James Bond

Oh! Can you dig it?
We just went to see “Goldfinger”
the new 007 movie,
y’know?

Danny and I got extra-butter popcorn.
Eyes adjusted to the dark
swinging our legs in our seats,
when suddenly,
barely after the start ~

there’s this naked lady on the screen!
I mean, she was turned to solid gold
like Midas, everywhere -!
(Groovy scene!)
It made us STARE,

until Papa told us loudly, “OK, let’s go!”
and we all got up
and filed out, slow -
missing the movie of the century!

But
getting over it
eventually.

* What was papa thinking ~ taking all of us little kids to see this movie? Naturally, we had to lie like dogs to our friends the next day at school about how “boss” the movie was so they wouldn’t know that we really didn’t get to see the whole show. It was humiliating. Our salvation clearly was the fact that we had gotten an eye-full of the naked gold lady prior to our being excused to higher moral ground.

A glorious accompaniment of the Cold War, secret agent themes provided a new definition of ‘action’ film. Notably different from traditional John Wayne war movies was the fact that secret agents had to lead a double-life; they were naturally more comfortable in glamorous society with beautiful girls draped over each arm. No jungle booby-trap or slimey fox-hole could begin to compete with those fabulous spy accessories - ! It was a celebration of gadgetry straight out of the comic books.

Goldfinger was the third James Bond film, starring Sean Connery. The movie opened in the U.S. Dec. 22, 1964. Spy-mania was “ in “! Every cool kid had to have a collection of swell secret agent specialties, just like Secret Agent 007.

*from "Station Wagon Wars" ~ growing up in the 60's by CTanner, excerpt

Culture Clash

Race relations are hardly an American issue, nor is it "news" as in something new and unexplored. However, for me, it has been a topic of serious reflection this week.

A total stranger blogged about our little family internet shop with a link to the same, mocking my 'racial ignorance' based entirely on a handmade whimsical design for a $15 craft can. The title of the blog: "i AM black".

My initial response was pretty much what a heart-attack must feel like. Not only was the accusation a dizzyingly cheap-shot, but it was also a total surprise! Up until the day I was invited by the author to view the blog, I had received nothing but generous e-mails exclaiming "I love it!" as more racial stereotypes were added to the design by request. We have since kissed and made up and the modified design featuring "afro puffs" and dreads is on its way to Atlanta via the U.S. postal system.

What's going on? I am not addressing the hip-hop culture of thug-celebrity, or ghetto stagnation where women and children are abandoned by Black men in a cycle of poverty from which there is rarely an escape. What about educated Blacks; buying condos, working in corporate America and shopping at Ikea ~ main-streaming with the rest of us who are enjoying self-expression on our P.C.'s in our spare time? Are they really still so angry? A revealing study on NPR yesterday basically agrees that "they" are:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16266326 ...with a major difference~the relative satisfaction with life of Blacks polled is directly related to class distinction, not race.

Is it a regional thing? I'm sure that makes a significant difference. My new friend in Atlanta still encounters the Confederate flag on a regular basis. Plantation mansions are listed on the historic registry and many families are direct descendants of the civil war era who have remained in home territory for generations. But the accusing blogger was not an Atlanta native. The assumption I was racially ignorant or worse was based primarily on the fact I had not offered a totally Black representation in the design in the first place, since I knew my client was Black. But who would do that?! Is it only White-American culture that prohibits me from presuming ethnic stereotypes are appropriate for an ethnic client?

Two other scenarios weigh-in: a) the client is racist b) my ethnic artwork is lacking authenticity. Both have potential merit. As for drawing racial features, I have a letter from a children's curriculum editor in my portfolio praising my ability to depict a wide variety of races and cultures with sensitivity and realism. The generous apology I eventually received spoke for itself; the client admitted being racially motivated without substance to do so. I had over-reacted as well, and likewise apologized. The Race Card had been extremely hurtful to me - yet obviously something comfortable for the client to pull without warning. One of the weak justifications initially offered was that the blog meant to teach me how to appropriately interact with a Black person.

