Urban Reflections-Grand Rapids, MI

I love walking.  One of my favorite places to walk is urban environments.  The bigger the buildings, the more stimulating the walk, the more nuanced the lighting, and the more kaleidoscopic the people going about their day, each in their own world yet linked by the city they inhabit.  The ideal scene features a combination of buildings old and new, green park space with a few trees that dapple the early morning light on carpets of green grass, ribbons of concrete sidewalks, and rivers of asphalt.  IMG_5529 editIMG_5522 editIMG_5446 editIMG_5486IMG_5569 editIMG_5600 editIMG_5510 editIMG_5436 editIMG_5441 editIMG_5460 editIMG_5447 editIMG_5584 edit

Chicago

My wife and I take the train to Chicago every couple of years.  It’s a three hour trip from Grand Rapids that affords beautiful views of Lake Michigan.  Train travel is one of my favorite methods of getting from point A to point B.  I like it because train routes tend to bypass major highways and thoroughfares.  They more often wander through open wilderness.  They stop in towns in the midsection of the country that most road trips skip.  You can hop on a lumbering Amtrak train in a big city like New York or Boston, jump off in the middle of Glacier National Park in Montana, and after a few days of camping continue on to the Pacific Coast.  Trains cheer me up.

Chicago Birds

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I invite you to read about a train trip I took from Boston to Seattle and back a number of years ago:

Amtrak: Everyone’s Here (Boston to Seattle by Rail)

Boston to Seattle by Rail: Somewhere in North Dakota

Boston to Seattle by Rail: Minneapolis–City Within a City

Slimy and Scaly Creatures

Growing up in Texas, I developed an early fascination for all things slimy and scaly: lizards, snakes, frogs, salamanders, newts, and turtles.  My attitude toward anything that hopped, scampered, slithered, or swam was somewhat akin to Golem’s “fondness” for world-destroying golden rings, except that mine was more a combination of a scientific and artistic appreciation for these creatures.  Less doomsday and split-personality, shall we say.  In celebration of small creatures:

 

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Gecko on the Big island of Hawaii.

 

 

Auratus

Dendrobates auratus-one of the first poison dart frogs I bred in captivity.

 

 

Frogs

In search of bullfrogs in Michigan.

 

 

 

Canine Companionship

For a limited time we have taken in a year-and-a-half-old English Lab named Suzy.  She weighs about twenty pounds more than our Golden Retriever, Gilly.  Though they have become fast friends, as someone who only ever had one dog at a time, I was surprised by the vigor of their play.  They wrestle.  They gnaw.  They slobber and drool in puddles all over the hard-wood floor.  They trade bones back and forth as if to say, “No, please, you play with it.  I insist.”  Their good manners are fleeting, however.  No sooner does Gilly nudge her favorite blue ball toward Suzy than she lunges to take it back.  All in good fun, I’m sure.

The sequence of photos below encapsulates their relationship better than my words ever could.  The tire “belongs” to Gilly.

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I’ll take my tire back, please.

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Now I’m getting a little put out.

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Seriously, give it back to me, or else. (Trust me, they’re still playing despite all appearances.)

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Huh?  Did the humans just say something?

The Day My Wife Went Blind (Not Really)

About five years ago my wife, Meghann, and I drove out to Grand Haven, located on the shore of Lake Michigan, about fifty miles west of Grand Rapids.  West Michiganders refer lovingly to this stretch of shoreline as the “Fresh Coast”.  So I’ve heard, anyway; I don’t know if I’ve lived here long enough to call myself a Michigander.

It was May, which in certain parts of the country may connote warm air and the kind of water that invites a refreshing swim.  Here in Michigan, however, such conditions may be as many as two months distant.  No matter—a different spectacle beckoned us to the windswept beach of Grand Haven, a beach punctuated by a beautiful pier that ends in one of the many stoic lighthouses strewn like pearls on a vast necklace along the shores of Michigan’s Great Lakes.

Grand Haven Pier

The Grand Haven Pier

We came for a partial solar eclipse.  Mind you, the moon was expected to obscure no more than ten percent of the sun.  Yet ten percent was just enough to darken the sky.  With a touch of imagination, one could believe for a moment that an alien spaceship was descending from the heavens and that we were trapped in its shadow.  The reality was more fantastic than that, though.  What could be more sublime than to stand in the darkness cast by something the size of the moon, just far enough from the earth to perfectly obscure the star that gives us life, yet near enough to lift the ocean’s tides?

The eclipse occurred at sunset, so that as the moon edged ever-so-slowly in front of the sun, the sky darkened all around except for a brilliant circle of yellow and orange light that radiated from the dancing celestial bodies.  The wind whipped all around us, yet somehow everything seemed quiet and still.

