Entering a New Country

Experiencing a new culture can be an interesting experience. There are so many new elements to observe and absorb. The language is new and the natives speak so fluently (and so quickly) it is hard to grasp the content while struggling over the vocabulary. The mind and memory soon fall far behind trying to isolate individual new terms and translate them into more familiar words. New ideas and concepts require new levels of understanding. The newcomer must cope with unfamiliar styles, and different worldviews, and sometimes great contrast in personalities. Sorting and organizing the almost overwhelming input of impressions and information offered by the helpful individuals who are "at home here" is still a bit intimidating. At the same time, so much in the "new country" is fascinating and appealing.

Sights and sounds compete when you first arrive in unfamiliar territory, but it is the visual which wins a visitor's initial attention. Color and form and motion stand out in creative and unique patterns. While the eye is busy cataloguing and comparing and sometimes just identifying what is seen, the ear is filled with incomprehensible conversations about this subject or that viewpoint as the natives compare their own preferences and behaviors with one another. The "locals" and even fellow travelers may assume at first that you speak the lingo or grasp what is going on. One needs a translator quickly and eagerly accepts anyone's offer to explain the scene and serve it up in understandable and digestable portions. And fortunately, in the crowd are willing helpers who see or sense a newcomer's bewilderment. These guides are welcome.

Overall, one striking impression dominates: amid all of the newness, and in the midst of the intrigue, this visitor is finding an unexpected emotion nearly universal among the insiders. In this place there is passion.

Twice I have visited a monthly meeting of the Northwest Oil Painter's Guild. Once I joined an outing in the field and observed artists actually creating paintings, outdoors, on their easels, using the stuff they squeezed from those little metal tubes. (Could this be what I have been seeking?) Today Betty and I visited an Art Show the group presented in a restaurant in Woodland. More than a hundred paintings by over a dozen members were on display in the banquet room. Helpers stood by to answer questions and offer commentary on the paintings and the artists. It was a neat experience. And it was not so intimidating this time. Some of the explanations began to make some sense. (Is my reading paying off?) Comments on the individual techniques pointed out and compared actually seemed understandable. Some of the vocabulary began to register. Names of colors were not as foreign. My weeks of sorting through supplies collected in years of garage sales and art store visits gave me a foundation for watching a demonstrating artist as he painted from his kit of materials. My little Russian easel and what I have put into it now begins to look reasonable. Even some of the colors I selected from among 35 or 40 old, used tubes have received some tacit approval. (Am I nearly ready?)

That I have had the urge for some years to sometime dabble in plein air painting has been mentioned in a previous entry. Somehow the idea just never found expression. Now I think I have found a way - with potential mentors and occasional opportunities - to try my own hand. (Am I really motivated? or is this just the thrill of gathering stuff for a new hobby?) It seems time to find out. Now it is time to cope with "painter's block". Just as the aspiring writers in my family mention their confronting the blank page without a clue of how to begin, I am already conjuring in my mind that blank canvas, and I do not have a plan. The picture in my mind is as blank as the canvas. Before I set things up and ACTUALLY begin, I've got to capture a muse.

Anyone got an idea where to start? or How?

Passing thoughts

I used to think winter was the doldrums when one should have more time available to do all those things that never get done during the rest of the year. "Taint so.

I have more chores and projects and "things put off" at the end of this winter than I may ever finish. Certainly the seasons will roll and the outdoors will call to yard work, crusin' around, and a host of "let's go see..." opportunities and much of it might go undone forever. Meanwhile the cold snap seems to be coming to an end, the winds are almost gone, I'm trying to prioritize the next set of jobs, while keeping up with the regular routine.

So perhaps a little pre-spring mental housekeeping is in order.

It's a bit late for New Year's Resolutions, but here are some thoughts about of the most needful things I should be doing, at least as I am feeling it today:

1. I've got to concentrate on lowering my average blood sugar level.
2. I want to drift toward a more minimalist lifestyle. Stuff has got to go. Can a pack-rat change?
3. I've a pile of "Ham Gear" to go away soon via ebay or craigslist or such.
4. That Garage Sale idea must swing into high gear. Let me clear out a lot of unused items.
5. I need to set daily goals and reach them. Too many wasted days are flying by.
6. I need to reduce my "obligations"; focus on the most important, let the rest go.
7. Read the books I already have and cut the search list way, way down.
8. Learn to give things away.
9. Concentrate on what remains and what is to come.
10. Don't leave an unhappy widow now or later.

