An Answer For Ed

The Jonquils as they looked this morning
Taken 2/11/07

My internet friend Ed, in Columbus, Ohio, is the one person in my life who forces me to think about what I do when I shoot or edit pictures. Lots of people tell me to darken skies, straighten horizons, increase the color saturation, but only Ed asks me what I’m thinking when I select a particular scene. I’ve never met Ed in person, but I know that he has a background in Art History and has worked as a professional photographer. The type of questions he asks are the kind I would expect from an Art Historian. They are similar to the questions we asked in my literature classes at UC Berkeley.

Recently he responded to an image I sent him entitled “Homage to O’Keeffe III.” He was very complimentary concerning the Photoshop enhanced photograph and my skills, and I thank him for that, but then he started talking about composition, technique, equipment, and the “rules” of photography. I never responded to his e-mail, but I will do that now. And if any of you are interested in what goes into my submissions, please feel free to read over Ed’s shoulder. I’m sure he won’t mind.

As I get deeper into photography, I find that there are four different areas that intrigue me. The vast majority of my shooting involves landscapes or seascapes. I shoot a lot of birds. Architectural shots fascinate me, but I’m growing to love the art of portraying flowers—hence my Homage to O’Keeffe series. In my mind, flowers, birds, landscapes and buildings require four different approaches, both in shooting and in editing. I’d like to address each of those areas separately.

Architectural Photography

Jacksonville Oregon Presbyterian Church
As printed and scanned from original negative

Back in the 1980s I was struck by the Judith Basin County Courthouse in Stanford, Montana. Judith Basin County has 2,300 people crowded into 1,880 square miles. By my reckoning that’s not even one and a quarter people per square mile. Yet their courthouse, built in 1925, is a three story structure with a rotunda. It’s a very grand building for such a small place. As I traveled around Montana, I kept noticing how much money and effort went into these governmental buildings, most of which date from the late 1800s and early 1900s. I conceived of a project to be tied to Montana’s statehood centennial in 1989 where I would photograph each of the fifty-six county courthouses and put together a coffee-table book on these magnificent buildings. Unfortunately, I had neither the skill, the time nor the money to complete the project, but I did get a lot of interesting courthouse shots from around the state.

Photographing large buildings presents many challenges, not least of which is finding a point from which to capture as much of the building as possible. And since municipalities tend to frown on people tearing up shrubbery or removing signs, you get to deal with various distractions, most of which are going to end up on film or in the digital medium. Fortunately, photo editing programs are designed to handle such “distractions.” As an example of what I do, I offer two versions of the same shot of the Presbyterian Church in Jacksonville, Oregon. Driving through this historic town I was attracted by the design of the church and especially by the bright red tree on the corner of the church’s lawn. By the time I found a place to park, the moment had passed, the sun had moved on, and the lighting just wasn’t as compelling as it had been when I first saw the church. Nevertheless, I got out the Pentax, both lenses, and my Nikon L3 digital point and shoot. The top photograph shows the result (well, one of them). This is the unedited photograph taken from across the street. I dislike intensely hiding natural landscape elements, and rarely remove man-made objects from my landscapes. In this case, however, what I wanted to show was the church (and tree), and not a lot of pavement, wires, parking signs, etc. The first thing to do was to crop the photo to eliminate the expanse of street visible in the photograph. I also chose to “clone out” the wires crossing the front of the building and the parking sign directly in front of the church. All of these are distractions, and the wires especially tend to draw the eye away from the building itself. Finally I changed the lighting to approximate the scene that had first caught my eye. Whadda ya think? Is the image below more appealing than the one above? Maybe I should revisit the Montana Courthouses idea.

Jacksonville Presbyterian Church
As submitted to The Photographers' Workshop

Landscape Photography

In the case of landscapes, and by extension seascapes, I’m not as willing to eliminate the distractions. My first task is to frame the shot in the camera so as to avoid distractions. Shooting the sunrise on Friday I walked a couple of blocks to get a view of the sky unencumbered by power lines. If I cannot remove such elements in the photo shoot itself, then it feels dishonest of me to remove them in an editing program. Wires, for good or ill, are part of our environment now. They’re ubiquitous and it seems to me unreasonable to expect to see pristine landscapes when such no longer exist. Were I trying to recreate an historical period, it would be different, but if I’m showing you the Ship Ashore on US 101, you’re going to see the trailer houses, electric wires, and street signs that are a part of that particular landscape. As an example I give you the McCullough Memorial Bridge at Coos Bay, Oregon.

McCullough Memorial Bridge, Coos Bay Oregon
As downloaded from digital camera

I’ve posted this picture before in my blog on bridges, but here you get to see the original shot as well as the edited version. As you can see by looking at the two, there’s very little difference. I’ve adjusted the lighting and the color saturation. That’s all. I didn’t crop the photo, even though there’s a lot of water in front of the bridge, and I didn’t remove any elements by cloning or airbrushing. There’s a lot of water in Coos Bay, and it seemed appropriate to me to show that when preparing what is essentially a landscape shot that happens to have a bridge in it. This is the way I approach almost all of my landscape and seascape shots. The main exception is that if there happens to be a weed that popped up at the lower edge of the photograph, or if a tree or rock on one edge spoils the symmetry, I’ll crop or clone it out, depending on the image. But for the most part, all I do is lighten the shadows, darken the highlights, and add some color saturation so that the image presented comes closer to what I saw before lifting the camera.

McCullough Memorial Bridge
As Submitted to Eyefetch

Birds

I treat birds completely differently. Birds, as a rule, are so small that they rarely fill the frame. Furthermore, not being Audubon, I don’t feel free to kill the bird and then pose it the way I want it to appear. (Audubon did that—check your history.) So I’m faced with the problem of finding a bird in the wild (or in the wilds of my own back yard) and then trying to make a presentable image with what I’ve shot. This usually requires lots of cropping, enlarging, and even cloning so that the bird is presented in a natural way, but free of major distractions. I will say that some birds make this relatively easy. Gulls tend to congregate in parking lots where there aren’t a lot of distractions. The scrub jay seen here was not that cooperative. In this pair of images, again two versions of the same shot, you see the original of the jay high up in the bare beech tree in my back yard. Thank goodness for long lenses and lots of megapixels. I was able to discard virtually all of the original shot, leaving only the jay and the twigs immediately surrounding him. We expect to see birds in trees, shrubs, on power lines, etc, so I can crop most of that out and you’ll still have an honest shot, in my opinion. With mammals, on the other hand, I feel the necessity to leave some of the surrounding landscape. When I photographed the elk for my Alphabet 2006 book, I felt the need to leave the pasture land visible as well. (E is for Elk, don’t cha know.) It was what I’ve heard called an “environmental portrait.” As elk can be found in pastures, as I did, or in forests, or around here even on the beach, I felt it necessary to show just where I did find my wapiti.

