1976, I was home from college and looking for a bit more excitement than an evening watching <i>The Hallmark Hall of Fame</i><i>.</i><br />
<br />
My mom, Dorothy, scowled back;<i> s</i>he'd noted my eye-roll. "Listen, you love movies, and this one's got Faye Dunaway as Aimee Semple McPherson and Bette Davis as her manipulating mother. It's California history--with popcorn and chocolate." She waved the Jolly Time can and Ghirardelli candy bars at me.<br />
<br />
<i>Hmmm. Tempting. </i>I 'm a history geek, a chocoholic and a movie nut--this movie had interesting casting, too. I checked my watch. <i>Made-for-TV movies are usually done by ten. Plenty of time to party afterwards. </i>I grabbed the popcorn bowl.<i> </i>"How'd you met this Aimee lady that I only sorta heard of?"<br />
<i><br /></i><b><span style="font-size: large;">D</span></b>orothy Maxine Pond, was born on a farm, though she was never much of a "farm girl." That farm was in Polk County, Missouri, on the north side of the Ozarks. The nearest town was Halfway, Missouri. "Because it's half-a-da-way 'tween Bolivar and Buffalo," (as if you didn't know). Population hovered around an even 100 then, about 173 nowadays. She was born April 18, 1923. "The seventeenth anniversary of the 1906 Earthquake in San Francisco," Mom always pointed out; she wanted to people to know that she was, in an odd way, a California girl from the very start.<br />
<br />
Word has it that my maternal grandpa Roy wasn't much in love with farming. His wife's two brothers, Van and Zan, didn't much care for the farm life,either. They'd lit out for the golden hills of "Cal-lee-for-nigh-yay" where there was word of opportunity for a better life. The brothers found success, they bragged, earning good money in the oil fields of Kern County. While my mother was still a toddler, her parents loaded up a worse-for-wear Model T and headed west to settle in tumbleweed-strewn town called Taft.<br />
<br />
After eight years driving trucks for Standard Oil and seeing three more children into this world, my grandparents were still just scrapin' by in that parched village. The family story is that my grandparents decided to attend what they called a "tent revival" show that was all the rage in those days. The religious production featured the famous faith-healer Aimee Semple McPherson. She was widely known as "Sister Aimee," a former Pentecostal minister who now preached her brand of religion which she called "the Foursquare Gospel."<br />
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Sister Aimee had largely forsaken the tent revival circuit by the time the Pond family came to catch her worship service. The Foursquare Gospel was now to be heard in their own cathedral, the Angelus Temple, which still exists on Glendale Boulevard in the Echo Park neighborhood of Los Angeles (not far from Dodger Stadium, a more recently-built temple of sorts).<br />
<br />
Sister Aimee may have been a native Canadian, but she a true convert to the flash and dash showmanship that epitomized America in the Roaring 20's. With the advent of the Great Depression in the early 30's, she modified her presentation a bit. Gone were the ""talking in tongues" fits, replaced by a choir of more than three hundred and even a live camel brought in to demonstrate exactly how difficult it would be to pass the dromedary through the proverbial eye of any needle. The miracles of healing through faith were made the centerpiece of her evangelical services. By the time my grandparents brought their four children to the Angelus Temple, the Sister Aimee show was the hottest live ticket in Hollywoodland, performing weekly to sold-out audiences numbering in the tens of thousands. She was a national phenomenon, rivaled only by Eleanor Roosevelt and movie stars like Mary Pickford and Clara Bow as the most famous woman in America.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90lyQbUtSEHlolSzorFtzoqzuXiMaJRBG9ZCiivon_gHo_lQPOWdHNvpT0WQYPSBHwf4OGweDlpQkG2A6wgc9OBBBS-Qs8eWty44OGHn40LTKr6NN0AQ1tHKpEF-mbiVo1LWV8W7to_jR/s1600/aimee+and+the+Bible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90lyQbUtSEHlolSzorFtzoqzuXiMaJRBG9ZCiivon_gHo_lQPOWdHNvpT0WQYPSBHwf4OGweDlpQkG2A6wgc9OBBBS-Qs8eWty44OGHn40LTKr6NN0AQ1tHKpEF-mbiVo1LWV8W7to_jR/s1600/aimee+and+the+Bible.jpg" /></a>As my mother told the story, the sermon-as-circus was all a bit too much for my staid Baptist grandfather. He was skeptical enough of the faith-healing demonstrations and the histrionic services, but he lost it during the offertory. In most Protestant churches , the offering is a reflective, somber time with ushers solemnly delivering felt-lined wooden or metal plates that are passed, parishioner to parishioner, so that donations may be discretely made according to one's means. Grandpa Roy had never been to a Catholic service where straw baskets are thrust down each row by the ushers to facilitate individual giving from even the most tightfisted. Sister Aimee took the process to a whole new level.<br />
<br />
In the Angelus Temple of the Foursquare Gospel, ushers cajoled offerings from everyone by their own adaptive methodology. While the organ softly played, ushers came to each row with metal <i>unlined </i>offering plates at the end of long rods. All the while, Sister Aimee paraded back and forth across the stage, waving her Bible and wailing, "No coins, please! The Lord does not ne-e-e-ed to hear the evil sound of money in his house!" Translation: "You cheapskates better drop nothin' but dollar bills in that plate!"<br />
<br />
"That was it for your grandfather," my mother told me during a commercial break from <i>The Disappearance of Aimee</i>. "We left. It was an affront to his faith. He said, 'California is a sinful place; I will not raise my children in this God-forsaken state!' We packed up and moved back to Missouri by the end of the month."<br />
<br />
"But, I thought your father hated farming?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes, he was more of a mechanic, really. He hated to farm."<br />
<br />
"So he moved his whole family almost two thousand miles, to a job he hated? Just to make a point--in 1931, during the Great Depression, in the midst of the Dust Bowl era?"<br />
<br />
"So he always said. Now shush, the commercial's over. More popcorn?"<br />
<br />
She was messin' with me. The old cat-and-mouse game my mom loved to play: She loved to make me puzzle out the truths in her personal history to gain insight into her past while sharpening my empathetic skills. The story was basically true, or her father believed it to be true. But logically, it couldn't be. It was a tale he spun to cover his true motivation.<br />
<br />
