Look North

Maine.  Pretty far north.

Garrison Keillor, in a long ago News From Lake Wobegone segment on Prairie Home Companion, made the comforting observation that the further north you go, the smarter people get. There are certainly abundant examples to support and disprove that statement but having now returned to the north after five years away, I think I have acquired a level of gravitas appropriate to truly appreciate the wisdom of that wit. In other words, we’ve been in Maine two months now and have yet to slap our foreheads in disbelief over the idiocy of our new land.  In Austin, our pates were frequently black and blue.  In Florida, we resorted to wearing head gear.  For now, we are enjoying the clear thinking.  Mind you, we had a close encounter in Hannaford’s supermarket a few weeks ago that reminded us nothing lasts forever.

It all started with chocolate milk.

The state of Texas has a lot of things to be proud of but one of my most treasured jewels is Promised Land Dairy’s MidnightChocolate milk.  It is the stuff of epiphanies and has set the standard by which all other chocolate milks shall forever be judged. When we left Austin for Florida, we lamented leaving some dear friends, Mandola’s Italian Market, Salt Lick Barbecue, HEB’s Central Market and Midnight Chocolate Milk. Nothing in Florida was even remotely close, though what was surely a gift from the universe was a lone bottle of Promised Land at a posh grocery store in Sarasota. We only ever saw it there that once.

It was in the spirit of that eternal quest that I found myself standing in front of the Smiling Hill Farm cooler at the grocery store. Smiling Hill Farm is a 12^th generation dairy farm in Westbrook that provides its milk in glass bottles similar to those of bygone days when your dairy products were delivered to your door.  I had tried their chocolate milk years ago and remembered it was pretty tasty.  I also remembered that I’d been surprised at the checkout to find out there was a one- dollar deposit on that bottle.  Back then, I had intended to keep the bottle to use for a vase so I just factored the deposit into the price and thought no more about it.

But now here I was contemplating Smiling Hill under slightly different circumstances.  I was making a conscious decision to support a local business along with hoping for a super bottle of brown moo.  Vaguely remembering a deposit, I started to investigate.  There is no sign on the special Smiling Hill cooler stating there is a required deposit, let alone the hefty dollar amount.  There is no sticker on the bottle nor on the lid.  What there is is miniscule print at the bottom of the bottle’s silk screened label that says “Wash and return for deposit.” It might show up as readable with regular milk in the bottle but with chocolate milk, or devoid of liquid, you’ve got to do some serious looking with young eyes to see that.  Despite the fact that the product was already a bit more expensive than the standard brands available, Jamie encouraged me to grab a bottle in the spirit of exploration. I did so and we headed up front to check out.

The cashier was a gal I recognized as a long-time fixture at the Yarmouth store.  As she busily scanned our items, I watched the display for the bottle of milk.  The deposit had gone up to $1.50 and as I had no plans to make this bottle a vase, I asked with a smile how to go about getting my deposit back. And that’s when the fight broke out.

Or shall I call it an informational incident.

First I was told that all bottles and cans in Maine have deposits but that most redemption centers won’t take Smiling Hill Farm bottles.  I’m quite familiar with Maine’s Bottle Bill, my father having worked for Seltzer & Rhydholm, bottlers of Pepsi Cola in Portland, for 42 years and myself an avid roadside collector of tossed bottles and cans which I’ve parlayed into tanks of gas and plane tickets to Europe. I was pretty sure that milk was something that didn’t require a state deposit regardless of how it was packaged.

When I asked if I could bring the bottle back to Hannaford I was told no, they didn’t refund Smiling Hill deposits.  I would have to join the CLYNK program. When I asked what the CLYNK program was, I got a look of incredulity and the fateful branding-iron comment of dismissal plied with disdain upon those unfortunate enough to not have been born, raised, and lived their entire lives in the obvious center of the universe:

Oh, you’re not from around here.

I was tempted to let her know that I was from around here for 42 of my 47 years but I couldn’t argue with the fact that I didn’t know what the hell CLYNK was and how it stood between me and my $1.50 refund so I kept my mouth shut and let the maelstrom descend.  The young woman who was the shift leader and bagging at the next register described in non-linear sentences at breakneck speed something about signing up, getting bags, first bags free then you pay, there’s an account, it might not register deposits for 48 hours and more that was simply unintelligible.  Then she stopped talking, drew breath, and offered:

Or you could just drive out to the farm.  It’s not that far.

