View allAll Photos Tagged CONVERSATIONAL
Taken on the 15th of May 2004 and uploaded on the 15th of November 2025.
I like reading and sometimes get hung up on what I think are particularly silly phrases, probably used to pad out poor writing and add a false sense of authenticity to naff dialogue, see Dan Brown. I remember reading a book aged 11 or 12 by Al Jaffee which is probably the cause of this...anyway, to show I can be as meaninglessly verbose as anyone, I have compiled a short list of conversational aphorisms which serve the same purpose: two people blethering about something neither really understand who have reached a point where one has said something the other can't refute or qualify or honestly agree to: "Yes, this is it." says the second.
Philosophers: "That's the gist of it."
Pedants: "That's the truth of it."
Pretentious P&*@#s: "That's the long and the short of it."
Engineers:"That's the nuts and bolts of it."
Blah, blah, blah.
[6017a]
From the poem, Bare Jarnett. Taken from Longstone Moor, on a magical day, when "all the smothered world below is locked in foggy nightmare, trouble, joyless doubt".
"White Light White Peak", the book, is published by Fly on the Wall press, launching at the Buxton Festival Fringe on July 15th 2019. Order your copy here: www.flyonthewallpoetry.co.uk/shop
An advance review of White Light White Peak – The Book:
“A joyous book - one to be slowly savoured. The black and white photos are truly atmospheric, the snippets of prose down-to-earth and gently humorous, while the poems are a wonderful celebration of nature. Simon Corble produces a little bit of magic in White Light White Peak, capturing the ethereal beauty of England's first national park. This is a book to keep and cherish.”
Helen Moat, freelance travel writer and book reviewer - author of "The Slow Guide to the Peak District".
White Light White Peak, the live show, is a personal journey through a year in the White Peak told through poems and projections. "Summed up in one word - mesmerising." (Caroline Small, events manager at The Green Man Gallery, Buxton). Starting in the depths of a snowy winter, this is a poetic journey through a White Peak year, including encounters with the weather, wildlife and people; some amusing, some thought-provoking and many involving a Springer Spaniel...or two. The poems are told from memory and in a conversational style; more like miniature short stories at times, complete with twists and some happy endings.
The White Light is all in my monochrome photography: Atmospheric landscapes, wildlife shots and enigmatic moments, reflecting the images and moods heard in the poems and projected onto a large screen throughout the performance. With the occasional soundscape, (captured locally - and in all weathers) the whole is a highly immersive experience; the culmination of five years' work.
More about the book and project in this blog:
.www.flyonthewallpoetry.co.uk/single-post/2019/02/25/Poets...
Originally established in 1832, Franklin Park reopened in September 2021 after an eagerly anticipated renovation. The new park includes an expanded and restored fountain plaza, a new children’s garden, ADA accessible sidewalks, enhanced lighting, conversational seating, engaging green space and a future restaurant pavilion. Operated by DowntownDC BID, Franklin Park is a destination for residents, workers and visitors in the heart of DC.
Kumi: *enunciates slowly, clearly trying to rein in her temper* “Magpie, we are talking about what you’re going to wear to your wedding. Not all your preconceived, delusional notions about your swellness. You ‘lack’ a gown…you lack wit!”
Magpie: *lips curve up into a smug, little smile, as she takes a bite out of her apple* “I assure you that I lack neither gown nor wit.”
Yuri, Kumi, & Emma: *stare at Magpie’s triumphant expression, flummoxed*
Emma: “Em, Mags, you ken wrappin’ toilet paper ‘round yerself is no’ an appropriate answer tae this dilemma…yeah? This is no’ yer Halloween party costume o’ aught-eight.”
Magpie (mildly): “Watch your tone, brat, or I swear I’ll use your Z as a lollipop the next time I see him. And he’ll like it. A lot. I have a preternaturally nimble tongue.”
Emma: *pulls a face* “Ew! Fine, wear whitever you want, then. You’d ne’er find a better dress than the one I wore tae my wedding anyway!”
Magpie (serenely): “Is that a fact? Well, I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” *hops down off the counter, tosses her apple core into the trash and saunters out of the kitchen*
Kumi: *watches Mags’ departure through narrowed eyes* “What’s Cinnabon in the oven talkin’ about? How can she possibly have a dress that we don’t know about?”
Emma: *shrugs* “Mags doesna make much sense tae me, even on her most lucid days.”
Yuri (thoughtfully): “Hmm, I believe I know where she is procuring her gown.”
Kumi: *turns to Yuri* “Spill.”
Yuri: “If you will recall, when Magpie flew down here to wait for Satoru, the luggage she brought with her was full of items she had packed for her concert tour in the city, including—”
Kumi (breathlessly): “Her costume trunk! She does, like, four gown changes during the course of a performance, so that means…”
Magpie: *reenters the kitchen, wheeling an oversized trunk behind her, face split into a radiant smile* “I have four *sings* deeeelightful, deeeelicious, deeee-lovely gowns at my disposal! All of them crème de la crème and all of them impeccably fitted to my measurements.”
Yuri, Kumi, & Emma: *eye the trunk greedily, squeal in unison* “Open it!”
Magpie: *perches on the top of the trunk, conversationally* “Granted, I don’t have anything strictly bridal in here, but I’ve never pictured myself as an overtly traditional bride anyway.”
Yuri, Kumi, and Emma: *still staring at the trunk, squeal in unison* “Open it!”
Fashion Credits
**Any doll enhancements (i.e. freckles, piercings, eye color changes) were done by me unless otherwise stated.**
Yuri
Shorts: Randal Craig RTW – Lilli Style Redeux
Top: Momoko – Lacy Modernist (FYI: Does not fit the NF body without some ‘help’ in the back.)
Shoes: IT – Fashion Royalty – High Tide Vanessa
Brooch/Pin: BFMC – Equestrian Fashion
Bracelet: me
Dolls is a Nu.Fantasy Little Red Riding Hood Yuri transplanted to a NuFace body.
Kumi
Skirt: Clear lan
Top: IT – NuFace – Lady in Red Erin
Shoes: IT – Fashion Royalty – Paparazzi Bait Adele
Necklace: Origin Unknown
Aqua Bracelet: IT – NuFace – Lady in Red Erin
Gold Bracelet: me
Dolls is a Nu.Fantasy Wild Wolf Kumi transplanted to a NuFace body.
Magpie
Dress: Mattel – Playline – Fashion Fever Doll
Jacket: Sakurana
Shoes: Randall Craig RTW – Summertime
Brooch/Pin: BFMC
Earrings: me
Doll is a Wild at Heart Lilith re-rooted by the brilliant valmaxi(!!!).
Emma
Dress & Shorties: shortcut/Patty
Sandals: Mattel – Barbie Collector – Trina Turk Malibu Barbie
Necklace & Bracelets: me
Doll is a Style Mantra Eden.
These are many great books well worth the read! Children's literature is going strong in 2018! Happy reading! Good for all ages. Best if enjoyed with a little one! A special thank you to the Des Moines Public Library East for always having my books ready to be checked out on the Reserve Shelf! Your staff is so nice!
Something I once composed as a teacher librarian with the aid of other students and educators....
Top Fifteen Reasons WHY a person should READ
*Reading connects you with others. It's a great conversational activity!
*Reading is relaxing. Chocolates, a latte, and a good book...by the fireplace. It's great after a long day to just sit down and enjoy the company of a good book.
*Don't kid yourself! Reading makes you lots smarter!
*If you are bored, pick up a book and start reading.
*Reading lets you travel the world without leaving the comfort of your own house.
*Reading builds character.
*Reading increases your vocabulary.
*Could it just be, perhaps, that reading is the BEST teacher?
*In one hour, reading burns 88 calories. More importantly, that would be equal to burning 1/3 of the calories in eating a Snickers Bar. So, if you read for three hours, you've burned off the entire candy bar!
*Reading gives you answers to life's questions.
*Reading STAMP out ignorance.
*I read to find myself, calm myself , and help take care of the anger and stress inside of me.
*If you go to the doctor or any other appointment, for that matter, take a book along. Chance are slender that your appointment will be on time. You'll have to wait. Instead of grumbling about the wasted time, enjoy the opportunity to read something good.
*Those who don't read good books have no advantage over those who cannot.
*Your local library is surely not so far away. Take a trip through the pages of a book! You'll save a lot of gas money on this trip!!!
The building was built for the Riga Craftsmen's Savings and Loan Bank in the neoclassical style by architect Ernests Pole. The bank was located on the second floor, the upper floors were rented apartments, and the lower floors were rented by commercial institutions. In the inter-war period, the tenants were various institutions and organisations, and a large number of them were press editorial offices. At one time the editors of the magazine "Latvijas Tirgotājs", the first Latvian erotic weekly magazines "Sensācija" and "Elegance", headed by the book publisher Helmārs Rudzītis; the newspaper "Brīvā Zeme", the literary magazine "Ritums", the magazine "Latvju Grāmata", the Latvian Conversational Dictionary; several printing houses; the famous dance school of the dancer Beatrice Wigner; offices of industrial and commercial enterprises, craftsmen's workshops, fabric and ladies' clothing shops and tailors' workshops. On the ground floor, next to the photo studio, there was a mirrored café with the sonorous name "Café de Paris" and the only revolving dance floor in Riga at that time. In the 1920s, it was home to the family restaurant "Aquarium".Few people know that the building was once home to luxury restaurants and newspaper and magazine offices. A significant part of society remembers this building as the National Library of Latvia, which was housed there from 1956 to 2014.
Fall webworm moth (Hyphantria cunea), hand-reared from a caterpillar I found in June. (Fall webworm? June? Why not?)
He looks so conversational here, and just a bit rakish with those cocked antennae.
Philadelphia, PA, July 2009.
Hubert, Henry and Herbert finally arrive home at Brew Street after their misadventures at The Cheltenham Gold Cup. Between them, they managed to come last in all the races they entered. But running isn’t really their thing; Hubert being fluent in conversational Latin, Herbert in conversational Mayan and Henry in conversational whinny. These fine steeds prefer to entertain, they getting quite a following in the beer tent performing comedy stand up that only the most educated can understand. But that doesn’t matter, their clumsy circus acts of jollity bring a smile to even the most serious of punters. What champions!
The Garden originated as a teahouse during the 1915–16 Panama-California Exposition and now lies on two acres near the Spreckels Organ Pavilion. Along the Garden’s winding paths are a Zen garden for meditation, an exhibit house, koi pond, bonsai exhibit, ceremonial gate, and a Fujidana (wisteria arbor). Weekend classes are offered in sushi making, bonsai, calligraphy, and conversational Japanese.
CHROMATIC GRAYSCALE VERSION
Seventh post processed image from my “Marilyn Monroe” shoot with Stephanie Stuart arguably the Best Marilyn Monroe impersonator in the country.
What I wanted to do was celebrate the shoot using the tech of today. Soooooo you will be seeing a lot of images from the shoot we did on the deck of my studio.
I am a big believer in getting it as close to completely right in the camera as reality allows. What I was able to do with the combo of the sunbounce cage and hive lights was magic. We shot video during the shoot to discuss how to do
conversational portraiture using the D850.First post processed image from my “Marilyn Monroe” shoot with Stephanie Stuart arguably the Best Marilyn Monroe impersonator in the country. I am a big believer in getting it as close to completely right in the camera as reality allows. What I was able to do with the combo of the sunbounce cage and hive lights was magic. We shot video during the shoot to discuss how to do conversational portraiture using the D850.
I used Hive light led wasps lights with a leko lens an a fresnel. Sunbounce cage and Sunbounce reflectors.
Nikon D850 and Nikkor 70-200mm f2.8
Post processing: Capture NX-D, Photoshop CC 2018, NiK Collection by DxO's Silver Efex Pro and Viveza.
#Nikon100 #NikonAmbassador #nikonlove #lexar #kelbyone #photography #onOne @NikonUSA #D850 #70-200mm f2.8 #NikonNoFilter #niksoftware #nikonUSA #Epson #wacom #xritephoto #onone #sunbounce #fineartphotography #DxO #iamgenerationimage #iamnikon #B&H #hivelight #PhotogenicbyBenQ #lexarMemory #nikonLOVE @lexarmemory elite photographer #lexarmemory
#Nikon100 #NikonAmbassador #nikonlove #lexar #kelbyone #photography #onOne @NikonUSA #D850 #70-200mm f2.8 #NikonNoFilter #niksoftware #nikonUSA #Epson #wacom #xritephoto #onone #sunbounce #fineartphotography #DxO #iamgenerationimage #iamnikon #B&H #PhotogenicbyBenQ #lexarMemory #nikonLOVE @lexarmemory elite photographer #lexarmemory #hivelight @stephstuart @my_ms_marylin_monroe @hiveligthing #litbyhive #hivelighting
Diego: “Wow. Okay. No wonder you stick to print ads and runway shows. You’re a lot sexier when you don’t talk.”
Kumi: “I could say the same thing about you, Crude-n-Brood.”
Diego: *snorts*
Kumi: *slowly begins to circle Diego, looking him over* “So…you’re the one who taught Charley how to fight, huh?”
Diego: *face relaxes into an almost-smile* “Yeah. Heard she fed you a face-full of cushion, Miz Black Belt.”
Kumi (haughtily): “She caught me unawares; otherwise, it wouldn’t have happened.
Diego (scornfully): “We’re not talking about a tea party here, baby doll. In the real world, when someone attacks you, they don’t give you a heads-up first so you can prepare yourself. And from what I hear, she told you to back off several times and you didn’t, so you got what you had comin’.”
Kumi: “She fought dirty!”
Diego: “No other way to fight.”
Kumi: *sniffs* “Well, all I know is that style isn’t taught in any respectable dojo.”
Diego: “I didn’t learn it in a dojo.”
Kumi: “Well, where did you learn it, then?”
Diego (conversationally): “My dad was a cage fighter and beat me black and blue from as early on as I can remember. It was either learn from him, so I could defend myself, or die. I chose the former.”
**Heavy silence falls, as everyone’s faces show varying stages of horror**
Molly: *signs* “Diego! Why’d you have to go and drop that stinker? You know you can’t talk to civilians like that! Look at their little faces. You broke ‘em.”
Diego: expression strained, signs* “Look, Molls, I’m doing the best I can here. All these new friends of Bug’s keep coming at me, each one shinier than the last. I’ve been walking blind since I got here. I need effin’ sunglasses.”
Molly: *nods, signs* “Yeah, I’ve noticed that, too. They’re a sparkly people—like a commercial for shampoo or whitening toothpaste come to life.”
Diego: *signs* “I know, right? I find myself wanting to do or say something—anything—to dim the shine. Shock the pampered smiles right off their faces. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
Molly: *face fierce, signs* “You never embarrass me. Exasperate me, yes. Irritate me, absolutely. Embarrass me, never.” *twines her arms around Diego’s and presses her chin to his shoulder*
Diego: *sighs, studying everyone’s still stricken expressions* “Yeah, I know that was TMI. Friendly suggestion, don’t ask me questions unless you’re sure you want the answer. I’m blunt. Deal with it or don’t.”
Fashion Credits
***Any doll enhancements (i.e. freckles, piercings, eye color changes, haircuts) were done by me unless otherwise stated.***
Yuri
Dress: IT – Fashion Royalty – Hot Topic Fashion
Belt: Randal Craig RTW – April in Paris
Jacket: Doves (etsy.com)
Shoes: IT – RuPaul Glamazon
Bracelets: Me
Doll is Nu.Fantasy Little Red Riding Hood Yuri transplanted to a NuFace body.
Kumi
Pants: Gwen of Gwendolyn's Treasures
Top: SL Doll
Shoes: IT – Fashion Royalty – High Tide Vanessa
Purse: Sekiguchi Momoko – Escort Me
Bangle Bracelets: IT
Necklace: Me
Molly
Shorts: SL Doll
Top: Mattel – California Girl Fashion Pack
Jacket: Mattel – My Scene Fashion
Platforms: Mattel – Barbie Collectibles - Peace & Love 70’s Barbie
Bag: Sugarbabylove (etsy.com); I made/added the charm.
Necklace: IT – Fashion Royalty – Capricious Natalia
Earrings: Me
Doll is a She’s Not There Poppy Parker, eyes have been repainted by me, all other enhancements by me.
Lukas
Slacks: Kelsie of Mutant Goldfish Designs
Shirt: IT – Dynamite Girls – Back to Brooklyn Remi
Shoes & Belt: Volks – Who’s That Girl? – Selfish
Watch: IT – Homme – High and Mighty Darius
Doll is a Rock Ringmaster Lukas.
Fletcher
Jeans: Mattel – Barbie Collectible – James Dean
Shirt: Clear lan
Belt: Miema (etsy.com)
Boots: Volks – Who’s That Girl? - Selfish
Doll is a Turning Heads Pierre.
Diego
Shorts: IT – Homme – In the Mix Takeo
T-shirt: IT – Dynamite Girls – Take It Easy Cruz
Shirt: Justin Bieber Doll
Shoes: IT – Poppy Parker – Baby, It’s You Chip
Hat: Mattel – Barbie Collectible – Frank Sinatra, The Recording Years
Necklace: Me
Doll is a Rock Steady Romain, eyes, brows, facial hair, and shading by me.
A quite stylish brochure issued by the Southern Region of British Railways and designed and produced by their Publicity Office in 1960. It has the feel of a distinct design and style shift from the 'standard' BR leaflets of the 1950s towards something a little more 'contemporary' in graphic design terms. By 1965 the complete rebranding of the network as British Rail, with a strongly centralised 'look' would have swept such regional fare away.
