Nearing the equinox, I'm mindful on this gray day that until the new year, I must interrupt my weekly coffee-house schedule. Family priorities and cafe holiday closings mean I'll see only those companions who regularly join me on Monday mornings. Those who share their wit and wisdom each Thursday and Friday shall remain distant until next January 7.
This enforced silence seems at this moment an eon. Perhaps at my advanced age I feel a need for weekly assurance that their absence will not be made permanent by an accident of traffic or health. More likely, I seek this weekly milepost to measure the distance of my own life journey.
Bon voyage, all. I hope we meet again in good health and cheer that first week into Two-thousand-sixteen, Common Era.
Friday, December 18, 2015
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
What'd he say?
Friend Jimmy delicately wiped whipped cream from his walrus-stache.
"I had this wierd dream last night," he declared. "I wasn't supposed to use any words that began with a 'W'!"
"Like 'weird'? asked Jody, across the cafe table.
"Or 'word'?" added Keith, next chair over.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "What prompted that dream?"
Jody pressed: "When did you wake up?"
"And why?" asked Keith. "It sounded wonderful!"
Jimmy took another sip of his latte, leaving another white ribbon across his mustache.
"Wipe off your mustache," Jody said. "Who started this conversation, anyway?"
"And where is it going?"
"And when will it end?" I asked.
Mornings at the Cafe Brosseau are like that.
"I had this wierd dream last night," he declared. "I wasn't supposed to use any words that began with a 'W'!"
"Like 'weird'? asked Jody, across the cafe table.
"Or 'word'?" added Keith, next chair over.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "What prompted that dream?"
Jody pressed: "When did you wake up?"
"And why?" asked Keith. "It sounded wonderful!"
Jimmy took another sip of his latte, leaving another white ribbon across his mustache.
"Wipe off your mustache," Jody said. "Who started this conversation, anyway?"
"And where is it going?"
"And when will it end?" I asked.
Mornings at the Cafe Brosseau are like that.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Time for another "The Bob Show"
I'm looking out my living-room window, choosing colors that I'd use to paint the neighbor's birches, which only now are beginning to lose their leaves. Yellow oxide? Some of the umbers? Another winter fog dilutes the deep greens of the conifers up the block. I won't be painting any of them. Does looking through a window still count as plein air?
This fog will burn off by early afternoon. Brilliant yellows from a low-hung sun will light the tree barks beneath a too-cerulean blue sky. And I won't paint any of them, either.
An all-white bulk carrier ship, waiting for a berth at the Ruston Way grain terminal, anchored off Point Ruston's Copperline Condos last week. After a late lunch at the Antique Sandwich Co. on North Pearl Street, I drove the Artmobile down the hill and found a parking spot in front of the new movie house. I loaded my paints, easel and canvas onto the collapsible stroller that is my sidewalk kit, and wheeled it around to the Waterwalk. I set up the easel, my work table, loaded up the canvas--and took them all right back to the van. Forty degrees, and a brisk north wind seemed just too damned plein air for acrylics, and for me.
It didn't help that the ship swung end-to-end while I was setting up. This constant see-saw of my subject between the wind and the tide plaqued me all last winter, when I was painting oils of the container ships idled by the longshore slowdown. It wasn't until I began framing those pochades for my show at Cafe Brosseau last fall that I realized I had painted some 20 of them. Photographs taken of me by passing strollers show me bundled up like a Santa pack, with rocks suspended from the paintbox tripod to keep it steady against that wind.
Tomorrow afternoon I'll be addressing a small audience at a church on Tacoma's South 56th Street where I've hung 33 canvases and panels. Most are small oils, but I have some larger canvases that I began painting last summer.
My topic is listed as something about plein air painting as a path to spiritual peace and enlightenment.
How about plein air painting as a path to constant challenge and frustration?
This fog will burn off by early afternoon. Brilliant yellows from a low-hung sun will light the tree barks beneath a too-cerulean blue sky. And I won't paint any of them, either.
