... wandering in the woods when I was searching for the man in need of a ride from Omaha. I plugged his address into the GPS (which is badly in need of updating, info. being from 2013.) and hoped to drive right to his house. I'd called him for instructions, but his speech was so difficult to understand I knew I needed assistance. That GPS lead me astray. It has happened before, causing me to tell people all the time it is not 100% trustworthy. I will be more cautious, and hopefully better informed in the future.
About Omaha: I know nothing. I have been one time before, but I don't recall why I would have gone, as it is truly at the end of the road. Literally and figuratively: the signs say Dead End. There was a bridge that has been closed, definitely ancient and probably unsafe for heavy loads, but the road leading in, that used to take people across the river now stops at the bridge, going nowhere. Some miles south of town, there is a newer, higher, more modern bridge spanning the Chattahoochee River, for vehicles to travel. The man I was transporting reported that his family, and I assume many other residents, would drive across the new bridge, and north on 431 to get to the largest nearby town for necessities: groceries, medical care, etc. Interesting that you first have to travel to a different state to get where you want to be.
The only business I saw in my brief visit was an unmanned set of gas pumps. I assume you use a card to pay prior to pumping, but there was simply a paved area, lighted canopy, and six gas pumps, sitting quietly, waiting out there in the dark. No attendant, no signs of activity, no indicators of business, no convenience store adjacent. No humans manning a register in a seedy curb store to chat with or buy a pack of smokes.
I knew from media reports someone has started a little brewery in Omaha. I suspect it had a lot to do with the fact that there is absolutely nothing going on in Omaha. The only place that one might find a living breathing body to converse with was the teeny, tiny post office. I believe the town was once a bustling community. It would have been a stop on the river for commercial boats that would travel north from the Florida coast to Columbus, located on the fall line, where the water becomes too shoal-y to traverse. Boats would bring goods/supplies to isolated, rural communities, then pick up outgoing products like cotton, as well as being a source of information when delivering mail and printed news.
Omaha is situated on the banks of the Chattahoochee River, but a body can only
spend so much time fishing, or falling into the river due to
inebriation. My assumption is that there are some guys there, probably
fairly young to be so fascinated with the production and consumption of
adult beverages, who started some home brew on a lark. Thinking they
could buy the basic ingredients, equipment for production that could be
re-used, thereby considered an 'investment' and produce for private
consumption in the privacy of their own homes. After a few cold ones,
they became so entertained and amused with their brewing skills, the
light bulb came on above their wee little brains, safely tucked away
inside several craniums. They thought: "Hey! We could start a business
and sell this!" What great fun, drinking our days away! "Yay, we will be self-employed, and the world will beat a path to our door in beautiful downtown Omaha!"
Omaha Brewing Co. is open for tastings: every day except Sunday, in the afternoons. I assume they stay up late drinking, and sleep until noon, then go to work to do it all over again. Watch for the sign on the left after you you turn off highway 27 south. Pass through ten miles of woods, and begin to see signs of human habitation.
Saturday, January 26, 2019
Friday, January 25, 2019
thought-full quote...
... from a book so un-memorable I will not provide any information about the title/author, etc. But came across a sentence that was so worth sharing, I wrote it on my bookmark. I plan to take the book back to the library, only half-read, and drop it in the box, unfinished.
"I know a cure for everything: salt water... in one form or the other... sweat or tears or salt sea."
Karen Blixen in the "Seven Gothic Tales".
I think I recall she wrote that amazing "Out of Africa" book that was made into a movie with Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. A gorgeous scenic wonder of a film with those wide shots of the savanna and sweeping landscapes of a sere continent. I am also believing I remember she wrote under a pseudonym, Isaac Dineson? I have not read anything she wrote, though this quote tempts me to do a little research to find some of her work, spend a little time with her.
The book I am not telling you about is a series of stories about someone who had seventeen brushes with death. Fiction, but unsettling nonetheless. No more facts to be shared here.
"I know a cure for everything: salt water... in one form or the other... sweat or tears or salt sea."
