tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82138797153203062024-02-06T20:53:28.467-05:00Linda RobinsonMichigan writer and artist.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.comBlogger721125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-21062196178944279732022-04-19T14:11:00.003-04:002022-04-19T14:11:49.029-04:00Chantepleure Reincarnated<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtfmoks8cxzzHadMqWft4kVMFllD1ktJru4g04Az91B7yIO5JiOBMhyF9SxzPXeLeQ2ff9kNPm3cbPQzR82SG7e5FSOo9WqJXWBqSgToP2kZyLU4DD89vlQ36irTP4q1NABy0QlJcrd6IIf9k4TOZSc0hen2gk_eS6WCFPn4H2h2JhZFd3OGV2EY/s1350/Chantepleure%20Small%20File.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="900" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtfmoks8cxzzHadMqWft4kVMFllD1ktJru4g04Az91B7yIO5JiOBMhyF9SxzPXeLeQ2ff9kNPm3cbPQzR82SG7e5FSOo9WqJXWBqSgToP2kZyLU4DD89vlQ36irTP4q1NABy0QlJcrd6IIf9k4TOZSc0hen2gk_eS6WCFPn4H2h2JhZFd3OGV2EY/s400/Chantepleure%20Small%20File.jpg"/></a></div>
I got a call from a woman at the Huron Valley Council for the Arts. She said she was calling about an author luncheon. Great! Who's the author? <i>Well, you are.</i> There were several more minutes of me questioning whether she had the right Linda Robinson. There is another Linda Robinson who has several books. No, she was pretty sure she wanted me and my book. I told her I could ask a couple of other real authors I know. Did you call because I'm a member of HVCA? <i>Oh, are you? How nice!</i>
There may have been more but I'm embarrassed enough already. She named the book (pronounced it correctly) and told me what the word means. At the end of the call, I said sure, I'd be glad to participate. Then I waited for the call telling me their original choice was now back in town and said yes. Then the announcement showed up in my facebook feed, with my mug right in the center.
Chantepleure was written during NaNoWriMo in 2007. 60,000 words thrown in a document. For the next year, the Sweetgrass Writers wrestled it into a story. We thought it was two books maybe. Perhaps it still is, but I'm not the dividing this after 10 years. We printed it, handed out chapters and segments to each other to edit, question, clarify and finish. Part of the ongoing endeavor was to figure out best way to get it into the hands of readers. I don't remember if it was submitted to traditional publishers: I doubt it. I'd gone through that years before with children's books I wrote and illustrated, only to find that traditional publishers don't want authors illustrating their books. They want their illustrators. Most authors don't ever meet the people who draw their stories.
So, we self-published. Lulu for a printed book (very expensive still) and Smashwords later for an ebook. I filed the book with the Library of Congress, had our local librarian stick it on Ingram (where libraries can order) and then forgot about it.
I wrote Chantepleure to bring to life a closed, boarded-up shop in our little town. The Artcraft Shop had lived as a bits and bobs arty store. I still have a couple of packages my mother bought there. The Artcraft Shop was in a series of decrepit storefronts that included the South Lyon Herald offices on one corner. The Herald moved out and Grande Trunke moved in. High end home decorating. Kathleen's was a nice clothing store on the opposite end, and then the whole block was bought and Kathleen was forced out by 200% increase in rent. That became a remodeling company. An auto paint store opened in the middle. Then The Artcraft Shop was rented, renovated and lives now as The Lemon Tree.
I also wrote Chantepleure to gather my dead friends in one place, so I could visit with them again.
This surprise reincarnation of Chantepleure fits beautifully with the restored Artcraft Shop. My friends are content.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-23533097802085347002020-11-14T02:46:00.002-05:002021-11-29T02:10:12.604-05:00Created for Those Who Suffer<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77exAGgszXab3KpaqdOF-Wc05ltDqsKDNg_5k0fJdwTrtkf3n3LwRuKec6oi6zL29_shSOanwDAfgcSoVLeV1iNoKvnUdk8jDdmfGJYLOCXLTAlJx97Pvyp8h82sZvEzV4cF50BBKwA/s2048/Some+Day.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1354" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77exAGgszXab3KpaqdOF-Wc05ltDqsKDNg_5k0fJdwTrtkf3n3LwRuKec6oi6zL29_shSOanwDAfgcSoVLeV1iNoKvnUdk8jDdmfGJYLOCXLTAlJx97Pvyp8h82sZvEzV4cF50BBKwA/w265-h400/Some+Day.jpg" width="265" /></a>The post title is from Tad Mosel's play <i>All The Way Home </i>and continues "especially those who cannot endure."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In 2004 my sister's best friend was diagnosed with stage not gonna make it breast cancer. I didn't know until I was diagnosed that the younger you are, the less chance of survival you have.</div><p></p><p>Stacy was 28. Stacy was going to die. Soon. </p><p>When Stacy was diagnosed I worked at the American Cancer Society.</p><p>I was going through my 7th surgery about the cancer I was fighting. I had a whole bunch of useless fucking statistics to hoist.<br /></p><p>What I knew once more: I was going to live. Stacy was going to die.<br /></p><p>I had no idea how to be there for her. Or my sister. How to be real. How to cope with the bizarreness of who lives and who dies.<br /></p><p>My sister was suffering. Stacy was not. There is a difference between pain and suffering that the Buddhists can teach us and I am still learning. But Stacy already knew that and my sister soon would.</p><p> My sister asked her <i>what can I do</i>? Stacy told her.</p><p>Help me tell my family I will die. Help me arrange my funeral the way I want it. The family were in shock and denial. Stacy and my sister melded their love with pragmatism.</p><p>My sister spoke to her parents. This is what I know. This is what Stacy wants. I will do her make-up for her casket. This is the outfit she wants to wear.<br /></p><p>Stacy. 28 years old. Dying. The strongest person I had met until then. Until I knew my sister.</p><p>I wanted to honor Stacy's journey.</p><p>I'm an artist. I wanted to send her a card that expressed her strength. I looked and shopped.</p><p>And found nothing.</p><p>Get well. God will save you. Crosses, which are crap art. No. No. <br /></p><p>I rescued Barbie dolls and used them to reimagine a world in which women mattered, but antithetically, fell in love with some high end fashion dolls.</p><p>I repurposed those dolls.</p><p>I spent one entire day photographing the dolls I had, those I knew enough about to resell at a profit, and those I would keep and make outfits for. Out of clothes I'd owned and loved. To express empathy for the journey.<br /></p><p>This is the card I sent to Stacy. AND I WILL REMEMBER YOUR STRENGTH.</p><p>I will. <br /></p><p>Another card was inspired by Barbara* a woman I knew and, who in presentation I attended told her story about the doctor telling her she had 3 months to live. When she asked why would you tell me that, he said because I won't offer false hope.</p><p>She found another doctor in Texas who gave her enough hope to live to see her last Christmas with her children. </p><p>There is an intense focus in specificity, a terminal diagnosis that cannot be understood and won't be felt until you or someone you love has that in their kit. It's a sense of your place in the universe. Small yet mighty.</p><p>The card art has Barbies. Collectible fashion dolls. Irrevalent in this context. But I love them, certainly the ones I kept. I didn't have dolls as a child, so I see the yearning in collecting as an adult.<br /></p><p>The day I did the photography in the local park, I was frightened by a guy who popped out of the bushes. We stared at each other. He held up a cardboard image of Flat Stanley, the current GPS around the world photography image. Share an image.</p><p><i>Flat Stanley</i>, I said.</p><p>Thank God you know that, he said. My niece made me do this.</p><p>That day I also crashed a mountain biker barrreling through my shoot. He was laughing too hard to stay astride.<br /></p><p>I have these beautiful words I have honored all these years.</p><p>I made these images. Dressed this shoot. But it's iffy now. Doll collectors. Pffft.<br /></p><p>Here I am. The writer. The artist. I want this out in the world. I think it matters.<br /></p><p>I also photographed my great-gramdnother's and grandmother's teacups. And my grandmothers's and mother's gloves. And their pearls. And their handkerchiefs. Three generations.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRiS2VBDjnepkcHwP9m7EFITkHtBiT1zEJ89x1n7urIxMS6-Zxyo8sHuWSpk1JkD0pWhyxp1-gv27zuGK-wOXUBkcW7wIJPTp5XXwyEPeo8aHv2YzXBgY78EYxoQ6HK_PPoGLhYzqmA/s1896/Some+Day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1896" data-original-width="1422" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRiS2VBDjnepkcHwP9m7EFITkHtBiT1zEJ89x1n7urIxMS6-Zxyo8sHuWSpk1JkD0pWhyxp1-gv27zuGK-wOXUBkcW7wIJPTp5XXwyEPeo8aHv2YzXBgY78EYxoQ6HK_PPoGLhYzqmA/s320/Some+Day.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Which art matches the words?</p><p> I'm going to offer both. The art is subjective.</p><p> The words are what matters most.</p><p>Addendum: Stacy was buried in the pink suit she told my sister she wanted to be buried in and the suit my sister told her parents to dress her in.<br /></p><p><br /></p>Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-3356167962272285592020-09-26T12:19:00.003-04:002020-09-26T12:26:35.071-04:00Keys to Nothing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjQ10kSQEP189VyH65BNqKd_pnwyjffgFohQQaFCWmGF-T1Op9YThQ3Cqyh2abrf_UiVynt-oaiiaLkZFY0a37w82qGjB_EkGyYT2ineXRj2Sh7AMMM-B3B-KMSO0rt3bArcojUZejA/s2048/Keys+to+What.