OK, ideals are always a bit beyond reality. But Bob Browning was right on: "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, else what's a heaven for?" It's time to stretch to turn some of my "gotta-do someday"s into "Now, That's finally done".

Am I right?

More East Wind

Today it's blowing east-to-west through the Columbia Gorge 25 to 40 MPH with gusts to 50+ and the temperature is about 20 degrees now and dropping toward tonight.

This bubble of super cold Canadian Arctic air setting over much of the northern and western states continues to scour through the gorge and ends up mostly in our yard.

'Tis a plague on us.

Be Kind to Your Fine Feathered Friends...

Here at my ranch, we have been noticing the birdbath frozen over each morning. I know it is still February and groundhog saw his shadow, and Spring comes anyway in about six weeks, But...

Birds can't drink ice! In cold snaps it more important than ever to refresh the water and to provide a continuous supply of high energy food, especially if you have been feeding the birds regularly all along. They do become dependent on your feeder, and you, friend, are their co-dependent. You are the source, so...

Keep that black-oil sunflower seed supply topped up, keep the nectar current for the winter hummingbirds, fill an appropriate holder with quality suet that various birds can access, toss some seed down for the ground feeders, and know that God is using even you to care for his tiny ones - sparrows, Oregon Juncos, chickadees, nuthatches, finches, bushtits, woodpeckers, flickers, thrush, jays, (early) robins, towhees, and more - all of which are deeply appreciative of your thoughtfulness. Be consistent; little birds can quickly become hungry in cold weather. They need a lot of food to keep up their body temperature. Use hot water to dislodge the ice and change water daily, even more frequently when it is freezing.

And spend a little time watcing these fascinating little friends.

My introduction to "Plein Air" Possibilities

Among the multitude of blessings in my life has been the opportunity to pursue a host of enjoyable hobbies, whims, and unusual pasttimes. I have always been much like my mother in these diversions, immersing myself in the lore and literature, seeking out and minutely studying the experts, collecting examples and devoting weeks and sometimes years to mastering the concepts and history, otherwise thoroughly saturating myself in every possible nuance before actually plunging in and "just doing it". Sometimes I just moved on before getting my feet wet.

Many examples of my intense obsessions can be cited: I have been devoted at one time or another to vocal music, the California High Desert, photography, tropical fish, amateur "Ham" radio, sport fishing, astronomy (including grinding a telescope mirror), bluegrass instruments, flying lessons, a small orchard, bonsai, and collecting selected book series. And there have been many other passions as well. Each of these consumed enormous energy and concentration and many of them have been more or less solitary endeavors. A few have even reached some level of achievement and satisfaction, and a couple have ended in deep disappointment.

Saturday I reached another threshhold. For several years I have been reading and thinking about trying to paint. I actually took a watercolor class in the attempt to distinguish the actual or practical differences between watercolor and acryllics and oil painting. My experience was a disaster as the public college class turned out to be a cult of repeat students who were deeply devoted to the guru-teacher who in turn was a bit too busy to spend individual time on a male interloper. I do have a love for watercolor and "have all the tools" now, but I'm more afraid of it than ever before.

I think I knew all along that I was eventually going to dabble with oils, because I can clearly recall two early occasions in my life when I watched men skillfully painting in oils, and these were 50 and 40 years ago. I can summon up the feeling of fascination at how they could replicate the shapes and colors which formed their lifelike pictures. The first was my dad in the front yard at Grandpa's house as he did his rendering of the mountains east of us. The other was an old man somewhere near Bryce Canyon who absolutely captured the dramatic shapes and earthtones of the red rocks of Utah. Both were painting plein air and I was intrigued.