An all-white bulk carrier ship, waiting for a berth at the Ruston Way grain terminal, anchored off Point Ruston's Copperline Condos last week. After a late lunch at the Antique Sandwich Co. on North Pearl Street, I drove the Artmobile down the hill and found a parking spot in front of the new movie house. I loaded my paints, easel and canvas onto the collapsible stroller that is my sidewalk kit, and wheeled it around to the Waterwalk. I set up the easel, my work table, loaded up the canvas--and took them all right back to the van. Forty degrees, and a brisk north wind seemed just too damned plein air for acrylics, and for me.
It didn't help that the ship swung end-to-end while I was setting up. This constant see-saw of my subject between the wind and the tide plaqued me all last winter, when I was painting oils of the container ships idled by the longshore slowdown. It wasn't until I began framing those pochades for my show at Cafe Brosseau last fall that I realized I had painted some 20 of them. Photographs taken of me by passing strollers show me bundled up like a Santa pack, with rocks suspended from the paintbox tripod to keep it steady against that wind.
Tomorrow afternoon I'll be addressing a small audience at a church on Tacoma's South 56th Street where I've hung 33 canvases and panels. Most are small oils, but I have some larger canvases that I began painting last summer.
My topic is listed as something about plein air painting as a path to spiritual peace and enlightenment.
How about plein air painting as a path to constant challenge and frustration?
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Home from the Old Country
Friend Gary joined me this morning at the Treo's coffee house in Tacoma's Old Town. Rain whispered on the rooftops. A flat, gray sheen of water to the north lay beneath a flat, gray sky. Not a boat was visible from North 30th Street.
Gary had returned this week from an extended visit to family in Geneva, Switzerland. He brought with him to our weekly show-and-tell two small notebooks of pen-and-wash sketches. Each painting was exquisite. Every one brought an aging, urban landscape to life.
Gary is an architect. His eye and pen captured details that, otherwise unnoted, contribute to an overall statement of sometimes recent and sometimes old construction that reflects Geneva's centuries of established beauty.
He is no stranger to freehand drawing but relatively new to plein air sketching and watercolor painting. He works from a small pocketbook that carries his watercolor-paper notebooks, his india-ink drawing pens, brushes and a small tray of watercolor pans.
Plein air artists work fast in any clime--but Geneva in winter--despite this month's Indian summer there--dictates rapid sketching, rapid painting. Despite this enforced haste, Gary has captured Geneva with bold lines and sensitive washes that provide an illusion of detail and completeness.
I can't wait until he turns his educated eye upon Tacoma!
Gary had returned this week from an extended visit to family in Geneva, Switzerland. He brought with him to our weekly show-and-tell two small notebooks of pen-and-wash sketches. Each painting was exquisite. Every one brought an aging, urban landscape to life.
Gary is an architect. His eye and pen captured details that, otherwise unnoted, contribute to an overall statement of sometimes recent and sometimes old construction that reflects Geneva's centuries of established beauty.
He is no stranger to freehand drawing but relatively new to plein air sketching and watercolor painting. He works from a small pocketbook that carries his watercolor-paper notebooks, his india-ink drawing pens, brushes and a small tray of watercolor pans.
Plein air artists work fast in any clime--but Geneva in winter--despite this month's Indian summer there--dictates rapid sketching, rapid painting. Despite this enforced haste, Gary has captured Geneva with bold lines and sensitive washes that provide an illusion of detail and completeness.
I can't wait until he turns his educated eye upon Tacoma!
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Painting in the plein air rain
A drumming downpour on the roof the the Nature Center at the Nisqually Wildlife Refuge this spring morning surely was the last gasp of a fast-moving weather system. Gray sky couldn't make me believe that sunshine wasn't far behind. After eight decades, a guy has to know something about weather patterns, right? And sure enough, the pounding on the shakes eased up into a misting drizzle.
So Allan Dreyer and I left the company of the Washington Plein Air artists who were setting up to paint a quite-adequate scene of willow-lined wetlands and noodling mallards at the Center. With art-making materials to hand, we trudged out along the boardwalk for the covered watchtower that overlooked the broad estuary. Allan was to sketch, but I had acquired a 12-by-48-inch canvas that was absolutely made for the horizontal compositions of that scene. With fast-drying acrylic paint and a 1-inch brush, I was certain to create a masterful, impressionist souvenir of this day.
