Category: Travel

Portals of War and Peace

11/14/2016

A WRITER'S WIT
Compassion is not a popular virtue. Very often when I talk to religious people, and mention how important it is that compassion is the key, that it's the sine-qua-non of religion, people look kind of balked, and stubborn sometimes, as much to say, what's the point of having religion if you can't disapprove of other people?
Karen Armstrong
Born November 14, 1944

New Yorker Fiction 2016

Larry Towell / Magnum

November 14, 2016, Mohsin Hamid, “Of Windows and Doors”: Saeed and Nadia, a young unmarried couple, seek to escape their war-torn city. ¶ Hamid’s elegant prose and subtle omniscience take the reader inside the war of collateral damage. Both have lost family and friends. As the title suggests, both windows and doors figure importantly. Windows, once broken out by bombs or bullets, are really not capable of being resealed, but people attempt to do so with bookshelves, mattresses, or packaging tape and cardboard.

“A window was the border through which death was possibly likeliest to come. Windows could not stop even the most flagging round of ammunition: any spot indoors with a view of the outside was a spot potentially in the crossfire” (71).

Doors, too, alter in their significance, become a means of escape
. . . or doom, life or death:

“Nadia, who had not considered the order of their departure until that moment, and realized that there were risks to each, to going first and to going second, did not argue but approached the door, and drawing close she was struck by its darkness, its opacity, the way that it did not reveal what was on the other side and also did not reflect what was on this side, and so felt equally like a beginning and an end, and she turned to Saeed and found him staring at her, and his face was full of worry and sorrow, and she took his hands in hers and held them tight, and then, releasing them, and without a word, she stepped through” (76-7).

The story limns not only all wars but specifically the war that threatens one the most, the war happening where one lives now. Hamid’s novel, Exit West, comes out in March 2017.
Photography by Larry Towell/Magnum.

NEXT TIME: My Book World

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Over Paths Well Worn

10/15/2016

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A WRITER'S WIT
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Born October 15, 1844

My Book World

McMurtry, Larry. Roads: Driving America's Great Highways. New York: Simon, 2001.

“I wanted to drive the American roads at the century’s end, to look at the country again, from border to border and beach to beach” (11). With this statement, McMurtry begins his travel book, which is not so much about the places he sees—although he does go into some detail about literary people, places, events—as much as it is about the roads that take him there. McMurtry loves to drive and not along those quaint roads where you can get stuck behind a slow-moving RV or semi, but the big ones, the Interstates. And every road he introduces with the article, t-h-e: the 15, the 40, the 35. He’ll often take a plane to a target city, rent a car, and drive back to his native Archer City in Texas.

Some nuggets:

“My casual intention, in thinking about these journeys, was to have a look at the literature that had come out of the states I passed through. For Minnesota there is not a whole lot. Scott Fitzgerald, though a native son, spent most of his life east of Princeton or west of Pasadena. His work seems to me to owe little or nothing to the [M]idwest. Louise Erdrich lives in Minneapolis now, but most of her work is set well to the west, near the Turtle Mountain Reservation in North Dakota” (30).

“Most Mexicans still feel that they have an innate right to be on the north side of the [Rio Grande] river, where their grandparents or great-grandparents lived. The Border Patrol can deport them, but it can’t extinguish this feeling” (54). If only Texans especially would understand this idea.

“Despite the Army Corps of Engineers’ elaborate strategies for controlling the lower Mississippi, most people who know and love the river know that it is more powerful than many plans human beings may design: one day it may rise up in flood and take out much of southern Louisiana, blowing through human constraints as easily as Moby Dick blew through the whaling boat” (68) LM wrote this in 2000. Not too prescient, eh?

“Once, when I was about ten, we were approaching the ranch after veering north to look at some pasturage when we saw a small barefoot boy racing along the hot road with terror in his face. My father just managed to stop him. Though incoherent with fear, the boy managed to inform us that his little brother had just drowned in the horse trough. My father grabbed the boy and we went racing up to the farmhouse, where the anguished mother, the drowned child in her arms, was sobbing, crying out in German, and rocking in a rocking chair. Fortunately the boy was not quite dead. My father managed to get him away from his mother long enough to stretch him out on the porch and squeeze the water out of him. In a while the boy began to belch dirty fluids and then to breathe again. The crisis past, we went on home. The graceful German mother brought my father jars of her best sauerkraut for many, many years” (185). This anecdote speaks for itself.

Occasionally McMurtry allows his prejudices to overpower his reason: “I’m not entirely comfortable in Idaho—fortunately it’s only seventy-five miles across the Idaho panhandle from Coeur d’Alene over the hills to Montana. I suppose my discomfort has to do with the Aryan Brotherhood and similar organizations, several of which make their official home in Idaho. In no state is there such obvious hatred of law and government—hard to explain, since there is scant evidence that there is much law and government in Idaho. A lot of frontier types who aren’t quite up to Alaska hang out there, secure in the knowledge that they’re in part of the country where the outlaw mentality is still encouraged” (195).

Once, while with friends in Boise, Idaho, following our attendance of a play set in an outdoor amphitheater, we and our hosts got in the car. I dreaded the wait for all of those vehicles to vacate the huge parking lot (recalling how savagely impolite most Texans are when it comes to their own motto of Drive Friendly), but I was hugely surprised when, at a certain juncture, as if there were a four-way stop, drivers politely took their turns until each car, of the hundreds, had made its way to the exit—all without frenzy, all without rancor or rudeness, and in record time. Surely such a land is not as bad as McMurtry makes out. Think of all the wise academics at Idaho universities. Think of all the Mormons and other religious people who make their homes in Idaho. Are they all to be tainted by a group such as the Aryan Brotherhood? Come on, Larry.

And talk about hatred of government: once when I was on a trip with forty other West Texans to visit the city of Ottawa, Canada, a majority of my fellow travelers booed the very mention of our president’s name. You see, this particular bakery had dared to rename their maple leaf cookie the Obama cookie. I never felt so ashamed to be an American in my life. I personally HATED George W. Bush, but I NEVER would have booed his name in any public setting, particularly in a foreign country—because much as I detested him and his policies, he was still my president. Larry, please, no more generalizations about people who hate or don’t hate. They’re just not relevant. We are all capable of hate in almost any context. I certainly won't let this one slip prevent me from loving your book!