So I have been collecting the equipment - brushes, paints, thinners, medium, and supplies I would need to try it out some day. This has been going on for several years now. Last fall I began stopping in at the local galleries and asking who was involved in "painting outdoors" for that is what "plein air" means, painting "in plain air" i,e, outdoors, where the subject is, where the light dwells, and where the experience can be brushed into the image along with the memories. Now I could stock a small store, but I haven't painted yet. So finally a lady listened and said, "Yes, Some of us do that. You need to come to one of our meetings. You need to call this fellow and talk to him" and she gave me his number, and eventually, months later, I did. And I got on a list and e-mails began coming daily about this and that, but sometimes about painting. And last week a schedule for painting outdoors was posted. And I went to one of the sessions.

I love being outdoors anyway, and I especally like places where birds are, and the end of the road, west of downtown Vancouver, out past the lake and within sight of Ridgefield is such a place. The painters were set up when I arrived and were hard at their craft - painters actually painting and clearly enjoying themselves. I hung back as long as I cold, but before long I was up close and getting personal. I may have made a pest of myself asking dozens of questions and shifting here and there to see the paintings and the views being painted and watching how the paints were selcted and mixed and applied by brush or palatte knife or both. And I have reached a new realization. Once again I have overanalyzed a new interest. At this point, I actually, perhaps foolishly, figure I can do that too. At least this group of painters would like me to think so.

So.... I have pulled the essentials off the shelf, and I'm going to finish the modifications on that Russian easel and select the necessary brushes and paints and canvas and actually give it a try. After all this time in preparation, I am at the starting line and it's time to give it a go. I'm reminding myself that I don't have to end up on display in the museum or in a great hall somewhere, I just have to be willing to have some fun, right? Right?? In that respect, this IS a threshhold.

This final observation. Today encouragement came from my daughter who announced she may become available to join me before long. Now there is some kind of motivation. Clearly I had better get ready to put up or shut up, because she will call my bluff and make it worthwhile. Besides, I sense there was a subtle challenge in there somewhere. Stand by for future updates.

Papa John

Thoughts About East Winds

I'm not sure why the "East Wind" has played such a role in my life, but it seems to continue to reoccur and I am always aware of its pressure and influence.

As a kid I grew up mainly in Southern California, mostly in mid-San Diego County, and I can remember the awful Santa Ana winds coming out of the eastern deserts, hot and dry and gusty. I remember huge billowing columns of dust over a thousand feet high choking us and drying out our nose and throat. I can see still some of the enormous walls of flame as the east wind hurled the fire across hillsides and through valleys of sage, mesquite, manzanita, and greasewood. Winds of 50 and 60 miles an hour and more seared the county clear to the beaches at Oceanside and Carlsbad.

During my college time in Los Angeles, the winter east winds would sweep through the passes and drive the smog out over the ocean and bring in its place a pale dun sky of airborne sand and grit. The stately old palms which endured everything else with stoic and impervious indifference would thrash and twist their mighty fronds until they began shearing off and flying away like the severed wings of some mortally wounded pterodactyl.

Away from L.A. at last, Betty and I settled in Beaumont, California, for a couple of years right in the middle of the San Gorgonio Pass between Palm Springs and Riversisde/San Bernadino. This five mile wide notch wa exactly the only point where two massive mountain ranges allowed wind from the eastern deserts to sweep through to scour the huge cities toward the coast. The wind was more severe there than anywhere else. Not only did we have east wind, we had ALL of the east wind entering the western quarter of California howling past us and taking anything not anchored down with it. Cars left outdoors would give up their paint as would the protruding corners of wooden window sills and doorframes of and even some of the edges of brick and stone buildings. A garden would be reduced to chaff and stubble in hours. According to local legend, in early times a man who committed murder after the second day of these Indian Winds could not be convicted as he was clearly "crazy by reason of the the east wind".

When we moved to Alaska, I might have thought my east winds would be behind me, or at least far to the south, but I soon experienced one of the most impressive east winds of all: the raging Taku Winds of Southeastern Alaska. Briefly, the flow of supercold air over the vast mountain icecaps would spill that enormous sub-zero mass over the coastal ridges and down the river valleys westward to sea level. As it fell and warmed, it also expanded, creating one of the gustiest and powerful local tempests ever. Thes gales could sustain themselves for days with velocities approaching one hundred miles an hour and gusts above that. Consider it carefully before visiting Juneau in the winter.