Karen Blixen in the "Seven Gothic Tales".
I think I recall she wrote that amazing "Out of Africa" book that was made into a movie with Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. A gorgeous scenic wonder of a film with those wide shots of the savanna and sweeping landscapes of a sere continent. I am also believing I remember she wrote under a pseudonym, Isaac Dineson? I have not read anything she wrote, though this quote tempts me to do a little research to find some of her work, spend a little time with her.
The book I am not telling you about is a series of stories about someone who had seventeen brushes with death. Fiction, but unsettling nonetheless. No more facts to be shared here.
Thursday, January 24, 2019
the monastery of the holy spirit...
We went years ago, with a neighbor who was obsessed with bonsai growing. I don't know if it could be considered an addiction in the way alcohol or tobacco or gambling might, when interventions and support groups are appropriate, but he did love bonsai. Probably had several dozen growing on custom made tables in his back yard, and was forever out there trimming, watering, nurturing and admiring his crop. I did not know about the greenhouse there at the monastery, open to the public filled with ancient gnarled trees near Conyers, but was persuaded to load up small children and drive with the neighbor to visit the facility. He purchased a couple of plants, and mysteriously claimed at the checkout to have 'forgotten his wallet'. I am still suspicious about that exchange, though I was repaid, and that man and his little stunted trees are long gone from the neighborhood.
It has been at twenty or more years since we were there, and I didn't remember that the place had such a huge gift shop - always hazardous with small children. You know how you cannot exit many public facilities, gardens, museums, without being forced to wend your way through the part of the building set aside specifically for sucking funds out of your pockets? This place had not one but two gift shops. And I did not spend one red cent.
The rest of my fellow visitors on Monday bought cold sandwiches and drinks, self-serve, from a big cooler, from a un-manned cafe, and someone paid for my soda. I made up my mind a long time ago I would not purchase or eat concession stand food. You know it will not be good. It does not matter how hungry you are, it is not going to be good food.They reported the eats were fairly good, but made ahead sandwiches are only one-half notch above concession stand food in my opinion.
But I kept all my funds to myself. Oh - no, wait: I put $5 in the donation box, and my last $2 in the offering box in the chapel. Since that was all I had in my pocket, that was all they got.
infinity mirrors by Yayoi Kusama
It was a number of 'installations' by an artist who was born in Japan, Yayoi Kusama, moved to the US for most of her life, and then returned to the country of her birth, where she now resides. It was interesting, but not really my definition of art. If you had to define, it would probably be more towards the 'craft' end of the creative scale, but I suspect much of the actual construction was done by paid workers. It is possible all the work we saw was done by the artist, but my thought is that as one becomes more successful with greater publicity and therefore greater income as art work is purchased by patrons, the mundane aspects would be done by others. I cannot say for sure.
It is likely a traveling show, and will be disassembled and shipped to other museums as part of a tour. I will hope the exhibit is well attended and successful where ever it might be viewed. But I suspect many of the ticket holders will say: 'I could do this'. It was interesting, and I enjoyed the day - more for the people I was with than the art viewed. It was a cold rainy day, so I can say I was pleased to be inside and out of the weather, with people I love, amused by the company.
ponder this....
... and let's try to figure out where we went wrong? When you are at your youngest, you are in need of caring adults in your life. If not actually 'of age' full grown, legally-able adults, at minimum people who are older, capable of providing the basic maintenance all infants need until they can become self-sustaining.Then you eventually become able-bodied enough to provide the basics of life without assistance. As you become more and more independent, you grow, mature, become educated, either in the halls of education for the fortunate few, or out in the world where you get the 'hard knocks' variety of street smarts. Both of which have value, though acquired in different forms.
Your daily work might be going to the water source miles away to bring home water for sustenance, that must be boiled before using. Or spending your day searching for food to harvest to feed yourself and family. You might put on a suit and shiny shoes and go to a huge man-made monument, where you are sitting at a desk in a climate controlled environment each day. Either way, you are spending many waking hours doing what you feel is necessary for survival in the society you inhabit.
