Guatemalan Diary – Part 1 – Antigua

My first adventure out of the country – February/March 2007.

Passport Woes

I applied for my passport the first week of December in plenty of time for my trip the last week of February. But my birth certificate got lost somewhere in the process. I eventually got a replacement about the same time the old one was found. By early February, three weeks before my trip, I knew I would need to spend a long day at the passport office in San Francisco to be certified to leave the country.

After all this trouble you would think I would hold on to it. But no. The second week of my trip I left it in a bank in Xela where I was trying in vain to change a travelers check into quetzales. I blithely left the bank without it and did not discover the error until three days later when I tried to get out of Guatemala and into El Salvador.

My stay in Guatemala lasted an extra three days while I got a replacement. The process might have been faster but the airport and the U. S. Embassy were closed because of the arrival of President Bush. I thoroughly enjoyed my extra “found” vacation time.

Week 1 – Antigua

Man carrying a cross in Lenten paradeI did not arrive on Saturday as I had planned. My flight was canceled because the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport was closed because of high winds.

Consequently I missed the first Sunday of Lent which in Antigua is celebrated with an elaborate parade through the streets. Brian was there though and you can get a taste of it from his picture on the left.

Language School

Brian studying Spanish with his instructor at La UnionWe attended language school at La Union for four days. My marginal Spanish definitely improved and Brian, shown here with his teacher, brushed up on his competency.

We both feel the school was excellent and would recommend it highly.

Coffee Plantation

Coffee plants growing in the shade of tall treesWhile we were in Antigua we visited the local coffee plantation. The shade grown coffee is raised organically under a canopy of trees. The coffee plants are around five feet tall and each year each plant yields a five pound hand-picked harvest which, after several steps of drying, hull removal, and roasting, yields about one pound of coffee. And you wondered why it is so expensive!

Young coffee plants growing in containersYoung coffee plants are ready to plant out after a year of initial growth

A red coffeeberry ready to be picked

Each coffee flower becomes a coffee berry… which is handpicked when it turns red.

Large areas of coffee spread out in the sun to dry Men turning the coffee beans in large bins to insure the dry evenly The coffee is dried in a huge yard behind the company and is frequently turned by hand in bins as it continues to dry.

The City

Ruins of a church destroyed in an early earthquakeAntiqua has a number of now picturesque ruins that are the result of an earlier disaster. (Guatemala is plagued with disasters. More on that later.)

In 1773, a series of earthquakes destroyed much of the town. The Spanish Crown ordered (1776) the removal of the capital to a safer location, where Guatemala City, the modern capital of Guatemala, now stands. The badly damaged city was ordered abandoned, although not everyone left.

Click here for more on Antigua.

Woman carrying firewood on her head on the cobblestone streetA large semi turns into the street in contrast with the woman carrying firewood
The “new” city is still reminiscent of an earlier time with cobblestone streets and people retrieving firewood from the surrounding mountains to cook their food. But the old ways are often overshadowed by the new. It is not only the smoke from thousands of stoves that dims the view of the nearby volcanoes and makes one long for a breath of clean air, it is the diesel belching from thousands old cars and buses.

While we were in Antigua we stayed at the home of Delia Ramirez de Parada and Carlos Enrique Parada. They provided us with good food, fine company, and comfortable accommodations. We could not have asked for anything better. Brian and I with our hosts Carlos and Delia The open courtyard in the middle of the house we stayed in

The entrance to their house is directly on the street (to the left in the photo of the courtyard). A covered tiled walkway runs along the side and back of an open courtyard. The bedrooms are off this side hall. This is a view from my room.

The back hall of the house we stayed inAt the end of the back hall there is a sink that serves for both the kitchen and the laundry. The door to the right is the bathroom. The next door is the kitchen and to the right (out of the photo) is the dining room.

The house has a tin roof. It is spacious, elegant and simple. It is the house Delia was born in.

We would like to have stayed longer.

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Dottie’s Picnic – A Fine Feast

Saturday, October 21, 2006
Dottie puts together a “little” picnic every year and has found the perfect spot for it at Henry Cowell State Park. This year there was a new participant, Chloe, who had a wonderous fine time, if I am any judge of dogs. Her human companions did too!

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Mother Moves – not all moving events are in California

When Mother decided to move from her apartment to assisted living in anticipation of her 96th birthday, we all pitched in to give her a hand. My brother from Texas spent the weekend before the move helping her decide what to take and what not to take, as well as making several runs to the thrift shop, UPS, and various stores to both rid her of excess and find items that might come in handy in the new place. I went down the week of the move and here is my story.

Saturday, October 7, 2006

Taking close up of a bee on a flower On Friday I took a leisurely drive down 101 on a stunning day. The Salinas Valley has never been prettier.

On Saturday morning I did a 5K in Woodley Park in Van Nuys sponsored by the Valley Trauma Center. In the afternoon I decided to see the famous Huntington in San Marcos. Talk about overwhelming! The 207 acres includes over 100 acres of gardens, a conservatory, a huge library of ancient books, and an art museum (once a residence!) that is closed for a three year renovation.

When I ODed on visual stimulation, I turned to photographing people taking photos.

Sunday, October 8, 2006

Saturday, after leaving the Huntington I drove on to get a head start in the morning. I soon learned it was Bikers’ weekend in Palm Springs. There were thousands of them having what looked like a good time.The Hyatt was headquarters. I would have joined in, but sadly my Saturn did not let me qualify. Looked like there was good food and good music. I continued on to Palm Desert leaving the action behind.

I had my usual AZ trip date shake breakfast at Shields Date Ranch after spending the night in Palm Desert and arrived at mother’s about 12:30. We had lunch as usual with the regulars. The rest of the afternoon was spent with last minute details in order to be ready for the move in the morning.

Monday, October 9, 2006

The moving crew arrived as promised promptly at 7:00 a.m. and Mother and I vamoosed to eat breakfast in the dining room, something she had done only once before in all the years she has been here. We spun it out as long as possible, stuffing ourselves on omelets and drinking plenty of coffee.

When we arrived back at 9:45, everything had been moved, or close to it. Mother was invited to the new place at 10:30 to find that the furniture was all in place, the boxes were being unpacked, and it looked ready to live in.

And it was by 1:00 p.m. with bed made, closets in order, towels in the bathroom and all pictures hung.She was dumbfounded.

Ben moving the sofaOn Tuesday the main event of the day was when my nephew’s good friend and best man arrived with his roommate to take the furniture that had remained behind. He has a new house in Tempe but no furniture, so it was a good deal for all.

During the rest of of the day, I got know all the volunteers at the Thrift Shop after making six trips (one of which was to retrieve things Mother decided she wanted after all)

When all was loaded (except two casters for the bed, which had fallen off the frame, and the remote for the TV), Ben dropped in to graciously thank Mother. She was entertaining two of her friends and all were delighted.

I mailed him the casters and remote.

Ben and MomI had left my camera behind and had a chance to try the one I have in my new cell phone. As you can see, I have finally figured out how to get pictures out of my phone and onto my computer. Here is a picture of Ben and Mom

 

 

 

Assisted Living dining roomWe ate in the dining room that night after a brief housewarming and sip of champagne for Mother’s friends who who could hardly wait to see her new place.

Of course, Mother knows almost everyone there already. The menu is the same as the one in the big dining room so life goes on as usual.

 

Mother's new living roomFor those who have been there, the new living room does not look much different from the former one. The only thing that did not come was the wing chair that Mother said was uncomfortable anyway (Ben has it.) and the sofa that was so soft that no one could get out of it once they were down. (Ben has it too.)

