Wisdom from the Ages

Voltaire, whose real name was Francois-Marie Arouet was one of the most prolific writers of the 1700s. He used his pen to write plays, poetry, and to express his views on a host of political and social issues, some of which earned him time as a prisoner in France's infamous Bastille. My impression of Voltaire is that, though he was strongly opinionated, he had the intelligence to realize that opinions are preferences...beliefs not usually based on fact. He stated that concept most clearly when he wrote: 

"Doubt is an uncomfortable condition, but certainty is a ridiculous one.” 

Think about that. Think about that in terms of today's issues in the United States - Afghanistan, immigrants at the border, Biden's present administration, Trump's past administration, Covid masks and vaccinations, Roe vs Wade, racism, the economy, freedom of choice, etc. According to many polls roughly half of us Americans know the truth about these topics. We are absolutely certain of our positions. The truth and certainty that the other 50% of us espouse is false. And nobody knows the truth better than the Democratic far-left...and the Republican far-right. Both are passionately certain that they know the truth and will spin a topic to any extreme to prove it. 

I don't know who coined the term RINO - Republican In Name Only, but I suggest that the definition be changed to Reasonable In Name Only. A friend recently wrote to me that the present situation is not just a political war, that it is also a cultural war. I think that there is probably some truth to that viewpoint, but to me it's more than that. It's not difficult to sit back, take a macro view of the present turmoil in this country and see it for what it is...a war on reason. A war to defend one's opinions and beliefs come hell or high water, regardless of whether they can be supported by evidence. 

I don't think that it is 100% of us Americans who are actively involved in these wars on politics, culture and reason. I want to believe that there is this vast silent majority who is sitting back, shaking their heads and thinking that we should be so much better than this. 

Back on Track

I've never really been a collector of anything. I have lots of books, and have acquired a few Civil War articles but I don't consider that as collecting, not like people who have accumulated oodles of stamps, shot glasses, Coke memorabilia or key rings. That sort of changed when I bought a pitcher and two goblets dated 1880 and engraved with the initials CC. Being 140 years old appealed to my sense of history, and I've always been fascinated with anything silver. The goblets polished up beautifully - the pitcher was a disaster so I let it go back to it's tarnished condition, which surprisingly took only a couple of months. Somewhere in this blog I wrote a post about that set so I won't go any further with that subject except to say that it did inspire me to see if collecting goblets might be a fun and interesting thing to do. 

The first thing I did was to give some thought to what I meant by goblet. The criteria I came up with was first, the goblet had to be metal and preferably silver. Engraved and jewel encrusted would be a plus, like the goblets I envisioned King Arthur and the boys swilling ale from at the round table. Secondly, the goblet must be of a certain age. In the antique world anything older than 40 years is considered vintage but that makes me vintage x 2 and I refuse to acknowledge anything made in 1981 (or 71 or 61 or 51 or 41) as old, so I settled on pre-1940. 

Armed with my requirements I started haunting antique shops in earnest. The first thing I discovered was that there are not a lot of metal goblets in antique shops. Glass yes, plastic yes, wood yes, but not metal. In my eagerness to start a collection I quickly lost my focus. Without realizing what I was doing I started purchasing any metal, silver-plated bowl shaped vessel I came across, regardless of size or intended usage. As of three months ago my collection consisted of six legitimate goblets meeting my criteria and nine other items ranging from sherbet goblets to I-don't-know-what. 

Many of my 'mistakes' have already gone to Goodwill and the remaining five in the above photo will follow them as I find real goblets to replace them. The good news is that my most recent purchase of two days ago is sitting on the shelf directly beneath the pitcher.

This is what I had in mind when I started collecting. It's not jewel encrusted but you can't have everything. Examining it in the shop there was no indication of where or when it was made or by who. Stamped on the bottom is a trademark I had never seen that appeared at first to my old eyes be Asian. I passed on it the first time I saw it, but a week later when it was still there I bought it. It took a few hour's worth of research to identify the stamp and when I did I was surprised. 

The figure on the left is the town symbol of Edinburgh, Scotland. The two middle figures are supposedly the first and last initials of the manufacturer. I have not been able to identify them so far. The same stamp on an antique website claims they represent Carrington & Co. of Edinburgh. I am not convinced. The figure on the right is a date symbol indicating the goblet was manufactured in either 1893 or 1894. I will enjoy the coming hours of trying to identify the manufacturer, but if I never do I am content knowing where and when it was made. 