As we moved along the glistening planks, I was overjoyed to see the subtle greens and browns through the leafless trees. The defused morning light from the low-hanging cloud cover brought out colors that are all but invisible in the dark shadows of summer. I looked forward to slapping paint when we reached the shelter.
Allan is a lifelong man of the mountains. His sure-footed steps set a rhythm that I hard time matching, although he is much older than me--by some 14 months. His pace would eat up the few miles to the estuary and we would be there in no apparent time at all.
As I struggled to keep up with his red jacket, I noticed that puddles were splashing higher from his weathered mountain boots. And water was dripping heavily from the brim of my stylish woolen hat. Hell, it was raining again!
We left the company of the alder and cottonwood and trekked out along the graveled dike. Two Canada geese on the trail ahead watched our approach. They goose-steeped down the berm toward the water. We kept on.
The watchtower was in sight, barely defined through the now-heavy rainfall. A half-mile to go? A mile? Allan, a keen judge of distance from his years as a forest ranger, fire-fighter and national-park volunteer, stopped. He turned. "Too wet," he announced. And headed back. For the first time, I was ahead of him!
We all but loped past the plein air painters crouched behind their easels beneath the Nature Center's roof. I opened the doors of the van. We tossed our sodden packs and coats in the back. In 10 minutes we were at Norma's Breakfast Grille.in nearby Nisqually, warming our hands on cups of coffee and a light brunch.
And came outside a half-hour later to cerulean- blue skies and marshmallow clouds.
When things dry out--say, in mid-August--we'll be back.
So Allan Dreyer and I left the company of the Washington Plein Air artists who were setting up to paint a quite-adequate scene of willow-lined wetlands and noodling mallards at the Center. With art-making materials to hand, we trudged out along the boardwalk for the covered watchtower that overlooked the broad estuary. Allan was to sketch, but I had acquired a 12-by-48-inch canvas that was absolutely made for the horizontal compositions of that scene. With fast-drying acrylic paint and a 1-inch brush, I was certain to create a masterful, impressionist souvenir of this day.
As we moved along the glistening planks, I was overjoyed to see the subtle greens and browns through the leafless trees. The defused morning light from the low-hanging cloud cover brought out colors that are all but invisible in the dark shadows of summer. I looked forward to slapping paint when we reached the shelter.
Allan is a lifelong man of the mountains. His sure-footed steps set a rhythm that I hard time matching, although he is much older than me--by some 14 months. His pace would eat up the few miles to the estuary and we would be there in no apparent time at all.
As I struggled to keep up with his red jacket, I noticed that puddles were splashing higher from his weathered mountain boots. And water was dripping heavily from the brim of my stylish woolen hat. Hell, it was raining again!
We left the company of the alder and cottonwood and trekked out along the graveled dike. Two Canada geese on the trail ahead watched our approach. They goose-steeped down the berm toward the water. We kept on.
The watchtower was in sight, barely defined through the now-heavy rainfall. A half-mile to go? A mile? Allan, a keen judge of distance from his years as a forest ranger, fire-fighter and national-park volunteer, stopped. He turned. "Too wet," he announced. And headed back. For the first time, I was ahead of him!
We all but loped past the plein air painters crouched behind their easels beneath the Nature Center's roof. I opened the doors of the van. We tossed our sodden packs and coats in the back. In 10 minutes we were at Norma's Breakfast Grille.in nearby Nisqually, warming our hands on cups of coffee and a light brunch.
And came outside a half-hour later to cerulean- blue skies and marshmallow clouds.
When things dry out--say, in mid-August--we'll be back.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Capturing The Spar
I had planned a long weekend of painting on The Mountain. Gary Knutsen was volunteering as a Smoky out of Sunrise Visitor Center for four days and invited me and the Artmobile to join him in White River Campground.
While I'd been to Sunrise several times in as many summers, I hadn't driven that serpentine route in 40 years. And I hadn't had the Artmobile--a 2002 GMC Safari van--that far off-I-5 since I'd purchased it two months ago. It was a test, for both of us. We both passed, but barely. Thursday afternoon, I crossed the parking lot from
the visitor center in a drenching rain. It
seemed to worsen by 5, so I headed down the mountain to see if Gary had arrived at the campground.