 

 

Mother's new kitchen The kitchen occupies a corner and has ample cupboards, a microwave, but no stove. Although the refrigerator is dinky, Mother feels it may be adequate. We shall see.

 

 

 

Thursday, October 12, 2006

After a day and a half of taking care of loose ends, I headed back across the desert. I had to stop in Palm Desert again to pick up the clothes I left in the closet of the motel I stayed at. (Dumb) I have become good friends with the new owner, a woman who has just opened up and with whom I can talk “hotel talk” again.

I finally stopped in Pasadena around 7:30.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Now that I am back in highspeed internet territory, I am posting this from my motel room in Pasadena while waiting for the morning commute traffic to ease up a bit–I hope.

I will stop at Harris Ranch on my way home and pick up steaks for dinner and rest easy knowing Mother is settled at last and no longer has need to endure the anxiety of anticipation.

All has ended very well.

Update

Ben has sent pictures of the furniture that has found a home at his place. See for yourself!

Ben's new sofa Ben's patio Ben's recliner Ben's table

March 2009 Update

She’s moved again! Click here for the latest

 

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Garden 2006

My garden lies high above the San Andreas Fault and the fog that fills its valley. It is a process, not a destination.

March – In like a lion, and I ain’t lyin’!

Tree limbs broken from windOnly nine days without rain and/or snow. The wettest March in one hundred years. We at least have a roof over our heads. But that’s yet another story

The trees damaged in the storm that blew the roof off were removed or trimmed by a pro. (I don’t do trees–usually.)

April – Tattered beauties

Daffodils
Rain, rain, rain! I have planted some parsley and broccoli starts but done little else.

The daffodils are blooming. These are not the first of the daffies to bloom but they are the gaudiest. The winds of April often topple them and give them the look of an aging strumpet.

May – Of artichokes and aphids

A ripe artichokeThis Purple of Romagna artichoke is the centerpiece of one of the vegetable beds.

Last year this artichoke had an aphid infestation. I washed aphids off each day, but more were back the next, with their attendant ants milking them for the nectar they extracted from my poor artichoke.

Then one morning the ants and the aphids had company. They were joined by the one of the ugliest looking creatures I have ever seen. I rushed to my field guide and found it was the larval form of the beautiful lady bug. Talk about puberty! Those critters made short work of the aphids. A couple of days later there was nary a one left.

I have an abundance of lady bugs this year.

June – A wild month

California poppiesAnything grows!

July 2006

Raspberries growing on the bushToday is the first day of July. I am reveling in raspberries. I hung CDs amongst the berries to flash in the sunlight and scare the birds away. It’s working. Those flashing CDs even startle me, but I don’t scare easily.

Who knows what else July will bring?

August

Rows of wildflowers on a Texas wildflower farmA heat wave, and a surfeit of cucumbers, peppers, parsley, tomatoes, potatoes and garlic left me with only a field of wildflowers at Wildseed Farms outside of Fredericksburg, Texas, to show you.

September

Where did September go? I seem to have lost it.

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A Texas wedding – relatively speaking

My nephew’s wedding in Boerne, Texas, provided a good opportunity to poke around in a part of the country I have never seen before. Although the flight on the day of the most recent terrorist arrests involved a few challenges, it went quite smoothly all in all.

Thursday, August 11, 2006

I had time today to take a trip into Texas Hill Country. Fredericksburg, forty miles north of Boerne, is a shopping (and tourist) mecca. Although I briefly hit the main street, I am not much of a shopper. I did buy a hat to ward off the Texas sun, but then headed east to Wildseeds Farm where acres of flowers stretched off to the the hills.a field of cosmos

Because there was a windy back road running through the hills back to Boerne, I had to take it. And what could I do on the way but stop in Luckenbach…Guitar playing and singing with a chicken looking on

and hike along backroad creeks? Huge trees line the river bank

What will happen tomorrow? Probably a wedding since I just got back from a wedding rehearsal dinner.

Brittany and Spencer at wedding rehearsal dinner


Wedding Day – Friday, August 12, 2006

In the morning there was a brunch honoring the bride at a beautiful home overlooking San Antonio. Mary Ann, my sister-in-law, Emily, my niece, and I attended along with many others.

Emily and Mary Ann at brunch (Sister and mother of groom)

In the afternoon I made the obligatory trek to see the Alamo and learned a little history in the process.

The Alamo with hordes of tourists

The site of the 6 p.m. wedding was a beautiful historic chapel at the Lutheran church in Boerne (pronounced Burney)…

Flowers at end of every other pew
Elegantly restored chapel

…where we all congregated before the wedding for picture taking and taking pictures of picture taking.

A picture of picture taking

Half brother and mother of bride, bride and groom, mother, sister, and father of groom

And soon it was time for the music to begin.

Harp and violin provide music

After the wedding pair had skipped back up the aisle (you did read that correctly), they drove off to the reception in an elegant Model A.

Bride and groom in backseat of Model T in front of chapel

The rest of us took their lead and headed for a night of feasting and dancing…

An eleganty Model T with a tasteful Just Married sign

…except for the ring bearer whose responsibilities had overcome him.

The two-and-a-half-year-old ringbearer crashes at the reception

Tonight San Antonio; tomorrow night Maine.

Spencer and Brittany dance the first dance


Aftermath – Sunday, August 13, 2006

The party continued much of the night. By about 5:00 a.m. the reveleries and late night chatter had ceased as even the most stalwart of the bridesmaids and groomsmen finally followed the lead of the ringbearer. Fortunately the entire thirteen room hotel was occupied by the wedding party, so tolerance prevailed.

During the course of the day the mother and father of the groom (my brother and sister-in-law) and I returned tuxedos, provided airport shuttle service, and finally drove the bride’s car back to the newlyweds home in Austin.

Craig in front yard at Spencer's house

We slept well Sunday night.

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Roof – Chapter 3 – 95%

This tale of loss (of roof) and restoration is almost ended. Earlier chapters can now be found in the attic. I am not planning a sequel

Tuesday, April 18, 2006
The carpet arrived, but not without Gordon having to go down the hill into town to meet the man who was to install it. He claimed to be a confirmed flatlander who never would have taken the job if he had known he would have to drive up a mountain. Once he got here he was fine and helped rehang the bedroom door and move the bed back in. Too bad we didn’t have him rehang those darn closet doors too.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Before Slightly After
Remembering the old fans. Their blue matches the new walls. The closet at the beginning of the restoration
And now!
The closet with doors on in a furnished room Bed with hippari hanging over it
My beautiful hippari from Kasuri Dyeworks in Berkeley has been in the closet too long. I thought it was time for it to come out.
New reading corner in bedroom Everything back in place, slightly rearranged
Not everyone is lucky enough to have an original Thomas Frost photograph, or to know the original Thomas Frost personally for that matter. His photograph of ice has a niche of honor in the new scheme of things.
And the 5%?
So, now the hard part. You probably noticed a missing lampshade in the otherwise perfect room pictured above. This lampshade was water-damaged. Its partner fared better but still is very old and looks pretty grungy in such elegant surroundings.

But do you think I can find a replacement? These shades are more than thirty years old and are flat on one side because they fit on wall lamps. I currently have the name of a person who might know the name of a person who does custom lampshades.

Let me know if you have any leads. They are 15″ high and 12″ in diameter across the top. But 95% isn’t bad.

Lampshade with water stain
Mimi the cat on the bed in the sun. Mimi the cat has finally settled down in her customary place in sunbeams on the down comforter on the bed. The sun has come out and she has overcome her pique at us for having moved the mattress off of the living room floor in front of the fireplace.


