the trials of technology

so, at the gallery we have a three day video installation on display. it's a combo of sound and visuals. problem is - sometimes the sound works - sometimes the visuals work - but they can never seem to coincide.

currently, the gallery is filled with pumping dance music in a dark, dark room. kind of fun, if i felt like dancing. at the moment, i'm trying to work and am continuously interrupted by people poking their head in saying "hey, did you know that there is no picture?" yesterday, all day, it was "hey, is this film supposed to be silent?"

luckily, here at the university, we are a place of learning, of trial and error, of good humor (most of the time). the class who installed the exhibit had the goal of making a work that was user-friendly for the gallery. they may not have succeeded this time, but, hopefully, after endless visits to fix what is broken, they have learned something.

hangin' in my hammock

While in Guatemala, James haggled endlessly with a man named Miguel - his object of desire - a handmade hammock for me. The price started at around $50 US and by the time all was said and done - he shelled out the equivalent of $17. It has been worth every penny. Saturday, after an exhausting week, we hung our hammocks at the river and spent the afternoon soaking in the warm Florida sunshine and watching hawks fly, snakes slither, and canoers paddle.

...something special

The 'something special' I did for myself today was to not hurry. I'm learning that hurrying doesn't help me. Walking fast doesn't get me to my destination any more quickly. Talking fast doesn't make others understand me better (usually the opposite is true).  Working fast often leads to having to redo whatever was hurried through.  Most of all, when I do things in a hurry, I forget to enjoy them. I forget to notice the sunlight on the trees or the smell of winter in the air. I forget to care about the person that I'm talking to. I forget to take pleasure in work and in completing a task.

So, today, I didn't hurry and it has been a lovely experience. I plan on doing the same 'something special' for myself tomorrow. 

A surprise visit

Self-portrait from the bed of the truck

Imagine our surprise last Friday when James' dad informed us that he saw a story about our friend, the island carver, in our local paper, the Gainesville Sun. The last time we saw Henry and his family was in December 2007 on Andros Island. He has moved and changed telephone numbers several times since then, and so have we. He doesn't use e-mail, so we haven't been in touch since our visit. 

We learned of the opening in enough to go. I entered first and saw Henry talking with people. I walked up, suddenly a bit shy, and I stood near him to wait my opportunity to say hello. As he was talking to the others, he turned his head to acknowledge me - as he realized I was there, he stopped speaking to everyone else and stepped toward me, arms open. "Hedder, I didn't know how to find you. I can't believe you are here." He said as he hugged me close.

James soon joined us and in the moments that followed, the rest of the world disappeared as we stood sharing our lives.We mourned for our friend, William Colebrooke, who we just lost a few months ago, and Henry told us of the even more recent loss of his brother, Mel Wallace, who had passed away just before he came to Florida. He told us about his wife Eldeeta, his son, Henteetoe, and the other children and even his new grandchildren. We laughed and hugged again. Eventually, he returned to his duties as host.

We grabbed moments here and there throughout the rest of the evening - rejoicing in the fact that we had reconnected, amazed that it happened on the night before his departure. We wanted more time together, but we were so glad for the little we were granted.

'Stealing' oranges

I thought of my brother and my Grandpa Barrett as I picked oranges without permission yesterday. I'm not saying I was 'stealing' the oranges, because I sort of know my neighbor and she isn't home much, and she generally lets the oranges and grapefruit fall to the ground without any concern. But I could have waited until I had an opportunity to ask - and I didn't.

So, I stuffed a few in my pockets and was reminded of a time, when at the age of maybe 4 and a half, Nick and I went into the neighbor's yard on Grandpa's street and climbed onto the low-hanging branches of the apple tree and ate apples that were not yet ripe and too bitter for pleasure. We rejoiced in that moment of freedom though, feeding ourselves off the land, out of a tree!

The feeling wasn't quite as glorious, when, later, Grandpa discovered our crime and sent us to the basement for a spanking. We were spanked twice more during the six months we lived with him. Once for stealing mail out of all of the neighboring mailboxes (we were detectives on a mission to find evidence of the wrong-doings of others - Nick's idea) and burning it in the woods while playing house (my idea - nobody likes bills and I thought burning them would make the neighbors feel better). We were spanked again for racing to the top of the drying tent hanging on the clothes line ( Nick was Batman and I was the Riddler ) I was way faster and lighter than my big brother, so I reached the top in time to see my grandfather running in our direction well before Nick could - I tried to warn him, but neither of us escaped.

