"I am a Rock"

This morning I paused while crossing a wooden foot bridge and gazed at the brook below. The late morning sun hung in a cloudless southern sky. My goal was to attempt to understand the effect that the mottled sunlight and slowly moving water had on the objects upon which they played - specifically a rock. It wasn’t that cold and I had time on my hands.

My mother was an artist. She might observe such a scene and, through the prism of her mind, use her hand, brush, and pallet of paints to create her visual interpretation of the scene on a canvas or piece of paper. I’d seen her do it countless times.

I am an artist as well, but possess mostly the ability to write and lead you, the reader, to visualize what I saw through your mind’s eye as opposed to your actual eye.

Occasionally I wonder about such things.

My friend Betsy is an artist – a painter and a singer (she’d challenge me on the latter.) Yesterday during dinner, I asked her how she had become a painter.

“I’ve always been able to paint,” she replied.

“Always, like since always!?” I queried. How far back is always and how do you know when you actually have what might be considered a talent, I wondered to myself?

“Since elementary school, I was the kid who could draw and paint," she went on. “Teachers recognized it and, for the most part, encouraged it.”

In that regard, she was like my mother. A difference was that mom went to art school while Betsy went to a liberal arts college. Both continued their lives while their once burgeoning artistic talents were turned into avocational endeavors. After kids, after dad, mom began to paint again. Betsy kept her skills alive by using vacation time to attend painting workshops with well know artists.

“What would you learn,” I asked? “I mean, what could another artist teach you that would make you a better painter? Is it about the paint, the paper, the brush, the canvas...” I had run out of variables. I was trying to compare it to writing – better grammar, sentence structure, but to me they were incomparable. Perhaps I was also trying to better understand my late mother.

“I had a wonderful teacher years ago who would begin each day with a fresh piece of (very expensive!) water color paper and he’d just go.” Betsy had removed herself to a faraway place as she fondly recalled an act of learning.

“One day,” she continued, “it was a stream. He’d move some blue-green paint effortlessly across the paper. A gray tree would be added, then more trees. We’d all watch. It really was amazing see him work, Jack.”

I visualized the class huddled around the master’s easel and wondered how they learned whatever they were learning.

“In an hour or so he’d be done, she went on. We’d then spend the rest of the day at our easels painting our own streams while he walked around giving us individual pointers.”

“What might he say to you when it came to be your turn,” I asked? Betsy smiled. I wasn’t certain if she was nurturing a memory or patiently indulging my boundless curiosity. “Am I being a pest,” I continued? “You’ve got me going. I’m just really curious.”

“Not at all.” She laughed out loud. “Let’s see, what might he say?”

She thought for several seconds, took a sip of her drink, glanced at the desert menu, and returned her eyes to mine. “A rock looks different underwater than it does above the water. It’s a different color and the sunlight plays on it differently. The water has motion that both reflects and absorbs the light in different ways. Sometimes a stick will get stuck behind a rock. That changes everything. It’s so much about the light, Jack.”

The light.

Her words faded as her eyes lowered.

And so I paused this morning while crossing a wooden foot bridge and gazed at the brook below. I focused on a submerged rock. I watched the water slip over and around it while the sun twinkled and played on it through the trees. Betsy had reminded me that it was important for a painter to remember that the light always comes from the same direction.

To my eye, on that brook, this morning, there was nothing but light. There was even light in the absence of light. A thousand shades of light danced in every crevice and every corner.

It was blinding.

It was a moment.

I lingered until I felt that I could linger no longer and moved on.

Thank you, Betsy.

Thanks to the rest of you for visiting.

Jack

"My Father's Eyes"

On April 4, 1946, Lt. Col. Donald H. McLean Jr. and five U.S. Army colleagues, while on a visit to Rome from their headquarters in Berlin, were granted an audience with Pope Pius XII. The following (edited) account is taken from his diary.

Having agreed to meet at 11AM, we rose at a reasonable hour and had a casual morning. Several of us went shopping for gifts. The main drag had all sorts of tourist items, especially leather goods. I got a bottle of perfume (2,000 lira) and a set of wooden band figures. I also purchased several rosaries for the Pope to bless.

At the appointed hour, we were driven to St. Peters in two cars under the leadership of a representative from the American Embassy. Driving in was like entering a castle. We passed through several gates, each positioned with the famous Swiss Guards who saluted smartly as we passed. We stopped in an inner courtyard, were ushered inside, and had our hats and coats checked.

After a brief wait, we began our trek through the 12 rooms that lead to the Pope's anteroom. They were all very ornate in a quiet red plush medieval sort of way. Several had chairs set up, apparently for Papal audiences. The Swiss Guards were everywhere, dressed in their distinctive costumes. We encountered another brief wait in a room about four removed from the main one where the Pope sat. We all stood by. We were then ushered into the anteroom, lined up, and waited again.