Click for Chapter 1

Click for Chapter 2

The latest

A woman at the Benjamin Moore paint store in Los Gatos where I buy all my paint knows a man in Santa Cruz who makes custom lampshades. She has taken one of the shades to him to see how much it would cost to make a new one. We’ll see. Maybe I’ll just stain the other one to match.

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Roof – Chapter 2 – the sequel

The magnitude of losing the roof has morphed into an intensive and exciting restoration project. Necessity has caused us to make some changes we should have done anyway, but never quite got around to.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Two men lift a panel of wallboard to the ceilingThere is definite progress. Insulation went in today, and wall board is up and will be textured tomorrow. Can paint be far behind? Mimi the cat is delighted to be able to go into her bedroom again (the door has been closed for weeks), although there is still no bed in there upon which to lie and soak up the morning sun.

 

 

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Much progress this weekend. Painting and the beginnings of a new closet. No wimpy colors here! Tomorrow we get measured for new carpet. (Oh, no! The old one is so attractive.)

Ladder with paint can on the floor in the closet

Before

Bright blue paint on walls around the closet

Slightly after

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, April 2, 2006

Closet with clothes hanging in itThe painting is done, the new closet shaping up. The carpet has been ordered. I predict move in to be in two weeks or less. Stay tuned. In the meantime….

Mimi asleep on the mattress on the floor

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mimi sleeps on on the mattress on the down comforter in front of the heater on the floor. She’s in no hurry for a quick fix.

Thursday, April 6, 2006

Trees mangled by the stormThe tree guys came and spent the day cleaning up the mangled trees that were part of last month’s weather event. They were planning to come on Wednesday, but it rained–just as it has almost every day in March. Nice to have a roof over our heads.

Friday, April 14, 2006
The carpet arrived at the installers today, but they missed us when they tried to call to set up an appointment for installation. We will do that on Tuesday when they open again. My guess is that it should be done by next weekend. We are ready to move back in.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

The bed bathed in morning sunTwo nights off the floor! Slowly we move back in. We tried rehanging the closet doors. It was a routine worthy of Monty Python (notice the slight offset at the top). There is another set to go in; we will persevere–eventually. The baseboard behind the bed is nailed in; the rest is not.We won’t move other things until it is finished. But moving the bed out of the living room has enlarged the rest of the house.

Mimi is not feeling well this morning.


Click for Chapter 3

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Roof – Chapter 1 – “thar she blows!”

Sunday, March 5, 2006

Piece of roof leaning against Gordon's carI worked in Palo Alto on Monday and it was pouring. I had my Spanish class in Los Gatos that night and drove there in a deluge. After class it was still raining and I wondered what conditions I might find on the mountain. But I got home without incident.

About 11:15 I was sitting in bed reading. Gordon was already asleep. It was still stormy and extremely windy. Suddenly there was a gigantic rumble. The house shuddered. Gordon bolted up. The cat looked alarmed. There was a crash and then just the wind. I took the flashlight to look outside and see what had happened. Maybe a tree limb had crashed into the house. When I went out to the driveway, there was part of our roof leaning against our cars. It was the part from directly over the bedroom.

I called the insurance company.

Pond on missing roof. No fish yet.The next morning I called roofers. They were all busy and only one returned my call. On Wednesday we got a quote for the roof. We took it.

On Thursday workers came to tarp it. The insurance company had promised to have an adjuster call in 48 hours, but that passed and it rained on.

 

View of exposed raftersWe had buckets all over the bedroom. By Tuesday night when I got into bed in a seemingly dry part of the room and opened a book to read, a drop landed squarely in the middle of the page. We wrestled the mattress into the living room where it remains and will probably stay for a while. We tarped the bed. This shows the area that was directly above the bed as it looks now.

 

 

 

 

Giant fans extracting moisture from the bedroom areaFinally on Friday afternoon, we heard from the insurance company. They sent someone up from a company they hire to intercede in this kind of event. Our guy was supposed to inspect and report back to them. Instead he recognized our plight and immediately swung into action. By that evening we had a crew here ripping off wallboard and insulation in the bedroom. They set up five gigantic fans that are roaring away in there right now and need to run all weekend to dry it out.

It snowed on Friday.

Roofers putting on new roofSaturday was clear. Our roofer thought he could get a new roof on before the next big storm came on Sunday (today). The foam roof needs to have a waterproof coating rolled as a final step. A temporary coating was installed until the weather is dry enough to do a permanent one.

With the soggy insulation ripped out in the bedroom below, you could see patches of sky when the tarp came off.

The new roof was finished just in the nick of time. The wind is up and a new storm should be here by evening.

Mimi the cat sleeping on the mattress on the living room floorMimi, the cat, has been remarkable. She underwent a personality transformation during our trip to Sunriver. For all of her eighteen years she has hidden in the closet whenever there was anyone in the house.Most people don’t believe we have a cat. They have never seen her.

But Mimi LOVES having the mattress with the down comforter in front of the heater in the living room. She sleeps right through the constant stream of roofers, demolishers, and contractors parading through the house.

Occasionally she will nervously lick her foot.

Clothes and other belongings littering my officeYou would think that after taking three giant bags to the thrift shop yesterday and two bags of books to the library, there wouldn’t be that much stuff left from the bedroom. Yet I am sitting here in my always impeccable office surrounded by all the stuff that was once in the bedroom. At least I now have an excuse for it.

Needless to say, life here is not same old, same old at the moment.


Click for Chapter 2

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Worms

The spade cut into dirt that in summer was rock hard. But it had softened a little after months of rainy, drippy, fog-filled days. I lifted out a chunk of compacted earth and turned it over revealing long taproots of weeds now pointing skyward. As I crumbled it apart with my gloved hand, a giant earthworm fell free and back into the hole.

Another shovelful of dirt revealed more earthworms. Some big and fat, pink or gray, almost five inches long; some tiny, like bright coral wire twisted into switchbacks making their length impossible to determine. How did these damp creatures shining with moisture stay so clean crawling through dirt? And how did they stay moist through a summer so dry it turned the earth to stone? In this compacted earth were worms–many worms–living in dirt but looking cleaner than the most fastidious among us.

I took all these worms as a good sign. I was digging a new garden bed in an area that had long held only weeds and a path leading out into the wild. Earthworms indicate healthy soil–or at least that’s what I have come to believe. But how did they manage, these soft-bodied creatures, to get through this dirt that was so hard it took a fair amount of effort for me to break it apart? As each clod broke off in my gloved hand, worms appeared. (I have always been a little squeamish about these slimy creatures and only recently have I been willing to pick one up even with a glove on.)

I began to take notice. I started watching for them, noticing different kinds, looking at their movements, trying to figure out what pleases them and what does not. I found I had more questions than answers. They seemed to move forward never satisfied with being left where I found them. Or were they backing up? Their pointy ends tested the ground. Were they looking for an opening? Their bodies rippled along behind them, first long and thin, then short and fat as they flowed forth after I had so abruptly revealed them. They wiggled and stretched and finally disappeared back down into the soil. Had this hard packed earth swallowed them or were they swallowing it?

When they fall, do they all land right side up like a cat? I watched to see if they tried to turn over, if they spiraled around from their head to their tail trying to right themselves.  As worm after worm, large and small, fell, I watched. And not once did I see any indication of turning over. Do worms know which way is up? So many questions! I was sure I would find answers.

But then it became clear. There was really only one question that mattered and the answer was not so easy. Why do I care?

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Thanksgiving Day, Phoenix, Arizona

(I have not yet located the photo that accompanied this article.)