"Grandpa Roy masked his questionable choice with a veneer of sanctimony, to make himself feel better, trying to impress his critics."<br />
<br />
"Shh! Movie's on..." Mom wanted me to unravel the mystery without bashing her own father. .This called for more popcorn and a healthy bite of Ghirardelli chocolate.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNnY1uEmlk3MY3w3tagfFJFcfTHxZNC50_E3VXTeqO7XBbzZje4SnN8ewGVjyIvYG6jWVh5uASaPItJiMCHqFpyIG_4PyAZaKKu7hECvADroRWD29AVqVMvOp9FA_1pm9iDGUOu6Vkr5Uf/s1600/Faye+as+Aimee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNnY1uEmlk3MY3w3tagfFJFcfTHxZNC50_E3VXTeqO7XBbzZje4SnN8ewGVjyIvYG6jWVh5uASaPItJiMCHqFpyIG_4PyAZaKKu7hECvADroRWD29AVqVMvOp9FA_1pm9iDGUOu6Vkr5Uf/s1600/Faye+as+Aimee.jpg" /></a>I knew that my grandfather hated California and I'd heard the "sinful California" slam attributed to him before. It was family legend, which my mother swore was true. Yet Grandpa's time-worn tale didn't make sense. Faye Dunaway's portrayal of a two-faced Aimee Semple McPherson was one of a sexy, wanton woman putting on a big act for her gullible audiences. There were many skeptics back then, along with her legions of followers. Yet Grandpa's story made him seem like he was the only one wise to that charlatan's act. But in reality, he was not the sharpest tool in the shed.<br />
<br />
"That was good. Faye Dunaway really captured Sister Aimee's character, just the way I remember her. And I love anything with Bette Davis," Mom said as the credits rolled.<br />
<br />
"How well do you remember Sister Aimee's carnival?" It had been forty-five years.<br />
<br />
"I was eight, but it was so dramatic, not like any church service I'd ever seen before. She was pretty memorable, it stuck with me all these years. Don't you have to meet your friends?"<br />
<br />
"So your father..." I continued while Mom grinned; this was the best part of the night. She knew she could keep me with her a little while longer while I searched for the key to this mystery. It was just a variation on Twenty Questions, a brain-teaser. Mental gymnastics was the sport we enjoyed the most; we played it together.<br />
<br />
I persisted. "He had no money for a farm. You were dirt-poor. He hated farming, yet he returned to Missouri where he'd been miserable, and he made a big, sanctimonious show of it..."<br />
<br />
"It's getting late, Dave. Your friends will wonder where you are."<br />
<br />
"I'm close, aren't I?" She looked smug. "When you were born, the farm, near Halfway--did your father still have that farm to go back to?"<br />
<br />
"No--and yes."<br />
<br />
I had it. The clue to understanding my grandfather's mind, why he embellished his tale with his imperious dismissal of Sister Aimee and all things California. "Your other grandfather, the paternal grandfather...did he die that same year?"<br />
<br />
She nodded. I'd visited that humble farm and seen the old farmhouse. It was just down the road from my great-uncle Wilbur, my grandfather's brother. Uncle Wilbur lived on his own share of the subdivided family farm. "It was an inheritance. So your father hated to farm, but he couldn't turn down free land..."<br />
<br />
"Well, there were taxes..."<br />
<br />
"It seemed 'unmanly' or something...to do something he hated, because it was for the money, so to speak. He didn't want to admit that, so he made it seem like he was successful enough in California to make free choices, choices made with higher ideals than he really possessed? Carrying on like he was a martyr..."<br />
<br />
"Perhaps.Though that sounds a bit harsh."<br />
<br />
My grandfather died when I was two. He was a rather stern, grim-faced guy. I knew he was hard on my mother. They never got along very well; "About as well as oil and water," she'd told me. It was a relationship much like like the one I had with my divorced dad. Yet, my mother had given me her father's name as my middle name. She curried his approval until the day he died.<br />
<br />
I pulled on my coat. "I guess your dad was a bit of a charlatan himself, wasn't he?" Mom didn't answer the slight to her father's memory, but she didn't refute my conclusion, either. The depths of my mother's experience were somewhat clearer now. Her sad, isolated life with an unhappy, frustrated father who spun a web of thin little lies to embellish his meager life story, a litany of misguided wrong turns and fruitless dead ends.<br />
<br />
"Just one more thing that bothers me, Mom. You've always said you were hell-bent to get back to California, no matter what..."<br />
<br />
"And I did. I kept the faith."<br />
<br />
"Yes, yes you did." I gave her a hug goodbye. My mother returned to California in her twenties, enticing her two younger sisters away from Missouri, abandoning their father and that sad little farm. "But, Mom, I've seen Taft...that's like the <i>worst</i> part of California. What was so wonderful here that compelled you to move back, once you were old enough to break away?"<br />
<br />
She pulled back, shook out her curls, and took a deep breath. "The Pacific Ocean. I love my walks along the beach, you know that. Once I saw the Pacific, I knew California had to be my home."<br />
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I took hold of the doorknob, then stopped and turned. "Didn't you once tell me that when you were a little girl, you almost drowned in the ocean? That's why you never learned to swim. It was your father who saved you..."<br />
<br />
"You've always listened to my stories, honey--that's why I love you so much. Now good night!"<br />
<br />
"So there's more to this story, then?"<br />
<br />
"There always is," she said, beaming. "Isn't there?"<br />
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<i>To be continued...</i></div>
Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-63080722302538692782013-09-18T14:14:00.001-07:002013-09-18T14:14:09.512-07:00Colorado on My Mind<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">C</span></b>olorado has been top of mind and prominent in the news over the past week. Severe flooding has resulted in death and destruction far and wide along the northern part of the Front Range. It wasn't just remote mountain communities, even the city of Boulder has hit; images of flooded University of Colorado dormitories are almost as startling as the aerial shots of nature's wrath in small towns.<br />