Remember when you were young? Looking up at the older people in your life? Whether these individuals were parents, older siblings, care givers or total strangers. Admiring them for the skills they had acquired, the advances they had made as they carved out a place for themselves in the world. Considering them from your vantage point to be 'successful' and independent adults, as you looked on from the position of youth, envying the visible indicators of wealth? Your definition of success will vary with the culture, society you inhabit: it could be cattle, or land, or big buildings, or vehicles, or just the number of other humans under your thumb. All reasons for those who are without to be envious of those who appear to be superior.
Now, from the perspective of years: it is obvious that we never achieve that end-of-the-rainbow position of 'success'. No one can actually gain the complete independence we so admired from afar as young people dreaming of financial success and all the accoutrements that we saw as benefits. Even those people who give the appearance of being at the tippy-top of the food chain will still have to answer to someone. There will always be people in authority, no matter who you are. No matter how you feel you might be at the pinnacle of success with thousand dollar shirts/shoes, gated estates with multi-level houses, unique cars, funds hidden in banks in Switzerland.
There will be someone waiting, standing by in the shadows, observing from generation to generation. Younger, faster, more willing to put forth that extra modicum of effort to climb higher. Might be a board of directors, might be citizen armies who are finally fed up with the excess of the people in high places, while others are struggling, with starving children. May be agents planted to weasel their way into an organization searching for flaws, people who have kept silent, but know what will bring the whole pyramid down. Possibly people charged with enforcing rules some think do not apply to the wealthy or feel they are above the law.
You never get to the top, to a place where there is no accountability. That pinnacle is a mirage. No matter how lofty your goals, your desire to be one-hundred-and-one percent independent, there is always going to be someone you will have to answer to. Maybe courts of law, maybe your own under-developed conscience. Were we designed with some inherent accountability? Having recently had several conversations about how humans were not created to last forever, bodies were designed to wear out, have parts fail creates questions about mortality as well as morality.
Your daily work might be going to the water source miles away to bring home water for sustenance, that must be boiled before using. Or spending your day searching for food to harvest to feed yourself and family. You might put on a suit and shiny shoes and go to a huge man-made monument, where you are sitting at a desk in a climate controlled environment each day. Either way, you are spending many waking hours doing what you feel is necessary for survival in the society you inhabit.
Remember when you were young? Looking up at the older people in your life? Whether these individuals were parents, older siblings, care givers or total strangers. Admiring them for the skills they had acquired, the advances they had made as they carved out a place for themselves in the world. Considering them from your vantage point to be 'successful' and independent adults, as you looked on from the position of youth, envying the visible indicators of wealth? Your definition of success will vary with the culture, society you inhabit: it could be cattle, or land, or big buildings, or vehicles, or just the number of other humans under your thumb. All reasons for those who are without to be envious of those who appear to be superior.
Now, from the perspective of years: it is obvious that we never achieve that end-of-the-rainbow position of 'success'. No one can actually gain the complete independence we so admired from afar as young people dreaming of financial success and all the accoutrements that we saw as benefits. Even those people who give the appearance of being at the tippy-top of the food chain will still have to answer to someone. There will always be people in authority, no matter who you are. No matter how you feel you might be at the pinnacle of success with thousand dollar shirts/shoes, gated estates with multi-level houses, unique cars, funds hidden in banks in Switzerland.
There will be someone waiting, standing by in the shadows, observing from generation to generation. Younger, faster, more willing to put forth that extra modicum of effort to climb higher. Might be a board of directors, might be citizen armies who are finally fed up with the excess of the people in high places, while others are struggling, with starving children. May be agents planted to weasel their way into an organization searching for flaws, people who have kept silent, but know what will bring the whole pyramid down. Possibly people charged with enforcing rules some think do not apply to the wealthy or feel they are above the law.
You never get to the top, to a place where there is no accountability. That pinnacle is a mirage. No matter how lofty your goals, your desire to be one-hundred-and-one percent independent, there is always going to be someone you will have to answer to. Maybe courts of law, maybe your own under-developed conscience. Were we designed with some inherent accountability? Having recently had several conversations about how humans were not created to last forever, bodies were designed to wear out, have parts fail creates questions about mortality as well as morality.
Monday, January 21, 2019
the birthday girl...
... was born on a really cold day in January, sort of like right now! I think the cold got well below freezing last night, down into the low 20's, which is pretty unusual for middle Georgia. Even though the state's peach farmers are dependent on enough cold weather for a productive crop, being miserably cold is no good for my personal comfort. Not a fan of below freezing temperatures for weeks on end, I cannot imagine living someplace like Michigan, or Alaska or the north pole.
Her dad loved to tell the story of the night she was born.. Never tiring of retelling about how inconvenienced he was by the weather, without the first syllable about the person who did all the work by forcing a brand new human being out of her body. We had been to some classes that were supposed to make me better prepared for the event.Which is absolutely ridiculous as you are never ever ready for the trauma of such an occasion. Even though, it is something you brain soon forgets when it is over and you are given the new person, cleaned up and swaddled with a wee cap on top.
The weather report was predicting severe overnight ice, wind, freezing temp., and that day thirty six years ago was remarkably cold. With the days before Jan. 21 being chilly with steadily lowering temperatures.I should have been more aware that the dad was a chronic worrier: a person who would relish fretting over things he could not control. Perhaps due to DNA, as I recall his mother being a person who could devote inordinate amounts of time fretting about everything in the world. Or possibly the fact that he had been in the insurance business for many years:advising people about protecting property, preparing for disasters, both personal and financial.
He was so industriously fretting about the possibility of icy roads, causing driving problems, he was insistent we should get our XXL bountifully pregnant self to the hospital long before it was really necessary. Looking back, I assume due to the possibility that he might have to become personally involved in the delivery. He was willing to be a witness, an onlooker to the process, but not a participant. I must have been close enough to 'ripe' for the ER to admit me. I am well past the age of fertility, but still recall how much I did not want to give birth in public: have assorted complete strangers wandering about, only marginally interested, observing the process.
The version of the story the other parent has told repeatedly: It was so cold in the early morning hours when he finally left the Medical Center to go home,he had to heat up his car key with his cigarette lighter to melt the ice on the door lock, to get in his cold car. And when he got home, there was no electricity, power out due to limbs breaking and pulling down lines, meaning the house was cold and dark. He came back to the room I was sleeping in, pulled two chairs together and went to 'bed.' Where there were generators to keep the building lit, warm, humming with power.
Eventually power was restored, the mother and new person were discharged, we all went home. Here we are thirty six years later. My, how time flies!
Her dad loved to tell the story of the night she was born.. Never tiring of retelling about how inconvenienced he was by the weather, without the first syllable about the person who did all the work by forcing a brand new human being out of her body. We had been to some classes that were supposed to make me better prepared for the event.Which is absolutely ridiculous as you are never ever ready for the trauma of such an occasion. Even though, it is something you brain soon forgets when it is over and you are given the new person, cleaned up and swaddled with a wee cap on top.
The weather report was predicting severe overnight ice, wind, freezing temp., and that day thirty six years ago was remarkably cold. With the days before Jan. 21 being chilly with steadily lowering temperatures.I should have been more aware that the dad was a chronic worrier: a person who would relish fretting over things he could not control. Perhaps due to DNA, as I recall his mother being a person who could devote inordinate amounts of time fretting about everything in the world. Or possibly the fact that he had been in the insurance business for many years:advising people about protecting property, preparing for disasters, both personal and financial.
He was so industriously fretting about the possibility of icy roads, causing driving problems, he was insistent we should get our XXL bountifully pregnant self to the hospital long before it was really necessary. Looking back, I assume due to the possibility that he might have to become personally involved in the delivery. He was willing to be a witness, an onlooker to the process, but not a participant. I must have been close enough to 'ripe' for the ER to admit me. I am well past the age of fertility, but still recall how much I did not want to give birth in public: have assorted complete strangers wandering about, only marginally interested, observing the process.
