Mon, Dec 19, 2011 at 4:54

Dear Deers,     My flight to A2 is at 8:30, getting in at 11:05 PM tonight. I hope someone wakes me up, or I may end up in Greenland! I will take a Metro Car straight to St. Joe’s, where my brother and I will stay with my mother. They cannot get the fluid off of her lungs, and are not sustaining her with any machines, per her wish. She has had a miserable time of it, but we hope she is no longer in pain. I don’t think she will know I’m there as she has fallen into unconsciousness. Thanks for all your offers of help. Your friendship is more than enough.     I love you all, K

Tues, Dec 21, 2011 at 7:30AM

Deers,     I miss you all! Hope you are ready for Christmas, and in the spirit! In the middle of the night it came to me that I should stop fretting about getting home. I need to stay here with John, whatever happens with Mom, so I think F is going to drive up Friday and we will create a Christmas that is already very different from what we thought it would be.

I don’t know how my mother is still alive. She is shutting down, they say. Knowing her strength, this could take some time. Her breathing has been exhaustingly labored, and now she has long pauses of apnea. They are being wonderful to her, and she looks peaceful even with the horrible breathing. She hasn’t eaten or had any water since Sunday. I am going to her house today to get a picture of my grandmother to take to her room. Well, that may be as much for me as for her. It can do double duty!

John and I slept on hospital chairs last night, and I am using the term ‘slept’ very loosely, but we plan to go home tonight. The nurses told us some people prefer to die when no one is with them, so we should not feel guilty about not being here every minute. How would anyone know that?     Love to you all, K

Weds, Dec 21, 2011 at 3:05AM

Dear B,     Thanks so much. Mother is still with us. She wouldn’t be, if she knew what was going on. We’re in limbo. Can’t prepare. Can’t plan when to go home. Can’t even say goodbye, because she’s out of it. Not ready for Christmas. Probably won’t even get home. John and Monica have cancelled their trip to Nashville. I miss you all and our walks. I’ll try to be upbeat in the next communication, as soon as something good happens. Pretty grim so far. Marianne did come yesterday with her music to sing Christmas carols to Mom. One of the nurses walked in the room and sang harmony with her. I guess you could say having a big, old cry was a good thing. Marianne is a beautiful singer, but we always laughed at her embarrassing Mom because she would burst into song in “inappropriate” places, like grocery store aisles, and waiting rooms. Mother never did like any of us to call attention to ourselves, or to her, even in a good way.     Love, K

Wed, Dec 21, 2011 at 7:35PM

Thanks for your email. I am sitting with Mom now. John has gone to get us some dinner. She has opened her eyes a few times today, but not really to see anything. She’s getting no food or water, and no meds, and still she’s hanging on. John has instructions to just shoot me before it gets to this point for me. The trade-off for a long life, I gess, is that you get to have a “journey” in order to end it. If Mom were able, I’m certain she would say, no thanks. They are taking very good care of her, and she seems comfortable. I’m not going to go home for Christmas. I need to be here. I’m certain my mother wants to go, and I wish that peace for her.     -k-

Thurs, Dec 22, 2011 at 6:41AM

Hello Deers,     I’m turning into a blob.  The most exercise I’ve gotten is pushing the revolving door at the entrance of St. Joe’s Hospital! Don’t worry about the group falling apart, B. The real definition of falling apart is occurring here in A2.  Walking will resume!

John and I are making progress, as hard as it is to handle matters of the end of Mom’s life before she draws her last breath. Went to Meuhlig’s Funeral Home yesterday, which was oddly comforting since it is an A2 institution, and we have gathered there to say goodbye to people throughout my entire life. We got past the casket thing with me remarking that you could have a great party for that amount of money, and the funeral director (who might be 25, but maybe not quite) agreeing. So, I decided I liked him. He pulled out their records for David and Dad, and we had a great time remembering things past. David’s death was only 13 months ago, but even that, and all that went with it, seem OK. My Granddad was buried by Meuhlig’s, way back in 1947. This morning, if John ever wakes up, we are going to see her attorney to find out what we have to do to get started there.

Can you tell by the length of this that it is very early, John is still asleep, he does not stock decaf, and I have nothing else to do? You can delete if you want, as I am just rambling.

