Past Blogs

“If I said, ‘You’re looking gaudy today’, what would I mean?”

Many eager young hands in the classroom shot up. No one, however, knew the definition of the word.

“Let me explain it this way,” I said. “If you come to school with plaid pants, a Hawaiian shirt and every piece of jewelry you own, you would be gaudy.”

My purpose was not only to teach a wonderful vocabulary word, but also to begin an art lesson on Antoni Gaudi (1852-1926), the world famous Barcelona architect whose imaginative, flamboyant and lavishly embellished buildings led people to coin the word “gaudy”.

Gaudi’s style was unique and has put Barcelona on the map as an architectural wonderland. At the Casa Batllo, Gaudi designed the roof to look like the back of a dragon. He covered the facade of the house with a mosaic of ceramic pieces and crystal. Casa Milà or La Pedrera is a gigantic apartment building with undulating walls like a mammoth snake weaving around an entire city block. Gaudi’s design for Park Güell is filled with magical walkways, pavilions, serpentine benches and seductive spaces. His masterpiece is Sagrada Familia, a soaring Cathedral whose exterior walls are dripping with carvings of birds, plants, animals and religious scenes. This amazing building was begun in 1884 and is not yet complete. Swarms of craftsmen work daily in the scaffolded interior.

The children loved Gaudi’s exotic, colorful architecture. Their assignment was to draw a gaudy house and decorate it with mosaics as Gaudi often did. Every class, kindergarten to fourth grade, was encouraged to let imagination run rampant.

I came back several weeks later to see the finished artwork. I was amazed. Here is a sampling of the children’s work… every piece is gloriously gaudy. I’ve included a few real Gaudis, too.

I am a believer in silence and its soulmate, solitude. That doesn’t mean that I can’t give Chatty Cathy a run for her money. And it certainly doesn’t  imply I don’t love being with friends and family. But I do believe that I could never get a creative thought in my head again without quiet times.

Silence is not an American value. I recently pulled into a gas station with a friend who doesn’t drive. She began laughing hysterically when I lifted the nozzle and the gas pump started to talk to me; first a sales pitch and then blaring music.

“Has it come to this?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “and I can’t even shut this pump up. Some,” I informed her, “have a mute switch.”

As much as I dislike constant noise, I am highly suspicious of those who take a vow of silence for whatever reason. Since peacefully communicating with our fellow beings on the planet is the hardest thing any of us attempt, not speaking doesn’t seem particularly virtuous to me. Even the Old Testament admonishes that there is “a time to keep silent and a time to speak.”

In the course of my work, I drive many hundreds of miles each week. I’ve been asked if this isn’t boring. On the contrary, I see it as luxurious quiet time. I’m quite comfortable with what’s going on in my head. For many years, I didn’t even have a car radio.

Besides, silence really isn’t quiet. Unless you are some place like the moon or the Atacama Desert, silence just makes the small sounds noticeable. Bird singing, insects serenading, cats purring, waves lapping, raindrops falling and coffee dripping down all jump in to fill the void.

Silence isn’t golden; it’s not even silver. But interludes of silence would appear to be a catalyst for having a life of the mind.

The French essayist, Jean de La Bruyere, gets the last word. He said, “It is a great misfortune neither to have enough wit to talk well nor enough judgement to be silent.”

Only Robert B. Parker could write a line like this….”she smelled like a French Sunset.”

Last January I was on a flight to Florida with the best of all possible treats in my carry-on, a brand new Spenser novel by Robert B. Parker. But I decided to be good and read a backlog of New York Times before I succumbed to the pure pleasure of Parker’s prose. I subscribe to deferred gratification.

Seconds later, the tidal wave hit. “Robert B. Parker, Best-Selling Mystery Writer, Dies at 77”, the Times’ obituary read.

“This couldn’t have happened,” my mind insisted, “Spenser is immortal.” I truly believed that the ever macho, ever gallant, ever gourmet, beer-drinking Spenser always would be my airline companion. No matter which direction the plane was headed, I would be in Spenser’s Boston. Now the voice of Spenser, Susan, Hawk and Pearl was gone, and I felt bereft.

Sadness inspires action, and a few weeks later, I came up with a plan. I would read or reread all of Parker’s 39 Spenser books starting with The Godwulf Manuscript which was published in 1973. Thanks to my local library and Amazon, I have access to every volume.