I still have a greeting card some Navajo friends sent us a few years ago. Two dumb-founded Indians were asking a wide-eyed pilgrim, "Why you use poison ivy for toilet paper?" Inside the card read, "Happy Thanksgiving".

I thought it was really funny.

Everything is Better Nowdays

I remember my mom taking my little brothers to the barber for a haircut. That's what the intention was ~ it usually involved an exhausting struggle between man and beast that always left me admiring how someone wasn't minus an ear afterwards. I hope my mom tipped the poor barber, because he sure deserved a down-payment on a house or something. But that was then: stained white tunics, outdoor magazines, rows of long, sharp scissors and towering pump-action chairs with the elevator-booster seat and nothing to safely strap in the hapless little begger...nothing at all...Now take Jack-Jack, our grandbaby extraordinaire. This was a few months ago his mommy introduced him to his very first professional haircut. So far so good; the model is about right, the fit is a little tight, and the color ain't bad...Geeeze! This isn't bad at all! Mom and Dad were giving me vibes on the way over here like you wouldn't believe - and what's to worry about? I was made for a day like today, baby! O.K., so I hafta wear this goofy cape, so what? I kinda think it suits me. What do you think?
Wait a minute...wait - um, what's that buzzing noise? You're going to do what with that thing?
No! No! No! This isn't fun anymore - and just look at my hair!
E tu, Brutus? Mom! You don't know what you're doing! She's evil, I tell you!
So, this is good. A little fuzzy...Things are really shaping up around here. A little noisy, but tasty. Ew. And double ew.FINALLY home again! Welcome to my turf, homie. This is my stuff. Everything you see here belongs to me and I'm gonna push it real good when ever I feel like it, see? And no, I don't need pants - but thanks for noticing! Now get outta the way, will ya?
An' I don't need any cute comments about my hair, see? Got a problem w'that? Sheesh! What a day!

For the next Nobel Peace Prize I would like to nominate the genius who invented the carbarberchair and thought of combining cut hair fragments and suckers in the same breathing space. Thank you!

Bobcat Heros

The Bobcat crew is the best thing since sliced bread! Here is the 'after' shot.

I can't believe I missed witnessing the expert speed-gobbling of my sweet pile. You can see the truck at the end of the street.

He saw me taking pictures of his work. Suddenly a full-blown garbage truck was speeding towards me faster than anything with that amount of bulk should.

"What's wrong?" he bellowed, jumping down from his massive terminator truck. His presence blocked the sun and seemed more than appropriate. I took a step back. Then he said, "Did you want me to rake these leaves?"

This was not the regular guy; there were no straw campesino hats or bandannas for him. He didn't listen to my explanation that I just wanted a picture for my blog. He was really busy.

Here is his buddy who came whipping Nascar style down the street to find out what happened to him. Look at my cute little Bobcat! Not him, the tractor. (Well, actually it's a Kubota. That fact is just as plain as day.) Maybe I should say, "Ah-so."


When I raised my camera, he squealed backwards in that thing to hide behind the truck, throwing his arm in front of his face. "I don't want no law-suit!" he cried. "It's O.K., I love you guys and what you do!" I said, offering the sacred coke tribute as you can also plainly see.

This proved a winning strategy. Now he's happy. Thanks, Bobcat crew! You may never know what you mean to America!

Porch Pest Fest

I am Ralph, the Roof Rat
I am beeautiful, I am furry.
With me tiny little paws
I can scamper in a hurry.
No need, though, for hasty habits
All I needs is more than handy-
The Tanner's place (lovely people),
is just loaded with top rate "rrrat candy".

Them citrus trees is packed
with sloppy fruit so delicious ~
you'd think those folks are never
even slight-e-ly suspicious,
That we play, we frolicks ~
We gnaw: we can't get us enough
of giant, tasty blocks
of that green or yellow stuff.

