A Van Gogh painting from China

Sometime in the last year I realized we had two poppy pictures in the dining room: a poster from the 1992 Matisse exhibit that Dianne, Joie, and I went to on one of our jaunts (New York City, oh, yeah), and a still life in an antique frame that Tom brought with him when we got married (he doesn’t’ know where it came from . . .). 

What with poppies being my favorite flower (recently passing the iris), I thought it would be great to have a whole wall of poppy pictures. I hadn’t started this project, though, when I came across an item in one of the 2,348 Christmas catalogs delivered last year. It was a tapestry of a Van Gogh painting, Vase with Red Poppies. I had never seen that Van Gogh painting (the original is in the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, Connecticut) before.

I didn’t want a tapestry, so I searched online for a print and ended up ordering a handpainted reproduction from China! To be more precise, from the Shenzhen Yayuan Art  Gallery, Dafen Oil Painting Village, Buji Town, Longgang District, Shenzhen, China. 

And yes, I did wonder if using Pay Pal on a Chinese website was a good idea. 

But I was totally reassured the next day when I got a personal email from one Mr. Yu Lin. This was the email subject line: Re: 收到付款的系统通知

I am not making this up. How cool is that? The email was in English, ending with “Wish you have good days.” Yu Lin and I were pretty tight after that.

The painting arrived on a rolled-up canvas. One of our friends who knew it had been handpainted in China commented, “So this is the one painted by the child down in the mine?” 

There is a footnote to the whole “poppies in the dining room” story, though. When I was reporting all of this to Dianne on the phone, she said, “But those aren’t poppies in the Matisse poster—they’re anemones.”  Oh, no, I argued. They are poppies. 

As I spoke, though, it dawned on me that I had never seen pink and white and purple poppies. Matisse—such a colorist. So while we talked I wandered over to the Matisse poster and read the caption. In very fine print under the picture it reads Anemones in an Earthenware Vase. Whoops. That Dianne. She knows these things.

The Mysteries of Life: Things That Have Gone Missing

You know that parlor game where you name the person, living or dead, whom you would most like to have dinner with? Well, this is not about that.

This is about another fantasy. My fantasy is that some day I will learn the answers to all my questions about the mysteries of life. The great unsolved conundrums. All I have to do is ask. No, not who built the statues on Easter Island. Not the crop circles. Not even the Loch Ness monster or the communication of humbpack whales in their songs.

I want to know what happened to the missing piece from the unicorn puzzle. Also the ibuprofen pill I dropped in the downstairs bathroom last August. Missing socks are of course a major life mystery.

I don’t have to know about that brown glove that slipped out of my pocket in Alexandria, or my cell phone that got left in the movie theater on 72nd Street in New York City. Those are things that I lost. I’m talking about things that just disappear.

In my fantasy, the Lord of Things That Have Gone Missing will answer all my questions. What happened to my teddy bear that was on my cot in our tent at Camp Anna Behrens? And that roll of film from the 1983 vacation in Port Huron, after I mailed it in to the processing place? Where are Tom’s two favorite mugs that vanished into thin air last year?

Lost mail is a whole subcategory for the interrogation. The 6” x 8” envelope I sent to Rachel on December 12 is tucked behind some postal machine this very moment, or in the kitchen of one of her neighbors where it was delivered by mistake. Or maybe it’s in a landfill, crushed against a weekly circular from Shoprite because someone doesn’t recycle. I want to know.

These were real things in the real world, and they are some place on this earth. (Or, in the case of teddy, they were some place on this earth.) The Lord of TTHGM knows. Where were they all the time I was looking? Where are they now?

Until then, I’m doing my part (faith without works is dead, James 2:20). I keep the solo socks in a special little corner of the sock drawer. I never stop searching for the mugs. I go to the post office and grill them about the mail.

But I dream of that great day of reckoning, when all will be revealed.

Mantras and Motherhood

Yesterday I read on Rachel's Facebook page: "I've officially become my mother. I've adopted her habits, her mannerisms, the way she talks, and several of her mantras."

Wow! I was thrilled. I called her and told her I was putting my little finger to my mouth right then. My own Mini-Me! 

But I didn't even know I had mantras! She pointed out that my "let's make a spreadsheet" mantra is one that she has down. Good one. Every party I host has a spreadsheet. Christmas cards have a spreadsheet There are spreadsheets for birthdays and anniversaries, house projects, Daddy's funeral arrangements, medications. I mean, I can't imagine how people live without spreadsheets.

What other mantras do I have, I wondered. It would be fun to make a list. But first I should look it up. "Mantra: A mystical formula or incantation. Also, watchword." "Watchword: A motto that embodies a principle or guide to action of an individual or group; a guiding principle."

OK, that works. Here we go:

1. Always make a list.

2. Always look up the definition of words you're not absolutely sure of.

3. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

4. There's no point in owning a car that's not red.

5. What the world needs now is love. (I adopted that during the Vietnam war, which coincided with the first release, by Jackie DeShannon, of the song by Hal David/Burt Bachrach.)

