uber Wal-Mart

So, we’ve returned from our month in Hawai’i with many tales to tell and pictures to show. But first I have to write about the really big news that occurred upon our arrival back home. Wal-Mart has seen fit to bless the Soo with not only a “Soo-per” Wal-Mart, but a “Soo-per Yooper” Wal-Mart. For months we’ve been anticipating the opening of our new Wal-mart, and had even heard rumors that this would be one of the largest stores in the nation. But no amount of pre-opening blather could have done justice to the reality of the situation. For in a world of over blown hype the hype surrounding this happening was, well, understated. In 40 years of shopping at Wal-Marts from Connecticut to California and Michigan to Mexico, I have now seen the greatest Wal-Mart of them all; the uber Wal-Mart. And it’s in my own backyard. Everything new and colorful, pristine, well lit, well stocked, and isles to walk 2, 4, 6 abreast, with carts even, rivals, dare I say it, Sam’s Club. To understand my excitement you have to understand this part of the world in which we live. Having such a store in our neck of the woods almost makes up for everything else we lack in the way of shopping, culture, convenience and choice. I know, it’s sad that the opening of a Wal-Mart upstages news from four weeks in Hawai’i, but there you have it, the unmitigated reality of living in the Soo. To me Wal-Mart represents the ultimate in shopping convenience if not shopping quality, and to have 230,000 sq. ft. of the ultimate Wal-Mart at my 24 hour beck and call is almost too much to believe. Should have bought that stock years ago; but with more stores like this one I'm still bullish about Sam's original idea.

Blue Doors

Last week I found a blue door while driving through a small town that lays on a stretch of road that, given enough time, connects El Paso, to the south, to Las Cruces, to the north, through an agricultural basin known as the upper valley. The blue door sits in a portal of a small white adobe structure on NM 28 in Chamberino, a tiny, old town surrounded by fields that drink from the muddy brown waters of the Rio Grande. The land that follows this part of the Rio Grande, to differentiate it from the lower valley, has come to be known as the upper valley, a green ribbon of irrigated fields laying in the middle of the desert that takes advantage of the sunny disposition of this part of the country. At first I raced past the white adobe house paying it no particular attention until the façade was interrupted by a window of flowers surrounded by blue. I u-turned and went back, not exactly sure of what I had seen, but curious because it stood in stark contrast to everything that surrounded it. There in the middle of a white stucco wall was a blue door with flowers pressed against a variegated window. The blue door appeared as though it no longer functioned as a door, opening and closing to let something in or out, seemingly stuck in place and time like most of the inhabitants in this part of the dusty world. No longer functioning as a door it still has purpose, perhaps greater now than in former times, it has become art in a place where you would not necessarily expect to find art. Serendipitous for sure, pedestrian probably, but appreciated none the less.

Chamberino, as most of the little towns along 28, is not a place you would consider a destination, but rather a place to go through on your way to someplace else. NM 28 represents the back way between El Paso and Las Cruces, the front way being the I-10 corridor that races at 75 mph between the two cities, and if you’re in a hurry it’s not the way you want to go. It’s a pity to rush through these little towns and miss everything that is unique about the old route when you could simply fly down I-10 and get from A to B much quicker. And it’s a pity because I’m sure if I took the time and looked I’d find a lot more things becoming art in Chamberino and the other small towns whose names more than hint at the art and culture that permeate the area, Santa Teresa and Canutillo, La Union, La Mesa, and La Mesilla. In fact, after learning the quick lesson of the blue door I found myself looking forward to each little town, each having a character unique to itself, setting it apart from the others, but maintaining the simple agrarian quality that defines much of what lies in the upper valley.

The valley is beautiful, not majestic like the Grand Canyon or the Rocky Mountains, though the southernmost chain of the Rockies is what defines this as a valley, but quieter, understated, whose deep green fields belie the dry, thirsty desert that surrounds them. The land in the upper valley is cared for, cultivated, planted, given water. Too often we look past things of beauty like this, taking it all for granted, in a hurry to get to a destination in our lives like becoming grown up, or getting married, or having children, or becoming president of the company while altoghether ignoring the journey to get to where ever it is we think we want to be. When I slow down and enjoy the entire experience of traveling to a place, whether temporally or spiritually, I appreciate the getting there more than the being there; the journey, and those who journey with me, is what I remember most. Then I find blue doors everywhere I look.

Smart Car. Smart Wife.

We were on our way back home after picking up the Grandmas from the Detroit airport, driving through the suburbs, when we came upon a Smart Car dealership. Rosalie had been researching this little bug of a car on the internet and was really taken with the responsibly "green" aspects of owning a car that could drive loops around our little town on just a sip of gas. It doesn't hurt that it's so cute, too. Not practical. Cute. (Although the fact that this little thing can haul two bodies plus a weeks worth if groceries around the city at 40 mpg does put a few checkmarks in the practicality column).