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I have more than one connection to the Centennial State. Currently, my nephew Kenny (my father's namesake) and his family live in Loveland. They're out of harm's way, but his mother-in-law's place was hit pretty badly. I just spent time with my cousin Marilyn at a family reunion at her childhood home in Oregon. She currently hails from Colorado Springs, a veteran of the wildfires that plagued the area in June, but thankfully much farther south than the current flood zone. These tragedies made me wonder about the many, many other extended family I have in Colorado--"distant cousins," rendered even more distant by time and the many miles of mountains between us.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9T3R9GScRUy0M4n49KLFQ3NflW7SPr4SHADaIHcU2R4EBAVpSTtezHul5-4514YR9NXcLAqreznapY3AxWdDVOBrIv4q-QwHsU2DjYqh5Ad41cEW6w2RwqcTvMuvv8axfViQMQgQlRgQP/s1600/Doughboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9T3R9GScRUy0M4n49KLFQ3NflW7SPr4SHADaIHcU2R4EBAVpSTtezHul5-4514YR9NXcLAqreznapY3AxWdDVOBrIv4q-QwHsU2DjYqh5Ad41cEW6w2RwqcTvMuvv8axfViQMQgQlRgQP/s1600/Doughboy.jpg" height="320" width="120" /></a>My late father was born in Denver ninety-three years ago. His father's family moved to Colorado a couple of decades earlier, hoping the mountain air would be better for their son's ill health. It was. My grandfather John grew into a healthy young man, enamored of the nascent technology of radio communication. He enlisted in the army during World War One. Thankfully, John was spared the scourge of trench warfare and the horrendous influenza epidemic that killed so many in 1918-1919. John Morris returned from his wartime service to Colorado and married his sweetheart, Gladys. She soon gave John a son (my dad Kenneth) in August of 1921. He would be their only child.<br />
<br />
My grandparents were, by all accounts, a normal couple of young newlyweds struggling to get by in a post-war recession. They moved into a basement apartment in his parents' home in the mountain town of Boulder, now the city of so much current strife. Grandpa John could only find work in the big city of Denver, some 30 miles down a twisting, hilly road to the southeast. John commuted daily via his treasured motorcycle; he stretched his gas money by giving rides to a fellow commuter in his motorcycle's sidecar.<br />
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The morning of Friday, January 13, 1922, my grandpa John and his passenger set out at first light for Denver in a thick winter fog. Twenty-three year-old John hugged the thin painted center line of the two-lane mountain road and kept his speed moderate, due to the poor conditions. A truck coming the opposite way<br />
was following the same plan, hugging the center line. But that truck's inside headlight was out. When John saw only one headlight coming toward him, he thought it was another motorcycle and judged himself safe--until it was too late. So the sidecar passenger reflected, having survived unscathed. Young John Morris' jugular vein was severed; my dad became fatherless at only five months of age.<br />
<br />
Five years later, my widowed grandmother and her only child moved on to San Francisco with a sister and her two kids to start another life. My dad was raised with those two cousins in California, but they had moved out of state by the time I was born--one to Oregon and the other to Wyoming. Road trips around the West became a staple of my youth. Many of those trips were visits to Colorado, reconnecting with my dad's grandparents, aunts, uncles, and the many, many cousins. As a boy, I marveled at the homes in Denver, all built of brick and stone according to fire-proofing ordinances. I loved the beautiful Rockies, and all the far-flung Colorado towns of the Western Slope and the Front Range that seemed to be bursting with relatives. My Colorado cousins were plentiful and, without exception, just a whole lot of fun.<br />
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Dad kept up with our Colorado cousins pretty well, but after my parents' divorce, my connections pretty much lapsed. I spent the night with one set of cousins when I was passing through, back in my college days. I got one similarly-aged cousin on the phone when I was a groomsman in a college friend's wedding, but she was going out of town when I was in. Most of those cousins' names and addresses were kept up through my father, and passed with him.<br />
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The current nephew's relocation to Colorado is a complete coincidence with my family history. The recent connection with Marilyn and the flood news have me wondering about all of my other long-lost cousins. Where are they now? Have they been affected by the floods? I need to stop just wondering, I need to re-establish my Colorado connections.<br />
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<b>~</b></div>
<br />
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<i>Have you lost track of distant relations you'd like to reconnect with? </i></div>
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<br />Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-85912636960725506022013-09-15T00:39:00.000-07:002013-09-15T00:39:17.672-07:00Budapest <br /><br /><b style="font-size: x-large;">Budapest. </b>The name is evocative of a distant place, exotic, ephemeral, elusive. What is it? Where is it, exactly? The 2,000 year-old city of 1.7 million people is the capital of Hungary; it is, in many ways, the very heart of Europe. Five years ago, my wife and I booked a trip to Europe that began in the fairy-tale city of Prague, in the Czech Republic, before shuttling over to Germany for a riverboat cruise down the storied Danube River to beautiful Vienna. One could continue the cruise downstream to Budapest. <div>
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"I don't know much about it," my wife said. But I did. I knew it would be the perfect finish to our romantic expedition. <div>
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As a budding young history geek and aspiring world traveler, I discovered Budapest in the pages of <i>National Geographic. </i>Raised in the midst of the Cold War, I had known precious little about the primarily Slavic lands in the far shadows behind the Iron Curtain. Russians were Slavs after all. Eastern Bloc nations were darkly mysterious, as forbidding as Mordor.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buda Castle high on Gellert Hill</td></tr>
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<br />The historical truth is that the majority of the Hungarian people are ethnically Magyars, neither Germanic nor Slavic.The broad, fertile valley on the southward thrust of the Danube River that is the core of the Hungarian nation is the crossroads of Central Europe.The Romans established an outpost here on the northern edge of their empire to take advantage of the river, the agriculture and to enjoy the natural springs. Romans loved their baths. The original Roman town on the hilly western shore of the Danube came to be known as "Buda" after a later Hungarian lord. The kings and lords of central Europe would rule from their castle perched high above the beautiful blue Danube.</div>
