Focus Study
The photograph was a surreal, black and white portrait, just the sort of clumsy stab at art that one might expect from a college student in an introductory photography course. Its subject was a young woman whose eyes were obscured by the pair of oranges she held before her face. Perhaps it was its humor that earned it a spot on the wall of Haskett Hall, where I stopped to regard my handiwork each day after class. Passers-by might have mistaken my look of concentration for the solemn focus of critique, but my motivation was shallow. The truth was that I had something of a crush for the model, and standing for a moment in front of her portrait allowed me stare at her captivating image and daydream of impossibly good things.
Making films and videos interested me far more than capturing stills, but having declared my major as Photography and Cinema, I was obligated to learn the rudiments of picture taking and photochemistry. The lecture section of my introductory class was taught by Tony Mendoza, who was known at the time for a whimsical series of black-and-white photographs featuring his cat, Ernie. His artistry was inspiring, but as I was to discover, creativity was only a fraction of what was required to produce good photographs. The technical side of it - everything from light meter readings to focal lengths to maintaining the proper temperature for photochemical solutions - was daunting. I was long on ideas but short on technique.
Off The Grounds
It took me over thirty years to become a coffee drinker. My java abstinence was an inconspicuous trait for the first eighteen years, as few of my peers cared for a cup o' joe either (although one good friend did try to pull an all-nighter by eating coffee beans). Nor did things change at college, where coffee was surely one of the least preferred beverages. Once I joined the working world, however, I grew a tad self-conscious about my aversion.
Laboring under the fluorescent lights of a windowless office environment, I was surrounded by coworkers who were preoccupied with the status of the break room coffee maker. It was tended to with great care, as an auto enthusiast might treat a prized vehicle. Occasionally someone with little competence in the areas of filter usage and serving measurement would run afoul of those who knew better and henceforth be banned from making coffee. It was serious business, second only to our actual, what-we-were-being-paid-for business. Such is the power of a communal caffeine dependency.
The Lost Art Of The Long-Form Obituary
The brothers LeProwse, circa 1922: Barzillai, Glendower and Trevelian
As relatives go, Glendower LeProwse is as distant from me as a third-generation relation could be. My mother's maternal uncle died fifty-one years before I was born. He lived his brief life across the Atlantic as a native of Cornwall, England. I know very little about him, and yet I feel a meaningful connection to Great Uncle Glen, thanks to one of the lengthiest and most detailed obituaries I have ever seen.
Born in 1913 to Phillip and Asineth LeProwse, Glendower was the youngest of three brothers. Trevelyan, known informally as Trevy, was the middle child. The eldest, with the impressive moniker of Frederick J. Barzillai LeProwse, would emigrate to the United States in 1922 and marry the woman who would become my maternal grandmother. The three siblings grew up in Ludgvan on the family farm, which was christened Bar-Tre-Glen in their honor.
Kill The Wabbit
King of the beasts.
Expectations are founded on previous experience, so when we welcomed Tony into our home, we had no reason to believe that he would behave much differently from the recently deceased Sam. Sam had been something of a Halloween miracle, an emaciated stray who appeared during Trick-or-Treat and boldly leapt onto my lap as I sat outside distributing candy. We put out some food for him, and he soon became a fixture below our front window. Plummeting temperatures eventually persuaded us to let him in one night, and with the exception of visits to the vet, Sam never left the comfort of the great indoors. For two years, he was the gentlest and most contented house cat. Then one Sunday morning, we found him inexplicably dead on the kitchen floor.
Julie and I did our best to console our young daughters, who had become accustomed to Sam's comforting presence. Not long afterward, we heard of another stray that looked similar to Sam and had been hanging around our friends' house, agitating their house cat. It sounded like taking him in would be a win-win-win situation. Little did we know that there was no such thing as "taking in" this cat, nor was his personality anything like that of his predecessor. Perhaps the fact that he hissed at us during our initial encounter should have alerted us to that fact.
Guess What Today Is!
I consider myself an Anglophile. I have an inherent fascination with English life, from its customs to its colloquialisms. I like listening to BBC Radio. My pop culture preferences warmly embrace The Beatles, ELP, Pink Floyd, and all things Python. I'm charmed by E.F. Benson's Lucia novels and captivated by Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. I have ancestral ties to Cornwall (my maternal grandfather was born and raised in Truro). Nothing would please me more than to spend a lengthy sabbatical exploring Britain. Yet for all my natural interest in England, I cannot muster so much as a dollop of enthusiasm for today's royal wedding.
Apparently that puts me in good standing with two-thirds of the British population, the demographic block identified by pollsters as those who will not be watching the ceremony. According to CBS News, half of the United Kingdom claims to be "actively uninterested" in the whole affair, and I share their passionate apathy. The relentless news coverage is bad enough here; I can only imagine how unavoidable it must be in England.
Tenebrae Factae Sunt
The mighty Fritts organ at St. Joseph Cathedral in downtown Columbus, Ohio.