With a squeal of delite, she had me perform a rapid u-turn manuever and go back to the dealership where we found about 20 of these little hobbits parked in a circle outside, and another half dozen inside on the showroom floor and lining the display window. A lot to choose from, or so I thought. As it turned out every single car had been pre-sold and there was an 18 month waiting list to get one of these. Heck, I wouldn't wait 18 months to get a whole car much less a little 2-seater half-car. But since we were there anyway, we thought we'd just take some time to test drive one and learn more about them. Rosalie jumped into a Love-Bug wanna-be version, then headed down the road with a salesperson at her side.

Returning after about 20 minutes, she proclaimed her love for the car, and stated we needed to get one. The salesperson, having gone inside to check on something, came back out with an enormous smile on her face and announced that someone had cancelled an order and that a car had become available. She led us over to a little white convertible dubbed the Smart fortwo Passion Cabriolet. Rosalie immediately shook her head and said she didn't like white cars. No problem said the salesperson, "We'll just change the body panels to whatever color you want. Just takes a couple of hours". So, you guessed it. About 2 hours later, and less one personal check, Rosalie pulled out in a brand new silver Cabriolet with every optional bell and whistle available. She was happy. And since we bought the car just a couple of days before our 31st anniversary, we used that as an excuse to indulge ourselves. Who needs Hawai'i?

Driving around town we've become something of celebrities; people wave, shout from moving cars, laugh and smile, give us thumbs up, and come over to talk, almost as if they recognize us. My Porsche and BMW have become ugly step sisters relegated to staying in the dark garage while we tool about at 40 plus mpg. In a bigger picture this car, and cars like it, will become the rule rather than the exception. It's a different world we live in today than when I started driving in the early 1970's and 21 cents per gallon gasoline. Gas guzzling cars (less than 20 mpg) will become not only ugly step sisters, but dinosaurs. U-joints and ball joints, massive herds of carbon-combustion horse power sinking deeper into an energy black hole succumbing to entropy as all things inevitably do.

"Grandpa, what happened to the dinosaurs?"

"Well, sweetie, let me tell you about them. I lived through it..."

A Very Happy Day

One of the happiest days of my life just occurred. The birth of Mayumi Aziza, our first grandchild, took place in Washington, D.C. on May 24, 2008. At 3:01 pm, our lives changed forever. Her birth is a continuation of all who have come before in our family, and the beginning of many others who have yet to arrive. Contrary to what one might think, I do not feel older; I feel younger. Her birth reminds me of the feelings I had the on the days each of our five children were born. I was younger then, but I am young still. Now comes a flood of happiness and joy, and anticipation of all that can be dreamed of. A first step, a first word, a first everything in a long procession of ‘firsts’ that will be added, linked one to another, as in a delicate chain. Each link eagerly awaited and equally cherished. A clean, new page in the book of life to be written upon by all who will know Mayumi, and by Mayumi herself. I am young again waiting for the moment I will first meet her and anxious to see all that she will do and all that she will become.

There will be birthday parties and bedtime stories, skinned knees and monsters in the closet. I see a tricycle with a basket, a baby doll, or perhaps, a baseball glove and bat. It’s all good. Then there will be boys. Having gone through this with my own daughters, and having been one myself (i.e. a boy), I feel somewhat qualified to advise her father in the matter of boys. He should engage each caller in polite conversation. I particularly enjoyed word games with my daughters’ boyfriends, like, “What is the first thing that comes to your mind when I say, ‘Glock’?” Or, another favorite was, “I’ll name three things and you tell me which one doesn’t belong. 1) web strike, 2)groin kick, or 3)brachial plexus stun.” “Oh, you’re right, they do all seem to belong together”. Trick question, I guess. Smart boy. There are others, more direct, that hopefully won’t ever need to be employed. But they’re available.

Of course, I’m way ahead of myself. My main purpose in her life will be to explain why she can have all the ice cream she wants when she’s with me, but not with her parents. Other more weighty matters are best left to the watchful eyes and loving judgment of her parents. But, I hope she will know that grandpa will always be performing reconnaissance and running black ops in the background, keeping the monsters out of the closets. Sleep tight, Mayumi. I love you.

This Ain't No Dairy Queen Blizzard!

A couple of Wednesdays ago we awoke to a morning blizzard that saw winds whipping the snow around at gusts up to 70 mph. It would have been a good day to stay home as the visibility was near zero, wind chill was measured far into the negatives, snow drifts were 6 feet tall, and every tiny gap in our otherwise air-tight house moaned with a low whistle every time a gust ripped by. Every elementary, secondary, high school, and university in the area was closed, along with many businesses. Night crews at grocery stores and Wal-Mart had to stay over because the morning workers couldn't make it in. But we've truely become "Yoopers" (UP'ers), and it was Wednesday and we weren't going to let a little frostbite keep us from our regular, and somewhat "religious" routine of attending Taco Bell for lunch. For almost 16 years members of our church have been attending an unofficial, secular Taco Bell Branch meeting every Wednesday starting at noon, MST (Mormon Standard Time, 11:30-12:15). But I guess this was a blizzard to test the strength of even the most faithful, for when we arrived Taco Bell was empty. Not only had the heretofore faithful members not attended at our regularly scheduled time, but not even the gentiles ventured out. No, we were the only attendees on that blustery Wednesday (was that a little too 'Winnie the Pooh-ish'? I don't think I've ever said blustery before). But, you should have seen the faces of the Taco Bell skeleton crew light up as we entered. We placed our orders, and the employees showed their appreciation with a little extra cheese here, a few extra beans there, and an extra scoop of meat in our tacos (drinks always come with free refills, or I'm sure they would have offered to let us drink gallons). We sat in our usual places and watched out the window as birds performed tumbling airborne acrobatics, and played "name that piece" as we identified pieces of larger wholes (roof shingles, siding, parts of chimney flues, etc) that went flying by in low visibility, all the time wondering what all the fuss was about. The realization that we've become adopted "cousin-marryin, tooth-missin, ice-fishin Yoopers" both scared us and made us feel a little unique, if not a little proud. "Ya, I noticed dar's a little bite to dah wind, eh? How about a refill of yer diet Pepsi, dar-eh?"