I’m sticking with my plan for John to shoot me before I get into the condition Mom is in, but I’ve added cremation to the instructions (ha, ha! I just looked back at the word cremation, and auto correct had written castration. Damn you, auto correct!) Anyway, will you all scatter my ashes at Radnor, someplace where they won’t get caught up in all the algae? Bad enough to think of being run over by a reindeer, being eaten by one would be worse. John says if I want to be shot AND cremated, we could accomplish both with a fire bomb and save the bullet. Whatever. A dilaudid drip, however, with no restriction on extra pushes isn’t the worst thing, but it does nothing for bed head, so I’m sticking with the first plan.

No report on Mother’s condition, as it is more of the same. Just waiting and waiting. Tried to get her interested in our game of Scrabble last night, but no go. It’s bad when she passes up a game of any sort. Marianne’s entrance and greeting when she came in yesterday did cause her to raise her head off the pillow a little, and smile. A real smile, even though her eyes were not focused! If you could see her condition, you would know how remarkable that was.

Enough. I’ll make one more glance through what I’ve written, in case auto correct got in there again when I wasn’t looking.     Love to you all, -k-

Hi L,     I’m thinking of you and your family gathering and hoping it is a great Christmas for you.  You deserve some calm after the storm. Peace on earth and all that. Thanks for helping out with the mail. L will be there Monday until we get home. I have no idea when that will be, but I’m very tired of the four changes of clothes I brought! Mother’s schedule and mine are not in sync.     -k-

Fri, Dec 23, 2011 at 11:00AM

Deers,     My Mother passed away a little while ago.

John and I had come in a little late, just in time to see one of the nurse technicians clean, curl and comb her hair. We were sitting with her, and I was paying close attention, wiping her lips and mouth with moisture every few minutes with the swab they had given us. My phone rang, and it was Robert. We talked briefly, and when he asked if there was any change in Gramma, I looked at her and couldn’t see her breathing. Thinking it might be an apnea episode, I told Robert to wait, and not to hang up! I alerted John, and when we were certain there was no breath, I went to the nurse’s station. On my way, I put the phone  back to my ear and told Robert that he had been given the blessing of being present when his grandmother took her last breath. He had been feeling sad because he hadn’t been able to get up to see her, but she waited for him! For him, and for having her hair done, probably.

No matter what was happening in her life, or in the world, or maybe even in the universe, my mother had a standing appointment to have her hair done once a week. Once, as usually happened, John had one of his accidents while I was staying with him and Dave. I forget which broken arm or injury this was, but I called Mom. Maybe she was too used to these calls to be alarmed, but she calmly told me I would have to call Dad to take care of it, because she had a hair appointment. Maybe if I’d been incoherent, or screaming about loss of blood or an appendage, she might had risen to action, but, I, too, was so used to it, that I probably sounded quite matter-of-fact.

Mon, Dec 26, 2011 at 5:59AM

Hi Deers,     Thanks for keeping us in your thoughts. I can feel your warmth, and wish I was there to walk today.

Tonight EAS flies in. Tomorrow Robert, Elizabeth and the three little boys. Services on Wednesday. We will probably return on Friday. I will only be on round 3 of my four changes of clothing. I have been putting off looking in the clothes bag Frank brought with what I’m wearing to the services. I can always run to Briarwood and get something if he put in the wrong items. I think Chico’s was right across from Build-a-Bear, where I took Walker in November. Or, maybe I’ll just pop into Build-A-Bear! They step on a pedal, fluff you up, choose an outfit from the display case, and you’re good to go!

We are going through my mother’s papers in preparation for a meeting with the trustee tomorrow. There was no chance for Elizabeth and me to be disorganized, but at least we are not hoarders of file folders, labels and handwritten ledger sheets that list every piddling detail of our lives. I now know, and am impressed by, the fact that a three day trip to Colorado that she treated me to when I was at at the UofM cost $200. She saved the ledger. Also, a ledger of every accident and hospitalization we kids had. I’m on there once for appendicitis, David once for something minor, and then John fills the rest of the page.  Frank says we have a case here of over-organization, so many duplicating files that we can’t be sure if we’ve found the pertinent one or not. I even found a plastic storage bowl filled with hundreds of those blasted, tiny little sticker things you take off fruit from the grocery store. Please, Mom, come back and tell me why!

Again, it’s early, house is quiet. I have no computer, and nothing to do until it gets light. I do, at least, have some coffee, but I will stop rambling. I thought of you all over the weekend and wished you all peace and joy and good times with people you love, even if they sometimes drive you nuts. My brother assured me that that particular feeling is always entirely mutual. So, he thinks I keep my house too cold, and that drives him nuts! I’m not sure I will win that war here if I have to wage it with a furnace man!