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjQ10kSQEP189VyH65BNqKd_pnwyjffgFohQQaFCWmGF-T1Op9YThQ3Cqyh2abrf_UiVynt-oaiiaLkZFY0a37w82qGjB_EkGyYT2ineXRj2Sh7AMMM-B3B-KMSO0rt3bArcojUZejA/s320/Keys+to+What.jpg" /></a></div><p>I signed up for an editing workshop. We are to bring an excerpt for something we're working on. We are to state two techniques that we're good at. We are to submit questions for the person conducting the workshop.</p><p>I can't figure out where to upload that stuff either. I hate my homework being late still.</p><p>I'm contemplating the word irrelevant, in a social media realm of OK, boomer.</p><p>And contemplating the word control. I know in my brainpan somewhere that control is an illusion, that we control nothing, including what our brain decides to save into long term memory. My friend and I talk about this a lot. If we have no control, even of how our brain functions, then who or what does?</p><p>Irrelevant. We also discuss the difference between mind and brain. There's an analogy we came up with that both of us wrote down, but I don't remember it, and I'm not sure we are equipped to handle unanswerable questions. Examine how much life is left to you. Contemplate infinity. See how that works for you.</p><p>But the workshop signup started a chain of events that feels exciting.</p><p>I've been writing the story I will learn about editing for 15 years. It's memoir, so it's personal. Friends who have read the blog posts over the years love the stories about the wild ride caregiving is. There are about 60 million people in the USA who are caregiving right now, so maybe there's an interested audience, too.<br /></p><p>So there's that to finish. Complete. Settle.</p><p>I bought a couch. One I picked out for myself. It's too much in the packed living room. What needs to go? My mother's secretary, which is a lovely piece of really large furniture. Her buffet that she bought for her trousseau in 1948? My great- and grandmother's desk that I had brought here when we sold her house? Most furnniture in the house is not mine, not pieces I chose. I don't like antiques. I keep them because? I keep them because of stories. I know the stories of all this furniture. Story provenance.<br /></p><p>I told the friend who agreed to take the buffet that there wasn't anything in it. Then I dumped out the drawers. What's in it are all the things I did not want to throw away or hand out over the years.</p><p>It's a week later and most of the stuff is on the floor. Because in order to put it in one of the 2 remaining desks, I have to empty those, too.</p><p>Each day I choose something to put in the garbage bag sitting next to the pile on the floor. My father kept keys to things he no longer owned, including car keys. There are stories to those keys. But the stories are not mine. I threw them all out, inspired by Stu in The Stand (which I just reread) who–broke legged and dying in the wilderness–goes through his pockets and finds a keyring with keys that will open nothing. He throws them into the gulch. I did likewise.</p><p>Editing. The work and the psyche. Can't fill a vessel that's already full. This furniture offload is the equivalent of emptying the Junk Drawer of Life. Time to broom survival techniques that no longer serve, and have only been accumulating more stuff I can't use but don't want to look at too closely. <br /></p><p>Stories are wonderful. Stories are how humans explain the universe to themselves. Edited stories are even more wonderful.<br /></p><p>Time for my stories.<br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-71972967842993095152020-05-28T12:55:00.001-04:002020-05-28T12:59:04.240-04:00Lyydia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxaWndhOuywjf0lbP1NqVdqqXknH7vLqqjD4RFfYacSq7RLAHHUFTQMyPzJAx8YhaVjcuCHj-cFAX59IoypeTEZAhKhh7k1TJsMKJ44f5DRijRJNl4cQdpqu5MCVKZQin6YbGu6yM4hg/s1600/Sa%25CC%2581mi++Drum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxaWndhOuywjf0lbP1NqVdqqXknH7vLqqjD4RFfYacSq7RLAHHUFTQMyPzJAx8YhaVjcuCHj-cFAX59IoypeTEZAhKhh7k1TJsMKJ44f5DRijRJNl4cQdpqu5MCVKZQin6YbGu6yM4hg/s320/Sa%25CC%2581mi++Drum.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Lyydia
crouched on the icepack alone, eyes closed, her weapon arm hanging
limp at her side, and asked the earth to speak of others on her path.
The River sang beneath the ice far to her left, and Lyydia spoke
softly once — a word of command — to quiet the ice water music so
that the ears of her mind could hear the distance.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
She
thanked Bear for the warmth of his skin on her bones, and for its
sight. She visioned her children and grandchildren home in her
Saariselkä village, swathed in Bear’s sister skins, safe and fed.
She rocked, calling the vision, seeing Bear when it gave its life to
her family. Lyydia was Noaidi, and as shaman, she had returned the
bones to the den, singing the Bear joik, asking for the skill to use
Bear eyes.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
With
Bear wisdom, Lyydia touched her damaged arm with her other furred
hand, sending healing breath from her mind through her blood to the
injury. The pain eased. Lyydia let go of her children grandchildren
vision from Bear eyes and retuned her mind and sight to her
surroundings.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Her
eyes walked the dark blue horizon, unbroken waves of snow and ice
reflecting the northern lights that wavered overhead. Beyond the
great frost-rimed lake, the forest huddled in the distance to her
right. Past the forest, another half day’s journey away, her people
slept, ate, sewed, hunted and waited.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The
reindeer herd snapped attentive. The many hoof sounds ceased, the
frozen lake sending tiny drum rim cracks into the dancing light of
the night sky.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Something
was quietly approaching. Something she could not yet see on the land.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
No
Bear or Wolf spirit showed itself to her inner sight. The deer would
be stamping, snorting, anxious to be away and prone to flight if a
big animal was nearby. The animal coming toward them and her was
alone and smaller.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Lyydia
should not be here. She was a grandmother and her tribe’s shaman,
and she had broken the thread of the village garment by following the
desire of her selfish heart to journey afar and ask the underworld
spirits to send Ringed Seal meat for her people. The crevasse had
almost eaten her life, but she had stopped her fall and clambered out
with only an injured arm. She had been a fool twice on this quest. A
three-time fool seldom returned home.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Now
she was a wounded and tired fool. There were many stanzas of her
lifesong already told, and she was weary with shame and age. Perhaps
Beivve, the sun goddess, was angry with her for being absent on
Beivve’s festival night.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Ah,”
Lyydia said aloud. Her mind sight revealed the other animal that
followed her trail. Lyydia fingered the tooth on the leather thong
attached to the drum on her back. It was hot to her touch. It was one
of the molars special to Wolverine. At the back of its upper jaw, on
either side, these teeth were turned 90 degrees. The molars allowed
the predatory carnivore to tear frozen carrion and to crush bones to
extract the marrow.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The
reindeer were not in calving season, so there were no young deer. The
herd was healthy and no frail old ones would hamper retreat. A
wolverine could take down an unprotected adult reindeer that did not
run fast enough.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
On
this night Lyydia was the slowest of the animals on the tundra.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Holding
the tooth in one hand over her head, she prayed to the tooth that, if
the underworld required another toll for this journey, she alone
would make the offering, and that her village would remain healthy
and strong; that her children’s lifesongs would be sung long and
with joy. Her grandson was a man now; a good hunter. He would take a
wife in the spring, and this is what had sent her on the quest to ask
for Ringed Seal to come to the people. His wedding cloak might be
made from seal skins, bringing seal hunter magic to their home fire.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Her
granddaughter had learned much of Noaidi ways from Lyydia, who had
witnessed her gifts as a baby. Anu would be a gifted shaman for her
village. Whether she would be a mother, Lyydia did not know. She had
not found reason to look into that future. The next Noaidi revealed
herself to her teacher. That was the way. Lyydia had lost herself in
self enough for this day, perhaps enough to end a lifetime.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Face
raised to the sky, the old shaman sang her joik and felt her spirit
mingle with herd spirit and dance on the breast of the earth. Deer
dancing, she rose into the stringed light of the sky, bringing
northern light strength into her body until she could move her hurt
weapon arm high.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Lyydia
unstrung the wolverine tooth from its leather tie and placed it on
her drum. She sat flat on the earth, holding the antler drumstick,
visualizing her lifesong, and began to chant. She struck the rim of
the drum once with the other side of the antler. The tooth would leap
on the drum skin among the runes of Lyydia’s life drawn there;
revealing her fate when it stopped dancing on the skin.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The
club she used to hunt had fallen into the crevasse, along with one of
her snowshoes. Slowly she unstrapped the remaining shoe from her
foot. Using her teeth to save her arm further hurt, she untied the
bindings, separating the long curved edge from the weave in the
center. She set the bindings on the earth and the drum on her back.