The version of the story the other parent has told repeatedly: It was so cold in the early morning hours when he finally left the Medical Center to go home,he had to heat up his car key with his cigarette lighter to melt the ice on the door lock, to get in his cold car. And when he got home, there was no electricity, power out due to limbs breaking and pulling down lines, meaning the house was cold and dark. He came back to the room I was sleeping in, pulled two chairs together and went to 'bed.' Where there were generators to keep the building lit, warm, humming with power.
Eventually power was restored, the mother and new person were discharged, we all went home. Here we are thirty six years later. My, how time flies!
driving blind...
... well, not precisely: but when you are doing it in the dark, even with headlights, there are always plenty of surprises! Like random deer that come dashing out on to the roadway for no apparent reason. Or fascinating lumps of road kill that appear then vanish before you have time in the pitch black of night to identify - while being thankful you were not the cause of the demise. Then there is a vast assortment of mystery items on the highway: shredded pieces of wooden furniture or the cushions fallen from trucks that vanished in transit. Leaving the owners to scratch their heads, assume puzzled expressions on arrival to their destination, while thinking 'hmmm, I was sure I put that (fill in the blank) on the back of the truck....?'
I have been back and forth to Decatur in the dark twice in recent days. A return trip on Saturday afternoon to be able to get enough sleep to be coherent when I had to clock in at work at 5:00 am on Sunday. Another drive up to the metro last night, when I did not want to be traveling in the early morning, risking slippery conditions on the highway. It was so cold on Sunday, with no expectation of warming, I was fearful of icy roads. Those little yellow triangular signs warning 'Bridge ices before highway' were foremost in my mind when I decided I would rather be making the trip in the dark before the temperature dropped below 32.
The drive to the city on Saturday was due to an invite to accompany family members to a limited viewing of an exhibition at the High Museum. It was a cold rainy day, making me thankful our plans were for an indoor venue, experiencing the finer things in life in a climate conducive to comfort. More about that later...
Getting in the car and deliberately leaving home after dark is most unusual for me. I am much more likely to be up before daylight to travel, than even having the thought that I should plan to wait until the sun goes down to start on my trip. Up at four or five am., and on my way The only exception I can recall is many years ago with small children secured into car seats, hoping to drive all night to get to NOLA in peace, rather than listen to them whine the entire trip. Their dad re-decided and changed my brilliant plan, so it was an exhausting trip for all parties. If I should ever attempt another drive to New Orleans, I choose for me to be the one who gets to sleep the miles away!
I have been back and forth to Decatur in the dark twice in recent days. A return trip on Saturday afternoon to be able to get enough sleep to be coherent when I had to clock in at work at 5:00 am on Sunday. Another drive up to the metro last night, when I did not want to be traveling in the early morning, risking slippery conditions on the highway. It was so cold on Sunday, with no expectation of warming, I was fearful of icy roads. Those little yellow triangular signs warning 'Bridge ices before highway' were foremost in my mind when I decided I would rather be making the trip in the dark before the temperature dropped below 32.
The drive to the city on Saturday was due to an invite to accompany family members to a limited viewing of an exhibition at the High Museum. It was a cold rainy day, making me thankful our plans were for an indoor venue, experiencing the finer things in life in a climate conducive to comfort. More about that later...
Getting in the car and deliberately leaving home after dark is most unusual for me. I am much more likely to be up before daylight to travel, than even having the thought that I should plan to wait until the sun goes down to start on my trip. Up at four or five am., and on my way The only exception I can recall is many years ago with small children secured into car seats, hoping to drive all night to get to NOLA in peace, rather than listen to them whine the entire trip. Their dad re-decided and changed my brilliant plan, so it was an exhausting trip for all parties. If I should ever attempt another drive to New Orleans, I choose for me to be the one who gets to sleep the miles away!
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