Scrubjay in Tree
As downloaded from digital camera (above)
As submitted to Eyefetch (below)

Flowers

That brings us to flowers. I’ve been shooting flowers since the early 70s. You’ll find black and white 8 x 10 glossies of lilies, daisies, etc. in my first portfolio—pictures taken for a UC Berkeley Extension class in photography back in 1974. Flowers in black and white. Hmmm. Since I’ve been in Smith River I’ve been amazed at seeing flowers blooming every month of the year. You wouldn't think I grew up in California. I guess thirty plus years in Montana has made me forget that there are places where winter means the rain is cooler. Flowers have drawn my camera on an almost daily basis. As I organize my photographs by date, you’ll see roses, fuschia, pansies, azaleas, etc throughout the images I’ve taken over the past year. When the calla cluster in the back yard first drew my attention, and made me think of the paintings of Georgia O’Keeffe, I started learning photo manipulation in earnest. In “About Myself,” which O’Keeffe wrote in 1939, she talks about how flowers are so small that people don’t really see them. “If I could paint the flower exactly as I see it no one would see what I see because I would paint it small like the flower is small. So I said to myself—I’ll paint what I see—what the flower is to me but I’ll paint it big and they will be surprised into taking time to look at it—” O’Keefe’s One Hundred Flowers has become one of my favorite sources of inspiration. Looking at her interpretation of these dainty and delicate blossoms, I’ve honed my photoshop editing skills, working to extract the essence of the flower and then make it big. There is nothing dainty or delicate in O’Keefe’s flowers. I’m leaning toward producing the same effect.

Calla Lily
As Downloaded from digital camera (above)
As submitted to Eyefetch (below)

The first in my Homage to O'Keeffe series

So, Ed, I hope that begins to open my mind to you. I know I haven’t addressed all your questions, but I think that this is enough for now. Thank you for making me think about what I’m doing and why. Please keep on challenging me, pushing me, making me respond. I cherish your honesty and friendship. Should I ever have the opportunity to start shooting male nudes, I’ll be thinking of you as well.

Oh by the way, I’m heading east the end of March to visit family in West Virginia. Hope you won’t mind a visitor who’s passing through town.

Another Saturday Night

You and me and rain on the roof
Caught up in a summer shower
Dryin' while it soaks the flowers
Maybe we'll be caught for hours
Waitin' out the sun

--John Sebastian

The same jonquils as seen yesterday
Taken while lying on the grass in the rain
The things I do for you people
Taken 2/10/07

Sitting at my desk in Smith River, looking out the window above the computer screen, I see the water pouring off the edge of the gutter. I suppose that means I should clean out the gutters—and probably the downspouts as well, but as the old man said to the Arkansas Traveler, “Couldn’t mend it now it’s a rainy day.”

Yesterday sure wasn’t. It was supposed to be. Something like an 80% chance of rain, but the 20% came through. I was out first thing in the morning, camera in hand, and got one picture of the half moon in the morning sky before it disappeared behind high clouds. Then I walked up to 101 and got some shots of a sky of gold over the eastern hills just before the sun itself rose. Coming back to the house, I got the picture of Gypsy I’ve been wanting for ages—the doggie in the window shot. It helps that when I had the new drapes made, I washed the windows inside and out. The folk at Eyefetch have given Gypsy good reviews for posing so well. And since I titled the picture “How much is that doggie in the window,” one of my reviewers felt obliged to tell me that the dog was NOT for sale. Which, of course, she’s not. You don’t sell your kids.

After finishing my writing yesterday, and doing the work that actually brings in the money, Joe Gartland showed up. He runs a tree service and I had called him to ask about trimming the overgrown, and over-broken, beech in the back yard. There are several limbs that have broken off much too high for me to get them down. When I called Joe, and gave him my name, he knew the house immediately. Turns out he trimmed that same tree for my mother some fifteen years ago or so. Joe walked around the house with me, telling me all the plants that would have to come down if I didn’t want the house destroyed, and finally came up with a cost of $800 to do everything that needs done—everything that is except trimming back the large rhododendron just outside my study. It is preparing to bloom and I don’t want it touched until after it shares its glory with the world. The part that bothers me most is losing the two holly bushes alongside the garage. They’re so beautiful and so large, but Joe insists they’ll ruin the siding. Dry rot or some such.

Purple Calla
Minor digital enhancements
Taken 2/9/07

Business done, I headed up to Brookings to find timers for the lights and a Rubbermaid® Compost Box like the one we have at home in Missoula. Since it was just after lunchtime, I decided to have lunch at the Smokehouse, a restaurant/gift shop/fish market on 101 just south of Brookings. I’ve driven by the Smokehouse for over thirty years and have never actually stopped there. It was time. Past time, actually. When I walked in and tried to find the seating area, or a waitress, or someone, a woman approached me and asked if I needed any help. When I told her I just wanted lunch, she replied that they no longer had a restaurant. Damn. Wouldn’t you know it. I asked how long that had been the case, and she told me since last April. Well, I couldn’t feel too badly then. I mean if they’d closed the restaurant in January, I would have been very upset with myself. So what’s Plan B? There’s the Fox’s Den in the Harbor Shopping Center, or the Bella Italia toward the northern end of Brookings. Both had been recommended, and I had tried neither. But Fox’s Den still looks more like a bar, an Irish Pub as the sign in the window states, and Bella Italia, it turns out, does not serve lunch. But right next door, actually the two share the same building, is Rancho Viejo. Now I love Mexican food, and I hadn’t tried the Rancho, so why not.

Rancho Viejo’s yellow pages ad states that it’s the most popular Mexican restaurant in the area. I couldn’t really say as this was the first time I was there, but I do know that there was a steady stream of customers entering the restaurant for lunches even later than my own. I also can state, for the record, that the Relleno Burrito I ordered was quite large, quite good, and ridiculously inexpensive. The service, however, was quite slow, and once my plate was put in front of me, my waiter disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. I overheard someone ask him if he were all alone, and he replied yes, so there was a good reason for the slow service. I’d definitely go back as both the food and the price were right, but I’d also go back planning on a nice leisurely meal.