It is very heavy, apparently being silver plate on steel. A little silver polish had it looking like new. For anyone interested the price was $17 plus tax.

If the predicted storms hold off I'm going to grill some burgers on the wood grill later this afternoon and accompany them with some ale from my new goblet. King Arthur would approve.

...the Eye of the Beholder

What I know about art, and by art I mean painting, would fit on the tip of an artist's brush. A very tiny artist's brush. Maribel and I occasionally watch the Antique Roadshow on PBS. We enjoy guessing at the prices that will be placed on some of the objects people bring to be appraised. When a painting is being evaluated we're usually not even close. In the upper echelon of the art world the artist accounts for a good percentage of a painting's worth. For us lessor beings I would guess that some combination of color, composition and content are what determines whether we like a painting or not. And that combination is different for each of us. A painting is neither good nor bad; beautiful or ugly. The painting simply is...the individual judges it based on personal taste.  

When we're strolling through an antique shop or art gallery probably 95% of the paintings don't appeal to me. They're attractive but nothing I need to own. Occasionally there are some that 'talk' to me, but not loud enough to make me reach for my wallet. And then there are those rare times when a painting will 'scream' at me...challenge me to walk out without carrying it under my arm. When that happens I continuing browsing but invariably return and end up with the painting at the check-out counter.

In 2013 Maribel and I were at Chiclayo's Cultural Center to view an art exhibition of paintings done by local artists. Upon entering one of the exhibition rooms there was a painting mounted high on the wall in a corner that immediately caught my attention. I cannot adequately explain why the painting appealed to me so strongly, and still does to this day.

The Information card gave the artist's name as Ruben Saavedra. The curator of the Cultural Center was able to give us Ruben's phone number. We called him and he agreed to meet us at a restaurant to discuss the painting. Ruben at that time was in his very early 20s, was personable and seemed to me to be exceptionally mature and intelligent. We talked about his inspiration for the painting and were surprised to learn that the female model was his mother. When we had finished eating I told Ruben I was interested in the painting and wanted to purchase it. He agreed to sell it, we settled on a price and the deal was done. As we were leaving the restaurant Ruben shook my hand and laughed, saying, "I can't believe that I just sold my mother." The next day he delivered the painting to our Chiclayo apartment.

It was about two years later that we contacted Ruben again. I was in the process of writing a memoir titled Chicken Sunday Afternoon and wanted a picture for the cover page but couldn't find what I wanted. I had a concept in my mind and met with Ruben to see if I could explain it to him, and if he understood my idea could he paint it. Ruben did some preliminary sketches and invited us to his house to look at them. It was at that time that we met Ruben's mother, Señora Juana Cobeñas, and the four of us took turns voicing suggestions about what the final painting should look like. It would take too long to explain in detail what the painting was supposed to represent and how it got its name. It is sufficient to say that the concept is that 10 year old Tom is sitting on the curb in front of his house on a Sunday afternoon, not thinking at all of the future beyond tomorrow, and 80 year old Tom is looking at the boy, knowing and reflecting on what the coming years have in store for him. A few days later in Ruben's studio in Tumán, Peru, the painting titled Chicken Sunday Afternoon came into being.

That painting joined Señora Juana Cobeñas in our living room, and did become the photo on the cover page of my memoir.

When we returned to the US in July of 2017 there was no thought of taking the paintings with us, and on subsequent trips there wasn't the room to take them. On her recent visit Maribel removed the canvas paintings from the frames, carefully rolled them and placed them in a suitcase. They arrived in Georgia perfectly intact. I used some 1"x2" furring strips to make new stretching frames and chose standard staples to attach the paintings to the frames. Now both Señora Juana Cobeñas and Chicken Sunday Afternoon are once again on display.  And while we like the paintings, it is really the paintings, the people, the circumstances, the times and the resultant memories that combine to give us so much enjoyment. 

We are still in touch with Ruben. He is a prolific artist, displaying his work nationally and internationally, and I presume is doing well for himself. His Facebook page shows that he has broadened his style and choice of subject matter. 

This is a fairly recent photo of Ruben and his family. His mother is easily recognized as Señora Juana Cobeñas in our painting. Sadly, Ruben's father Adrián died this last April 12th. Our sympathies go out to the family, as well as our wish for Ruben's continued success in the art world.