On the way I skirted a half-dozen sand-and-small-rock slides. Since this was only two days since a record 2-inches-in-12-hours rainfall, I imagined the slides were indicative of the bathtub beginning to fill. I was mindful of the Oso mudslide last spring. I decided I wouldn't be coming back up that hairpinny road on Friday.
Besides, I learned something about GMC's cost-saving design. Although I had geared down to second and sometimes first gear in the automatic transmission, I used the brakes a lot. With years of experience in Wyoming and Montana, I consider myself a careful mountain driver, not one to overheat the brakes. But on the first hairpin turn--like a U-turn into the next lane--I found the brakes okay but the power steering absent. So the first turn found me making a wider-than-comfortable turn that took me to the edge of the pavement. Two more hairpins to go. On each I came to a full stop, then eased the brake and found I had a bit more wheel in the turns.
I had known the power-steering pump would be needing replacement soon, but the mechanic had assured me it would give me plenty of notice before that time. This obviously was that notice. I found Gary under a rain-hammered tarp in camp beside the White River. I told him I was heading down the hill while I had some steering left. I had no driving trouble the rest of the way into Tacoma, despite the persistent rain.
Next morning, I had the pump replaced. The mechanic said it was a surprise to him to learn that GMC uses only one pump in this model van to power-boost both the brakes and steering. Its capacity was down, so on those hairpins I had enough full power for one, or the other--not both.
At 5 Friday evening, I was so delighted to have the Artmobile back in safe condition, and only for the price of an arm, not a leg too, that I took my acrylic paints down to Old Town. I hadn't painted with these in three years, using oil pastels in the mountains and then watercolors, until June, when I lurched into oils for the first time. I set up in front of The Spar tavern and painted a 16x20-inch canvas. I presented it next morning to Kathy Manke, queen of The Spar, who promised to find a place to hang it. (Probably in a broom closet--the walls seem filled, already.)
While I'd been to Sunrise several times in as many summers, I hadn't driven that serpentine route in 40 years. And I hadn't had the Artmobile--a 2002 GMC Safari van--that far off-I-5 since I'd purchased it two months ago. It was a test, for both of us. We both passed, but barely. Thursday afternoon, I crossed the parking lot from
 |
| My acrylic painting of The Spar |
seemed to worsen by 5, so I headed down the mountain to see if Gary had arrived at the campground.
On the way I skirted a half-dozen sand-and-small-rock slides. Since this was only two days since a record 2-inches-in-12-hours rainfall, I imagined the slides were indicative of the bathtub beginning to fill. I was mindful of the Oso mudslide last spring. I decided I wouldn't be coming back up that hairpinny road on Friday.
Besides, I learned something about GMC's cost-saving design. Although I had geared down to second and sometimes first gear in the automatic transmission, I used the brakes a lot. With years of experience in Wyoming and Montana, I consider myself a careful mountain driver, not one to overheat the brakes. But on the first hairpin turn--like a U-turn into the next lane--I found the brakes okay but the power steering absent. So the first turn found me making a wider-than-comfortable turn that took me to the edge of the pavement. Two more hairpins to go. On each I came to a full stop, then eased the brake and found I had a bit more wheel in the turns.
I had known the power-steering pump would be needing replacement soon, but the mechanic had assured me it would give me plenty of notice before that time. This obviously was that notice. I found Gary under a rain-hammered tarp in camp beside the White River. I told him I was heading down the hill while I had some steering left. I had no driving trouble the rest of the way into Tacoma, despite the persistent rain.
Next morning, I had the pump replaced. The mechanic said it was a surprise to him to learn that GMC uses only one pump in this model van to power-boost both the brakes and steering. Its capacity was down, so on those hairpins I had enough full power for one, or the other--not both.
At 5 Friday evening, I was so delighted to have the Artmobile back in safe condition, and only for the price of an arm, not a leg too, that I took my acrylic paints down to Old Town. I hadn't painted with these in three years, using oil pastels in the mountains and then watercolors, until June, when I lurched into oils for the first time. I set up in front of The Spar tavern and painted a 16x20-inch canvas. I presented it next morning to Kathy Manke, queen of The Spar, who promised to find a place to hang it. (Probably in a broom closet--the walls seem filled, already.)
