SEPTEMBER COMES

September comes and lived among us matching the colors of my dreams. Then she quietly slipped away as October unobtrusively turned the page, and began another phase in the cycle of Nature. All in all, she was a courteous and well-mannered guest. The land had absorbed heat in spots foreign to such heat, and plants withered and died without necessary water. But though a hundred things may be wrong, a thousand things are right, and completely in order.

A skein of ducks or geese, intent on answering their age old call to the south, flew high in the sky the other morning. Winter will come, as it has for millennia, in spite of our expectations as to the weather.

Whether it was ducks or geese on their lofty journey, I cannot say, but the sound of their passing was comforting, knowing it as another sign that all is right with the world.

While ducks are thought of as privileged and charming creatures, geese are much maligned by descriptions such as “silly goose”, etc. I agree that geese can sometimes be loud and annoying, but they are useful as guard dogs in many cases. Because of their profound family sense, Penny. our small dachshund, refused to walk again after being attacked by an angry Father Goose protecting his nesting partner. My mother’s geese in Grants Pass, Oregon, lived lively lives across the ditch, and heralded the approach of anyone brave enough to come across the small bridge. A friend was given a few baby geese who instead of bonding with her as hoped, made it necessary to simply throw food over the fence for them.

In spite of these unpleasant qualities, we must thank the goose for its feathers to fill warm duvets and pillows when winter bares its gnarly teeth. As writers we must thank the goose for the quill, which enabled those who came before us to write down their thoughts so that we may wonder at their brilliance, and gain the knowledge which gives a foothold in teaching those who follow us.

Thinking back to my early Latin study, our word pen comes from penne which meant feather or quill. Just think, the lovely Italian pasta penne, really means feather. I guess that would be food for thought.

Goose plumage feathered the arrows which indirectly won the Battle of Hastings, which was a major turning point in English history. Goose feathers on the longbow was as epochal as the invention of the bomb today.

November is just over the hill to the east and will bring a sweet chill.

THE BOYS IN THE BOAT

The warm October sun clings to the lost days of summer like the shorts on the long-limbed girls strolling along the bank of a flat calm lake. The two boys rowing ten feet off shore aren’t unmindful of the tanned walkers. One of the boys yells a loud “Hi”, and the girls giggle.

I have just finished reading “The Boys in the Boat” by Daniel James Brown, and was sorry to see it end. It tells the stories of nine boys from the University of Washington who came from poor and sorry circumstances in the Great Depression, yet worked their way through to obtain college degrees and become the finest crew team in the world.

Rowing is an ancient sport, and at both the University of Washington and the University of California they give it deep respect. Crews from both schools have captured gold medals at the Olympics, and Washington’s biggest win was when they did it at the 1936 Berlin Olympics, leaving Hitler red faced and in an especially foul mood, as it had been planned and expected that Germany would grab the gold in all events, and for awhile it looked as if they would. Berlin and the surrounding Olympic venues had been sanitized for the Olympic events, everything depicting a picturesque and sublime Bavarian life, but the terror of the Holocaust had already begun and lurked behind scenes, resuming when the Olympic flag was lowered.

Race rowing was a big sport at Eton College and Westminster School in England, and the elite sport then spread to the east coast of the U.S.A. and from there to the west coast.

The racing shell, unlike the ordinary rowboat, is an extremely narrow, extremely long boat, originally built of wood, and outfitted with long oars and sliding seats. The boat for an eight man crew is sixty feet long and 24″ wide! An eight man crew actually has nine men, eight rowers and a coxswain who is in charge of the steering and navigation of the boat. He sits facing the oarsmen and shouts his orders while the boat ghosts along the water, the long oars dipping in unison and leaving not a ripple. Bobby Moch of the UW team was one of the finest coxswains in that or in any time.

A second generation boat builder whose father built boats for Eton, George Yeomans Pocock came from England to the University of Washington in 1912 and began to build boats used by nearly every college in America.

A champion sculler himself Pocock worked out of a boathouse on the campus of the UW and built his beautiful wood racing shells over the next half century. Shells today are made from reinforced carbon fibre, strong and graceful for sure, but the polished beauty of the wood boat is gone forever. Pocock was a mentor to many of the rowing coaches of the day, including Al Ulbrickson, head coach at Washington, and Ky Ebright, head coach of the University of California, Washington’s rival, for whom Pocock also built boats.