Fish Fry Friday...Then and Now

In the upper Midwest, at least in Wisconsin, Friday means fish fry. I'm fairly sure that the tradition dates back to the old Catholic Church prohibition against eating meat on Friday. In the old days there were mom-and-pop fish markets everywhere, and housewives could be seen coming and going Friday morning with their meticulously selected fish in their shopping bags. Whitefish and perch were the most popular. Grouper and halibut were thought to be more favorable but were too expensive for the average household. But to do the tradition right, to actually celebrate Fish Fry Friday, and it was a mini-celebration of sorts, you had to do it in a tavern. 

Many taverns offered fish on Friday and because there were so many taverns the customers were usually locals and knew each other, so it became a social event, like a club meeting every Friday. Swinko's was a corner tavern located directly across the street from our house on Milwaukee's south side. I distinctly remember customers including my father proudly proclaiming that "nobody served better fish or beer and at a fairer price than Tony Swinko".  The preferred place to eat your fish was at the bar for ease of conversation purposes, but we always went as a family and state law prohibited kids from sitting at the bar (I was 10, my sister 6) so we ate at a table but were still able to be included in conversations. That was a long time ago. The last time I was in that neighborhood was over ten years ago, and it will be my last visit. Swinko's is now a dilapidated apartment complex, Lindner's grocery store on the corner across from Swinko's is a private house and the entire neighborhood is a Hispanic barrio in badly deteriorating condition.

Here in North West Georgia there is a pseudo Fish Fry Friday. There are no taverns. Most restaurants offer fish and some as a Friday special. One issue I have is that many restaurants serve only catfish. We like catfish but don't prefer it. Often it has a musky, muddy taste to it. Our preference is cod or halibut but they're hard to find. There are a few sport's bars but I don't know if they offer fish, and they're a far cry from the neighborhood tavern I'm talking about, as pictured above. Seems like these days everybody's into Wings with a plethora of sauces ranging from mild to scorch your larynx. 

Maribel and I will be going out for fish later this afternoon. What prompted this post is that in the shower this morning I asked myself, "Why?...why are we going out for fish?" I asked Maribel that question and she answered that part of the reason is to mark the end of the week (though weekends are really meaningless for us as every day is the same), and because she didn't have to cook. We both agreed that none of the restaurants we're familiar with have a unique or particularly pleasing ambience. And some of the restaurants have better fish than others, but none are better than the fish Maribel cooks at home. Mostly what's going to be missing today is the social experience. When we go to a restaurant with friends it's a whole different ballgame. There's conversation, there's life, and the establishment itself seems to take on a more lively, friendly, interactive atmosphere. It's not a neighborhood tavern, and you don't know anybody other than the people you're with, but it does sorta kinda bring back memories of the Fish Fry Friday 'Swinko's Tavern' experience. 

I know that I can't go back to those days, and I don't know for sure that Milwaukee taverns still serve fish fry's. In fact I'm not even sure that corner taverns exists anymore. I hope so. I'd hate to think that the Swinko's era has passed. 

Un Dia Perdido

Today is going to be a lost day - un dia perdido. Storms are forecasted with strong winds. My project list during Maribel's absence is pretty well completed. Plus it's Sunday. I never liked Sundays, even as a kid. Sunday was a visit-grandpa-and-grandma day. And I had to wear my best clothes which carried with it the caution from mother that, "...and don't you get those clothes dirty or I'll tell your father!" And the other kids were doing Sunday family stuff like visiting grandpa and grandma, going to the zoo, taking a ride in the country or having a picnic in a park so there was nobody to play with and nothing to do. It was in those early days that I discovered the value of a sanctuary - a place where I could relax, read, or just feel good and think about things. As a little kid I shared a bedroom with my sister so the front porch was my sanctuary. Later I had my own room and that was my first real sanctuary where I could enjoy my privacy and also shut out the trials and tribulations of being a teenager. 

For the next 40 years, living at many different addresses I didn't have a sanctuary; didn't really even think about it. Wherever I was I always had a favorite chair for reading or listening to music but that's not the same thing. Later, when everything in my life went south; when I threw up my hands in surrender and said screw it, I bought a place in Wisconsin's north woods. It had what the previous owner called a sun room. I've always been a history buff and particularly medieval history, and I could see the potential for a medieval sanctuary in that sun room. It didn't take me long to build a medieval chest, table and lamp, and to locate medieval wall hangings and drapes. At night I'd light candles, listen to new age music and let the peaceful feeling of Camelot wash over me. I loved that room.