The graphics include this stylised diesel locomotive across the title banner and the text is an attempt at something more informal and conversational. Clickety-clack.
True, he never picks up a check, and his conversational skills are limited, but he's always there when I need him and he never contradicts anything I may be ranting about at the moment.
I do not know the back story here. (Performance Art? Panhandling?) This woman, in her artistically tattered clothing (and no shoes), held a sign that said Hello. But most folks seemed to be avoiding her and her small placard conversational gambit.
In bloom now, Fern Dale, this shot is one those that divide both book and live show into sections - this introducing September.
White Light White Peak, the live show, is a personal journey through a year in the White Peak told through poems and projections.
If you want to book the live show for your venue or group, then please email me corblesimon@gmail.com, Suitable for all kinds of spaces that can provide some level of blackout.
“a beautiful work of art in every one of its facets – poetry, photography, stagecraft, soundtrack.”
Jim Marriott – Buxton Festival Fringe review.
"Summed up in one word - mesmerising." (Caroline Small, events manager at The Green Man Gallery, Buxton).
Touring the Peak District and beyond, September and October - with more dates planned for 2020.
Starting in the depths of a snowy winter, this is a poetic journey through a White Peak year, including encounters with the weather, wildlife and people; some amusing, some thought-provoking and many involving a Springer Spaniel...or two. The poems are told from memory and in a conversational style; more like miniature short stories at times, complete with twists and some happy endings.
The White Light is all in my monochrome photography: Atmospheric landscapes, wildlife shots and enigmatic moments, reflecting the images and moods heard in the poems and projected onto a large screen throughout the performance. With the occasional soundscape, (captured locally - and in all weathers) the whole is a highly immersive experience; the culmination of five years' work.
"White Light White Peak", the book, is published by Fly on the Wall press - order a copy here: www.flyonthewallpoetry.co.uk/shop Copies for sale at a discount (and signed!) at the live event if you buy the programme, which contains a supplement of seven poems with photographs.
A review of White Light White Peak – The Book:
“A joyous book - one to be slowly savoured. The black and white photos are truly atmospheric, the snippets of prose down-to-earth and gently humorous, while the poems are a wonderful celebration of nature. Simon Corble produces a little bit of magic in White Light White Peak, capturing the ethereal beauty of England's first national park. This is a book to keep and cherish.”
Helen Moat, freelance travel writer and book reviewer - author of "The Slow Guide to the Peak District".
(Swedish: Språkcaféet) Both a café and a place for language theme nights. You can enjoy coffee, pastries or a lunch. At the language theme nights you can practice tour conversational skills in various languages.
www.sprakcafeet.com/?lang=en (website in different languages)
It’s Saturday morning deep in The Forest of Dean, and the inaugural ‘Moonshine Express’ has arrived at platform 0.5 which unofficially serves the Miners Arms.
Passengers will be able to watch the distilling process from the comfort of the brakevan veranda as they imbibe. All beverages are free, but you’ll be asked to pay a small donation to travel. And once on the go, drinkers will gain comfort from the fact that the confusing network of lines are almost impossible to follow by road, making it tricky for ‘The Law’ to track them down.
Historians of the railways of The Forest of Dean will already know that many of the lines don’t appear on any map, with some routes only operating for a few weeks before being moved as if by magic to support the various nefarious businesses and mineral deposits.
First to appear is Hubert the conversational Latin speaking horse and his twin bother Herbert who is fluent in conversational Mayan. Accompanying them is Colin who is more well known for his love of cider, but to be fair will drink anything. He’ll no doubt be thrilled to know that apples are the major fruit used for the initial fermentation.
Whilst today the moonshine still is heated by overpriced propane from the red cylinder, plans are afoot to harness steam from the coal fired engine to perform the task seeing much The Forest is literally sitting on top of a pile of coal. By the way, that’s one of Hubert’s suggestions - he’s such a clever horse.
And finally, please remember, what happens in the forest stays in The Forest. Hush hush.
In 1994 I had a Great Wall 6x6 slr. In 1995 it broke and was
irreparable. I missed it a lot.
Tonight I went looking for some pictures I'd taken twenty-odd years
ago of a friend in order to scan them. On the same roll I found this
nearly empty frame but, being one who likes a puzzle, I scanned it
too. This is what I found. It's me.
I don't remember taking the picture which I must have set with a
timer. I was sitting at our kitchen table looking rather pensive. Or
conversational. I don't know. But the picture reminds me of the
kinds of pictures the Photo Pictorialists of 120 years ago were
taking. I don't like many of my selfies, but I like this one.
The film, according to my notes, was eleven-years-out-of-date Tri-X
(having expired in 1983). Taken in my Great Wall. It is square but
it isn't the entire negative; it is a crop down to about 50% of the
original 6x6cm negative.
It’s Boxing Day in the land of the inch high, and as is the norm, there is the annual race pulling a train with a tractor. And because it’s like Christmas in the movies, snow is everywhere of course, with even the canal basin freezing over.
One at a time, many of our regulars take their turn driving the shunting tractor to see who can cover 300 yards the fastest. And here we have Hubert the conversational Latin speaking horse at the wheel, taking the consist up to a whopping 7.3 miles per hour. The only difficulty was getting Hubert up on to the tractor, but luckily there’s an excellent crane, and as we can see Hubert is rather good at driving with his rear two hooves - such a clever horse.
Over to the left, we can see Hubert’s brother, Herbert the conversational Mayan speaking horse, he’s also taken advantage of the crane to get a rather excellent elevated view of proceedings.
In the foreground, Nasal Nigel with his back to us (in his trusty sticky green flasher-mac with special pocket) has been allowed out to time the races as part of his education in being socialised, he being somewhat challenged in this department. As a thank you, he’ll be allowed to keep the stopwatch after this morning’s antics are over - and anyway, it will almost certainly be a bio hazard after he’s handled it for any length of time.
And finally to the right, former Prime Ministers from The Misery Party, Lizzie and Teresa have appeared to observe today’s antics, though probably only because they’ll all be heading to the pub after. They like a gin or two.
I participated in a Secret Santa gift exchange for creative, do-it-yourself types this year, and my recipient's medium of choice is woodworking and resin. The centerpiece of his shop is this Grizzly table saw. Since my medium of choice is LEGO, I figured I'd build him a model of his saw! Here's how it turned out.
Free instructions on my Rebrickable!
As an aside, lots of exciting things happening in my LEGO world right now! I've started streaming the process of designing models over here on Twitch. Currently, I'm there on Fridays at 7PM Central, but I'll probably be doing this more soon due to the great response it's gotten. Come swing by; it's super chill and conversational! We talk shop and share ideas in real time.
Also, if you want to own something designed by me, you can get some of my models over at BuildaMOC!
After a handful of my contacts recently and graciously tagged me, I gotta live up to the game's expectations.
Since I've done the 30 things about me (or however many they were) back in December, let's see if we can do this about Ouzo.
As if you don't know already enough about him ;)
1. He was born on 10/21/2005. That makes him 3.5 years old - well, about :)
2. He was born in Kansas
3. We got him on 12/22/2005. Our lives have been so different since that day :)
4. Yes, he is purebred Border Collie, despite his white face and floppy ears. Border Collies come in different shapes and colors and patterns. What makes them a Border Collie is their ability to work livestock, which is what they were selected for, not their colors or the shape of their ears
5. He loves toys and he is extremely gentle with them - still has toys from his 1st birthday - balls however are his life
6. Despite all the outdoorsy images you keep seeing of him, Ouzo doesn't have a yard. He doesn't even have a house. He lives in an apartment in a satellite city of Denver, Colorado. He says it's perfectly fine with him
7. He is bilingual – he is fluent in understanding both English and Romanian. No, I am not kidding – he knows all his commands in both languages, and lots of other conversational phrases :) We started teaching him in Romanian as a pup, then we realized that it will be pretty difficult for all our friends, the vet and random people to 1) understand what we’re shouting to our dog and 2) make themselves understood to Ouzo, since we live in Colorado :) So we added English to his vocabulary
8. He knows the names of almost all his toys – and he has lots: dozens and dozens. Lately he’s been only getting maximum 10 at a time (we’re such cruel parents, I know) because of the risk of injury to humans walking in low light and stepping on squeaky things. Or half chewed cow hoofs – ouch!
9. Ouzo was the puppy from hell until he reached 1 year, he chewed so many things that it was a running joke at work to report what my monster puppy has destroyed the previous day. Jewelry – including an emerald bracelet – at least he only chewed the clasp so that was eventually replaced, clothes: underwear (only mine!), remote controls, toilet paper and napkins, sofa legs, a bread knife (we found it on our bed with the plastic handle well chewed – that was scary), shoe laces (these were usually severed while my shoes were lassoed western style all over the living room at breakneck speed, in hope of a good chase), and his worst deed: a bottle of aspirin – ended up costing us $800 in ER visit and follow up IV treatment – all while he didn’t have any bad consequences other than puking black disgusting staining medicinal charcoal all over our beige carpet. He almost never stole food, however. Proof he was a well fed pup - at least :)
Funny thing - after getting over that phase, now he's not much of a chewer, not even with tasty smoked bones, pig ears or raw hides :) We did find a type of bully sticks that he loves, so he's getting those from time to time.
10. He is a big boy for a Border Collie, about 23 inches last time I measured him – couple of years ago, and weighing 47 lbs. He grew fast – at 6.5 months he was already 44 lbs and then stayed at that weight until this year.
Explore - My 150th to be picked - Highest position: 495 on Monday, August 17, 2009
Lieutenant Commander R.A. Payton modifies a computer program using a cathode-ray-tube conversational terminal at the Naval Medical Data Services Center, Bethesda, Maryland, 1974. Naval pharmacists were Navy medicine's earliest information managers. As supply, fiscal, property and food service managers, they initially relied on mechanical and electronic calculating devices for information management. With introduction of automated data processing (ADP) in the 1950s, information management technology revolutionized health care delivery
systems. Medical Service Corps information managers shepherded the transition to ADP, and lead the Medical Department in ongoing information management innovation. [Scene.]
CHORMATIC GRAYSCALE VERSION
Fifth post processed image from my “Marilyn Monroe” shoot with Stephanie Stuart arguably the Best Marilyn Monroe impersonator in the country.
I am a big believer in getting it as close to completely right in the camera as reality allows. What I was able to do with the combo of the sunbounce cage and hive lights was magic. We shot video during the shoot to discuss how to do conversational portraiture using the D850.
I used Hive light led wasps lights with a leko lens an a fresnel. Sunbounce cage and Sunbounce reflectors.
Nikon D850 and Nikkor 70-200mm f2.8
Post processing: Capture NX-D, Photoshop CC 2018, NiK Collection by DxO's Silver Efex Pro and Viveza.
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#Nikon100 #NikonAmbassador #nikonlove #lexar #kelbyone #photography #onOne @NikonUSA #D850 #70-200mm f2.8 #NikonNoFilter #niksoftware #nikonUSA #Epson #wacom #xritephoto #onone #sunbounce #fineartphotography #DxO #iamgenerationimage #iamnikon #B&H #PhotogenicbyBenQ #lexarMemory #nikonLOVE @lexarmemory elite photographer #lexarmemory #hivelight @stephstuart @my_ms_marylin_monroe @hiveligthing #litbyhive #hivelighting
This is my 'Opposite Buddy.'
We agreed on things.
I think.
Mostly.
I mean... in general.
Except for the time I said that I don't think business' should pay any taxes.
Somehow we seemed fundamentally to disagree on the factors that caused the things that we agreed on.
That is what makes talkin' to people great.
That's some 'second level' conversational mojo logic right there.
A lot of 'externalizations' you know?
He was a cool cat to talk to.
I think the guy comin' up and throwin' in the cold fusion stuff was like an asteroid hitting the conversation but it added something destabilizing.
It kinda modified the orbit of the topic.
We talked about the 'Stanford Prison Experiment.'
And a whole bunch of other stuff.
It's Friday!
Let's talk about the weekend.
I hope you're feelin' the love.
I hope you get out there and join in the conversation.
Supersized Silly Sunday…
It’s that loco again, which somehow or other has crossed the Atlantic and appeared deep in The Forest of Dean at the sidings of a little known colliery.
Many of our regulars have left the comfort of the Miners Arms pub to take in the incredible sight. It’s thought that the management have been on that fangled ’interweb thing’ splashing the cash on yet another unsuitable but never the less magnificent shunting loco.
From left to right… Waving Wayne waves the loco through, he always gets the waving job, ‘cos that’s what he does best. Deliberation Dave is counting the wheels, but he’s struggling after his 7 pints at the pub, so will shortly give up counting and record the number as ‘probably more than 10’.
Pete’s standing on the loco being photographed by Dud with his back to us. He wants the photograph for an advert in the lonely hearts section of The Freeminer & Tree Hugger’s Gazette - a popular periodical with nature loving lonely single late middle aged men with coal under their fingernails in the Forest. The resulting photograph will indicate to any possible suitors that he has a ‘big one’, though of course as we know with big car drivers, it’s usually quite the opposite.
Freddy the Flag, clutches his red warning flag, but has decided not to bother waving it in this instance, because it’s pretty obvious that while the engine is a potential hazard, if you didn’t see it coming you’re probably best left to the powers of natural selection anyway.
Everyone’s favourite, Hubert the conversational Latin speaking horse is struggling to find suitable Latin to describe such a magnificent steamy beast, for the Romans didn’t have steam locomotives as far as I’m aware. Though I’m sure one or two of the many fluent Latin conversationalists here will be able to smugly advise Hubert.
The story you're about to read is based on a real event. Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Locations have been changed to protect the curious.
Blues In the Night
"But I've been planning this hike for a month," Teddi complained, plopping on her sofa beside Seth, who was applying polish to his toenails.
"Dearest heart, land lightly!" Seth cautioned her. 'There is art in progress."
"I am so sorry, baby girl. You know I'd rather be in the woods with you, but I can't get off," Erebus apologized again.
"And that sentence, taken out of context, sounds so stalker-adjacent," remarked Seth conversationally, blowing on his toes.
"Seth, be a man and volunteer to go with me in Erebus' place," Teddi ordered Seth.
"Definitely a man, definitely not going with you on your freaky forest tour," Seth declined. "These feet are for delicate nibbles, not monster chomps."
"There aren't any monsters in Dash Point," argued Teddi.
"Then why are they dashing around, if you get my point?" countered Seth. "Besides, I have a date. Why do you think I'm primping?"
"You've always got a date," Teddi debated. "Why can't you pass on this one?"
"Because 1, I will not be tart-shamed and 2, I don't wanna. I will not be dragged by my frillies into some terrifying near-death experience, again." Seth held up a hand when Teddi began to open her mouth. "End of conversation."
Erebus leaned over the couch, kissing Teddi's cheek. "Next weekend, baby girl, even if I have to call out sick, okay?"
"Okay," she agreed, watching him leave her apartment. Then, her eyes fell on Seth. "Well, if nobody's going to go hiking with me, I'm going to a movie. So, pack up your toes and go back to your place."
"But, I'm still drying," Seth complained, waving at his feet. "I'll just lock up when I leave, okay?"
"I should say, no, but okay," Teddi elbowed him. "You suck for being such a baby. I'm going to bring you back a souvenir binky."
Ignoring Seth making "baby sucking on binky" noises after her, Teddi grabbed her purse, keys, and swept out of the cozy apartment. Once she was inside her little Isa Cabrio she looked in the rear view mirror, smiling at all the camping supplies she'd loaded earlier, in anticipation of the overnight hike with Erebus.
"Who needs boys?" she asked herself, slipping on her large, pink sunglasses. "Girl power!" And she drove out of the parking lot, heading for the Dash Point Coastal Trail, Cyndi Lauper singing about girls wanting to have fun, on the radio.
The trail was everything Teddi hoped for; deep woods on one side, the roar of the Pacific on the other side, and wide, smooth trails that didn't tax her as she packed in. And, as a bonus, portable toilets every hundred yards or so, none of them close enough to the campsites to make them smelly, but near enough for a midnight run.
As the long afternoon wore on to early evening, she began looking for campsite. Other hikers had the same idea, many already setting up their various tents and kindling fires in the designated pits. She observed that AmazeOne must have had a sale on blue tents, because almost every other campsite that was occupied seemed to have an identical, blue-domed tent.
Eventually, she found a small site on the inland woods side of the trail rather than the strand of trees separating the trail from the ocean. While she wanted to camp on the ocean side, she decided the strong winds might rattle around her tent enough to disturb her sleep, so she opted for a tidy little spot just big enough for tiny, inflatable pink tent, and a cozy fire, setting up for the night.
After a dinner of PB&J sandwiches and water, Teddi snuggled into her tent to listen to an old, Sherlock Holmes radio play. Pausing the play for a moment, she unzipped the breathable mesh doorway to check on the status of the fire, planning to bank it for the night. A blue glow caught her eye and she could make out the hump of another of the dome tents she'd already spotted, possibly 3 campsites away from hers. Lit from within by a moderately powerful lantern, the tent looked like a fat, radioactive sapphire. Banking the embers of her fire, she scooted back inside her tent for some more of Holmes and Watson, but received a call from Erebus.
Teddi: Hello?
Erebus: Sorry I ruined your plans for today.
Teddi: Don't worry about it. We can hike next week. (she was grinning because that would make TWO hikes in a row! win-win)
Erebus: Want me to drop by? I can bring pizza.
Teddi: I already ate, and I'm actually in bed. Probably be asleep soon.
Erebus: On a weekend? You feeling okay?
Teddi: Just being lazy, y'know.