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Across the Danube on its eastern shore, Hungary falls away in wide, flat plain. In the midst of the "Dark Ages," a small fishing village across from hilly, noble Buda grew into a blue collar trading and industrial town for the common citizens. It came to be known as Pest. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Houses of Parliament on the Pest shore of the Danube</td></tr>
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After revolutions in the 1840's rattled the Austrian Hapsburg lords of Hungary, a small amount of self-governance was granted to the people of Hungary. After centuries of domination by those German-speaking masters from Vienna, a parliament was created in the commoners' capital of Pest..<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buda Castle rises high above the Chain Bridge on the Danube River</td></tr>
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After the Houses of Parliament were built, the Hapsburgs built the Chain Bridge to unite patrician Buda and plebeian Pest; they were united as one capital, Budapest, in 1873.</div>
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The city, the culture and the people of Budapest proved to be a dynamic, fascinating and rewarding conclusion to our vacation that year. Centuries of commerce, the blending of Germanic, Turkic, Magyar, Slavic and a dash of Italian influences have made Budapest a cross-cultural wonderland. The communist yoke has been broken for two decades, leaving a vibrant, evolving and expanding economy with unlimited potential and a scintillating energy. We thrilled at the evidence of capitalism sprouting from the corpse of communism, technology transforming society in a cultural evolution which blended old and new while maintaining respect for history and the integrity of their cultural traditions. We hated to leave.</div>
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Our most exciting vacations have been rewarding immersions into foreign lands where we embraced exotic cultures, and created memories for a lifetime. As my wife and I prepare for another vacation that will tick off more destinations from our bucket lists, we are tantalized by the lure of the unknown and the thrill of potentially life-changing rewards. I like to think of it as the spirit of Budapest.<br /><br />
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<i>Do you have any life-chang</i><i>ing travel stories to share?</i></div>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-21857566803757244362013-09-11T14:02:00.000-07:002013-09-12T15:12:06.440-07:00Almost Perfect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"Almost Perfect" was the headline in the <i>San Francisco Chronicle's</i> Sporting Green this past Saturday. My entire weekend was, in fact, almost perfect. Don't go getting all negative on me and focus on the "almost" qualifier; that would peg you, dear reader, as the skeptic you just might be. It was a wise woman who once told me, "If perfection was our goal, we'd better have Plan B ready to go..." It's somewhat of the old "Is your glass half-empty, or is it half-full?" concept.<br />
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Perfection is a suspect state of achievement, it's a monologue. Tell your friends that you've found "the perfect man (or woman)," and they will smile through their supportive platitudes: "How nice, " Good for you," or even "That's fantastic! Tell me all about it.'.." You do realize what they're really thinking: "Good ahead, tell me more; I'll prick your balloon, if you'll just give me some ammo to do the job..."<br />
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"Almost perfect" is a more tantalyzing concept which creates a convivial dialogue. It's an invitation for your confidant to participate, using their own imagination for alternate scenarios that aspire to the ever-elusive concept known as perfection. Tell someone that your day was perfect, and their body language is some variation on "How nice...<i>for you.</i>" Share a tale of how it was <i>almost</i> perfect, and they respond "I know what you mean..." or "that reminds me of the time..."<br />
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That particular <i>Chronicle </i>headline referred to a San Francisco Giants baseball game last Friday night. An unheralded pitcher with a very thin resume, Yusmeiro Petit, was on the mound for the home team. Our defending World Champion Giants have fallen far from grace this season, but thanks to an extremely high number of season ticket holders like me, they still sell out every single game. The atmosphere is always festive. With a revolving cast of 41,000-plus San Francisco personalities, how could it not?<br />
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I was there with my lovely bride Melissa, and one of my favorite couples in the world, Barbara and Don. They are an almost perfect couple, smart, attractive, witty, charming--the epitome of grace blended with a wry sense of humor. Barbara was my German teacher more than forty years ago, Don has been been her almost-perfect husband for nearly a decade longer. I smile every moment we're together, often laughing to the point of tears many times over.<br />
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Time flies when we're together; it was the end of the fifth inning before I realized I hadn't even gotten my Crazy Crab sandwich yet --or realized that no Diamondback batter had safely reached first base, not even once. <i>Could we be on the verge of a no-hitter or even--dare I think it--a perfect game?</i> It was 78 degrees at nine p.m. on the shores of San Francisco Bay--so anything seemed possible.<br />
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A no-hitter in baseball is not quite as rare as it used to be. Tim Lincecum is the Giants two-time Cy Young Award-winner now in his third straight disappointing season--yet he summoned the old magic to throw his first no-hitter just this past July in San Diego. It was the Giants' fourth no-hitter in their 56 years in San Francisco. I had penciled-in plans to be at that game, too, before we settled on a Giants-Padre game in May instead. I was <i>almost</i> there... <br />