For the four years the boys struggled to stay in college and stay in the boat, Ulbrickson drove them hard and Pocock gave them gentler suggestions steering them toward their biggest victory in Berlin in 1936. During this time, Seattle’s most famous sports writer, Royal Brougham, registered every win and loss of the UW crews, and helped fuel the enthusiasm for crew racing still felt today. Seattle is a big sports town and partly because of the lack of TV coverage in those days, the public swelled with pride at every win heard on the family radio and every word of praise in the local newspaper.

Brougham traveled with the team to Berlin and reported every move of the American teams. His excitement was boundless and on the day of the varsity win over Hitler’s teams, Brougham pounded out probably the greatest column of his 68 year career with the Seattle Post Intelligencer. Unfortunately it was never seen because of a union strike the next day in Seattle.

You might ask why my great interest in the story told in this book? We grew to love Seattle and the University in th years we lived there. One of our daughters and her children graduated from the University, and we attended every sports event for five years. We still fly up for occasional college football games.

Living on the banks of Lake Washington, the vision of rowers, crew or single sculls was an everyday pleasure. Here in California, we of course also root for the Cal boys in their boat since that was Dr. Advice’s school. They row down the Oakland estuary, which lies beside my old home on the island of Alameda. While living in Connecticut in the 30’s I watched the Harvard and Yale crews rowing on the Thames river in New London. The Thames was also the water in which I learned to swim. I don’t seem to be able to get too far from water!

As a final irony in Berlin, Bobby Moch, coxswain from the winning University of Washington, stood on the podium alone to receive his gold medal. Unbeknownst to Hitler and his band of evil, intent on the destruction of an entire race of people, Bobby Moch was a Jew.

WIFE FOR SALE OR RENT—$10.50

Just as marriage customs change through the years, so too do customs of getting rid of an unwanted wife. A La Mesa, California man advertised his ex-wife at a garage sale, though there was no information as to whether the sale was consummated.

Wife-sale dates back to 1073, and in England for nearly a thousand years, a man could slip a halter around his wife’s neck, lead her to the cattle market and sell her to the highest bidder. She was sometimes happy to get out of the marriage, so in that case went willingly. A drunken husband sells his wife in the opening chapter of Thomas Hardy’s “The Mayor of Castorbridge”. No doubt that she was glad to get out of that arrangement. Amazingly this informal route to divorce lasted until 1887, according to “The Family Sex and Marriage”, by Lawrence Stone and Samuel Menefee in “Wives For Sale”.

In the Old Testament, the law allowed for divorce because of infertility and other vague reasons, but wives could not divorce a disreputable or impotent husband for any reason. If he finds something obnoxious about her, he simply writes her a note of divorcement, hands it to her and throws her out of his house. He’d better be sure that this is what he wants, because he can’t have her back again.

Henry VIII proved that a wife who failed to provide him with a male heir simply lost her head. With that pronouncement in her future, bedtime became a dodgey occasion.

Interestingly, some Native American wives had similar rights of divorcement. If a wife decided she wanted to be rid of her lazy husband, she simply put his boots outside her door, and he was gone. Often his only other possession was his saddle, which he probably kept to ride away.

The Bible leaving nothing to chance, provides soldiers taking enemy women to wife a lesson on managing them. You don’t just throw her to the ground and have your way with her immediately. No, you bring her into your home and clean her up first. She must trim her hair and nails, and get rid of her captive’s garb. ‘She shall lament her father and mother,’ and I’m sure, clean and cook. After a month, you may possess her and call her your wife.

The lesson includes instruction on how to get rid of her, too. ‘Then, should you no longer want her, you must release her outright. You must not sell her for money; since you had your will of her, you must not enslave her.’

I write all this in warning. This is a real drop in the bucket for what life may have in store for you.

DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS

“PORTUGUESE FISHERMAN” Antonio Rodrigues by KSR

What brings us our endless fascination with the sea? Perhaps it is that we can never be quite sure what lies underneath that watery surface. Men have plowed the seas for countless millennia in all kinds of weather and in all kinds of boats. Vikings sailed to England, France and Russia for plunder, liked what they found and stayed to build new societies. The Danes made themselves at home in England, The Norwegians in France and the Swedes took a swipe at Russia. Native peoples fished and fought in small boats, large sailing ships traversed the navigable globe exploring new lands, and now we have gigantic floating hotels cruising the seven seas, (and sometimes getting stuck on reefs or clogging their plumbing). Last year alone Carnival Cruise line made unwelcome news a number of times. Maybe these monster ships are just too big. Man can’t seem to quench his wanderlust thirst while floating atop the water, and I must admit to doing it a great number of times, but I didn’t need a GPS to find my way to the dining room.