6. Use beautiful postage stamps, not the boring ones showing the flag or the liberty bell. 

That's enough for now. What are some of your mantras?

A new year, a new puzzle

Last week when Sherry visited for four days we put together a wonderful jigsaw puzzle that Joie gave me for Christmas: a U.S. map picturing and naming all the state birds. The puzzle was extremely challenging--1,000 pieces, plus the puzzle perimeter is not straight but follows the U.S. border. This was a perfect present for me, as learning state birds, trees, and whatnot is one of my little side projects.

I actually own (gift from Rachel) a book of states with little flaps that lift up (like some advent calendars I've seen), under which the capital, state bird, and state flower are listed. I also own (gift from Rachel) a set of "state knowledge cards" containing quite a bit of state info, including their native peoples. And yes, the reason Rachel has given me these gifts is because I try to memorize state capitals, birds, flowers, and trees. For a while I kept the flashcards in my purse so I could pull them out on the Metro. I know what you're saying. You're saying that's just crazy to memorize state birds, when I could be memorizing the periodic table of elements, like you do. You think you're so smart. Let's hear you name the state bird of Louisiana. How about it? huh? huh? I didn't think so. Well, I happen to know it is the eastern brown pelican. And what state has the western meadowlark as its official bird? Take a guess. Wrong! The western meadowlark is the state bird of six states! I agree, one would think the states could have been a little more creative in picking a bird of their very own. But let's not forget this task is left up to legislators. The cardinal has in fact been adopted as the official state bird by seven states. OK, that's enough state bird info for today. Unless you really want me to tell you which states. . . . OK. Not.

Here's a more cosmic thought. Every new year is a 365-piece puzzle that we piece together. Unlike a jigsaw puzzle, there is no picture of what it will look like when we are done. I'm working on making 2010 beautiful.

Counting Down

Last day of the year: I'm going to throw out all of the unread 2009 New Yorkers at midnight, so today I am reading like mad. For 2009 I had resolved to stay on top of "the New Yorker problem," and I did better than ever before, but. . . .

My 2010 New Yorker resolution: try harder.

The state capitol project: A few years ago I decided to collect state capitols. Actually, I'm taking pictures of the capitols, but the photo is just the token--the evidence--that I was there. When I mentioned to brother-in-law Jim that I was excited about driving through Frankfort, Kentucky, because I could take a picture for my collection is said "You can't just get them off the Internet?" What a joker.

As it turns out, this week I collected TWO capitols: Kentucky and West Virginia.

Left: Kentucky capitol in Frankfort.

Below: Interior of Kentucky capitol















As luck would have it, the rotunda of the Kentucky capitol was closed for renovation, so I missed seeing that. The other parts were grand, though. Kentucky was granted statehood in 1792. The capitol was built from 1904 to 1910.

Interestingly, in Kentucky we had to go through a metal detector, but in West Virginia I just walked right in. Just a note about the Capitol Project Rules: It's not necessary that I go inside. That's just a bonus, and sometimes I do, sometimes not. It counts just to get the picture.

The West Virginia capitol has an impressive and beautiful gold dome, but the interior staircases and rotunda are not as elaborate as those of Kentucky's. A statue of Lincoln outside the WV building noted that he signed the proclamation making it a state in 1863. The capitol building wasn't built until 1924-32.


Left: West Virginia state capitol in Charleston



Below: The West Virginia Senate chamber

















I love my little capitol project. I think I have pictures of about six or eight. Before I had the photo project I saw a lot of capitols. Denver, Santa Fe, and Phoenix come to mind, but I'm sure there were more.

This summer I plan to go to Juneau. Snap!

On a totally unfair note, this summer I purposely made a side trip to Indianapolis and took pics of all 4 sides of the capitol. Inside, too. I was using my cell phone. I never downloaded those shots to my computer, and a couple months later I put the phone through a laundry cycle. It was not happy, and those photos are lost forever. So, back to Indianapolis.

Alvin's Poem

Last night I proofread a dozen or so pages of Street Sense, DC's street newspaper that comes out every other Wednesday. Street newspapers cover poverty and homelessness issues, and homeless people can make money by selling them on the street. About 20 U.S. cities publish them--the North American Street Newspaper Association (yeah--who knew?) has more info about them and links to all of the papers. 

I started volunteering with Street Sense four or five years ago. I now proofread half or more of each issue, but for a time I worked four hours in the office every week. That was a super experience because I got to meet all of the vendors who come there to pick up their papers. 

I was inspired to post this blog because I just came across a piece I wrote before I worked for Street Sense or knew anyone who was homeless. Here's my 2005 perspective:

Alvin’s Poem

Yesterday I bought the latest issue of Street Sense, the newspaper about homeless people and related issues in the DC area. It features articles written by homeless people, and I think they do the production work, too. I know they do the selling on the street.

            As I handed over my $1 (“suggested donation”) to the man hawking Street Sense on a corner near Eastern Market, he said “It’s got a poem I wrote.”

            “It does?”

