In order to get to Bisbee on Highway 80, you drive directly through Tombstone, Arizona, which bills itself as "the town too tough to die" and features some pretty weird stuff, like the Comedy Gunfights that happen every day at the historic OK Corral. I always think, "What would that be like? Making your living as a pretend Wyatt Earp or Doc Holliday in a comedy gunfight? What the hell is funny about a gunfight?" Only in America, right? Between the comedy gunfights and the Mad Miner's Mini-Golf, I've pretty much avoided spending much time in Tombstone.
However, guns are part of the culture here. At the tennis club in Sierra Vista where I play my league matches, the sign on the door to the clubhouse bar reads "Absolutely No Weapons Allowed". I always thought my forehand was my weapon, but I think they mean the cold, hard, metal kind with bullets. And, every Sunday morning when we play on our local Bisbee courts, we can hear the guys at the shooting range blasting away up on the mountain, which causes our friend Steve to mutter "fuckin' Mexicans.."
Last Friday night about 10:30, Dick and I were reading in bed (oh, the wild life of the semi-retired...)when we heard gunshots, five or six in rapid succession, coming from the direction of the road to Douglas. After an interval of about five minutes, we heard police sirens and car horns honking and what seemed to be a high speed chase around the town, sirens and horns blaring. This went on for at least 15 horrifying minutes before it faded off into the distance. "Man, somebody must have done something really bad," we said, and had a little trouble getting to sleep.
The next morning our friend Jim, the Bisbee High tennis coach, came out to watch us play. Since he's lived here most of his life, and coached at Bisbee High for 28 years, I figured he might have a clue as to what went on the night before with the guns, sirens, car horns, etc. "Oh, yeah," he said. "That was so cool - our football team beat Douglas last night for the first time in 20 years - we have a 140-year rivalry, the second-longest in American high school football history! What a celebration we had!"
I didn't ask him which rivalry was the first-longest... still a city girl.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Story of Mr. Stripey... with a Spicy Ending
Our high desert climate is uniquely great... cool and dry in the winter and absolutely glorious in the summer. Summer temperatures are moderate by Arizona standards, and daily rains keep our little oasis green and blooming all summer long. At night we snooze with the windows open and comforters up; by day, intense sun is moderated by the storms that race across the desert, showing off huge cotton ball thunderheads, booming with thunder and lightning.
Because of this upside-down climatic state, we got away with not planting tomatoes until mid-June this year. The last thing I did during my shopping frenzy at the nursery was to pick up little tomato seedling with the whimsical tag "Mr. Stripey" - who could resist? And as the other tomato plants burst forth with a flurry of yellow blossoms and verdant leafiness throughout June and July, Mr. Stripey was stubborn - he would bloom and then give up, bloom and then give up. We even googled Mr. Stripey and got some disappointing news - "very little fruit - not much flavor" said the reviews from other disgruntled gardeners. So we didn't pay much attention when one blossom finally turned into a tiny green Mr. Stripey - "very little fruit, not much flavor" we'd say, with a fatalistic shake of our heads.
Then one day we noticed that he was growing, got a little bigger, and then grew, and grew, and grew, and GREW into the giant orange and green striped Godzilla of all heirloom tomatoes. Even more astonishing, several other potential Mr. Stripeys have popped out, while the more normal fruit on the other vines has ripened and been gobbled up in pasta sauce, sandwiches, salads. Wouldn't you know it - Mr. Stripey turned out to be the King Tomato of the lot - now we say things like "I remember him when he was just a little guy..." Just goes to show you - sometimes you need to pay some extra attention to the quiet ones, and don't believe everything you google... they just might turn out to be big winners! I'd show you a pic of Mr. Stripey but he was sliced up last night and served with just a dash of aged balsamic. Delicious.
Now for the spicy part: Dick and I both created entries for the Salsa Competition last Saturday at the Farmer's Market. We tested our creations on Jim and Sara, who suggested some astute flavor enhancements. We perfected the recipes and made up the final batches for the Big Day. Mine - Crazy Cathy's Wild & Wacky Watermelon Salsa - was a refreshing and unusual mix - very tasty, but I didn't expect to win with a "non-traditional" entry - not in this very Mexican town! But Dick's recipe - Screamin' Dick's Hellfire Roasted Tomato Salsa - was as good as it gets. Tomatoes and chiles, roasted on the grill, lots of garlic and onion, with just enough lime to make your taste buds tingle... in my book, it was salsa perfection.