Well, on a global scale, she’s right. But according to Google Maps, it’s between 23 and 28 miles one-way to Smiling Hill Farm from our house in Pownal.  Given that gas is $3.80 a gallon as I write this, and our Ford Tardis, Traveller, gets about 26 miles to the gallon, I’m looking at $7.60 in gas to get my $1.50 refund. Heck, even to go home, enjoy my milk and drive back to Hannaford, sign up for CLYNK and toss my bio-degradable CLYNK bag in the bin is a 12-mile trip at $1.90 to eventually get my refund, which I’ll have to drive back to Hannaford after 48-hours to retrieve, bringing me back to still a loss of $3.80 in gas.

At this point at the check-out, the ball was again in my court.  Jamie sweetly paid for our groceries as I commented to the cashier and bagger that considering the hefty amount of the deposit, and the effort required to return the bottle for refund, it sure would be helpful if there was some sort of signage on the Smiling Hill Farm cooler stating at the very least that there was a $1.50 deposit required on the bottle because it’s a bit of a shocker to see how much you actually end up paying, especially if you’re not prepared for it. 

The cashier commented that the larger bottles have a $3.00 deposit.  The bagger began her spiel again about CLYNK or driving to Westbrook.  Neither was smiling and it was clear the content of my suggestion was a non-issue to them.  Also clear was the unsaid words just at the tips of their tongues:

No one is making you buy this stuff, lady.

I said thank you for explaining things and as I turned to leave noticed that all the open check-out lanes were quiet and everyone within mooing distance was giving Jamie and me the once over as we walked out.  Golly.  I’d become “one of those pushy people from away.”

Getting in the car we immediately popped the top on that expensive little jug of milk and do you know what?  It was just ok. 

In the weeks that have followed, I’ve kept my eyes open for Smiling Hill Farm products.  Shaw’s in Freeport carries it with no information on the deposit and evidently no on-site refund options of any kind.  Morning Glory Natural Foods in Brunswick carries it with no signage about the price of deposit but there is a sign on the front door saying you must return Smiling Hill Farms bottles to the farm for deposit. Royal River Natural Foods in Freeport also carries the milk and kindly has a sign about the deposit, though I don’t believe they provide refunds there either.

It’s ironic that in an attempt to support a local business, one that is priding itself on being careful caretakers of their land and cattle, and bottling in glass for its benefits of taste and environmental impact, I am actually increasing my dreaded carbon footprint, as are the many folks who trek it out to Westbrook for their deposits. It’s also less ironic and more, dare I say opportunistic, that the dairy is making a point to not advertise the price of the deposit on their coolers nor urging their retailers to be pro-active with the information.  In fact, if you go to the dairy’s website, as of this Sunday morning as I write, the link on where to return your bottles does not work. Nowhere on the site does it even mention paying deposits. What they do point out is that their glass bottles are sturdy investments, some currently in circulation being over 40 years old.  That in itself  is really cool but still, why not just be open about the deposit?  By the way, you can only return six Smiling Hill Farm bottles at a time and here’s why.

That same deposit has also created an unexpected investigation by the Feds. As reported in this 2006 article from the Lewiston Sun Journal, a clever little scam by some industrious folks on food stamps involved buying Smiling Hill Farm milk, which is eligible under the Food Stamp program, then returning the bottles for the cash deposit which they then allegedly spent on booze and cigarettes, both of which are not eligible food stamp purchases .  Which just goes to prove Garrison Keillor right.  The further north you go, the smarter people get.

As for me, I’m drinking Silk Chocolate Soymilk these days.  It’s yummy, there’s no deposit and the empty container goes right into the recycle bin that gets picked up at the end of my country driveway.  And that Smiling Hill Farm bottle is still sitting on the counter collecting pennies. When I’ve saved up enough coins, I’ll buy some flowers to put in it.

(All images courtesy of Google Images searches!)

The Adventures of Guinea

The Adventures of Guinea in "Turkeys in the Hood"

Click on the link and the follow the story attached to each photo

Adventures of the Pepper Pals

The Pepper Pals: Case of the Colossal Courgette

(Clink on the link then follow the story as attached to each photo)

Saturday Morning Art Walk in The Village of the Arts

Get your art walk on!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

These sidewalk snapshots were taken at Bits & Pieces, Divine Excess, The Swamp Studio, The Rawk Shop, Blue Marschmellow and various spots in between.  Thanks especially to Hector Ferran at Blue Marschmellow for the custom printing of his latest Beatrice stencil.