Friday, June 20, 2014
Reprinted: Baseball in Tacoma
Baseball in Tacoma
A view from the uphill side of the net in Cheney Stadium, home of the AAA Tacoma,Washington, Rainiers.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Yeah, him and Ricky Henderson!Owen Huelsbeck sends this snapshot of him in action:
"Just wanted to show you a picture of me on third base, about to steal home!"
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Two antiquesI went to the open house at Cheney Stadium yesterday. I couldn't find where I had stashed my Rainiers or Mariners caps last fall. But I did come across this Tacoma Yankees hat, which I believe is from 1978. As a general-news reporter for The Tacoma News Tribune that year, I was supposed to interview Yankees manager Billy Martin when he was in town for a fishing trip with his son. We caught up with him at the Point Defiance Boathouse. The kid had caught a salmon half his own size. Mr. Martin was off by himself amid the stacked rental boats, head down, hands in his back pockets, not even looking out at the water. I didn't follow sports, much less the Yankees, but I was aware that he was having his problems with Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, among other things. I hated to interrupt him. I asked him one of those vaccuous "how do you feel about . . . ?" questions about his son's good luck, and he mumbled something about "very proud . . . great kid . . ." End of interview. We took a picture of the boy with his fish and published it the next day.
Maybe they should have sent a sports reporter. It was only a photo caption, anyway.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Reindeer Meat
The Tacoma Rainiers we've known since we've had season tickets have been owned by a Mr. Foster, who we are told raises chickens. We are grateful that Mr. Foster, while hoping to get out from under the ownership of this minor-league club, has chosen not to sell it to someone who will spirit it out of town, to, say, Portland, or Everett. Yet.
However, we are puzzled by his lack of interest in the team name, or its mascot. Our recollection is that the Rainiers once were the property of a Seattle brewery, and named for their product. We'd have thought an appropriate mascot would have been one of those prancing bottles we used to see in the Rainier ads. But a contest among fans resulted in their mascot being a reindeer. (Heck, it's not even spelled the same! "Raindeer" would have been more appropriate for any team in the Pacific Northwest.)
When Mr. Foster bought the team, why didn't he rename it? The Tacoma Foster Farmers? Why not? Isn't this a farm club, after all? The mascot could wear coveralls, say, and wave this big foam pitchfork. And these big, oversized brogans, that he could always be scraping on a concrete step, as if he's cleaning something off that he just stepped in.
How about the Tacoma Fryers? Or the Chickens? (Hey, is that why we have the Fun Squad doing the Chicken Dance every other inning? Maybe Mr. Foster is watching the game!)
Well, we've sort of grown fond of Rudoph the Reindeer at every game. Like the team's name, Rudolph is the only mascot we've ever known.
But we have one thing we'd like to call to Mr. Foster's attention. To the best of our knowledge, Foster Farms raises chickens. Not cows. Not pigs. So why doesn't the snack bar serve anything other than those overpriced, oversteamed hot dogs? Why not chicken?
Maybe it's because Reindeer Meat leaves no bones.
Season Tickets
Rainy days like today make me want to call Tim Eyeman and see if he'll circulate an initiative for a domed Cheney Stadium.
I'm haunted by the prospect of spending my April evenings moving ever up and back in Section H, seeking a dry seat, while watching the grounds crew rolling out the tarps, again and again.
Nevertheless, one of last season's most memorable evenings, for me, was of an April game eventually called in the fourth inning because of rain.
It was surreal. The dugouts were empty, except for an umpire, a groundskeeper and manager Dan Rohn. The tarps had been spread on the field for the second time. Puddles of water rippled in their folds, reflecting the stadium lights. After a time, families with children left. "School night," one woman explained. Young couples went in search of a warm bar, perhaps, maybe one with the Mariners game on cable. Then there were almost none.
The cheap seats on the wings emptied. Those diehard fans who elected to stay moved over and up under cover.
Some bonding-dad's toddler tossed a foam-filled baseball up the seats, then waddled after it, over and over. His old man never noticed. A guy near me said, "If I get my hands on the ball or the kid, either one, I'm tossing them over the dugout!"