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A perfect game remains a very rare instance in baseball, there have only been fourteen in all of major league history. The pitcher must face only three batters each of his nine innings. Not one hit, not one walk, no errors by his supporting team members. Twenty-seven at bats, twenty-seven outs. Perfection. The other eight players behind the pitcher must also perform perfectly, which usually means a diving catch or three, perhaps an incredible throw to get a batter in the nick of time, and often the victor benefits from many close calls by the umpire. As the innings grind on, tension builds in AT&T Park, the cheering and applause reach a tremendous crescendo, amazingly greater with each out in the ninth inning as the elusive prospect of perfection nears. A smattering of the competition's fans are thinking "Oh, no...." but even those precious few among the tens of thousands of patrons feel their stomachs tighten with the realization that they are in the presence of history being made. I know; I <i>was</i> there.<br />
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The San Francisco Giants have only ever had one perfect game. It happened at AT&T Park, Giants vs. the Houston Astros on June 13, 2012, just last year. My wife had to work, so I brought three of my very best friends, Mike, Keith and Jesus. They are arguably the most ardent Giants fans among my acquaintances. Matt Cain, a long-time Giants stalwart sometimes called "the horse," was on the mound. Cain is a solid pitcher with tremendous potential and many nearly-great seasons at the stadium by the Bay. But on that June evening, he was simply perfect.<br />
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"Oh, how nice (for you)" is what most of my family and friends said (and thought) when I shared my good fortune. "I was almost at that game, too" was a common response, as my listeners reached to connect with my experience, which is truly the point. The joy of spectator sports is not (with no apologies to Vince Lombardi) winning, or achieving perfection. It is the shared experience of a plethora of fellow humans, friends and strangers alike, sharing the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. The many become amost one. Cheering, slapping high fives with that loud jerk behind you, getting hugged by the old lady who spilled your beer in the third inning. Massive, unified human joy; it is truly almost perfect.<br />
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On a very warm night last Friday, a somewhat anonymous young pitcher named Petit filled in for an injured Matt Cain and almost made history. After eight innings of play, he had faced only twenty-four batters; the Arizona Diamondbacks had made twenty-four consecutive outs. There were scintillating strikeouts, spectacular catches, close plays and tremendous efforts by every player pursuing victory. The frustrated Diamondbacks were intense in their efforts to stave off a humiliating defeat. The entire crowd stood for the ninth inning, cheering every strike, groaning at every called ball. The twenty-fifth batter failed to reach base, as did he twenty-sixth. Then the final batter, the twenty-seventh, stepped to the plate.<br />
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It was a pinch-batter, Eric Chavez, former Oakland A, a man familiar to many of these Bay Area sports fans, a fresh hitter. We all hung on each and every pitch; cameras flashed, people chanted "Let's go, Gi-ants!" On a 1-2 pitch, Petit fired a gem--strike three! But no, the umpire called ball two. Who could blame him? To end a perfect game on a borderline called third strike? Not kosher. Petit took the ball and fired again--ball three! It was now a full count, three balls and two strikes with two men out. The next pitch could be a heart-breaking hit, or an ignoble ball four to end the streak--or perhaps, <i>perfection.</i> The din was now deafening, the fan to my right grabbed my arm in a panic, the stadium crowd hung in the balance between utter elation and bitter disappointment. Petit reared and fired, the batter swung and connected--and the ball trickled foul.<br />
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Barbara clutched my other arm. My wife's face was ashen, Don clapped resolutely. Feet stomped, screams, whistles and chants reached yet another crescendo; Petit fired, Chavez swung, the ball cracked off the bat and sailed toward right field, then fell precipitously; Hunter Pence, our steady right fielder dashed forward in an all-out sprint, and dove...the crowd roared as he tumbled--the ball was in his mitt! But those of us along the third base line had seen the ball bounce into Pence's glove, it had been an almost-perfect catch, the batter was safe on first.<br />
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Petit easily retired the twenty-eighth batter and the 3-0 victory was ours, a glorious one-hitter. The fountains sprayed, the fans gave the team a standing ovation, and the sound of Tony Bennett's recorded voice warbled "I Left My Heart in San Francisco" over the loudspeakers just as it does with every other win.<br />
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My buddy Mike texted me from his Man Room: <i>The odds of being @ two perfectos seemed just too ridiculous. So close. Who is this guy?</i><br />
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Strangers greeted me as we climbed the stairs, singing along with Tony Bennett, slapping high fives, "We almost had it!" "Wasn't that awesome?"<br />
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It was. it was almost perfect.<br />
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<i>I'd love to hear your your stories about the joys of almost-perfect experiences--let me know!</i><br />
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<br />Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-31992151446101739892013-06-29T15:44:00.001-07:002013-06-29T15:45:14.196-07:00Flying the Friendly Skies: My Rookie Flight<br />
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It's the little things in life that make us truly happy. Most of them seem silly and pedantic to others, yet they please us nonetheless. One such thrill occurs the third week of the month (more or less): I pull the mail out of the box and see that tantalizing glint of yellow gold, swathed in clear plastic, peeking out from the mass of mundane catalogs, bills and flyers. Yessss! My monthly <i>National Geographic</i> magazine has arrived.<br />