Once we moved south again, we found a peaceful-looking country acre east of Vancouver and settled down again, only to have the hair blown off our legs several times a year by east winds out of the Columbia Gorge. Again we found ourselves in the gunsight of the only notch in a mountain range - this time the Cascade Mountains of Washington and Oregon - and learned the hard way that it is the only major passage for wind from east to west for a hundred miles north or south. Under certain conditions high pressure weather moves south out of Canada into the Columbia Basin east of the Cascades. If the Pacific Ocean contributes an offshore low pressure system, and it almost always does, the air wants to go from "high" to "low" and its super-freeway is the gorge, which is due (wait for it... ... wait, wait, ta-ta...That's right!) Due East of us. The uniqueness of this location is that when the wind begins, it continues for long days and nights and it howls and shreaks and rattles, and tears limbs off of trees, hurls assorted debris parallel to the ground, rips the tarps off of the wood piles, stacks waist high piles of leaves in the fence corners, fells tall Douglas Firs and centuries old oaks (often destroying the homes below), sinks boats and boathouses along the river, downs power lines, and much other similar mischief.

Our east winds have been blowing for almost two days now and show no signs yet of letting up. I was pruning trees in the orchard yesterday in the morning and before 11:00 A.M. my face was wind burned even though the temperature was cooler than fifty degrees, I was literally blown off of the ladder once, and the ladder was blown over several other times when my weight was not on it holding it firmly down. I had to quit and come inside.

Do you realize how many times in the Bible there is a mention of the east wind? Almost every reference, actual or metaphoric, is negative. In dreams and in reality the east wind scorches the ears of corn and brings plagues of locust, and divides the seas, and breaks the ships of Tarshish, and scatters the people, withers the crops and desiccates the fruit, and (getting on the nerves) blows continually, dries up the fountains and springs of life sustaining water in the deserts, plunders every precious article, and serves in one case as discipline for a prophet named Jonah. Biblical east winds have a punitive reputation.

We are stuck inside the house. I 'm beginning to feel "crazy".

I don't like any wind. I particularly dislike an east wind.

I'm ready for more rain instead.

Breezily, Papa John

OK, World

I spent about an hour carefully composing the perfect account of my day, with lyrical and poignant passages about my first day of pruning the orchard this year. I told all about the varieties of fruits, the techniques of pruning each, the whole insightful experience of raising a fruit orchard for 18 years, and how nice it felt today to be outdoors in the sun after 40+ days of wet-blanket rain. You would have loved it. I really laid it all out* - feelings, secret thoughts and longings, dreams - and when I went to post it...

The BLOG site was DOWN, GONE, completely OFF the internet, and - novice that I am to this stuff - I LOST THE 500 WORD ESSAY! Arrrrrrrgh....

For a week I've had items on ebay (I'm a novice there too) and something I thought was of high interest to a special hobby group, and fascinating, and valuable, just sold minutes ago for .99 cents and my other item doesn't even have a bid on it. (Don't give up; there is still about 44 minutes left on it.) And my item on craigslist only generated one e-mail from an obviously inappropriate respondant.

So tonight it's Humbug to electronics and to computers and to selling-on-ebay or craig'slist. The world is just too complicated for this old-fashioned curmudgeon.

Hurrumph

At least my wife came home.

Otherwise, Pore ol' Papa John

(* most uncharacteristally I must say.)

Has It Come to This?

I'm pushing my three score and ten, and it seems that almost everything now requires tangling with the "computer world" and I am not finding it easy, comprehensible, or satisfying.

All I wanted to do was to add a small remark to a friend's commentary, and I have found myself wading through days of learning and searching and pages of decisions and mysteries trying to qualify, just so I can encourage him.

It is necessary; it is not fun. Is it worth it? Well, yes, if it eventually gives him the reassurance he is seeking and if it lifts his spirit. So I plodded through the sign-up process, gritting my teeth, struggling with the meaning and purpose of every line and box and question and decision... and wishing good deeds were much easier and entirely more anonymous.

Now I hope to go to his "blog" - and where did this term "blog" come from? - and say my say to his delimna and express my concern for his plight. I am anxious as to which new terms I will have to employ: user name? password? Title, Signature? Blog address? (etc.) Will I give the right information on the right line? And then what? Will it go to his location/site/blog/pigeon hole? How?

I guess I can not tell you my password, but Oh! is it ever appropriate!

Papa John