Someone else was tending the turkey, setting the table, and fixing the feast. So I set out on Thanksgiving morning with camera in hand.

Thunderbird Park stood out on the map at the northern boundary of Phoenix as a destination close enough to permit me time to get back for dinner at 2:30. I knew nothing about the park so wasn’t sure what to expect, but it looked large enough to ensure plenty of photographic possibilities.

I have never been one to take a lot of pictures preferring the images imprinted in my memory to the ones recorded on film. But recently I have been lured to try my hand at recording scenes that reach beyond the “trip to Phoenix” shots—ones that capture the rhythm, the beauty, the essence of a place and distill it into a few shapes, colors, or faces that reflect an inner pulse. I have found this is not easy.

The Park turned out to be a perfect example of the low desert peaks that punctuate Phoenix and radiate out from it in all directions. I parked the car and set out on foot across the desert toward the base of a rocky compound ridge dotted with cholla, sage, and stunted palo verde. The slope sported an occasional saguaro, the unwavering symbol of the low Arizona-Sonora desert. Jumbled outcroppings of blackened lava, a few splotched with vivid orange and chartreuse lichens, testified to volcanic disturbances in former times.

I stopped, considered photographic possibilities, clicked, chronicled, clicked some more and lost myself in time and space.

A few people materialized hiking down a well-camouflaged trail on the rocky slope. Never having been able to resist a trail leading out of sight, I began climbing.

The going was rough. This cone materializing from the desert floor was a gigantic pile of mid-size rocks. Without watching every step even a mountain goat would trip and fall. Back and forth the rough path led up the slope with the ridge always beckoning, always just a little farther away than it looked. I climbed and climbed up the north side of this heap, one eye on my watch wondering if I would reach the top before I needed to turn back to meet the dinner deadline.

At last the path leveled. I had reached the ridge. There to the south beneath me Phoenix stretched for miles, the air as clear as it was when it lured the first immigrants to its stunning vastness.

The trail continued, promising even more if I followed it; but I turned back knowing I would try to return. What is there about a path that compels me to follow it? Whether it’s a path up a mountain or into a forest, or a path to learning a camera’s magic or how to make words say exactly what I mean, I am always seduced by the promise that there is more just beyond the bend, just behind the lense, in the blank page ahead.

The trick is to get back in time for Thanksgiving.

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Dino-might

They’re big, they’re old, and they’re awesome. Everything a kid is not. They can hold the attention of twenty high-energy first graders for twenty minutes or more. No person alive can accomplish this feat no matter how big, how old, or how awesome they are. But dinosaurs can do it. What is it about dinosaurs that makes them so appealing to kids?

Is it their size? Maybe. But not all dinosaurs were huge. Archaeopteryx resembled a lizard with wings and feathers and was about the size of a crow. Of course, Apatosaurus was fifteen feet high and sixty feet long and probably weighed in at forty tons. And the great horned monster, T. rex, was no small fry. When you’re only three feet tall and you consider a creature that’s as long as a sixty foot tape measure laid out on the lawn, there’s more than a little to think about.

Is it their age? Probably not. I am impressed by the fact that dinosaurs lived over 200 million years ago and continued to roam the earth for more than another 100 million years. But this concept of time is hard enough for me to imagine. When you are five years old, you couldn’t care less.

Is it their variety? Maybe. Dinosaurs come in many shapes and sizes. Who doesn’t find the giant fins on the backs of ferocious meat-eaters curious or downright bizarre? And how about the long snouts or giant heads with dagger-like teeth, or amazing wingspans sported by creatures that look like something from another planet?

Dinosaurs appeal to the imagination. Almost all children love drawing pictures of them. You can’t make a mistake. Any size, shape or color will do. Last summer some YSI campers made a video featuring dinosaurs against a backdrop of “real” erupting volcanoes (fashioned from vinegar and baking soda), engaged in bitter fights and fanciful flights. Why not?

But my favorite theory of why dinosaurs appeal to kids is that kids—and I—like their big long names. Ichthyostega, Dimorphodon, Lufengosaurus—these are fun, and even possible, to say. They follow the rules for English pronunciation. Kids capture dinosaurs when they learn their names. Once captured, a dino can be controlled and it becomes a friend—a big, old, awesome friend. Parents don’t know this dinosaur!

Kids learn about their dinosaur and maybe invent a few things about it. Who’s to say they’re wrong? (Well, maybe another kid who knows the real “truth”.) They can tell their parents everything about their dinosaur. They know more than their mom or dad!

Never mind that by next year they may not know a Segisaurus from a Maslodonsaurus. They’ve had their moment of glory—their first taste of what it’s like to know something other people don’t. Dinosaurs live on to this day helping legions of children learn the thrill of knowing.

Technical information for this article came from the experts—the kids. For five- and six-year olds, dinosaurs are the power players.

YSI has a school and group program called Dinosaurs and Fossil Fun and a summer camp called Jurassic Giants.

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A Natural Thanksgiving

You may think I have the best job in the world. I do. Thanksgiving happens every day.

For one thing there is the YSI Thrift and Gift Shop staffed by the YSI Guild, always eager to thank their customers and contributors.

Partly as a result of their efforts, we at YSI are surrounded daily by:

* Kids with eyes wide open seeing things for the first time, learning about creeks and animals, light and music, rocks and stars.
* Young teachers learning how to teach kids about creeks and animals, light and music, rocks and stars.
* Master teachers teaching young teachers how to teach.
* Animal curators carefully caring for animals used to teach children.
* Junior curators learning how to care for those animals.
* Classroom teachers seeking new opportunities for their students.
* Donors contributing so that others can learn.
* Parents lovingly nurturing their children and encouraging their freedom.
* Staff members devoting themselves to tirelessly serving others.
* Board members donating their time and talents.
* Volunteers helping with anything and everything.

All of us at YSI are grateful for the chance to be part of the community. We join with the Guild in wishing everyone the best of holiday seasons.

Here is a Thanksgiving message from the YSI Guild written by a Guild member.

The all volunteer staff at YSI’s Thrift and Gift Store at 3151 Alum Rock Avenue would like to thank our many customers and donors.

You have made possible another successful year. In the month of September the store’s sales grossed $11,363. Our three YSI locations at Sanborn Park, Vasona Park, and our own Alum Rock Park benefit from these sales. The Wildlife Festival held in October at Alum Rock Park welcomed over 2200 people. The many animals at YSI are fed well and cared for lovingly. The birds will be enjoying new aviaries. The school programs continue to introduce and enthrall students with their natural surroundings. The programs in our three YSI Nature Centers for children in K-6th have been a huge success.

Your donations of items, paper and plastic bags, and “goodies” lovingly made for us, keep us busy, happy, and focused on the needs of YSI.Our monthly sale days have proven profitable and we will continue them.

We will be closed December 21st through January 3rd for the holidays. We will re-open on Tuesday, January 4th with many “new” things on our shelves and hangars.

Again, our thanks and appreciation to our customers, many of whom we know by name. You continue to make great things happen with YSI.

May your holidays be full of friends and family. We’ll see you in 2000.

Sandy Floersch

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Life in the Box

Where do you live?

Your street address, city, country, latitude, longitude, altitude help pinpoint your unique space, defining it in a neat three-dimensional way. You, and only you, are in the space you occupy at this moment. But you will and must move on and that space will belong to another. As your world shifts, new scenes appear; old scenes reveal new features.

Inextricably related to the three dimensional world of the moment is another dimension—one of time. Gradually we realize the relative nature of time as we travel through it. It is a spotlight that has passed through the ages and illuminated those who have preceded us. The spotlight relentlessly moves on and will soon play on others yet unborn. We, like those before us, will become part of the background, the shadows upon which the present is projected. Autumn thoughts.