NEXT TIME: New Yorker Fiction 2016

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Three Diaries Equal a Life

10/7/2016

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A WRITER'S WIT
For research, I like to go to the location of the places in the novels. The first thing that I do is involve my senses: I notice the smells; I open the trash cans and look at what people have thrown away.
Natsuo Kirino
Born October 7, 1951

My Book World

I'VE MADE IT MY GOAL to read the entire oeuvre of late British-American author, Christopher Isherwood, over a twelve-month period. This profile constitutes the twentieth in a series of twenty-four.

Isherwood, Christopher. Liberation: Diaries, Volume Three: 1970-1983. New York: Harper, 2012.

Having now read Isherwood’s diaries, except for his Lost Years, which is a reconstruction of his life from 1945-1951, I feel, in a sense, that I’ve lived life alongside him. Yes, I believe I can say I’ve lived a parallel life of voyeurism as I’ve read all three diaries (2,681 pages), covering the greater part of his life, right up to his death in 1986.

I’ve more or less lived in his house with him, sometimes sharing his bed with some of the (apparently) sexiest men in the world, including his long-time companion, Don Bachardy. I’ve struggled through his writing, as he articulates what he fears are certain problems taking place in the manuscript he is working on at the time. I’ve been to every party he has, where he often, by his own admission, drinks too much—so much so, in fact, that he can’t remember exactly what has happened or whom he’s insulted. I’ve accompanied him every time he strolls along the beach in Santa Monica, California, where he lives, or squabbles with local residents or fusses over a neighbor’s nocturnally barking dog or rascally kids who have no respect for the private bridge that somehow sets their property apart from others. I am exposed to every opinionated thought he holds about other writers, artists, agents, actors, directors, composers or religious leader, and their work. Oh, yes, I’ve suffered through his anguish over not being able to participate in Hinduism as authentically as he wishes, almost daily writing something about his Swami or the monastery or his inability to meditate properly. I’ve sat on the toilet with him as he struggles with the indelicacies of an aging body. I’ve noted his weight, daily, as he records it in his diary and stews over how he can lose even more, while at the same time ingesting great quantities of empty calories found in drink and rich food.

I sympathize yet am a bit impatient with his concern over his fading looks. Photos of his youth indicate a stunning gentleman, who, besides being smart, is handsome, and often wins over any body he indeed decides to win over. So as he ages, he must accept it, and does, with a certain reserved grace. In some ways he is an average person with sometimes extraordinary foibles. Though he is highly intelligent, his life seems tinged by racism and classism, perhaps a product of his time and birthright, however hard he otherwise tries to escape them. He drops out of Cambridge University after one year, yet it doesn’t seem to hurt his career. Maybe it only narrows him in some way, although god knows he travels the face of the earth enough to be capable of empathizing with a broad range of peoples.

As I near the end of this document, I become a bit bored with his obsessions, particularly with death, since he knows he is going to experience a slow decline from prostate cancer (one of his biggest fears). At the same time, he is able to view his life in a larger context—he’s kept such copious records of it—and make some rather stoic and pithy statements. “I’m not in a good state. Death fears—that’s to say, pangs of foreboding—recur often. They seem to be part of a quite normal physical condition; the pangs of a dying animal, thrilling with dread of the unknown” (686). He writes these words on October 23, 1983, a little over two years before he dies. In spite of the struggle of his last years—all chronicled in this tome—he often lives with a joie de vivre that most of us only hope to experience a few times ever. As I often do, I’ve listed some nuggets from this, the final installment of Christopher Isherwood’s diaries.

The following comes under the category of gossip, interesting only because of its noted victims: “The usual pronouncement that Truman Capote is a ‘birdbrain.’ Gore [Vidal] has finished a novel called Two Sisters in which he admits that he and Jack Kerouac went to bed together—or was that in an article? (Gore told me about so many articles he’s written and talks he has given that my memory spins.) Anyhow, Gore now regrets that he didn’t describe the act itself; how they got very drunk and Kerouac said, ‘Why don’t we take a shower?’ and then tried to go down on him but did it very badly, and then they belly rubbed. Next day, Kerouac claimed he remembered nothing; but later, in a bar, yelled out, ‘I’ve blown Gore Vidal!’” (11).

“Howard is an American, Jewish New Yorker, with possibly some Negro in him” (63). Speaks for itself.

On writing: “I have kept this diary doggedly, day by day, because I believe a continuous record, no matter how full of trivialities, will always gradually reveal something of the subconscious mind behind it. I’ve never regretted keeping a diary yet. There are always a few nuggets of literary value under all that sand” (65).

On aging: “Partly, of course, this rattles me because I’m getting old; I feel I can’t keep up with it all. Why do things have to change so fast? It no longer seems exhilarating that they do. For instance, I mind enormously that they finally are going to put up this monster apartment building at the end of the street, two twenty-floor towers. And yet, why not? Why shouldn’t we have to move? We’ve been here ten years, already” (81).

On Cabaret: “Scammell told us he has read the script of the Cabaret film (because for part of Chris) and ‘Chris’ (now called Brian) is queer, that’s to say he can’t make love to Sally at first and then later he can then Sally does it with a mature but very attractive baron and Chris is jealous and makes a scene about it with Sally, and Sally exclaims, ‘Oh, fuck the Baron!” (meaning that he’s unimportant) and Chris replies coyly, ‘I do.’ That’s the kind of thing which offends my dignity as a homosexual. The queer is just an impotent heterosexual” (127).

Aging: “Oh, I am such a compulsive old thing, jogging down the road to the beach, sitting for a moment only on the sand alert for dogs (lest they should pee on my towel), then into the ocean, alert for surfers (lest they should collide with me) then to take a shower on the beach (hurrying lest someone else should get there first) then hobbling uphill over the gravel and wiping off the sand from my feet on the lawn of the corner house (hastily, lest they should look out and tell me not to). My secret life isn’t a bit like Walter Mitty’s—it’s mostly ratlike scurrying to secure myself some tiny advantage” (182).

Anecdote: “John Gielgud told us this story about Mae West. She was asked, ‘Do you ever smoke after you’ve had sex?’ She answered, ‘I never looked.’” (235).