            He opened the paper to page 11 and pointed to “Portable Home.” I wanted to let him know I was impressed. Noting that Alvin was the first name of the poem's author, I said, “You’re Al?” I also wanted to show how friendly I was by using his nickname.

            “Alvin,” he corrected, pointing to the plastic badge that dangled on a cord around his neck.

            “Alvin," I said. "Well, that’s great about the poem!” I didn't know what else to say, so I walked off with my paper. I read his poem as I walked the next block. It covers what I imagine are just some of the downers of being homeless—frostbite, staying in alleys, sleeping on the ground. “When we gaze in the sky, we ask ourselves why/When will this bad trip ever end.”

            But following 21 lines of poetry describing the bleakness and loneliness of being homeless, the last line takes a wry twist: “And we never have to worry about the phone.”

            Not for the first time, I began musing about who “the homeless” are. Here’s Alvin, who has written a poem, of all things, describing his reflections about the state of living in a “portable home,” where “we sit in the dark all alone.” I hated myself for being surprised that he is literate and thoughtful.

            I wondered about how he came to write the poem. Did he use a tablet or just a scrap of paper? A ballpoint or a pencil? Was he alone on a park bench? Or maybe he was in a group at a shelter where they were all writing poems. What does Alvin know about poetry? Did he read poems as a kid, or in high school? Did he graduate from high school? I try to suppress these questions that reveal not only ignorance but arrogant stereotyping.

            I am uneasy about street people, as I call them. Every day—when I walk to the Metro or go to 7-11, they accost me. “Got change for a cup of coffee?”  “Any spare change?” Sometimes I give them the change in my pocket or a dollar. When I see one of them up ahead, I start thinking about what to do. Do I have any money readily available, or would I have to stop and get into my backpack? Do I have time for this? Sometimes I put some money in my pocket before I leave the house to make it easier. Sometimes I cross the street to avoid the whole situation.

            Street people give me a lot of conflicting feelings. I feel guilty because I have money and a house. I feel resentful because they haven’t found more productive ways to make money. I feel suspicious, wondering if they talk about the best lines to use—“I’m hungry,” “I’m a veteran,” or “I need bus money to get to the clinic.” Then I think how absurd I’m becoming. I roll my eyes and ask myself, do you think there’s some kind of seminar? Maybe “Pointers for Effective Panhandling” or “Never-Fail Ways to Maximize Your Hourly Intake.”

            I fantasize that they have feelings about me. After I give them money and they say “God bless,” I wonder if they are resentful that I didn’t give more. Some of them even say “God bless” when I shake my head and say “Sorry.” Then I really feel guilty.

            I want to talk to them, to find out what is really going on with them and show I care, but I am afraid. I’m even afraid of “our” street person—the tall, elderly man I think of as Mr. Ballcap. I see him nearly every day. A few times he has called me “doll face”—when I give him money or paused to exchange some comments about the weather. Our interchanges make me think maybe I could ask him about his life, but then I decide it would be imprudent to try to talk with him more.

            Street Sense is supposed to be a good alternative to panhandling. I understand homeless people earn money for selling the newspapers. So after I came home with Alvin’s poem, I looked through the paper to find out more about the Street Sense staff. Do they invite homeless people into the newspaper office to write? Do they post flyers at shelters? Is the paper actually run by street people? I’m a writer, after all. Maybe I can get involved and find out more about these people who seem so unapproachable. Maybe it would be a way to stop being afraid.

            “Volunteers needed,” it says. “Come to the next Street Sense meeting.” I’m going. Maybe Alvin will be there.

============================================

I did go, and I'm so glad. Alvin wasn't at the meeting, but I met him later when he came to buy his papers. I've learned a lot about the homeless and a lot about Street Sense. I still often feel uneasy when I approach panhandlers, but now I know to look them in the eye and not try to pretend they're not there. That's still hard for me, especially if I do not give them any money. 

But I'm not uneasy about Street Sense vendors, and if I see one I go out of my way to buy a paper.

More Christmas Readiness: The Card

I just came back from the mailbox across the street. Dropped in 35 Xmas cards. Wore my Santa hat (natch).
Many hours of the last week have been devoted to get to this point, and a few more are to come, as we have about 100 more cards to send. But they are all ready to be inserted and addressed. It's an annual labor of love.

Usually I wear my antlers, but I had to send them to antler heaven last year, and I haven't been able to find more (even Target!).

Of course, Xmas music plays in the background as we work on the cards. I recently downloaded my 25 kick-ass Xmas CDs, from the Vienna Boys Choir and Gregorian Chants to Ray Charles and Willie Nelson. I love having the music in iTune so that I can SKIP Greensleeves. I hate that song. My favorite has to be the Temptations' version of Silent Night. I found a link so you can listen to it: The temps sing Silent Night. After you click on the link, the song will start automatically--be patient--it takes 12 seconds on my computer.

I'm under pressure to blog this week, because I outed my blog in the card. "Announced" might be the word others would use, but I feel like I've now exposed my little secret: I blog.