Erebus: Well, you have sweet dreams, baby girl. Call me tomorrow?
Teddi: As soon as I get home. (she clapped a hand over her mouth)
Erebus: Home?
Teddi: Yeah, from dreamland. (she giggled) Talk to you tomorrow.
Erebus: Good night, goofy.
The call disconnected, Teddi fell back on her blanket with a loud sigh. "You are SO bad at lying," she scolded herself.
She unzipped the door again, peeking out at her fire. The embers were red, dimming under ashes, and she threw a glance toward the tent, noting the light was out now. Oddly, with the light out, it looked as if the tent was closer, maybe 2 campsites from her. She shrugged at the trick of the light, zipping in again, settling back for some more radio mystery.
Teddi woke, surprised, because she didn't realize she'd dozed off. Holmes and Watson were silent, the radio play having ended, and she had her system set to ask if it should continue, just in case she fell asleep, so her battery wasn't wasted. Yawning mightily, she considered rolling over and going back to sleep, but she reminded herself to check the embers so she crawled out of the tent, stretching and taking a deep lungful of ocean air -- and holding it.
There was a tent in the campsite beside hers, separated by a fallen log sporting a nursery of huckleberry bushes.
She slowly exhaled, surprised that the late arrivals hadn't awakened her earlier. She checked the embers, and they were buried deep under ash, slowly dying. She covered them with more ash, just to be sure they didn't spark. Since she was up anyway, Teddi grabbed her flashlight and walked down the path to the portable toilet, gratified to find it clean, and ocean-breeze-scrubbed of lingering odors. Returning to her campsite, she slowed, realizing that the tent in the space next to her was one of the blue domed ones, which wasn't odd, but the tent that had occupied the farther space was gone.
Careful not to shine the light on the tent, so she didn't disturb the occupant, she walked back to her tent wondering if the tent in the space beside her was a new arrival, or if the people in the farther site simply moved closer to her. But why would they do that? She supposed there could be a number of reasons, the ground might be uneven in the other spots, and that was supposing that these weren't entirely different campers. But if they were, where had the others gone?
She shrugged it off, crawling back inside her tent, zipping the flap and settling back onto her blanket and inflatable pillow, hand laying on her purse. She wasn't particularly worried about the tent next door, it was just odd, but there were a lot of campers in the area so it wasn't as if somebody could get away with any antics. She was about to close her eyes and let the booming of the ocean lull her to sleep when -- something bumped her tent.
She sat up, listening. The ocean's roar permeated the air, so it was difficult to hear smaller sounds, like footsteps, or twigs breaking, that kind of thing, but she was sure that something outside the tent just bumped into it from the front side. Her right hand inside her purse, she used her left hand to slowly unzip the flap, but before it was even halfway open her eyes widened. Everything was blue! She quickly realized that a blue domed tent was sitting right up against her tent! It was either the side or the back of the tent since there was no opening.
"What the Woodsy Owl?" she exclaimed.
A light came on inside the blue tent, shining on the wall separating Teddi from whoever was inside the other tent. The silhouette of hands appeared, pressing against the plastic, seeming to reach for Teddi. At the same time, a strange sort of moaning came from the tent, low, almost plaintive, as if whatever made the noise wanted something, badly. She'd had enough.
"Hey, Blue Tent Boy, I want you to listen very closely. Can you identify this sound?" Teddi's right hand came out of her purse with a handgun, and she flipped off the safety, chambering a round. "What you just heard is the sound of a SIG-Sauer P232 .380 ready to fire." The light inside the tent went out, and the moaning stopped. "I am going to close the zipper on my tent, now. And in 30 seconds I'm going to open it again. If you are outside my tent, I will start shooting. If you are in any of the campsites near me, I will start shooting. I have several magazines with me, and I do not mind wasting ammo because I will shoot until I hit something. Closing my zipper, now. 30 seconds, and counting."
Teddi waited, watching the time on her phone, hearing nothing outside her tent beyond the crash of the ocean waves. When the time was up, she slowly unzipped the flap, prepared to start shooting, as promised.
The tent was gone.
Climbing out of her tent with her handgun and a flashlight, she scanned the area around her. The spaces near her were empty, the woods seemed unoccupied, and when she went out to the trail, shining her light in both directions, nothing moved.
"Huh," she observed, immediately breaking camp, packing up, and hiking out of the area, reaching her car as the sun rose.
"What is the first rule of hiking?" asked Erebus, after Teddi told him the story.
They were sitting on the deck outside her apartment, sipping sodas.
"Don't hike alone," she replied. "But you guys totally bailed on me."
He waggled a finger at her. "Ah, ah, ah. First rule?"
Teddi gave an exaggerated sigh. "Don't hike alone."
"And what do you have to do to make up for that, and for lying to me?"
"Homecooked meals for one week," she grumbled.
"Mama just loves it when you come to dinner." Erebus grinned, leaning back on the lounger.
"She pinches my cheeks," Teddi groused.
"My mama cooks like an award winning chef. Her meals aren't the punishment," Erebus clarified.
"My poor cheeks," Teddi sighed, ignoring Erebus' smirk.
(Thank you to Erebus and Seth for agreeing to be jerks who abandoned me -giggles- and special thanks to Bailey for the super cute camping clothes, hair, and pose.)
Setting out from Monyash.
This is not featured in my live show, White Light White Peak
- but is typical of the sort of thing featured. New dates for 2020 being announced from now onwards. First one is 19th Feb at Taddington Institute, near Buxton, Derbys, 7.30pm. For some reason they are only charging £4 a ticket! Link to the event posted on facebook:
www.facebook.com/events/151749952932659/
White Light White Peak, the live show, is a personal journey through a year in the White Peak told through poems and projections. see: www.whitelightwhitepeak.com
“a beautiful work of art in every one of its facets – poetry, photography, stagecraft, soundtrack.”
Jim Marriott – Buxton Festival Fringe review.
"Summed up in one word - mesmerising." (Caroline Small, events manager at The Green Man Gallery, Buxton).
Touring the Peak District and beyond, September and October - with more dates planned for 2020.
Starting in the depths of a snowy winter, this is a poetic journey through a White Peak year, including encounters with the weather, wildlife and people; some amusing, some thought-provoking and many involving a Springer Spaniel...or two. The poems are told from memory and in a conversational style; more like miniature short stories at times, complete with twists and some happy endings.
The White Light is all in my monochrome photography: Atmospheric landscapes, wildlife shots and enigmatic moments, reflecting the images and moods heard in the poems and projected onto a large screen throughout the performance. With the occasional soundscape, (captured locally - and in all weathers) the whole is a highly immersive experience; the culmination of five years' work.
"White Light White Peak", the book, is published by Fly on the Wall press - order a copy here: www.flyonthewallpoetry.co.uk/shop Copies for sale at a discount (and signed!) at the live event if you buy the programme, which contains a supplement of seven poems with photographs.
A review of White Light White Peak – The Book:
“A joyous book - one to be slowly savoured. The black and white photos are truly atmospheric, the snippets of prose down-to-earth and gently humorous, while the poems are a wonderful celebration of nature. Simon Corble produces a little bit of magic in White Light White Peak, capturing the ethereal beauty of England's first national park. This is a book to keep and cherish.”
Helen Moat, freelance travel writer and book reviewer - author of "The Slow Guide to the Peak District".
The caption in the cookbook says:
"Remember to use party manners with the neighbors. Record player and conversational noises carry out open windows or echo through apartment corridors! About eleven, serve Danish Drops and Minted Mexican Chocolate before softly playing 'Good Night Ladies'."
Yeah, okay.
from Carnation Milk booklet for teens, 1967
Saturday morning down at the docks and a train of brake vans has arrived all the way from somewhere in Kent, not far from that there London.
It’s going to be used for an enthusiasts’ ‘Brake Van Special’, because as we know, railway buffs would always rather travel in such a vehicle as opposed to the comfort of a plush passenger carriage. It’s all about getting soot in the eyes apparently, the sharp sting of that hot clinker getting stuck under the eyelids being a right of passage for the steam enthusiast. Diesel nuts of course will never experience such joys, unless sprayed with pepper spray by a ‘gurl’ who really didn’t want to be shown that OO gauge Triang Hornby English Electric Type 3 with full yellow ends whilst waiting for the final bus home.
Meanwhile, Hubert the conversational Latin speaking shunting horse is hoping that he’s not expected to ‘pull that lot’. But luckily there appears to be an engine waiting nearby, but sadly for Hubert it’s been blocked in by the train of brake vans which have been dumped there by the mainline locomotive, the mainline locomotive most likely being a diesel.
And finally the moonshiners a few miles away in the middle of the Bristol Channel on one of the small islands appeared to have suffered another exploding still if that huge cloud is anything to go by.
Just purchased this great book on Berry Gordy's father
and most interesting autographed by sisters and brother of
Berry Gordy.
Movin' Up, Pop Gordy Tells His Story by Berry Gordy
Signed By Family Members Cathy Gordy Edwards, Gwen Gordy Fuqua, Anna Gordy Gaye, And Fuller Gordy
Anna Ruby Gordy - first wife of Marvin Gaye
Anna Ruby Gaye (née Gordy; January 28, 1922 – January 31, 2014) was an American businesswoman,
composer and songwriter. An elder sister of Motown founder Berry Gordy, she became a record
executive in the mid-to-late 1950s distributing records released on Checker and Gone Records
before forming the Anna label with Billy Davis and sister Gwen. Gordy later became known as a
songwriter for several hits including the Originals' "Baby, I'm for Real", and at least two
songs on Marvin Gaye's What's Going On album. The first wife of Gaye, their turbulent marriage
later served as inspiration for Gaye's album, Here, My Dear
Esther Gordy Edwards
Esther Gordy Edwards (April 25, 1920 – August 24, 2011)[1] was a staff member and associate of
her younger brother Berry Gordy's Motown label during the 1960s.[2] Edwards created the Motown
Museum, Hitsville U.S.A., by preserving the label's Detroit studio. She also served as
President of the Motown Museum and has been called the "Mother of Motown
Gwen Gordy Fuqua
Gwen Fuqua (born Gwendolyn Gordy; November 26, 1927 – November 8, 1999[1]) was an American
businesswoman, songwriter and composer, most notably writing hit songs such as "Lonely
Teardrops", "All I Could Do Was Cry" and "Distant Lover". She earned her full name after
marrying Harvey Fuqua and kept the name after their divorce.
Fuller Berry Gordy
The eldest Gordy child, Fuller B. Gordy (September 9, 1918 – November 9, 1991), born in
Georgia, was an executive alongside his younger siblings in their brother Berry's Motown music
company. Fuller was also a professional in bowling. His daughter Iris was married to singer
Johnny Bristol
Book Details
Movin’ Up: Pop Gordy Tells His Story (1979)
Here, in his own words, is the story of an extraordinary black American, son of a former slave,
and father of Berry Gordy Jr., who founded Motown Records.
Pop Gordy’s story starts on his father’s plantation in Georgia, in an old house with enough
chinks in the shingles to let in the fresh air. Whether scrapping with his brothers and
sisters, fooling his momma, walking the crops with his Papa, or scufflin’ hard to make his
living, Berry knew how to enjoy everything he did. When he left the South to build a new life
in Detroit, he took his love of family, fun, and honest hard work with him.
Berry Gordy Sr., and his wife Bertha Fuller Gordy, arrived in Detroit from Georgia in 1922.
Starting with odd jobs and later a small grocery store, Berry “Pop” Gordy established a
succession of businesses, including a prosperous construction business. In the mid-1960’s, his
son Berry, Jr., bought the business, fired his father, and immediately hired him to an
executive position at the Motown Record Corporation. A churchgoing family, Mr. and Mrs. Gordy
at first affiliated with The Church of God in Christ, and later became members of Bethel A.M.E.
Church, for which Mr. Gordy served as trustee. Pop Gordy credited hard work in part for his
longevity and, until his death, was working as a consultant to Motown Records.
Completed before his death at the age of ninety in November 1978, Berry Gordy’s memoirs tell
how he taught his family to make it in a white world—the lessons he learned from his father,
his elders, and life itself. It’s warm, anecdotal style will draw readers of all ages to the
story of this lovable man.
Alex Haley contributed to Movin’ Up: Pop Gordy Tells His Story by writing the following
introduction:
Introduction By Alex Haley
“POP” Gordy was such a father figure to so very many of us who knew and loved him—not only his
family, but literally thousands of others from different walks of life. Whenever any of us
would feel the need to talk with this man, it was because we felt in him a kind of combination
of strength, goodness, wisdom, and understanding such as is seldom possessed by any one human
being. We knew that we had only to pick up a telephone and visit with Pop conversationally, if
we did not wish to go and sit with him personally. Today a sense of his presence certainly is
very much with every one of us who had the honor and the privilege to know him.
If Movin’ Up is to be your first meeting with Pop, then it is important that you understand it
represents highlights of his long life as he recalled them in a number of tape-recorded
sessions; and also that this Pop Gordy was a man who never attempted to be “fancy” in anything
he ever said, or that he ever did, for that matter. For throughout his life, Pop was as simple,
direct, and straightforward as he was honest, candid, and sincere.
If you are to get the most out of Pop’s memories, which he shares with us here, you should
realize that much of what Pop is telling us about are experiences of his boyhood, youth, and
young manhood; he is, in fact, giving us a look at how peoples’ lives went scores of years ago
in the part of Georgia where he was reared. You might want to compare Pop’s experiences with
your own and consider whether and how much manners of expression and relationships between the
races have changed since the time of Pop’s childhood.
In Pop’s boyhood world, his father was one of the many men who farmed with their families’ help
within the general area of small Sandersville, Georgia. But where most farmers ended each year
once more in debt to the bank and various credit merchants, in the Gordys’ case it was
different. Pop and his brothers and sisters grew up seeing the practically religious regard of
their parents for keeping meticulous records of any business they were involved in, no matter
how seemingly trivial or small. As one result, the Gordys were gradually able to save enough to
buy more land, and a better home to live in. So the principles of hard work and careful
business practices were early and indelibly impressed upon the Gordy children.
Physically small for his age, Pop (or little Berry) also learned how to use his quick fists to
gain respect. To be sure, he loved his pranks and mischief, which brought him frequent
switchings and whippings from one or the other of his parents. You must chuckle when Pop
recollects his bumbling, futile efforts to lie to his daddy about how a dog had attacked a cat
that had killed an “invisible” rabbit. Or you can’t help be tickled as he steals his fill of
his mother’s preserves, which she had thought he thoroughly disliked; and at his efforts to
prevent his first girl friend’s discovery that he and his brother and sister had to walk for
miles to get home from high school. You will pull for Pop’s battling school-yard bullies, until
he finally beat their biggest and toughest, thus earning their respect and even their
friendship.
Pop’s father somehow sensed in him the special potential of a businessman, and let Berry
accompany him into town to do the necessary “figgerin’?” when business was conducted with
various merchants. Berry developed the habit that when not working, he spent much of his free
time alone, simply thinking about things he had read, seen, or heard—especially things he had
overheard from local elderly people, particularly his beloved grandma. Later he would tell his
own children that he found that listening quietly to elderly people’s conversations had taught
him as much as anything he had ever learned in school.
No part of this book is more emotionally moving than Pop’s account of the tragic, abrupt death
of his father, which left their whole family feeling ravaged. But it would seem as if his
father had been training Berry to become the “administrator” who would attend to family
affairs. It was soon locally circulated that the young Berry was nobody’s fool.
Meeting a pretty local schoolteacher named Bertha Fuller, young Berry Gordy convinced her that
she should marry him. He expanded his business activities. He sold beef from a cart. He raised
and sold pigs. Then when he sold for his family a large number of timber stumps from their
joint property, he feared to cash the resulting $2600 check anywhere locally, lest it cause
problems, and upon advice he took a long train ride to cash the large check in Detroit.
After Pop was married, he moved his family to Detroit. You will read how Pop taught himself to
plaster and to do carpentry, until he became a contractor. He bought a grocery store, which
became a small institution within the east side Detroit black community.
Pop and his good wife, Bertha, continued their job of raising a family of eight children with
such quality that they would live to see their family acclaimed as one of the most outstanding
black families within the nation. Among their children, the next to youngest son, Berry Gordy,
Jr., who is the chairman of the board of Motown Industries, one of the major forces within the
world of American popular music, said recently, “I express the opinions of my brothers and
sisters on very few subjects—except Pop.
“What meant most to all of us, I think, was how Pop instilled into us what work meant. He was
such a strong human being, a strong person, he was a living symbol and example for us. He
taught us always to support what was right, what was fair. His philosophy was one of his
favorite sayings: ‘If you’re right, fight!’?”
Added Berry Gordy, Jr., “When people have said or written things to imply that I made Pop, they
couldn’t be more wrong. The truth is that whatever I am, Pop made me.”
Pop had his executive-suite office on Motown’s eighteenth floor, and it soon became known that
if anyone at all had some problems to discuss, there was a willing ear in Pop Gordy. The people
who turned to him ranged from unknown young recording artists to some of the topmost stars in
the business.
In a rare testimonial, four of the greatest stars in the nation—Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder,
Marvin Gaye, and Smokey Robinson—joined in making a recording titled “Pops, We Love You!” which
became a rapid-selling single, although it was done as a birthday tribute for Pop in which the
four stars expressed the sentiments of the many hundreds whose lives Pop had touched.
Then one midnight, Pop’s daughter Anna telephoned her brother Berry, Jr., saying that she was
visiting Pop, who had indigestion. Berry went over, and the three of them talked into the wee
hours, until Pop Gordy fell asleep. The next morning he arose ready for breakfast, but in an
hour he was dead.