Fast forward to Chiclayo, Peru. We built a second floor apartment and off of what we designated as the office area was a small triangular space that we weren't sure what to do with. We thought about adding a door and using it for storage but it seemed like it had more potential than just a storage room. That's when  the thought of a sanctuary took shape. Maribel, Brian and me lived in the apartment and sometimes one of us or all of us would sit in what we called El Bistro watching the movement on the street with only candles for illumination. I spent hours stringing beads to make the room divider. It was a great place to eat lunch during the day and to watch the world go by at night.

On to the present. We decorated our home in northern Georgia pretty much as we wanted it. There was a room off of the kitchen-dining area that except for a filing cabinet was empty. That changed when we purchased a humongous Queen Anne dining set. It forced us to rearrange the living room, kitchen-dining area, and to utilize the empty room. Our old kitchen set had to go in it, which dictated that we do something to complete the room, and that was when the idea of El Bistro II arose. We had to buy a few things but mostly it was just a matter of relocating items we already had. To top it off and maintain the El Bistro tradition, Maribel strung beads for the doorway. 

Yesterday I also said that it was going to be un dia perdido, but that changed when I went to get the mail and upon opening the box had it fall into my hands. The wood base attaching the mail box to the metal pole had rotted and crumbled. I didn't have the right size board so had to splice and join some pieces to make one. Then it had to be painted and while it was drying I went to Home Depot for machine screws, nuts and lock washers. All of this while working in between isolated thunderstorms so the project took me most of the day.

I am determined that today will be a lost day. Unless I remember something I should do or something else comes up. But until/unless that happens, I intend to spend a good part of the day where I am right now...sitting in front of that lap top in El Bistro II.

What?!!!...You don't Speak Spanish?!!!

I think that question is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. It surfaced again last Monday at a neighbor's family reunion. Several of the people were from Brazil and during the conversation I was asked if I had ever been to South America. I should have said no, or maybe said that I'd been to Peru and let it go at that. But no, I was foolish enough to say that I'd lived in Peru for nine years, which led to the inevitable comment, "Oh, so you speak Spanish". I've got three options when that happens. I could say yes, and hope that no one begins to speak to me in Spanish;  I could say no and quickly excuse myself and walk away, hoping that no one later remembers that part of the conversation, or I could be honest and say that I never reached a conversational level of Spanish. But inevitably the last two answers will elicit the response, "What?!!!...you don't speak Spanish?!!!" And they say it with an inflection suggesting that nothing of this magnitude has ever happened since the dawn of man. Which immediately puts me on the defensive.

For most people there are only two possible explanations for how a man could live in Peru for nine years and not learn Spanish. One, I was hit by a Daewoo Tico on Balta Ave in Chiclayo and was in a coma for nine years, or two, I am el idiota del pueblo. Never having been hit by a Tico, that pretty much limits the choices. 

It's not as if I didn't try. Before moving to Peru, Maribel and I lived in northern Wisconsin for two years. We would have learning sessions where we helped each other learn our new languages. Maribel was much more successful than me. I started out with a faulty premise; that for every English word there was a Spanish word. All I had to do was match the two up. I was tearing it up...Hola = hello, como estas = how are you?, bueno = good. I figured that in a month or two I'd be speaking Spanish like a Chiclayo native. Then I hit the wall. I couldn't say what I wanted to without conjugating verbs. I'm not even going to get into that nightmare. After about two months of futility I adopted a different strategy. I quit. Forget about it. I reasoned that once in Chiclayo and completely immersed in the language I'd soak it up like a sponge. No correcto. 

After arriving in Chiclayo I used a pocket translator to practice. My first goal was to go to Bembo's, a hamburger joint in the Real Plaza mall and order a meal. I wanted to order a cheeseburger, medium fries and a diet Coke. According to the translator I had to say, "Quiero una hamburguesa con queso, papas fritas medianas, y una Coke light." No problem. I got this. I walked up to the counter and said to the man, "Senor, yo no hablo Espanol." Then I recited my order, at the end adding, "...nada mas." I held out the money. Then the guy responded with two or three sentences. I replied "Senor, no entiendo." The guy repeated his words but louder. I said, "Senor, mas volumen no ayuda." You see the problem here?  I'm telling the guy that I don't speak Spanish, yet I'm speaking Spanish. And he's understanding me but I don't understand one word from him. Not one. It turns out that the guy was asking me what I wanted on the hamburger and did I want to upgrade the fries to large.