The hot tooth she put into her own mouth. She gripped the antler
drummer in her weapon hand and the splintered snowshoe bow in the
other.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0.08in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Lyydia
stood. She waited for the wolverine to come.</div>
<style type="text/css">
P { margin-bottom: 0.08in }</style>Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-60180528553589744792020-04-09T12:23:00.000-04:002020-04-09T12:28:21.941-04:00Back to the Drawing Board<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbloxwFj5lHoZEqZZjciJxMovR9uLD-kGZNTaa13l24DqpjI5NwtrchLTfS0eDv157epxNoXrlt2CGnJLLWGESzeIhO30zBu8jhIrntcATU9RHYQPPQ5hOWMN6w_uWttA1PporFBuL9A/s1600/Brain+April+2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1600" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbloxwFj5lHoZEqZZjciJxMovR9uLD-kGZNTaa13l24DqpjI5NwtrchLTfS0eDv157epxNoXrlt2CGnJLLWGESzeIhO30zBu8jhIrntcATU9RHYQPPQ5hOWMN6w_uWttA1PporFBuL9A/s320/Brain+April+2020.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
We may think we're not being physically impacted by the global pandemic, but we are mentally. I had a progress phone call with an author today, and I wished him a happy Friday. He thanked me <i>in advance</i>, and assured me he is starting by having a good Thursday.<br />
<br />
I looked up how to clean an eraser today. I know how to clean an eraser. My brain just cannot access that information now.<br />
<br />
Getting my brother his breakfast, I changed up the order of prep, and poured milk into his already poured orange juice glass instead of his cereal.<br />
<br />
On hold for 40 minutes to handle a banking transaction yesterday, I forgot what I called to do by the time I got to the person who could help me.<br />
<br />
We have been semi-isolated in our house for 15 years. A Three Story Life chronicles this journey. Our father died in 2017, and, while we have adjusted best able, it limits how often I leave the house. When I go on my version of abroad - grocery shopping, lunch with a friend, the rare and wonderful whole day outing - I have to have someone here to be with my brother.<br />
<br />
For most of those years, I made money illustrating from the Artist Dungeon. I did not meet the people who hired me. I could work 24 hours a day in my pajamas as long as we had toilet paper and coffee. <br />
<br />
That is a lot of experience that should hold me in place well.<br />
<br />
It don't.<br />
<br />
There is a difference between being homebound and being housebound. We are finding how prepared we are, our institutions are, our government is. When we are back to business as usual, I hope it isn't business as usual. Back to the drawing board.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-46969773988881093822020-03-07T14:17:00.000-05:002020-03-07T14:22:12.243-05:00Happy Birthday to Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is the original art for A Three Story Life. We were in a townhouse then. Scott on the top floor, Dad in the middle, and me in the Artist's Dungeon. We had to move in 2014 because neither of the menfolk could make use of the stairs any more. Dad died in 2017 so the art (when I blog which is seldom) has a black band in the midfloor. I'm still in the Artist's Dungeon.<br />
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My friend Geri says the only thing good about birthdays after a certain age is the
cake. She chooses a special one for herself each year. And now I do,
too. It's all about the cake!<br />
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Celebrating my birthday and 10 years of A Three Story Life Writing.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-33389125217806049302019-11-17T14:40:00.000-05:002019-11-17T14:41:45.419-05:00Thank You for Waiting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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NaNoWriMo, 20th anniversary. I wrenched a novel out of November in 2007, but despite 300,000+ words since then I haven't made the sprint to 50k words in the 30 days offered.<br />
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My process has been to create a cover first, and in some years not write one word. This year I made 4 covers, so I expect to not write 4 times as many words.<br />
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The ideas were intriguing. Still are. This year I chose a subject that has been in my brainpan for decades.<br />
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Waiting.<br />
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30 years ago, the title was Women Who Wait. Waiting is an activity we do well. We wait for the perfect partner, wait for promotions, raises. Wait to see the light, wait for dark. Wait for bruises to heal, wait for new ones. Wait for our loved ones to come home from war. Wait to heal, wait to die. Wait for the other shoe to drop. Wait on hold.<br />
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Noticing the messaging while on hold this month. Caregivers spend hours on hold. Doctors, pharmacies, health agencies, state handlers, county wranglers. In my case, when I get mad enough, wait for my legislators.<br />
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Doctor's office: 17 minutes on hold. Sales pitches for new mammogram technology, heart screening check (only $75!) and the ubiquitous messaging that you can do whatever you think you need to wait on hold to do on our website.<br />
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Pharmacy: 22 minutes on hold. Sales pitch op. <br />
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Kitchen cabinet place: "Thank you for continuing to hold. We are assisting other excited home remodelers." Sheesh.<br />
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The doctor's office is just down the street. I've checked the <i>we are busy assisting other callers</i> more than once. Drive down to the office - no one is on the phone.<br />
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Thank you for continuing to hold. We appreciate your patience. <br />
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<br />Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-79590770637284573402019-09-12T15:31:00.000-04:002019-09-12T15:31:23.897-04:00The Patriot 2019<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I drew this in Powerpoint on 12 September 2001. The day before changed America forever. Horrified, saddened and lost, I mourned what was to come from that day onward for my country.<br />
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The day after.<br />
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A woman on a panel recently said we are obsessed with punishment. With revenge, even if it is practiced without heed to justice. I forget if she meant Americans or humanity.<br />
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We woke on the next morning to a global war on terrorism. To more slaughter and jangling patriotism and children and their mothers around the world barely surviving in an apocalyptic aftermath of our righteous battle.<br />
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People who spoke to the idea that violence begets violence lost their jobs, were vilified and careers destroyed.<br />
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18 years later. We are at war on 17 fronts around the world. We are not safer than we were in 2000. We are denying USA asylum to peoples who are brown, and we have isolated our country from helping refugees around the world: refugees who are displaced because of retaliatory hatred. <br />
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We have an administration that no American could have foreseen. Except the people who saw it coming, who spoke about it, and who had their careers destroyed for speaking the truth to power.<br />
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<br />Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-61836685031670317912019-07-15T20:56:00.001-04:002019-07-15T21:13:01.164-04:00Cheryl Ann Mull Moody<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYBddWN5J-T371NYq3oH6xf7hn3Pr_FSBa0GeiL6ueOj5xcy4hbWH2guNLlO-peaYy76xVVXVfzBAMfw0NzQUk3AY8tNGJI4eXP-d6m-tDG1QeEjapxW4Ze3Vp2D9Df36I3JsEV9M0A/s1600/Purple+Rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYBddWN5J-T371NYq3oH6xf7hn3Pr_FSBa0GeiL6ueOj5xcy4hbWH2guNLlO-peaYy76xVVXVfzBAMfw0NzQUk3AY8tNGJI4eXP-d6m-tDG1QeEjapxW4Ze3Vp2D9Df36I3JsEV9M0A/s320/Purple+Rose.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Purple Rose for Our Theatre Queen</td></tr>
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Wild, funny, big-hearted, snarky, wonderful crazy woman. We met in high school backstage. One of the first things she did for me was wrangle a furious girlfriend who just found out the guy who'd started dating me had stopped dating her. Opening night, minutes before curtain up, that girl was going to deck me. The show must go on! Cheryl Ann did big deeds for people and spurned gratitude, but wow – cross her, and she'd take you out at the knees. She always loved her people wholeheartedly.</div>
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Many years later we were roomies in my Detroit house we called The House For Women on Their Way to Do Something Else. She would hear of a woman who could use a room, and in she'd move. Tennessee had a cousin Alabama, who just moved north. Come on in. Cheryl Ann had Tennessee roots her own self. Stinkin' Creek Road, if I remember correctly. We got introduced to peanuts in Coke.</div>
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Cheryl asked - soon after moving in - if she could use the oven. Sure! I said. She came back into the living room - did you know there are books in there? Oh, that's where those went! We both read the books she dragged out of the oven immediately. Forget dinner.</div>
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We all pitched in for household bills, and had a Chinese puzzle box on the coffee table for other stuff. Like psychics. And parties. And stuff. If you couldn't get the puzzle box open, you'd had enough stuff already.</div>
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She had pet names for all of us. She always called me Linda Ruth. She called my sister EA. I called her Cheryl Ann, with a hard CH and a twangy Tennessee accent.</div>
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Cheryl ran phone interference for everyone in the house. Is she here? I'll check. If she got a head shake no, she'd tell the person on the other end whatever story she thought up. If it was my mother, she just told her I wasn't in. She always knew what her friends needed.</div>
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I left the Christmas tree up until April one year. Cheryl Ann told people I wasn't going to take it down until the hostages came home. She always covered our foolishness.</div>
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So many wonderful memories. We laughed more than we did anything else. She loved to laugh, and did often and deep.</div>
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Among the pictures is a welcome home dinner she did for me. Fancy tablecloth, sign, apron et al. I had probably been gone 3 days. She did thoughtful things for people her whole life.</div>
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One of the men I was dating was older. Cheryl called him Dad. We'd take the roomies who were home on dinner dates. Cheryl would start a ruckus before we got down the driveway. "Are we there yet?" "Dad, she's poking me." "I have to go to the bathroom."</div>
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At one of the parties, 3 men I was dating all showed up. The house was big enough, and this party was on all 3 floors and in the back and front yards, so Cheryl would find me, warn me, head him(s) off, and I'd duck up down and around like a cartoon whodunit. She always had your back.</div>
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She saved me more than once, and with love and, when appropriate, a good scold.</div>
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We said when we were old ladies in the nursing home, we'd have a big couch. She would read on one end, and I would read on the other. She's now reading on the big couch in heaven, and one day, I'll take the other end.</div>
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I will always love her. Always.</div>
Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-69001610310106867612019-03-31T22:32:00.000-04:002019-03-31T22:33:25.662-04:00Three Story Life - Toilet Paper Follies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My little brother uses excessive wads of toilet paper. He has started using toilet paper when he pees, too. I called a plumber 3 times in 6 weeks. Twice I was able to have the nice guys come over. Cheery as well as efficient. The 3rd time I got the crank.<br />
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<b>A Lecture Isn't What I Need from a Plumber</b><br />
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You're using too much toilet paper. <<i>duh</i>><br />
Don't you have an auger? <show auger><br />
That's not an auger. <<i>why does it say auger on the tag, then, hm?</i><b>></b><br />
You need this size auger. <hefts his auger><br />
<<i>Ooo that's a big one. Here's your check. Bye</i>.><br />
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<b>1. Hide the Toilet Paper</b><br />
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This worked for the first handful of times. Scott has Alzheimer's disease, but he still can see. He knows where the toilet paper is hidden.<br />
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<b>2. Hide the Toilet Paper Higher</b><br />
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Scott is short, so I thought I could put it on the top shelf in the back. Nope. So I hid it better.<br />
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<b>3. Hide the 12-Pack</b><br />
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Unable to find the new hiding spot, he opened the new 12-roll package on the floor and used that. <br />
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<b>4. Hide the Toilet Paper in Different Places</b><br />