Fred Meyers did not have any composters. “It’s not Spring yet” the fellow in the garden center told me. He also cautioned me against spending very much on plants as “Winter isn’t through with us yet.” So I looked at the table upon table upon table of roses, but didn’t buy any. I did get four more primroses and two more pansies. At $1.25 for the primroses and $1.50 for the pansies I didn’t feel I was throwing a lot of money away, and even if they don’t survive the ravages of the Winter yet to come, they sure brighten things up now. Besides, the pansies I planted last year are blooming away and the primroses I bought a couple of weeks ago have almost completely recovered from being the rodent lunch I found when I moved them from the washing machine to the back yard. Three of the four plants are back blooming and the fourth shows signs of wanting to bloom.

Same basic image as above
Major changes thanks to Photoshop Elements 4.0
Digitally enhanced 2/10/07

One other plant I picked up was a small potted purple calla lily. I was looking for a birthday present for Carl, and this was so pretty that I just couldn’t resist. Before delivering it to the soon-to-be-birthday-boy, I took several shots of the plant, one of which I submitted to Eyefetch under the title “Homage to O’Keeffe III.” Now that I’ve found primroses among O’Keeffe’s paintings, I may be forced into doing a series of O’Keeffe homages. While I won’t share the photo I submitted to Eyefetch, here are a couple of other images, one with minor enhancements through digital editing, and the second with major enhancements.

One last stop on the way home—Sears to look at vacuum cleaners. Since I first saw the Dyson machines at Linens-N-Things several years ago, I’ve wanted one. Suffice it to say that I now have one. It’s big, beautiful, RED, and boy does it do the trick. I had no idea there was so much dirt in the carpets here. I have been vacuuming all along. Family stories say that the first “toy” I requested as a small child was a vacuum cleaner. I’ve been buying them ever since—and some pretty expensive ones too. The Dyson isn’t cheap, but it’s considerably less than I’ve paid for others. If it lasts the five years of its guarantee, I’ll be happy.

It’s Saturday (another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody), and I should be out doing things. There’s a chocolate and art festival at Brookings High School. It’s Second Saturday, which means that the art galleries in Brookings are having their monthly walk around—like First Friday in Missoula. There’s a Scottish folk singer up at Pistol River, a high school dance concert in Crescent City, play performances in Gold Beach, a crab feed in Port Orford. So many choices. Or Logo is showing “bitter” movies like M. Butterfly today with the “sweet” movies like Adam and Steve tomorrow. Maybe I’ll just stay home and vacuum.

Ring Around the (Prim)Rosie
Smith River, California
Taken 2/10/07 (in the rain)

Remember the Ring?

Jonquils springing up in back yard
Smith River, California
Taken 2/5/07

Maybe it’s all just coincidence. Except I believe there are no such things as coincidences. I do have four plausible explanations for not feeling well the past couple of weeks. Any one of the four could be the reason behind my silence which I’ll explain as a feeling of headache and nausea any time I spent more than a few moments in front of the computer. It’s been so bad at times that I haven’t even felt like being out with the camera, so I’ve taken very few pictures since I’ve been back from the Russian River. And since I had no new pictures, and since I felt that no one really wanted to hear a diatribe about being sick, I haven’t been blogging. But now it’s time to get it out of my system, as it were.

Jeff Beebe is an excellent massage therapist. He even wears a t-shirt that says “Massage Therapist” and he approaches his work emphasizing the “therapy” part of the message. Just up the street from the Smith River house is the Wellness Center run by an acupuncturist and offering various wholistic health treatments. Jeff’s name is one of those found on the Center’s sign. I had considered scheduling a ninety-minute massage back in March, 2006, shortly after I arrived in Smith River, and I wish I had. I know from past experience that everything in my life goes better when I’m getting regular treatments. But one thing led to another and it was January 23^rd, 2007, when I had my first session with Jeff.

Now I think we can all agree that the past year has been a pretty stress-filled period for me. And I’m sure I don’t need to say how much damage stress can do to the human body, mind, soul. So when I lay down on Jeff’s table that Tuesday morning, my body was pretty stiff and knotted. Jeff worked on me for an hour and a half, then noted the various places he had triggered “events” (my word, not his)on my chart. Every time he noticed me jump, twitch, or otherwise respond to his manipulations, he’d ask if I was all right. Of course I was, but sometimes the deep muscle work really hit a point that made me feel like jumping off the table. If I hadn’t known how much my muscles needed to loosen up, I’d have been very upset.

You’ll remember, faithful readers, that on Friday, January 26^th, I made reservations for a three day weekend on the Russian River and then got to feeling so bad that I almost cancelled the trip.

So, Scenario Number One: The deep muscle work on Jeff’s table opened up my lymphatic system and got some of the toxins flowing out of my body—a toxic cleanse in other words. That can make you feel pretty miserable. You’ve got poisons traveling through your body and even though they’re working their way out, they still have the power to lay you low in the process. I’ve done enough work with nutraceuticals to recognize that fun process.

Same jonquils as above
Smith River, California
Taken 2/9/07

While on the mini-vacation, I felt better, but still had recurring flashes of the headache/nausea that, while mild, were enough to keep me close to the resort and make me question my plan to drive home on twisty, turny, up and down California Highway 1. I’ve written enough about the trip so that you know that everything turned out fine, and I got home safely Tuesday evening.

Wednesday morning, January 31^st, I had to have the car over to the nearest authorized Volvo Service Center in Medford Oregon, so up at the crack of dawn, pack up Gypsy and the camera equipment, including my new 400 mm fixed lens which had been delivered while I was driving home from the Russian River. Put on the leather jock which had also arrived in the mail while I was down south, and head off across the coastal mountains to the Rogue River Valley to get my leaks fixed—er, my car’s leaks fixed, that is. Having dropped the car off, and picked up a nice little C70 as a loaner, I met my friend Jim for breakfast, then did some serious shopping. First at Bach’s Camera Store, then Barnes and Noble, lunch at Red Robin, and I was filling a shopping cart at Office Depot when my cell phone rang. My car was done, and two hours earlier than expected. So instead of continuing on to Costco, I headed back to Southern Oregon Subaru Volvo Mitsubishi and traded cars (and more than a few bucks) to get the V70 back. For what I think is the first time since I’ve been taking the car to these folk, they didn’t have anything new to fix on a subsequent visit. After finishing my shopping with a trip to Costco, it was back on I-5 and US 199 to return home, a bit earlier than usual.