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I'm an addict, I relish my monthly "fix" of exotica. In days gone by, the magazine came in a brown paper wrapper like my uncle's <i>Playboy</i>, fueling the titillating anticipation of discovery. The excitement for me was and is strictly G-rated. Naked natives are the classic giggle line of late night comedians, but a true devotee sees these infrequent glimpses with cool, scientific detachment. I could always turn to<i> Sports Illustrated</i>'s swim suit edition to scratch that itch, after all. For me, the allure of <i>National Geographic</i> lies in its ability to transport me to exotic locales and obscure destinations, far-flung lands of history and mystery. Just look at a sampling of this month's edition: Brazil, Transylvania and Mars. I would hunker down in my drab little room in our shabby, suburban tract home to travel the world, touching all seven continents, reaching the four corners of the Earth. Often, my cerebral globe-trekking would be rattled by the rumble of a jetliner on take-off from San Francisco International and I would wonder: Where is it going? When can I go? Where will I go?<br />
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My first time on an airplane occurred in 1958. My maternal grandfather was terminally ill. I was soon a two-and-a-half year-old lap baby on a prop plane to Missouri for Mom's last visit with her father. This is my earliest memory. I remember being in the front seat of a car driving up to an airport terminal, the wipers straining to brush snow off the windshield. My mother confirmed this memory with the fuller tale in later years.<br />
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As our somber assignment came to its close, an unseasonable snowstorm moved in on Springfield, Missouri. My father was home in California with my four older siblings, falling behind on his work at his one-man start-up glass business. Dad wanted mom home ASAP so that he could focus on his business instead of the fearsome foursome. Back in Missouri, the storm had stalled over Springfield, closing the airport. The staff in Springfield informed her that it could be days before a flight back to San Francisco could take off. However, Kansas City remained open and flights were taking off. If Mom cold make the 220 mile trip before dawn, she could be in San Francisco in time to make her husband the next evening's dinner. Now <i>that </i>was a goal.<br />
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A businessman in the same predicament stepped forward. "Lady, I need to get a flight out, too. Sounds like Kansas City is our exit plan. Would you like to share a rental car?" To my father's later distress, Mom was willing. This was a woman who moved to California on her own at 20,supporting herself through the war years as a "Winnie the Welder." Of course, she rounded up two more stranded businessmen for the safety of numbers and to share in the cost of gas. The drive was tense, she told me, which probably explains why I remember arrival scene at Kansas City's airport. But we made our flight.<br />
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<a href="http://www.featurepics.com/online/Family-Dinner-Cartoon-1483382.aspx" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px none; clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img src="http://www.featurepics.com/FI/Thumb300/20100311/Family-Dinner-Cartoon-1483382.jpg" height="205" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 181px;" width="320" /></a>When he heard about the car trip with strange men, Dad was as "outraged" as the police chief in <i>Casablanca</i>--yet he was relieved to unload those four screaming kids on his "chief cook and bottle-washer." The bread-winner retreated to his shop after dinner, the home-maker was back in the kitchen "where she belonged." Their baby boy wouldn't see the inside of an airliner for nearly fifteen more years...<br />
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-74485186952634681092013-06-17T13:25:00.000-07:002013-06-17T13:25:00.422-07:00Remembrance of a Father Passed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am the fifth and last child in my family: Boy-girl-girl-girl-me. There was another pregnancy after my birth, resulting in the still birth of a boy with severe hydroencephalia (water on the brain) which lead to a vasectomy soon thereafter. We Morris kids are all Baby Boomers, from the first child born in 1947 (nine months after the wedding) to me, born slightly less than eight years later. My father was 25 when he married, a few weeks shy of 33 when I was born.<br />
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This context is important, because I don't have a warm and fuzzy remembrance of my late father. He did a lot of damage. Yet I know I could have been--and still could be--a better son; obviously, the conversation is rather one-sided now. I won't bore you with a litany of complaints about his sparse parenting skills. My divorced mother urged me to forgive, keep the door open and maintain a relationship with him. She cautioned me about the unintended consequences of burned bridges, encouraged me to find peace through patient communication.<br />
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When we become parents, we realize how difficult a job it is. When I became a dad my first time, I faced the irony that I was the same age my father was when I was born. His reality on that day included five kids, a nine-year-old marriage, a mortgage and he was only months away from launching his own business. A pretty hefty plate, that was. As I walked around GWU Hospital cradling my precious first-born, I felt a new connection with my wayward dad. I had, as yet, no other children, no mortgage, no self-employment responsibilities. My spouse of nearly four years had her own substantial career, leaving me as the secondary wage-earner. Less than 24 hours after becoming a member of the club, I had the beginnings of a new appreciation of my father's challenges.<br />
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Please don't get the wrong idea--there is no happy-sappy end to our story. Dad lived on for a dozen more years. I once again reached out, he accepted. We interacted. He gave what he could, especially as an eager handyman. He used his manual skills as a surrogate for affection. Perhaps he gave me much less than I craved, he gave it generously. But I wanted more. His relationship with his grandsons died for lack of attention. Ultimately, he chose to betray our relationship, fatally poisoning our slender bond a few years before his death. That is a tale for another time.<br />
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What cannot be denied is that, for good or ill, we sons are our fathers' legacy. Some traits are inherited, some habits are learned. I catch myself repeating some ill-considered action or comments that I gleaned from him, I should know better. I court the forgiveness of my children when I do. I also try to forgive myself. The sins of the father are real enough.<br />
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Certsinly there are good things I learned from my dad:<br />