On keeping a journal: “Have been dipping into my old journals of the early sixties; a mistake. Now I feel sad as shit, but must admit things are much better nowadays, at least from my point of view. Is it really good to keep a journal? I loathe doing it at the time and I get depressed when I read it. But it’s such a marvellous treasure trove. I have vowed to make an entry a day throughout July, so I’ll stick to this, but I protest, I protest” (249).

Gossip: “Roddy [McDowall, actor] has a weird hobby, he makes candles. He brought us one, or rather a sort of wax embryo containing three wicks and many lumps of colored wax embedded in wax. Without my glasses, I took it for some sort of fruit dessert and was about to put it in the icebox” (263).

On Cabaret: “Yesterday, I saw Cabaret for the second time and liked it much better than before. I still don’t think it adds up to anything much, but Michael York this time seemed not only adorable and beautiful but a really sensitive and subtle actor. Liza Minnelli I liked less, however; thought her clumsy and utterly wrong for the part, though touching sometimes, in a boyish good-sport way” (289).

Anecdote: “The evening ended delightfully with a sort of victory party given by J. J. Mitchell’s handsome and nice friend Ron Holland, at a restaurant called Ma Bell’s, where they have telephones on all the tables which you can use for free, anywhere in the New York area. Ron told a story about a boy he picked up at a gym he goes to. He brought the boy to this restaurant and told him he could call anybody he liked. The boy was delighted. He called his mother and started telling her what a wonderful place he was in. Then his face fell. He turned to Ron and said apologetically ‘I’ve go to split—she says my father’s dying’” (307-8).

Prejudice: “My relations with Patrick weren’t as pleasant as usual, I’m sorry to say. Maybe all his talk about settling down in France irritated me, after a few drinks, for I launched into one of my tiresome cantankerous Francophobe tirades. Also I declared that, as a writer, I needed all my life to master the English language—implying that Patrick and the rest never had and never would—and that I therefore had no time to waste in dabbling in foreign tongues. Patrick rightly found this statement pretentious. It was also rude to Eric, who speaks at least three languages fluently” (335). I don’t get why Isherwood is being so “honest” here. Is it for his or our benefit?

“This afternoon Julian Jebb is due to arrive here with his assistant, Rosemary Bowen Jones, and we are to be in the grip of the BBC for a week. Am at present sulking about this, wishing to Christ I’d never agreed to it, even wishing I’d agreed to go to Berlin because maybe once I was there I’d have remembered something interesting. Now it seems to me that Berlin was one of the least important episodes in my life, which is nonsense of course—but it does bring home to me that my life in those days was a pretty shabby little affair in comparison with what I have had since” (409). Ironic, isn’t it, that Isherwood’s Berlin life is “shabby,” but his writing notable, but later an LA life is great, but his writing not as lively.

Isherwood pinpoints the problem of an older writer finding fresh content. It hits him hard, I think. “I keep plugging at the book. At present, not joyfully. I feel it is somehow flat—that I’m failing to give it the sparkle of life. One thing that keeps bugging me is that I have covered so much of the material in my fiction and what’s left for me to write is just—leftovers” (471).

“No use apologizing to myself for the huge gap [between entries]. The truth is I am slowing down; I simply cannot get through all the jobs I set myself to do. And so I develop a masochistic attitude toward myself as my own taskmaster” (473). Yeah, it sort of works when you’re in your thirties, but not so much later on.

“On March 17, Mort Sahl, on his T.V. show called ‘Both Sides,’ made antihomosexual remarks, against which Cici Huston, who was one of his guests, violently protested. Here are four of Sahl’s remarks (addressed to Cici and some other women): ‘They despise you because you have the real thing,’ ‘They dominate classical music,’ ‘Do you know a poor faggot?’ ‘They’re your enemy.’” Odd that Isherwood sees this as prejudice but NOT his own anti-Semitism or racist comments.

“Instead he went to bed and left Jack to cope with us, Zizi Jeanmaire, her daughter Valentine, Ustinov’s daughter Pavla, Nellie Carroll and Miguel. He failed to make us jell and nobody raised a finger to help him except Don and me. I can’t help it, I do so dislike Frogs” (534). This remark is typical of the British hatred for the French, or perhaps it is a typical “islander’s” small prejudices against everybody!

On aging: “A really interesting and horribly depressing talk, last night on T.V., about the approaching oil famine within thirty years and consequent plans for transmitting solar energy via satellites, etc. I got such a sense of a future which I don’t want to, and anyway, can’t live on into. At the same time, I quite realize that my aversion is merely romantic; I hate to part with the notion of space as something awesome, of the moon as a shining mysterious orb, etc., and contemplate a time when the earth will be surrounded by a sort of backyard full of skyjunk” (541).

On writing: “Today I reached page 203, which is almost certainly much more than two-thirds of this draft. I still haven’t the least idea what is caught in the net. It is still entirely possible that the question, ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ won’t be adequately answered. But, in all my long experience, I have never been able to find anything better than this fumbling way of getting down to the nerve” (545).

On writing: “The writer of any kind of autobiographical book is in deadly danger whenever he is trying to get from point A to point B in a hurry—when, that’s to say, he isn’t interested in what he’s immediately writing. Somehow or other, one must make such bridge passages interesting. There are many of them in my narrative, and that is really what’s worrying me” (582).

Speaking very poetically of his local geography, yet it seems to be a metaphor for his writing, his life: “I think the sun has now definitely set beyond the headland, into the sea, but can’t be certain because of how-lying clouds, I creep on with the Swami book [My Guru and His Disciple]. My old head is so thick and stupid it’s brutal. I fight my way on, sentence by sentence, and always a cold scornful remnant of reason waits for the next morning, when it looks through the latest page and says, idiot, can’t you see that the sentence ought to be the other way around, and that that adjective is utterly wrong? Are you really so senile? And it’s right—I do see it” (588).

Anecdote: “On New Year’s Eve, Don painted Rick Sandford because it was his birthday. Rick asked me, ‘How long was it after you met Don that you and he had sex?’ I said: ‘We had sex and then we met.’” (681)

As I finish reading the last few pages of this diary and absorb the editor’s statement about Isherwood’s death (1904-1986), I weep a little. Yes, after 2,700 pages of three diaries, I feel in a sense that I have lost a friend. I know, that is so sentimental as to be crap, the sort of thing Isherwood loathes, yet I can’t help it. And he started it! I don’t believe he would have written the diaries and left them to us if he hadn’t wished for us to know him, the good and the bad. And know him I do, at least a little.