Thursday found me so wrung out from the previous two days of driving, that I spent the day recuperating. Friday and Saturday I was able to get my posts from San Francisco and the drive home up, but the wooziness was coming back in force. Sunday and Monday it was all I could do to get my financial work done on line. Just sitting at the computer caused the band to start tightening around my head and the nausea to begin creeping up my torso. The idea of sitting here for two hours editing photographs and writing a note, no matter how brief, just wasn’t in the cards.

Scenario Number Two: The stress of the past year has caused a change in the shape of my eyes and my prescription for corrective lenses (read glasses) is no longer doing the trick. This seems quite likely as the problems seem to manifest themselves most strongly when I’m staring at the computer screen. When I get back home I’m definitely going to have to go see Tom Ferguson, my optometrist for the past thirty years, and see if he can tell me what’s going on.

Magnetic Choker with green glass beads
Specially made for me by Joseph Smith
Pain B Gone Kiosk, Rogue Valley Mall
Medford, Oregon
Scanned 2/9/07

And while we’re at it, Scenario Number Three: Neither the massage session nor the glasses are behind this. Somehow in my non-existent social life, I picked up a bug and I’m just going through a prolonged cold/flu/virus type illness. I rarely get sick, and Lord knows I haven’t been around other people enough to pick up anything from them, but who knows the way of the evil viral infection?

Turning the Franklin Planner to Tuesday, February 6^th, there was another ninety-minute session with Jeff. I explained how I’d been feeling to him, and ran my three scenarios past him to get his input. He agreed that we had opened up some major blockages two weeks earlier, and the toxic cleanse option was quite possible. Lying face-down on the table, I could not find a comfortable position. My throat hurt no matter how I tried to position myself. Jeff had me lie on my back and spent at least a half hour working on my neck. Boy was it stiff. Still, as my friend Sandy used to say about her experiences at the hands of an Esalen Institute Rolfer, “It feels so good when she’s done.” Tuesday afternoon was spent mostly in bed, or lying back in the Barcalounger. No activity for this boy.

Wednesday, however, was another story. Carl had an MRI scheduled for noon at the Medford Open MRI, and his doctor was livid when he suggested he’d be driving over, so for the second Wednesday in a row, the Volvo, Gypsy and I made the 200+ mile round trip, this time ferrying Carl to his appointment. While in Medford, in addition to the obligatory stops at Costco and Barnes and Noble, (What no camera shop, no Southern Oregon Volvo?), I headed over to the Rogue Valley Mall while Carl was going through the machine. Jeff had suggested I pick up some crystals and told me about Siskiyou Artisans. With the sore throat now added to the headache and nausea, I wondered if my throat chakra (connected with communication don’t cha know) was blocked. Jeff had suggested that an aquamarine crystal would be helpful in clearing that particular chakra, and suggested that I pick up a couple of clear crystals for clearing negative energy from my back. Siskiyou Artisans had the crystals, and lots of other lovely things, including a Himalayan Natural Crystal Salt Candle Holder which I picked up to put some negative ions into the atmosphere at home.

Walking back through the mall, I stopped at the Pain B Gone kiosk run by the cute young guy (of course I did), checked out his selection of magnetic jewelry and ended up having him make me a choker with green glass beads mixed through the magnets. Anything to open up that throat chakra. By the time he finished assembling my choker and I drove back to the Open MRI, Carl had just finished and was waiting for his images. Back to Costco for those few items we’d forgotten in the morning, and home by mid-afternoon. Lots of rock on the road on 199 and I was grateful for the high clearance and skid plate on the Volvo.

Thursday I woke feeling like I might live and perhaps the dis-ease had cleared itself from my body, but no. There was still enough residual headache to keep me from spending any time on the computer. Lunch with Bear and Paul at the Bistro Gardens at Crescent City’s harbor. Good friends, good conversation, good food. Who could ask for more. And on the way into town, camera gear stowed on the passenger’s seat, I counted red pickups. Forty of them between Dr. Fine Bridge and the restaurant. Alas, by the time lunch was done, the rain had come in earnest and I just didn’t feel like exposing either myself or the D80 to the elements.

Whatever it is, I’m tired of it. I will not allow it to continue to plague me. One last possibility is Scenario Number 4: There is a mold or something similar in the house to which I am allergic. Note that I can travel and feel almost normal. It’s only sitting in this house that I feel off. But, believing as I do in the Law of Attraction, this is the last of the energy I will put into this headache and nausea. It does not serve me and it will disappear! I have spoken.

Thanks for putting up with my ranting on this issue. Tomorrow we’ll talk about something positive and good. Oh, and (to quote Anna Russell) “Remember the ring?” Well, yesterday morning, I went out to the garage to bring in the books I’d carried to Medford. There, big as life and twice as natural, was The Ring—sitting on a book on the back seat, minding its own business, oblivious to the fact that I’d torn the car apart looking for it. Who knows where objects go when they’re hiding from us. It’s now at home on my middle finger where it’s not as likely to fall off.

The Ring!
No Nibelungen here.
Photographed 2/8/07

North, East, West, South--not necessarily in that order

And let the sun set on the ocean
I will watch it from the shore
Let the sun rise over the redwoods
I'll rise with it til I rise no more

Talk to me of Mendocino
Closing my eyes I hear the sea

Kate McGarrigle

Russian Imperial Flag
Fort Ross State Historical Park
Sonoma County, California
Taken 1/30/07

I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that news, as in what we read in the newspaper or see on TV comes from the four points on the compass. Of course, etymologically the two are not at all related, but still.

Tuesday morning, I packed up the Volvo, had a last breakfast of granola and coffee at the Highlands Resort, and hit the road, heading west at first on California 116, then north on California 1. I’ve mentioned before that California 1 gets cited routinely as the most scenic highway in the US, and Tuesday morning, it lived up to that promise. I lived in California long enough, and have spent enough time since leaving the state in 1975, to know that mornings like this are rare. Blue skies, blue water, clear vistas, beautiful as they are, usually fade out under fog, overcast clouds, or rain. But not Tuesday morning.