I have a long term fellowship with the sea, covering several generations of family association, most recently with my father, and my husband. When I was encouraged to find employment upon my high school graduation, I found it at the Matson Line for a whopping $95 per month. My Great-uncle and cousin held positions of some importance there and in a sad display of nepotism I was hired as a mailgirl. I didn’t see much of the sea in that position, but there were other perks, among which were introductions to some cute pursers at the end of a cruise while collecting their mail.

SS LURLINE

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Fishermen of the world face other dangers helping to feed our overpopulated planet. In the mostly bygone days of cod fishing the Portuguese doryman lived a lonely life in his tiny boat along the Grand Banks separated from his home 3,000 miles away for six months out of the year. He left the mothership in his little dory and fought currents, FOG, freezing cold and rough seas while setting his gear with rudimentary equipment. If he became lost and drifted away, he was mostly on his own, usually not speaking another language if he should be rescued by someone other than his own people. Though he had a compass, it would have been relatively useless that close to the North Pole. As the saying goes, “He was up a creek without a paddle”. The 1960’s saw the end of the great cod fishing era. Fortunately for we fish and chip lovers, there is still enough codfish for a few more years.

Small Dory

Mothership

HOME IS THE SAILOR

Home is the sailor, home from sea;
Her far-borne canvas furled
The ship pours shining on the quay
The plunder of the world.

Home is the hunter from the hill.
Fast in the boundless snare
All flesh lies taken at his will
And every fowl of air.

‘Tis evening on the moorland free,
The starlit wave is still;
Home is the sailor from the sea,
The hunter from the hill.

A.E. Houseman

SLEEPING BEAUTIES

Sleep has never been the one long block of dreamland that we think it ought to be. Historian Roger Ekirch began doing research for a history of the night, perhaps hoping he would actually spot a ghost. He kept seeing strange references to sleep. In the Canterbury Tales, for instance, one of the characters in “The Squire’s Tale, wakes up in the early morning following her “first sleep” and then goes back to bed. A fifteenth century medical book advised readers to spend their “first sleep” on the right side and after that to lie on their left. And a scholar in England wrote that the time between these two separate types of sleep came one after another, until Ekirch could no longer brush them aside as a curiosity.

Historically, people fell asleep not long after the sun went down and stayed that way until sometime after midnight. This was the first sleep referred to in the old tales. Once a person woke up, he or she would stay that way for an hour or so before going back to sleep until morning—the so-called second sleep. The time in between sleeps was an expected and natural part of the night, and was spent praying, reading, contemplatig your dreams, or having sex. The last one was perhaps the most popular. (i’m not saying which I do, but bear in mind that “Sleepig Beauty” stayed asleep until wakened with a kiss by her Prince Charming.)

Pschiatrist Thomas Wehr, working for the National Institute For Mental Health in Bethesda, Maryland, was struck by the idea that perhaps the artificial light we are subjected to each day could have some effect on our sleep patterns.

On a whim, he deprived subjects in his study of any artificial light to try to recreate conditions such as were common to early humans. At first, all they did was sleep, making up for all the lost sleep they had accumulated. After a few weeks, they were better rested than at any other time in their lives. However, the experiment soon took a strange turn. Soon, the subjects began to stir a little after midnight, lie awake in bed for an hour or so, and then fall back asleep again. The experiment revealed the innate wiring in the brain, unearthed only after the body was sheltered from modern life.

Numerous other studies have proven that splitting sleep into two roughly equal halves is something that our bodies will do if we give them a chance. Yet two decades after Wehr’s study was published in a medical journal, many sleep researchers–not to mention your average physician, have never heard of it. When patients complain about waking up at roughly the same time every night, many physicians will reach for a pen and write a prescription for a sleeping pill, not realizing they are medicating a condition that was considered normal for thousands of years.

My advice is to take a lesson from those early ancestors and get up, read a book, contemplate your dreams, study, have sex, or maybe even write a blog.

MY SHEEP AFFAIR

Having been born and raised in a large southern California city, I had no opportunity to meet any sheep face to face.  I saw  them while on road trips, when they were lazily grazing in a field, but we were never formally introduced

In the Southwest, where the raising of sheep is a big part of the Navajo economy, sheep are guarded like children.  They give so much and receive so little from the arid land.  I came upon this peaceful scene with grazing sheep and their young shepherd early one summer evening.   Their wool coats are so lush it makes you want to hug them.  It may have been time for a haircut!

The sheep at the left are residents of Grasmere in the Lake Country of England.  Their restaurant opportunities are somewhat different, but the outerwear is no better than their uncomplaining relatives in Navajoland.   Of course, the meat may be a bit more tender.