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<li>Connecting with and respecting my relatives, especially the elders. I treasure the aunts, uncles and cousins, nieces and nephews. I do my best to nurture those relationships over time and distance. My father was an only child, his mother was widowed when he was only an infant. Staying close to relations in Colorado, Wyoming, Oregon and California was important to him. </li>
<li>Loving San Francisco. My father felt he was blessed to have been raised in the City by the Bay. He loved to show it off, and he loved to share his remembrances of "How things were in the good old days." If you know me, you know that this in many ways defines me. I'm a native-born San Francisco kid to my dying breath.</li>
<li>An appreciation of architecture. This may surprise other family members, but it goes hat-in-hand with San Francisco and his glass business. Dad used to show off his work on a couple of impressive buildings, yes--but he also was a fan of Frank Lloyd Wright. Dad proudly showed off the Morris Building (now Xanadu Gallery) in San Francisco and the Marin County Courthouse in San Rafael. I most certainly am a fan of Wright's, and appreciate architecture much more than your average Joe.</li>
<li>Loving California--my father loved the Golden State. My love of all things Yosemite stem from our numerable summer trips to the "Incomparable Valley." That's just the beginning. </li>
<li>Volunteerism. My father was a dedicated Lions Club member. He raised money for the blind and ran the Youth Exchange Program for Northern California, further exposing me to hundreds of students from the far corners of the globe--many of whom stayed in our home. In his later years, he chose to volunteer for the Second Harvest food bank. We never had much in the way of material things, but he was always willing to share his time and skills for a good cause. I've jumped in wherever I could.</li>
<li>The travel bug. Dragging our brood around the state and across the Rockies to visit family included seeing other sights all across the American West. I've taken traveling to a much higher level, but his example got me started. He even managed to see a Space Shuttle launch, an opportunity that has passed me by.</li>
<li>My very rudimentary fix-it skills. I was a poor student, but what I learned, I learned from him.</li>
<li>Being there. Overall, he flunks this test--yet the few exceptions are notable, and I appreciated them then and now. He came to a half dozen or so of my football (in which I rarely played), attended my graduations, my East Coast wedding, and made two more cross-country trips to visit me in later years. It may amount to mere crumbs, but they are no less precious.</li>
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That's about it. A pretty short list, indeed. Yet I appreciate what I gleaned from my father; I accept that he had his limitations, though with regrets and no small measure of sadness. Growing up without his own father shaped him in innumerable ways beyond his control, compromising his own abilities to parent. It's not about fault, it is about our shared history. Most importantly, I have made it my life's mission to be the best father I can be. Fatherhood for me is about making the best of the skill set I was given, doing the best with what I have learned along the way, and loving the hell out of my sons every moment I breathe on this Earth.</div>
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<br />Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-24212926562634388302013-06-12T10:50:00.002-07:002013-06-12T10:50:12.469-07:00Postcard from the (Eastern) Edge<br />
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DATELINE<Washington><br />
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June in Washington, DC means the beginning of hot summer and swarms of tourists, mainly hordes of eighth graders on field trips. Imagine lines of chartered buses disgorging dozens of pimply, noisy young teens in color-coded t-shirts announcing their identity with themes such as "Class of 2017 Rocks DC!" <i>Now where did I put my bottle of Aleve?</i><br />
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I'm here to visit my eldest son who lives in Arlington, VA just across the Potomac from Washington. He's a UCLA grad working in a suburban ER until his post-baccalaureate RN nursing program begins at Georgetown University in August. My son was born here and lived in Northern Virginia until he was eight, with many return trips to visit old friends and relatives young and older. One such trip was his eighth grade trip to Washington from our California home; somewhere in a drawer rests an old yellow t-shirt that is emblazoned "Class of 2007 Rocks DC!" or words to that effect.<br />
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This is a solo visit, which means more flexibility for this old dad to get around the monuments and museums, indulging my inner history geek. My boy pulled the hospital's midnight shift, so he works while I sleep, sleeps while I tour, and we visit in the evenings. One might think I knew the National Capital Area pretty well, and I do--on a certain level. My first visit was a college seminar in '74, for work in '80 and '81, then a thirteen year stretch from '84 to '97. I was married at the National Presbyterian Church on Nebraska Avenue in '85, graduated with my MBA from The George Washington University in '86. My first son was born at GWU in '89, the second in '92 at Fairfax Hospital in the Northern Virginia 'burbs. Yeah, I got this area nailed down pretty good--or so I thought. That was then, this is now.<br />
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The political landscape of DC may fluctuate according to election results, but the social and cultural lives of the residents of our nation's capital evolve according to their own timetable, its citizens dancing to a different beat which does not emanate from Capitol Hill. Vibrant, exciting, alive with life force of youthful optimism--this is the core of today's Washington. In days gone by, one did not venture of the beaten track of touristy DC for fear of the wanton criminal element. No more--now it's gentrification on steroids.<br />
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U Street, Shaw, Chinatown, H Street Corridor, Capitol Hill Northeast--these were neighborhoods most often named on the Crime Watch segment of the evening news here when I lived in Washington in the Eighties and Nineties. Today, they're hip and trendy destinations. The classic downtown sidewalks along Connecticut and K Streets are no longer deserted after dark; young couples and small clusters of laughing young people circulate from restaurant to club or merely a merry stroll about the town. Politicians beware, your backyard has become a city of bursting with the promise of youthful optimism, energy and excitement. <br />