We invite our pals to try some,
we share and share alike.
We never knows what hits us,
when we feel that poison "spike"! * photos by Ray & DCT

Garbage, Home & The Unsinkable Mrs. Li

THIS is what I'm talkin' about: a truly respectable pile of garbage! (Can you see the little white, patent leather girl's shoe up on top of the block wall? That just appeared out of nowhere weeks ago on top of our mailbox). The Bobcat crew is in the neighborhood. They're early. They mean business. So do I. My junk hidden in the back yard was quickly transferred to accessorize the ju-jubee trimmings like so many cardboard, air-conditioner filter, roof rat doody greasy rag jewels. Not more than 32 minutes later, I hear the car pull up. Yes! A garbage-digger is pawing through our pile!

Check out the London Flog jacket, the nice car, the white older male; none of which support the garbage-digging profile. After a good 5 minutes of rearranging nasty things, he got away with 2 or 3 disposable cartons you use for left-overs in the fridge.

Since I am outside and armed with a camera, follow me. The Indian Corn on the door has been up there since last Halloween. Here is our very beautiful fake spider web. I took 3 pictures of a cute real spider waiting nearby, but none of them came out.

These are a few of the fake spiders.

This is only one example of the precious block wall we murder living plants to protect.

Here is the flowering shrub I told you about. Doesn't it look menacing?

And this is what the purple flower sort of looks like (sorry for the blur)on the luscious vine that USED to trail heavily over the ugly block wall in a generous cascade of these sweet flowers and large, classic leaves. You can see why this thing had to go. Seriously.

Conveniently enough, last night Ms. Li saw our door open as I was greeting our next-door neighbor Stella who stepped in to visit. She came scrambling over to interrupt and issue new orders: "You take out dead oleander in corner. Lady (the property behind us) say it fire hazard. She no want to see dead branches. O.K.?" I said, "As in...?" "You cut, you take down." (The pretty white lattice work is part of the neighbor's yard behind us). "Mrs. Li, that's your responsibility."

I reminded her that half our giant oleander hedge has been dead for almost a year from the blight, a bacteria. Like this section, for example:
I was acutely aware of the neighbor's little boy who speaks mostly Russian and Mrs. Li's grandson rushing Rachel's bedroom in tandem while we adults were distracted. I could hear the rustling sound of candy being pillaged. "I get so much trouble when I pay for help, you know? They always complaining, complaining I pay too less. But you cut please, O.K.? I get man come for rest when can do. You cut, O.K.?" I told her we'd "try".

She left with the rent money in its customary white envelope in hand. "MI-CHAEL!" she screamed while smiling and waving good-bye. Michael ran out with candy in his fists. He said, "HE gave it to me!" when his grandma asked where he got it. Oh! O.K. A few minutes later Stella left pushing her baby in the stroller, her little boy barely able to walk impeded by Rachel's Halloween candy crammed into his pockets. We didn't say anything.

I don't know if Ray felt generous, or if 2 little boys were simply unstoppable. Mrs. Li is unstoppable.

Capital Punishment

The landlady appeared today with 2 grandchildren and 2 Mexicans she hires to do her odd jobs. One speaks no English, the other does pretty well. Mrs. Li speaks Chineseglish, so it makes for an interesting effort. Their communication is very physical with A LOT of gesturing and repeated orders at high volume followed by "O.K.?" at least a million times.

The nasty Ju-jubee trees were finally feeling a machete and chainsaw trim. After knocking on my window 4 separate times (face pressed against the glass peering in calling "Scene-deee!" demanding my attention to one thing after another), her final announcement was that we must cut down all the young trees growing in the yard.