Tues, Dec 27, 2011 at 8:00AM

Snow here! 1-3 inches! They have these funny looking machines that come around and shovel the snow off the streets. Imagine that!

Wed, Dec 28, 2011 at 5:32AM

I can hardly wait to get home! It looks like we will probably be able to drive home on Friday. I’ve heard a lot of chatter from you all about walking, but has there been an actual, honest to goodness walk? I hear it has rained just about the whole time I’ve been gone.

Kids are here. Bedlam! They were so excited yesterday when they got here over the trip, being together, and then the snow, that I couldn’t help thinking how nice a motel room would be. Last week I told Karsten we were going to say goodbye to Gramma Fuller. Now that he’s here to  say it, I wonder what he’ll think about not being able to see her to do it?

I’ll be glad when we get through this day     Love to all, K

Thurs, Dec 29, 2011 at 6:32AM

Dear Deers,     I will see you soon.  We will leave A2 tomorrow after the realtor comes by. Needless to say, I’m ready. G, I’m very sorry to hear that this “thing” you have will not let go. Get well! Maybe by next Monday the Deers will all be together again.

Yesterday was lovely. I’m sure my mother would have been pleased. Our excellent funeral director selected a great minister to conduct the family service at the funeral home. Our chairs were circled in order for it to be informal, and he spoke beautifully and often on a level the little boys could understand. William and Karsten were quite broken up. Walker had ants in his pants the whole day. Karsten, at 5, even remarked that, “Walker isn’t acting sad”. By the time we got to the reception, we were arguing over which one of us would be the one to put him in a closet with a heavy weight to bar the door. I was as tired as it is possible to be when it was over, but had a great feeling. Plus, I had to  hold it together until after our family dinner at Zingermann’s Roadhouse. It turned out to be the perfect ending touch to the day, and I could feel Mom’s spirit with us. THIS time she could hear, and enjoyed the conversation! I was not the one to make the reservation, because I thought the perfect finish would be to go home and immediately fall into bed! You can always count on Elizabeth to arrange a party!

What day is complete without plumbing problems? Not a good thing with eight people in the house. Called the plumber right after Elizabeth called upstairs to announce that the third toilet had overflowed. Plumber was here before she was out of the shower. Instead of viewing that as a minor miracle, she was a little irritated. Of course, she didn’t know we had called the plumber, and didn’t think it was funny that we were waiting in the hall for her to get out. Then everyone had to leave for the service before he was finished, so he had to lock up and let himself out of the house.

Found some hilarious art I did of little brother John that Mother saved, among so many other unexpected treasures. The proportions are off, and the hands look like hooks, but the ears are perfect! He was probably 5, so I would have been 14 when I did this.

Can’t wait to be walking with you all again.     Love, k

Fri, Dec 30, 2011, 4:45 PM

Hey, Little Brother,     We’re home. The trip was uneventful. I hated to  leave you, but home has never, ever looked so good.  You were a good son. The best. You’re a good brother. The best. I’ll see you soon, and call you often. Whatever you need, just let me know. Try not to call when I have a hair appointment, OK?  :-)

PS   Would you send me that write-up from the paper that Mother saved? The one where the police interviewed you after you lit the gunpowder you found in the park when you were supposed to be playing Little League ball, and it exploded in your face? It was that day when I was babysitting you, waiting for you at the house.  Remember?

This is Celeste at the beginning of her third birthday party – new dress, clean face, flowers in her hair. (That’s not her phone, no matter how comfortable she looks using it.)

Everyone tries to sit in the same seat, while helium balloons explode at intervals in the background with alarming booms.

A short time later, Celeste makes a wish before blowing out her three candles.  There is pizza on her face, paint on her new dress, and the flowers have been traded for a helmet which she has worn since opening her Hot Wheels bike, even though it is still in pieces and not rideable on this day. Whatever that wish is, Sweetheart, I hope it comes true a hundred times!

Shouldn’t Helene be wearing the helmet if she’s going to fly that thing?

In the end, Helene enjoys the Sweet Sixteen birthday cake more than anyone else, and I make my excuses to leave before it comes time to clean up what is turning into a remarkable mess!

It was a fine birthday! Tomorrow Celeste and I have a girls’ day out planned, painting and firing some clay piece of her choice at Brushfire, popcorn and a movie at home, and a sleep-over at Nana-K and Grandy’s house. Just Celeste, not a sibling or a cousin in sight. Of course, she can always use my phone to call them if she gets too lonesome.