SOUTH

I don’t recall exactly, but I believe it’s ten or twelve miles from Guerneville to Jenner-by-the-Sea where the Russian River flows home to the sea. In that dozen miles, there were three spots where traffic was stopped for construction. The joys of summer travel. Oh, wait. This is January. In time I reached Jenner and turned north on 101, heading for home. I passed one gas station in Guerneville, where regular was selling for $2.61 a gallon, and another at Jenner with gas at $2.64 a gallon. Driving north, past one more construction zone, I began to worry about the amount of fuel in the tank, Theoretically, I should be able to make it to Mendocino, or even Fort Bragg, but theory doesn’t cut it when the road goes up and down and in and out, cutting into your mileage figures, and the state doesn’t bother to put up signs telling how far it is to the next town. Half way between Jenner and Fort Ross, I made up my mind that I’d fill the tank at the next station, no matter what the price. Paying a few cents more per gallon was worth the peace of mind on this road with no shoulders and few wide spots for getting off the road. I was also getting a bit peeved over the fact that every turn in the road gave a new and ever more glorious vista, but no place to pull off and take some photographs. The few wide spots I saw were all on the wrong side of the road and all right at blind curves. No way would I cross the double yellow line when a semi might be right around the rock face in front of me.

Russian (née Slavyanka) River Meets the Sea
Jenner-by-the-Sea, California
Taken 1/30/07

I’ve called this section “South” not because it was the beginning section of my trip home, and therefore north, but rather because of Fort Ross, the next wide spot in the road north of Jenner. If you don’t know your California History, you may not be aware of the significance of Fort Ross. I will assume you know enough about US History to at least have heard of Seward’s Folly. Shortly after the Civil War, Secretary of State Seward arranged for the US to purchase Russia’s holdings on the northwestern edge of North America. Congress balked, and it took two years, and apparently some bribes by the Russian Minister to the US, for the purchase to actually go through. The purchase of Alaska in 1868 ended Russia’s North American land ownership. What you may not know is that the Russians had expanded well beyond Alaska.

The Spanish began their expansion into what was then called Alta California (as opposed to Baja California) largely in response to the Russian fur traders coming to the area in the 1700s. Mission Dolores, also known as Mission San Francisco de Asis, was founded in 1776. The California missions, which were built approximately one day’s horse-back ride apart, spread from Mission San Diego in the south to Mission San Francisco in the North. Just to be confusing, I suppose, the mission in what is now the City and County of San Francisco has traditionally been called Mission Dolores. Mission San Francisco is two days (by horseback, or approximately 50 miles) north of the Golden Gate in the town of Sonoma. Today, most people refer to the latter as Mission Sonoma, as it would be way to confusing for the tourists to call things by their proper names. What does all of this have to do with the Russians you ask? Well, allow me to enlighten you.

In 1812, while the English and the French were fighting for supremacy in Europe, and Napolean, just coincidentally was besieging Moscow while the British were burning the White House in Washington DC—gee, isn’t history fun—a ship landed on the rocky coast of what is now Sonoma County, and a group of Russians and Alaska natives disembarked and proceeded to build a stockade and houses. It seems that the Russians were looking for agricultural land to supply their outposts in Alaska, and in as much as the Spanish had, at that point, advanced no further than Mission Dolores, you could say that Spanish California extended no further than the Golden Gate and Russian California began just north of that natural boundary. Both of the Spanish missions north of San Francisco were built in the 1820s, Mission San Rafael being officially “founded” in 1822, ten years after the establishment of Russian Fort Ross, and Mission San Francisco de Solano (Mission Sonoma) in 1823, after Mexico declared its independence from Spain.

The Russians remained at Fort Ross, and even established other farming communities along the Slavyanka River, but when they were able to arrange for the Hudson Bay Company to supply the Russian settlements in Alaska, California became almost a handicap—too far away, and too small to bother with. After trying unsuccessfully to unload their California property to the Mexicans, in 1841 they concluded an agreement with a German fellow you may have heard of, Johann Sutter, who bought the Russian property lock, stock and barrel. Sutter, of course, is the man behind Sutter’s Fort in Sacramento, and the person who owned the land where gold was first found, leading to the California Gold Rush and the 49ers, not to mention the 1850 admission of California as the thirty-first state, a “free” state. And that is why today, the Russian Imperial Flag flies over a California State Park, and why the Slavyanka River is today called the Russian River—the southern boundary of Russian North America.

By the way, I filled my tank in Fort Ross at $2.85 a gallon.

Point Arena Light House
Mendocino County, California
NOT the Westernmost Point in the Lower 48
Taken 1/30/07

WEST

Continuing north on California 1, with a full gas tank and no worries, I continued to be struck by just how beautiful the area was. I hadn’t traveled this part of California in over thirty years and by the time I reached the Sea Ranch, a housing development between Fort Ross and Point Arena, I had decided that I would have to devote a minimum of one week just to photograph the Marin, Sonoma and Mendocino County coastline. My mantra became “One week of blue sky, warm weather, and a sports car.” I repeated this over and over. Mind you, the Volvo handles as well as or better than most cars I’ve owned, but oh to be driving this road with the top down. I began to wonder how many millions of dollars it would take to be able to retire at the Sea Ranch—with that sports car, of course. It was a magical journey, with turkey vultures soaring just overhead, and waves crashing into the cliffs and sea stacks just off shore. I fell in love with the California coast all over again.

I had spent so much time at Fort Ross that it was now past lunchtime. I had intended to eat in Mendocino or Fort Bragg, but when I saw the turn off to the Point Arena Light House, I knew I couldn’t pass up this photo op. Point Arena bills itself as the western most point in the lower 48 states. I’m not quite sure how they get away with this, as Cape Mendocino looks much further west on my maps. Actually, looking only at the longitude, my house in Smith River is further west. Nonetheless, I took the four mile drive out to the lighthouse and got some good shots. Unfortunately, by this time, the blue sky had been covered over with gray and the temperature was beginning to drop. In short, it was beginning to look like a typical coastal day. Returning to Highway 1, I noticed the Rollerville Café and the Lighthouse Pointe Resort. Figuring that any food would be better than another hour of hunger, and attracted by the sign warning that this was the last restaurant before Hawai’i, I pulled into the parking lot and stopped for a late lunch.