As I walk along a creek reflecting on these thoughts, I see things with fresh eyes. A sycamore tree stands tall on the bank. Its length, depth, breadth is far greater than mine and its future promises a longer time in the spotlight. But more does not seem better. I prefer my mobile limitations.

A tangle of berry vines builds upon itself, shading last year’s growth. The low leaves, eclipsed by the new, drop to become the earth from which new vines erupt. Animals live, propagate, die; moisture evaporates, condenses, falls. Nothing is lost; everything is altered.

The path dips down to the water. The chill fall air lingering in this dale makes me shiver. From a branch an insect chrysalis hangs, winter insulation. Leaves have turned red and gold and brown. Seedpods litter the ground waiting for the cold damp winter and warm spring to expand their tiny treasures.

I become conscious of yet another dimension—the dimension of temperature. When temperate weather reigns, there is little that calls attention to the limitations imposed by heat or cold. But with this temperature drop, I become aware of the narrow life zone within which I must reside. Few are the plants or animals with such a small temperature window. But once again, I will take my limitations.

These constraints of length, width, depth, time, and temperature define not just human life, not just life alone, but all existence—rocks as well as trees, comets as well as dinosaurs, air as well as oceans. Every minute, every second, everything resides within the changing boundaries imposed by these unfailing five. Never again will anything be exactly the same.

I live in a box that is my space, my time, my temperature, my address. If I try to step outside it, I will find the impossible is just that. Does this shifting, multidimensional box provide a haven, a safe harbor, a home for viewing the rest of the universe, or is it a barrier to struggle against until I am defeated? I am willing to accept its limitations. Life is where I live.

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Does That Compute?

What’s the big deal about January 1, 2000? I plan to be able to switch on the lights and the coffee maker as usual and to have water pour from the spout when I turn the handle. The biggest challenge I anticipate is taking down the old calendar and putting up a new one.

So when it comes to talk of Y2K, I shrug and say I think we will all be fine. Ignorance is bliss. Anyway what can I do?

At YSI, like at many other small companies, when a message on a computer screen says to call the system administrator, a quick look around reveals there is a missing person. No sysop, no one to worry about the millennium. But, lest I become too complacent about this current year’s end, I have tried to pay some heed to what the hype is all about. Not being able to write computerized checks and paychecks or to use the valuable information stored in our database or spreadsheet files would be most inconvenient, even if not disastrous.

Fortunately there is a resource out there that is paying attention to organizations like YSI. CompuMentor is a nonprofit computerization assistance organization. Since 1987, it has used its consulting staff and volunteer mentors to provide training and support for more the 6,000 nonprofits and schools across the United States.

Hooking up with CompuMentor has put me in touch with a number of people who are much savvier than I about what could go wrong on Day 1 (or Day 3 when most of us go back to work) of the twenty-first century. I now know some precautions to take to prevent things from going awry. CompuMentor sent two volunteers, Scott from Microsoft and Ramesh from Hewlett Packard, to YSI to check out our system and show me how to upgrade the software if necessary.

And I learned a thing or two. Software upgrades appear far more often than spring rains these days. In many cases these upgrades are just that—new bells and whistles hung on the basic frame of an application designed a decade or more ago. The computer code of the original software may not have been altered in the upgrade. And therein dwells the problem. If the original code did not include four digit dates in order to save on once precious memory, that code may remain even in very recent versions. Most of the major software companies have fixes, or patches, for their programs that are non-compliant. These can usually be found on and downloaded from their web sites.

But more important than preparing for the end of the year is the lesson demonstrated by Microsoft, by HP, by CompuMentor. Companies-both big and small-are just people, people like Scott, Ramesh, Joan, Charles, Camilla willing to spend a Saturday sharing their expertise, hoping January 1 will dawn on life as usual for all of us, knowing we all can learn from each other.

Anyone want to know more about banana slugs?

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A Helping Heaping

Compost happens. At least it does at my house. I know its benefits. It has transformed my rocky clay soil into an Eden for vegetables and flowers. For years I have been stacking up my garden debris and letting the rains rot it to a brown mound in a neglected corner of the garden. Occasionally I have approached this heap in a systematic way, mixing it with droppings provided by a friend’s rabbit, watering it, turning it, watching it heat up and steam, and miraculously transform within just a few weeks. But this is a lot of work. The forces of nature will do the same thing for me in just a year. So I don’t sweat it. I just pile garden trimmings, dead leaves and kitchen scraps and let them rest in peace for a while.

This laissez-faire attitude has resulted in quite a sizable heap this year. Not yet reduced by winter rains, the pile has reached a height of about four feet and a diameter of six or eight. In an excess of optimism and zeal, I started watering the heap a few weeks ago with a thought to speeding up the process and intervening in a labor-intensive way. It’s been long enough since I’ve done it that way for the memory of how much work it is to fade.

Last week the little time I had to spend in the garden was used to plant garlic, a prized heirloom German variety, certainly something I needed to do more than turn compost. Suddenly as I was burying the garlic cloves, I became aware of a rustling or chomping noise in the brush. Puzzled, I looked around and could see nothing. Slowly and quietly I walked in the direction of the sound. It appeared to be emanating from the compost pile. As I approached, activity ceased. I stationed myself next to the heap and stood without moving a muscle.

A minute passed and another. Then tentatively the rustling commenced again. There was definitely something happening in there no more than a couple of feet from me at about knee level. I could see no movement, but I held my breath and waited, hoping to see a head emerge. Little by little the sound moved toward me until only a few clumps of dead grass separated me from the persistent activity. Was it a wood rat building a nest? Was it a mole, the one that ceaselessly aerates my garden leaving roots dangling in an underground abyss or causing flagstones on the patio to tilt? Was it looking for insects reactivated in the recently moistened pile? I was determined to be patient and learn its identity

But my patience was no match for a critter whose ceaseless activity insures its survival. It moved away from me in the dank interior tunnel it had carved. The brush moved almost imperceptibly as it started off on a new vector. I returned to my garlic.

Will I disturb the chambers it has staked claim to in my brush pile? Of course I will, that is if I work up the energy to indulge in active composting. But if I don’t, I can rest secure in the knowledge that my pile will be churned—and without my stirring a muscle—by other creatures more energetic than I who have as much claim to the heap as I do. And compost will happen.

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The Haunted Woods Project

Even though we know much—or think we do—throughout human history there have been mysteries, things beyond the ken of human experience that fascinate, frighten, and intrigue us. Evolved from the Day of the Dead, Halloween has changed from a religious to a secular celebration of things beyond our knowledge.

For many years YSI sponsored a Halloween event called Haunted Woods. This tour of creative scenes ranging from the grisly to the fantastic attracted thousands, some of whom would wait in line for hours for a twenty minute walk on the wild side in the forest at night. A group of talented and creative volunteers worked for more than a month to put up an incredible set of vignettes in the woods designed to amaze, astonish, terrify and entertain.

What was the attraction? This question probably has many answers. Like with all theater, this tour provided a chance to travel beyond the everyday. The pilgrimage through the woods provided a glimpse of a world that didn’t follow the rules, a world that encouraged the deep, dark, fantastic thoughts we don’t normally permit to run free. It gave substance to vague fears and allowed people to look at those fears in the company of their friends and to laugh at them. It delighted with its cleverly crafted scenes, like Terminal Jeopardy, the outcome of which can be easily guessed. Pterodactyls flew over swamps, trolls popped out from under bridges, plane crashes glowed in glens, huge spiders, coffins, tombstones, blood, all were part of the passing panorama. And we as spectators always managed to survive the experience.