We were on the tennis courts on Farmer's Market day when the smell of fresh chiles being roasted at the market wafted across the courts. We could see people walking, zombie-like, toward that intoxicating smell - as if we were in Guyana and Jim had just mixed up a new batch of Kool-Aid. We finished our set and ran home to grab our entries and take them to the market... then we whiled away time chatting with friends and political candidates doing their last bit of glad-handing before Tuesday's election, all the while looking nervously toward the salsa booth, where the judges were tasting salsas with grim and critical expressions, clipboards in hand. Dick was so anxious that he stood behind the judges, trying to hear what they were saying. A photo of this showed up (embarrassingly) in the Monday paper. "Who's that guy in the baseball cap and Cuba tee-shirt, looking over the judge's shoulders in that photo on the front page?" "Um... never saw him before in my life..."
Long story short - the winner was a standard salsa that could have come off the shelves at Safeway - not that we're bitter. When you fall off the horse, you have to climb right back on - so we're working on our recipes for the Chili Competition.
Because of this upside-down climatic state, we got away with not planting tomatoes until mid-June this year. The last thing I did during my shopping frenzy at the nursery was to pick up little tomato seedling with the whimsical tag "Mr. Stripey" - who could resist? And as the other tomato plants burst forth with a flurry of yellow blossoms and verdant leafiness throughout June and July, Mr. Stripey was stubborn - he would bloom and then give up, bloom and then give up. We even googled Mr. Stripey and got some disappointing news - "very little fruit - not much flavor" said the reviews from other disgruntled gardeners. So we didn't pay much attention when one blossom finally turned into a tiny green Mr. Stripey - "very little fruit, not much flavor" we'd say, with a fatalistic shake of our heads.
Then one day we noticed that he was growing, got a little bigger, and then grew, and grew, and grew, and GREW into the giant orange and green striped Godzilla of all heirloom tomatoes. Even more astonishing, several other potential Mr. Stripeys have popped out, while the more normal fruit on the other vines has ripened and been gobbled up in pasta sauce, sandwiches, salads. Wouldn't you know it - Mr. Stripey turned out to be the King Tomato of the lot - now we say things like "I remember him when he was just a little guy..." Just goes to show you - sometimes you need to pay some extra attention to the quiet ones, and don't believe everything you google... they just might turn out to be big winners! I'd show you a pic of Mr. Stripey but he was sliced up last night and served with just a dash of aged balsamic. Delicious.
Now for the spicy part: Dick and I both created entries for the Salsa Competition last Saturday at the Farmer's Market. We tested our creations on Jim and Sara, who suggested some astute flavor enhancements. We perfected the recipes and made up the final batches for the Big Day. Mine - Crazy Cathy's Wild & Wacky Watermelon Salsa - was a refreshing and unusual mix - very tasty, but I didn't expect to win with a "non-traditional" entry - not in this very Mexican town! But Dick's recipe - Screamin' Dick's Hellfire Roasted Tomato Salsa - was as good as it gets. Tomatoes and chiles, roasted on the grill, lots of garlic and onion, with just enough lime to make your taste buds tingle... in my book, it was salsa perfection.
We were on the tennis courts on Farmer's Market day when the smell of fresh chiles being roasted at the market wafted across the courts. We could see people walking, zombie-like, toward that intoxicating smell - as if we were in Guyana and Jim had just mixed up a new batch of Kool-Aid. We finished our set and ran home to grab our entries and take them to the market... then we whiled away time chatting with friends and political candidates doing their last bit of glad-handing before Tuesday's election, all the while looking nervously toward the salsa booth, where the judges were tasting salsas with grim and critical expressions, clipboards in hand. Dick was so anxious that he stood behind the judges, trying to hear what they were saying. A photo of this showed up (embarrassingly) in the Monday paper. "Who's that guy in the baseball cap and Cuba tee-shirt, looking over the judge's shoulders in that photo on the front page?" "Um... never saw him before in my life..."
