The Oral Tradition: Remembering Donald

I recently had a ditty going through my head that harked to a family member who had a fine repertoire of word-play.  Wit, humor of the G-rated, family-oriented variety, was important to him whether he might decide to recite something when guests came to dine or when a child was working on her mashed potatoes.  Some of these, in turn, were repeated from his own childhood in an English-speaking Canadian household.  The humor magazine Punch was well thought of there.  Edward Lear was often quoted. Lewis Carroll.  The humor harked more to 19th century Britain than to 20th century North America and did not have what I might call a contemporary edge.  Though irony certainly had its place. 

His periodic repetition of these little limericks, nonsense word plays, jokes did not detract from them.  He used to say that jokes, like wine, got better with age.  In fact, they seemed to.  So that now when one comes to mind, I can still chuckle over it.  I can remember the twinkle he'd get as he was reciting it.  The amused looks of those who were listening.

Some lines from Punch were part of the repertoire.  "Her hair's her crown and glory and oughtn't to be tampered with" as one char said of another whose coif looked as if it had never seen a comb.

He liked to come up with his own witticisms, as well, saying, "Shampoo is better than real poo" and "Champagne is better than real pain."

He loved the Dr. Doolittle books and said that Dr. D. was the supreme scientist--who, when capsized, reached for first, and thus saved, his scientific journals.

He once copied limericks into a little black notebook.

The Reverend Henry Ward Beecher
Called a hen a most elegant creature.
The hen, pleased with that
Laid an egg in his hat
And thus did the hen reward Beecher.

A young man named Fiddle from Brie
Intended a preacher to be
But he shouted "Nay Nay"
When he found out one day
That he then would be Fiddle, D.D.

There was a young lady named Bright
Whose speed was much faster than light.
She set out one day
In a relative way
And returned on the previous night.

Then he told the story about a train conductor approaching a passenger carrying a turtle.  In explaining the cost of transporting animals, the conductor said, "Cats is dogs and birds is dogs, but this here turtle's an insect and there ain't no charge for it."

Goofy, silly, funny, amusing, corny, punny. 

He liked to say, "If you get there first, make a blue line.  If I get there first, I'll rub it out."  Or, he'd tell of the time a salesman came to his door and he told the man, "I can't buy anything; I'm illegible," at which the man looked startled and promptly left.

With what would have been his birthday coming up this week, I put this out into the ethers.

Lost Edges

Pink Peony

I want to talk about a technique I found myself using and expanding on as I began doing more and more painting some years ago.  What happened was this:  I knew that everything I was painting was too careful, too tight.  I wanted a freer expression.  So I began dropping edges.  Letting the paper carry the image off and away ... knowing the brain would be able to "fill in" those images without any difficulty.

I've included some of these images in past blog postings but I'm pulling them out again to illustrate this specific topic.  As you see, dropping the edges, not articulating them adds an ethereal quality.  A mystery, even.  And it works with watercolor, especially, since one only needs to add water and let the puddling, the mystery do its work without having to touch it again.

So for you painters out there, I share this with you and urge you to try it.  Just be casual about it and have fun.

Peony Epiphany

Three Daffodils

April Morning

Untitled Petunias

N.B.  This posting begins my blog's fifth year.

Home Again, A Few Last Notes from My California Trip

1.  On my flight from Boston to San Francisco (and then back again), everyone around me was ordering diet soda when the attendants came with the drinks cart.  On looking around--according to their laptops--I'd already discovered that these were people doing work on brain function, politics in the Philippines, etc.  I figured, as the BOS-SFO crowd, they represented a pretty well-educated group--MIT, Harvard, Tufts, Stanford, Berkeley, etc. So why was it they were so blithe (shall we call it) about the ingredients in diet soft drinks and how those chemicals affect the body.  (Badly.)

2.  I also found myself deluged with background music in the form of what my father called Noise.  Xylophones, horns, tinkly pianos all in an indistinguishable soup.  No let up.  That or background TV's.  Including four going at once during breakfast at the Marriott ... as if I wanted to hear more awful news over toast and coffee.  The hotel lobby was jangling as well.  The airport shuttle driver had his radio on.  More dithering played in the airport. Later:  department stores, book stores, restaurants, coffee shops.  So what is this!  Do we need constant distraction?