NEXT TIME: New Yorker Fiction 2016

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Vintage Cars on Parade

8/26/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
I formed a resolution to never write a word I did not want to write; to think only of my own tastes and ideals, without a thought of those of editors or publishers.
C. S. Forester
Born August 27, 1899

Reno, Nevada—August 3, 2014

NEXT TIME: NEW YORKER FICTION 2014

Reno/Lake Tahoe

8/19/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own.
Salvatore Quasimodo
Born August 20, 1901

Some Pictures

NEXT TIME: NEW YORKER FICTION 2014

Photography

5/28/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
I do not see ghosts; I only see their inherent probability.
C. K. Chesterton
Born May 29, 1874

Monument to an Old Sea

On May 9, Ken and I visited Gove County, Kansas, east of U. S. Highway 83, to see the Monument Rocks National Natural Landmark. As you will note, monument rocks are the remnant of an ancient ocean, out in the middle of what is now the country's breadbasket. During inclement weather the roads are impassable. There is no admission fee, no rangers or other workers, no parking lots, and (the website makes clear) no facilities. I include a bit of the botanical life we saw there. The place is one of those little surprises that one encounters along the way. Google even helped us find it!

NEXT TIME: NEW YORKER FICTION 2014

Photography

5/27/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success.
Ian Fleming
Born May 28, 1908

Additional Shots

For a couple of days, I want to feature a number shots I didn't show last week when highlighting our trip up through the backbone of America, May 8-17.

Land of Contrasts—Near Stratford, Texas

Field Near Stratford, Texas

Mid-America Air Museum—Liberal, Kansas

Finney County Court House—Garden City, Kansas

Site of Trial Depicted in Capote's In Cold Blood

Sculpture—Garden City, Kansas

Band Shell, Park, Garden City, Kansas

NEXT TIME: MORE PHOTOGRAPHS FROM MID-AMERICA

Nine States/Ten Days 3

5/21/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably must be the truth.
Arthur Conan Doyle
Born May 22, 1859

WY, CO, NM

Perhaps my favorite part of the trip was a north to south swing through the eastern third of Wyoming. I'd always pictured Wyoming as part of the Wild West. And it is. But it is also a very genteel place, with great hotels and restaurants, polite people who help visitors. Devil's Tower, of course, was featured in the film Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It is easy to form sort of a mystical attachment to the tower. There is a 1.2 mile-long asphalt path built around the tower. So much to observe as you stroll or climb the lane. The wind, at least the day we were there, blew constantly. It shushed and whistled through the trees. The place is rich with something that is difficult to explain.

Cheyenne experienced a ferocious snowstorm just three days before we arrived, and you can see the results are still on the ground as we arrived at the Little America Motel, which has maintained its 1960s decor. Yet all is up to date. Spacious rooms but with the amenities people have come to expect. Iron/ironing board. Microwave. Fridge. You could spend an extended amount of time there and be quite comfortable. There is a fine restaurant located in the main building. You never have to seek out places to eat if you don't wish to.

One afternoon, we took a trip to Laramie, forty-five minutes northwest on I-80. What we had time to see was the Wyoming Territorial Prison / Museum. And one of the aspects that made this museum different was that large photographs and histories of nineteenth-century prisoners were posted throughout the prison. They weren't all rough and tumble sorts of guys. Each had his or her own interesting story.

We spent our last night in Pueblo, Colorado. We visited two interesting places: the local raptor center, where we saw, among others, forty-year-old bald eagles that had been injured long ago. The other spot we enjoyed was Rosemount, a historical home built in the early 1890s by a wealthy merchant. The 24,000 square foot home was amazing, and I managed to get one photograph of the exterior (none were allowed inside).

In our ten days, Ken and I traveled nearly 3,000 miles, and except for the drive between Fort Collins and Colorado Springs on I-25, which was a nightmare, the driving was enjoyable. Hardly ever less than a ten-car space between you and the next driver. Ahhhh.

I lied. I didn't mean to, but we didn't drive back through New Mexico but reentered Texas by way of the Oklahoma Panhandle, where once again, you could burn up all state gas reserves by traveling at a cool seventy-five mph!

NEXT TIME: NEW YORKER FICTION 2014

Nine States/Ten Days 2

5/20/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser today than he was yesterday.
Alexander Pope
Born May 21, 1688

SD, ND, & MT

The thing I appreciated most about the Dakotas and Montana is just how long winter lingers. We were there in the first half of May, and many trees had not even begun to bud out. There was still snow on the ground, not only on the mountains, but in lower areas as well. Of course, Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse are great monuments, worth visiting twice, but not once did we break a sweat!

One nice day, though it was windy, we drove to North Dakota so that I could put it on my list of states visited. We ate lunch at a Subway, where things seemed to be booming because of the oil . . . boom. From there we drove fifty miles to Bowman, Montana, another state to cross off. Hope to return to both of these fine places some day, when Montana is warmer and North Dakota's boom has leveled off.

NEXT TIME: WY, CO, & NM

Nine States/Ten Days

5/19/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell you that solitude is fine.
Honoré de Balzac
Born May 20, 1799

OK, KS, & NE

Roadside Park, Stratford, in Texas Panhandle

For some time I’ve wanted to make a road trip to visit a number of states I’ve never been to before. To get there, however, Ken and I had to travel through a few we were quite familiar with. It didn’t seem to matter; we found new and different sights to see.

Mid-America Air Museum

As we crossed the Oklahoma Panhandle, it seemed about as spare and barren as parts of the Texas panhandle—the leanest thirty-five miles you’ll ever see (for us, about sixty miles, since the highway crossed at an angle). Just over the border into Kansas we visited the Mid-America Air Museum in Liberal. I’d previously toured the Smithsonian’s new Aerospace Museum outside Washington, DC, in Virginia, but the Liberal museum was a fair match, boasting over a hundred planes. We spent about an hour there, and I shot a number of photographs. Then onward we drove to Garden City, Kansas, where we would spend the first night.