Long story short - the winner was a standard salsa that could have come off the shelves at Safeway - not that we're bitter. When you fall off the horse, you have to climb right back on - so we're working on our recipes for the Chili Competition.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Animal Dreams
As any of you who are patient enough to have read this blog for a while may remember, we fell in love with a goat that we named "Gaston" last winter. We were in France with our friends the Fabians, walking around the village in the crisp, frosty air, when we came upon Gaston, with his sweet little yellow eyes, bleating "Why am I the only creature stuck out in this arctic freeze besides the American idiots?"... or some French equivalent. We fed him, took his picture, talked to him, and generally made asses of ourselves - I'm sure the village ladies were peeking out behind their curtains, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes in Gallic amusement.
As if that wasn't exciting enough - there's an update! When the Fabians returned to Le Gue de la Chaine this summer, they went to visit Gaston and - voila - the farmer who owns Gaston was cleaning up the pen. They struck up a conversation and found out that Gaston's real name is "Popeye" - very macho, don't you think? While deep in conversation, Margaret (Madame Fabian) had a brilliant idea - could she lease Gaston from the farmer for a few days to mow down some weeds? Of course, said the farmer, secretly thinking how he couldn't wait to tell his wife how many euros he charged this lady from California so Gaston, er, Popeye could eat some lovely new cuisine.
Well... everybody was pleased with this plan, except Gaston/Popeye, who refused to eat the long grass, and instead bleated his head off and ate a hole in the neighbor's hedge, which now has to be paid for. Can't help but think something was lost in translation.
On a more somber note, we lost a wonderful friend this week. Jim and Sara's bulldog, Omar, was not what you'd call handsome - unless you were a lady bulldog, I guess. But he had an excess of charisma... extreme life force... especially when he catapulted all 65 muscular pounds of himself onto your lap when you were distracted by something else. Dick likened this leap to a fire hydrant being thrown onto his balls, not a good thing for a guy. Omie used to try to get my attention by doing what he perceived as bounding around playfully, which was more like a canine version of "white men can't jump"... but he tried, he really did. Then if I still didn't pay attention to him, he'd steal his brother Dylan's tennis ball and run off with it, shaking his head and growling... and if that still didn't get me, he'd eat a few rocks... got a rise out of me every time.
When we waved goodbye as Jim and Sara drove off on vacation in June, we never dreamed that we wouldn't see Omie again. When we got the news that he'd been run over and killed, the whole neighborhood mourned. "I need my Omie fix!" said our tennis friend Mike. "He was such a funny little fart..." sniffed Suzi. The only non-mourner was Vicky the cat, who showed her face in the back yard for the first time in several months. All in all, it's very sad - we'll miss him - but we know there are probably plenty of warm laps, slobbery tennis balls and really tasty rocks in doggie heaven.
As if that wasn't exciting enough - there's an update! When the Fabians returned to Le Gue de la Chaine this summer, they went to visit Gaston and - voila - the farmer who owns Gaston was cleaning up the pen. They struck up a conversation and found out that Gaston's real name is "Popeye" - very macho, don't you think? While deep in conversation, Margaret (Madame Fabian) had a brilliant idea - could she lease Gaston from the farmer for a few days to mow down some weeds? Of course, said the farmer, secretly thinking how he couldn't wait to tell his wife how many euros he charged this lady from California so Gaston, er, Popeye could eat some lovely new cuisine.
Well... everybody was pleased with this plan, except Gaston/Popeye, who refused to eat the long grass, and instead bleated his head off and ate a hole in the neighbor's hedge, which now has to be paid for. Can't help but think something was lost in translation.
On a more somber note, we lost a wonderful friend this week. Jim and Sara's bulldog, Omar, was not what you'd call handsome - unless you were a lady bulldog, I guess. But he had an excess of charisma... extreme life force... especially when he catapulted all 65 muscular pounds of himself onto your lap when you were distracted by something else. Dick likened this leap to a fire hydrant being thrown onto his balls, not a good thing for a guy. Omie used to try to get my attention by doing what he perceived as bounding around playfully, which was more like a canine version of "white men can't jump"... but he tried, he really did. Then if I still didn't pay attention to him, he'd steal his brother Dylan's tennis ball and run off with it, shaking his head and growling... and if that still didn't get me, he'd eat a few rocks... got a rise out of me every time.