We only lived with Grandpa for a short time, we were in between a house and another house, but I liked it there. My parents and my little sister were with us, my other grandparents lived just a block away, and my kindergarten was down the street. In the mornings, my Grandma Mattingly would meet me at the corner and hold my hand as we walked down Breckenridge Lane to the little brick building where my teacher welcomed me.

The spankings didn't bother me because when I was at Grandpa Barrett's, I was alive. He was an inventor and an explorer and while I was with him, I was part of a magical world filled with possibility. My Grandpa let me stand on the little stool with wheels and look under the hood as he worked on his truck; he'd tell me stories and then we'd drive the truck to corner store to chat with whoever we might find. We worked in his basement shop on projects with his many tools; I learned my middle name when he stamped it into a leather comb holder which he then presented to me. At night after dinner, he told me jokes as he lifted me on his lap to hug me close - I remember the smell of oil and skin and the tickle of his wooley white chest hair and the thrill of watching him remove his false teeth. All of which made me love him dearly.

Funny how something as simple as picking fruit from a tree can trigger such nostalgia.

Paddling a sinking canoe

While at BFREE in Belize, there were short stints of sunshine followed by long periods of rain. Our hair, feet, jackets and clothes were continuously wet, though we were never cold. Jacob never wears shoes while in the jungle b/c they hinder his ability to walk freely - if I weren't concerned about ant mounds, I would have abandoned my shoes and even thought the rest of my clothes seemed pretty pointless once drenched.

We dealt with the rain by ignoring it - we wandered and explored without letting it stop us, but we longed for the sun. One lucky afternoon the sun came out and we immediately set off for a canoe ride on a nearby pond. As we left, I was handed an empty 8 ounce Breakstone sour cream container, "for bailing," I was told.

We hopped in the beat up red canoe with James paddling first. We quickly realized that the leak was in the stern where he was located, so his weight contributed to the speed with which we sank. We maneuvered back to land, dumped all the water from the canoe and switched seats - he in the bow, I in the stern. This was a better setup allowing him to photograph. I was in charge of paddling and bailing.

We were on the lookout for a variety of birds, iguana, lizards, and the resident crocodiles. We were thrilled to spot the Jesus lizard, which is able to run across the surface of the water, and some giant iguanas, as well as countless birds. No crocodiles presented themselves.

 

All the while, we baked and basked in the warmest, brightest sunshine. Our clothes produced steam as water evaporated from them, my hair was finally dry.

I paddled leisurely and bailed constantly, entertained by the tiny container I was given - proof that we shouldn't worry in this lovely place - the water would not enter quickly enough to cause us to sink. Even if we we did sink, our lives would not be in danger - the pond was shallow and not very wide and the creatures of the rain forest held no ill will against us.

monkey in a tree lookin at me

what does it see?

 

Howler Monkeys live in groups in the rain forest of Belize. During our stay we heard their chanting constantly. We only had one opportunity to see them. James and I went canoeing on a small pond alone and as we were leaving we heard rustling above us in the trees. A family of Howlers had been watching us - once we spotted them, we hung out beneath them as they swung back and forth -

talked to each other and dangled by their tails. After 15 minutes of mutual staring, they tired of our inactivity and moved to another stand of trees beyond our vision.

BFREE in Belize

Prior to our Guatemala trip, James and I decided to add Belize into our journey. A "since we are going, we might as well see more" sort of last minute decision. Life worked out, as life always does, and while at a holiday party a few nights before our trip we met a couple who run a non-profit rain forest preserve in southern Belize - The Belize Foundation for Research and Environmental Education (BFREE). They, along with their children, were heading to the rain forest that week and were happy to have us meet up with them.

BFREE is situated among four protected areas in southern Belize, including the Mayan Mountain Forest Reserve and the Bladen Nature Reserve. Accessing BFREE  means hiking in 6 miles through Bladen Nature Reserve from Belize's main north/ south highway or catching a ride on a rugged four wheeler. Our timing was impeccable on this journey - the public bus dropped us off at mile marker 58 just as our new buddy, Jacob, emerged from muddy, isolated road on his Polaris - we caught a ride with him, his son, the education director, and a pile of backpacks belonging to a group of university students hiking in.

Jacob and his wife, Kelly, started BFREE 17 years ago in an effort to protect a pristine piece of rain forest filled with a diversity of plant and animal life. BFREE hosts researchers, offers workshops, classes, and eco-tours for both residents of Belize and those from abroad - all with the primary goal of protecting and preserving the unique environment and its creatures in perpetuity.

We spent four days at BFREE - it rained all day most days with only short bouts of hot sunshine, not typical but also not that surprising for this time of year. We journeyed around on our own, at times with various family members, and every now and then with the students; looking and learning, meeting many a bug and bird, all the while listening to Howler Monkeys carol in the trees above us. We could not have imagined that the rain forest could feel so inviting and it would not have been without the ongoing efforts of those at BFREE.