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I figured out that the sound of his belt buckle dragging on the floor means the search for where the toilet paper is hidden is underway. With his drawers dragging, and a bum not in safe travel mode yet.<br />
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<b>5. Hide the Toilet Paper in the Same Place. Listen for the Belt Buckle</b><br />
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This only works if I'm paying strict attention from the Artist's Dungeon directly below the bathroom. This method also requires that I remember where I hid the toilet paper the last time.<br />
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<b>6. Tell the Carers Where The Toilet Paper Is</b><br />
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If I don't remember to reveal the location, there's a text message to be sent. If I don't remember that, I get a text.<b> <i>Where's the TP?</i></b><br />
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<br />Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-59423480936173695212019-03-21T11:48:00.000-04:002019-03-21T11:54:24.918-04:00RJ Spangler Trio and Tbone Paxton Mardi Gras Jazz Music 2019<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtb99oG9KKfuJYr3LVfDFlvve53pdMHnnBGdfbMf4lqZNllB5Nlid3LOLMeviCWMxbrIW2eLlE1f82n8DoGAwJDtIhMStyx2INlw9Sf4wulvIM7cPRBvLqn139L2Fj_C1467WgOauH0w/s1600/Setting+Up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="1600" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtb99oG9KKfuJYr3LVfDFlvve53pdMHnnBGdfbMf4lqZNllB5Nlid3LOLMeviCWMxbrIW2eLlE1f82n8DoGAwJDtIhMStyx2INlw9Sf4wulvIM7cPRBvLqn139L2Fj_C1467WgOauH0w/s320/Setting+Up.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Spring cannot be far behind when listeners find a seat at Salem-South Lyon District Library to enjoy Mardi Gras jazz music with the <a href="http://rjspangler.com/" target="_blank">RJ Spangler Trio</a> and John (Tbone) Paxton. The group opened with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wAMr3V5lN4" target="_blank">Professor Longhair's</a> ode to New Orleans and Mardi Gras. Next up, Art Neville's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3r5SaJGyxY" target="_blank">Mardi Gras Mambo</a>. The link is Charmaine Neville's take. I love the growling baritone sax and the cover art, too. Art Neville just announced <a href="https://www.billboard.com/articles/columns/hip-hop/8491053/art-neville-retirement" target="_blank">his retirement</a> in December 2018.<br />
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This concert appearance is always a welcome musical experience that also delivers an education. Before performing Canjun Country, Tbone shared a history of New Orleans and its music. An organic convergence of <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Expulsion_of_the_Acadians" target="_blank">French Acadians</a> who were expelled from Canada in the 18th century, with West African, Congolese musicology. <a href="https://www.nola.com/300/2017/06/congo_square_history_new_orlea.html" target="_blank">Congo Square</a> was a gathering place for drumming and music in New Orleans (restricted and banned except on Sundays until the 1920s.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1544Np8XreUqjCGWZ3uHs0hdALo-fk_jkaAyolD7jqNHHY78j6Ajb5hqblITafpjHa4bMa9_IoIDdw647FZlsqrSVhvyi4aKtU7PzGhFgA2rSjTUiHBSVNkvMDMxXpa7wDBGXZhegA/s1600/Jake+Jeff+TBone+RJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1130" data-original-width="1600" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1544Np8XreUqjCGWZ3uHs0hdALo-fk_jkaAyolD7jqNHHY78j6Ajb5hqblITafpjHa4bMa9_IoIDdw647FZlsqrSVhvyi4aKtU7PzGhFgA2rSjTUiHBSVNkvMDMxXpa7wDBGXZhegA/s320/Jake+Jeff+TBone+RJ.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
We know Hank Williams (Cajun Baby, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nG7-tsqDRYE" target="_blank">Jambalaya</a>) and I'm going to introduce you to <a href="https://973thedawg.com/five-things-you-dont-know-about-the-most-popular-cajun-song-ever/" target="_blank">D. L. Menard's The Back Door</a>, too. D.L. said he was asked to write about the Front Door, but he's got trouble with the hinges so he hasn't gotten around to it. Not quite jazz, but Acadiana, and New Orleans flavored for sure.<br />
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Hoagie Carmichael's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bzfq3TQIefQ" target="_blank">New Orleans</a> was our next treat. Quoting the link comments section here: "This is from the 1956 album "Hoagy Sings Carmichael with The Pacific
Jazzmen" (Art Pepper on alto sax, Harry "Sweets" Edison, Don Fagerquist, Jimmy Zito,
Irv Cottler, Nick Fatool, Al Hendrickson and Jimmy Rowles), arranged
and conducted by Johnny Mandel.<br />
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RJ told us that <a href="http://www.redhotjazz.com/bix.html" target="_blank">Bix Beiderbecke</a> played with Hoagy Carmichael. Before 1930, Bix was with the <a href="https://alchetron.com/Jean-Goldkette" target="_blank">Jean Goldkette Orchestra</a>. Goldkette was the music director of the DAC for over 20 years, and also co-owner of the Graystone Ballroom. Beiderbecke was born in Davenport, Iowa, and undoubtedly heard jazz music wafting off the Mississippi River. Goldkette married Lee McQuillen, a newspaperwoman, and I can't find a thing about her. What newspaper? Inquiring minds want to know.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3pSMSMUUIYxOgudJvb_tVm9b9HHi9k2XuGkzBVvYdXNFMQZE8OkJPfRXiN_xt2tV9au-RDqcpvaqvjJQ1EILplDw2_3mP_5na0ajT-3Emq8ghBc4AJKu0HefitGeQEtov5AnjS_dnSg/s1600/Eyes+Wide+Shut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3pSMSMUUIYxOgudJvb_tVm9b9HHi9k2XuGkzBVvYdXNFMQZE8OkJPfRXiN_xt2tV9au-RDqcpvaqvjJQ1EILplDw2_3mP_5na0ajT-3Emq8ghBc4AJKu0HefitGeQEtov5AnjS_dnSg/s320/Eyes+Wide+Shut.jpg" width="320" /></a> <a href="http://performingsongwriter.com/mardi-gras-music/" target="_blank">Iko Iko</a> is a story about Mardi Gras Angels, African-American/Native American influencers, performers who used to fight and now dance. TJ mentioned <a href="http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/films/rumble/" target="_blank">Rumble</a>, a PBS documentary about Native American contributions to music.<br />
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And if you want to sing some more, <a href="https://gonola.com/music-in-new-orleans/mardi-gras-music-mondays-iko-iko-jock-a-mo" target="_blank"><i>Jock-a-mo-fee-na-ney</i></a>. Next on the list was <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JHYXMugBX4Y" target="_blank">Eh La Bas</a> <a href="https://musicrising.tulane.edu/discover/people/297/Danny" target="_blank">Danny Barker</a>, composer. This is one of our favorite audience participation tunes.<br />
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Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans? You won't want to miss this video of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xhkxy3ei8os" target="_blank">Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday</a>. If you don't check any of the links before this one, do listen here. Don't know who the blonde is, but looks enough like my Mom to make this song even more bittersweet.<br />
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My li'l bro and I listening. I'm missing New Orleans in this photo. We both still miss both our folks, who shared music with us all their lives.<br />
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RJ and Tbone speak often about the responsibiliy - and beauty - of sharing their decades of experience with storytelling alongside performing music. We have watched young talented musicians sharing the stage with these venerable musicologists. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7A-CYz5eevZjIJ91MYG9pz2eBTdSDJIH83nw7_WDEuCKuzszt5WPyZzs5HqaNTeAEdtDdLrAdbS6u7Rh64BSqHADyLVUVsp6S3ccSORVcleXB6EnY216L1tiAnrbkxI8ACrfPSEAnA/s1600/Mardi+Gras+Listeners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1214" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7A-CYz5eevZjIJ91MYG9pz2eBTdSDJIH83nw7_WDEuCKuzszt5WPyZzs5HqaNTeAEdtDdLrAdbS6u7Rh64BSqHADyLVUVsp6S3ccSORVcleXB6EnY216L1tiAnrbkxI8ACrfPSEAnA/s320/Mardi+Gras+Listeners.jpg" width="242" /></a><a href="http://www.cliffbells.com/shows/jeff-cuny-trio-37/" target="_blank"> Jeff Cuny</a>, bass. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-xPtQaH28k" target="_blank">Jake Schwandt</a>, guitar. RJ Spangler, percussion. Tbone Paxton, trombone and vocals. And whistling - that man can whistle. <br />
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Check the schedule on the <a href="http://rjspangler.com/" target="_blank">RJ Spangler</a> website to find where you can hear more jazz music, blues, Planet D Nonet.<br />
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Appreciation, as always, to Salem-South Lyon District Library for bringing music, art, knowledge to our fortunate community. Watch the <a href="http://www.ssldl.info/" target="_blank">SSLDL </a>events calendar for more of this bounty.<br />
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<br />Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-33116264537173453202019-02-26T12:10:00.000-05:002019-02-26T12:52:22.957-05:0010th Moose Productions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Amazing and Talented Artist Carol Ludwig and I were talking about our art. Carol will be exhibiting in Dexter, MI come April for 2 months. Her collages are deep and evocative and beautiful. After a burst of creativity, then a lull spell, she's back in the flow. Brava! <br />
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We were talking about Louise Penny's book that I was rereading - the characters wondered throughout why there was no Muse who shepherded art. 9 Muses. Not one has art in her realm. Wacky Greeks. So we agreed with Penny we need a 10th Muse. As Carol and I were signing off, I wished her a visit from the 10th moose.<br />
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Misspoke inspiration. <br />
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Then I hunted my drawing of a moose, and posted it on facebook. Because it's funny. I like funny. And I like my drawings.<br />
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This moose came to life because of a white water trip. Don't remember which river, but it was wild. I wasn't following instructions well because I was terrified. And my moves were not yet automatic enough to get it right. Don't get it right in white water, and everybody in the boat swims. Through rocks and floater logs and sneers from Neptune. When we emerged untipped on the far far side of the wave chain, the stern paddler launched into instruction mode. Show me a brace. Rudder river left. Where are your feet? I don't know, I said.<br />
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Which put me into storytelling The Girl Who Didn't Know Where Her Feet Were. So tall, that... and this moose was born. And a pink flamingo, and I forget what else.<br />
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Art is often happy accident. The one painting I won a prize for - and sold on the same night - started out as a piece of paper thrown across the room. My watercolor sky sucked. Walking back in my workshop much later, I saw the paper on the cement floor. Upside down. Ah! As a sky it stunk. As a heaving ocean, it rocked.<br />
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I just missed a deadline for the show I've entered for 9 years and won multiple poetry awards in, and one art prize. It's a show about ekphrasis - an ancient Greek (and here are those wacky guys again) argument about which is more aesthetically pleasing: the art or the words in celebration of the art. Entrants submit an original artwork, and an original poem related to the art. For 9 years I entered the limit of 3. 3 paintings. 3 poems. That's 54 pieces of art. I experiment all year on the 6 results that will be entered.<br />
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I missed the deadline fully aware that was probably going to be the case. I'm not grieving, so I need to reflect on what's going on in my creative realm. 9 years, hmmm. Time for the 10th moose to step up. Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-1922580568708546732019-01-29T09:59:00.001-05:002019-01-29T10:41:34.511-05:00Linda Robinson Art Vitae<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have created art all my aware life. My first art prize was in 3rd grade for a pastel of a camel. I suspect it was supposed to be a horse, and when that didn't work out too well, I added a pyramid and a palm tree. I won a Michigan art prize for that horse/camel, but because Captain Jolly was presenting the prizes, I skipped it by getting pneumonia. Captain Jolly scared me.<br />
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In recent decades I did textbook illustration, which put bread on table. Tiny loaf. When I could get the assignment, I made book art. My best friend and I made a team - she laid out books, and I did the art. One of our team results was my novel, Chantepleure.<br />
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I made all the art on this blog. 708 posts, banner, thumbnails. <br />
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My artistic emphasis today is supporting other women entrepreneurs with art. Creating is a joy, and if I have enough to eat and keep a roof over my head, I choose the projects I want to play in. My friend Barb Barton is a gatherer/forager, and I made all her labels for wild foods, in exchange for honey, syrup, wild rice, vinegar. Because I believe in the amazing creative work she does.<br />
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My friend Patricia Fero is a psychologist/author and retreat auteur. I am creating her 10th anniversary release of her 2008 book What Happens When Women Wake Up? I create women symbol medallions for her retreat participants. Because I believe in the amazing creative work she does. <br />
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Today I still create book art. I am enjoying lessons in watercolor, metalwork and am teaching myself to create in paper clay. Because I believe in the amazing creative work I do.<br />