As his son Berry, Jr., says, “Pop was a man whom not one of us ever had seen depressed, not for
one moment of his life. We had never known him without his humor, and his wit, so the sadness
usually associated with funerals just didn’t seem right. And so we didn’t have any funeral in
the usual sense. We had a celebration. We just gathered with Pop there, and we talked about
Pop.”
The Gordy family was only acting out what had been one of the favorite sayings of Pop, that he
had told to so many of his friends and admirers. “You can give without loving,” Pop would say,
“but you cannot love without giving.” ~ Alex Haley, 1979.
The Buzz
I'm rooting around the meadow this morning, soiling
My knees as I lap up the sweet, as I shower in sunspray,
A bristled provocateur, but how I want to be glib as
St. Francis and chat with this bee, whose motor I hear
As he thrums past in his yellow dinner jacket or the robins
Atwitter, our flirty neighbors, who zip from green to green.
I want to learn enough conversational buzz so I'm not such
A tourist in these woods. Please, God of this profusion, give
Me tongues of chirp so I can talk birdy birdy or chatter squirrel
Chatter. Let waxwings skim the milkweed or caterpillars rob
The goldenrods. Let dew spread its acres of silver
Fabrication, but attune my tenor vibrato to shagbarks and cedar,
The yellowing crocus or that nearby frog who sounds like Basho
Intoning his poem. Spare me from the road vulture I might become,
Content with his swill of entrails. Spare me the ambitions of men
In their seed caps or the women hoisting percale sails on backyard
Poles. May my tongue warble oriole and flicker in kingsnake.
May I speak to the vole in his subway, the otter sleeking by, water
So clear and articulate, allelu, allelu. O death crouched
In the bushes, you can go on eating your carcass if today you
Keep quiet and let all the other voices teach me to talk back.
This beautifully detailed hair accessory just in time for the upcoming season of love and beyond is adorned with sweet and sour conversational hearts and multi-colored gemstones set in metal! Perfect for my sweet valentines and my sour anti valentines. Grab her up at the VEX mainstore and Marketplace.
Headband is 100% original mesh. 5 color ways. 2 versions. Multi-colored gemstones set in metal. Metal color HUD included with 5 metal options.
Each color is sold separately.
★High Quality
★100% Mesh
★Unrigged. Resize on touch. Able to be repositioned.
Your uber awaits dahlin♥
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we have travelled a short distance west from Cavendish Mews, skirting Hyde Park, around Hyde Park Corner, through Knightsbridge past the Brompton Road and Harrods with its ornate terracotta façade, past the great round Roman amphitheatre inspired Royal Albert Hall that was built in honour of Queen Victoria’s late husband prince Albert in 1861, past Kensington Palace, to Holland Park. It is here, in a cream painted stucco three storey Nineteenth Century townhouse with a wrought and cast iron glazed canopy over the steps and front door, flanked by two storey canted bay windows to each side with Corinthian pilasters, that we find ourselves. Lettice has come to the elegant and gracious home of her widowed future sister-in-law, Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract.
Lettice is engaged to Clemance’s elder brother, Sir John Nettleford Hughes. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John, according to London society gossip enjoys dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Although she did not become engaged to him then, Lettice did reacquaint herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by mutual friends Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate in 1924. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again later that year at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show in Soho, where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening. Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. When Lettice’s understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, fell apart, Lettice agreed to Sir John’s proposal.
Even though Lettice is twenty-four now, as an unmarried young lady, she still must be discreet as to how often she sees her future husband unaccompanied, so as not to sully her reputation. Therefore, Clemance has arranged an afternoon tea for Lettice and Sir John at her elegant Holland Park home where she can be seen, for societal purposes, as a chaperone for Lettice. Clemance’s drawing room is elegantly appointed with the comfortable Edwardian clutter of her continual and conspicuous acquisition that is the hallmark of a lady of her age and social standing. Clusters of floral chintz chairs and sofas are placed around the room in small conversational clutches, whilst elegant French antiques, collected by her and her late husband Harrison during their years living in France, stand around the walls. The room is papered in pale pink Georgian style wallpaper and hung with Eighteenth Century pastoral scenes in gilded frames, whilst the floor is parquet. The room smells of freshly arranged hothouse flowers, and a canary twitters in a cage.
The trio are discussing over a tea of chocolate sponge served with cream and strawberries, Lettice’s recent acceptance of world famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce’s commission to create a feature wall in the drawing room of ‘The Nest’, Sylvia’s discreet country retreat in Essex, which Lettice visited last week. Sylvia is the long-time friend of Sir John and Clemance, and the pair introduced Lettice to Sylvia at a private audience after a Schumann and Brahms piano concert. After a brief chat with Sir John and Clemance, Sylvia had her personal secretary show them out so that she could discuss “business” with Lettice. Anxious that like so many others, Sylvia would try to talk Lettice out of marrying Sir John, Lettice was surprised when Sylvia admitted that when she said that she wanted to discuss business, that was what she genuinely meant. Sylvia invited Lettice to motor up to Essex with her for an overnight stay at ‘The Nest’ upon the conclusion of her concert series to see the room for herself, and perhaps get some ideas as to what and how she might paint it.
“So,” Sir John says as he sips his tea from one of Clemance’s gilded Art Nouveau patterned Royal Doulton cups. “You’re taking Sylvia’s commission on then, Lettice my dear.”
“I am, John.” Lettice agrees, sitting alongside her fiancée on the low backed and comfortable flounced floral chintz sofa.
“Oh hoorah!” Clemance exclaims from her own matching armchair opposite, clapping her hands in delight, the action startling the little canary in its cane cage on the pedestal table next to her, causing it to flutter from its perch and twitter loudly in fright. “Oh!” Clemance puts her hands to her mouth as she turns and looks at her little pet. “Oh I’m sorry Josette!” she says in an apologetic tone to the bird, who flutters back to its perch and utters a sharp and shrill cheep at her. “Poor dear creature.”
“Who?” Sir John asks. “Sylvia?”
“No, Nettie!” Clemance replies using Sir John’s pet name used only by Clemance and his closest friends from his younger days, picking up her own delicate teacup and turning her attentions back to her brother and his fiancée. “Not Sylvia. And don’t be obtuse.” She gives John a peevish look. “There’s nothing poor about Sylvia. No, I was referring to poor Josette.” She indicates with her bejewelled hand in a sweeping gesture to her bird. “I don’t think the poor little creature coped very well with the travel from Paris to London, and she is still trying to adjust to life in Holland Park. I’ve consulted my book of canaries and caged birds,” She pats a blue tooled leather volume with the image of three gilded canaries and the title pressed into the cover atop a stack of books next to the cage. “But all their suggestions on settling birds into new homes seem not to work. The only thing that does seem to work is when I play the piano: Chopin mostly. But for the most part since our arrival in London, Josette sounds so disgruntled.”
As if she knows she is being spoken of, the canary utters another angry tweet, causing Lettice and Sir John to glance at one another and share a conspiratorial smile.
“Perhaps you should play something for Josette now, Clemmie.” Sir John chuckles, his smile broadening, nodding to Clemance’s beautiful maple grand piano with its lid held open filling a corner of her spacious drawing room.
“We might enjoy that too, Clemance.” Lettice adds cheekily, her shoulders quivering with her own laughter.
“Oh you two!” Clemance says, flapping her hand at the pair on the sofa opposite her. “You’re as bad as each other, thinking I’m a mad old woman, fussing after my little bird!”
“Well, you must confess, Clemmie darling,” Sir John opines to his sister. “It is a little odd, fretting so much over a little thing like that.” He now nods to the chirping bird in the cage.
“The only thing odd is your lack of affection for animals, Nettie.” Clemance replies, groaning as she places her hands on the round arms of her chair and pushes herself up and out of the comfortable seat that over the years of owning it, has moulded to her shape. “But then again, you’ve never been an animal lover, have you Nettie darling?”
“I call that jolly unfair, Clemmie!” Sir John protests. “I loved the dogs we had when we were growing up.”
“Not as much as I did.” Clemance retorts, grasping the single strand of pearls draped down the front of her wisteria patterned crêpe de chine day frock. “You and Mother were always kicking them out of the way.”
“John!” Lettice exclaims, depositing her own teacup onto the low maple occasional table in front of her with a clatter and turning in her seat to look at her fiancée with startled eyes. “You didn’t?”
“Well, they got in the way.” Sir John defends himself. “They were always under foot. And to correct dear Clemmie’s memory of our childhood, which has become clouded and skewed with the passing decades, I didn’t kick them. Mother did, but I didn’t.”
“What would you call it then?” Clemance asks.
“I nudged them with my foot, and encouraged them to move, which they always did.”
“Well,” Lettice adds with determination. “I certainly hope you won’t be encouraging our dogs to move that way when we’re married.”
“Are we getting dogs, Lettice darling?” Sir John asks with arched eyebrows.
“Indeed we are!” Lettice replies with a steeliness in her voice. “A house is not a home without dogs.”
“Then why don’t you have a dog now, if you love them so slavishly?” Sir John queries, taking another slice of chocolate sponge from the cake plate on the table and depositing it onto his own plate. He looks to his fiancée. “More cake?”
“Err, no thank you, John darling.” Lettice shakes her head at the offer. “Anyway, Cavendish Mews is hardly the place for a dog, really, unless it was a small dog.” Lettice explains. “It’s too small, and dogs, even little ones, need space to run around,” She looks at Sir John pointedly. “So that they don’t get under foot. They need nature, and London is in short supply of that.”
“There are plenty of parks, Lettice,” Clemance says with an expansive wave that causes her draped sleeve to flutter prettily through the air before settling again. “You could take your dog to one of them.”
“Or one of the squares around Mayfair.” Sir John adds.
“No.” Lettice disagrees. “Those places are for dogs on leashes. No dog can roam around freely when at the end of a leash.”
“Rather like a bird in a cage.” Sir John looks at Clemance.
Josette tweets loudly again.
“I’ll have you know that Josette was free to fly throughout Harrison’s and my Paris apartment.” Clemance defends herself again.
“No doubt making a mess wherever it flew.” Sir John shudders at the thought of bird droppings being discovered around the room.
“She,” Clemance says pointedly. “Didn’t make a great deal of mess, any more than she does now.” She folds her arms akimbo in defiance and determination. “And once Josette is settled here, I will allow her out of her cage for a few hours each day, but not yet. She’s too flighty at the moment. She’s as likely to fly out of the nearest open window at present, given half the chance.” She looks indulgently at her canary, who chirps and twitters before pecking lightly at a little silver bell attached to one of the bars of the cage.
“You know larks don’t sing when in cages, don’t you Clemmie darling?” Sir John asks his sister, smiling cheekily.
Placing her hands on her hips and leaning forward over the table towards her elder brother, Clemance goes on, “My we are full of trivia today, Nettie darling.” She smiles, showing that she is not angry with her brother, and that the lively banter between the two of them is quite normal. “As it happens, I do know that little gem of a fact. Luckily, Josette isn’t a lark. She’s a canary.”
“Oh enough of that, you two.” Lettice interrupts. “Please play us something on the piano, Clemance.”
“Very well my dear Lettice,” Clemance agrees, moving around the embroidered footstool in front of her chair and gliding between the pedestal table used for Josette’s cage and the rounded arm of the sofa. “But I must warn you that I am no Sylvia Fordyce.”
“I’m not expecting such perfection from any mere mortal, dear Clemance.” Lettice assures her with a laugh.
Taking a seat on the stool at the piano, Clemance turns to her twittering canary and asks, “So, what shall it be, Josette: a Chopin Polonaise, Mazurka or Nocturn?” When the bird utters a louder chirp when she says the word Mazurka, Clemance continues. “Very good, Josette. A Mazurka it is.
As Clemance noisily ruffles through her well-worn sheet music on the piano’s music rack whilst Josette seems to chirp orders at her, Sir John turns back to Lettice. Depositing his plate of half-eaten slice of cake back onto the table he takes her delicate hands in his, enfolding them gently in his own smooth ones. The intimacy of the act still comes as a surprise to Lettice who jumps a little. When Sir John reacts by retracting a little, Lettice apologises to her fiancée for her jumpiness, claiming that she is still trying to get used to the idea of them being engaged. This seems to appease Sir John, and he smiles at Lettice with his blue eyes.
“You’ll get used to it soon enough, my dear.” Sir John assures Lettice.
“Will I?” Lettice asks, unable to keep an edge of anxiousness out of her voice.
“Of course you will, Lettice darling,” he replies. His smile develops a remorseful tinge. “In time.” He squeezes her hands. “You’ll see.”
“Yes,” Lettice agrees with a dismissive snort and a beaming smile. “Of course I will.”
“We are going to make a good partnership, Lettice: you and I.”
“Is that all, John?” Lettice asks, looking earnestly at Sir John.
“I’m a successful businessman, Lettice,” Sir John replies with a quizzical look. “And you a budding businesswoman in a world of men. What more do we need?”
Lettice remains silent for a moment, contemplating her fiancée’s statement before swallowing the lump in her throat and uttering awkwardly. “Love?”
“Now Lettice,” Sir John says seriously in a lowered tone, making sure that Clemance cannot overhear them as she scrambles through her sheets of music. “Love can be quite overrated.”
“But I…” Lettice begins.
Sir John releases Lettice’s hand and raises his right hand, placing a finger to her lightly painted lips as he shushes her. “I blame the obsession the general populace have with moving pictures now for the focus on love matches nowadays. Love can make things complicated. You saw this with how things ended with your young Spencely.”
“Or it can make you happy.” She falls silent for a moment before murmuring almost inaudibly, “I was happy with Selwyn.”
“My parents did well enough without it, your grandparents too, didn’t they Lettice? I warned you from the start that my… ahem.” Sir John clears his throat before continuing. “My desires in that regard are complex. You know this. Rest assured Lettice my dear, that I have the greatest of respect for you as a human being, and fondness too.”
“Is that all, John?” Lettice whispers.
“Perhaps love may come in time, but you cannot, and must not, expect it,” Sir John replies remorsefully. “For I cannot promise it you, Lettice. At the moment, that is reserved for the West End actress Paula Young, until some other little slip of a thing usurps her, and that will happen. Already she is getting cloying and tiresome, so I think it is time to jump ship. You won’t want to be like Paula, full of expectations that are unrealistic which get dashed along with her heart. You know what a broken heart feels like, don’t you? Settle for deep respect and fondness.”
“But I…” Lettice begins, but is silenced by her future sister-in-law.
“Here we are, Josette.” Clemance says from the piano. “You like this one, so I hope our guests do too.”
Clemance begins playing the opening bars of Chopin’s Mazurka, Op 17. No. 4.* The soft, gentle notes of the classical piece echoing from beneath the soundboard seem to echo Lettice’s feelings deep within her chest: a mixture of nervousness and a certain amount of sadness. Clemance’s fingers of both hands move gracefully across the keyboard, bringing the music to life, the tune evidently pleasing Josette as she trills happily from her cage, eyeing her mistress though dark beady eyes.
“So tell me, Lettice darling,” Sir John says brightly, adeptly changing the subject as he snatches his plate of half-eaten cake off the table again and settles back into the cosy comfort of the overstuffed Edwardian sofa. “What exactly is Sylvia’s commission?”
Lettice is surprised by how easily Sir John can change, from doting fiancée to cool businessman, from serious and intense to exuding good humour and bonhomie as he is now as he lounges back on the sofa eating chocolate sponge cake with cream and strawberries, exuding every confidence, and it makes her wonder who she is really marrying. Perhaps Sir John is right. Love can complicate things, but it seems that her fiancée is intricate and impenetrable enough as it is.
“Oh yes!” calls Clemance from the piano as she keeps playing. “Do tell us, Lettice darling. Knowing Sylvia, it’s sure to be something dynamic.”
Lettice clears her throat awkwardly as she retrieves her cup of tea from the table and cradles it in her hands. “Well,” she begins, adding a false, bright joviality to her voice as she speaks. “It’s really to undo some work by Syrie Maugham**.”
“Oh!” chortles Sir John. “That will set the cat amongst the pigeons***!”
“So typically Sylvia,” Clemance agrees with a laugh of her own.
“Sylvia always enjoyed being controversial, didn’t she Clemmie, even when you first met as young ladies?”
“For as long as I’ve known her, Nettie.”
“What is she having you do, Lettice darling?” Sir John asks, intrigued, his empty fork paused midway between his mouth and his lap.
“Well, she had Syrie Maugham decorate her drawing room at ‘The Nest’.” Lettice begins.
“Oh, that’s her little country retreat, isn’t it?” Clemance asks.
“Yes, it is.” Lettice concurs. “It’s in Essex, just outside of Belchamp St Paul****. I went to stay there so I could see the room for myself.”
“Lucky you, Lettice darling.” Clemance remarks. “I haven’t been invited yet.”
“Be fair, Clemmie darling, you’ve not been back in the country all that long,” Sir John defends Sylvia. “And it has only been a few weeks since Sylvia saw you. She said she’d invite you when she came back from her tour of the provinces that her agent has arranged for her.”
Clemance stops playing the piano and turns around on her stool to catch the eye of her brother. “That’s so typically you, Nettie darling!” She shakes her head, smiling indulgently.
“What have I said now?” Sir John asks, pleading innocence.
“You hear what you want to hear, not necessarily what is said, a trait you also picked up from Mother.” Clemance replies. “Sylvia said she’d look me up in the book*****, not invite me to ‘The Nest’! Truthfully, I don’t know anyone, other than you Lettice, who has been there and can vouch for its existence.” She turns back around and picks up where she left off playing, causing Josette to chirp happily in appreciation.