Garden City KS City Park

It’s amazing, but establishments such as Holiday Inn Express and Hampton Inns and many others have become ubiquitous, even in a place as isolated as Garden City. I’d visited the town once before, when my college choir was on tour. It was 1968 and I’d brought Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood with me to read on the long bus rides between concerts. That January day had been cold, the elms stripped of their leaves. Now, the town of 26,000 seemed refreshed, with signs of money flowing through it like the underground water used to keep everything so green. We ate dinner at the Golden Dragon, not far from our hotel. Talk about ubiquitous. I’m always amazed that Asian restaurants can be found in even the most remote locations of our country. And the food was good.

Ken and Friend (Antelope)

The next day we hunted down the Monument Rocks National Natural Landmark in Gove County. You have to follow a number of dirt roads that are deemed impassable during inclement weather (according to its website), but on May 9 the roads were dusty and relatively smooth. Ken explained to me how such a sea formation came about, how it has lasted throughout the millennia. The rocks are apparently unmanaged, and there is no charge, no asphalt parking, no facilities. While we were there, only one other party pulled up in their car to check it out. After thirty minutes of listening to the bird life, observing the bovine populations, marveling over this natural structure, we found Highway 83 once again and headed north.

Cooper Barn at Prairie Museum

In Oakley we attempted to visit the Fick Fossil and History Museum, but its new structure was still under construction, and so we drove on to Colby, Kansas. There we stopped and visited the Prairie Museum of Art and History. It is similar to Wichita’s Cowtown or Lubbock’s National Ranching Heritage Museum, but each region has its own particular gems, and if such structures are maintained, they will continue to inform school children and adults alike what our frontier country was like.

Late afternoon, continuing to follow Highway 83, we headed for North Platte, Nebraska. Though I grew up in Kansas, I’d never visited this state before. The highway took us through Nebraska’s central region, gently rolling hills in places, smooth agricultural surfaces in others. We easily found our motel, in spite of its sort of hidden location, and we walked across a dusty path to eat at Whisky Creek Fire Wood Grill instead of waiting in line for thirty minutes at a nearby franchise restaurant. We shared a meal in a booth and talked about our day.

On May 10, because we were anxious to reach Rapid City, South Dakota, we headed straight for our destination instead of stopping off to see much in between. There would be much to observe once we arrived.

NEXT TIME: SD, ND, & MT

Photography

4/15/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
If you can't annoy somebody, there's little point in writing.
Kingsley Amis
Born April 16, 1922

Serenity

2004. October 30. End of season at La Serrania, a retreat on the island of Mallorca, Spain. The air is about seventy-eight degrees, the water much much cooler, as the pool is not heated. The sky is full of clouds. It may rain, but for the moment, the air is inviting, issuing the last gasp of summer, and no one wants to miss a second of it.

I used a Kodak digital, c2000, and it didn't handle the sun as well as later cameras, but the shot is still a favorite of mine.

NEXT TIME: NEW YORKER FICTION

Photography: Kayaks

3/11/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
You gotta have swine to show you where the truffles are.
Edward Albee
Born March 12, 1928

Kolorful Kayaks

On this day in October 2008, Idaho's Red Fish Lake appeared like glass. Though Ken and I returned to the lake several times in the coming years, we never saw a day that the water was this calm. Moreover, upon one visit, we would see the kayaks piled on top of one another, their vivid colors faded by the elements. This photograph seems to have caught them at their best. Also the sky. The forest. A perfect day, a perfect peace.

FRIDAY: NEW YORKER FICTION 2014

Photos

3/4/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
For years of faithfulness even as a child are not thrown away, but yield . . . a strength at last in times of trial.
Constance Fenimore Woolson
Born March 5, 1840

Route 66 Meets New Destiny

This past weekend Ken and I took yet another chance to flee West Texas. While the Panhandle suffered single-digit temperatures, we experienced, by comparison, much milder temperatures in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The Laguna tribe has built a casino, The Route 66 Casino, on land that would otherwise be useless, and they seem to have turned it into a thriving business.

Unlike a number of other casinos we've been to, the Route 66 is kept clean from the busy carpet of old Route 66 icons, and an "asphalt" road making up all the major aisles of the casino and hotel to each and every machine. Employees work hard to keep ashtrays emptied and machines free of finger prints.

I find it easy to see how one can get hooked on gambling. The hum of the machines, each with its own two-speakered music coming at you, each with its own characteristic sounds. The thrumming reward you receive when you make fifty dollars on a Wheel of Fortune turn of the wheel. It spurns you to press the Max Bet a few more times. And then you win maybe two hundred dollars, and you think this will go on forever. And sometimes it does, all the way to four hundred dollars. Never mind that you've allowed the machine to suck you dry to the tune of a hundred dollars to win that much.

But then there are all the other machines. Penny machines. Dollar machines. Machines with almost every worldly motif: pyramids, TV shows, movies, myths, old and new. There's blackjack, if you're into that sort of thing. Real poker games, though video poker has its own rewards, if you're shrewd enough to outmaneuver the machine.

In addition, the place has three eating establishments, a pool, and a work-out area. It's not Vegas, but it's a nice weekend getaway! And it's only six hours from home.

FRIDAY: NEW YORKER FICTION 2014

Photographs, Palo Duro Canyon

2/18/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
I live with the people I create and it has always made my essential loneliness less keen.
Carson McCullers
Born February 19, 1917

A Warm February Day in Palo Duro

Saturday, February 15, it was 86 degrees in Palo Duro Canyon, Texas! Celebrating 38 years together, we took advantage of the great weather on this day trip.

Las Vegas: Misc. Signs

1/28/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
The management of fertility is one of the most important functions of adulthood.
Germaine Greer
Born January 29, 1939

Las Vegas: Misc. Signs

THURSDAY: FOURTH AND LAST PART OF AN UNFINISHED STORY

Las Vegas Photos: Architecture

1/21/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
Age appears to be best in four things; old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read.
Francis Bacon
Born January 22, 1561

Las Vegas: Architecture

THURSDAY: A STORY PART 3

My Book World

1/20/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
Myths . . . gossip grown old.
R. P. Blackmur
Born January 21, 1904

Bisbee Rediscovered . . . Twice

Shelton, Richard. Going Back to Bisbee. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1992.

In this long-heralded memoir, Shelton accomplishes many things. For one, he takes the reader on an extended journey, not only over his life on this earth, but, citing sources, he also brings an awareness to us of the fascinating town that is Bisbee, Arizona. He achieves a certain paradox by seemingly moving forward through time and backward at the same time.