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I do create for money, if the project appeals, and I can manifest the author's vision.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-34563220180720887072019-01-25T11:35:00.001-05:002019-01-25T12:47:46.173-05:00Not The Favourite<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We three sisters went to the show this month. The last time this happened was...1980ish. None of us enjoyed The Favourite. The last time we agreed on a movie was 1970ish. For decades we (including our mother) individually have hurried to screen all the Academy Award nominated films before the ceremony. <br />
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Not too long into this screening, the music got on our nerves. Then the fisheye camera view got on our nerves. I adjusted my glasses. My sister adjusted her seat. The other sister turned her cellphone back on. Then I started growling at the costumes. All black and white outfits for the castle concert. And in one<i> please take this out in the director's cut</i> scene - the lack of costume. Then we lost it in the excessive wiggage: I got the giggles and those are catchy. Which gargantuan wigs must be, too.<br />
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Discussion on the way out of the theater, through the parking lot and into the car. Confusion about the buzz. Is this historical? Was there a Queen Anne? What country? It's a satire? Of what? What's with the ending? and the music? and the fisheye lens? and the sex? Is there some correlation with power? Whose?<br />
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Did Baz Luhrman direct this? Wouldn't it have been fun if Wes Anderson had?<br />
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Does gout manifest in open wounds?<br />
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What's with the rabbits? And need we see correlation between rabbits and wigs? I requoted a former boss, shouting over his bubble charts from his office - <i>we have significance</i>!<br />
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And the fisheye lens thing. I'm a fan of fish POV: I did a cartoon series with satirical trout. As all trout fisherpersons may not acknowledge - but in fact, know - trout are cannier. The director nattered about what his camera angle choice was about - something about mirrors of the period. Is that significant? What was this film satirizing? Why do we never see the rabbits in fisheye?<br />
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What are the actual chances Lady Sarah would fall off her horse into a brothel? And what does that convey? And why do we only see fornication from behind? Do we have significance? Does this have anything to do with rabbits?<br />
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Does having woman + woman sex make it a woman gaze movie? Does
soliquoying about political machinations while giving a handjob to a man pass
the Bechdel?<br />
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As I switched the car on, my sister came up with what the ending possibly meant, and then she directed it better. The end.<br />
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It took about 7 minutes to get from the seat to the car seat. We all agreed the leads were fantastic actors and need be nominated. We listed the categories the film better not be nominated in. [In a reverse scoring coup, we scored 100%.] And we were done talking about the movie.<br />
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Now I remember the last film we all saw together. <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0082979/awards" target="_blank">Reds, 1981</a>. We agreed it better not be nominated for film editing or director.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-17813489617230604762018-12-11T11:04:00.001-05:002018-12-11T11:15:16.851-05:00Three:Two Story Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Back the way it was</i>. We're early in the 2nd year without Dad, and Scott still has this verbal tic. My response changes. <i>I know, honey</i>. <i>It is the way it is. I do too. </i>No response, depending on how the day's rolling. Scott is taking prozac now - I imagine he's depressed. The doctor agreed although I am the only reporting individual. She takes my word for it and writes a script. The carers report that he is more responsive (although I still don't know what to do with the one who coaches him to say <i>praise Jesus!</i>) I notice that Scott has stepped into life a bit more. (The fact that he can repeat <i>praise Jesus!</i> is one example.) This return to life shows up in making choices about his environment. He's picking up his dish from the table more often. He makes his bed. Moved his record albums into the living room from his bedroom. Decides when he's going to put on underwear instead of a diaper.<br />
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I have to be faster. He picks up his dish, but turns it upside down in the well I put the clean dishes. Then I need to rewash those. He makes his bed over wet sheets. Then the comforter is wet, too. Scott will toss underwear around until he finds the pair he wants to wear, and then I feel like he should be allowed to wear his choice, until the laundry basket is half full with wet underwear. I've had the plumber in 3 times in 60 days because Scott now wants to use toilet paper when he pees. A roll at a time. If he flushes, we're plugged. He doesn't always, so I have to be alert to what's up in the bathroom. Every time. Ten twenty times a day.<br />
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My handler with the State DHHS confirmed there's no way to timestamp this. Constant vigilance. No line item. I don't know why I brought it up with her. Looking for some affirmation that this is hard, unrewarding, depressing so that translates to a spreadsheet in the Capricorn corner of my brain.<br />
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My therapist used to instruct me to ignore stuff. Just la di da while stepping over scivvies tossed on the floor, toothpicks embedded in the carpet, twist ties strewn around the house. Back then it made some sense. <i>Back the way it was</i> meant arguing with Dad every week about allowing Scott his own life, his own agency, his own quirks. Now I am pushing back at that agency, a quandary for personal growth and peace.<br />
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All this stuff is just stuff. Whinging about the mundane. Because that's what it is. It is what it is. <br />
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Dad was a support on this three-legged stool of our stories. Scott spent all of his life with Dad in his story. That's a huge loss for him. Scott is finding his way in this new world order without the brain power and memory to find a way through. I question every hour if there is someone or anything that would be a comfort to him.<br />
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Dad was the person I could talk with, share his love of sports, my love of art. He was funny when he wasn't grouchy. Just like me. There are entire days when Scott and I have no direct communication; days when he's roaming the corridors of his inner life, and he does not hear me speak.<br />
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I'm mad and sorry most of the time. My freedom is curtailed - if I need to leave the house, I either have to take Scott with, or pay for support. I am not as agile, nimble, or interested as I was a year ago. Feeling isolated, I've isolated myself more. Quit the art commission. Stopped painting. Writing, creating, anything. I don't want to get dressed, shower, or rise from the bed to do neither.<br />
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I keep thinking this is the day it turns around. This is the day I reengage with life. This is the day my story will take up where it left off. And on that day I'm wrong again.<br />
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I am stuck in a groove of being unable to console myself because so many other people have it much harder than I do. <br />
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And I still can't cry.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-89543223305599356892018-05-22T12:55:00.000-04:002019-04-09T13:40:30.485-04:00A Three Story Life Farewell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We're burying Dad this week. He died in November, and the ashes have been at home until I passed the urn along to my big brother. In preparation for selling the house on Drummond Island, most of the offspring are on the island clearing out, tidying up. Since most are there along with Dad's ashes, my sister called the county to prepare the site. Feels rushed. The original plan was to coordinate this for later summer, early autumn.<br />
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It's always too soon, isn't it? Plans for this week changed abruptly Sunday when I heard the intent to bury Dad on Thursday, and I decided that I couldn't not be there. I don't want to wake up one morning down the road and feel bad. As if. Meanwhile, I have to prepare for making my brother share this long road to good-bye.<br />
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Our mother died in 1998. Scott won't get out of the car when we visit her grave. 20 years down the long road, he is mostly uncommunicative. I sometimes think he knows Dad has joined Mom, but there is no way to be sure. I told him Dad died. Dementia prevents him from keeping this knowledge. Some days he says <i>it's over </i>repeatedly. Some days he says <i>back the way it was</i>.<br />
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My closest friends think I'm crazy to make this trip at all, albeit with no other family in the car for 750 miles round. I have to pack mounds of incontinence supplies. Scott may or may not find closure, and even if he does, it's momentary. I protected him from the physicality of our parents leaving their bodies. That may not have been a good idea. I'm questioning everything. I pretend I can evaluate his needs. I cannot. I am wandering away from identifying my own needs.<br />
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All part of life's rich pageant. All grist for the writer's mill. In a life wherein I start writing again, this trip will be the closing scene. As it happens, the day Dad moves to his final place is the anniversary of us moving from A Three Story Life to A Two Story Life. May 26. It's also his brother and best friend's birthday. His brother died in 1998 also.<br />
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In that light on that stage, I imagine the items that might go in the grave with Dad's urn. Like ancient deceased expected to need stuff to negotiate the afterlife. I can't find my medicine bag (the collected donated items to help me kick cancer) that has the saxophone reed Dad gave me.<br />
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What I need to do is envision what I need to consign to earth. Leave whatever does not serve me on the Island when we get on the ferry. Use the mantra my lovely friend Carol taught me. All will be well.<br />
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I'm taking the golf ball.<br />
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Wish us peace.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-66187594189387121962018-04-10T16:23:00.002-04:002018-04-10T17:56:40.049-04:00New Orleans Jazz and Blues at Salem-South Lyon District Library<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_hRQarXMXwvHhGk5AcUr04TT2oyGCqqWk48wwkLfRLidgdAHKhXYytbOO81RQJKeECrog2zPhaHpHC95Z4yD6TpZbxnxKWV3NEQFadqERWlqv0RkjwWCiLPc1HQI0Ez0OIUeO3vHYLg/s1600/Show+Start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="1600" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_hRQarXMXwvHhGk5AcUr04TT2oyGCqqWk48wwkLfRLidgdAHKhXYytbOO81RQJKeECrog2zPhaHpHC95Z4yD6TpZbxnxKWV3NEQFadqERWlqv0RkjwWCiLPc1HQI0Ez0OIUeO3vHYLg/s320/Show+Start.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Donna Olson Introduces </td></tr>
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"John and I go back 40 years..." RJ Spangler began. Back to <a href="https://restaurantguru.com/Sullys-Blues-Bar-Dearborn-MI-Dearborn" target="_blank">Sully's Blues Bar</a> in Dearborn, where Jimmy Lesnau brought in acts from all over the world. Blues legends. Scroll through the pictures - <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zxYdQfm-UUc" target="_blank">Duke Robillard</a>, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJZbNE-Cz1w" target="_blank">Terry Garland</a>. The chance to back up great musicians and songwriters. <a href="https://www.discogs.com/artist/225618-Johnny-Adams" target="_blank">Johnny Adams</a>. <a href="https://www.allaboutbluesmusic.com/earl-king/" target="_blank">Earl King</a> (Come On, Baby Parts 1&2. More on that later.) <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p-lsiDJWMsQ" target="_blank">Professor "Fess" Longhair</a>, the rollicking piano man.<br />
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<a href="http://rjspangler.com/index2.php" target="_blank">RJ Spangler and TBone Paxton</a> played Sunday with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNdUjCjhCIM" target="_blank">Matt LoRusso</a> on guitar, <a href="http://www.cliffbells.com/shows/jeff-cuny-trio-6/" target="_blank">Jeff Cuny</a> on bass. Jeff just finished his Master of Music in Jazz at <a href="http://music.wayne.edu/jazz-studies/index.php" target="_blank">WSU</a>. Bravo!<br />
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Storytelling + music + history. Does it get any better than that? RJ is reading a book by <a href="http://www.chicagoreviewpress.com/sublette--ned-contributor-208654.php" target="_blank">Ned Sublette</a>, musicologist that traces the <a href="http://www.afrocubaweb.com/nedsublette.htm" target="_blank">African/Caribbean/Cuban</a> roots of New Orleans music. New Orleans history, back to the Bourbon cousin French/Spanish colonizers.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKYfKniLXPo" target="_blank">Go Down to New Orleans</a>. John "TBone" Paxton took the lead on this song to start us swinging. Note on Professor <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMGewmEa0cA" target="_blank">Fess Longhair</a> - there's a bust of him in Tipitina's Bar. Enjoy another cover of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2PbqwZ8J4Ng" target="_blank">Tipitina</a> by Dr. John and Johnny Winter.<br />