Looking at New York

I went to the the World Trade Center in the fall of 1989. Telescopes on the observation deck were powerful enough to see into the smallest corner of the city below.

View toward the Empire State Bldg. from the WTC.

Skyscrapers appeared flattened, as though seeing them from a plane.

View from the World Trade Center

At the time, I thought I was being brave making the long trip up in several elevators, standing in the whipping wind by the rail, and looking down so far that New York looked like a toy city. There was no telescope powerful enough that day to bring focus on what would happen in twelve years, on September 11, 2001. On that day the true meaning of bravery, and many other things both good and bad, would be revealed. My heart aches to hear the stories and see the people who lost their family and friends in that horrendous attack.

Standing by the rail of WTC observation deck.

We, as individuals, and as a country, have  experienced many changes in the last decade as a direct result of the events of that day. I don’t know if we’ve learned to face fear, or if we’ve taken it in as part of the fabric of our being. We still don’t have a telescope that will open up the dark corners of the unknown. I do know that you feel better prepared for whatever comes if you tell the people you care about that you love them. Better do it the first thing each and every morning.

Queen Anne's Lace with texture layer

My favorite flower, Queen Anne’s Lace, blooms at the end of summer. I have taken many pictures of it, which have been featured as the home page slide show on my website, Three Dog Studio. In September, I will rotate the slide show to pictures of the Parthenon in Nashville’s Centennial Park, so I decided to post the Queen Anne’s Lace photos here, in order to enjoy this beautiful flower whenever I want with just a few mouse clicks.

Queen of the field

Folded lace

A single flowerette

QAL up close

QAL by the roadside

QAL with a wave distortion background

You can't have too much QAL

QAL with polar distortion

2011 Tomato Festival, East Nashville, TN

Yesterday was East Nashville’s annual Tomato Fest. We knew what to do.

Mural at Five Points, East Nashville. Downtown Nashville, and the Batman Building across the river, visible in the background.

Prepare for heat and fun, and head across the Cumberland to East Nashville, home of the mix of vintage to trendy. Nashville’s first residential area, East Nashville displays its history and its scars with pride. It will not bow down to fire, tornado, flood or the blight of neglect during the time when it wasn’t cool. What are a few rotten tomatoes, anyway?

Gate detail

Park as close as you can get to the Festival location, which won’t be very close, and enjoy the architecture and gardens as you walk to Five Points.

Architectural details near Five Points

Crepe Myrtle in an East Nashville garden

If you can’t bring yourself to dress like a tomato, then just enjoy those who do. It is clearly more fun being a tomato!

Carmen Tomato and Tomatapatra

More tomato costumes

Don’t stress over what shoes to wear. Anything goes, as long as someone is wearing cowboy boots. East Nashville does count as part of Nashville, after all.

East Nashville is pet and pet lovers' paradise.

Leash up your dog, big or small. Pet treats rival those for the children.

Tomato art

Be prepared to stock up on tomato art for the coming year. You just can’t have too much of it.

Nashville Sound

Sing along, or dance along. There is no shortage of music, on stage…..

Street music

…..or, in the street.

Balloon art

You know you want a balloon hat to wear!

5 Points Animal Hospital approaching from the light at Five Points.

But, not everything about attending the Tomato Festival of 2011 is a familiar ritual. No matter where you walk around Five Points, the construction of a new, and very important building looms large in the background.

5 Points Animal Hospital from Art and Invention across Woodland St.

Interior construction, 5 Points Animal Hospital

This project is nearing completion! In last year’s post about the 2010 Tomato Festival, there was no building rising in the background, and  the words, “a building like the animal clinic takes time and patience” are, in hindsight, prophetic. If we only knew then what we know now about the time and patience that would be required! Let’s just remember that major challenges build character, or, so “they” say.

Dr. Janet Grace and family at the Tomato Festival booth for 5 Pts. Animal Hospital

I'm not giving up this spot! Not to a Chihuahua! Not to a Great Pyrennes, or anything in between!

Here we are, one year later, at Tomato Festival 2011. It’s time for all those East Nashville pets to leave the joys of the Tomato Festival behind, and come in from the cold……er, heat. Whatever. Just get inside! Dr. Janet Grace will open the doors to East Nashville’s own veterinary clinic in October!