Shelton seems to know so much.
He knows botany.

"The popular, as opposed to scientific, names for plants and animals are often based on figurative language, the language of impression and comparison, the language of poetry. These names are descriptive, concrete, highly compressed, and usually require some kind of imaginative leap. I am not a linguist, but it seems to me that the more 'primitive' a language is by our standards, the more it relies on such names" (16).

He knows archeology.

He knows history.

"Gradually, a terrible tension developed between life as it was actually lived in Bisbee and the deeply felt moral, spiritual, and religious impulses of the day. Starting just before the last decade of the nineteenth century and lasting until well after World War I, most of the non-Hispanic residents of Bisbee were trapped between the hardships of life in a small Western mining community, including the horrors of mining itself, and the pressures of an uncompromising Calvinist God. It is no wonder that those two pressures, one from below and one from above, created a society that was basically fatalistic and often hypocritical. The wonder is that the society survived at all" (265). That's Bisbee!

Richard Shelton knows, of course, literature, a great big chunk of it from the Greeks, to prose, to poetry.

My favorite chapter may be Chapter Ten, in which he relates what his first year of teaching in Bisbee's Lowell School—seventh and eighth graders—is like for a young man who has already served time in the army. He's not wet behind the ears, and yet he is honest enough to admit how astounded he is by the experience, how profoundly it affects him. He develops enough courage to tell off a rather officious faculty member who seems to have been after him since his first day (every school has a Molly Bendixon):

"Whatever it was, it caused me to be late getting the roll taken, and I had just turned to that task when the door opened and Molly Bendixon walked in abruptly.

'Where's your absence report?' she demanded. 'They're waiting for it in the office. It's holding everybody up. Haven't you been told that you're supposed to take the roll first thing and get it down there?' Her tone was sarcastic and patronizing.

'I'm just taking it now,' I said. 'I'll have it down there right away.' I was furious but determined not to show it in front of the students. Molly turned and marched out, and I followed her, closing the door behind us. I hadn't had my morning coffee yet, and my anger was getting the upper hand. 'Miss Bendixon,' I said, 'let me explain something.' She sighed and turned, evidently expecting an excuse. 'My classroom is off limits to you. You are never again to enter it unless I invite you. And if you ever humiliate me in front of my students again, I will knock you on your ass. You can tell that to the principal if you want to, and if you don't believe me, try me.'

I went back to my classroom and slammed the door, hard. Several of the students had slipped up to the door and had been straining to hear what I was saying to Molly, but they scuttled back to their seats when I came in, and everybody was very quiet."

I love this guy! Not only for his courage, but he goes on to say that when Ms. Bendixon is ill and in the hospital, he makes a point of visiting her. They do not speak of the incident, but instead, share a kind of camaraderie, just the two of them against all the other stupid sons of bitches in their school, the world at large. Yes, courage on the one hand, but also compassion on the other. Makes for great teaching.

Having made a visit to Bisbee myself, about ten years ago, I consider Shelton's book my trip back to Bisbee, too. I can visualize so very much that he puts before the reader, and I can see the town in a different light. If, like me, you've never read Shelton's book, check it out. Still available in fine bookstores everywhere! Click on title above. I wish to thank my friend Peter for turning me on to this book, in fact, for getting me my copy!

WEDNESDAY: PHOTOS OF LAS VEGAS ARCHITECTURE

Las Vegas: Landscape and Pattern

1/14/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
It infuriates me to be wrong when I know I'm right.
Molière
Born January 15, 1622

Las Vegas: Landscape and Pattern

THURSDAY: PART 2 OF THE STORY

Las Vegas Photos: People Watch

1/7/2014

A WRITER'S WIT
It may be possible in novel-writing to present characters successfully without telling a story; but it is not possible to tell a story successfully without presenting characters.
Wilkie Collins
Born January 8, 1824

A crisp December day in the desert city of Las Vegas, and you see all kinds of people doing all kinds of things!

THURSDAY: A STORY

Orphans

12/4/2013

A WRITER'S WIT
I never had much interest in being a child. As a way of being it seemed flat, failed to engage.
Joan Didion
Born December 5, 1934

Orphans

Somewhere in 1957 Ohio

My parents beg me to drive them
To the desert, almost a thousand miles
In three days.

“It may be the last time
I get to see Sis,” Dad says with Mom
Nodding, her tongue

Poised on her top lip—like my sister always did,
Plotting to change the channel when no one was looking.
“Daddy doesn’t see so good anymore,” says Mom,
“And I don’t drive at night.”

“Alrighty, then,” I say.

        The last day of touring--
        A string of bathroom stops
        Between Flagstaff and Phoenix--

        Leaves no time for pasta,
        Perhaps some poulet,
        So we stop at Burger King.

        Besides her Coke, Mother
        Now begs for a glass of water
        So she can gulp

        Seven small missiles for the arthritis
        Creating speckled claws
        That once cinched my Buster Browns.

        “But I want it with a lid,”
        She whines to my father,
        “So I can take it to the room.”

        She cocks her head like my sister always
        Did before grabbing the last drumstick.

One door and a breath away,
I snap the seal on a fifth of Chivas,
And I summon

A similar stop
At the Blue Ribbon Café
Somewhere in 1957 Ohio.

The fare was gold nuggets of shrimp
Which I relished
While others ravaged their chicken.

“Put a lid on your Coke
And we’ll take it with us,”
Mother had said, rolling
Her eyes as I bubbled the
Bottom with my straw.

That night
In an eight-dollar cabin
That shivered

When semis thundered by,
We all jammed into two beds:
Mom and Dad in one,

Three of us in another,
Arms and legs crossed like
Debris from chicken dinners.

My wayward fingers clipped
Nearby flesh with greasy pincers,
And my sister squealed betrayal.

“Don’t make me
Come over there, Nicholas,”
Mother snapped over dad’s snoring.

“I’ll whale you
Into the middle of next week,
I swear to Christ I will.”

I suppressed one last giggle
Like gas not passed
During communion, and I now

        Twiddle thumbs
        Over the steering wheel,
        Watching two old people

        Fiddle with that infernal lid,
        On their way out of a Burger King
        Somewhere in the desert.

        A strand of Mother’s hair whirls
        Like silver silk in the wind, and
        With head cocked to the sky,
        She might be ten. Again

        I sigh and ignite the engine
        As they fairly skip over to the car.