“So, what doesn’t Sylvia like about Mrs. Maugham’s designs, Lettice?” Sir John asks. “She would have paid a pretty penny****** for her services, and no doubt she will be doing the same with yours, or at least I hope she will.”
“She doesn’t appreciate Syrie Maugham’s over reliance on white, and,” Lettice sighs. “I must confess I understand why. The drawing room doesn’t seem to reflect Sylvia at all.”
“And what does she want you to do, Lettice?” Sir John asks again.
“To paint a feature wall for her, reflecting more of her personality and passion.”
“Oh hoorah!” Clemance says as the music comes to a gentle end which is softly applauded by both Lettice and Sir John. “I’m sure that will look wonderful!”
Clemance stands and steps away from the piano. Josette twitters cheerfully in her cage now and seems far more content. Clemance smiles at her pet. “That’s cheered you up, hasn’t it, Josette?” she asks. As if replying, the canary utters a peal of happy twittering notes. Turning to Sir John and Lettice, she goes on, “See, I told you my piano playing would make her less irritable.”
“Indeed you did!” her brother replies in mild surprise. “Proof that music hath charms to soothe the savage beast*******.”
“I’d hardly call a canary a ‘savage beast’, John.” Lettice opines.
“That’s because you’ve never been bitten by her sharp beak,” Sir John wags his fork at Lettice. ‘Like I have.”
“What are you going to paint on Sylvia’s walls, Lettice?” Clemance asks, resuming her seat in her comfortable floral armchair.
“I thought I might take inspiration from some wonderful pieces of blue and white china she has in the drawing room of ‘The Nest’.”
“I’m sensing a pattern here, Lettice darling.” Sir John remarks from his corner of the sofa. “After what you did for dear Adelinda.” He references the ‘Pagoda Room’, a small room in ‘Arkwright Bury’, the Wiltshire home of his and Clemance’s nephew, Alisdair Gifford and his Australian wife Adelinda. Sir John encouraged Lettice to take up the commission of his nephew and redecorate the room in Eighteenth century chinoiserie style to act as a backdrop for Adelinda’s collection of fine blue and white china: a commission that gained Lettice a favourable review in Country Life******** by Henry Tipping*********.
“Not at all, John.” Lettice replies with certainty. This is something very new and different. For Mr. Gifford…”
“Oh Alisdair, please!” Sir John retorts. “After all, you will be family once we are married.”
“Very well John, Alisdair’s redecoration, it was mimicking what had once hung on the walls. What Sylvia wants is something truly unique to her, and her alone. I thought I would take inspiration from some of Sylvia’s blue and white porcelain and paint a pattern of white on blue perhaps, rather than blue on white, with a gilded element.”
“That sounds rather exciting, and daring!” Clemance enthuses, sitting forward in her seat.
“That’s what Sylvia said.” Lettice agrees.
“What do you think you might paint for her then?” Sir John asks.
“At first I was going to paint something from the garden: flowers, or leaves perhaps,” Lettice explains. “Then I thought of feathers, which she really liked the idea of. I became more convinced after we had dinner that night that feathers are the right choice.”
“And why is that, Lettice darling?” Clemance asks.
“Well you see, Sylvia told me her story over dinner.” Lettice glances seriously, first at Sir John and then at Clemance. “Her whole story, which she says really only you two know.”
“So, she told you about her father and mother?” Clemance asks.
Lettice nods. “Yes, that her father died young, and that her mother couldn’t cope and needed to reach out to her brother, Ninian**********.”
“And what did she tell you about her time with her Uncle Ninian?” Clemance asks, her eyes wary as she looks at Lettice.
“She told me that he recognised in her what her mother also did, that she had the talent to be an accomplished pianist, but in order to do that, her mother needed Ninian’s money and connections.”
“Quite right, my dear.” Clemance nods. “It is through her Uncle Ninian that Sylvia and I met.”
“She told me the same story you did, that you were both staying at the von Nyssens, in Charlottenburg: you to be finished and she to attend the Universität der Künste***********.”
“And what did she tell you about when she came back to England after her period at the Universität der Künste came to an end?” Sir John asks quietly from his seat, his plate now discarded and all his attention upon his fiancée.
“Everything I think.” Lettice replies matter-of-factly. “That her Uncle Ninian basically held her captive, trying to recoup the money he invested in her by marrying her off to one of his wealthy friends. She told me that he was controlling of everything in her life, and that she wasn’t even allowed to see her mother again, except one last time on Primrose Hill************. That was one of the reasons why I decided that I would paint feathers for her on her wall.” Lettice’s voice lowers and saddens as she opines, “It seems to me that Sylvia was rather like a bird in a cage during that period of her life: on display and never granted her freedom, yet unlike a lark, she did have to sing, or rather perform and play the piano for all her would-be suitors.”
“That’s a very apt summation.” Clemance says sadly. “That was a hard time for Sylvia, and of course being sequestered as she was by her uncle, I had no idea what had happened to her.”
“But then she broke free, and managed to forge a life of her own,” Lettice adds more cheerfully. “And that is also why I want to paint feathers for her, as a symbol of the freedom she has now, and the heights to which she has risen in her career.”
“So, Sylvia told you about the Brigadier then.” Clemance says.
“Oh, she told me about Brigadier Piggott the night we met at the Royal Albert Hall*************, but whilst I was staying with her in Essex, she also told me about her first husband, Mr. Pembroke, the impresario, who turned out to be a wastrel and…” She pauses as she thinks how best to coin the fact that Sylvia disclosed her first husband’s homosexuality to her. “And other things.” she finally concludes. “And how he was a victim of foul play.”
“I see.” Sir John says dourly.
“So, she has told you everything, then.” Clemance concludes.
“I only think she entrusted me and took me into her confidence because I am marrying you, John.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t imagine that would be the only reason, Lettice darling,” Sir John replies, clearing his throat and sitting up in his seat, all the comfort and languor in his stance gone as he is reminded of the serious and sad business of Sylvia Fordyce’s life. “But it probably helped.”
“Sylvia is very good at keeping her own counsel, Lettice.” Clemance adds. “After those terrible few years with her Uncle Ninian, I think Sylvia is apt at managing everything about her life by herself. She neither needs to seek advice, nor share anything about her life with anyone else if she chooses not to. She is fiercely independent.”
“Thus, why I want to paint feathers for her, Clemance.”
“I think that Ninian also has a great deal to answer for Sylvia’s poor choice in men. I think being thrust in front of much older men as a jeune fille à marrier************** whom she didn’t love created a perverse sense of what a marriage was like for her, certainly if the Brigadier was anything to go by. We never met her first husband. He never came to any of Gladys’ parties where we reacquainted ourselves.”
“Oh!” Clemance gasps. “Oh thinking of marriages, and perhaps to not too subtly turn our attention and conversation away from the sad early life of Sylvia Fordyce, I have some magazines I’d like to give you to peruse, Lettice.” She gets up again with another groan. “It will help give you some ideas about what your trousseau*************** might look like: not that I don’t think you wouldn’t know, being the fashionable Bright Young Thing**************** you are, with friends like Gerald Bruton to dress you.” She sighs. “But food for thought. Have you spoken to your mother yet, about me helping you pick your trousseau, my dear?”
“Not yet, Clemance, but I doubt there will be any issues with her handing the reigns entirely over to you.” Lettice replies breezily. “Sadie hates London and only comes up here when she absolutely has to.”
Clemance takes the few steps across from her seat to Lettice. She places a hand lightly on Lettice’s shoulder. “Well, she might feel differently helping her youngest daughter to choose her trousseau. I know I would.” Her blue eyes suddenly become a little cloudy and lose their brightness as she speaks. “Best you ask her before you agree.”
Lettice sighs heavily. “Yes Clemance, I will, I promise, when I next go home to Glynes*****************.”
“Good girl.” Clemance squeezes Lettice’s shoulder and then wends her way between the furnishings of the drawing room and walks out the door.
In her cage, Josette flits about in desultory fashion, clinging first to one of the bars of her cage and then landing on the perch and winging, before flying up to peck at the silver bell. As she does, a single pale yellow feather falls from her tail. Blown by the wind created by Josette’s flight, the feather glides soundlessly out of the cage between the bars and lands on the tabletop, next to a round sterling silver box with a raised lid that Clemance uses for birdseed. As Josette lands on the floor of the cage, the feather is blown off the table and it drifts down, landing on the parquet floor of the drawing room.
Noticing it fall, Lettice puts her teacup aside and stands up before talking over to the table and dropping down to pick the feather up off the floor. She envelops it in her left hand as she stands up. She pauses before the cage’s bars and looks at Josette. The little canary seems to look back at her with her alert black eyes. She twitters and sings. “Hullo Josette.” Lettice says quietly. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you.”
Josette continues to fly about her cage, twittering and singing, whilst Lettice watches her antics, momentarily mesmerised.
“I do hope you don’t feel like her.” Sir John’s voice drifts into her consciousness.
“What?” Lettice asks distractedly, spinning around to face her fiancée, who has returned to his languorous stance, leaning back into the soft upholstery and nest of cushions of the sofa. His arms are draped over the left arm of the sofa and across its back. Once again, he exudes the confidence of male privilege that his sex, class and enormous wealth bestows with every languid breath, wearing it every bit as well as the smart and well-cut Jermyn Street****************** tweed suit he is dressed in.
“Like a bird in a cage.” Sir John replies with a confident smile. “I hope you don’t feel like a bird in a cage, like you feel that Sylvia did when she got married to Josiah Pembroke. This fine marriage of ours is going to benefit us both, albeit in different ways. I will still be able to enjoy my dalliances with Paula and her like, and you, my dear Lettice, will be afforded the luxury of independence that few women of our class can enjoy.”
*Mazurkas, Op. 17. is a set of four mazurkas for solo piano by Frédéric Chopin, composed in 1832–1833 and published in 1834.
**Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s and best known for popularizing rooms decorated entirely in shades of white. She was the wife of English playwright and novelist William Somerset Maugham.
***If you put the cat among the pigeons or set the cat among the pigeons, you cause fierce argument or discussion by doing or saying something. The idiom comes from colonial India, where a popular pastime was to put a wild cat in a pen with pigeons. Bets would be made on how many birds the cat would bring down with one paw-swipe. The period of the British colonisation of India may have introduced this concept, and hence the phrase to the English language.
****Belchamp St Paul is a village and civil parish in the Braintree district of Essex, England. The village is five miles west of Sudbury, Suffolk, and 23 miles northeast of the county town, Chelmsford.
*****In the 1920s, being listed in “the book” meant being listed in the telephone directory.
******The origin of the idiom “a pretty penny” dates back to the Sixteenth Century. The word “pretty” in this context does not refer to beauty but rather to a considerable or substantial amount. This phrase is used to describe something that is expensive or costs a significant amount of money.
*******“Music has charms to soothe a savage breast.” is the famous line uttered by a character in William Congreve's 1697 play “The Mourning Bride”. The meaning for “Music soothe the savage breast” quote can be interpreted as chest or heart. That is likely what William was referring to when he wrote his playwright. Still, as time went by, people began to incorrectly use the quote in numerous instances. As it is today, the phrase is misquoted wrongly in many places. The literal meaning of the incorrect quote is in reference to the power of music. Whoever began to misquote the phrase, wanted to say that music has the power to soothe even the most savage beast in the world. In a way, even though the quote is incorrect, it does make some sense. That’s because breast – as it was used back then – referred to feelings, emotions and heart.
******** Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.
*********Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.
**********Ninian is a Christian saint, first mentioned in the 8th century as being an early missionary among the Pictish peoples of what is now Scotland. Whilst the meaning of Ninian is uncertain, it may have links to the Irish and Scottish Gaelic word naomh, meaning “saint,” “holy,” or “sacred.”
***********The Universität der Künste, Berlin (Berlin College of Music) ranks as one of the largest educational music institutes in Europe, rich in content and quality. It dates back to the Royal (later State) Academy of Music, founded under the aegis of the violinist Joseph Joachim, a friend of Brahms, in 1869. From the date of its foundation under directors Joseph Joachim, Hermann Kretzschmar, Franz Schreker and Georg Schünemann, it has been one of the leading academies of music in the German-speaking countries. Composers such as Max Bruch, Engelbert Humperdinck and Paul Hindemith, performers such as Artur Schnabel, Wanda Landowska, Carl Flesch and Emanuel Feuermann, and academics such as Philipp Spitta, Curt Sachs, Erich Moritz von Hornbostel and Kurt Singer taught there. Prominent teachers later included the two directors Boris Blacher and Helmut Roloff, and the composer Dieter Schnebel.
************Like Regent's Park, the park area of Primrose Hill was once part of a great chase, appropriated by Henry VIII. Primrose Hill, with its clear rounded skyline, was purchased from Eton College in 1841 to extend the parkland available to the poor people of north London for open air recreation. At one time Primrose Hill was a place where duels were fought and prize-fights took place. The hill has always had a somewhat lively reputation, with Mother Shipton making threatening prophesies about what would happen if the city sprawl was allowed to encroach on its boundaries. At the top of the hill is one of the six protected viewpoints in London. The summit is almost sixty-three metres above sea level and the trees are kept low so as not to obscure the view. In winter, Hampstead can be seen to the north east. The summit features a York stone edging with a William Blake inscription, it reads: “I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill.”
*************The Royal Albert Hall is a concert hall on the northern edge of South Kensington in London, built in the style of an ancient amphitheatre. Since the hall's opening by Queen Victoria in 1871, the world's leading artists from many performance genres have appeared on its stage. It is the venue for the BBC Proms concerts, which have been held there every summer since 1941.
**************A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.
***************A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.
****************The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.
*****************Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella.
******************Jermyn Street is a one-way street in the St James's area of the City of Westminster in London. It is to the south of, parallel, and adjacent to Piccadilly. Jermyn Street is known as a street for high end gentlemen's clothing retailers and bespoke tailors in the West End.
This upper-class drawing room may appear real to you, but it is in fact made up of 1:12 miniature pieces from my extensive collection, including items from my old childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The copy of the “Book of Canaries and Caged Birds” on display here is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, although the book’s interiors are beautiful, so too is the cover, and I couldn’t resist displaying it for you to see. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. In this case, the “Book of Canaries and Caged Birds”, written by W.A. Blackston, W. Swayland and A.F. Wiener was published by Cassel in London in the 1880s with 56 full colour chromolithographs, which are replicated inside this volume in 1:12 scale. To produce something in such detail makes this a true artisan piece. The books directly behind the “Book of Canaries and Caged Birds” are also Ken Blythe’s work, but are of the type that are not designed to be opened. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.
The gilt Art Nouveau teacup in front of the book, featuring a copy of a Royal Doulton leaves pattern, comes from a larger tea set which has been hand decorated by beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
The tiny silver container with its removable lid was made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
The wicker cage with the bird on its perch I acquired through an online stockist on E-Bay.
The wooden pedestal table is made from beautiful golden walnut and is an unsigned artisan piece that I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.
In the background you can see Clemance’s grand piano which I have had since I was about ten years of age. It is made from walnut. The footstool has several sheets of music on it which were made by Ken Blythe. The sofa in the background to the left of the photo is part of a Marie Antionette suite with pretty floral upholstery which has been made by the high-end miniatures manufacturer, Creal.
All the paintings around Clemance’s drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of late Victorian paper from the 1880s.
The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia.
COLOR VERSION
I shot this image on the day after my Oz to Kansas workshop at Maine Media Workshops. We were packing up and Estefany Vasquez was kind enough to sit for a few images. This image was captured with the "conversational Portrait approach that I taught at MMW. We will be doing a video on it this Thursday at my studio
#Nikon100 #NikonAmbassador #nikonlove #lexar #kelbyone #photography #onOne @NikonUSA #D850 #70-200mm f2.8 #NikonNoFilter #niksoftware #nikonUSA #Epson #wacom #xritephoto #onone #sunbounce #fineartphotography #DxO #iamgenerationimage #iamnikon #B&H #PhotogenicbyBenQ #lexarMemory #nikonLOVE @lexarmemory elite photographer #lexarmemory
By Douglas Ringer 2009
Amex Vignettes
Amex vignettes? Well yes, these are for the enormous cauldron that still is bubbling away in the campfire of my mind, filled with an alphabet soup of unforgettable fragments culled from those so many Amex personalities and those so many jobs. Multi-coloured fragments, or mosaic like shards that I know that my memory collected and put carefully wrapped in my treasure chest of experiences, because it seemed my memory found so much to treasure in that moment… but the totality of that particular job has gone on a long walk about. These bits and pieces though still remain and cover what I found to be profoundly funny, full of the rollicking silly, the hopefully not to serious, the mind-bogglingly stupidity and, naturally, the totally incomprehensible.
Amex was a universe unto itself and, like our infinite homes, possessed all the wonderful complexity that nature and humans could conjure up and… speaking for myself… these delightful vignettes must have had that very special something because at 62 they are still firmly embedded and I am still chortling. Over this time they may be chronologically misplaced, burnished up a little but the essence remains.
That sinking feeling
This first one still brings a big smile to my face. This is somewhere in the Highland Valley, Logan Lake area in that busy time of summer, 1969. It’s a grid and I’m working with Gary Lyall and we are doing some exemplary lines in which we both were taking great pride in. They were not just “lines” they were masterpieces of well placed flagging, pickets that you would want to take home to and show your girlfriend, blazes that were like stars on a dark night, compassed lines so straight that plumb bobs became redundant and so well cut out that even the most disparaging geologist would have given them the nod.