You say “Tomato,”, I say, “5 Points Animal Hospital!”

Lobby, Country Music Hall of Fame

I’ve lived in Nashville, TN since the sixties, but I didn’t become a country music fan until I heard Garth Brooks sing, Friends in Low Places, in 1990. My eyes were opened to the fun and truth in country music lyrics, and I stopped caring if those people who live in ivory towers think I don’t wear shoes, and say ain’t. I haven’t kept up in recent years because I don’t listen to the radio, and Gerry House and the House Foundation are no more, but the Hall of Fame brings it all back!

An invitation to a reception and concert there was received with anticipation, if not the pulling out of the closet of my boots, sequins and cowboy hat, which I do not own. Really, I should! There is no way I would look weird in them. Not in this town!

We were free to wander the museum, although it’s more fun with a tour guide who can use the rich opportunities to tell some funny stories. The exhibits are well designed. They not only give you the background of country music evolution with actual clothing and instruments used by the famous, and infamous, people who have entertained us through the years, but they make you want to go home and listen to all your music, whether you have Patsy Cline on vinyl, or an iTunes Lady Antebellum ringtone download. Think Elvis wasn’t country? The Country Music Hall of Fame thinks he was, and they have his solid gold cadillac to prove it.

Elvis at the Country Music Hall of Fame

Country Music Hall of Fame display, Hatch Show Prints behind.

Banjo on display

Gold and platinum records line the walls

A few of Porter's rhinestones.

Statler Brothers display

I love Waylon!

In fact, I give Waylon the Wurlitzer Prize!

But, Elvis is still King, and he hasn't left the building for good. I see him all over town.

My friends meet him on Lower Broad.

They dance on the sidewalks with him!

He turns up at the same parties.

He's even on my refrigerator door. Elvis, Waylon is great, but he won't ever take your place. I don't wanna get over you. I don't wanna get over you.

They oughtta give me the Wurlitzer Prize

For all the silver I’ve let slide down the slot

Playin’ those songs sung blue

That help me remember you.

‘Cause I don’t wanna get over you,

I don’t wanna get over you.

Waylon Jennings, September, 1977, Waylon and Willie

This is one of millions of  cicadas that are currently emerging from the ground in Nashville, thirteen years after they hatched from eggs and burrowed into the ground as nymphs. I don’t feel quite so badly about not having posted anything to my Three Dog Studio Blog for only twelve weeks. I guess the cicadas were busy doing something important down there, although the time does seem excessive. Anyway, they’re very busy now doing what cicadas do for four to five weeks every 13 years, plus they have provided hours of entertainment for my grandsons, and they have inspired me to come out from underground and get back to writing.

It took the noisy, red-eyed, annoying cicada to remind me that you find stories in unexpected places, and if you don’t write them down when they’re fresh, they get away. My grandchildren are not going to remember the day in May, 2011 when the cicadas emerged, and how captivated they were by this occurrence. One day they will tell me what a good grandmother I was to write these things down. When that day comes, William will ask why he isn’t in any of the pictures, and I will remind him that he was in need of therapy in those days for his disturbing refusal to allow anyone to take his picture, and that we warned him that someday he would be sorry. I hope I’m around on that day, for I would just love to say I told you so. I need therapy myself to help me handle William’s phobia.

The three boys had a sleep-over at my house on May 7, and in the morning, when we went outside, the cicadas were discovered crawling out of holes in the ground, molted skins clinging to everything. The newly emerged adult cicadas were a bit lethargic after 13 years of sleeping, and made no attempt to fly away when collected by the hundreds by the three little boys.

Holes in the ground formed by emerging cicadas.

Cicadas and discarded skins clinging to leaves in the garden.

Molted skins piled up at the base of a tree.

Cicadas do not hurt people, but if left on the skin for some time, one might insert its proboscis into the skin trying to feed on sap as though from a tree.

I’m allowed to take a picture of William’s hands, but not of the cicadas crawling on his back or upper arms, as that would be close to his face, and he cannot trust me to resist the urge to take a picture of that beautiful face.

Cicada "dining" on a stick in Walker's hand.

Walker is gentle with his cicadas, even providing what he thinks might be an appetizer stick, but he is not about to allow them to crawl above his wrists. He will let me take a picture of him any time, so thwarting the photographer is not the reason he keeps his cicadas corralled. I love this picture of little boy hands! The black stains are from the art projects they did the evening before. When they finished their art projects, they made up a game that involved creating a trail of post-it notes throughout the house. Unfortunately, the same black ink seen on Walker’s hands is visible on the walls wherever they put a post-it note. You’d think putting up with all that mess would be worth at least one or two photos!