If you’re passing by at lunchtime, I recommend the Rollerville Café. The menu was fairly extensive, with three different specials, but I ordered off the regular menu—fish tacos. I had my choice of breaded or sautéed cod, and went with the waitress’s recommendation of breaded. As a side, I choose green salad with blue cheese dressing. The plate came with two fully loaded soft shell tacos and a large green salad topped with sliced strawberries. This seemed a novel touch to me, but the added sweetness enhanced the salad and actually worked well with the blue cheese dressing. The tacos were delicious—among the best I’ve had. (Not as good as those served in Gold Beach, Carl, but still very tasty.) I assumed that the strawberries were placed in the salad by the kitchen staff, but apparently not all customers make that particular leap. My waitress asked if I had noticed them (how could I not?) and then informed me that several customers had asked if she knew there were berries in their salad. I suppose spontaneous generation of salad strawberries is possible in this or some other universe, but in my experience, sliced fresh berries just don’t appear without some sort of human interaction.

Cabot Cove, Maine as seen in TV's Murder, She Wrote
AKA Mendocino, California
Taken 1/30/07

EAST

The Navarro River was deep green as it flowed to the sea, and I had to stop and take some pictures. More pictures once I’d crossed the river, and even more as I continued north. My original intent had been to stop in the coastal town of Mendocino, have lunch, do the tourist thing, and pretend to be in Cabot Cove, Maine. In case you didn’t know, the exterior shots for the tv series Murder, She Wrote were filmed in the California coastal community of Mendocino. Having eaten at the first restaurant since Hawai’i (the other side of the sign I mentioned earlier) I no longer felt the need for lunch. Having spent so much time at Fort Ross, then Point Arena, I no longer felt the luxury of having time to play tourist, so rather than drive into the town, I continued on north to Fort Bragg, the largest seaside community in California north of San Francisco.

There’s a special spot in my heart for Fort Bragg. The second time I saw the Pacific and played on the beach was at Fort Bragg. We were living in Colusa at the time, and Fort Bragg is the western terminus of California Highway 20, which passes through Colusa about midway between the coast and the Sierra. I was ten or eleven at the time, and the one thing I remember is trying to make sand angels on the beach (like snow angels, only in sand). I’ve only been through Fort Bragg one other time, back in the early 1990s, and didn’t realize how much the town had grown, but as in Mendocino, I looked at my watch, promised myself a trip back, and pressed on.

NORTH

About twenty miles north of Fort Bragg, the highway turns inland to cross the coastal mountains toward its northern terminus at Leggett, site of the famous “Drive-thru Tree.” Crossing the Eel River, I stopped to get pictures of the bridge, upriver, downriver, and the rocks on the cliff above the river. Once on US 101, I drove without stopping till I got home about 8 p.m. Smith River isn’t the northernmost town in California, but at 3 miles south of the state line (as the crow flies), it comes close. Smith River is officially located at 41.92833 degrees north. Dorris, California, in Siskiyou County (the next county east of Del Norte), is at 41.9675 degrees north. The state line is 42 degrees north, the same imaginary line that separates New York State from Pennsyvania.

Both Bear and Gypsy seemed happy to see me home, and it was good to find that blazing campfire at the end of the winding road.

When I come home to you, San Francisco

My love waits there in San Francisco,
above the blue and windy sea,
When I come home to you, San Francisco,
your golden sun will shine for me.

Words by Douglas Cross, Music by George Cory

The first picture I've taken in San Francisco since 1997
Taken from the Land's End Overlook
1/29/07

In December, 1974, I carried my possessions down three flights of stairs, loaded them in my pickup and a rented U-Haul trailer, and left the San Francisco Bay Area where I had lived since 1962. After spending Christmas and New Years Day with my parents in Smith River, California, I headed north and east to start my new life by moving into my parents’ three-room log cabin in Montana’s Bitterroot Valley. In August, 1975, I headed back to the Bay Area for a brief visit and was amazed at how strong the energy field was. Mind you, I had been living in a log cabin, a mile and a half from my nearest neighbor for eight months. I had been out cross-country skiing every day from January through April, and at 25, I was probably the healthiest and in the best shape that I’ve ever been. Driving south on US 93, then west on I-80, I first started feeling “vibrations” at Reno. By Auburn, California I could feel a definite “pulse” in the air, and when I pulled off the freeway and parked at my girl friend’s home in Oakland, I took my own pulse—110. I was amazed. I grew up and learned to drive on these roads. What happens to people who have never experienced this kind of traffic? Do they have heart attacks on the Interstate?

After that experience, I made it a point to visit the Bay Area every other year, whether I needed to or not. This was relatively easy as long as my high school and college friends remained in Berkeley or nearby. Then, after I came out of the closet in 1978, I watched as more and more of my gay Montana friends moved to San Francisco (as well as Seattle, Portland, Denver—anywhere more hospitable than home). I’d make a trip to San Francisco to visit Montana friends, pick up more Princess Points as an out gay man, and maybe see old high school and college friends. I’d make these trips in connection with visits to my parents on the North Coast, killing two birds with one stone, as it were. In 1997, I met a guy on-line in an AOL chat room, and in no time we were chatting every day. I made eight trips to San Francisco that year, spending time with John, even going so far as to plan a flight to Ixtapa that was routed through SFO, just so I’d have an extra weekend with the SFBF (San Francisco Boy Friend). In November of that year, El Cerrito (California) High School’s Class of 1967 had its 30 year reunion, and I attended with John as my date. I didn’t hear from John at Christmas. He didn’t acknowledge the birthday present I sent him, and frankly, I’ve only heard from him once since then. I dunno. I enjoyed the reunion. But I never returned to San Francisco.

Not until this past Monday, that is. Guerneville was picturesque, with gay men on every corner, and the Highlands Resort was charming and romantic, but those were not the attributes I had left Smith River to find. Since the weather had been beautiful and the clear blue skies were supposed to continue for a few more days, I decided I could drive home on California’s Highway 1 on Tuesday, freeing up Monday to visit San Francisco. Had Tuesday’s weather forecast been anything other than clear and sunny, I would have spent Monday on the coast visiting Fort Ross, Jenner-by-the-Sea, and maybe even Bodega, the location of Tippi Hedren’s home in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds.

The path to Mile Rock Beach, complete with Stairs
San Francisco, California
Taken 1/29/07

Having made my decision to head south instead of west, I got up Monday morning, soaked for a while in the hot tub, had breakfast at the main lodge, then drove down to Coffee Bazaar for a latte and croissant, not to mention the free WiFi service. When I completed my on line work, I hid the computer in the back of the car and drove east on California 116 through Forestville and Sebastopol, catching up with US 101 at Cotati. South through Petaluma, known for its chicken farms and arm wrestling competitions, into Marin County and the towns of Novato, San Rafael, Mill Valley and Sausalito, and there I am, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. Had you asked me, I would have told you that San Francisco was my favorite city, followed by Paris, London, Vancouver, Edinburgh, and Portland in no particular order. It was the standard answer I gave when asked. The fact is, however, that San Francisco is not my favorite city. It is, rather, the one city in the world where I feel at home. Everywhere else I travel I am a tourist, visiting for a few days and moving on. This is true even in Portland where I’ve spent more time in recent years than any other place outside Montana or Smith River, and the one city I would consider relocating to. But I’m not a tourist in San Francisco. I’m back home.