And that's the way it went for nine years. When I used what little Spanish I had it just caused confusion so I stopped using it. And I never was able to understand Spanish spoken to me. It wasn't just that many Hispanics tend to speak fast. It went beyond that. I did have a fairly sizable Spanish vocabulary. Why did I never hear any of those words when people were speaking to me or someone else? That issue persists to this day when Maribel is speaking Spanish with someone. And why did so many people, especially men sound like they were gargling rather than talking? 

I'll return to Chiclayo someday. I would have gone with Maribel this trip if it weren't for all of the Covid restrictions which really complicates traveling and visiting. Before I go maybe I'll try to brush up on the language again. It would be nice to be able to correctly tell Delia for instance that I am happy to see her again, rather than to nonsensically say to her that  fish are purple or the cattle are dying. 

I Just Might Throw Down the Gauntlet.

In my backyard there is a grove of young trees; tall bushes really. I don't know what kind they are and they are not attractive looking, but in the spring they have small white flowers that give off an aroma that is absolutely captivating. I am being serious when I say that if that aroma could be captured and marketed I believe that millions of dollars could be made. In the middle of that grove is a young pecan tree. The nut was probably planted by a squirrel from a grove of pecans in a different area of the yard. The tree is about 4" in diameter at the base and 20' tall. It doesn't belong there. My only plan for today is to cut it down and debark it. The trunk is straight as an arrow for 10', and the wood under the bark is almost white. I have no idea why I want to do it or what I will do with the pole when I'm finished, but that's what I'm going to do today...sit in the shade, debark a tree and watch the world go by. Fade to black.

Okay, the tree has been cut down; visually I can't even notice that it's gone, the branches have been removed and the pole is propped against a tree in the yard. Before I start debarking I need to decide what I want to do with it. The diameter at the butt is 3.0" and the total pole is 18' tall. It weighs 12.2 lbs. Yes, I took the bathroom scale outside and weighed it. So What!!

Even though the pole has a bend in the middle my first thought was that it could be used for pole vaulting, but at 12.2 lbs it feels to me like it would take two men and a boy to run the required distance carrying it; planting it into the receptacle and then vaulting over the cross bar. On an aside, if one of the men and the boy made it over the cross bar but the other man did not, would that be considered a valid vault? 

Weight aside, the pole is definitely strong and very flexible. I think that any vaulter who used it to launch him or herself from a track and field event in the Chattanooga area would probably come down in Paduka, Kentucky. Which would be okay if they had some reason to go to Paduka. And if there was a track and field event in Paduka so they could use the pole to get back. 

Now there's another idea! What if every town had a pole vaulting receptacle, or what ever that thing is called that vaulters stick the pole in before launching themselves. If vaulting poles could be manufactured with the strength and flexibility of my pole, a person could probably make it from Miami to Seattle in maybe 8 to 10 vaults. Think of it...no crowded airports, roads, train or bus depots, and no cost other then the one-time purchase of the pole. Now, with the sky full of vaulters at first you'd be hearing a lot of THUNKS as vaulters collided mid-air and crashed to the ground, but some sort of traffic control could be worked out. This is something to be developed.

Another thought I had was to make a jousting lance from the pole. Actually I could make two lances, though one would be thinner and lighter than the other. In medieval times a jousting lance was about 7' long with a metal tip. I'm thinking I could carve and attach some sort of ornate spear-like point. I'd paint it gold or silver. I'm not sure if I would decorate the lances or leave them their natural off-white color.

Whatever I do I'd want to test them. I'd want to challenge someone to a joust. It probably wouldn't be hard to find a competitor. I could walk downtown wearing my "Straight, White, Male" tee shirt. That would be sure to offend some member of one of the many 'minority communities'. But I don't need to go downtown. I know that at least two of my neighbors are offended and infuriated by my stance on Trump and Covid. They would probably gladly engage me in combat.

I'm not sure how we'd do the actual joust. None of us have horses. We don't even have bicycles. I guess we'd just sort of run at each other while shouting out insulting medieval phrases like "You crooked-nosed knave!", and "You're a cox-comb!" I think I'll challenge one of their wives first, just to get the hang of it. Preparest thyself for combat, oh thou doxy!