YSI’s Haunted Woods was not without its controversy. Why should an organization that teaches kids about bats and tarantulas and their role in the world during the day, have dark tunnels with low flying bats and menacing-looking spiders in sticky webs dangling in eerie light at night? There were those who felt it shouldn’t. For me, though, the answer was different. Just as fairy tales depict witches being shoved in ovens, wolves posing as grandmothers to trick unsuspecting children, and giants bellowing “Fee fi fo fum”, the spider tunnel let kids know that the world does indeed have perils, that it is necessary to be cautious, but that you can get beyond scary things. You don’t have to be paralyzed by your fears, and knowledge brings you power—lessons as important for adults as for children.

Maybe this was the appeal of the Haunted Woods.

YSI’s Haunted Woods have disappeared. A victim of its own success, the event became too big, too popular, too widely known to continue in its Sanborn Park location. Its success testifies to the need it fulfilled for facing the unknown.

Although YSI’s woods are no longer haunted at Halloween, the same lessons can be learned elsewhere. Many of the crew that created YSI’s woods have turned their considerable talents to the Haunted Forest at Vasona Park in Los Gatos, sponsored by the Crime Prevention Department of the Los Gatos Police Department. For information call (408) 354-6842. Other haunted abodes abound, some more, some less terrifying. It may not be everyone’s way of facing the unknown, but we humans are a mysterious lot. How frightening if we weren’t.

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A Bird in the Hand

A dead bird lay in the middle of the patio. It hadn’t been there in the morning. It showed no sign of injuries, of having been grabbed by a cat, or of having had to fight for its life. It couldn’t have flown into a window. It was too far from the house and the windows weren’t clean enough to fool any bird. Did it simply fall from the sky with a bird-sized heart attack or stroke leaving a small hole in the air to be filled by a new generation?

I wasn’t certain what kind of bird it was. I could tell from its short stubby beak that it had been a seedeater. I suspected a finch, probably a female house finch since it looked about the right size and lacked the rosy red breast of the male. But dead it was and smack dab in the center of the path to the garden, not an ideal spot to leave it in, at least from my perspective.

Turkey vultures circled overhead as was their custom at that hour in the late afternoon. Daily they appeared, singly or in loose formations. It was business as usual for them on the mountain. I took the dead bird to the fire trail just beyond the house and put it out in the middle thinking to provide the vultures the kind of meal they were looking for, a meal they would probably have discovered for themselves had I left it on the path to the garden. Three drifted overhead wheeling, turning, gliding back and forth close to the ground. I have often watched them as they sail over the hillside cocking their heads from side to side and imagine them to have an eye keen enough to penetrate the chaparral and spot any fallen creature that might be there. The finch would make an easy target.

I went back up the driveway to a sheltered spot where I could watch from a distance. Several times the vultures flew directly over the hapless finch but gave no indication of having seen it. I waited. A fourth one joined the circling. Slowly they extended their searching pattern farther down the valley. At last they were gone. This finch was not to depart this world so quickly.

Perhaps the yellow jackets, much smaller but equally well suited to deal with nature’s dead, would be the final beneficiaries of the remains of the fallen finch. I have seen yellow jackets completely consume a well-fed rattlesnake with a bulging belly that perished after getting stuck in a fence, a feat that took less than a day.

I left the finch where it was, knowing somehow life on the mountain could deal with this death, more effectively than I could, cleaning up after its own.

The next morning birds once again filled the air. On the fire trail the finch was gone. Close to where the finch had been, I picked up a bottle and a candy wrapper and took them back to the garbage can.

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Between Two Worlds

At almost the exact moment the sun slipped behind the hills leaving a brilliant salmon colored sky, the full moon rose over the shadowy marshes of the Palo Alto Baylands on the first evening of autumn. On opposite sides of my universe these two brilliant luminaries played off each other revealing more about this piece of earth midway between the domains of the ocean and of the air than might meet the eye at high noon or at midnight. Across San Francisquito Creek lights in kitchens came on one by one. A group gathered for a backyard barbecue. The sound of a Scott Joplin tune, its title now forgotten, floated in the air. Crickets sang as birds went silent.

As the sky grew darker, shapes close at hand grew dimmer. Geese clacked in the distance, gained volume, and appeared as a lopsided V formation on the horizon. They came closer and closer, flew directly overhead, and then disappeared into the southeastern sky. In the hills to the west and across the Bay to the east, distant lights began to twinkle and shimmer. A plane approached for a landing.

Civilization reluctantly relinquished its foothold. The illuminated green of a golf course fairway turned abruptly into a darkening tangle of marsh grass; an airport runway outlined in red lights cleanly cut a flat slice off the top of the jumbled and uneven bog. Shadowy forms of manzanita and coyote brush slowly yielded to tall reeds and rushes where the Bay turned solid ground to swamp.

A family strolled with their dog along a dirt path; another sat on the bank of a levee eating a late supper, kids laughing and playing in the bright darkness. Young people chatted as they listened to rock on the radio, the sound evaporating into the stillness. People walked, friends talked, runners passed each other, mothers pushed babies in strollers.

Why had so many of us left the light and comfort of our homes to come to the water’s edge to watch the moon? There we were, people of two worlds, unwilling and unable to forsake either. Who would forsake the world of the industrial, the technological, the medical, the comfort revolution? Not I. And who would give up the mountains, the oceans, the wildlife, the trees? So here we were, trying to reconcile these two worlds, able to see both in their best light.

Maybe they are not separate worlds after all. On a night like this their edges blur. It seems quite possible, even necessary, to live with a foot in each and an eye for both.

The sky grew darker, the moon rose higher, the distant lights glistened. A couple walked across the footbridge over the creek back to the kitchens, the lights, and the music. The rest of us remained, lost in the moment—suspended between summer and winter, the sun and moon, the air and water, the music and silence, civilization and the swamp.

The Palo Alto Baylands are east of Highway 101 at the Oregon Expressway/Embarcadero exit in Palo Alto.

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An Eagle’s Eye

A young man in a Scout uniform stood by the fence at the bottom of the hill alongside YSI in Alum Rock Park. Obviously at ease, he greeted the six members of YSI’s program committee. As they stood around a picnic table, he explained his plans for building a retaining wall, one that would be topped by a fence that would enclose aviaries used for the hawks and owls that make YSI their home.

Sometime during the last sixteen years Justin Coté, a Santa Theresa High School junior, has acquired more skills and interests than many people twice his age. Justin is hoping to become an Eagle Scout like his father and brother before him. One of the requirements is undertaking and completing a project that demonstrates planning and leadership skills. Justin had contacted YSI seeking such a project.

In wet years the slope to the east of YSI becomes a super highway for mud&mdash:mud that comes from a catch basin up the hill, part of the complex geology of this canyon park. The mud flows down the hill, often taking out the fence that protects the YSI building and its grounds. YSI has long planned to extend the retaining wall at the base of the slope in such a way that it takes the brunt of the mudflow and to relocate the fence to the top of the new wall. The area behind will be filled in to make it level and provide space for new aviaries, an ambitious project.

Justin was looking for a project that involved building something. There certainly were enough complexities in here to fill the bill.

With a wisdom many of us long for, Justin decided to take on only a part of the project, a manageable task that could be done in time to achieve the Eagle award, an award given only before a Scout turns eighteen. His plan is to build the first section of the new retaining wall and to do it before this year’s rains take out the fence again.