The ushers made periodic trips to assure us the umps were keeping an eye on the weather radar. One confided that they wouldn't call the game for at least an hour. The drizzle increased.
Clare, the usher whose dugout-top dances guarantee a win, brought out an umbrella. As the speakers played "Singing in the Rain," Clare pranced up and down the stairs, brandishing his bumbershoot. The miniscule "crowd" sang, "Duh-dee-dut-dee-duh-dut, duh-dee-dut-dee-dut-dut!"
We gravitated toward a cluster of regulars, half-a-dozen guys and one woman who can name every manager and pitching coach of every Cheney Triple-A team, and A-Rod's batting average every year in Tacoma. They talked about the prospects of tonight's players, and of the Mariners. We had nothing to contribute, being almost new to Cheney and having grown up considering baseball a participatory, not a spectator, sport. (Color us dumb.)
The picture they painted seemed to be one of continuity, an unending stream of minor-league players swimming upstream from the bush leagues toward the majors. (Most never make it. Of those who reach The Bigs, most slip downstream after a short time and then out of the water.) They talked about not only the players, but the coaches, the ushers, the security people. Some of these, too, strive to swim upstream. Sometimes, one of them makes it up and over the falls.
Somebody came up the wet steps and passed around a tray of the last of the cocoa from the last refreshment booth still open. A few more diehards left. For us, hanging in there became a matter of principle, of loyalty, of simple curiosity to see what happens when a game is called for rain.
Finally, the big lights were turned off. Within minutes, the regulars had left the park.
Rainy days like today make me want to call Tim Eyeman and see if he'll circulate an initiative for a domed Cheney Stadium.
I'm haunted by the prospect of spending my April evenings moving ever up and back in Section H, seeking a dry seat, while watching the grounds crew rolling out the tarps, again and again.
Nevertheless, one of last season's most memorable evenings, for me, was of an April game eventually called in the fourth inning because of rain.
It was surreal. The dugouts were empty, except for an umpire, a groundskeeper and manager Dan Rohn. The tarps had been spread on the field for the second time. Puddles of water rippled in their folds, reflecting the stadium lights. After a time, families with children left. "School night," one woman explained. Young couples went in search of a warm bar, perhaps, maybe one with the Mariners game on cable. Then there were almost none.
The cheap seats on the wings emptied. Those diehard fans who elected to stay moved over and up under cover.
Some bonding-dad's toddler tossed a foam-filled baseball up the seats, then waddled after it, over and over. His old man never noticed. A guy near me said, "If I get my hands on the ball or the kid, either one, I'm tossing them over the dugout!"
The ushers made periodic trips to assure us the umps were keeping an eye on the weather radar. One confided that they wouldn't call the game for at least an hour. The drizzle increased.
Clare, the usher whose dugout-top dances guarantee a win, brought out an umbrella. As the speakers played "Singing in the Rain," Clare pranced up and down the stairs, brandishing his bumbershoot. The miniscule "crowd" sang, "Duh-dee-dut-dee-duh-dut, duh-dee-dut-dee-dut-dut!"
We gravitated toward a cluster of regulars, half-a-dozen guys and one woman who can name every manager and pitching coach of every Cheney Triple-A team, and A-Rod's batting average every year in Tacoma. They talked about the prospects of tonight's players, and of the Mariners. We had nothing to contribute, being almost new to Cheney and having grown up considering baseball a participatory, not a spectator, sport. (Color us dumb.)
The picture they painted seemed to be one of continuity, an unending stream of minor-league players swimming upstream from the bush leagues toward the majors. (Most never make it. Of those who reach The Bigs, most slip downstream after a short time and then out of the water.) They talked about not only the players, but the coaches, the ushers, the security people. Some of these, too, strive to swim upstream. Sometimes, one of them makes it up and over the falls.
Somebody came up the wet steps and passed around a tray of the last of the cocoa from the last refreshment booth still open. A few more diehards left. For us, hanging in there became a matter of principle, of loyalty, of simple curiosity to see what happens when a game is called for rain.
Finally, the big lights were turned off. Within minutes, the regulars had left the park.
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