A Cardinal and several clerics of lesser stature filed out as we were ushered in to greet the Pope. As instructed, we knelt on one knee, held his hand, kissed his ring, got up, and took our seats which had been arranged in a semicircle around his desk.

He wore a pure white vestment, skull cap, and a beautiful diamond studded ivory crucifix on a chain. His sapphire ring was surrounded by small diamonds. I noticed that he had lovely hands with long fingers. He spoke in English and seemed to understand it as well. At the center of his desk was a box of blue (for boys) and white (for girls) rosaries as well as a small stack of envelopes about one inch square.

After greetings and introductions, there ensued a brief discussion about the dire food situation in Germany. The Pope had recently met with former U.S. President Herbert Hoover who had been appointed by President Truman as a special envoy to determine the food status of the occupied nation. The Pope was complementary of all that America had done in this regard and was to give an address on the subject that afternoon.

The Pope asked each of us where we were from and listened carefully and attentively as we spoke. He then asked if we'd like a rosary. I took 2. He blessed them with a wave of the hand. He similarly blessed the ones that we had purchased earlier. After about 15 minutes, the he slowly rose to his feet, came around the desk, shook our hands, and gently (but firmly!) let us out. We then filed back quickly through all 12 rooms again. It had been a most impressive event which words are inadequate to describe.

We were then led into a room jam packed with about 700 standing people who had come to see the pope for a public audience. The crowd included some 100 young Italian children (5-7) in white dresses. We were led to chairs along the side that were in front of the rope that separated the crowd from the Pope's chair.

With all carefully arranged, the Pope entered through a side door. The children clapped loudly and broke into a chant which I did not understand. It sounded like a college cheer. He blessed the crowd, went up to the dais, and sat down. He spoke in English then repeated his words in Italian. He concluded with another blessing, rose, and slowly departed through the same door. The children again clapped and cheered loudly.

The Pope had an obvious human touch that reminded me of General Eisenhower. There was nothing pompous about him. He appeared to be very friendly and kind.

The Wheels on the Bus (Redux)

Readers here may recall the Byzantine challenges faced by the school children of Knotts Island (The Wheels on the Bus, 12/7/07.)

Readers may also recall my anticipated participation in the Most Excellent California Christmas Ever (12/12/07) in Davis, about 10 miles west of Sacramento.

In what unlikely way are these two entries related?

Davis sits in the Pacific Flyway, a major migration route for waterfowl and other North American birds. The Yolo Bypass Wildlife Area provides habitat for thousands of resident and migratory waterfowl on more than 2,500 acres of wetlands.

Knotts Island sits in the Atlantic Flyway. The MacKay National Wildlife Refuge provides a sanctuary for thousands of migratory waterfowl on more than 8,000 acres of primarily wetlands and marshes.

Davis and Knotts Island are flat and low (elevations of 51 and 10 feet respectively.) Agriculture dominates both areas. Big green John Deere farm equipment dots the landscapes. Ginormous pickup trucks are also common to both areas. Many in this area have Confederate flag licence plates on the front. California requires a state issued front plate.

Davis covers about 10 square miles. Knotts Island covers perhaps 20 square miles, with better than half being the MacKay Refuge.

Davis bills itself as a "a university-oriented city with a progressive, vigorous community noted for its small-town style, energy conservation, environmental programs, parks, preservation of trees, red double-decker London buses, bicycles, and the quality of its educational institutions."

Knotts Island describes itself by acknowledging that "not many people have ever heard of us. We're generally unknown to the travelers who visit North Carolina's Outer Banks every year."

The City of Davis was founded in 1868. Knotts Island is unincorporated, so was never really founded, per se. The Outer Banks were formed about 8,000 years ago after the glaciers melted.

The population of Davis is about 65,000. The population of Knotts Island, by my guess, is about 1,000. I could be way off.

Davis has more than 50 miles of bicycle paths and more bicycles per capita than any other city in the nation. Knotts Island has no bike paths. I am one of, perhaps two or three adults that I have seen publicly riding a bicycle.

Davis has 10 elementary schools in addition to secondary schools ,alternative schools, etc. Knotts Island has a small elementary school. Period.
O.K., so Davis is a comparatively large progressive place with thousands of kids, a Starbucks and a Borders, and probably a Gap. Knotts Island is a backwater with a couple of hundred kids, a small post office, country store, and a restaurant (of sorts.)

What's the point?

Knotts Island school children are bussed to schools, some across state lines - some by ferry, that lie in two states and are as much as 40 miles apart.
The City of Davis, California does not own a school bus. Not one (they do lease several from a bordering town to transport kids with special needs.) Every child walks, rides a bike, gets driven, or (in the case of some high schoolers, I suppose) drives.

I am at a loss to draw a conclusion from this except that Davis probably has healthier kids.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack