Double Dutch

If I go down Indian Lake Road, cross the bridge, and turn left onto Creek Road, it feels like I am in the Netherlands of my imagination --- although without the spare, flat vistas. These two barns are tucked deep in the dense Michigan woods that hug the edges of farmland, but they seem to have been constructed by the Dutch settlers of this region with a mind's eye looking to the old country.

The Dutch presence is pervasive here, particularly at election time, when the roads are peppered with signs for the Hoogendyks, VanderBurgs, Bowkers, and Behnkes.

In addition to the Dutch in this part of southwest Michigan, there was a 19th century African-American population second only to that of the Detroit area in its size. According to one historian, the experiences of our county's African-Americans were unlike those of northern urban African-Americans. The economic balance and dependency that developed between Cass County's white and black populations helped to minimize racism, promote cooperation between the races, and create an African-American community of prosperity and confidence unique in the North.

The fate of the indigenous population, the Potawatomis, is a sad and sorry story of injustice to be told another time.

A Big Sale

I will be showing mixed media work and some pastels in West Bloomfield, MI July 31 and August 1 at the Orchard Lake Fine Art Show http://www.hotworks.org/orchardlakefineartshow/

I am offering a 10% discount with a mention of this notice or of the e-mail announcements I have sent. This also extends to friends and neighbors you might direct to my space at the show, #227.

Catching Air and Letting It Go

I am wild for wind turbines. I can't get enough of the white height and grace of them, and the moving space between the blades seems as visible as those big wings themselves. The first wind farms I ever saw were around Palm Springs, and the turbines actually looked cool in the sere, hot desert. On and on they went, spreading over dry hills for miles, and my fascination was cemented.

Thinking of wind turbines as Western creatures, I was surprised and delighted by the array along the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Issues surrounding objections to the Nantucket Sound Cape Wind project are foggy to me, enamored as I am. The easy answer is that I would rather have a wind turbine than a yacht. But then again, I live in an old school that has five restrooms and no closets. What would I know?

I do know that I lost my heart to Iowa's wind farms when we recently drove to Denver and back. On one particular dim, damp, hot morning --- with the sky preparing for some extravagant storms --- we just gazed at the wind workers in the field down the road, and wondered how much it would cost to get one. Or two. 

Plein Air in Plain View

Christine Brenner and Christopher Castelli have been with us at The School for nearly a week, and our days have been filled with good conversation and incredible food. We have cooked Aloo Gobi & Lemon Dal, Chicken with Tomatillos & Hominy,  and Polpetti & Spinach. Christopher made popovers, and Edward made butter. We have watched: Snow Cake, The Music Man, You Can Count on Me, Zoot Suit, Walk Out, and Sunday in the Park With George. We are close to swooning with the pleasures of friendship and sensory experience.

So Christine offered a display of enviable discipline, setting up her easel in the lee of the Blue Sprinter. It was not long before she had a trio of kibitzers who had a thing or two to tell her about blue. As if she didn't know.

Tonight we will take a break from high culture to watch the South Bend Silver Hawks play the Fort Wayne Tin Caps. It's a busy life, this being artists.

Olga at 95

I am lucky enough to be celebrating my mom's 95th birthday today, separated by some miles but not by feeling. On the ground in Cleveland, she will be taken out for dinner by her favorite friends   -- who are younger than I am --- to her favorite restaurant on Lake Erie with a view of the city lights and the water.

Olga is a remarkable person. She is spunky, bright, curious, stubborn, flexible, loyal, opinionated, generous, optimistic, honest, and good. She graciously accepts assistance now that she is older, and has only praise and kind words for those who help her. She is passionate about current events, books, and the Cleveland Indians. For her knowledge and judgment, she was prized as a seller of children's books and an expert on the US First Ladies. Competitive and smart, she takes no prisoners in Scrabble or at the bridge table. She has expected a lot from life and given much back.

Her company is sought by people of all ages because of the warmth of her personality, the range of her interests, and the modernity of her attitudes. I have never, in all my life, heard her say, "I'm too old for this."

There is one beautiful and pivotal thing she does customarily say, however. Looking around, taking life in as it happens, she smiles and asks with pleasure, "What could be better than this?"

Baby Olga is held by her grandfather, the orchardist Harry Frank, nestled next to Lizzie Frank. The people in the fine hats are Baby Olga's parents, Luella Frank Shortess and Jesse Cloyd Shortess. Jesse was an artist who died young, and Luella was a postmistress and peach vendor. The mournful woman seated in the front is Cousin Edna Beaver, and we do not know why the occasion made her feel so low.

Pennsylvania, 1915

Jack and His Kubota

When Edward and I bought The School from John McQueen a decade ago, we became the custodians of a thousand trees. City kids that we were, we failed to supervise them, and, in the passing years, those trees became the masters of our long views. Thanks to our neighbor, Minister Dan, and his chain saw, we have recently gained more light and space.

Yesterday Dan's friend, Excavator Jack, made quick work of the stumps and brush, while we stood around, not getting poison ivy and sore backs. At 76, he is quite the agile and opinionated machine operator, and we were impressed by his turns-on-a-dime.

This morning we do not feel so enclosed by brush and trees, but the chipmunks are  outraged and letting us hear about it.

A Red Letter Day

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.