Each of them had spontaneously sprung up over the past 2 years, along with about 8 nice flowering shrubs that - after a snail-paced start, were finally big and blossoming. I told her they were going to be beautiful shade trees...she objected loudly with her hands fluttering in front of my face: "No good! No good! They grow big and ruin wall! Wall fall down!" Facing north, I'm looking at a two-tone, bare, ancient block wall that already has so many gutted and precariously leaning sections it could pass for a temple ruin on Mars hill. Mrs. Li was highly motivated by my unusual exhibition of non-compliance.

"All trees gone! All that by wall!" "But in front of the the little trees are flowering shrubs. Why wouldn't you want those? Besides, all the citrus is dying..." my voice rising above the chainsaw on the dead grapefruit tree stump, "don't you want some shade trees back here?" She agreed we could keep the one by the storage shed, but the ax must fall on everything else.

After they left, I inspected the crime scene along the West wall. Hacked to bits and dragged away was every last inch of each of my carefully protected young trees, a beautiful purple flowering vine and - 2 of my biggest flowered shrubs. They were about 10 feet or more AWAY from any block wall. I had dug little berms around them to water them extra and had mowed the lawn around them quite obviously nurturing their welcome existence. Now in the center of my planting bed is only the exposed trunk. For all she knew I could have planted those shrubs! She didn't even ask.

I felt far more defeated than a grown woman should.

Stolen Victory

The bulk pick-up by the city is coming next week. I am jazzed. This service is probably THE most amazing civic opportunity next to the right to vote! When we moved from the Earll house to this one almost 4 years ago, we out-did ourselves by heaping up the mega pile of all junk piles. It was as long as our property and half as tall as the house. It was a work of art.

Somehow just knowing the little Bobcat tractor with her crew of 2 is coming makes me crazy to dump out drawers, organize closets and sift aggressively through dusty, disgusting stuff we have totally forgotten about in the "outter darkness" of our garage. I am brave - able to sweep roof rat doodies like a man. I am ruthless - tossing aside pitiful arm loads of stuff I was saving for no good reason, and giving the boot to things that are O.K. but never used. I am generous - cramming about a dozen bags and boxes with donations to Deseret Industries; yardage of cute fabric I never did anything with, a collection of perfectly good lace trim, lots of clothes, shoes and books that someone else might enjoy. I am fearless - stuffing the trunk and back seat of the car with linens and games and pillows for the African Immigrants who were burned out of their apartment after arriving in America only a few months ago. I picked some of the nicest quality twin sheet sets that still had their matching pillow cases. I am optimistic - STILL waiting for the "Welcome to America" truck to come and pick up our furniture donations that are waiting on the front porch.

I am in shock - someone in the night took the entire jumbo-sized box full of CRAP. The next night they took the decapitated office chair. Neither item enjoyed a full 24 hours on display at the street. My plans for creating a great pile of rubbish are foiled! How dare these night-grabbers rob me of my glorious pile? Now that I have a blog I was going to take a picture of it, once it had attained its full grandeur and I had pronounced the work "done".

I am strategical: I will horde my garbage in the back yard until the last possible moment, and then rush it out to the street on the day our area begins pick up. I am the Queen of all trash I survey. None shall deny me my pile.

Heated Fears

My home territory is on fire...or at least everything surrounding it. I was born and raised in Northridge, in the San Fernando Valley (home to Burbank, the Encino of 'Encino Man' and Ventura Highyway in that song by America, and lesser known Tarzana from the old black and white Tarzan film days). My Aunt and Uncle live in Van Nuys, and numerous cousins live in Canoga Park and other valley areas, as well as hot-spot Simi Valley just up over the pass towards Magic Mountain.

My Uncle Pat lives in Ramona; up in the hills outside of San Diego. My grandma and Uncle Pat's first wife are buried there. It is - or was - a classically beautiful, idyllic, oak-studded Southern California jewel.