I took the 19^th Avenue exit from 101 and drove south to Geary, then west to park near the Palace of the Legion of Honor. Where I expected to find a street running along the cliffs above Land’s End, I found instead a large parking area complete with benches, fences, and those devices that pass for public binoculars—put in your quarter and see the sites. I parked the Volvo, put the D80 on its tripod, and quickly shot a few scenic views. There used to be nude beaches at Land’s End and at nearby Baker Beach, and frankly, I just wanted to get naked and lie in the sun listening to the waves hit the shore. Walking down the trail toward the Legion of Honor, I kept noticing another trail lower down on the cliff. Now I remembered that trail, and knew that I had to be on it to find the paths leading down to the water. It was all familiar, and yet quite different. When I did find a way down to the lower path, I was amazed to find signs pointing out all the nearby attractions, and even a staircase leading down to what is now called Mile Rock Beach.

Once on the beach—which was assuredly NOT Land’s End—I found a few people, all fully-dressed, and lots of rocks. Someone had put a lot of time and effort into making rock cairns all along the beach. I walked west until I ran into a cliff that would have required swimming around, then stopped, took some pictures, and headed back to a more accessible part of the beach. Here I removed my shirt, ate an apple, and read for a while. I had the beach entirely to myself at this point. Later, climbing back to the car, I found the signs indicating just how much work the City was putting into beautifying this new tourist attraction. I doubt that nude beaches are considered part of the improvements.

Stone Cairn
Mile Rock Beach, San Francisco
Taken 1/29/07

Before I left the area, I stowed the camera gear in the back with the computer, so there will be no pictures here of the Great Highway, Golden Gate Park, Haight Ashbury, the Castro, or North Beach and Chinatown, even though I passed through all of those areas. I didn’t even get out of the car in Golden Gate Park, although I knew I’d have to come back and spend at least a week wandering the park with my camera. Even with a week, I’d only scratch the surface of all the images in that wondrous place. I did walk several blocks through the Haight, and found the piece of jewelry I wanted. I also walked past the Lycée Français where I got to hear a mother actually say “Oo là là” as she watched her child playing basketball. I even had a Crèpe Madeleine for lunch. (Turkey, cheddar and mushrooms, in case you were wondering.)

In the Castro, I renewed my membership in the Human Rights Campaign http://www.hrc.org/ and had a wonderful chat with the fellow minding the store. We chatted about mothers, ex-lovers, carrying a lot of baggage around with us, and just how faithful was Dreamgirls to the Supremes/MoTown story? I could easily have spent the whole day talking with this delightful man. In another shop I bought the replacement for my old and faded rainbow flag, picked up yet another sticker to put on the Volvo, this time the blue, black and white leather stripe so that the Volvo will match the Saab, and got my second rainbow ring. Years ago I had purchased one of these rings and wore it with pride for quite some time before I lost weight—including finger fat, and the ring fell off somewhere without me noticing. Harbor Jewelers in Brookings/Harbor, Oregon, has a similar ring advertised on a billboard just a couple of miles from my house in Smith River. They’re charging $1400 for the ring, as the rainbow stones are all sapphires. I passed on it then, but in San Francisco I bought the version with the glass stones for $50. Now that I’m back in Smith River, I sure hope I can find it. That is to say I hope it fell off my finger in the car or while unpacking, and not on the beach at Fort Bragg or along the Eel River. Maybe I’m just not supposed to wear rainbow rings. Boy am I glad I didn’t buy the $1400 one.

I spent an enjoyable few hours in a men’s club on Market Street, then headed back toward the Russian River with the idea of having a delicious and exotic dinner in Chinatown or North Beach. Unfortunately, even though I had had no problem finding parking in the Haight, in the Castro, or in the area near the club on Market Street, the only space I found in North Beach was a yellow zone—30 minute parking only. Knowing that I’d take much longer than half an hour to enjoy dinner, I reluctantly gave up and returned to US 101 northbound. Dinner would be baby-back ribs at Chilis in San Rafael.

The Surf at Mile Rock Beach
San Francisco
Taken 1/29/07

I didn’t realize just how much I love San Francisco. I can’t say I left my heart there, or that my love waits there, but the city by the bay will always be a part of me. This post has been the hardest for me to write to date, as I keep blinking back tears. I’ll be back, San Francisco, and much sooner than ten years from now.

One Day In Guerneville

Guerneville Bridge (1922)
Now a pedestrian bridge across the Russian River
Taken 1.28.07

It sounded as if someone was jumping on the deck outside my room. Either that or they were thowing luggage around and it was bouncing off the deck. I checked my watch. 2:30 a.m. Hmm. Maybe the bars just closed and my neighbors in 15 had imbibed a bit too much. Then the shouting started. I understand it all now. The children in the next suite were having a lovers’ spat. Loudly. With much cursing and swearing and throwing things. At 2:30 in the morning. At one point a car door slammed, an engine turned over, headlights came on, and I watched out the window to make sure the Volvo was safe. The next thing I heard was the sound of a young man crying, sobbing actually. The rescuer in me wanted to console him, but somehow I managed to ignore that particular voice. I could not, however, fall back asleep, so turn the light on and do some reading.

Later, when I got out of bed at a more normal time, I headed over to the lobby to see if I might plug into the high-speed internet connection. It was twenty minutes before the door would be unlocked for the breakfast crowd, but Holly graciously let me in and I had the same problem that Bear had had at my house. The computer told me I was connected, but it couldn’t find the internet. This game is getting old. With the prospect of not being able to do my on-line work, this was looking to be an extremely expensive three day weekend.

The resort serves coffee, juice and granola on weekday mornings, but on the weekend Holly bakes muffins—and delicious muffins at that. I had two, and was tempted to have more, but I’m not the only guest here, after all. Packing up the laptop, I headed down the hill to the Coffee Bazaar where I had a delicious raspberry mocha, a slice of mushroom spinach quiche, and an immediate wireless internet connection. With breakfast and work now done, I hid the laptop in the back of the car and set out to explore downtown Guerneville.