It’s a really hot day and on one of our lines we come to a small lake and have to naturally stop although, in theory, the mapped end of the line would have ended up on the far side of the lake. We sit down and do the cig thing and Gary starts giggling. He has a vision that has tickled his funny bone. “Hey Doug, lets run out and put as many pickets as we can out into the lake. That will really blow the geologist mind.” I thought that great fun too. After all it was a hot, hot day and we would dry off quick enough and I had become totally inured and indifferent to walking in wet-soaked-damp, work boots.
So off we go and cut 3 very long pickets, spruce them up and write the line numbers down on them. Slowly Gary starts wading into the lake. It was, so Gary reported, not too gooey on the bottom and it didn’t seem to have a surprising drop off, as yet. He gets out about 25 feet. The water is about thigh level and I call chain. Gary sticks in our extra long picket and I wade out to the picket while Gary continues out.
The water is now slowly climbing up over his waist when he begins to gradually sink. The bottom seems to have developed a quick-sand effect and he quickly realizes he’s losing it. He knows he has a few decisions to make quickly. As the water creeps up, he thinks first of the cigarettes in his front shirt pocket…pulls them out…and holds them high in the air. Cigs in one hand, axe and picket in the other, he looks like a torpedoed ship, continuing to leisurely sink. He does manage to extract himself , but in doing so, had to reluctantly admit that he would have to use both hands and that something precious would have to be sacrificed.
Moon landing
On this particular day I know exactly the date and where I was. Millions of others know it too.
It was the 20th of July, 1969. For some reason in that busy summer working for Amex I found myself back in Kamloops on some days off which were needed to replenish your bush wardrobe, doing the socials and trying to be as unproductive as possible. You were tanking up for your next 12 rounder with the bush.
These few days off must have been planned in heaven because on one of those days the Americans were going to land on the moon. I had been sitting in Mum’s living room watching the TV since the morning to witness this stunning, historical event and could not believe how long it was taking and was getting a little antsy. It was a beautiful Kamloops summer day out side and I was hoping, not only to witness this historic sight but to meet up with a few friends…have the chats and quaff a few. As it was now the late afternoon it seemed that the Eagle was getting close to landing.
Just as the Eagle seems to be getting close to landing on the moon the phone rings. It’s Ab! “I guess you are watching the moon landing, eh? Sorry to bother you but I got a bit of a panic thing here. Can you grab a taxi and head over here? Pick up a truck, drive to Ashcroft-Wallichin and pick Frosty up and he’ll take it from there.” I was naturally shocked and more than surprised to find out that Ab, himself, was not ensconced in his living room sofa, surrounded by Ella and the kids, engrossed in this incredible event. Did the exigencies of that busy summer not leave him with time to witness this historical happening? Now telling the Eagle to hold up a bit…I got a taxi and headed over to Ab’s place.
Ab was quite apologetic and all…but I’m trying to hurry things up a bit and get back home and plus, I must confess, as well, that a little shot of anticipation was dancing through me…as this would be the first time that I had ever driven a 4 by 4! I felt I had graduated from being a mere passenger, who had to experience the oft scary-whimsical driving skills of others and now , potentially in some future, perhaps, had the power to get in a little pay-back and scare the day-lights out of those kind lads who had played havoc with my fear factors.
Scenarios like, “Going a little too fast for you…am I? Gee, please don’t put any deep, finger indentations in the dash, Ab won’t be pleased. Or, perhaps: Oh, sorry about that. I didn’t really see that heavily loaded logging truck coming around that ever so dangerously, narrow, 90 degree, wash-board, boulder-strewn bend. I was just gazing out the rear view mirror and admiring our dust plume. I think there is a creek up ahead where I can stop and you can tidy up a bit. Did you bring a change of underwear?”
I saddled up that 4 by 4, mounted, and headed off home. I ran into the house but they didn’t wait for me! The Eagle had already landed! Neil Armstrong had walked on the moon and voiced those big steps for humankind. Edwin Aldrin had also bounced around. I was probably crossing The Overlander’s Bridge when Armstrong’s foot first touched the moon’s surface. Of course, there were ceaseless replays…but was it the same?
Have to add this short offering. I could not really remember some crucial facts about Colin Macdonald’s 1969 summer job with Laura Mines and other later details so, I sent off my queries. He was kind enough to send me the asked for details and I was more than surprised to find out that Colin was not stuck deep into the green charms of the Highland Valley when the Eagle landed… but watched it in the cosy comfort of a Cache Creek motel.
Gil
This event still sticks in my mind and, can to this day, raise within me a little discomfort. A little discomfort, because it brought to the surface those rather ugly emotions that we all have deep within us…laying in wait for just that right moment to come bubbling up like an artesian well. These emotions are tied very closely to the ever strong survival instinct and we have in reality read about them and truly know they can happen. Most have seen the old movie “The Goldrush,” with a starving Charlie Chaplin up in Alaska boiling a shoe for dinner and his much bigger partner wanting badly to eat him.
It has happened where a group of people have been stranded way out in the middle of no where, with out food, and after a week or two your companions begin to look like a large platter of Big Macs with copious loads of greasy fries.
We know of some of these stories and probably have played the game of…”What would I do?” and, I think way, way back in that emotional cauldron you have probably realized that in a dire situation, that, your companion’s well turned thigh, might, just perhaps, look delicious on your mind’s menu. Terrible thoughts and they do, indeed, make me to this day feel uncomfortable.
On this day in question when these frightening emotions arose in me they had nothing at all to do with food but “water.” Normally, in the Highland Valley, water wasn’t a big problem. There were creeks of all sizes, lakes or swamps where one could quench one’s thirst. Normally, I say, because surprisingly there were one or two days… and I was not prepared for them…when it was hot and no water was to be found. It was a treed desert! I noticed, that emotionally, this was very, very upsetting to me because to drink the blood of my compass man seemed uncivilized.
Realizing, that I tended to sweat, and lose water in litres while carving out those lines, water, was my prime thought most of the time.”Beverage,” is such a beautiful word! Before the Amex experience, a friend, had noticed my almost obsessive need for water when the day waxed hot. He suggested, that when I was reincarnated, that I really should ask to come back as a water buffalo.
I remedied that whole problem, and eased my mind a lot, by investing in a canteen. Until that fateful day, I thought all was hunky-dory. It was another hot, hot day and I was now compassing and was given a long, long line which, with the time needed to walk in, would no doubt, take the whole day. I’m guessing here but I think it was around 6000 or 7000 feet and I had no idea what kind gifts the line was to give me.
My partner was a French Canadian lad called, Gil, who I had never worked with before. He was new blood and I think, he had only worked a couple of days for Ab and his English skills were similar, to my French skills.
We started off and did the big walk in and got located at our base line origin. I took my first shot and plunged downward into a deep creek crevasse and at about 400 feet down I came to a lovely, bubbling brook. We had a smoke break. Drank deep from its soothing waters and I naturally replenished my canteen. Then we headed off and it was another 400 feet, panting upwards until I crested and found myself standing on a rock outcrop with a commanding view that was absolutely stunning!
Jesus! I was on a promontory where I could look way down on the highway between Merritt and Spence’s Bridge. I could see tiny cars wending their way up and down the highway and an occasional blue tinkle of the Nicola River running merrily away to Spence’s Bridge. Another one of those… it doesn’t come any better views.
I took another compass shot to get some idea of what we were up against and it looked liked for some distance that we would be walking pretty much along these exposed bluffs. Not much vegetation and finding material for pickets was going to be fun. Up above us, you could see where the woods started to thicken up a bit and, I thought, that maybe it could be nicer up there, shadier and maybe a tad cooler.
From what I could see of the first bit of this line there would not be much blazing but we would need lots of flagging and hoped that we had brought enough. It was starting to get real hot and I was beginning to get that egg, frying on a Kamloops’ sidewalk feeling. Thought about having a drink but decided not to…brave it out a few feet. I thought, as well, that there must be some cascade , cooling creek up ahead lying in wait for us. Who knew?
So starting off the first 500 feet of terrain was quite reasonable… a little of this, and a little of that. I noticed, as well, that Gil was having a hard time keeping up and I had to make a pause or two to compensate for that. Plus, in this rather bare area, he was not so imaginative about what would do for a picket. He did lots of Gallic shrugs and many,” Tabernacs!.” They are so special!
It did not take so long before within the next 3000 feet or so and that we began to be really mentally and physically challenged .The line of bluffs that kept on running were getting quite dramatic and my rock climbing skills, dreadfully basic due to a fear of heights were really slowing me down.
The sun was now eliminating any resemblance to B.C. and I was now somewhere trapped out in the Khalahari. Mirages with palms swaying and deep pools of cold water began to cloud my senses. Amazingly, I could hear water running everywhere except where I was. The Nicola River, far below, was so tantalizing. It was so, so tempting to launch off those bluffs into a half gainer of joy and plunge into its beckoning sweetness.
The terrain became steeper in places and was harder to find ways to get up and off the bluffs…then plunging into a gully and crawling back up on your hands and knees. This was now pretty thirsty, slow going and I knew that the straightness of this line was not going to win any compassing awards. Today, I still hope that no one ever looked for that line.
Fast forwarding here…We are now at the end of the line. The canteen has been empty for many a foot now and Gil and I are not the same two lads who optimistically left that bubbling, clear brook way, way back there. Gil would rather be anywhere else but here... and I have been thinking about and wanting for quite some time now, to do insanely, dreadful things to him.
As we humped up and down those bluffs, Gil must have known he was missing something. As the sun beat down hard on us and the meaning of the English word, “parched,” was being etched on his and my mind. Gil couldn’t reach back and pull out a canteen. Gil didn’t have a canteen!!! I did, and like a good Christian shared it with him because your intrepid compass man was still dreaming of this illusive, bloody, cascading, ever so cool creek up ahead. My canteen was empty before we had done half the line. Gil, had gone from human being, to albatross, in 3000 feet.
I was more than really out of sorts. Internally, I was a mess of ugly emotions all of them focused sharply on Gil. I had never felt so much animosity flowing out of myself! Every time Gil took a drink from my canteen...I watched to see how many times his Adams apple, bobbed up and down. I counted every water molecule that entered his system! Every molecule that I was deprived of!
I was now in a Hollywood movie…force marching across the Sahara… where the sadistic, French Foreign Legion Sergeant...me... with all the water…in the middle of the hottest part of the Sahara…turns to his totally, dehydrated companion, Private Gil…and... just to piss him off…lifts up a canteen…takes a long, long draught… burps a very satisfying, water burp…then pours half a canteen of water into the sand…and with cruel merriment... watches as Private Gil collapses... and the Sergeant... gleefully, glancing upward…into a burning, blue sky… is marvelled by the wing span as vultures circle, high above.
The return journey back across the Kalahari-Sahara was oven-like. This time, I knew there was no water, except at that long ago, bubbling brook…way, way, way, back there! Looking down at the Nicola River had gone from pleasant scene to knowing how unreachable its blessed succour was. Tongue, wrenching, torture itself! In fact, my tongue, is now glued to the roof of my mouth and my inability to spit, intriguing.
Atacama dry! Moisture free winds played havoc with my drought-racked senses! My hearing was all over the place. Water sounds flowing everywhere! I even thought I could hear... from those wee cars down on the highway…way down there... imaginary sounds that might quench. I could clearly hear the liquid, swishing, swaying sounds that the designated bottle opener made while reaching into the cooler. The cooler, strategically set, with much thought, in the back seat... while eyes feasted on scenary.
The holy, perfect, cubes of melting ice, crashing together like ice bergs. His fingers seeking out the coolest! The “holy” designated, pulling out a fresh, cold-cold- beer! His, well sung, ritual prayer upon opening the bottle: “Here is to you and here is to me,” type of thing! How gracefully he opened the bottle! Well tended finger nails! How he so enjoyed, the so, so very cool, so cool, pop-sizzle sounds on bottle opening and the following... vocal,” Cheers” to life!”
Worse for me, was the fascinating picture of the, “chug, chug,” as a tidal wave of cooled, liquid went down his throat! A mind wrenching vision while the sun pelted down!
We scrabbled over those bluffs and made it back to that bubbling brook, half demented from thirst. I wanted to tell Gil not to drink too fast because being so dehydrated... his body might find it difficult dealing with multi litres of water in such a rapid succession. You see it in the movies. But then, I thought the better of it. We must have spent about a half a hour pouring that bubbling brook into ourselves. I never worked with Gil again.
I learned that if it was hot out and I was working with a new guy…I never, at first, asked him to entertain me with the interesting details about his drugs, sex life or latest book read... but asked, politely, if he had a canteen?
MY FIRST BONUS...1969.
My first summer with Amex is over. It is late August, and I’m looking forward to a two week trip with Joe and Don, more than friends, to Mexico. We would travel in Joe’s 1955 Chev station wagon. We would sleep and drive a mammoth distance through the complex nature of our large part of the world in that beautiful car. What did we know of the enormity of North America?
So job over... and Ab said, I could pick up my last check at his place. I made my way over to Ab’s place. I think Ross Rd, before Ella and Ab had moved to Brocklehurst. They’ll have to check it out.
So, I walked over there to North Kamloops from normal, Kamloops. Having no car at the time I liked to walk and hitch-hike. Hitch –hiking... what a learning experience and how noble the good people who picked you up were.
I saw that Ab was in the small front yard they had. Ab was leaning over the fence, as I remember it. Perhaps chatting to a neighbour. We, greeted each other...and he went inside... and then brought out my check. I said how much I liked this bushy, scary experience. He said: “Come back next year.”
With check in hand, I walked about 20 feet down the road, when I heard Ab say: ” Whoa Doug, whoa!. Shit! I forgot your bonus.”
At this point in my life, I must confess, I had never heard of the word “bonus” before. I stopped and turned around and walked back to Ab. He had opened his wallet and fished out fifty dollars and gave it to me. Well shit!
It gets a little difficult here to describe my emotions at that perfect time. I was so elated and so full of good wishes to all. So, blown away, that my body grew wings and I flew home! 50 bucks! 50 bucks! Fifty dollars! A very, awesome, spending power in 1969. You could bet your bottom dollar that I was coming back!
LEAVE THIS OFF YOUR RESUME
It is now 1970 and I have rejoined Amex for the summer and my first Job is up at East Barrier Lake. We are not camped on the lake but high above it on one of the many logging roads found in the area. It is a big job for Noranda and the geologist on site is Laurie Rhynerson.
Laurie, fantastic man and a guy you really want in a camp with you, in fact, later on other jobs… it was hard to know if he was working for Noranda or for Amex. As well, I met Colin MacDonald and John Watters for the first time.
In fact, John drove me up to the camp from Kamloops so we had some initial contact there. The lads from my 1969 summer who were also there…as I remember…Bruce Bried, Gary Lyall, Gordy Seimens, Dennis Siemens and I think, Frosty. And maybe there were others who I can’t remember.
!970 was to be for me, a most incredible time with Amex. We covered areas in B.C. that I had never imagined seeing. Plus the lads were probably the best you could ever find to spend the rest of your life with.
At East Barrier Lake, I had an inkling that it was going to be a super summer when John Watters on his way to our out house, passed me just leaving and kindly asked…..”Clean break, Doug?” That stopped me in my tracks. “Clean break? Clean break?” Suddenly the lights came on and I brightened up immensely. Now knowing that our days and evenings in camp would not only be conversationally filled with, infinitely interesting topics such as films ,literature, oral sagas, myths, music, science astrology, psychology, entomology, biology, genecology, axe and power saw sharpening seminars but rollicking takes on faecal matter.
One unforgettable story that is still firmly intact from the East Barrier Lake job concerns a lad from Edmonton. One day in the morning there appeared in our camp a few men, who were accompanied by Ab. One of the men also had his son with him. The man, as I remember, was a higher up manager with the construction company ,Mannix. Why they were there…I don’t know. As it transpired, Gordy and I had drawn an all day line. I believe it was 10 or12 thousand feet long. It would run from the baseline all the way down to the edge of East Barrier Lake and due to its length we were given a third person… who happened to be the inexperienced son of the man from, Mannix.
The son was about seventeen years old and wore a high school football jacket from his Edmonton school. He was husky built and looked pretty fit. He followed us down the baseline to our starting point. He was to cut out behind us as we made the run to the lake edge. Gordy showed him the basics of cutting, blazing and flagging. We had the smoke and chats and off we headed....I think around 10 o’clock.. Unlike my first day, I could keep up to Gordy, make those pickets, throw those blazes , tie that flagging. and even do some limbing on the way. The vegetation was pretty bushy so it would mean a quite a bit of limbing on the way out.
We took a couple of breaks along the way and reached the lake at around 2 in the afternoon. We had lunch, admired the view, and naturally wondered how much line the lad would manage to cut. Much speculation here, but, .I thought if he could do half the line that would be pretty good. The line didn’t have to be perfection because we could tidy it up on the way out. Gordy hoped he could do more because he looked pretty tough. Around 5:30 or so, it would be time for supper and that was becoming a bigger factor in our lives.
We headed back about 2:30 banging and hacking away and I think at about 3000 feet up the line we stopped for a smoke and listened to hear if we could hear the lad’s axe. We could only hear ourselves breathing.
At 6000 feet…the half way point, we still couldn’t hear his axe .I personally was a bit surprised because I thought he could do 6000 feet and began to think that he had hurt himself somehow. So off we went and at about 3000 feet from the baseline we were becoming more than surprised that we had not met up with the lad. Not a sound to be heard from his swinging axe.
