skip to main |
skip to sidebar
I love this day. The National Spelling Bee begins in Washington, and it is the only thing on television I will not miss. No way; no how. Imagine it: two days of watching youngsters who are eager, bright, determined, geeky, gawky, adorable, emotional, impudent, scared, generous, curious, wiggly, multi-colored, and --- above all --- wrapped up in words.
This event, dear ones, is not just about knowing how to spell. It is about figuring out words, learning where they come from, and how they veer away from their origins just when you think you've got them nailed. It is detective work, with the gumshoe part accomplished in repetitive discipline. It is being able to lasso the spelling, once you know if it is from the Greek or the Latin.
The great Spelling Bee competitors have patience, timing, and cool. They do not jump their guns, and they are not intimidated by the judges or the clock. If they faint, they get up and ask for the language of origin, earning a place in sports comeback history. Think of the spectacularly serious Akshay Buddiga, dropping out of the camera's view in 2004. Few remember that year's skinny Hoosier champ, David Tidmarsh, but Akshay has a fan club. Shows to go you; spelling is sexy.
For the spectators, the bee is a rolic of satisfaction and mystification. Bless ESPN3's heart for letting us watch the spellers as they unravel words and knit them back up - writing them in the air, on their palms, on the backs of their numbers, and in our hearts.
Now here is a bevy of mothers and daughters! All but the worried baby lived into their ninth decades, and she has a good start on keeping up with the Franks. Although I have other equal parts of Shortess (the tall, artist & preacher genes) Jansen (the moody, wandering Norwegian genes) McMahon (the moody, wandering Irish genes) I owe a lot of my determination and stamina to these beguiling ancestresses:
Lizzie Beaver Frank, my great-grandmother
Luella Frank Shortess Shambach, my grandmother
Olga Frank Shortess McMahon, my mother who is now a bright and vital 94
I hope I have passed on to my daughter, Kirstin and her daughter, Sterling some of the gifts I have received from these sturdy and beautiful creatures.
It takes a lot to keep me from my Friday visit to La Central, the panadaria on South Bend's west side. If you have never had Mexican pan dulce, find a panadaria pronto, and prepare to be delighted. "Pan dulce" directly translated means sweet bread, but these bakery goods are not as sweet as they look and rarely seem like bread. They are not quite pastries; they are themselves.
The textures are light and soft. The colors can be as pink and yellow as the closet of a seven year-old girl, and the shapes are fantastical. No doubt each traditional form has a name, but --- not knowing them --- we call various pan dulce by their nicknames: the flower bud, the cigar, the Edvard Munch face, the alligator, and the You Know the One. There are huge crumbly cerise cookies and sugary oval pods with gooey fillings. There are whorles that flake like croissants, and sturdy anise-flavored scone-like things. If you are lucky, you will be able to grab a pumpkin empanada before they are all gone.
Each panadaria pretty much looks like every other panadaria. No sexy patisserie style here, but instead you'll find utilitarian pan dulce cases lining the walls, shuttered with clear plexi knee-to-head doors. At the cash register counter, you will pick up a round metal tray as big as a pizza pan and a pair of spring-loaded tongs. Then you will start piling the pan dulce on the tray. Go ahead. Try to stop yourself. I think I will try this one, and this one, and of course this one, and on it goes.
At La Central, the best panadaria in South Bend, I take my tray, towering with treasure, to Andres, the owner and head baker. He puts them all in a big grocery bag, doing the math in his head. If Edward and I show a little discipline, the supply will last until the next Friday, but that doesn't happen often.
My Friday trip to La Central is one of the wonderful sensory traditions that Edward and his family have shared with me. As everyone knows, nothing beats knowing how to judge a tamale. I will need many more years to master that one.
So off goes Edward on his daily walk. He expects to be noticed by several chained and nasty dogs who serve more as sentries than pets. He will not be surprised by the galumphing rush of wild turkeys as they try to fly about four feet above the field. He will probably hear the plopping of frogs into ponds and the rumble of tractors. He may encounter snapping turtles, horses ambling in pastures, and have the pleasure of stepping over roadkill raccoons, oppossums, and snakes.
But this will be a new one: a young, brash, and very heavy bull will come charging at him. Separated only by a puny wire fence, the two face off, and Edward hollers, "Go away!" The bull does, only to wheel around and return for another confrontation of wills. Edward strolls nonchalantly along, hoping the bull does not realize how flimsy the wire fence is. The bull loses interest, as bulls will, and Edward makes it home, none the worse.
Yes, there were a few tense moments, but it was nothing like Edward's encounter with the groundhog. Or the bat. Or the wolverine. Ask him about them someday.
I mixed happy business with sensual pleasure this afternoon at Lemon Creek Fabrics. It may be a little shop in the sleepy town of Berrien Springs, MI, but Lemon Creek is a destination for high-end interior designers from all over the country. It is a regular candy box of long gorgeous bolts of upholstery fabrics that cost $200 per yard elsewhere but are sold by Judi and John Dugan for $15 to $30 per yard. The beauty and the feel of these textiles take your breath away.
The yards, I might mention, are wider than your wingspan, and, for the price of a pair of Zappo's shoes, I came away with an armload of shiny, shimmering, crunchy, cozy, smooth, vivid, and subtle fabrics for making bookcloth. Bookbinding suppliers sell handsome paper-backed materials for covering books, and they do a yeoman's job. Making my own from these silks, however, is magic for my hands and eyes.
Edward and I will leave tomorrow in the new, deep snow to drive through new deep snow towards Indianapolis, Louisville, Nashville, Chattanooga, Atlanta, Orlando, and -- at last -- Miami. For the outdoor show in Coconut Grove http://www.coconutgroveartsfest.com/ this weekend, I have made new work that speaks of the sea, moving air, geography, and marks on a map. How fortunate I was to be able to incorporate beautiful photographs taken by my son, Ryan Torgerson and his wife, Paige. I digitally combined them with other images and maps for printing on steel and bolted the metal to wooden backboards made by our good cabinetmaker friend, Dennis Snow http://dennissnow.com/about.htm
It was pure pleasure to photograph some shells I have treasured forever and to invent, with other photographs, their source. I used the images over and over, nesting them in piles of handmade paper, sewing them into books for the wall. So, as the snow piled up around The School, my studio became a sort of paradise, all azure, white, and green.
The new work can be seen at http://blog.eugenietorgerson.com/?p=378
When it comes to creativity, an automotive repair shop takes the cake. It is downright thrilling to see Ron, Derek, Henry, and Greg look at a problem, talk it over, and proceed with ingenuity and good humor. The lesson for me is seeing how the creative process at Dowagiac Auto unreels with without ego, false modesty, or delibitating self-doubt.
It is no wonder then that I like hanging around the shop with my camera, trying to stay out of the way, looking at stuff. My favorite things are heavy and rusty, and if I behave myself, they will let me take something home. Got a great brake rotor once.