When we waved goodbye as Jim and Sara drove off on vacation in June, we never dreamed that we wouldn't see Omie again. When we got the news that he'd been run over and killed, the whole neighborhood mourned. "I need my Omie fix!" said our tennis friend Mike. "He was such a funny little fart..." sniffed Suzi. The only non-mourner was Vicky the cat, who showed her face in the back yard for the first time in several months. All in all, it's very sad - we'll miss him - but we know there are probably plenty of warm laps, slobbery tennis balls and really tasty rocks in doggie heaven.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
High Desert Summer
As I sit here, the cool breezes waft out of the canyons, raising the window curtains and softly shaking the perfume from the jasmine just outside. My friend Sara told me that Bisbee was paradise in the summer, but having spent my high school and college years in Arizona, I was dubious to say the least. Summer? In Arizona? Paradise? Growing up in the Phoenix area, summer was closer to that other final destination... the really really hot one. But it's true - we have glorious, sunny tennis mornings here, and then, just when the A/C is about to kick in - the perfumed breezes start, and they bring the rain.
Local legends add to the color, too... at my writing class the other day I learned about Marge, the former Phelps-Dodge secretary who was awarded a job as librarian at the Copper Queen Library when the mine closed. She was a cranky old curmudgeon who knew nothing about libraries, hated hippies, and would come knocking on your door in person if you had an overdue book. Luckily for us, Marge finally retired and my lovely friend Donna, of the sweet smile and Library Science degree, has brought the library into the 21st century... book groups, writing classes, kids' programs - all free to us lucky Bisbonians.
Dick's friend Mel came for a visit last week, and we took him on a tour of the mine and other historical venues, while catching up on his latest adventures. The wackiest moment of the week came when he and Dick were accosted during their photo safari to Old Bisbee by two traveling rabbis. These Lubavitcher proselytizers proceeded to give each of the guys a second Bar Mitzvah, right there on the street. Only in Bisbee...maybe the Republicans are right, this IS a dangerous place!
Speaking of dangerous, our tennis friend Naco George (so named because he lives right on the border in Naco, Arizona, just a few miles away) was awakened by a loud, repetitive twanging sound a few nights ago. He looked out his window and discovered that some enterprising Mejicanos were sling-shotting packages of dope across the border, right over his back yard... he went back to bed, hoping this was just a bad dream... when the local gang that couldn't shoot straight came to the rescue, guns blazing, they succeeded only in making noise... the hombres, armed with slingshots, ran giggling off into the night.
Fantasyland? Adventureland? Tomorrowland? Or Frontierland? You decide. I'm having a margarita.
Local legends add to the color, too... at my writing class the other day I learned about Marge, the former Phelps-Dodge secretary who was awarded a job as librarian at the Copper Queen Library when the mine closed. She was a cranky old curmudgeon who knew nothing about libraries, hated hippies, and would come knocking on your door in person if you had an overdue book. Luckily for us, Marge finally retired and my lovely friend Donna, of the sweet smile and Library Science degree, has brought the library into the 21st century... book groups, writing classes, kids' programs - all free to us lucky Bisbonians.
Dick's friend Mel came for a visit last week, and we took him on a tour of the mine and other historical venues, while catching up on his latest adventures. The wackiest moment of the week came when he and Dick were accosted during their photo safari to Old Bisbee by two traveling rabbis. These Lubavitcher proselytizers proceeded to give each of the guys a second Bar Mitzvah, right there on the street. Only in Bisbee...maybe the Republicans are right, this IS a dangerous place!
Speaking of dangerous, our tennis friend Naco George (so named because he lives right on the border in Naco, Arizona, just a few miles away) was awakened by a loud, repetitive twanging sound a few nights ago. He looked out his window and discovered that some enterprising Mejicanos were sling-shotting packages of dope across the border, right over his back yard... he went back to bed, hoping this was just a bad dream... when the local gang that couldn't shoot straight came to the rescue, guns blazing, they succeeded only in making noise... the hombres, armed with slingshots, ran giggling off into the night.
Fantasyland? Adventureland? Tomorrowland? Or Frontierland? You decide. I'm having a margarita.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
An All American Celebration!
A celebration is pretty much just what the doctor ordered these days - a cure for what ails us... for the malaise, the fretting over the future, the sinking feeling as we watch economic indicators continue going down, down, down... and yet. And yet, there's so much to celebrate about this country - and the world.
Right smack in the middle of the American Independence Day festivities, we have two international sporting events that lift us up: at Wimbledon, Rafael Nadal once again proves that grace is a physical, mental and spiritual attribute, and the footballers from even the tiniest countries are transcendant in the World Cup, vuvuzelas and all!