Everything feeds on cicadas. I’ve even read that they are skewered, deep fried and stir fried by people in China! Somehow I don’t believe the effort to get Americans to eat the healthy Chinese diet is going to be successful. Looking unappetizing doesn’t seem to keep the cicadas safe, so their real defense is to hide for years and years, and then when they do come out, to come out in such numbers that their predators are overwhelmed. There are always enough left to mate, lay eggs, and continue the cycle. I don’t know if the mathematics of survival include the few cicadas who become victims of the well-meaning hospitality of the cicada motel, or not.

This is a cicada hotel.

These are the builders and operators of the cicada motel.

The cicada motel is built overlooking the picturesque waterway, otherwise known as a drainage ditch, that runs through my yard. It is an elaborate rock structure of rooms and tunnels, and offers amenities that no cicada would ever dream of in all those thirteen years of sleep. The boys have been completely dedicated to their work on the motel. I was relieved when their enthusiasm for this project made them forget about their prior obsession, which was to build a dam in my drainage ditch! The saga of the ditch is too long for this post. Suffice it to say that there will be nothing put in the ditch that impedes the flow of water, not even if I were to be given unlimited access to photograph the beautiful face of the little boy sitting on the right in this picture. By the way, the existence of this picture is unknown to him, and he must not be told. I was way back, and using the greatest telescopic power the camera was capable of producing. I really hate sneaking around trying to get a photo. No wonder he doesn’t trust me not to take his picture, although this one is not very satisfying as his beautiful face cannot be seen!

We have been preoccupied with cicadas for a week. They’ll only be around for another 3 or 4 weeks, when the females will lay their eggs and die. In 6 or 7 weeks the eggs will hatch, and the newborn nymphs will burrow into the soil to start the cycle all over again. Without residents for the cicada motel, the little boys will probably remember how much they wanted to build a dam in my ditch. The subjects of their art projects will return to snakes and frogs and those weird alien things they are so fond of drawing. Maybe Karsten’s color drawing of the cicada will turn up, the one that his Dad said looked just like a cicada, and was told matter-of-factly that it WAS a cicada. In the meantime, I’m adding the quick substitute Karsten drew for me when the original could not be found.

Quick cicada rendering

The song of the cicada is just about over, at least it is in Nashville, but there are 2,500 species around the world, so they must be singing somewhere all the time. Different little boys will discover the next generation of cicadas in Nashville in 13 years. A new generation of little boys will build cicada motels, and draw them and let them crawl all over them. My little boys will be interested in something else by then, and they won’t be little boys any more, but I think they will enjoy remembering how much fun they had when Cicada Brood XIX invaded Nashville. The two little boys will be seventeen, and William will be twenty years old. I hope he’ll let me take his picture before then!

Guess what the subject of this photograph was before I applied the Photoshop Polar Distortion Filter to it.

Beach towels! These were hanging on the porch of a cottage beside Lake Michigan. The bright colors and repeating stripes originally attracted my eye, so the distorted version actually enhances the original vision for the image. Maybe the poles aren’t really as far apart as it first seems.

Most flowers and bright leaves lend themselves well to this distortion technique. Coleus plants provide endless color and pattern possibilities.

Images with repeating patterns also work well, like these green tomatoes lined up in baskets at a farmers’ market.

The strong lines of architectural shots produce a more balanced design than the random lines in florals. The outcome of applying the distortion is always a bit of a surprise, although experience helps to anticipate what might happen. This is a photograph of the second story of a New Orleans building across from the arcade of shops behind the French Market. Fresh paint was everywhere as they cleaned up and repaired after Katrina. The last thing New Orleans needs is more buildings rearranged, but this rearrangement isn’t destructive, or permanent or painful.

It’s fun to try the distortion filter on pictures with writing on them, like this one of Navy Pier in Chicago. The writing doesn’t always translate well in the distorted picture, but when it does, it has a big impact.

Photoshop steps.

(If you use this technique often, create an action.)