I’m up to A Catskill Eagle (1985), and  I’m having a splendid time. I am also open to any suggestions about whom I should take to the airport when my Spenser marathon is completed.

Boston has a charming, petite monument to another group of its fictional heroes. Look carefully in Boston Public Garden and you will find Mrs. Mallard and her eight ducklings from Robert McCloskey’s beloved 1941 children’s book, Make Way For Ducklings, cast in bronze.

I think a statue of Spenser in the park would be in order. Pearl, the wonder dog, would look good in bronze as well.

Last Friday we once again became landlords. Our tenants arrived early in the morning, checked out their little rooms and flitted off for lunch. We are delighted to have them back.

Our renters are Purple Martins, the largest swallows in North America. Despite their name, martins are blue-black (male) or blue-gray top and dirty gray belly (female).

Hundreds of years ago martins in the eastern United States were attracted to hollowed out gourds that the Native  Americans put out for them. Now all eastern martins are dependent on supplied housing for nest sites. In the mountainous areas of the West, martins use traditional nesting spots such as tree cavities or old woodpecker holes.

Our handsome blue and white martin house was a gift from our catsitter extraordinaire. She offered to give us the house and put it up in spring and take it down in fall. We couldn’t resist a deal this good.

The three story mansion we inherited was made by our friend’s father out of recycled county highway signs. It graced her home on our road until she moved many miles away from Lake Michigan. The martin apartment moved with her, but the martins didn’t follow. They obviously preferred their lakeshore lifestyle.

So we became caretakers of the apartment house. Several years passed, but last year the martins took up residence in our yard. We truly understand why people love these birds… they are enchanting to have around. From dawn to dusk they are gracefully swooping all around scooping up insects. Dragonflies are a particular favorite. But it’s their cheerful songs and chirps that are so exceptional. It would be hard not to be happy when your yard is filled with martins.

By mid-August, with sex and child-rearing accomplished, our martins will depart en masse for a leisurely winter in South America. Some go as far as Brazil. I wouldn’t mind spending a winter in Ipanema myself.

How was I to know?

Lactococcus lactis is part of my “culture and heritage”. Does that make me uncultured for not knowing about this culture’s importance, or, to be honest, not knowing about it at all? L.lactis is the microbe which changes milk into many varieties of cheese.

The Assembly in my fair state, Wisconsin, has passed a bill designating Lactococcus lactis as our official state microbe. Since our State Senate has yet to vote, Lactococcus is lobbying hard. How many other bacterium have their own home pages? (The Lactococcus lactis Home Page)

At the risk of sounding like a disloyal cheesehead, I am a bit upset about the designation. The fact that my state has been made a laughing stock by the media doesn’t faze me. Living in a place where people don large wedges of foam cheese on their heads, I don’t fret much about the state’s image.

No, I am upset because the candidate that I am backing for state designation is languishing in some committee over in Madison. How can our state go ” Forward” (our state motto) when we have not made cheese our  OFFICIAL STATE SNACK?

I am proud to know the guiding light behind the “cheese as state snack movement”. She does not own a large cheese plant. The woman who got the cheese ball rolling is one of the best teachers of fourth grade Wisconsin history I’ve ever meet. She’s recently retired, but,  for many years, every kid who set foot in her classroom in September emerged as a young history buff in June. She immersed them, and they are all Badgers for life. Furthermore, her students know why we are called Badgers. (The early lead miners who flocked to Southwestern Wisconsin initially lived in holes in the ground just like badgers).

Numerous field trips were part of her curriculum. I was lucky enough to accompany many of her classes on “The Frank Lloyd Wright, Cheese Factory and U of W Ice Cream Plant Tour.” That is how I, at the age of 55, finally learned how cheese is made.

Before she retired, this teacher and her class got the idea to nominate cheese as the official state snack. Letters were written, representatives were contacted and hearings attended.

I seriously doubt that the microbe is happy about all the fuss being made about it. I do know these kids would be thrilled if their bill passes. They are eighth graders now and are still attending hearings with their retired teacher.

Unfortunately, I know how the kids can get some action. They need to have a massive bake sale and donate all the money to the campaign funds of numerous state legislators. Now that would be a realistic civics lesson.