We didn't hear from my Uncle until his wife sent this message:

Subject: re: fires
Date: Tue, 23 Oct 2007
Hi
we are right in the middle of this situation. We may not have a home to go home to and we had no time to get anything out but a few clothes, laptop, dogs and 2 cars. They notified us that there was a complete, forced evacuation of the entire town of Ramona---36,000 people. They turned all lanes of all roads as downhill out-of-town lanes. I understand they are arresting anyone trying to get back in. We went to Heather's and then a fire broke out near there and the smoke was so thick that Pat couldn't breathe, so we left one car there and I managed to get to 78 before they closed it. Then I went a short ways over to the ocean and we got out of the car and sat for a while until Pat felt better. Then I got back on 5 and headed north. I went off the freewway at San Clemente and lucked out getting one of the last rooms available AND they let us take the dogs inside. That night a bunch of fires started not too far from here. This is like being in the twilight z one. T here's nowhere to go and no way to get there if there were. The wind gusts down here right now are enough to take your car off the road. We have no way to know when we can go back to Ramona to find out if our house has burnt tothe grouund along with all our belongings...everything...the truck, all our furniture, our cats...the 100 yr. old oak trees. Supposedly, this all started will a downed power lone...up here, they feel it might be arson. Oh well..."that which does not kill you will only make you stronger: and we are still alive...LaRaine

It's Only Money

It was a discussion on economics; prices are on the rise in the Valley of the Sun. The neighborhood woman being interviewed was explaining how she could tell the cost of living in Phoenix was escalating by her grocery bill. She said, "We have a fairly small family... and our monthly grocery expense is around $1,500-" gasping at the thought and before I could finish wondering what her definition of a 'small' family was, the cat was out of the bag. "My 15 year old son is an only child, but - (ahh, the golden addendum) he's on the swim team and can put away a lot of food! Being an only child, naturally he also has his friends from the team over all the time so it's like having a family of 5 to feed!" http://kjzz.org/news/arizona/archives/200710/hereandnow-costofliving

O.K., ignoring the obvious reference to only children being friend-magnets, I (being only a radio listener) was stunned to think somebody could shop at a "central Phoenix Basha's" and still have that kind of crazy grocery bill. How about Food City? Walmart? Is this woman a food snob? Or is she playing the doting little hostess for a bunch of athletic young swimboys that won't leave? (Now this could be a sensitive supposition, but really, you were thinking that too). Were they serving up prime rib twice a week or what?

What was in her pantry that costs so dang much? Some chips & salsa go a long way, even with non-swimmers. You could throw in a lot of twinkies and chocolate milk on a regular basis and still not begin to approach the $1,500.

This was a stupid story. Correction. This lady was an absurd representation of how average urbanites are coping with the rising cost of living. If I were the reporter, this interview would have concluded in the first 20 seconds by my burst of laughter. ~ Dude!

Collapsing Common Sense

It was terrible news at the Grand Canyon; just before noon yesterday a 4 year old girl fell four hundred feet to her death near Mather's Point. Witnesses said her mother was yelling for her not to move seconds before she slipped over the edge.

Now we hear park officials and media bites urgently reminding us to be careful around the canyon rim, and for parents to keep young children "in sight" or "within arm's reach". ~ Duh.

Accidents happen. I feel sorry for this family vacation come to a tragic end. But seriously, are you kidding? This incident reflects a generalized lack of parental common sense. Anyone who has ever approached the rim of the Grand Canyon can see it is big, it is deep, it is hazardous.

I cringe every time I see young mothers walking 10 feet in front or behind their toddler who is wandering absent-mindedly only inches from 45mph city traffic. People are not holding hands with children at street corners or other public places. One aspect of this problem appears to be cultural - too many young Hispanic mothers are not using a stroller for infants - they carry babes in arms and leave the other little children exposed to trouble en route.

A thrift store umbrella stroller is all of $5.00. A firm hand-hold costs nothing but the forethought to execute it. My mom used to have a tandem harness for my little brothers with a long leash attached! At the very least, parents can teach children to hold onto them if mom's hands are occupied. My kids can remember holding onto my skirt with a killer-grip. They righteously feared consequences if they let go even for a second.