The first thing to catch my eye was the bridge crossing the Russian River. Today, set aside as a pedestrian bridge, the graceful iron work spans the river and gives great views both up and down stream—through a heavy metal grid work undoubtedly designed to keep Billy Joe McAllister from throwing things. Two black men were drumming in the plaza at the north end of the bridge, and I boogied out, camera in hand, to see what vistas might be photo-worthy.

Main Street, Guerneville California
(With 2 red pickups!!)
Taken 1/28/07

Back on the north bank, I visited several shops including Twice Told Books where I picked up the latest issues of the Advocate, Out, and Poets and Writers, and a used hard-bound copy of Keep On Dancin’—the story of how disco was born. At Wayne Shele’s shop, I admired the dragons, the ducks, and some beautiful rayon scarves, and bought The Joy of Gay Cooking, one of those spiral bound church-lady cookbooks “compiled and edited by the Metropolitan Community Church of the Redwood Empire.” The $15 price went to the church. The recipe for Couscous with Mango, Ginger, Almonds & Cashews sounds promising, but I’ll probably pass on Sautéed Brussels Sprouts for People Who Hate Brussels Sprouts as I’m one of those people who HATE Brussels Sprouts. And if you’ve been wondering what to do with those 300 crates of tomatoes and 4,000 pounds of onions that you have peeled and chopped in the pantry, the church even has a recipe for that—the Los Angeles County Annual Barbecue Beef Dinner for 75,000 People!

Up the River is a fun “toy” store which did not have the particular piece of body jewelry I was looking for, but did have several other wonderful things, including a small sticker saying “Bears Come in All Shapes and Sizes” which will soon be adorning the Volvo. Chocolate and Hemp yielded a couple of Scharffen Berger 1 oz chocolate bars, a hemp t-shirt for me, and one that is being sent off to my very own TokerBear. Personally, I don’t indulge in any kind of smoking material, but I am insensed that our Congress can name Bourbon the National Drink and outlaw Marijuana at the same time. The shirt that Gary will be receiving in the mail is made of hemp and has two pictures on it, one labeled “Good Bush” and the second labeled “Bad Bush.” I leave it to you to put two and two together.

John Rizzi is an artist working in glass. He makes beads, fish and marbles, primarily, and has a gallery just off Armstrong Woods Road where he sells his work and that of other glass artists. The gallery is staffed by John and Kazoo, both of whom are very friendly folk. I fell in love with two different pieces, neither, alas, by John, and bought one of the pieces. Now comes the question, how do you display a large glass male torso? If you’re interested in seeing some of John’s work, his website is www.johnrizziglassworks.com.

John Rizzi and Kazoo
In John's Glass Studio and Gallery
Guerneville California
Taken 1/28/07

Walking to the ATM, my camera mounted with its longest lens hanging from my neck, a woman approached me on Main Street. “Take a picture of a homeless person?” At least that’s what I think she said. She told me a story of identity theft, being out of work, unable to get food but able to get alcohol, and then she blessed me and went on her way. As I returned from the ATM, she approached me again, this time imploring me with her eyes. I asked if she needed help and handed her a bill—a much larger bill than she was expecting, I’m sure. She blessed me again and again, so I asked if I could take her picture. I think her name is Lehigh. She spelled it for me, but I never fully understood what she was saying. She did insist that I get the scars on her neck in the photograph, as they were her sole identifying feature.

Lehigh
Portrait of a Homeless Person with Scars
Guerneville California
Taken 1/28/07

Safeway’s parking lot is set aside for a flea market, and I picked up a hardbound copy of Tracks in the Sky: Wildlife and Wetlands of the Pacific Flyway. When I held the book up to the man in charge of the booth, he informed me that I could have it for $10.00. As the original price of the book was $35.00, I jumped at the chance to add this to my photography library. The photographs by Tupper Ansel Blake are truly inspirational shots of wildlife caught from Alaska to Costa Rica, and maybe beyond. I’ll easily have ten dollars worth of pleasure just looking at the pictures and feeling compelled to go and shoot likewise.

Back to the resort, and the hot tub, a nap (remember, the night had been interrupted), then a walk downtown to the Mexican restaurant I had seen while shopping at Safeway. I hadn’t really seen anything more than the sign for Mi Casita, but it was red, white, and green, the colors of the Mexican flag, so I figured the restaurant had to be good. And besides, as Billy taught us in her wonderfully camp cookbook, You’ve Had Worse Things in Your Mouth. The restaurant turned out to be a small, mostly take away place tucked in next to another small restaurant offering Sushi and Burgers—not a combination I favor, although I love both Sushi and Burgers—just not together from the same kitchen. While I was waiting for, then eating my Chicken Tamal and Chile Relleño combination, several customers came in, ordered meals to go, then left. I was the only one to eat in the establishment. I found it curious that the customers seemed to come in groups of three—one woman with two men.

I considered stopping at one (or more) of the bars in town, but 7:00 p.m. seemed a bit early, and as I’m not really a barfly, it was easy to pass on the opportunity. I had really been looking forward to a Margarita with my dinner, but the restaurant wasn’t equipped as a bar, and without thinking I ordered my usual—iced tea. Back at the resort, I told myself that I could sit alone in my room in Smith River, that was not what I intended to do here, so I grabbed Chris Hedges’ American Fascists and headed for the resort’s lobby. Holly and her partner Julie were busily sealing, stamping and putting address labels on a brochure being sent out to resort guests, and were being assisted by one of the current guests, Hank. I had met Hank, and his partner Scott the night before when we watched Harold and Maude. I offered to help with the project, but was told that when the movie started, the project would be put aside. Another movie night! This time The Hepburn/Tracy film Adam’s Rib. I had never seen this classic, so Chris Hedge’s book went unopened, and the five of us enjoyed the film. Instead of popcorn, we shared vanilla ice cream with Raspberry Chipotle Sauce. I can heartily recommend this combination.

Julie closed up the hot tub immediately after we watched the movie, so no soak before bed. Back in my room I read the next two chapters in Hedges’ book. Now I’m truly worried. If we can’t do something to stem the loss of the middle class in this country, we will end up with a totalitarian state led by America’s Taliban, the likes of James Kennedy, Jerry Falwell, James Dobson. Fortunately, I was able to sleep through the night without nightmares.

And the evening and the morning were the second night.