Bradenton on Dwellable

Perspectives: In the Eye of the Beholder

  

My husband and I rode our bicycles along the paths of Robinson Preserve, sharing the road with legions of fiddler crabs and a pair of roseate spoonbills as a storm front approached from across the bay whipping the sea grapes and palm leaves into a clattering fury.  Great egrets and ibis were startlingly white figures trying to make their way across the deepening violet of the clouds to the shelter of low trees and bushes.  It was a dramatic afternoon of nature’s beauty that left me thinking about the influence of perspective in the making of art.  Why does a pink bird in blue water against green trees make us stop and observe? Why do some people see and stop while others see and continue, or don’t see at all?  From where does our perspective spring? 


http://www.yesartworks.org/2012/01/shop-yes-art-works/

Many years ago, I was invited to spend a day with a group of mentally challenged artists who were creating works for an upcoming exhibit at a city library. I met painters, weavers, sculptors and collage artists but the person whose work affected me the most was a draughtsman named David.  David was a timeless figure, neither young nor old.  He did not speak and he looked at you without acknowledging your presence.  He seemed either completely empty or so full that there was there was nothing that could be added to him.  Eating and putting his clothes on were the basis of his outward involvement with the world.  Thankfully, at some point in his life someone had given him a piece of paper and a marker.

That day, David sat at a long table, rocking back and forth in his seat in front of a 22 x 28-inch piece of drawing paper.  In his left hand he clutched one red and one blue chisel-tip marker.  In his right hand he held a black marker.  He was a pointillist, and working to the rhythm of an internal metronome he touched down the marker tip with precise pressure at precise intervals, starting always at the lower left-hand corner of the paper and working outward until the work surface was transformed into an elaborate cityscape. He would introduce blue or red buildings as it suited him, giving the drawing a visual depth that perhaps bespoke his own.  The pieces took hours to complete and despite the familiar and repeated shape of skyscrapers, each drawing had its own personality, including David’s if you looked closely.  Somewhere in one of the buildings, peering out of an almost imperceptibly small window, you would find a smiling face.  The staff assumed the smiling face was David looking out at you from his drawing.  Perhaps it is someone who waits for David each time he picks up a pen.  We will never know and David is not telling.

Sandy French, a stained glass artist working in The Village of the Arts in Bradenton, has a brother who recently lost his sight due to complications from a stroke. He is a photographer.  Hoping to come up with inspiration to encourage her brother to continue his work with photography, she searched for information on the work being done by blind photographers.  As you might expect, the creative process, by its very nature, adapts to continue. 



Evgen Bavcar, The Flow of Time
Renowned in Europe but little known in the United States, Bavcar lost his eyes in two separate childhood accidents. Of his work, he says, "I have a private gallery, but, unfortunately, I am the only one who can visit it. Others can enter by means of my photographs, but they do not see the originals, just the reproductions."

 In May of 2009, the University of California at Riverside’s Museum of Photography mounted a show entitled “Sight Unseen” which explored the work of photographers working in, or near, total blindness. Photographs from the show were also featured on the Time Magazine website. Douglas McColloh, a sighted photographer who curated the show, points out that “the truth is, these are very visual people. They just can't see. And what they do is populate their minds with images. They crave images the same way we sighted people crave images. They can look at their images by directing our sight at the images and having sighted people describe it to them. As Eugene Balchar, one of the photographers in this show, says, "I have never seen that photograph, but I know it exists and it affects me deeply." 



Gerardo Nigenda 
"Entre lo invisible y lo tangible, llegando a la homeostasis emocional"

 Pete Eckert, who gradually lost his vision to retinitis pigmentosa views his work as a conduit. "I slip photographs under the door from the world of the blind to the world of the sighted."  Scottish artist Rosita McKenzie feels she can be experimental because she doesn’t see. “Instead, I sense light on my face. I hear the rustle of the wind in the trees or smell the fragrance of the flowers in the air. People ask me how I compose my shots.  Well, I don’t!”  Gerardo Nigenda, born in Oaxaca, Mexico, calls his images "Fotos cruzados," or "intersecting photographs." As he shoots, he stays aware of sounds, memories, and other sensations. He then uses a Braille writer to punch texts expressing those things he felt directly into the photo. The work creates a symbiotic relationship between the artist and the viewer: Nigenda needs a sighted person to describe the photo, but the sighted rely on him to read the Braille. 

Sandy French is encouraging her brother to return to places he has photographed before to capture them again beyond the boundaries of sight. When he does, she will display the before and after photographs in her gallery.