Asia pointed out to me this weekend a happy come-back of the kid leash concept which for 30 years was much too offensive for White, upwardly mobile parents to consider ~ here is one example how to reign in your child while looking cute and fashionable:

While we do not know how many children were with the family in question, I am guessing they did not have more than what they could hold on to (including older siblings assigned to younger ones) especially if one was in a stroller.

We all wish this trip had a happy ending. A little common sense and safety instincts go a very long way.

Call of the Sea

We are feeling the generation gap, big time. Although David and I grew up in two totally different family environments, many things were constants. If our Dad said, "Let's go, kids!" none of us ever asked, "Where? Why? How long will we be gone? Do I HAVE to go?"

In my case, I remember leaving our S. CA home at 3:30AM with heavy canvas water bags tied to the grill of our Chevy Impala station wagon. Still in our pajamas, we kids slept through the pre-dawn trek across the Mojave Desert on our way to a family reunion in Mesa, Arizona. We were bothered by pesky little brothers, battles for what static radio reception could be had, struggles for a turn at a window seat and threatened repeatedly with mortal damage should we continue to kick the driver's seat or actually throw-up inside the car. We also sang with feeling such standards as "I've Been Workin' on the Railroad", "Clementine" or "Home on the Range. It was all enormously fun.

Last week we announced a surprise family road trip to the girls. They were not impressed.

Even the destination (San Diego) did not set them on fire. I wondered what planet they were from as I watched them reluctantly pack their sacred ipods & other relics of non-human interaction.

Here is the kind of view that thrilled my childhood heart; our first glimpse of the ocean (!) after several twists and turns through Topanga Canyon or some other quick route down from San Fernando Valley to Santa Monica, Malibu, or Zuma Beach. Friday evening at Cardiff-by-the-Sea I felt the same emotional rush as I watched the western horizon for that beautiful silver sliver of ocean meeting sky. The cool air was thick with sea and living things.


The freeway landscape is jungle-lush. Brilliant flowering trees and shrubs and plantings spoke to my soul. "LOOK!" I cried too loudly, wiping tears from my eyes pointing to the suddenly revealed ocean, "there it is!" No response. A slight grunt from Asia's corner as she shifted away from the bright sun, and Ray only stared passively from her open window. "I'm hungry," she mumbled.

A very fancy dinner, seated at the edge of a giant glass wall facing the glowing surf after sundown was definitely beginning to work its magic on our reluctant travelers. Finally fed, they were more willing to tolerate sight-seeing. David headed for the light be-jeweled pier at Oceanside.



Asia noticed the multitude of signs regulating parking, loitering, sound ordinances, campfires, dog-walking, life-guard duty times, used fishing line and hooks, recycling and practically every other rule or warning necessary to sustain life without a fine.

She was irritated.









Apparently the large type 'PLEASE' did not soften the regulatory message.
Mom's advice to bring a good sweater proved timely if not brilliant. Hugs help warm night time beachcombers. Asia wanted to play beach volleyball with a group next to the pier.

Check out this biker on our way to the Wild Animal Park; you can see his face reflected in each of his mirrors. Cool!









Here we are comforting some poor, dying deer in the petting area. They could barely lift their heads. We wanted to alert park officials about their appalling condition, but none could be found. Oh well.


Is this classic California, or what?
Growing up here, I never surfed - except for body surfing.

This group of surfer boys definitely interested the girls. I think they heckled several of them. Their little six-pack abs and stylish wet suits under curly, shoulder length manes prompted Asia to sing a couple bars of a Beach Boys tune for us. Although, we realize there are no stereotypes in our society.