Not one to ignore the experience of others, Justin saw his brother procrastinate on his Eagle project so long that he barely finished it in time for his eighteenth birthday. If, somehow, this project turns out to be more complex than first imagined&mdash:and it may&mdash:Justin will have enough time to reassess the situation and come up with a new plan.

Justin demonstrated clearly that he had done his homework. After seeking advice from several contractors, he has the project divided into three parts. He has obtained donated construction materials and recruited a volunteer work crew. As he spoke he pointed out various aspects of the site where he anticipates there might be problems and described alternatives for solving these problems. After deftly fielding questions, he went quietly to work marking the ground where the trench for the footing will be.

The Youth Science Institute at Alum Rock Park, now has five hawks and three owls; it may soon have an Eagle.

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A Lot on Your Plate

I boarded the plane giving not a thought to how easily I can flit above the surface of the earth like a bird or maybe a dragonfly. This time my flight to Phoenix took an unusual route. Generally we fly over Las Vegas, but this day there was heavy weather in that area so we continued south from San Jose straight down I-5 to the Grapevine. From my window seat on the west side of the plane I could clearly see the “new” mountains that separate the San Joaquin Valley from the Salinas Valley and on the horizon the even newer mountains of Big Sur with the Pacific beyond.

New mountains, I say, because suddenly my mind jumped to an earlier era before the mountains, before there was the land that was now beneath me, a time when I would be flying over open ocean. This was the era when the stable land I grew up in—the old land of Iowa and the Midwest—was the continent, and this was a sloping ocean shelf collecting the marine deposits of millennia.

Through the mountains at the ocean’s edge, I could picture the Pacific Plate slowly subducting, slipping north and east, down under the North American Plate, its dive under the continent scraping off its top layer, piling up mountains like those of the Coast Range and Big Sur. In the middle of the Pacific I could envision the ocean floor as it slowly spread out, out, out, new crust welling up from deep within the core of the earth pushing the land up into the shape we call California.

The forces at work here challenged my imagination. The pulse of the earth pushes on twenty odd plates that comprise the surface of the earth. At weak spots or faults, like the one east of the Sierras, the push of plate on plate tilts up mountain ranges like a child might push up a ridge in a piece of paper. The Sierras are slowly being pushed up and up from underneath at a rate even faster than they are being brought down from above by the forces of wind and water.

The San Joaquin Valley remains a remnant of the ocean floor that has risen without a wrinkle between the jumbled geology of the Sierra tilt and the Big Sur scrape. What magnificent chaos!

Only in the last three decades have we begun to understand a little of what is happening here. The knowledge of plate tectonics has coalesced into a science now embraced—and, of course, disputed—by the academic community. How incredible it is that we now use rebounding waves of energy to look at the image of an unborn child and to infer the image of an unborn continent still lying in the womb of the earth! Like using ultrasound on a pregnant earth, we can view the future and wonder.

Yet in the midst of the relentless changes in Earth, planets, and stars, the color of a dragonfly’s wings, the song a bird sings, and the path my plane swings still matter—at least to other dragonflies, and to other birds, and to me.

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The Eye of the Beholder

Take a leisurely walk in one of your favorite natural settings. Really look at it; pay attention to its effect on you. Is it a natural vista untouched by human traffic that soothes you, or is it a magnificent landscape whose shear mass defines your place in the universe? Do you see the raw skeletal shape of the land or just a hint of its form airily defined by minute, light-filled details? Do you seek solitude or yearn for a human companion to share the setting? Are you grateful there is so much beauty around you or angered there is so little?

Those who are surrounded by nature every day learn to see its subtleties and appreciate its messages. But few are able to communicate these observations in powerful ways to others. Currently there is a chance to see how those who have such a gift view their world. Take time to visit the San Jose Museum of Art’s exhibit, Surroundings, Responses to the American Landscape.

Like many of the rest of us American artists have had a love affair with their surroundings, sometimes placid, sometimes tempestuous. Their views are shaped by their time in history but more importantly by their own inner visions. Sharing those visions can bring new perspectives to familiar scenes.

This exhibit of twentieth century art from the Whitney Museum leads us from the idyllic and allegorical landscapes of the previous century through realistic and modernistic scenes of the first half of this century and on to created landscapes of more recent times. Georgia O’Keefe’s sinuous It Was Blue and Green or her powerful The Mountain contrast with the Octotillo Nocturne of Fred Tomaselli with its shimmering and evocative desert lights. The funereal Untitled #248 of Petah Coyne and the somber message of Roger Brown’s XXX Exxon make statements about a vanishing beauty that is belied by the luminescence of a winter dissolving in sheer white in Sharon Lockhart’s Untitled. The same world, so many views! Views that both separate and unite us.

There is something in these shared views that can provoke a new way of looking at landscapes once familiar. I happened by accident on Christo’s Running Fence in Marin County in 1976. What seemed to me to be a crazy idea and certainly not art—a fence of white canvas that ran randomly over the countryside for miles on end—had an effect on me I could never have anticipated. As it followed the contours of the hills—not by the easiest route—and evaporated in the distance, interrupted only where Highway 101 penetrated it, it led my eyes over a landscape that to me has never been the same. Like a stereoptican slide, adding Christo’s view to my own has provided a new depth to this landscape. I will never again pass through these hills without marking their soft rise and fall in a unique new way.

Try sharing an artist’s vision. Then go back again to your favorite site. Take another look. You may see things a little differently. Shared visions help pinpoint the important, the vital. They help identify those landscapes that inspire the spirit and enrich the soul—the landscapes worth preserving.

Selections from the permanent collection of the Whitney Museum of American Art will be on view at the San Jose Museum of Art until June 11, 2000. Admission is free on the first Thursday of the month.

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The Seed of an Idea

We all know about seeds. They are a metaphor for our existence. You put them in the ground, water them a little, and they sprout into flowers, trees, vegetables, weeds. Ah, that life was so simple.

If you are a gardener, you know that soaking certain seeds prior to planting can make them sprout faster and more reliably. The hard coating that protects the life inside softens and splits as moisture causes the cells to swell and start the exponential splitting that is the definition of life. But some plants, like humans, live in less than ideal circumstances, and they, like humans, have learned to adapt.

Take manzanita, that stunning California chaparral native with its lovely white bell-shaped flowers that give rise to leathery berries. The rains can come and go without so much as a sign of life from the seed inside until a deer or passing bird eats it. The coating protecting the life inside is dissolved by the acid of digestion. Nourishment is the animal’s reward, but the seed passes on, ready to sprout in the next rainy season to adorn a California hillside.

The Southwest’s stately saguaros, spaced out in sweeping desert vistas at intervals ordained by rainfall, grow at a pace that would try the most patient gardener. No easy task to get one of these beauties, so dependent on infinitesimal amounts of rainfall, to sprout. No sense wasting the precious seeds on hot, dry conditions doomed to cause failure. Birds eat the fleshy seed-laden fruit. The seeds are dropped close to plants on which the birds alight. Shade for many summers is needed to nurse these towering pillars until they are large enough to survive in the relentless sun.

The billowy smoke tree and the picturesque palo verde that festoon desert washes need a true desert gully-washer in order for the living embryo inside their iron-clad seeds to stir. The seeds, carried along by turbulent water are nicked and scarred by sand and rock, to open them to the life-giving effects of the rain. As the water rapidly disappears into the loose desert scree, they come to rest in low-lying spots that hold water the longest. Then, and only then, is there enough moisture for them to sprout and become the next generation of desert sentinels so amazingly adapted to life in the searing heat.