Gordy was now starting to get a little testy…yelling loudly up the line, but getting no response. Now I really thought something must have happened to him and I imagined gruesome axe cuts to bear problems. Or maybe he had wandered off the line and was hopelessly lost.
.We, chopped on…stopping occasionally to listen for his axe sound, and hooting and hollering hoping that we would get some response from him. Gordy was beginning to really spice up our hooting and hollering with some rather coarse references to his work abilities. We were starting to get really hungry and knew we had missed the serving of supper. On we hacked away and at 1000 feet from the baseline I knew something had happened to him but not knowing is what made it a little scary.
At 500 feet from the baseline an amazing thing happened. We could hear an axe chipping away…slowly coming towards us. In astonishment, Gordy and I looked at each other and Gordy immediately started up an incredibly, large barrage of profanity aimed in the direction of that chipping axe. Gordy was pissed. I was totally stunned. When we met the lad he had only cut 300 feet! Gordy was not verbally gently all over the lad. That remarkable English was marching up one side and down the other. The lad didn’t say a word and meekly followed us back to camp where he disappeared. Where, I don’t know.
We got back to camp at close to 8 o clock. Ate our late supper and, of course, the lad was the main topic of conversation. We still didn’t know why he only managed to cut 300 feet. During the story, Laurie popped into the tent and heard a little of what we were saying. Laurie realized immediately who we were talking about... and told us that about six o clock he was making his way back to camp when he almost step on the lad who was curled up in a ball sleeping. Laurie actually woke him up and inquired as to his health. He was okay.
Even today, I often wonder what became of him and if he achieved what he most desired. Sure hope so.
KENNY KILLS A BEAR.
Kenny was a great guy from Barrirer. I think 18 years old at this time, His father, a bulldozer artist, who had been hired by Laurie to punch in some roads and potential drill sites on the East Barrier Lake project. Amex, in need of more lads, had hired his son, Kenny. Coming from Barrier, Kenny was used to the bush and all that lies therein and suffered no adaptation problems.
This was all pretty much the norm for him. I believe he was in love at this time, and preferred to be at home and do a hug or two. More preferable than the camp. He enjoyed our company, but, in the past, had seen camp life up close and knew the smell. But, under duress, but would dine and sleep a few days in our camp…Barrier was not, after all, that far away.
The camp was set up beside one of the many logging roads that crisscrossed the area. There was a cook tent…I think two sleeping tents and the necessary outdoor biffy smelling, hopefully, lemon fresh.
Gordy’s Dad was cooking for us at that time and slept in the cook tent. One night he was awoken by a bear enjoying the delights of the of cook- tent food. I think he was pretty calm about this visitation but those in the know…knew the bear would come back.
Kenny said I’ll just run on down to Barrier and get my gun. Of course, we knew that he was going to get more than his gun and wished we could be there too. I think one or two days passed.
During these couple of days…Kenny slept beside his gun…when we were awoken by a clanging,falling of tin sounds from the kitchen. Kenny, reluctantly groans, half-asleep rolls out of a comfortable bed in his “Stanfields”…grabs his rifle, yawning, leaves the tent…then you hear “BANG!” Kenny comes back…flops back onto his foamy-cot,falls quickly asleep. After the shot, with Kenny definitely sound a sleep…I…, but it seemed nobody else...,, was still wide-eyed awake wondering about it all.
In the morning we had to drag the dead bear out of the kitchen before Gordy’s Dad would cook breakfast.
FEAR OF FLYING
Gordy …like so many…enjoyed having the gas pedal pressed very close to the floor and, as well, enjoyed seeing your finger nails dig deeply into the dash-board and seeing the margarine, smear of fear spreading across your face. This would be the first time that I would drive with Gordy and, unknown at the time, I would enjoy more times while Gordy drove. I did survive all the fear and somehow, overcame it all.
In this case, I think, Gordy and Dennis had an important appointment to make and were quite wired to their own world and scaring the be-Jesus out of you was secondary. His brother, Dennis, was accustomed to his brother’s love of motion on high octane and proved to be more than an able navigator. Cautioning and urging on in appropriate breaks when the dust gave a slight inkling to what might be manifesting itself around the next corner.
The East Barrier Lake job is over and we are decamping and heading back to our various haunts for reconnection time and hopefully, an interesting beer or two. In that way, as it goes, the dice were rolled…and one other guy and myself ended up been driven to Kamloops with Gordy and Dennis. The drive to Barrier…I think…is about 30- 40 miles. At this time it’s mostly a dirt road with lots of … look out...I’m coming around curves and other surprising potholes and gravelled tid-bits that faithfully followed the terrain downward into the North Thompson valley.
Being a dirt road, for most of the way, it is blessed in the summer time, with heaving humps of spitting gravel and surprising dips where you raise your hands high trying to wrestle your stomach back in place. A rodeo for those in the back seat…sort of. Lots of rattling, quick like snare drum cattle crossings and fearsome, loaded and unload logging trucks coming up and down the road claiming right of way… and, in hot weather…lots of dust plumes that could hide surprising closure.
So we left the East Barrier camp in the blast of a deeply depressed gas peddle that must have left a vast spray of every mineral-molecule found on that park place hanging from the greenery.
My first thought was… this is what astronauts must feel like…the forceful thrust of your body thrown deep into the back seat upholstery unable to lean yourself forward…. your body trapped in the force. Your face strangely distorted.. In the first, very frightening few miles, I knew this was going to be a very taxing emotionally... hang on for your dear life ride. I had no idea what hell or tidal waves of the scary that I was to experience on this run. The Robert Mitchum movie...“Thunder Road”…ran continuously through my colourful imagination. He died in the end. Robert, playing a southern moonshiner who left the road at only 90 mph, chased relentless by the tax people. Revenoures!
So the guy, seated with me in the back-seat, who , as well, had drew a short straw, we both were to be treated to a virtuoso performance of nervy driving that had you either wishing you were totally somewhere else or thinking about safety features that were still on the drawing boards…thanks to Nader.
No fire extinguishers, no seatbelts, no cell phones to call emergency services, no parachutes: No! If you hit something solid or found yourself kissing the inside of the roof… none of that how the auto would kindly fold in on itself… cuddling occupants in a warm hug of security until responsible people arrived to cut you out. No! It was just a basic early sixties model that did not give a shit about you.
So, there we were roaring down that East Barrier road with a dust plume miles long. The car doing a lot of roller-coaster ups and downs...doing dips and leaps like some circus acrobat…zipping into the air and crunching down on a frame that you bloody well hoped wasn’t built on Monday. You try…though helpless… to sketch imaginary survival strategies. I quickly realized, that looking between the shoulders of Gordy and Dennis, straight at the road, was simply too horrendous. Every real and imaginary, micro and macro horror, could happen at any second.
I chose to pretend that I was a tourist in these parts and that by, looking out the side, car window, I could admire the beauties that nature had so gallantly laid on the areas plate. As they very quickly passed by...it provided only seconds of relief…not really relief, as I was scared–shitless... but I was not going to let on! But, as I looked at my partner, sharing the back seat… I realized his eyes were just as fixated on the road ahead, and, he, no doubt, was thinking quite seriously about his future.
The future he may not experience. He would never experience the alarmingly, fullness of the sexual thing. Thinking a lot about the potential, miserable way in which his young life could end. All a-tangled- up in the metal and plastic bits of a failed rocket, ship-car...without bandages or sutures...and all of this could happen in the most immediate of seconds of the right now. Who could even conjure up the obit?
We did get to Barrier unscathed… and we pulled in to tank up. Gordy and Dennis were still pretty keyed up about this appointment and were hurrying it up a bit. I was enjoying the feel of cement under the soles of my boots. That very alive feeling and the smell that gas has as it wafts through the air. I was still alive!
In this small repose...amazingly...I saw my back seat partner lifting his kit out of the car and with all of that in hand... he walked over to me and said. “Fuck this! I’m taking the Greyhound into Kamloops.” I was astounded! Wordless! Who was I going to hold hands with when we had to face the uncertain road histories embedded in the curves of the infamous, Louis Creek Canyon? All alone in the back seat!
I think Dennis said..”Chickenshit.” Deep down I admired my former back seat partners love of life...as we rocketed out of the Barrier gas station.
I like to think, I remember a few details of that last phase of the trip to Kamloops. I remember passing cars where you would glimpse looks out the windows from the people in the cars we passed. Nobody was passing us! Did I see a mouthed...”Holy Fuck!,” here and there? See lips, silently moving, uttering a prayer or two for our safety, in passing?
Was that a small boy, in the back seat of one passed auto, with enormous round, blue eyes...waving a friendly greeting or a, I hope you make it? It all went by so fast. With my eyes faking allergies...tightly closed... Gordy mastered the Louis Creek highway maze with frightening élan.
I knew I would survive when I saw the Red Bridge up ahead. You simply had to slow down for it. Gargantuan waves of relief bathed my nervous system. All we had to do now was navigate Lorne Street. Whip up eighth Ave, turn on Battle Street and I was to see another day.
This did indeed happen. I can’t remember how I lied about the pleasures of the ride. Riding high on survival, I think I said we should do this more often. But I can tell you a ride like that makes you know how great it is just to breath Kamloops air with a shot of Pulp Mill air in it.
Later on, I was to learn that the young man, who shared that back seat with me to Barrier, was not the only one to decline a ride with Gordy.
Percy: The ongoing search for love. The Art of Compliments. 1972 or 1973:
So there we were. The crew was composed of Colin MacDonald, John Watters, Percy and myself. We found ourselves way North of Fort St. James on a long staking job. On finishing the job we crossed over to McKenzie...a real, new town of no history. We were hungry and went into the local supermarket.
A few days out in the bush can cause a strange, overwhelming taste for the opposite sex. Every female looks so delicious, tempting and so desirous regardless of form or shape. So, when we had collected our goods in the McKenzie supermarket, and standing in line to pay, Percy strikes up a conversation with the nice looking cashier. And in the hormone fever that erupted... Percy can only say to her...” Gee, that’s a beautiful apron you have on.”
I think we made Prince George that night.
Randy and “The Chain.”1971 Merritt-Princeton area.
This is a “short-chain like story that still makes me laugh. An Amex, really true,inspired, priceless pearl. Truth be told, there are no “pearls,” out in the bush. You may find that some interesting antlers lay upon the surface, scattered bones of prey, great, growth mushrooms singing and hanging from rotting trees. Perhaps an interesting-shaped rock or two may lay upon the surface, awaiting your eager hands...I took all I could find...but no nuggets will wink at you. It was a dream time to, expect so.
The pearl in Randy’s story, which I write, has nothing to do with the geological creations of long ago but a 100 foot, nylon chain.”The Chain,” was our master! It determined speed and footage and complexities of life when tangled in vegetation. Knots and a long-time slow-voiced...”Chain”...” meant bad bush. A fast- quick-voiced...“Chain”....meant good going. Repeated over time.
If you worked side by side on different lines but not that far apart...”Chain!” indicated how well your partners were progressing. 100 foot space between Amexers’ could mean hell or heaven. In B.C. nature spreads its difficulties pell-mell in the bush. 10 feet can mean heaven or hell! In B.C. vegetation is complex in its emotional distribution of forgiveness and punishments.
Now, in The Princeton- Merritt, area we find ourselves doing a property 20 kilometres north of Princeton. It is a mountain. We park cars on the side of the highway...facing Princeton way. Where, later,survivors Cheese burgers and milk will nurishbekon.
We climbed up this mountain following the before cut out base line. The mountain has many dips and doodles...it has wrinkles where water has pooled to create alder swamps and being a mountain... many trees have fallen in the direction that gravity dictates. It was the alder swamps that were difficult. My partner and I were doing a few lines to the south of Randy but we confirmed that we would meet up for lunch.
Shared tinfoil wrapped sandwiches... where the tinfoil drove your cavities crazy.
So we had done our bit and located Randy’s start point. Some Dante expert had written on a nicely blazed –start point branch...”Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
I remember starting off...and...as my boots filled with water realized the intricate horrors of this complex alder swamp. A Darwinian night-mare!
We followed the cut, flagged and blazed line both feeling like a python on the slither. Soon in the distance I could hear...”Chain!” We were going up, down, under, over, above and, on stomachs under the warp and weave of the Alder’s life's watery-carpet. But I knew that we were closing. I heard “Chain!” again!
In fact... I heard ...”Chain!” Getting faster than I thought possible in this Alder swamp. When, On my belly...I looked up and found a 10 foot strand of nylon-chain hanging forlornly off an alder branch. I knew now the twist. The tail chainer was setting new standards of the cut.
This can easily happen when bush is too entwined...tail chainers can cut-chain and not notice their transgressions In that run before meeting up with Randy at the base line...the tail chainer had cut that nylon chain four times. Randy was probably pulling, at this time, sixty feet.
As we closed in on Randy all I could hear was a singular, vibrant-well-vocalize word through the dense, bushy, air...”Chain! Chain! Chain! Chain!" Which meant that they had stumbled upon Ab’s famed...”Park-Land.”
When we finally met at the base-line and I presented Randy with four pieces of the cut chain. He did not laugh.
Even now in his prime...Randy can be quite prickly when I sound out with..."Chain! Chain! Chain! Chain!"
Fearless Thursday! Local ‘businessman’ Terry Tuttle-Thomas-Smythe and Hubert the conversational Latin speaking horse love to show off, but maybe they’re going a little far? Deliberation Dave on the right is training to be an Elf and Safety officer, and doesn’t look too impressed. To the left, this is probably a stunt Arthritic Arthur shouldn’t get involved in, even though he’s pretty old school and fearless.
STERLING HEIGHTS, MI -- Lakeside Mall will be closing forever on July 1, 2024 after 48 years.
A former Taubman Companies survivor opening in 1976, saw the change of many hands but didn't update much since its grand conception including a grandiose central court fountain, ultramodern sculptures and conversational pits all largely untouched capsules under a hexagon heaven of pouring natural lighting and terrazzo tiling.
Around later 2018 into '19, the mall lost several major anchors and tenants before being sold to current owners, Out of Box Ventures, who hoped to revitalize the aging mall (with the revival of an ice skating rink!).
The Caldor Rainbow first visited in June 2018, last visited in December 2020 to what would be our last Christmas showing.
We have documented the wonderful, sprawling Lakeside Mall, which has been a passionate project of ours as its undying modernist aesthetics of 70's malldom excellence, notably well kept in the Taubman design-era, despite its various sales.
View to the southwest of Sapporo from the Sapporo TV Tower. Image taken in 1995 and scanned later. The most prominent hill is Mount Moiwa.
Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
. . .
"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like -"
"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."
"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."...
Anyway, I keep picturing these little kids playing some game in this big field or rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean, except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy."
—excerpts from J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye
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"Somewhere along the line - in one damn incarnation or another, if you like - you not only had a hankering to be an actor or an actress but to be a good one. You're stuck with it now. You can't just walk out on the results of your own hankerings. Cause and effect, buddy, cause and effect. The only thing you can do now, the only religious thing you can do, is act. Act for God, if you want to - be God's actress, if you want to. What could be prettier? You can at least try to, if you want to - there's nothing wrong in trying." There was a slight pause. "You'd better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around."
—excerpt from J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey
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John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.
Do I go on about my brother's poetry too much? Am I being garrulous? Yes. Yes. I go on about my brother's poetry too much. I'm being garrulous. And I care. But my reasons against leaving off multiply like rabbits as I go along. Furthermore, though I am, as I've already conspicuously posted, a happy writer, I'll take my oath I'm not now and never have been a merry one; I've mercifully been allowed the usual professional quota of unmerry thoughts. For example, it hasn't just this moment struck me that once I get around to recounting what I know of Seymour himself, I can't expect to leave myself either the space or the required pulse rate or, in a broad but true sense, the inclination to mention his poetry again. At this very instant, alarmingly, while I clutch my own wrist and lecture myself on garrulousness, I may be losing the chance of a lifetime - my last chance, I think, really - to make one final, hoarse, objectionable, sweeping public pronouncement on my brother's rank as an American poet. I mustn't let it slip. Here it is: When I look back, listen back, over the half-dozen or slightly more original poets we've had in America, as well as the numerous talented eccentric poets and - in modern times, especially - the many gifted style deviates, I feel something close to a conviction that we have had only three or four very nearly nonexpendable poets, and I think Seymour will eventually stand with those few. Not overnight, verständlich. Zut, what would would you? It's my guess, my perhaps flagrantly over-considered guess, that the first few waves of reviewers will obliquely condemn his verses by calling them Interesting or Very Interesting, with a tacit or just plain badly articulated declaration, still more damning, that they are rather small, sub-acoustical things that have failed to arrive on the contemporary Western scene with their own built-in transatlantic podium, complete with lectern, drinking glass, and pitcher of iced sea water. Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.) And I'm reminded, too, that once when we were boys, Seymour waked me from a sound sleep, much excited, yellow pajamas flashing in the dark. He had what my brother Walt used to call his Eureka Look, and he wanted to tell me that he thought he finally knew why Christ said to call no man Fool. (It was a problem that had been baffling him all week, because it sounded to him like a piece of advice, I believe, more typical of Emily Post than of someone busily about his Father's Business.) Christ had said it, Seymour thought I'd want to know, because there are no fools. Dopes, yes - fools, no. It seemed to him well worth waking me up for, but if I admit that it was (and I do, without reservations), I'll have to concede that if you give even poetry critics enough time, they'll prove themselves unfoolish. To be truthful, it's a thought that comes hard to me, and I'm grateful to be able to push on to something else. I've reached, at long last, the real head of this compulsive and, I'm afraid, occasionally somewhat pustulous disquisition on my brother's poetry. I've seen it coming from the very beginning. I would to God the reader had something terrible to tell me first. (Oh, you out there - with your enviable golden silence.)