This was a little cove surrounded by rust and caramel colored cliffs just south of Del Mar. High Tide was coming in, and we were entertained by several flocks of sea birds feasting on something near the water line. They were so cute with their little stick legs running gracefully back and forth as the water approached or receded. Being curious, I decided to investigate their sandy meal. It was too late in the season for sand crabs ~ GROSS! They were eating juicy white MAGGOTS! Thousands and sickening thousands of them, wriggling up out of the sand with the water and trying to burrow back in again before it left them stranded. Rachel worried they could get up into her skin. Asia told her yes, and one was on its way to her brain in her blood stream at that very moment. After we got home a little web search gave us the official answer to our nature question: Sea Weed Fly maggots. Yum.

Balboa Park is THE Most American spot I think; Garden of Eden landscaping, people, couples and families of all sizes, colors and creeds with their equally diversified doggy companions all coming together for a lovely, glorious experience in totally beautiful weather and stately old museums adorned with intricate sculptured facades. It was breath-taking and heart-warming.
We tipped this student violin/cello duet. They were performing Bach with a flair for the passionless.
This Black Mime was actually a very Angry Black Non-Mime. We would have taken a picture of his artful posing while balancing one legged on top of his suitcase, really, it was beautiful - but he almost assaulted an Asian tourist for taking too many pictures of his performance. He said, "If you take one more picture of me I'll..." none of us caught exactly what he was going to do because it was so shocking to see him launch himself away from a group of little girls waiting for their balloon creation and get in the Japanese guy's face. A large man with a camera seated on a bench next to ours yelled back, "You can't limit picture taking in a public place! It's my profession," raising his own camera and clicking a shot at the threatening Mime. "Thank you, Fat Man -" he yelled back, "looks like your profession should be a DIET!" Asia laughed out loud uncontrollably. The young father in the photo didn't change his expression at all, and all the little children except for his daughter ran away as quickly as possible once he finished their pretty balloon daisy bracelets.

Rachel wanted to know if Daddy could beat up that Mime if he needed to. Asia was trying to get him to walk right up to his face and start taking pictures just to see what would happen. We quickly finished our hot dogs and walked away, missing whatever artistic confrontation might have been ours.

Just a day at the park. A good time was had by all.

Colorful Opportunist

The familiar was briefly interrupted yesterday. Driving home with Rachel after picking her up from Melanie's house just before dusk, my brain couldn't register for a split-second what I was seeing in front of me in the road. Toddling towards the middle of 10th Street was a tiny little boy.

Instantly I could see there were no cars in front of us, but the intersection at Maryland could offer an on-coming vehicle any moment. I didn't know if anyone was behind me - I was honking my horn repeatedly hoping to alert his mother. I was pulling over and keeping my eye on the tiny little figure who was out in the street all alone. We didn't see anyone else. I had Rachel jump out while the car was still in motion to run and grab the boy by the hand.

He was so little he couldn't talk yet. I parked abruptly at an odd angle to the corner and hopped out to knock loudly on the first available door. No one answered. Two houses away I saw two young men come out to do something with the car in the driveway. Following behind them was a young woman chatting on the phone. She stepped out onto her front porch unaware of our approach. As we walked toward her with the child in tow, I glanced back at my unlocked car; a young black man in a uniform style work shirt had suddenly appeared and was walking toward my car.

I turned back to the young woman who had finished her phone call and was looking at us. I said, "Hello," she responded, "Hi!" - still seeming not to notice the little boy at Rachel's side - "Is this your little boy?" I asked. Her face was awash in shock. As she answered "No," she was reaching for him. "Do you know where he belongs? He was just out in the middle of the street." She scooped him up, the tears beginning and her answer muffled by the boy's curly black hair close to her face, "He belongs here. Thank you! Oh, thank you so much!"

When I turned away, there was the young black man standing exactly next to our passenger door, his eyes in an expressionless face locking onto mine. I noticed both his hands were in front of him, possibly on the door handle. With only the width of the street between us, I stared right back at him. My purse was on the floor of the passenger side. I had jumped out less than 60 seconds earlier leaving the car unlocked. Now this guy was brazenly staring me down. I was angry. There was no way he couldn't have noticed what we were doing, saving a little boy, yet here he was, being incredibly obvious about what his intentions were and foiled by our quick return.