 The intricacy of the brain is perhaps the most treacherous terrain that human beings will ever explore. When you consider that each person on the planet experiences the world through the workings of their own individual mind, it is nothing short of amazing that we are able to find commonality on basic levels that allow us to be together as a species. We begin within our perspectives, perceiving the world with the tools available to us. But when our basic set of tools is altered by missing chromosomes, accidents, illnesses or experiences, how we continue comes purely from within the creative self. We lose sight only when we lack vision.  

http://digdeep1962.blogspot.com/2012/05/1-may-2012-pelagic-off-tanjung-dawai.html

For more information on the “Sight Unseen” exhibit and the blind photographers mentioned, visit these links:

-http://www.scpr.org/news/2009/05/28/628/uc-riverside-photography-museum-hosts-exhibit-blin/

-http://www.time.com/time/photogallery/0,29307,1897093_1883576,00.html

-http://laughingsquid.com/peter-eckert-the-blind-photographer/

Roseate Spoonbill image from Twinkietown.com

(This article originally appeared in the July 2012 issue of The Village Magazine.)

Discoveries

People leave things in books-that is a fact of life. Some times it's a ticket stub. Some times it's a check.  Some times it's a photograph.  Sometimes it's a piece of bacon.  And some times it's a bit of intrigue, the end to which you will never know.

Mrs. Casey,

Mrs. P ( band director) has a small group of parents that got themselves elected to the Boosters board.  They have the same "no values" mentality.  They allow their kids to do things that are not Christian.  One set of parents drove the band trailer all year and charged the band.  This has always been a volunteer job.  But they are friends w/ Mrs. P and she wouldn't let anyone else volunteer.  This same man cannot hold down a job and they put him as Treasurer.  Our previous Tres.+ others are afraid he won't be able to do or money will disappear.  Parents pay 200-300 for marching.  The budget is over $20,000.  Mrs. Stivender is trying to come up w/ things to get rid of her.  Please don't tell anyone where this came from.  Angie 

(Hand written note on small note paper that has this quote printed on each page:  "I know the plans I have for you."  Jer. 29:11.  Found in a book in a library in Florida.)

The Hour of Mice and Deer



(photo by J. Martin Ward)



Nearly a decade ago I became friends with a US Army Medic who was serving in Iraq.  Upon returning to the States, he found it hard to adjust to life outside of a war zone.  He was haunted by memories of patrols and the loss of two comrades.  He had anger and regret with no place to put them.  Not surprisingly, he had a few run-ins with Johnny Law and spent several months in jail on an assault charge. 

It was during this time that we became true penpals.  Envelopes flew back and forth between us, letters full of stories and news and games. One letter cautioned that I was to read it outside, atop something high, under a full moon, late at night.  And so I did.  On a clear February night in temperatures below zero, I nipped outside at three in the morning, clambered atop the cab of a pick-up truck in the yard and read the letter.

I don't remember what was in it now, probably lots of laughter from the writer imagining me gullible enough to be out in the freezing cold following his whim. But I will never forget the stillness and incredible beauty of moonlight on snow and the words of someone reaching out to me across so many miles and experiences.

When I crawled back into bed, I found I couldn't sleep. I needed to make my own homage to what had happend and thus wrote this poem:

The Hour of Mice and Deer

I was awake’d at 3 AM,

Nocturnal musings from a pen

Calling me from slumbers deep

To answer riddles, hide and seek.

The full moon on the patient snow,

The stars above, the cold below.

No gloves of wool, nor hat of fleece,

In my own house I was a thief.

Stealing glances, listening hard,

I moved as dust into the yard.

The door behind me gently closed;

The sting of night at 3 below.

Yellow paper, man-made light,

A silent witness in the night,

Instructions in a reckless hand,

Un compos mentos rewards the man.

Clear, cool nights inspire the mind,

We gaze amazed at what we find.

We came together seeking knowledge

And in the process found our solace.

Here, my view is open spaces,

The heart recalls what time erases.

There, your view is no less grand,

Despite the concrete walls at hand.

Your jailers cannot even see,

They are the captives, you are the free.

Words of lead upon a page,

Redemption as the battles rage.

The moon, her silent vigil kept.

I read your words. I thought. I wept.

For only you could bid me here,

In the wee hours of mice and deer.

There is a sound that snow possesses

When the temperature regresses.

It leaves its mark upon the soul

Of those of us born to the cold.

Imprinted with this icy brand,

We learn to wait and understand.

Patience will be our salvation

In this life of our creation.

I said a silent, sacred prayer,

Then mindful of the chilling air,

Crept back inside, leaving no trace

That I had traveled to this place.

And yet my mind with visions filled.

There are no liquors, nor are there pills,

That can begin to replicate

The heady joy of entwined fate.

We were not strangers when we met.

The heart recalls what time forgets.

In variations we reside.

You held my hand somewhere in time.              

c. Feb 4, 2007