Trust

I trusted James' survival mentality as I followed him up the 100 foot plus fire tower in the rain forest of southern Belize. I trusted the skill of Jacob, Eric, and the others who dismantled the tower in the US and carried it by truck through Mexico and reassembled it in its new home. I trusted the strength of the tower. I trusted the aim of the birds swooshing by. I trusted the calm breeze and the nearby trees.

What I failed to trust was me, the strength in my own knees to carry me without the aid of handrails, my own ability to walk carefully on wet steps, my own will. So I sat three levels down from the top at about 80 feet for an hour before attempting to continue the ascent.

How often does distrust in myself make me hesitate when I know I can do anything I set my mind to?

Belize

from a 100+ feet looking down.

on a bus.

workers cutting down a cahoon palm in the rain forest for a traditional meal.

Coban, Guatemala

Hoy, mi maestra y yo estamos enferma. She has a tummy ache, I have a cold. We make quite a pair. She asks me questions in espanol while rubbing her stomach, I answer between sneezes. We are sticking it out because it took me two years to get to Guatemala to take a week´s worth of spanish lessons and she hasn´t had a student in 6 months. So we discuss our various ailments - me duelo en la garganta, ella duele en el estomago. We also discuss what Jaime is doing while we are hard at work. He spends time wandering the markets, camera in hand and appetite ready  - sacar unas photos, comidas muchas, caminar en la calle.

Coban is a busy yet not gigantic town in the mountains of Guatemala. Best known for its coffee plantations , not many tourists come here. Few people speak English. We eat some combination of tortillas, cheese, beans and rice at almost every meal - this costs us about $1.50 each. The papaya and plaintains are to die for. Bakeries are on every corner and we frequent them. For .12 US you can get 3 cookies and we take advantage of this. Hay muchas contaminacion en el aire. The pollution from vehicles is a bit overwhelming at times.

Many women wear traditional skirts and blouses, though they are no longer handwoven in this area. Many others wear clothes that are castoff by people of the US. Secondhand stores account for nearly half of the tiendas that we pass on our daily walks - all boasting Ropa Americana. Men wear cowboy hats, boots and tight jeans. Everyone is friendly and welcomes our attempts to speak spanish. We often do not understand and ask them to repeata porfavor.

We are here for a few more days. Perhaps my ears and mouth will be better equipped for espanol by then.

For the tourists - for us

When I first met James, he invited me to stop by his house, he described it as such - 'Halfway down the block off 13th, you know the one with the CDs in the trees.' I thought to myself, 'Who is this tall handsome man touched with a little bit of crazy?'

Gainesville doesn't offer much for tourists or even for residents in terms of sightseeing. You can see Ben Hill Griffin Stadium - woo hoo. Other parts of campus - if you can figure out parking. If you want to see homeless people, hang out at the main branch of the library or in the downtown square. Ummm what else do we have... a couple of museums (on campus - again with limited parking) - Paynes Prairie, lovely, but really on the outskirts. The mall - I don't go there, but some people do. I'm sure I'm missing something that the city provides...

Where the city fails James comes in. Our yard is a stop on many-a-travelers list. Children make demands to round the block and squeal with delight at the buoys, chimes, and, even the CDs catching light in the trees. Passers-by slow down whether biking, driving, walking or jogging, to look. Even dogs take their time to pounce on the light rays projected by the CDs.

In winter, the yard is filled with camellias of all colors, shapes and sizes. People ask to take them home. In spring, the giant blooming azaleas and dogwoods follow. In summer when plants are merely green and CDs are lost in the trees, we adorn the sidewalk with chalk drawings, there for a bit, then washed away by regular rains. In the fall, giant sycamore leaves drop in grand proportion to the ground - the only sycamores on the block and one of the only signs that autumn has come to Florida.

I've found ways to participate in the changing seasons and the joy that the yard produces in those who walk by. But James started it - and the family who lived here and planted the amazing shrubs started it before him. I was thrilled beyond description last week, when, in the rain, James climbed the ladder to add 17 new CDs where fallen leaves once were.

I'll be your fire starter

James has an uncanny ability to start a fire. He stacks things, he adds a little paper, a little air flow, and - poof - gigantic fire so hot you can't get within five feet of it. My frustration with this talent is two-fold 1) he makes it look easy 2) he thinks everyone should have his fire-making capabilities.