1. Open image in Photoshopo and make the usual tone and color adjustments.

2. Make a duplicate of the image to which you will apply the polar distortion. Image>Duplicate.

3. Go to Image>Mode and click 8-bit, otherwise the filter will be grayed out when you try to use it.

4. Go to Filter>Distort>Polar Coordinates. Check Polar to Rectangular, and click OK.

5. Go to Image>Image Rotation, and click 180 degrees.

6. Go to Filter>Distort>Polar Coordinates. This time check Rectangular to Polar, and click OK.

5. Rotate as desired with Image>Image Rotate. Blend the joining line if it looks messy or doesn’t match pleasingly.

You can make your image square by going to Image>Image Size and making the height and width match. Do this between steps 3 and 4. This is a checker board laid out in front of a shop in Greenfield Village, MI.

It’s possible to modify a distorted image even farther. In the first photo above I added a texture layer to a simple flower. In photo two, I went through the steps to distort it, and rotated the image in the direction I liked the best. I thought it looked like it needed something, so I opened two layers together in Photoshop: the first photo with the single flower and the distorted image, and combined them into one using layer masking.

These images may be poles apart, but opposites attract. I’m very attracted to using the Polar Distortion Filter!

We saw these wildflowers on our walk at Bells Bend Park last weekend. Though some may see the plants and grasses of winter as gray and dead, I see them as examples of endurance and survival, and of the ebb and flow of seasons. To walk among them, getting burrs stuck to your clothing, and hearing the rustle of dried petals in the wind, is an affirmation that we are part of something astronomically, mystically and rhythmically beautiful. We aren’t as attuned to this world now that pavement has gobbled up so much rural area. It’s hard for urban dwellers to find land where the seasons are allowed to come and go without human intervention and development.

It exists in Bells Bend.

I was surprised to see, when I looked back at my first post on Bells Bend, that it was two years ago on this very date, February 7, 2009. There was a wild plan at that time to build shops, condos, office buildings and a huge bridge across the Cumberland River to carry all the people who would live and work in this new development. The fact that there had never been a bridge is the reason why it is the last remaining farm land in Nashville. It has always been a situation of so near, yet so far. In my opinion, it needs to remain that way. Fortunately for the preservation of a rural Bells Bend, the economy fell off the tracks and the development along with it. Bells Bend will never be safe, however, until we realize what our true treasure is, and how small life will be when it is gone.

The old dairy barn is a short walk from the visitors' center. It is a good place to begin a walk around the 808 acre park.

The trails are wide, bush hogged through land formed by the flow and flooding of the Cumberland River that borders it, and home through the years to early hunter gatherers, Indians and the farmers who still till this soil.

Wildflowers gone to seed line the trail, beautiful in their winter dress with the sun streaming through them.

Grasses and stems of the winter landscape reward us with colors that cannot be seen in other seasons.

We are alone on the trail with the many species of birds chirping and flitting about. Other creatures live in the tall grasses, but we only see one dead mole and plenty of evidence of deer.

I am amazed by the colors and patterns on this February day. It seemed chilly when we started walking. Now, I would take my jacket off, but that means one more thing to carry along with my camera and camera bag, so I'll just be satisfied with a little discomfort.

These curly-cue grasses remind me of the banners that dancers twirl around in graceful circles.

And, so we reach the river, the body of water that has defined Bells Bend and Tennessee since before such names even existed.

We're many hills beyond our starting point, but the paths are clearly defined, and once we reach the river we know we will return in a big circle to the parking area. We know this because we looked at the map on the bulletin board when we left. There were no paper copies for us to take along, but it is a simple route. What could go wrong?

The bush hoggers must have been trying to create a maze with so many forks in the road. So, we did what you do when you come to a fork in the road. We took them.

At this point we have no idea where we are, but there is a sign way up the hill, the only marker we have seen. First, we have to cross a creek that is just wide enough that you have to step in it with one foot to get across. Let's see, which foot do I want to be wet and soggy for the rest of the walk until we find our way out of here? While I was deciding, my husband stepped right in to his ankle. Oooh, that is going to be uncomfortable! Lucky for me, a hand and a log thrown into the water to step on is all I need to get across without immersion. Gallantry is not dead. The sign unfortunately said something like, pass this gate at your own risk, public absolutely not allowed beyond this point. It was a toss-up in my mind, anyway, heading for that poor, dead barn, or turning back and retracing our path to one of those forks in the road.

I know we haven't returned to the river, this must be a pond we're coming upon. What time is it? It is starting to get dark. I love the unspoiled country, but only during the day!

It is a pond. It reminds me of Radnor Lake. I hope I'll see it again sometime.

Oh, look! Development! Human beings have been here, building, constructing, creating in the wilderness!