Here in our little town of Bisbee, this is one of the biggest weekends of the year. The sense of community, ever present, is even more obvious now. Pride in our history, appreciation of the natural beauty that surrounds us, and joy that comes from our art and our kids - all are featured in the weekend's events.
Our friend Kathy came from the Bay Area to spend the weekend, and from the minute she met us down in Old Bisbee, it was a non-stop Bisbonian adventure. The kids have a Soap Box Derby on the morning of the 4th, so on the 3rd the local art community, not to be out-done, had a showing of "art cars" that were soap box racers of a different stripe (and polka dot, and plaid)... one car shaped like a sardine can, one a cupcake, a Coke can, a statue, a boat... all displayed downtown while serving bratwurst and beer, the first of many potentially lethal but sinfully delicious feasts of the weekend.
On our Saturday hike in Ramsey Canyon, a Nature Conservancy project, we experienced wild turkeys, leopard frogs, trogans and never-ending views. That night, we walked to a baseball game at Warren Stadium - the oldest continuously operating ball park in the U.S. What could be more American? Well, maybe the fact that in addition to watching the Bisbee Copper Kings annihilate their opponents, we got an autograph from Babe Ruth's grand-daughter, who was here to celebrate the 4th, in a park where her grand-dad once played his powerful game.
Sunday's parade included, once again, the soap box derby cars and the Copper Kings, but also the "Peace is Patriotic" ladies - god bless them - Veterans, Boy Scouts, candidates for office, marching bands, floats, and even a special mini-parade of old farm and mining equipment. In the afternoon, we went back to an era when men were men and they all worked in the copper mines - we attended Bisbee's 110th Annual Mucking and Drilling Competition, where the miners demonstrate their skills. As we watched in awe, Big Matt drilled a 13" deep hole in solid rock by pounding a hand drill with a hammer... this is what the drillers used to do all day - drill holes for the dynamite that was used to blast out the rock. To give some perspective on how hard this is, an amateur tried to do it and managed to make a 1/2" hole in the same amount of time.
Our friend Suzi (or Her Grace, as she preferred to be called this weekend) gave a wonderful 4th of July party in her garden, which is just below the hill where the firemen stand to send off the fireworks. We sat in lawn chairs, open-mouthed, staring straight up at the sky until we got stiff necks, watching the bombs bursting in air, ooh-ing and ah-ing on cue - red, white, blue, purple, orange, green, and NOISY! The citizens of the town (including us) raised the money for the fireworks, since the City announced that they were too broke to pony up - and it was so worth it. Since fireworks are legal in our neighboring states of Sonora and New Mexico, many amateur pyromaniacs were at it as well... most of the dogs in town were close to a nervous breakdown by the time it was over. Many people had picnics out in our park, called the Vista, and had been there since morning when they hunkered down for the parade, so by 10 PM the town was on the edge of chaos...
Monday morning, while it seemed the entire town was asleep, we walked through silent Old Bisbee, listening to the ghosts of the tough old miners, madames and ranchers, who seemed to say, "Great party! Now buck up and get back to work... times are hard, but we've seen harder...git goin'!"
Right smack in the middle of the American Independence Day festivities, we have two international sporting events that lift us up: at Wimbledon, Rafael Nadal once again proves that grace is a physical, mental and spiritual attribute, and the footballers from even the tiniest countries are transcendant in the World Cup, vuvuzelas and all!
Here in our little town of Bisbee, this is one of the biggest weekends of the year. The sense of community, ever present, is even more obvious now. Pride in our history, appreciation of the natural beauty that surrounds us, and joy that comes from our art and our kids - all are featured in the weekend's events.
Our friend Kathy came from the Bay Area to spend the weekend, and from the minute she met us down in Old Bisbee, it was a non-stop Bisbonian adventure. The kids have a Soap Box Derby on the morning of the 4th, so on the 3rd the local art community, not to be out-done, had a showing of "art cars" that were soap box racers of a different stripe (and polka dot, and plaid)... one car shaped like a sardine can, one a cupcake, a Coke can, a statue, a boat... all displayed downtown while serving bratwurst and beer, the first of many potentially lethal but sinfully delicious feasts of the weekend.