3.  Cra-zee in Santa Barbara.

• Rather than pants, women now wore tights.  As if they've just come from yoga class.
• The homeless sprawled on library and church lawns, slept on sidewalks, spent the day on the art museum steps, made use of bus-stop benches--one even hanging her laundry there.  900 homeless in Santa Barbara alone.  As one local told me, with its ideal climate, "You don't die here if you sleep outside at night."  
• Baby buggies now seemed the size of small European cars.
• In one major department store where I went to take in the SoCal scene, I found myself in such overload, I had to leave again.   I decided there was more choice there than in all the stores in my state of Vermont.  "Here I am; look at me," every item called out.
• Outside, scruffy buskers played guitars and sang with one objective--volume.  One fellow beat a drum and shouted the single word, "AGAIN ... AGAIN ..." 
• Skate-boarders feeling invincible, whizzed down the main street, daring stop lights and traffic.
• Passersby gestured to no one as they carried on phone conversations.
• As for the real estate market, it STARTED at a half a million and that most likely for a mobile home now called a "manufactured home."
• And as for Cra-zee Great, how's THIS for a fabulous bookstore, Chaucer's Books, one of THE best-stocked I've ever seen.

4.  Finally, is this English?  "To come into budget is like yeah."

Gallery of Photos: Santa Barbara Trees and Flowers

Santa Barbara has a rather rare distinction of being geographically located in a Mediterranean climate just where temperate meets tropical. So it has a fabulous mix of the two horticultures.  To say nothing of an ideal climate.

Common among its trees are eucalyptus, pepper trees, palms, sycamores, olives, and coast live oaks.  One street in the middle of town hosts magnificent Italian Stone Pines from seeds brought from the Riviera in 1908.

And this particular Moreton Bay Fig (below), planted in 1876, an Australian evergreen banyan, is the largest in the U.S.

Moreton Bay Fig

This may be what's called a dragon tree (from the Canary Islands)

Everyone knows the palm

Trunk of an old pepper tree ...

... and its upper branches

As for flowers, jasmine, wisteria, and Bird of Paradise abound.  There's the tropical Hoya (look it up; it's jewel-like).  Cup of Gold flowers.  The South American Puya.  Yucca.  Lantana.  Bougainvillea.  Plus everything else, or so it seems.

Cup of Gold

Hibiscus

White Jasmine ... oh, the fragrance!

Bird of Paradise

Whatever it is, it's wonderfully jolly.

Gallery of Photos: Santa Barbara's Architectural Style

So which is it?  Mediterranean, a bit of Roman (in the roof tile-work), Spanish Colonial Revival, Mission Revival?  In fact, it's a mix of all.  After suffering a devastating earthquake in 1925 that destroyed much of the historic and commercial area, Santa Barbara decided to rethink its architectural design and start over.  So start over it did, concentrating on a Spanish style.  (And one, I might add, very reminiscent of Seville.)

Santa Barbara was one of the first U.S. towns to initiate ordinances regulating stylistic design ... so much so that it is now called The American Riviera.

Much of both these mission towers came down in 1925 ... with damage in the 1952 quake as well.

Inside the Old Mission's church

The County Court House built after the 1925 earthquake for $2 million dollars.  

The Court House.  I've never seen one to equal it!

After the earthquake this went from being the Arlington Hotel to becoming the Arlington Theater with a glorious ceiling depicting a starry night.

Part of the old Presidio

For those who've been there, doesn't this remind you of St-Remy, France?

Private residences ...

....

...  these last two, so simple, so attractive.

La Arcada in the heart of town.

El Paseo with its arcades and shops, first built in 1826 as an adobe complex housing the Commandante of the Presidio Royale of Santa Barbara.

Continuing on through El Paseo

Gallery of Photos: Santa Barbara Scenes

Since I've had no car during my stay in Santa Barbara, I've been walking. I've loved being able to stop where I like, study what's right before me, get out my camera, and take a picture.  I've also loved letting the scene describe the design elements.

Facing West

Growing up on California's shores, I used to feel that this poem was speaking to me ... especially since I wanted to circle the world and connect with the geography Whitman mentions.  As a child here in Santa Barbara, I did indeed stand at the Pacific's edge, at the very edge of the land where I lived--I could go no further--and long to cross that wide ocean, wondering what it would be like to make that far-away part of the world my own for a time.  Lucky me, as the years went on, I did just that.

Now, having been there, I'm back on these same shores celebrating the poem again after so many years.  Of course, seeking a geographical solution is what I might call the literal interpretation.  But there is also the metaphorical one of circling around from childhood to old age.   And, yes, I'm now standing there, as well.



"Facing West from California's Shores"  *  Walt Whitman
 

Facing west from California's shores,
Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,
I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity,
the land of migrations, look afar,
Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled;
For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere,
From Asia, from the north, from the God, the sage, and the hero,
From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the spice islands,
Long having wander'd since, round the earth having wander'd,
Now I face home again, very pleas'd and joyous,
(But where is what I started for so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?)

(Note:  public-domain-poetry.com lists this as being in the public domain which indicates that I can copy this without needing permission.)