It's starting to look really gnarly in this slice of heaven. My feet hurt. How many more hills do we have to climb?

Beautiful! I bet we'll see the visitors' center when we get to the top.

Well, I bet we'll see it when we round that bend!

Are we sure the earth is round?

Oh, joy! there's the dairy barn!

Finally! Mecca! The visitors' center is a lot higher than where we're standing. If I can make it up this final hill, our car is parked right behind it. Take me back to the city! I want to put my feet on solid pavement!

First Grade Basketball Game

Nothing in the first six years of William’s life gave us a hint that he would be a one man, three ring circus of basketball running, dribbling, guarding and shooting. Of course, there was no warning of his announcement at kindergarten graduation last spring that he wanted to be a motorcycle stunt person either. These little boys are full of surprises!

At his first game it looked like all his team had learned about the game of basketball was how to dribble. I think they could all dribble for weeks. There was no guarding, no passing, no shooting. Their opponents were handpicked, said William, unlike his team which consisted of any boy in his first grade who wanted to play. That basket was so high and there were so many ‘handpicked’ players between them and it, that the only thing to do was dribble, dribble and dribble. The other team also dribbled. And passed. And guarded. And shot the ball. Finally, one brave player on William’s team fought his way past the impenetrable line, and sank a basket! It was William! The rest of his team started to try for baskets, too, and even though the final score was something lopsided like 3 to 30, a barrier had been broken. Dribbling became just a part of the game, not all of it.

The Peanut Gallery

Not only could William be an inspiration to his team, but he could also be a role model for Karsten, his little cousin, who, although it hadn’t registered with him yet, was going to play on a basketball team, too! Karsten looks up to everything William does, even trying to talk with his voice, so we all thought attending William’s game would inspire imitation. Perhaps if Karsten had  paid one minute of attention to William’s game, inspiration might have struck, but Karsten and Walker were busy in the bleachers with their own game of running, passing and shooting, so no lessons were learned from the game on the court.

Four Year Old shooting technique

My husband and I were enlisted to take Karsten to practice when his parents could not, and we all arrived early for the first practice so Karsten could get in some shooting practice. He tried so hard! I wish my husband could run onto the court every time Karsten tries to make a shot, so they could use the technique they perfected during this practice.

Four Year Old First Practice

If it looks like everything is under control and these little boys know what they are doing, I can only say, this is not photo journalism. Now that I have seen two practices and one game, I can say that there is improvement in the skills and attention of each one of these little boys. A few of them can sink a basket sometimes, but there is also some serious attention wandering taking place. Coach T is great, and the exercises she gives them to do are fun, and that must be maintained if you’re going to try to teach a four year old how to play basketball. If I were as far beneath the basket as Karsten is, I would throw the ball straight up, too, and I would also then run for my life to keep the ball from coming down and hitting me in the head! The only thing he really pays attention to is the running, and he is great at that. He unfortunately runs in circles around the other end of the court where the really big, really fast boys play. No good shouting at him to keep him away from being stepped on like an ant, for in the other side of the gym there is a Jumba class with music so loud the whole gym shakes. I will find some ear plugs before the next practice. Torn up kleenex stuffed in my ears is not doing the trick. Great moves over there, though!

In the car driving home we talked about making baskets. I said if he tried over and over and didn’t give up, soon he would be making baskets just like the big kids he saw at the other end of the gym. He said he was never going to give up!

First Four Year Old Game

A game is very different from a practice. Kind of scary! In practice, when he didn’t know what to do, he would just run, but that didn’t seem quite right today. He was already upset because the new team uniforms they handed out were green, and Karsten says he doesn’t like green. He insisted on wearing his clothes from home underneath the green uniform, so that meant that he had two pairs of loose shorts, instead of just one, that he had to hang on to to keep them from falling to the floor. We were getting worried that the important ‘fun’ factor might be missing from this game, so his dad shouted, “Follow the ball! Follow the ball!” The Jumba beat was mercifully missing on this game day, so Karsten heard this advice. When he felt like he knew what to do, things got better. Then he remembered that Coach T said to hold your arms up, so when he got tired of running, he did that. This was not true guarding since Karsten was standing still, and no one from the other team was close to him, but it was a start!

Karsten has the running down pat. He has a start on the guarding, his bounce pass is perfection, and he’ll never give up trying to make baskets. He still has quite a bit of work to do on his ‘drizzling’, however, before he is as good as William.