It may seem odd to look forward to Good Friday with eager anticipation, yet I confess that this is precisely what I have done for the last several years, ever since my brother and I attended our first Office of Tenebrae at St. Joseph Cathedral in downtown Columbus. Intended as a somber reflection on Christ's passion, the service features choral and organ music accompanied by the gradual extinction of candlelight. Near the end, the last remaining candle is removed from the altar, leaving the cathedral in darkness. The congregation then joins in the strepitus, a "sustained noise with hand or book" that evokes the earthquake described in the gospels. Finally, the lone candle returns, its presence a symbol of hope in the Resurrection, and everyone files out of the cathedral in silence.
When I read about Tenebrae in the paper, I knew I had to go. It sounded like the most wondrous mix of majestic architecture, thundering pipe organ, and meditative theater. David was similarly intrigued, and as we settled into a pew among the capacity crowd that first night, I thumbed through the program and noted translations of the Latin verses that were to be sung by the Cathedral Schola. Though my pronunciation of Latin is shaky, I thought it would be interesting to at least try to follow along.
Whatchoo Talkin’ ‘Bout, Willis?!
Gripe all you want about the name change, but Sears Tower never had the Ledge.
I assume that the majority of humanity sympathizes with my distaste for the proliferation of corporate naming rights and the way this trend has altered tradition in the name of better market branding. Whether it's a renamed annual event or a rechristened sports venue, I resent having the identities and logos of corporate America shoved in my face simply because the offending companies forked over enough dough to make it so. For example, one used to be able to go to downtown Cleveland and enjoy a game at Jacobs Field or Gund Arena, two facilities with nondescript names that did not overshadow the entities of their famous residents, the Cleveland Indians and the Cleveland Cavaliers. Now, however, sports fans must tolerate the dumb moniker Progressive Field and the even worse Quicken Loans Arena.
There is a certain chutzpah to waving a magical monetary wand and renaming cherished landmarks, a crass practice that I pondered on a recent trip with my family to Chicago. Short on time and wanting to make the most of our moment in the Windy City, we decided to ascend Sears Tower. Only there is no Sears Tower, technically speaking. A British insurance broker, Willis Group Holdings, became a major tenant in 2009, long after the folks from Sears had literally left the building. The owners threw in naming rights as part of the deal, and just like that, Sears Tower became Willis Tower. I don't know what annoys me more, the fact that yet another architectural icon has been renamed by a big insurance company, or the insult that the tallest building in America now bears the name of a foreign corporation. If I have an anti-corporate sentiment, at least it's patriotic.
Blessed Are The Unhandy…
...for they shall learn to depend upon the charity of others.
If mechanical aptitude and general handiness are heritable traits, then they are present in my family only as the most recessive of genes. My siblings and I would be among the last picked on a construction site. We have a working knowledge of basic hand tool use and light bulb replacement, but not much else. Collectively, the six of us boast plenty of academic degrees and professional success. Ask any of us to help hang drywall or panel a basement, though, and we're about as useful as a metric wrench on a domestic car.
Speaking as the only married male of the group, I can attest to the emasculating effect of this deficiency. You live with your spouse in a house that, inevitably, requires maintenance in order to remain sound. Other husbands are visible scurrying about their properties making improvements, replacing shingles on the roof, applying a fresh coat of asphalt to the driveway, putting in a new front door, or lugging an old toilet out to the curb having successfully installed its replacement. Then your wife looks at you and asks what might be done about the handrail to the living room stairs, the bottom of which has wobbled like a tuning fork ever since a replacement screw broke off in the anchor block when you tried to put the railing back on after painting the wall five years ago. You shrug your shoulders impotently and hope that she's still won over by your positive qualities, because knowing what to do with that stair railing sure as hell isn't one of them. If only there were a man in the house...
April Fool’s Day: A Brief History
April Fool's Day has long been a socially sanctioned occasion for lighthearted pranks. Like many traditions, the roots of this celebration of tomfoolery belie its modern celebration. In fact, April Fool's Day has a somewhat sinister origin that is seldom recognized today.
The genesis of the April Fool is said to have arisen some time during the early reign of Julius Caesar, prior to the adoption of the Julian calendar in 46 BCE. In those days, there was no month of April, and Martius (March) segued directly into Maius (May). As a means of testing the mental fortitude and gullibility of new recruits, Roman centurions used this time to perform a secret annual hazing of the rookies among their ranks.
On the last day of Martius, the greenest of the garrison were informed with great solemnity that Emperor Caesar's beloved dog, Aprilis, had unexpectedly died that morning. The young soldiers were further told that Caesar was subsequently so distraught that he had ordered a special day of mourning for his departed pet. All citizens were to stay indoors for the entirety of the next day, with business to resume as usual the day after that. Naturally, it was added, Caesar would be highly offended if he were to see anyone, even a Roman soldier, out and about on this day of collective grief.
Deebies!
When our eldest daughter was quite young, my wife supplemented our income by providing child care in our home. Amber seemed to enjoy the company of her daily playmates, one of whom was a boy her age named Dylan. The two of them got along well, whether they were building with cardboard bricks or guiding a toy school bus through the living room. One day, however, the mood suddenly turned sour, and that's when my wife first heard it.
"Deebies!"
Was it a nonsense word, or was it simply an approximation of something one of them had heard? While its origin would remain a mystery, its meaning would not. Over the next few days, the word deebies resurfaced, sometimes arising in a moment of anger and other times sputtered in mock frustration followed by giggles. We looked at the little ones in amazement. Apparently, they had invented their very own swear word.