On our Saturday hike in Ramsey Canyon, a Nature Conservancy project, we experienced wild turkeys, leopard frogs, trogans and never-ending views. That night, we walked to a baseball game at Warren Stadium - the oldest continuously operating ball park in the U.S. What could be more American? Well, maybe the fact that in addition to watching the Bisbee Copper Kings annihilate their opponents, we got an autograph from Babe Ruth's grand-daughter, who was here to celebrate the 4th, in a park where her grand-dad once played his powerful game.
Sunday's parade included, once again, the soap box derby cars and the Copper Kings, but also the "Peace is Patriotic" ladies - god bless them - Veterans, Boy Scouts, candidates for office, marching bands, floats, and even a special mini-parade of old farm and mining equipment. In the afternoon, we went back to an era when men were men and they all worked in the copper mines - we attended Bisbee's 110th Annual Mucking and Drilling Competition, where the miners demonstrate their skills. As we watched in awe, Big Matt drilled a 13" deep hole in solid rock by pounding a hand drill with a hammer... this is what the drillers used to do all day - drill holes for the dynamite that was used to blast out the rock. To give some perspective on how hard this is, an amateur tried to do it and managed to make a 1/2" hole in the same amount of time.
Our friend Suzi (or Her Grace, as she preferred to be called this weekend) gave a wonderful 4th of July party in her garden, which is just below the hill where the firemen stand to send off the fireworks. We sat in lawn chairs, open-mouthed, staring straight up at the sky until we got stiff necks, watching the bombs bursting in air, ooh-ing and ah-ing on cue - red, white, blue, purple, orange, green, and NOISY! The citizens of the town (including us) raised the money for the fireworks, since the City announced that they were too broke to pony up - and it was so worth it. Since fireworks are legal in our neighboring states of Sonora and New Mexico, many amateur pyromaniacs were at it as well... most of the dogs in town were close to a nervous breakdown by the time it was over. Many people had picnics out in our park, called the Vista, and had been there since morning when they hunkered down for the parade, so by 10 PM the town was on the edge of chaos...
Monday morning, while it seemed the entire town was asleep, we walked through silent Old Bisbee, listening to the ghosts of the tough old miners, madames and ranchers, who seemed to say, "Great party! Now buck up and get back to work... times are hard, but we've seen harder...git goin'!"
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Connections
The debate rages on about the internet: Is it de-humanizing? Does it devalue good writing? And worst of all, will it make us fat? To my mind, the answer to all three questions is "yes and no".
Perhaps good writing is being devalued, because being online allows everyone to participate in the conversation, whether or not they understand grammar and syntax. The bad news: nobody wants to pay writers for web work ($20 an article? You cannot be serious!). The good news: everyone can participate in the conversation. How can that be bad?
And sure it can make us fat, if we choose to do nothing but sit around and type and eat nachos (not easy to do at the same time). But it also allows us to work quickly and efficiently, so we have time to go out and play and move our bodies around. Besides, it's probably replaced passively watching TV and eating nachos - at least the Web encourages active participation.
De-humanizing? In the sense that we may have less face to face communication on a daily basis, yes. But in the greater sense, the internet has dramatically increased the ability to connect with other people. Through email and social media last week, I was able to a)chat with high school friends from St. Johns, Michigan b)arrange a visit to Santa Fe with our dear friend Jerri from Texas c)gossip with colleagues in Florida d) get instant information on everything from World Cup to Wimbledon to the oil spill e)pay bills f)send congratulations to children in Nepal. It's a goddam miracle, that's what it is!
Speaking of miracles, our visit with Jerri and her dog Margie in Santa Fe was definitely "un milagro". Nostalgia, meaningful conversation, spicy Santa Fe cooking, terrific live R&B, exciting art galleries, and an eyeful of the Land of Enchantment was balm for the soul. Let's raise a glass of tequila to "staying connected."
Perhaps good writing is being devalued, because being online allows everyone to participate in the conversation, whether or not they understand grammar and syntax. The bad news: nobody wants to pay writers for web work ($20 an article? You cannot be serious!). The good news: everyone can participate in the conversation. How can that be bad?
And sure it can make us fat, if we choose to do nothing but sit around and type and eat nachos (not easy to do at the same time). But it also allows us to work quickly and efficiently, so we have time to go out and play and move our bodies around. Besides, it's probably replaced passively watching TV and eating nachos - at least the Web encourages active participation.