I quickened my pace. He (much too slowly) finally began to walk away from our car, keeping his eyes on mine the whole time. He slowly put his hands into his pockets as he made sort of a semi-circle around to the back of our car, and then, meandered past our car towards the street. He glanced back at me while I opened my door. I stared right back at him. What a jerk.

I'm not talking racial profiling or bigotry or negative urban stereotypes. This is no noose-referenced Jena conflict or O.J. guilt poll split down racial lines. This is my neighborhood. That was my car. That was not my little boy I was ready to block traffic with my car to save. Of course I recognized race, but I think every woman is very aware of any man in her vicinity. He could have been whatever color staring me down.

There are only two things really bugging me right now; why didn't I just raise my key and click it locked right in his face? - and it was precisely his color that prevented me from doing anything. My very first flash-thought was, "I don't want him to think I'm biased".

I'm such a jerk.

The Enquirer

The Arboretum at Flagstaff is a beautiful spot to learn a thing or two about plants and animals of the Colorado Plateau. We learned quite a bit about Raptors. This is a juvenile Harris Hawk or a Peregrine - I can't remember. I also can't remember all the stats the handlers rattled off to us, impressive as they were. I wish I could. Something about their eyesight being telescopic and 3D - which was illustrated to us by explaining how a hiker might look down from a hilltop on his speck of a campsite far below; while his little falcon friend could tell him what was cooking on the camp stove and how many bugs were on the tent. They can tuck in their wings and dive from so high up we can't even see them to bullet in at 200mph to clock a songbird in flight and eat him for lunch.

The AZ Game & Fish website says that they have 10 times the eyesite we do, but I'm pretty sure the people at the Arboretum put it at some higher much more fantastic number. I know because they also pointed out how the bird's ability to recognize moving images is like 60 + images per second compared to our lousy 20 images per second. (T.V. is at around 22 images per second) This remarkable bird brain feat explains why Accipiters - (those that hunt in the forest rather than an open field) can rocket after prey without smashing into a tree.

Even more amazing, certain birds can actually detect the natural florescence of mouse urine and tell how fresh it is to pin-point Mickey's most recent burrow and hover there until he unwittingly makes his fatal appearance.

Sadly, we also learned that up to 70 - 80% of all raptor juveniles never survive their first year. It seems that honing their multiple survival skills takes more than instinct. I noted the part about how bird parenting is officially terminated in 4 to 6 weeks. Kids have to figure everything out on their own. Osprey (the raptors that hunt fish exclusively) often drown as young birds because they snag a fish too large to wing away, and in their panic they forget how to disengage their talons from the prey.

I figure God had a good reason to give animals so many marvelous physical skills. He might have even told us, but of course, we have forgotten. But that's not what has me musing the issue~ I am much more interested to know how in the heck does anyone figure out that a certain type of falcon's eye can detect florescence? And not just any old florescence, but degrees of specific rodent florescence. Like, who was observing an open field all day and connecting the mouse pee on the ground with the hunting strategy of the bird in the air? I mean, how does one identify what is going on, and what proof can be offered to support their conclusion? How do we know that a bird doesn't occasionally confuse Grizzly pee for mouse pee - and then, doesn't Mr. Red Tail feel foolish! (Although, we were repeatedly assured that animals do not assume human personality traits or responses).

At least the asymmetrical positioning of an owl's ears can logically present the answer of how they can pin-point sounds so precisely; it's like listening in 3D. I assume you can poke around and find the ears and see for yourself how they are positioned on the owl's skull - but how do
you even begin to explore the pee-theory?

There must be an awful lot of information in the world that is problematic to verify with 100% certainty. This is one instance where inquiring minds want to know.