The seeds of mountain pines and maples must be moist and cool for several months to arouse the life inside, and the seeds of the giant Sequoia need fire. No amount of tumbling through a warm desert wash would stir them to awaken to an early death in inhospitable territory. Only a chilly promise of long cool winters or a piercing tongue of flame will lure them to life.

And so it is. All life manages, sometimes flourishing, sometimes struggling. But under the harshest conditions, blossoms occur. And with each comes a seed and a chance, just a chance, of new life.

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Grow Your Own

The first light of dawn brightens the east as I get out of bed, put on my robe and walk out to the kitchen. I pour some dry cereal in a bowl, open the refrigerator, get out a plastic jug of milk and pour it on the cereal. The automatic coffeemaker, which I filled last night with freshly ground coffee, has started and is scenting the air with the unmistakable aroma of a new morning. I sit at a table on the porch watching the sunlight slowly reveal a scene that people in these parts have seen for hundreds, or even thousands, of years. The view is of a hillside covered with trees—trees that have been there for decades and their ancestors for centuries. But a few things have changed.

Food, clothing, shelter are still the fundamentals of my life as they were in the lives of those who lived here centuries ago. But how I come by these essentials is not the same now as it was then. Take that bowl of cereal, for instance. Grain it is, but not grain I have grown or gathered. Not grain I have ground or cooked—not grain that has come from my neighborhood. I do not know the route this cereal has taken on its way to my bowl.

A century or two ago I would have grown and ground my grain. A few centuries before that my cereal would have been made of acorns gathered in late summer, enough to last for an entire year. In either case the grinding and cooking of the grain would gave been a necessary part of getting that cereal into the bowl—a task I now relegate to unknown hands in unknown places.

How did people manage to do these things I most certainly can not? In many ingenious ways, it seems.

Acorns, the staple of the native Ohlone people, were processed by grinding or pounding on rocks that often had been used for centuries for that purpose. The meal from this grinding was leached in baskets designed for the purpose to extract the tannins produced by oaks. The meal was then cooked, but in a way that seems incredible to imagine. An exquisite basket about a foot and a half in diameter made of native grasses was the cooking pot. The basket was woven so finely that it held the porridge without leaking. Heated rocks were added to the mixture to cook it.

YSI has such a basket, one that was used up until the early part of this century. Remains of acorn porridge, perhaps a long-forgotten breakfast, can still be seen between the finely woven rows in the bottom of the basket.

Did people become accustomed to this fare and look forward to its familiarity like we do with our favorite cereal? Did the smell of it cooking come to signal the start of a new day? We homos in this world have more in common than we realize. We all share the continuing certainty of mornings, which offer a fresh start to any of us who will take it.

Grain may be ground, acorns may be pounded in YSI’s school programs’ Ohlone Indians and Pioneer Organic Garden. For information call (408) 356-4945.

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It’s About Time

The band-tailed pigeons have returned. Not that they’ve been gone; they’ve just been eating acorns in the woods.

Elderberry bushes and band-tailed pigeons have both been here far longer than most of our ancestors. The elusive band-tails come out of the woods as soon as the elderberries start to ripen on sunny slopes in summer. And the elderberries start to ripen as soon as it’s warm enough. Where I live this can mean any time from the Fourth of July to mid-August.

The band-tailed pigeon is not your ordinary pigeon. This large light-colored bird with dark bands across its tail endears itself by perching on the highest tiniest twig or wire it can find where it teeters back and forth alarmingly trying to get its balance. I usually start seeing them low on the mountain where the elderberries ripen in late spring. Week by week they work their way uphill as the elderberries ripen at higher and higher altitudes. When the elderberries are gone, the band-tails disappear until the next year when, somehow, they know precisely when and where to find a new crop.

Imagine yourself living without a watch, without a calendar. The adjustment might be jarring at first after having lived your life with time regimented by the precise increments these tools provide. How would you know when to get up, when to go to work, when to eat? You would know. You would know in the same way the band-tailed pigeons know it is time to climb the mountain following a trail of ripening elderberries.

Is there a way to capture some of this same freedom of opportunity in a world that now familiarly deals not just with minutes, but with nanoseconds? Can the tyranny of time somehow be kept at least partially at bay?

The first time I became consciously aware of the dramatic role my surroundings could play in orienting me in time and space was during an all night car trip with friends when I was in college. I was next to a window in the back seat on one of those dark, but bright, moonless nights—the kind where each star stands out brilliantly against a deep navy sky.

We were traveling east to west on a course that went unswervingly across a broad expanse of the Midwest. I slept and woke periodically and suddenly realized that the heavens were shifting above me. In that one night I learned how far the heavens travel in ten hours and got a sense of the passing of time that transcended the tick of a clock—a lesson that had eluded me during all the sunrises and sunsets of the two decades before.

I have a friend who had high blood pressure whose doctor prescribed that he quit wearing a watch. Although he works for a high-tech company, has three children and many commitments to his family and community, he took his doctor’s advice. He does not ignore time; he asks others what time it is when he senses he needs to. He finally got over looking at his wrist every few minutes. He is much more relaxed and seems not to always be in a rush. His blood pressure is now normal.

I am not advocating a life without calendars and clocks. But maybe having a few touchstones in the world to help locate us in time and space without worrying about the hour, the week, or the year can give us a chance to savor more elderberries when they are ripe.

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Investing in Children

Are you an investor? You may be without knowing it. It doesn’t take a portfolio of stocks or mutual funds riding the ebb and flow of the market to make you one. If you occasionally put a few coins in a donation box or turn in your old clunker to the YSI Thrift and Gift, you are making an investment—an investment that may help change the community you live in.

The modern-day business world operates on a bottom line mentality. Back a few hundred years ago, when modern business practice was evolving, the notion of public corporations to provide services for the general good of the community developed. Then, corporations were seen primarily as providing a public service rather than as a means of making investors rich. Most employees were loyal; many companies were benevolent; those that weren’t became the targets of labor unions. The focus was more on the consumer than on the investor. Times have changed.

Recently a new type of corporation has evolved to fill a need once filled by churches and benevolent businesses. Not-for-profit corporations have blossomed over the past few years to provide enhanced education, health and human services, to support the arts and the environment—all things we value, things that make life worth living for many of us.

As with other businesses, not-for-profits need investors too. But the return on the investment may be a little harder to measure than simply counting stacks of coins. How can you, as an investor in a not-for-profit, tell if you’re getting your money’s worth?

First, if it’s local, you might want to visit and see how things are going. Often your gut level reaction is your best guide. Next, as with any company you invest in, you need to read the information you receive. See if it provides you with details of substance. See if it portrays a service that you can truly feel good about supporting. If it’s appropriate, use the services, or talk to people who have. Finally check the financial health of the organization. Is it run efficiently? Is it paying for a quality staff? Neither too much nor so little that its employees have to rely on other not-for-profits in order to live. Is it using its money for the services you think you are supporting?

Although not-for-profits do not pay taxes, they do file a tax return each year with the IRS. Called a 990, it makes a 1040 look like child’s play. The 990 is a public document that is available by request from all not-for-profits, who may charge a small fee for copying and mailing it. (You don’t want your investment dollar used to send 990s to other investors.) It shows in great detail the financial picture of the organization including the amounts spent for programs, administration, and fund raising.

Remember, it is your money, and you need to get a return on it even if the gain is simply a better world to live in—one that provides for its children, that takes care of its poor, its sick, its needy, that enriches its citizens lives. Diversify if you like, or pick what is significant to you. When it comes to investing not all bottom lines are created equal.

The Youth Science Institute’s most recent Annual Report may be seen at www.ysi-ca.org. Its 990 may be requested at (408) 356-4945 ext. 10.

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