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The 2nd song in the set <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDRZSXA0k8s" target="_blank">Basin Street Blues</a>, written by Spencer Williams in 1928, made famous by Louis Armstrong the same year; this video featuring Jack Teagarden on trombone. RJ mentioned <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVk46dhxLVQ" target="_blank">Dr. Michael White</a>, swinging clarinet player. We were treated to an experimental combination, starting as a ballad and switching it up swing. We heard it here first!<br />
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<span id="goog_46521227"></span><span id="goog_46521228"></span>Strongly featured in the richness of New Orleans music, and as shared with us by RJ, are producers/players like <a href="https://www.rockhall.com/inductees/dave-bartholomew" target="_blank">Dave Bartholomew</a>, who produced Fats Domino. His son <a href="http://www.nola.com/music/index.ssf/2014/06/three_generations_of_bartholom.html" target="_blank">Don B.</a> continues the family music dynasty. <a href="http://www.thebatistefamily.com/THE_BATISTE_FAMILY.html" target="_blank">The Batiste Family</a>. Neville Brothers. <a href="http://www.marsalismusic.com/releases/marsalis-family-jazz-celebration" target="_blank">Marsalis Family</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iko_Iko" target="_blank">Iko Iko</a> is a call and response <i>Mardi Gras Indian</i> tune. Big Chief, Flag Boy - designations of parade positions in a turf war that became a friendly costumed musical rivalry; raising money for charity and to bury the familial departed. Grateful Dead, Dr. John - even Jimmy Fallon and The Roots have covered this fine example of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVHyOjVTnrg" target="_blank">clave </a>rhythm pattern.<br />
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Back now to the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60qqN6B3gSY" target="_blank">Come on, Baby</a>, Let The Good Times Roll, Parts 1 and 2. The 1960 recording by Earl King, has Part 1 on the A side, Part 2 on B. Written by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uM9yYL6BD-4" target="_blank">Shirley & Lee</a>, their 1956 recording climbed to #20. Jimi Hendrix covered it, as did <a href="https://secondhandsongs.com/performance/14222/versions" target="_blank">these others</a>.<br />
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Next up was a walking ballad. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YS5MNK0_X_Q" target="_blank">Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans</a>?<br />
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RJ shared more stories: of <a href="http://msbluestrail.org/blues-trail-markers/guitar-slim" target="_blank">Guitar Slim</a> in Florida with a young musician he let run the session. Ray Charles was the man's name. <a href="http://www.theadvocate.com/new_orleans/news/article_5bdffa7f-5610-5187-a040-443869fd0ac4.html" target="_blank">Danny Barker</a>, who played banjo and guitar in Harlem in the 20s and 30s, joined Cab Calloway's band, then went back to New Orleans, where he helped rebirth the New Orleans brass band tradition.<br />
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For those of you who need to know where the music is playing when it's out of town, <a href="http://www.offbeat.com/" target="_blank">Offbeat Magazine</a> has New Orleans on the Road. April 2018 issue cover feature is the French Quarter Fest Issue.<br />
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To close the set RJ, Tbone, Jeff and Matt treated us - and we joined in - with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nUIv64byiB0" target="_blank">Eh, La Bas</a>, traditional New Orleans song. You can <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eh,_La_Bas" target="_blank">play here with </a>the Creole, French, English lyrics.<br />
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Standing room only!<br />
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Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-5263134076691485042018-02-09T02:47:00.000-05:002018-02-09T02:47:06.659-05:00Life Goes On Minus One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last post my father died and my brother and I were working on how we continue in an altered reality. My brother has moments of auxiliary reality that freak me. I think Dad is communicating with him, or more accurately, Scott is communicating with his father. He is one moment an afterlife zen master and another the human he is now - enmeshed in Alzheimer's disease. I am consumed with paperwork in my own alternate reality that equates the new terror in the mailbox with scenes from <a href="https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=9378352" target="_blank">The Raw Shark Texts</a>. We live in a scifi novel that hasn't been written yet. And bloody hell, I'm not writing it.<br />
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Meanwhile. I illustrated a remarkable book last year. The author, who is a coach specializing in improving relationships and organizational behavior wrote a book that is extraordinary advice for executives and children.<br />
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Look at relationships in nature and understand who you are.<br />
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Love yourself and understand that's all you need to have a successful life.<br />
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The book is coming soon. The art preview is here. Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-63458118487338804792017-11-18T01:08:00.000-05:002019-04-09T13:39:50.359-04:00Three Story Life: End GameSo it's come to this. Me, a fifth of Jack Honey and a black hole. I snagged the Jack because I parked in the liquor store parking lot to take my brother to the doctor to pee in a plastic cup because we need to know if he still has an infection, after dropping in the mailbox thank you notes to medical personnel who helped, books in the library pick-up bin I haven't read, after starting at the house wondering if I'd remember how to start a pushbutton car.<br />
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I didn't remember. Nor did I remember how to shut it off. Three times.<br />
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Still not sure if my brother knows our father is dead. <br />
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One piece of business done today: I called DTE to change the auto payment from my father's account to mine because I started opening his mail, which feels intrusive, but the letter was dated the day Dad went into the hospital. Halloween. My mother's birthday, begob. Of course, the letter required a 2 day turnaround in their favor. DTE transferred me to Revenue Compliance. I need to send DTE a death certificate. Who pranks someone by switching their auto billing to their own wallet?<br />
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I instigated a breakout from Providence Park Hospital for my father. More on this later, but I haven't been 13 years of my life in his care and for his care to have him die in a hospital. The Attending thwarted for ego. Somewhere in my writing future this is the evildoer.<br />
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At the end, my siblings stepped up with love. I hope everyone in the house had a moment in the 24 hours Dad was home in bed where he wanted to be.<br />
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I was stroking Dad's hands. Keeping him, in his anxiety, from tearing at his oxygen tubing. When holding his hands away wasn't enough I lay on him, my face in his neck. He calmed. Minutes passed. <i>I'm a pain in the ass</i> he said. <i>Well then, I learned from the best</i> I said.<br />
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Scott had no moment. He was in the next room, witnessing the mayhem attached to a death: Dad yelling <i>pee</i> and <i>drink</i>, and when he figured we weren't fast enough, using his strobe flashlight to get attention.<br />
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I can't escape wondering what I could have done to make this easier on my brother. He lost his grandmother in 1987. She was his best buddy, finest champion, Yahtzee partner. My mother insisted on her being at their house. Did they handle his grief well? It took our cousin from England to open my eyes in inquiring whether we'd dealt with Scott's loss. Scott then watched his mother at home in hospice care; objected to the police in his mother's bedroom when she died. And now this. The three most important people in his life died in his presence.<br />
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When everyone had left the house, Scott and I had dinner. I didn't know what to say to him, what he'd take in, what what. Then I held his face in my hands and I said, "We lost our Dad today. I am sorry for both of us. I want you to know you are loved, we are loved, and you are not alone. Do you understand? We will be okay."<br />
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And he said. Okay.<br />
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Tonight there's just me and Jack Honey and a black hole.<br />
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In the morning there's our life as it is now. Me looking at him for guidance, him looking at me. Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-16998563395066193792017-11-03T00:14:00.001-04:002019-04-09T13:38:45.903-04:00Keep Me PostedI don't have any art for this, so a 1000 pieces are enough. I've been a live-in caregiver for 13 years. I've written a blog about Three Story Life for most of that time. The art's cute. Real ain't cute.<br />
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Dark Humor.<br />
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Tonight my father is in the hospital, next stay in a month, with a partially collapsed lung. He's 90. We're in for the hospital stays until he passes because he has lovely insurance. <br />
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My brother who has Alzheimer's has Medicare, and his infection was treated today as well. I set him in the shower tonight and he came back out, said "there's somebody in there." That's a long sentence for him, and I wonder what he saw. And then wondered if I needed to call 911 for me.<br />
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My father calls with what I need to bring to the hospital. One of those things is hearing aid batteries, so I can ask when the list starts "did you call FedEx?" because 1) he never listens to me and 2) he has no working hearing aid batteries. These calls can begin as early as 7 because he hasn't slept so everyone else in the known universe is awake.<br />
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I'm happy to be joined in this we all die thing by wonderful people like <a href="http://caitlindoughty.com/" target="_blank">Caitlin Doughty. </a><br />
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And in the truly fine way to move with much loved <a href="http://www.leonardcohen.com/" target="_blank">Leonard Cohen</a>.<br />
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And in the blooming interim there's the true weird and wonderful. This is the intersectionality I live in. Between life and death there's old age, infirmity and diminishing capability for us all.<br />
<br />
The Three Story Life posts are going to be a play. I'm using NaNoWriMo to be well on my way, and I hope to be at <a href="http://ragdale.org/" target="_blank">Ragdale</a> to finish. Or perhaps it won't be finished.<br />
<br />
Keep me posted is what my family texts/says. Maybe they all need hearing aid batteries. Maybe I don't know how to ask for help.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-57700618509184216242017-09-25T16:41:00.002-04:002017-09-25T19:31:37.979-04:00WWII Atomic Veteran on His 90th Birthday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEGwUyGauYCqdTfw1LDrqI2Y2s-cf_w32HpP_1LlYuBVKWV9EW1bhdeWVP8TnKrcZU3zdHqJfRUpCNoOEZsx0KjHMeq1wd7AJi36W1YSq0pIWnxtYGT3MoK8zU2-TkeKMIuynUqYfNw/s1600/Dad+WWII+Plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1600" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEGwUyGauYCqdTfw1LDrqI2Y2s-cf_w32HpP_1LlYuBVKWV9EW1bhdeWVP8TnKrcZU3zdHqJfRUpCNoOEZsx0KjHMeq1wd7AJi36W1YSq0pIWnxtYGT3MoK8zU2-TkeKMIuynUqYfNw/s320/Dad+WWII+Plate.jpg" width="320" /></a>Norman
Robinson, just before his 17<sup>th</sup> birthday enlisted in the
U.S Navy, August, 1945. He sold his car and waited to be called up,
which didn’t happen until October. After basic training at Great
Lakes, he and his fellow seamen boarded the train to Camp Parks, Shoemaker, CA
for assignment.<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He
boarded the USS Cobra, LSM 258, its destination Lake Charles, LA to
be decommissioned along with 15 other LSMs. The Cobra sailed from
Treasure Island, through the Panama Canal (where the guys were
jumping off the ramp on the bow into the water while they waited,
until the Captain hollered through the speaker to knock it off: ships
emptied their bilges before entering the Panama Locks, and the waters
were full of snacking sharks). The men were kept busy while they
waited in line to enter the Locks by washing the ship down with fresh
water.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The
LSMs were taken to Lake Charles, LA, and the men entertained
themselves along the Calcasieu River, shooting cottonmouths as fast
as they could reload. The ship was in dock during Mardi Gras. There was a fight
during a Coast Guard decommissioning party in a hotel, and a couple
of guys came flying over the edge of the balcony as our 4 sailors walked by. The 3 sailors Dad
was with were fighters, and knowing he wasn't, handed off their
cigarettes, lighters, wallets to him. Jack Carli was a California
Golden Gloves contender; The Greek liked a fight. All ended up in
jail for the night. Dad said “you're not taking my buddies without
me” so in the brig he went. Shore patrol picked them up in the
morning and took them back to the ship where the 3 amigos stood a
Captain's Mast.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Back
on the Streamliner to Camp Parks in Shoemaker CA for reassignment.