In his absence, whether away for the night or out in the yard, I'm left in charge of fire-starting and tending. I'm not bad at this job, I may even go so far as to say that I'm pretty good at it; I split and stack the wood when needed, I keep it dry, I am fairly attentive (though I do get distracted at times) I have a system and it generally works, but I'm definitely not James. I've watched his process for years, attempting to mimic his methods and. However, my fires continue to be slow to start, typically small to medium-ish in size, and, ultimately, they exist without much drama (and not a huge heat output).

Each time I work what I believe is a really good fire, I think, "This is the best one ever - it can't get any hotter than this - James will be so impressed." Yet, he'll enter the room, approach the fire, make mention of the fact that it is dying out and magically fit 7 more pieces of wood in the small space increasing the heat output by 1000%.  

flat rate boxes - friend or foe

I'd like to apologize to my siblings and parents in advance for the packages that you will receive from me this holiday season. Not because the gifts are unsentimental or poorly planned, but because I watched and was won over by those USPS commercials. You know the one where the wife makes a deal with her husband and he goes shopping and she ships the gifts....

I, like many others I'm sure, went to the post office and acquired various sized flat rate boxes to mail my loved ones their presents -only to find that the awkward shapes do not lend themselves to shipping anything at all. A single item rolls around - while more than one are smashed uncomfortably up against one another. Ultimately, it just doesn't work.

My sister, bless her heart, is going to find that the packages I wrapped that didn't fit in the medium nor the large size flat rate box, were wrapped then unwrapped (by me) - removed from their boxes, all extraneous materials removed to allow extra space and then presents were re-wrapped and crammed back into the box,which was eventually, successfully sealed. (The biggest victory of the evening was getting the box closed)

But was it really a success? The gifts that I took the time to make, gather, coordinate, now smashed mercilessly into a box marked flat rate? What am I saving - really? Not money, I have no idea how much it would cost just to send it in a regular  box, one appropriate to the size of the objects it will hold. Also, not time; I painstakingly wrapped the gifts once, tried to pack them in the box, then unwrapped, then re-wrapped, then jammed them into the box  in a fit of frustration in the end. Neither energy, nor enthusiasm was saved.

And here am I, one of the many who bought the sales pitch, a little less noble - definitely humbled by the experience. Good job USPS; I can see you have my best interest at heart.

saying i love you

Each year, I become a little less likely to buy and mail holiday presents. Not because I don't like to share or give, but because no one really needs any non-monetary item that can be wrapped in a box and mailed across the country. What can I give to you, all of my loved ones, that you don't already have too many of? Over the years, I've made gifts, bought gifts, given photographs, clothes, toys, $, food, gift certificates, travel memorabilia, household items - I can't remember - I'm sure you can't remember receiving most of it either.

Yet, I, like so many others, continue to try;  to look for that perfect gift, that perfect idea, that holiday treasure that will show you I love you the most, that you'll make room for on your mantle or kitchen counter-top, that you'll cherish forever. Sometimes, I hit it just right and succeed with the most special gift - most years, I don't. You can't win them all.

Before the gifts and cards are sent this year, I'd like to tell you, my family, my friends, I love you. You are what gets me through each year - you are the reason I write stories - you are the reason my life matters. If you ever need anything, I will give it to you. Anything I have, everything I can give - is yours should you need it. If it is not enough, I will find a way to get you what you need. You'd do it for me, too - and you have. That's what love is all about.

Until such time that you need something specific from me, I'm scaling back on the holiday hubbub. Expect handmade gifts, cookies, and food. I'll also be more than thrilled to give a donation to the charity of your choice. These are the kinds of gifts that put me in the holiday spirit and make me feel a bit closer to home.

out of the freezer

James gasped when he encountered frozen santa in the freezer this morning; I forgot that he was in there. Should be bug free by now and possibly suffering a little frostbite. Of course, if he is really Santa, he probably prefers the freezer to the humidity of Florida.

santa in the freezer

Today I was feeling a little festive, so I dug out my holiday ornaments to place around the house. We haven't had a tree in years. Come to think of it, as a couple, maybe we've never had one. Besides those little table top kind in a flowerpot with foil paper around the base. We aren't always around over the holidays, so we usually collect tree trimmings and create bows and other arrangements.

So, I'm digging through my box of ornaments from years past and I pulled out the santa doll that always had a place in our family tree when I was growing up. His feet and hands are long gone - multiple dogs and children have chewed on him throughout the years and he has been tattered and discolored for as long as I can remember. Since I've moved so many times, I have few treasures like this from my childhood, so I've never been able to throw him out.