De-humanizing? In the sense that we may have less face to face communication on a daily basis, yes. But in the greater sense, the internet has dramatically increased the ability to connect with other people. Through email and social media last week, I was able to a)chat with high school friends from St. Johns, Michigan b)arrange a visit to Santa Fe with our dear friend Jerri from Texas c)gossip with colleagues in Florida d) get instant information on everything from World Cup to Wimbledon to the oil spill e)pay bills f)send congratulations to children in Nepal. It's a goddam miracle, that's what it is!
Speaking of miracles, our visit with Jerri and her dog Margie in Santa Fe was definitely "un milagro". Nostalgia, meaningful conversation, spicy Santa Fe cooking, terrific live R&B, exciting art galleries, and an eyeful of the Land of Enchantment was balm for the soul. Let's raise a glass of tequila to "staying connected."
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A reason for hope...
All right, my liberal friends - any of you who think that Arizona should be boycotted because it's the domain of only the small-minded, non-inclusive and mean-spirited (that's three hyphens - wow)should have been with us last weekend at my niece Kelsey's graduation from Flagstaff High School, high in the green, cool mountains of Coconino County. It was an experience that proved that no matter how idiotic our elected officials might be, the regular folk in Arizona, in particular those who actually live close to the border and the rez, are inclined to love their neighbors, no matter who they are.
The sense of excitement as we entered the venue for the graduation ceremony was palpable - families holding signs saying "We Did It!", "Go Chelsea!" and "Class of 2010" were armed with air horns and ready to scream their loudest at the mention of their graduate's name. Audience dress ranged from casual (jeans and tees) to flowery dresses and heels, to Native American families in velvet jackets and wrap boots, wearing thousands of dollars in huge, chunky turquoise. Speeches were brief and articulate, and introductory remarks were given in English, Spanish, Navajo and Hopi.
Two of the graduates, who have musical ambitions, performed original works that were inspiring in their intensity and surprising in their professionalism. One of the teachers who was asked to speak at the ceremony had a wonderful line that summed up the crowd perfectly: "You know you're from Flagstaff when you hunt, your kids are vegans, and you recycle."
When the Class of 2010 - all 400 of them, one at a time - crossed the stage to receive their diplomas, it was anything but boring. The spectacular combination of fresh young faces, beautiful costumes not quite hidden under robes, and fanciful names kept me entertained: Roxxi Dawn Begay, Omar Buenaventura Gomez, Skylan Sunjong Lew, and Infinity Rose Martin were among the best.
As the last names were called, the mortar boards flew into the air, the confetti was thrown, and it seemed that everyone in the class hugged everyone else - man hugs and high fives were in evidence, too. And none but the coldest could leave that auditorium without a glimmer of hope - maybe this generation will manage to clean up our messes and be kind to each other. I believe.
The sense of excitement as we entered the venue for the graduation ceremony was palpable - families holding signs saying "We Did It!", "Go Chelsea!" and "Class of 2010" were armed with air horns and ready to scream their loudest at the mention of their graduate's name. Audience dress ranged from casual (jeans and tees) to flowery dresses and heels, to Native American families in velvet jackets and wrap boots, wearing thousands of dollars in huge, chunky turquoise. Speeches were brief and articulate, and introductory remarks were given in English, Spanish, Navajo and Hopi.
Two of the graduates, who have musical ambitions, performed original works that were inspiring in their intensity and surprising in their professionalism. One of the teachers who was asked to speak at the ceremony had a wonderful line that summed up the crowd perfectly: "You know you're from Flagstaff when you hunt, your kids are vegans, and you recycle."
When the Class of 2010 - all 400 of them, one at a time - crossed the stage to receive their diplomas, it was anything but boring. The spectacular combination of fresh young faces, beautiful costumes not quite hidden under robes, and fanciful names kept me entertained: Roxxi Dawn Begay, Omar Buenaventura Gomez, Skylan Sunjong Lew, and Infinity Rose Martin were among the best.
As the last names were called, the mortar boards flew into the air, the confetti was thrown, and it seemed that everyone in the class hugged everyone else - man hugs and high fives were in evidence, too. And none but the coldest could leave that auditorium without a glimmer of hope - maybe this generation will manage to clean up our messes and be kind to each other. I believe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)