Before digital, there was Polaroid

In the old days, when you wanted a picture of something fast, you used a Polaroid camera. Anything from cheesy to cheesecake, Polaroid could capture it if you had about 60 seconds to wait. Just focus and push the button, and the whirring gears would spit out a newly developing picture just like a baby without an umbilical cord. And like a proud parent, you'd put the picture in a warm folding metal blanket, or under your armpit, which ever seemed more appropriate at the time, to insure uniform development of the image. Then you'd show it around and everyone would have a grand time. But after a couple dozen shots someone figured out that you just spent enough money for a utility bill, and the fun was over. Now, Polaroids are relegated to the realm of the artist or the nostalgist. Or homicide squad. But with the increased use of laptops in the field even homicide detectives are getting digital prints at the scene these days.

The prints here were taken with a Polaroid Spectra camera on Spectra film. Most artists use SX-70 film for manipulation, but since I don't have any SX-70 film, and it's getting harder and harder to find, I had to settle for something different. Spectra film does not lend itself as well to manipulation. And by manipulation I mean using sundry items to rub, push, poke, mash and smash the emulsion layers beneath the clear plastic sheet covering the picture. I've used spoons, and wooden and plastic sticks to manipulate the film. But the best tools I've found are my old anatomy dissection tools. They're blunt, multi-shaped, and made of stainless steel. I've separated many bones, ligaments, tissues and tendons with these fine instruments; and now they've found new life manipulating Polaroids. Who'd a thunk it?

Pixels or Pan-X

It wasn't so terribly long ago that I didn't know what a pixel was. Actually, I'm still not one hundred percent sure. But I still take pictures. And, it's been years since I could explain how light and chemistry combine to form an image on the surface of film. Even then I still took pictures. I composed, calculated, focused, and exposed. Mostly, things turned out ok. Certainly, having an expert technical understanding about how images form on film or sensor can only help improve your final product, but you can still make a darn good picture without it. The digital camera, and a billion megapixels have proven that in every basement pc and Wal-Mart in the world.

So, is everyone with a megapixel in their pocket and a USB cord now a photographer? Don't get me wrong, I love the great American "I want it now" convenience that digital provides as much as the next guy. But I really miss the smell of mixing chemicals at precise temperatures, and dropping dripping paper prints in a multi-step process, that, although I may not have fully understood chemically, I fully appreciated as the images magically appeared under the red glow of my safe light. In a sort of photomasochistic way I loved dodging, burning, and even spotting my pictures after having exposed, developed, agitated, stopped, fixed, washed and dried my film. I miss my Omega and Beseler enlargers with their many movable parts; the negative image projected on my easel as I made test strips and chose the perfect paper or filter for the best contrast or color rendition. I feel a little guilty about making the process so painless through downloading and mouse-manipulating my "captured" images to perfection. But not so guilty that I'm going to cancel my already ordered Nikon D300. I'm virtually drooling pixels just thinking about that Fed-Ex package sitting on my front porch in my "secret" parcel drop behind the rocking chair on my porch.

But, there are days that I pull out an old friend, like my Pentax Spotmatic, or Minolta SR-T 102, or Olympus OM-1, and sit and measure the light in one place, then another, zoom by walking closer or farther away, focus and consider depth of field, and then set the dials and rings to expose the film just the way I want. I have to admit that doing this every once in a while makes me think about the things that go into making a good picture. And that makes me a better digital photographer. I think everyone who owns a digital camera should also own a good old fashioned manual slr and do this exercise as often as possible. It forces you to think in a way that digital doesn't. Please, don't misunderstand me. For excellent photographers, as much thought goes into a digitally captured image as one that is film captured. What's six inches behind the camera will always be more important than megapixels; but with digital it's become too easy to substitute quantity for quality. The images here were taken during one of my manual exercises. I used an old Canon rangefinder with a fungus-laden normal lens. The shutter speed for the pictures was 1/40th and the apertures were "educatedly" guessed. Putting away all my high tech gadgets took me out of my comfort zone which, paradoxically, made me more comfortable with photography... again.