For awhile I seemed to collect sheep things wherever I went, and then I found two friends who loved them too, so gradually I have parted with a few for the sake of friendship.  In Cornish country I saw a great painting of sleepy grazing sheep in a local gallery which now hangs in my dining room .  My friend Kay likes it, but I’m not selling it to her!  She’s from Idaho, and they have a lot of sheep of  their own there.  We went to a cousin’s funeral and she collected small sheep figures which her daughter offered to anyone who wanted a memento.  I took one and think of her when I see it sitting in my studio.  Maybe Kay will take my sheep painting one day at my funeral!

We stayed in an old castle in Wales one year.  Exploring around the gardens, I came to a stile at the side of a pasture which I climbed over and it took me into a wonderful area which seemed to hold the ruins of a mini-Stonehenge.  Large tumbled rocks formed convenient jumping-off places for a small flock of snowy sheep to play on.  It formed one of those “memorable moments” I’m always talking about!  I spent the rest of the afternoon getting acquainted with these little guys and photographing them.  Have you ever just sat and watched them play?  They paid no attention  to me as I snapped photo after photo and laughed at their antics.

                                                                                                                                                   Sheep in Navajoland Arizona

Castle in Cardiff, Wales                                                                                                                                                                                        Stonehenge, England

Seeing the setting sun peeking through the ancient stones of Stonehenge is reminiscent of the equally old stone formations in Canyon de Chelly, Arizona.  Rather mindboggling when you think tht ancient man was in the same time warp at the same time.  What is it they were trying to do?  Determine the time of day, month, year?  Something far different?  One of life’s mysteries.  And I also wonder if there were sheep grazing somewhere in that dry, hot country.

A New Sculpture

kilnIt has been a long night.  Too excited to sleep, I have worked and reworked this new project in my mind.   These are the sculptures I most enjoy creating.  The one’s just for me, just because I want to.  Not someone else’s preconceived idea, or a gallery which wants more of what you have already done.  Those are the lucrative, and always flattering requests, but the one you do for yourself is frequently the one you can’t bear to part with, at least until you realize you absolutely have no more space for it!  It becomes your baby.

The light is just breaking through the curtained window, and I quietly leave my bed and sleeping husband, and go to the studio.  I always forget how cold the room and the floor are when I go to it early each day.  I have washed  the floor down the night before, cleaning out the used clay scraps, which when dry, become like dust, to be tracked everywhere. My tools are clean and placed neatly on the work bench.  I prepared 25# of clay the night before, but I may need more.  Oh, how I love the smell of wet clay, plaster, damp wood.  All the myriad  odors that linger in a working clay studio.

I think the ideas which come in the night creep out of some mythical box in my head, like small pieces of paper, each with a suggestion of something new.  Beginnings are magical, the possibilities are endless.  An old hand at this, I realize that I may start several times before I perfect what is in my mind.  I have a good feeling about this one, however, so Iwill begin  slapping wads of quite wet clay around the armament to sketch out the figure.  This will go fast.  The entire piece, if all goes well, will take several weeks of sculpting.   After it is blocked in, I can use drier clay, and begin the actual details.  A few days of drying, and it can be hollowed out.  Cut off the head and hollow, cut off appendages and hollow, glue it all back together.  Then will come the wonder part of it.  The lovingly crafted features, skin, hair, clothing.  It looks pretty good, so I can set it aside for a month or two depending on its size and the weather.  When it is dry, I will sand it and make sure it is fit to put in the kiln.  If it is cracked, it may be repairable, or the crack may be too big.  I might have to begin all over again.  Better be very careful the first time.  Drying time is up, it is looking good, but I know not to pat myself on the back yet.  Kiln time!  He is inside and the temperature will gradually rise to 2800 degrees over a 24 hour period.  A day  or two to cool off, and then it is time to open the cooled kiln.  I want to do this alone, if it isn’t too heavy to move by myself.  It is really a time of birth, private and subject to great disappointment if somehow there was a kiln accident.  Blowups and cracks are caused by careless wedging of the clay, or insufficient drying time, or just because it may have been placed in a bad spot in the large kiln.  With clay, the finishing materials  can be many,  including some I have used to patina bronze sculptures.  But I am so loyal to the earth that is clay.  My ancestors in England and in Canada worked in clay, and I feel a part of them is continuing through me.  It is time to begin.

Art lives through the imagination of the people who are seeing it.  Without that contact, there is no art.                                                                                                                                     

“Heartbeat of the Earth”  original sculpture by kayti sweetland rasmussen