        Dad snaps the back door knob
        As I did at twelve—and they
        Clamber into my

        Rear view mirror,
        The children
        I never bargained for.

©Richard Jespers

TUESDAY, A STORY

Corpus Christi in November!

11/25/2013

A WRITER'S WIT
A nose that can see is worth two that sniff.
Eugène Ionesco
Born November 26, 1912

Photos of Our Trip, November 8-10

GUIDE TO PHOTOS ABOVE: 1. I love how the sky opens up to make three perfect circles of light on the Gulf. 2-11. The various colors of canvas, the verticality of masts and pointed posts on which to tie off played against diagonal sail lines. How neon signs gleam at night. How the water looks a different color every other hour. 12-13. The Omni Corpus Christi Hotel Bayfront Tower on Shoreline Boulevard. Being eighteen stories up affords one a vertiginous view that makes the muscles in my legs quiver, as I lean over the balcony. 14-15. The Omni pool from eighteen stories up. 16-17. These photos feature the Nikon D3200 concept of layering two photos. 18. Strolling along Shoreline Boulevard toward the Art Museum of South Texas. 19. A view of the Omni from Shoreline Boulevard. 20. Palm-lined street leading toward the old Nueces County Courthouse, abandoned since 1977. 21-22. Old Nueces County Courthouse, built 1914. 23. Great Blue Heron, Gulls. 24. Dunlin 25. Dunlin 26. Great Blue Heron. 27. Great Blue Heron, Juvenile. 28. Brown Pelican. 29. Gulls. 30-31. Fountain near the Art Museum of South Texas. 32. I came upon what seemed like a Quinceañera photo shoot. Couldn’t resist the colors. 33-34. The Art Museum of South Texas. 35. A downtown church sits with dignity among all the other buildings. 36. Part of my ongoing series of photographing FedEx trucks in various cities (the first one appeared quite serendipitously between my camera and Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts). 37. A downtown eatery. 38. A colorful bus stop. 39. Renting a car is easy. 40. Holiday décor. 41. Antique jalopy. 42. These benches along Shoreline Boulevard deserve the sepia treatment somehow. 43. Gazebo on Shoreline Boulevard. 44. Segway tourists. 45. Roller blade residents? 46. HBO staff members interviewing in preparation for a PPV fight that night. 47-81. All of these photos were taken at the South Texas Botanical Gardens and Nature Center. There is something melancholy about viewing exotic animals (and flowers and butterflies) out of context. It’s almost as obscene as staring at naked humans . . . in public . . . and paying to do it. And yet if we have not places like this, we might never see anything but a photograph of these rare creatures. 73-76. The Nikon D3200 overlays. 77-81. The Nikon also allows you to manipulate colors before the pictures leave the camera. Fun!

NEXT POST: A SHORT STORY . . . WHENEVER I GET IT TOGETHER!

Oh, Canada 2

10/15/2013

Friday, October 4, 2013

QUÉBEC

The day begins cloudy and misty with tiny drops of rain—not enough to dampen the pavement. I eat breakfast in the Bibliothèque, a small café in the Capital Hill Hotel, sitting next to a few others in our group, and we enjoy chatting about our trip so far.

We take our motor coach into the province of Québec, where French is the official language. Even so, it seems that if locals realize you’re from America, they gladly speak French—especially, it seems, if you’re a Texan.

In the cloudy, cool weather people chat quietly on the trip to Québec City. I think the autumn weather contributes to our being subdued—no vitamin D from the sun to help perk us up. The land seems as flat as West Texas but with hedgerows here and there, stands of trees occasionally breaking up the fields. Golden stalks past their prime stand stock-still in the wind.

Québec City

The walk through old Québec City seems like a dream—a Disney-like stroll that just happens to be real. Hearing people speak French. Smelling the different foods. The four cities we’re visiting may be a well-kept secret from the rest of the world—accounting for nearly fifteen million of Canada's thirty-five million inhabitants.

Saturday, October 5, 2013

We begin our second day by eating at The Sugar Shack (cabane à sucre), Érablière Le Chemin du Roy, an all-you-can-eat proposition in any language, all topped (if you wish) with wonderful, wonderful maple syrup produced on the very premises!

Kathryn, Old QC Guide

Our second day in Québec City, we engage a step-on guide whose mother was a Texan that married a Canadian. Her speech is more like a stand-up routine, which makes her quite easy to listen to. Even though I’ve seen all the streets the night before, a friend and I hike down and take the Funicular, a hill-hugging elevator, back to the top.

Bridge from Montmorency Falls to Île d’Orléans

In late afternoon we travel to Montmorency Falls before taking the bus over the bridge to the Île d’Orléans located in the St. Lawrence River. As our guide has told us in the morning, Île d’Orléans enjoys a micro-climate that allows a year round growing season.

Once on the island, we make our way to Le Moulin de Saint-Laurent Restaurant where we enjoy a pre fixe dinner in which we are given a selection of several entrées. I select fillet of pork with apple in an apple cider sauce, and it is très magnifique! For dessert, I opt for the maple sugar pie, which calls to mind a chess pie but with a sweetness all its own.

I work in my journal and edit photos until 11:30.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

MONTRÉAL, Québec

I’ve only slept six-and-half hours, but I don’t seem to need any more than that. I eat breakfast at the Cosmos Restaurant in the Hôtel Classique of Québec City. And then we board our motor coach once again.

MONTRÉAL, Québec

A rainy day, not heavy, but a cumulative misty rain that is still very very wet! It lifts long enough for us to stop at Montréal’s Expo ’67 site for a photo op. Mel takes a group picture that appears on his website, page three. It is a bit cold and windy—our first “bad” weather since leaving Texas nearly a week ago.

The afternoon tour by the step-on guide, Angelina, is not as good as the others we’ve had. Perhaps she is limited by the rain. She walks entirely too fast, and she doesn’t seem to care. In spite of this, we enjoy seeing the Notre Dame Basilica in Old Montréal.

In the evening I go out on my own with the intention of doing some Christmas shopping at the huge underground shopping area, but many of the shops are closed. The ones that are open hold little interest for me. Montréal’s underground world of subways and multi-layered malls is fascinating. And in winter they are almost a necessity as people move cozily about the city underneath the streets like ants.