I was shocked this year, to pull my old friend Santa out of the box and find that some of his face had been eaten off by a silverfish who happened to still be in the bag. Santa almost immediately went into the trash along with everything else in the box. But at the last minute, sentimentality won out (again). So, remembering an old conservation trick from museum studies, I stuffed Santa and all of his friends into our freezer to kill off the pests. Footless, armless, partially faceless and frozen, Santa will adorn our home at least one more season.

happy kourambiedes

I made my first Greek cookies one December, maybe five years ago, with my friend Joanna and her father, Peter. Joanna mixed the ingredients for Koulourakias as her father instructed her using his memories of her mother's recipe. We all shared the responsibility of forming the cookies, placing them on the sheets and baking them. This is a moment in my life that makes me smile. A 90-year-old Greek father, born on the tiny island of Oinousses, now living in the US so many years later, sharing traditions with his daughter.

I haven't made a Greek cookie in the five years since, until recently, when Joanna and I visited the kitchen of St. Elizabeth's Greek Orthodox Church to help make Kourambiedes for their upcoming bake sale. A Kourambiede is not a Koulourakia by any means; a Kourambiede is like an Italian wedding cookie, a dense sugar cookie with walnuts, dossed in powdered sugar. A Koulourakia is similar but does not have a powdered sugar coating -instead it is glazed with egg yolk and then sprinkled with sesame seeds. Mmmmmm!

Joanna and I were there to help roll the dough into cookies. We joined Carol and Jennifer who are part of Philoptochos (Friends of the Poor). Philoptochos is a charitable group; proceeds from the bake sale will support the national organization as well as Gainesville charities. In the past money has gone to support local programs providing coats and blankets for families-in-need, as well as Thanksgiving and Christmas Food Baskets.

Carol and Jennifer bake year-round for the church. When they aren't baking for the holiday sale, they, and other Philoptochos members, share the responsibility of baking the Prosphoro (communion bread).Rolling many dozens of cookies was quick work when tackled by the four of us; we were so immersed in our conversations that the dough ran out well before the stories did.

modes of transportation

Yesterday morning, I drove to my friend's house to do yoga.

While this statement may not seem in any way odd - it is. I don't drive anymore; it's been six months since I sold my beloved Jeep. I can count on one hand the number of times I was behind the wheel during the month of November (actually I can count on two fingers - once I drove James' sister to Publix in her parents car and once I circled Walmart's parking lot while my friend Diane ran in to get some last minute food items for a party (another story..))

During our trip to the northeast, I didn't drive a single time. It's easier that way - James is a wonderful person, but a constant backseat driver. When we go somewhere together - he drives. So, I happily knitted my way along our journey (producing 3 scarves, one hat, 4 washcloths, and a pair of fingerless gloves during the trip.)

I don't drive in Gainesville. I primarily work from home or from the library - only a mile away. For errands, I have my backpack and my bike which has a basket. Because we live so close to campus, I have a grocery store, book store, post office, ABC store, and various restaurants and other services within a quarter mile and more options in a two mile radius. I can ride my bike, walk, get a ride with a friend or take the bus anywhere I need to go.

My friend, Joanna, with whom I do yoga 3+ times a week, lives 3.5 miles from our house. She is my farthest commute. I like the ride. I pass two elementary schools on my way - watching the kids and their families makes me happy. There are a few families who bike to school and I usually cross paths with them. One dad followed by a little mini version of him, a mom on a tandem bicycle with her little girl who never seems to know where they are going, and another mom who has a green bike and a whole gaggle of kids who wobble behind her even on rainy mornings.

Interestingly, I don't miss driving. Biking or walking or catching a ride is actually a pretty nice way to live. I get some exercise or time with friends that I wouldn't have otherwise. I also only buy as much as I can carry, which is a good way to limit spending and buying unnecessarily.

So, I drove yesterday, and it felt weird. Passing those school kids in a big, old truck rather than on my little bike, I felt a little trapped and very large and overstated. I didn't get to Joanna's house any faster and her dog barked frantically when I arrived.

I did, however, enjoy the freedom of being able to go as far as I wanted and to run as many errands as I needed at one time. Plus, I stocked up on canned tomatoes, tuna and beans, because those suckers are heavy in the bike basket.

henry's hibiscus

I planted the seeds from Henry's hibiscus shortly after we moved back from the Bahamas. We had long admired the beautiful tree-like plant filled with magenta blooms in his yard. During our last visit before leaving the island, he gave us a bagful of limes and lemons from the trees surrounding his small shack and 5 hibiscus seeds. From the moment we met them, we have been repeatedly humbled by the generosity of Henry and his family. They have so little yet they always give so much. Four summers have passed since we left the island and I planted the seeds, this year was the first that Henry's hibiscus bloomed in our yard; I can't look at it without smiling.