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There is a flip side to the gentrification of city neighborhoods to be sure; I choose to celebrate the promise of tomorrow happening in very shadow of our dysfunctional capitol. Every year hundreds of hopeful young college graduates bring their talents to the center of their government, gambling that with their considerable talents, initiative, hard work, and modest compensation they can make a positive difference in this world.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Dtj9tnvL71i8eVpEIrIK9sZP0sLbxvzE7aT5_PbtxTQqo5H-7zuJktEMMmbmCD-YOeMBGL5zumsJpTX0Sqo1mF4PXRzHd3XmT2tapIQRfQuTUFnwjurUAcQ1T_MRWacFQgKI39WozXYK/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Dtj9tnvL71i8eVpEIrIK9sZP0sLbxvzE7aT5_PbtxTQqo5H-7zuJktEMMmbmCD-YOeMBGL5zumsJpTX0Sqo1mF4PXRzHd3XmT2tapIQRfQuTUFnwjurUAcQ1T_MRWacFQgKI39WozXYK/s1600/photo.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>I give you this image to ponder. Three dozen energized, healthy twenty-somethings gathered on the open grass that is the National Mall. Their field of screams lies between the Museum of American History to the north, Smithsonian Castle to the south, flanked by the distant U.S. Capitol's dome to the east and the scaffolded spire of the Washington Monument skewering the setting sun to the west. These kids are divided into two teams vying for the DC Kickball Championship. Do you remember kickball? It's the elementary school version of softball played with a squishy 18" diameter red rubber ball that you kick rather than hit. The rules of the game mimic its more prestigious cousin, yet the physics of the cumbersome ball levels the skill sets of these after-office athletes. The result is universal good times.<br />
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The players hail from congressional staffs, think tanks, government agencies, non-profit groups, media and healthcare. They come from hometowns in New England, California, the Deep South and the Midwest. They are former jocks and ham-fisted klutzes, male and female, straight and gay, multi-cultural and multi-ethnic; they scarcely care about labels, they're busy celebrating shared fun. Politics are never mentioned, laughter never withheld. Not even the dramatic black smoke of a distant fire that swirls around the Capitol's dome rattles this group; a quick cell phone check determines that the engines are headed for a retail fire, it is safe to play ball. Tomorrow's leaders resumed their game. Joy and the American Spirit are the true winners in Our Nation's Capital this day. <br />
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1272384366829106606.post-29621238788998863332013-06-05T10:42:00.001-07:002013-06-05T11:10:30.150-07:00Dirty Laundry<h3 style="text-align: center;">
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</style> <b>People love it when you lose, <br />They love dirty laundry </b>
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~Don Henley</div>
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“You’re really going to do your laundry at Davyd’s house? He might
see your dainties!”</div>
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I mean really. My friend K and her husband L were coming
over for a small dinner party after the graduation. She and I once taught
together, before my moves, so her fellow teachers knew me. Apparently the
tongue-wagger with the dirty mind missed the part about coming over for dinner
with her husband; my wife was likely to attend said dinner, you would think.
But the questioner’s mind went down a different path. No good deed goes unpunished.</div>
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K<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>was running her
laundry before heading off to the afternoon ceremony and the evening dinner at
my house. When changing the first load out of the dryer, K felt the damp glop
that meant only one thing: the dryer had crapped out. Faced with a tight
timeframe<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and a second wet load in the
washer, K gave me a quick call; she was relieved that my dryer was in good
working condition, ready to serve her laundry<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> needs
</span>later while we enjoyed tri tip, shrimp and grilled veggies. The clothes
would be dry by the time I finished warmin up Gizdich Ranch’s signature
Olalliberry pie. </div>
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This rather mundane tale is a vehicle to mention the fun of a
small party. Add a little domestic trifle to a few glasses of wine and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>see what happens. It helps that the other
couple hadn’t seen use in forever, and the two sets of guests were only slightly
if happily acquainted. A lively mix of shared experience, varied
backgrounds, overlapping histories and more wine meant giggles and
outright laughter faster than you could say “a little potbelly port with that
dessert?"</div>
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The silliness of that laundry comment led to some more dirty<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>laundry stories and some more "dirty laundry" got aired--<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">mostly retread tales of of our children's run-ins with radar guns. Our moral </span></div>
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<a class="leftAlignedImage" href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3565.Oscar_Wilde"><img alt="Oscar Wilde" src="http://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1357460488p2/3565.jpg" /></a>
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“Scandal is gossip made tedious by morality.”
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―
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3565.Oscar_Wilde">Oscar Wilde</a>,
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<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1897835">Lady Windermere's Fan</a>
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outrage, tempered with time, becomes humourous. But when a recent speeding ticket is mentioned, we squirm. "Too soon?" Yes, if the fine is yet pending, it is not yet grist for the mill...did I just hear the timer on the dryer go off, or was it the pie? Food cures all.</div>
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Davyd Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07999812635685036089noreply@blogger.com3