I have a recurrent, and, in 1959, almost chronic, premonition that when Seymour's poems have been widely and rather officially acknowledged as First Class (stacked up in college bookstores, assigned in Contemporary Poetry courses), matriculating young men and women will strike out, in singlets and twosomes, notebooks at the ready, for my somewhat creaking front door. (It's regrettable that this matter has to come up at all, but it's surely too late to pretend to an ingenuousness, to say nothing of a grace, I don't have, and I must reveal that my reputedly heartshaped prose has knighted me one of the best-loved sciolists in print since Ferris L. Monahan, and a good many young English Department people already know where I live, hole up; I have their tire tracks in my rose beds to prove it.) By and large, I'd say without a shred of hesitation, there are three kinds of students who have both the desire and the temerity to look as squarely as possible into any sort of literary horse's mouth. The first kind is the young man or woman who loves and respects to distraction any fairly responsible sort of literature and who, if he or she can't see Shelley plain, will make do with seeking out manufacturers of inferior but estimable products. I know these boys and girls well, or think I do. They're naive, they're alive, they're enthusiastic, they're usually less than right, and they're the hope always, I think, of blase or vested-interested literary society the world over. (By some good fortune I can't believe I've deserved, I've had one of these ebullient, cocksure, irritating, instructive, often charming girls or boys in every second or third class I've taught in the past twelve years.) The second kind of young person who actually rings doorbells in the pursuit of literary data suffers, somewhat proudly, from a case of academicitis, contracted from any one of half a dozen Modern English professors or graduate instructors to whom he's been exposed since his freshman year. Not seldom, if he himself is already teaching or is about to start teaching, the disease is so far along that one doubts whether it could be arrested, even if someone were fully equipped to try. Only last year, for example, a young man stopped by to see me about a piece I'd written, several years back, that had a good deal to do with Sherwood Anderson. He came at a time when I was cutting part of my winter's supply of firewood with a gasoline-operated chain saw - an instrument that after eight years of repeated use I'm still terrified of. It was the height of the spring thaw, a beautiful sunny day, and I was feeling, frankly, just a trifle Thoreauish (a real treat for me, because after thirteen years of country living I'm still a man who gauges bucolic distances by New York City blocks). In short, it looked like a promising, if literary, afternoon, and I recall that I had high hopes of getting the young man, a la Tom Sawyer and his bucket of whitewash, to have a go at my chain saw. He appeared healthy, not to say strapping. His deceiving looks, however, very nearly cost me my left foot, for between spurts and buzzes of my saw, just as I finished delivering a short and to me rather enjoyable eulogy on Sherwood Anderson's gentle and effective style, the young man asked me - after a thoughtful, a cruelly promising pause - if I thought there was an endemic American Zeitgeist. (Poor young man. Even if he takes exceptionally good care of himself, he can't at the outside have more than fifty years of successful campus activity ahead of him.) The third kind of person who will be a fairly constant visitor around here, I believe, once Seymour's poems have been quite thoroughly unpacked and tagged, requires a paragraph to himself or herself.
It would be absurd to say that most young people's attraction to poetry is far exceeded by their attraction to those few or many details of a poet's life that may be defined here, loosely, operationally, as lurid. It's the sort of absurd notion, though, that I wouldn't mind taking out for a good academic run someday. I surely think, at any rate, that if I were to ask the sixty odd girls (or, that is, the sixty-odd girls) in my two Writing for Publication courses - most of them seniors, all of them English majors - to quote a line, any line from "Ozymandias," or even just to tell me roughly what the poem is about, it is doubtful whether ten of them could do either, but I'd bet my unrisen tulips that some fifty of them could tell me that Shelley was all for free love, and had one wife who wrote "Frankenstein" and another who drowned herself.* I'm neither shocked nor outraged at the idea, please mind. I don't think I'm even complaining. For if nobody's a fool, then neither am I, and I'm entitled to a non-fool's Sunday awareness that, whoever we are, no matter how like a blast furnace the heat from the candles on our latest birthday cake, and however presumably lofty the intellectual, moral, and spiritual heights we've all reached, our gusto for the lurid or partly lurid (which, of course, includes both low and superior gossip) is probably the last of our fleshy appetites to be sated or effectively curbed. (But, my God, why do I rant on? Why am I not going straight to the poet for an illustration? One of Seymour's hundred and eighty-four poems - a shocker on the first impact only; on the second, as heartening a paean to the living as I've read - is about a distinguished old ascetic on his deathbed, surrounded by chanting priests and disciples, who lies straining to hear what the washerwoman in the courtyard is saying about his neighbor's laundry. The old gentleman, Seymour makes it clear, is faintly wishing the priests would keep their voices down a bit.) I can see, though, that I'm having a little of the usual trouble entailed in trying to make a very convenient generalization stay still and docile long enough to support a wild specific premise. I don't relish being sensible about it, but I suppose I must. It seems to me indisputably true that a good many people, the wide world over, of varying ages, cultures, natural endowments, respond with a special impetus, a zing, even, in some cases, to artists and poets who as well as having a reputation for producing great or fine art have something garishly Wrong with them as persons: a spectacular flaw in character or citizenship, a construably romantic affliction or addiction - extreme self-centeredness, marital infidelity, stone-deafness, stone-blindness, a terrible thirst, a mortally bad cough, a soft spot for prostitutes, a partiality for grand-scale adultery or incest, a certified or uncertified weakness for opium or sodomy, and so on, God have mercy on the lonely bastards. If suicide isn't at the top of the list of compelling infirmities for creative men, the suicide poet or artist, one can't help noticing, has always been given a very considerable amount of avid attention, not seldom on sentimental grounds almost exclusively, as if he were (to put it much more horribly than I really want to) the floppy-eared runt of the litter. It's a thought, anyway, finally said, that I've lost sleep over many times, and possibly will again.
(How can I record what I've just recorded and still be happy? But I am. Unjolly, unmerry, to the marrow, but my afflatus seems to be punctureproof. Recollective of only one other person I've known in my life.)
—poem and excerpt from J.D. Salinger's Seymour An Introduction
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I was staring, as I remember, directly in front of me, at the back of the driver's neck, which was a relief map of boil scars, when suddenly my jump-seat mate addressed me: "I didn't get a chance to ask you inside. How's that darling mother of yours? Aren't you Dickie Briganza?"
My tongue, at the time of the question, was curled back exploratively as far as the soft palate. I disentangled it, swallowed, and turned to her. She was fifty, or thereabouts, fashionably and tastefully dressed. She was wearing a very heavy pancake makeup. I answered no - that I wasn't.
She narrowed her eyes a trifle at me and said I looked exactly like Celia Briganza's boy. Around the mouth. I tried to show by my expression that it was a mistake anybody could make. Then I went on staring at the back of the driver's neck. The car was silent. I glanced out of the window, for a change of scene.
"How do you like the Army?" Mrs. Silsburn asked. Abruptly, conversationally.
I had a brief coughing spell at that particular instant. When it was over, I turned to her with all available alacrity and said I'd made a lot of buddies. It was a little difficult for me to swivel in her direction, what with the encasement of adhesive tape around my diaphragm.
She nodded. "I think you're all just wonderful," she said, somewhat ambiguously. "Are you a friend of the bride's or the groom's?" she then asked, delicately getting down to brass tacks.
"Well, actually, I'm not exactly a friend of--"
"You'd better not say you're a friend of the groom," the Matron of Honor interrupted me, from the back of the car. "I'd like to get my hands on him for about two minutes. Just two minutes, that's all."
Mrs. Silsburn turned briefly - but completely - around to smile at the speaker. Then she faced front again. We made the round trip, in fact, almost in unison. Considering that Mrs. Silsburn had turned around for only an instant, the smile she had bestowed on the Matron of Honor was a kind of jump-seat masterpiece. It was vivid enough to express unlimited partisanship with all young people, all over the world, but most particularly with this spirited, outspoken local representative, to whom, perhaps, she had been little more than perfunctorily introduced, if at all.
"Bloodthirsty wench," said a chuckling male voice. And Mrs. Silsburn and I turned around again. It was the Matron of Honor's husband who had spoken up. He was seated directly behind me, at his wife's left. He was seated directly behind me, at his wife's left. He and I briefly exchanged that blank,uncomradely look which, possibly, in the crapulous year of 1942, only an officer and a private could exchange. A first lieutenant in the Signal Corps, he was wearing a very interesting Air Corps pilot's cap - a visored hat with the metal frame removed from inside the crown, which usually conferred on the wearer a certain, presumably desired, intrepid look. In his case, however, the cap didn't begin to fill the bill. It seemed to serve no other purpose than to make my own outsize, regulation headpiece feel rather like a clown's hat that someone had nervously picked out of the incinerator. His face was sallow and, essentially, daunted-looking. He was perspiring with an almost incredible profusion - on his forehead, on his upper lip, and even at the end of his nose - to the point where a salt tablet might have been in order. "I'm married to the bloodthirstiest wench in six counties," he said, addressing Mrs. Silsburn and giving another soft, public chuckle. In automatic deference to his rank, I very nearly chuckled right along with him - a short, inane, stranger's and draftee's chuckle that would clearly signify that I was with him and everyone else in the car, against no one.
"I mean it," the Matron of Honor said. "Just two minutes - that's all, brother. Oh, if I could just get my two little hands -"
"All right, now, take it easy, take it easy," her husband said, still with apparently inexhaustible resources of connubial good humor. "Just take it easy. You'll last longer."
Mrs. Silsburn faced around toward the back of the car again, and favored the Matron of Honor with an all but canonized smile. "Did anyone see any of his people at the wedding?" she inquired softly, with just a little emphasis - no more than perfectly genteel - on the personal pronoun.
The Matron of Honor's answer came with toxic volume: "No. They're all out on the West Coast or someplace. I just wish I had."
Her husband's chuckle sounded again. "What wouldja done if you had, honey?" he asked - and winked indiscriminately at me.
"Well, I don't know, but I'd've done something," said the Matron of Honor. The chuckle at her left expanded in volume. "Well, I would have!" she insisted. "I'd've said something to them. I mean. My gosh." She spoke with increasing aplomb, as though perceiving that, cued by her husband, the rest of us within earshot were finding something attractively forthright - spunky - about her sense of justice, however youthful or impractical it might be. "I don't know what I'd have said to them. I probably would have just blabbered something idiotic. But my gosh. Honestly! I just can't stand to see somebody get away with absolute murder. It makes my blood boil." She suspended animation just long enough to be bolstered by a look of simulated empathy from Mrs. Silsburn. Mrs. Silsburn and I were now turned completely, supersociably, around in our jump seats. "I mean it," the Matron of Honor said. "You can't just barge through life hurting people's feelings whenever you feel like it."
"I'm afraid I know very little about the young man," Mrs. Silsburn said, softly. "As a matter of fact, I haven't even met him. The first I'd heard that Muriel was even engaged -"
"Nobody's met him," the Matron of Honor said, rather explosively. "I haven't even met him. We had two rehearsals, and both times Muriel's poor father had to take his place, just because his crazy plane couldn't take off. he was supposed to get a hop here last Tuesday night in some crazy Army plane, but it was snowing or something crazy in Colorado, or Arizona, or one of those crazy places, and he didn't get in till one o'clock in the morning, last night. Then - at that insane hour - he calls Muriel on the phone from way out in Long Island or someplace and asks her to meet him in the lobby of some horrible hotel so they can talk." The Matron of Honor shuddered eloquently. "And you know Muriel. She's just darling enought o let anybody and his brother push her around. That's what gripes me. It's always those kind of people that get hurt in the end ... Anyway, so she gets dressed and gets in a cab and sits in some horrible lobby talking with him till quarter to five in the morning." The Matron of Honor released her grip on her gardenia bouquet long enough to raise two clenched fists above her lap. "Ooo, it makes me so mad!" she said.
"What hotel?" I asked the Matron of Honor. "Do you know?" I tried to make my voice sound casual, as though, possibly, my father might be in the hotel business and I took a certain understandable filial interest in where people stopped in New York. In reality, my question meant almost nothing. I was just thinking aloud, more or less. I'd been interested in the fact that my brother had asked his fiancee to meet him in a hotel lobby, rather than at his empty, available apartment. The morality of the invitation was by no means out of character, but it interested me, mildly, nonetheless.
"I don't know which hotel," the Matron of Honor said irritably. "Just some hotel." She stared at me. "Why?" she demanded. "Are you a friend of his?"
There was something distinctly intimidating about her stare. It seemed to come from a one-woman mob, separated only by time and chance from her knitting bag and a splendid view of the guillotine. I've been terrified of mobs, of any kind, all my life. "We were boys together," I answered, all but unintelligibly.
"Well, lucky you!"
"Now, now," said her husband.
"Well, I'm sorry," the Matron of Honor said to him, but addressing all of us. "But you haven't been in a room watching that poor kid cry her eyes out for a solid hour. It's not funny - and don't you forget it. I've heard about grooms getting cold feet, and all that. But you don't do it at the last minute. I mean you don't do it so that you'll embarrass a lot of perfectly nice people half to death and almost break a kid's spirit and everything! If he'd changed his mind, why didn't he write to her and at least break it off like a gentleman, for goodness' sake? Before all the damage was done."
"All right, take it easy, just take it easy," her husband said. His chuckle was still there, but it was sounding a trifle strained.
"Well, I mean it! Why couldn't he write to her and just tell her, like a man, and prevent all this tragedy and everything?" She looked at me, abruptly. "Do you have any idea where he is, by any chance?" she demanded, with metal in her voice. "If you have boyhood friends, you should have some -"
"I just got into New York about two hours ago," I said nervously. Not only the Matron of Honor but her husband and Mrs. Silsburn as well were now staring at me. "So far, I haven't even had a chance to get to a phone." At that point, as I remember, I had a coughing spell. It was genuine enough, but I must say I did very little to suppress it or shorten its duration.
"You had that cough looked at, soldier?" the Lieutenant asked me when I'd come out of it.
At that instant, I had another coughing spell - a perfectly genuine one, oddly enough. I was still turned a sort of half or quarter right in my jump seat, with my body averted just enough toward the front of the car to be able to cough with all due hygienic propriety.
—excerpt from J.D. Salinger's Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters
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I shot this image on the day after my Oz to Kansas workshop at Maine Media Workshops. We were packing up and Estefany Vasquez was kind enough to sit for a few images. This image was captured with the "conversational Portrait approach that I taught at MMW. We will be doing a video on it this Thursday at my studio
#Nikon100 #NikonAmbassador #nikonlove #lexar #kelbyone #photography #onOne @NikonUSA #D850 #70-200mm f2.8 #NikonNoFilter #niksoftware #nikonUSA #Epson #wacom #xritephoto #onone #sunbounce #fineartphotography #DxO #iamgenerationimage #iamnikon #B&H #PhotogenicbyBenQ #lexarMemory #nikonLOVE @lexarmemory elite photographer #lexarmemory
COLOR VERSION
Second post processed image from my “Marilyn Monroe” shoot with Stephanie Stuart arguably the Best Marilyn Monroe impersonator in the country.
In 1962 Nikon released the Nikon "F". Not only did Nikon release the camera they released it with a slew of lenses and accessories. Over 800,000 Nikon "F" cameras were sold. In 1962 Nikon ran an ad campaign that featured Marylin Monroe shot by Bert Stern. (www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpXixgkR3II) Sadly it would also be her last photo shoot.
What I wanted to do was celebrate the shoot using the tech of today. Soooooo you will be seeing a lot of images from the shoot we did on the deck of my studio.
I am a big believer in getting it as close to completely right in the camera as reality allows. What I was able to do with the combo of the sunbounce cage and hive lights was magic. We shot video during the shoot to discuss how to do conversational portraiture using the D850.First post processed image from my “Marilyn Monroe” shoot with Stephanie Stuart arguably the Best Marilyn Monroe impersonator in the country. I am a big believer in getting it as close to completely right in the camera as reality allows. What I was able to do with the combo of the sunbounce cage and hive lights was magic. We shot video during the shoot to discuss how to do conversational portraiture using the D850.
I used Hive light led wasps lights with a leko lens an a fresnel. Sunbounce cage and Sunbounce reflectors.
Nikon D850 and Nikkor 70-200mm f2.8
Post processing: Capture NX-D, Photoshop CC 2018, NiK Collection by DxO's Silver Efex Pro and Viveza.
#Nikon100 #NikonAmbassador #nikonlove #lexar #kelbyone #photography #onOne @NikonUSA #D850 #70-200mm f2.8 #NikonNoFilter #niksoftware #nikonUSA #Epson #wacom #xritephoto #onone #sunbounce #fineartphotography #DxO #iamgenerationimage #iamnikon #B&H #hivelight #PhotogenicbyBenQ #lexarMemory #nikonLOVE @lexarmemory elite photographer #lexarmemory
#Nikon100 #NikonAmbassador #nikonlove #lexar #kelbyone #photography #onOne @NikonUSA #D850 #70-200mm f2.8 #NikonNoFilter #niksoftware #nikonUSA #Epson #wacom #xritephoto #onone #sunbounce #fineartphotography #DxO #iamgenerationimage #iamnikon #B&H #PhotogenicbyBenQ #lexarMemory #nikonLOVE @lexarmemory elite photographer #lexarmemory #hivelight @stephstuart @my_ms_marylin_monroe @hiveligthing #litbyhive #hivelighting