I slog back to our Holiday Inn in the rain resigned to eating alone, but some friends happily intercept me at the hotel restaurant and we share a meal.

Everyone is in bed early because we must be at Pierre Trudeau Airport tomorrow for a 7:30 flight! Thanks once again to Peter Laverty of Seniors Are Special at UMC for planning and executing such a great trip. I believe everyone made at least one new friend.

MORE PHOTOGRAPHS

Flags

Flora

Fauna

Art

People Watch

Signs

Patterns

Foliage

Nikon Color Sketches

Oh, Canada!

10/11/2013

A Trip to Ontario and Québec

The Seniors Are Special Program at University Medical Center in Lubbock, Texas, recently sponsored a Fall Foliage trip to eastern Canada. The four major cities we visited were Toronto, Ottawa, Québec City, and Montréal. Below I present a short journal and a number of photographs from that trip. We had a great time!

Monday, September 30, 2013

TORONTO

Toronto's CN Tower

Flying in and staring out a jet window, one can see a land that is reminiscent of England: long acreages of green landscaping, a huge car park that has been set aside in the center city, instead of having scores of smaller ones scattered about like dominoes. There are so many high rises, yet they seem to be arranged in a certain order—implying that home ownership might not be for everyone. Later, our tour guide Mel will tell us that the city is encouraging people to live closer to the center of the city in high rises, rather than extending the urban sprawl any further. The trip has been arranged by SAS director Peter Laverty of UMC, and he does an inspired job.

We arrive at our hotel in late afternoon. At dinner on the seventeenth floor of the Primrose Hotel, we meet our tour director, Mel Brand, of Cosmos Tours. After a fine meal on the seventeenth floor, Mel hands out our key cards. We never have to check in or check out as individuals—just hand over our cards at check-out time. Our luggage is delivered to our doors within in hour, so we can clean up and change clothes if we wish. In the evening we are on our own to explore Toronto. The Canadians are especially warm and welcoming, even if we don’t speak French!

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

NIAGARA FALLS

The falls are an incredible sight, and the weather perfect. I saw the falls as a child from the American side, and my mother took black-and-white photos with a box camera! Perfect day, almost on the warm side. There are many tour buses, indicating that one would not want to be here in the summer. Mel is a fine tour guide, more like a teacher or guru. His years as a flight attendant for Air Canada serve him well. Patience! He deflects irrelevant or unanswerable questions with ease and grace, and you hardly realize he’s done so.

In the afternoon we take a tour of Toronto’s major landmarks: City Hall, the University of Toronto, and the CN Tower. In the evening, we dine at the top of the Tower.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

KINGSTON

As we follow the St. Lawrence River, our motor coach stops at one of those tourist traps that actually turns out to be quite pleasant, a place called the Big Apple, and there is . . . a huge red apple on the lawn. Inside, we encounter all kinds of apple products.

In Kingston some of us have fish and chips for lunch and sit outside, where it is actually quite warm in the sunshine. Locals tell us were at the best place in town for fish and chips. They aren’t wrong.

In the afternoon we take a boat trip among the St. Lawrence Islands National Park (also known as Thousand Islands). Again, even on the boat in that breeze, we are quite comfortable in shirt sleeves or light jacket. The boat is crowded with camera-happy tourists (we among them, but at least we don’t overtake the boat).

Thursday, October 3, 2013

OTTAWA

A very pleasant morning as we are given a tour of the Parliament grounds. Then we are off to the Canadian Museum of Civilization and the Canadian War Museum. The museums remain open Thursday nights from four to eight, for free, but I do not have time to go back.

We also visit the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Stables, where we watch a few male and female Mounties walk their horses.

In the afternoon, we take a boat ride along the Rideau Canal, a very pleasant outing for a sunny autumn afternoon.

UPCOMING POSTS
MONDAY: GUEST BLOGGER MARIAN SZCZEPANSKI WILL SHARE HOW SHE CAME TO WRITE HER NEW NOVEL, PLAYING ST. BARBARA—NOW OUT FROM HIGH HILL PRESS.

AND FINISH READING MY POST AND CHECKING OUT PHOTOS OF MY RECENT TRIP TO EASTERN CANADA! THANKS FOR READING.

Bats, Birds, and a Fox

6/28/2013

In Austin last weekend, we witnessed bats flying out from under the Congress Street bridge.

At our friends' place near Junction, we were able to see a number of interesting birds, as labeled below.

Below: an immature fox in our backyard on Thursday. Must be slim pickins.

Valentines Day with the Sandhill Cranes

2/17/2013

On Thursday Ken and I spent part of our 37th anniversary together at the Muleshoe Wildlife Preserve. Though two of the lakes we visited were dry, the wintering Sandhill cranes began circling overhead some time after four o'clock. As soon as you get out of the car, you can hear their characteristic call, and yet only a few seem to be standing in shallow water of one of the lakes. You train you eyes on the distance and see nothing but black dots at first. Then they begin to circle closer and closer, their undersides turning golden from the late afternoon sun. Because of their size, they do not aim quite as directly for earth as smaller birds do. They are magical and graceful creatures as they circle in for their landings, a lot like jets at an airport. By dusk the lake will be full. Below I've set up a slide show of photos of the cranes and a few scenes of the drought-ridden landscape that still manages to charm--an hour and twenty minutes from Lubbock.

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New Yorker Fiction 2016

My Book World

My Book World

Reno, Nevada—August 3, 2014

Some Pictures

Monument to an Old Sea

Additional Shots

WY, CO, NM

SD, ND, & MT

OK, KS, & NE

Serenity

Kolorful Kayaks

Route 66 Meets New Destiny

A Warm February Day in Palo Duro

Las Vegas: Misc. Signs

Las Vegas: Architecture

Bisbee Rediscovered . . . Twice

Las Vegas: Landscape and Pattern

Orphans

Photos of Our Trip, November 8-10

Friday, October 4, 2013

QUÉBEC

Saturday, October 5, 2013

Sunday, October 6, 2013

MONTRÉAL, Québec

MORE PHOTOGRAPHS

Flags

Flora

Fauna

Art

People Watch

Signs

Patterns

Foliage

Nikon Color Sketches

A Trip to Ontario and Québec

Monday, September 30, 2013

TORONTO

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

NIAGARA FALLS

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

KINGSTON

Thursday, October 3, 2013

OTTAWA

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