Dad bumped into Fred Bauer (brother’s wife’s brother). The war
was over, but the Navy wanted 3 more months of active duty out of the
enlistees. Fred said he was embarking on a “Magic Carpet Cruise.”
Dad doesn’t know where he went.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmO7loUfGVLkZ8EsGP68P266CsWEcg2W852yij9JTga-AKf99NuIKMNM559N_INozfziYv0W_dvWAr45aSK2v03qHN2T43g2VCMTrLiV918o6t2cCzSPM-H1KAuML-ZIqQ14ezr142dQ/s1600/USS_Chilton_APA-38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="800" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmO7loUfGVLkZ8EsGP68P266CsWEcg2W852yij9JTga-AKf99NuIKMNM559N_INozfziYv0W_dvWAr45aSK2v03qHN2T43g2VCMTrLiV918o6t2cCzSPM-H1KAuML-ZIqQ14ezr142dQ/s320/USS_Chilton_APA-38.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_463154086"></span><span id="goog_463154087"></span>Dad
was assigned to APA38 USS Chilton, a Bayfield-class attack transport,
along with four other sailors and a chief. A smallboat took them out
into the bay and no Chilton. Back to shore, went through the battery
of shots they'd had the day before already, back into the smallboat
out to the Chilton, which had been delayed picking up supplies. Dad
came aboard in need of a haircut. He immediately got extra duty
scraping paint.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
First
port was Pearl Harbor where 1800 troops were dropped off, and then USS Chilton was its way to participate in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Crossroads" target="_blank">Operation Crossroads</a>.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NEufL-e36z3_BKNoqSGNYtCzmzGr4ZgB4svQk2jDHpuaDzdGursnkQd1Fjta_1tLTIPHEZcwdiZFFsZACJtjjqm20w5T0NWWUAM7mZLXaQvO_CA-zPyKOqGgLBTLcBtrzB2wCs5Y3w/s1600/Short+Snorter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="1600" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NEufL-e36z3_BKNoqSGNYtCzmzGr4ZgB4svQk2jDHpuaDzdGursnkQd1Fjta_1tLTIPHEZcwdiZFFsZACJtjjqm20w5T0NWWUAM7mZLXaQvO_CA-zPyKOqGgLBTLcBtrzB2wCs5Y3w/s320/Short+Snorter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Eniwetok. Dad said it was bombed out and desolate, the waters
laced with sunken ships, half submerged. The crew each got a Short
Snorter chit which allowed them 2 warm beers apiece, and 2 hours to
run around the sand on shore leave.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9MA73mZbeHEsbSlSDS02dKE5a5r2VJ6wbcDZpxZ8rtVDBjkWFvPDjrV9-sR_kV-jhyphenhypheniyS_DTXzKMBG8by13N0yeuRS5vvuOUuF-NHGvoXkEmW2K4ic58YjNqgBDHzj6eUT8wFEBHvwg/s1600/Snorter+Back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="1600" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9MA73mZbeHEsbSlSDS02dKE5a5r2VJ6wbcDZpxZ8rtVDBjkWFvPDjrV9-sR_kV-jhyphenhypheniyS_DTXzKMBG8by13N0yeuRS5vvuOUuF-NHGvoXkEmW2K4ic58YjNqgBDHzj6eUT8wFEBHvwg/s320/Snorter+Back.jpg" width="320" /></a>Dad had his mates sign the back of his Short Snorter.<br />
<br />
Back
aboard enroute to Kwajalein, Dad was at his station, turning valves
on the lowest deck below the engine room. It was 120 degrees and he
couldn't hear anything. Engines, fans, boilers, steam. Sailors served
4 hour shifts only – what the Navy determined a human could stand. </div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
On
to Bikini Atoll where the ships (and tethered cows, chickens, sheep) were
awaiting the Able bomb in Operation Crossroads. The ship was positioned next to the USS Skate. Dad could see the Nevada (painted orange) the Prinz Eugen in the distance, and the other ships shown below. She was ordered out of the target area, and on to its assignment - move Bikini
residents off the atoll to Majuro. The atoll had missed the
total destruction some of the other islands had endured and its shore was closed up with vegetation. A smallboat took a shore
party to hack out an area to settle the people and their animals ashore.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDj66JZEO5kYnEobbYeELYMeQw4_SaeVBSslFVtRcghogELZwcIwJqjJvRiJHDQIB8ZFpqMgeCeHNo93oZP5qcrjIwd4nchG6rciFyVbkx02vcdLz9eFsaOCRkX6u4DxxpxjxbRVs_-A/s1600/Operations+Crossroads+Targets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1600" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDj66JZEO5kYnEobbYeELYMeQw4_SaeVBSslFVtRcghogELZwcIwJqjJvRiJHDQIB8ZFpqMgeCeHNo93oZP5qcrjIwd4nchG6rciFyVbkx02vcdLz9eFsaOCRkX6u4DxxpxjxbRVs_-A/s400/Operations+Crossroads+Targets.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Steaming
from Majuro back to Bikini Atoll, they saw the damage inflicted by the Able bomb. Military personnel were washing down the ships still standing: using radioactive sea water.
U.S.S. Chilton continued to Pearl Harbor, then on to San
Francisco to unload. The ship was not in the area when Baker was detonated.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
From California Dad took the train back to Great Lakes Naval Station, and was discharged 6
August, 1946. Recruiters were thick on the base, encouraging sailors
to reenlist. Dad was talked into joining the reserves, which turned
out to be fortuitous. Drafting for the Korean War was underway; he could
have been shipped out as some of his mates were.<br />
I bought Dad a VHS recording of the first dive in the area. Baker bomb had sunk some of the ships still marginally afloat, and since it was detonated underwater, actually brought back up some of the boats. U.S.S. Tuna had been sunk with Able, resurrected with Baker, and ended her life as target practice near Treasure Island after being towed there. Yay, Tuna! Dad had witnessed the Nagato with the superstructure melted and dripping onto the deck before Baker. The divers in the video reported that the superstructure had been squished because of landing on the ocean floor upside down. Dad saw otherwise. Without eye witnesses, history belongs to the late players<br />
For those who need an ending, here are the <a href="http://www.bikiniatoll.com/Ships.html" target="_blank">final resting places of the vessels</a>.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMv5UrXG2rho5pFUTcM7nDXpuUf0DIC2dPfqJ7la1TCzwSWEWtXfbbiPbIHlyRz-65qzYNjZ8XjmD0QeSzzm9qr14Z8X4lc_bx_hdhzddka-jx1T3rSnpqIa7KSYaSJ40rFeMSYBoIhg/s1600/Dad+at+90.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1514" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMv5UrXG2rho5pFUTcM7nDXpuUf0DIC2dPfqJ7la1TCzwSWEWtXfbbiPbIHlyRz-65qzYNjZ8XjmD0QeSzzm9qr14Z8X4lc_bx_hdhzddka-jx1T3rSnpqIa7KSYaSJ40rFeMSYBoIhg/s320/Dad+at+90.jpg" width="302" /></a>For Dad on his 90th birthday, with love.</div>
</div>
Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-25304291757503974212017-09-18T13:34:00.000-04:002017-09-18T15:25:44.213-04:00Community Meeting on SSLDL Expansion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCmxE2kPQol1YXnyd1aAiY46cx0qaboaYLt78_nOCg7Rs9BBHg0rh-VFxDOwktjl9InuuOWY2mLiatqi8LkCa_iguTtiL5qgoTO5mUeGy2fxVSRcx_HZqY-mogP6aCmsMKzq5NTOv6mw/s1600/SSLDL+Meet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="728" data-original-width="493" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCmxE2kPQol1YXnyd1aAiY46cx0qaboaYLt78_nOCg7Rs9BBHg0rh-VFxDOwktjl9InuuOWY2mLiatqi8LkCa_iguTtiL5qgoTO5mUeGy2fxVSRcx_HZqY-mogP6aCmsMKzq5NTOv6mw/s320/SSLDL+Meet.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }A:link { }</style>17 September, Sunday was the first
community meeting to discuss the expansion of the
Salem-South Lyon District Library. The next meeting is Tuesday 26
September 7:00 p.m.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The discussions are preliminary; the
purpose of the community gathering to assess program needs,
gather input from district stakeholders and patrons, and involve the
community in moving forward. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
SSLDL has added new programs for
children. The ongoing mission is to support every child at every level
to contribute to their success personally and professionally, from
birth to middle school and onward, with program opportunities to meet, study and
collaborate. This growth and future planning require space to implement expanding services. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Programs from birth forward are in
place at SSLDL. Baby Bounce (0-11 mos. with caregiver), Wonderful Ones (12
mos.-23 mos. with caregiver), Terrific Twos Storytime (24-35 mos.
with caregiver). Check the SSLDL events calendar for other
storytimes, and literacy programs. <a href="http://ssldl.info/calendar">http://ssldl.info/calendar</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSA1w5G11FOUOJyEGkIMAIfEOA4tkdMu8HeoaUqUzghvbEHFWo2IDhTNp3Kye6Hv106vmLuV4adT2by8YNMhykh477V8WJfssJ10Akrop_pPvdB2wiN9-xr5qGpHEiYR9xHBoYXHaJg/s1600/Library+Current.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="1600" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSA1w5G11FOUOJyEGkIMAIfEOA4tkdMu8HeoaUqUzghvbEHFWo2IDhTNp3Kye6Hv106vmLuV4adT2by8YNMhykh477V8WJfssJ10Akrop_pPvdB2wiN9-xr5qGpHEiYR9xHBoYXHaJg/s320/Library+Current.jpg" width="320" /></a>The library currently has one large
meeting room (layout at left) with a priority scale for scheduling.
Library business is first, other community usage (art shows,
children's events) second. The large conference room is then not always available for collaborative children's events. Storage space is
limited. Defined needs are for another large collaborative space
and more storage at minimum.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This is your opportunity to contribute.
What are your dreams, desires, thoughts on programs at the SSLDL?
Programs will dictate the physical needs of the building, internally
and externally.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSe5G5eQNNTG2nhg9KAMhqO8-V3TXIjpq73WmiTioW3MLSU6i60RsHoF16-bv9Ict8viytcUfZSLhkdwu49X-17N27TB-mAEL6bYhNtLF3P0ikhlgJcp-rES3ylxr7czWc_E6XrkS8Hw/s1600/Expansion+Space.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1118" data-original-width="1600" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSe5G5eQNNTG2nhg9KAMhqO8-V3TXIjpq73WmiTioW3MLSU6i60RsHoF16-bv9Ict8viytcUfZSLhkdwu49X-17N27TB-mAEL6bYhNtLF3P0ikhlgJcp-rES3ylxr7czWc_E6XrkS8Hw/s320/Expansion+Space.jpg" width="320" /></a>On the 17<sup>th</sup> suggestions and
wishes included more window space, seating for grades 3-5, adult
seating for parents and grandparents, open study booths, 2 family restrooms, another entrance on the
northeast side of the existing building (area shown at left.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
More modular adaptable units, an
additional interactive storytelling section, perhaps iPads instead of
computers.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What activities would you like your
children to have available? Our district is growing, family housing
starts are ongoing. SSLDL needs to hear from parents who will make
use of services and programs available to our community.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The next meeting is Tuesday, 26
September at 7:00 p.m. If you cannot attend a meeting as scheduled,
please do talk to library staff about your thoughts. Send an email.
The future of the SSLDL can be guided by your input. Please
contribute.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
SSLDL Mission/Vision Statement
<a href="https://ssldl.info/about">https://ssldl.info/about</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
SSLDL Contact
https://ssldl.info/about/contact-us</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Further reading:</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
1000 Books Before Kindergarten <a href="https://1000booksbeforekindergarten.org/">https://1000booksbeforekindergarten.org/</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Every Child Ready to Read <a href="http://www.everychildreadytoread.org/">http://www.everychildreadytoread.org</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Library of Michigan Every Child Ready to Read <a href="https://tinyurl.com/y9rqlba7" target="_blank">https://tinyurl.com/y9rqlba7</a>
</div>
Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-27254499024060751142017-09-13T00:39:00.001-04:002017-09-13T00:50:25.422-04:00The Patriot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZyftS-QOewxfpMO4dV6uejZzLQAX2a8qLIVIkZHjO6lTp9UYYssSXqqJJnhYZUy8mDM9x4wczMyco7aal_a0jBFbAwGdhPhIi7UV5hPEUKNrka0ZpuMxpb08YyCihDz1NDLiYGMKyA/s1600/Patriot+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1243" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZyftS-QOewxfpMO4dV6uejZzLQAX2a8qLIVIkZHjO6lTp9UYYssSXqqJJnhYZUy8mDM9x4wczMyco7aal_a0jBFbAwGdhPhIi7UV5hPEUKNrka0ZpuMxpb08YyCihDz1NDLiYGMKyA/s400/Patriot+2017.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>
I drew The Patriot on September 12, 2001 weeping. The world experienced
one of the most horrific attacks on American citizens the day before. To
this hour I have seen no images of that tragedy. The woman I worked for
and I listened to the radio all day. We were locked in a building in
Grosse Pointe, Michigan. A negligent delivery person had left a large
package in the parking garage with no address label, and as the
morning's events were seen and heard around the world, a security guard
reacted, and local authorities shut down entry and egress from the
building for 11 hours. It was a portend of overreach to come. We heard the anguish, shared the pain of that day
with our country only on the radio. I talked with a friend on the phone
who was counting on me to go to her house and keep her young children
from seeing the television. We all cried for victims of that attack, and
then we cried for what was to come. What the woman I worked for, my
friend and I shared along with the agony was the knowledge that America
would respond next day, without accurate intelligence, with
political zeal, and for a long time.<br />
<br />
I wish we'd been wrong.
Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-61855230061686610752017-09-08T12:16:00.000-04:002019-04-09T13:37:37.403-04:00Three Story Life Season 13<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4klPL8P_hRSI-Gn71ugxBp4ZrxWA7Fj5iQjmvdlKr3cgVQmgAo_oxkoL-jKkEz7cbPF_V4scWnxFcbEPy3JY08ASlSOr5BiXNnsXSDl4TFNoLRKsdkm9O9m8xfukNeT-8wSMXiGAy2g/s1600/Timing+is+Everything.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1100" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4klPL8P_hRSI-Gn71ugxBp4ZrxWA7Fj5iQjmvdlKr3cgVQmgAo_oxkoL-jKkEz7cbPF_V4scWnxFcbEPy3JY08ASlSOr5BiXNnsXSDl4TFNoLRKsdkm9O9m8xfukNeT-8wSMXiGAy2g/s400/Timing+is+Everything.jpg" width="273" /></a></div>
Been away from the blog so long that Linda Robinson Obituaries now occupies my place in google results. Been away so long that links to all my articles are no longer available, so now I have to dig through my own files to find witty stuff I wrote about how I stop myself from writing by acquiring accoutrement to not write. Been away from writing so long it was necessary to get a new writing instrument.<br />
<br />
Where was I? Ah, yes. Dad's in the hospital again. If I still thought it was important to have original art in all Three Story Life posts, there would be the 3sL standard with a gown drooping and 6 multicolored leads disappearing somewhere around the back of the hospital bed. The mandatory smiley face socks. The urinal so close to the water it's a classic finger wave good-bye for me - <i>don't confuse those two</i>.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile back at the now 1-story 3sL HQ, still cracked was the cracked step that was noted on the Spring Walkabout repair list in...the spring. Visiting my father on Weds., my phone rang. It was the contractor letting me know the cement would be fixed tomorrow. I hung up. Cracked up. What's funny? Dad asked. I told him. He said, <i>oh that's not a problem</i>. I can write this script now. He's not going to respond well when I get out of the car after retrieving him, say OK, here's the not a problem, and vault myself and Scott into the house, leaving him to contemplate the not a problem part of the world where all the problems belong to someone else to solve. In this case, it'll probably be the South Lyon Fire Department Egress Team. Again.Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213879715320306.post-11972849562623020712017-04-26T23:20:00.002-04:002017-04-26T23:24:05.581-04:00Life With Art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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An art centered night tonight which is appreciated in this time of bizarre politicking and threatening missives. Has social media really become global diplomacy? I hope not, but know it to be true. Mine's bigger than yours used to be a joke. Not so much now. I am focused on what works. Diplomacy at every level. Kindness. Thinking. Thinking. As you know, I live in a house with a 90 year old man and a 52 year old Down's syndrome brother with Alzheimer's. So, basically, Congress.<br />
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All of our issues in this house are intensifying (see the play, first go-through at Suzanne Haskew Art Center in November.)<br />
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For the last couple of years I've chilled. Don't know how to describe this, except the rage fire is banked. We have government now that is dedicated to bringing back tall black hats and those stupid collars, along with the bows, which were never good fashion. Isn't it interested that we grew up in this country being told that those doofs in wigs came here to bring religious freedom? And the massacre of the indigenous population that was already here was, well, necessary. And here we are. 200 years later. The same fucking lie.<br />
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I digress. We are in a timewarp. 238 years later we're at 438 years ago.<br />
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And then there's art. And photography. And nature. Children, joy, the days my brother still is in the world. The days my father, even a little, understands that there are other people in his world.<br />
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My appreciation. Gratitude changes the body, ameliorates pain, restructures atoms.<br />
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More profoundly, appreciating brings more of the same. Linda Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17953031044908634218noreply@blogger.com0