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The eclipse, which my camera was not capable of capturing.  Hence, the sun appears as a smudge.

On the drive home Meghann demonstrated once again that her sense of humor far exceeds my own, and that I’m hopelessly gullible.  “I see spots all around,” she said.  “Is that bad?”  I asked her if she had stared at the sun.  She said she had, for the full hour we spent on the beach.  I was convinced for most of the drive home that she had done permanent damage to her eyes.

To further illustrate my inferior sense of humor, the joke I would have made in the moment would have been to say something like, “Yes, you must not be seeing clearly because you’ve chosen to date me.”  Bada boom.  Thank goodness I married a funny one.

*I would like to take this opportunity to advertise a near-full solar eclipse that will be visible from Grand Rapids at 2:22pm Monday, August 21, 2017.  https://www.timeanddate.com/eclipse/in/usa/grand-rapids

Tricks of Memory

Sometimes I imagine that I’m in a room filled with all of the friends, family, and acquaintances I’ve ever known.  My wife is there.  So are my parents, my sister, and my whole extended family.  Arrayed around me are many of my best friends.  Jonathan and Ronald, two of my childhood basketball buddies, talk sports with a group of my Dallas friends.  They appear to know each other even though location and time separate them; in reality they’ve never met.    

Here and there, mixed in with the more familiar faces, I also see strangers I met only once—a retired federal employee who sat next to me on an Amtrak train from Boston to Seattle, who for his entire life had commuted from Spokane to Seattle only by train; a German backpacker whom I spent the day with wandering the ruins of Tulúm in the Yucatan; or Tarzo, a Brazilian journalist who, with a strange delighted glint in his eye, spun global conspiracy theories in a Buenos Aires hostel so many years ago.

Still others may be people I saw every day for a period of time in my life and with whom I barely exchanged more than a friendly “hello”, yet whose “hello” was just what I needed in that moment of a rough day.  Pete, a math teacher whose classroom shared a hall with mine when I taught Spanish near Houston, expounds on a recent scientific discovery.  Pete made me feel welcome in a school where, as a new teacher, I knew hardly anyone. 

It’s strange the tricks memory plays on us.  Storytelling requires chronology and sequence, yet memory is only sometimes chronological.  Everything it contains seems to have happened all at once.  I was reminded of this when I returned to my hometown, Austin, last year.  The more deeply I immersed myself in this massive city that once seemed small, the more random recollections exploded in my mind.  They lit up like so many thousands of lightning bugs on a cool Michigan night, bright and ephemeral and impossible to snatch out of the darkness. 

In an instant I remembered running through the woods near my friend Albert’s duplex.  We played hide-and-go-seek and tussled with other kids whose aim was to bully us.  Those woods are long gone.  In their place stand cookie cutter houses that over time have come to look as if they’ve always been there.  Their apparent permanence makes me question how big those woods were, with their sprawling live oak trees, where the odd rattle snake slithered among loose stones.

Over time I comprehend better why generations struggle to understand each other.  While in Austin I stopped by the ice cream shop I worked at when I was in high school.  I opened the very door I had windexed a thousand times and was greeted by a smiling teenager.  “Welcome to Baskin Robbins!” he said.  I told him I had worked there too when I was about his age.  He nodded but didn’t say much. 

Then it occurred to me that when I was his age, he had yet to even be born.  He wouldn’t enter this world for another four years.  Most of my world predated his.  Hence, it didn’t exist to him.  History before his birth was a mere instant, not the long, sometimes meandering personal history I had experienced as my life.  How strange, but also how exhilarating that we get to experience life with the same newness and exhilaration as every generation that has come before us.

*I’ve decided to start blogging again.  I have missed it, and it has been far too long.  I will be rusty for a while.  I invite any newcomers to peruse through my older posts. 

Pictures of Austin:

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Life Transitions

I haven’t posted on my blog in a long, long time. I aim to remedy that in the coming months, but for now I encourage you to visit my mom’s (Barbara Bromley) blog. Artful Passages is many things: a place for thoughts and insights on art and life, for mini art lessons, and for wonderful artwork in a wide range of mediums.  I think you’ll be impressed!

Artful Passages

Transitions are almost always signs of growth, but they can bring feelings of loss. To get somewhere new, we may have to leave somewhere else behind. – Fred Rogers

I’ve always found “new beginnings” to be a double-edged sword.

hummer-transitionAt the ripe age of 50, after 27 years in Texas raising our kids, the move to Concord, MA was difficult.  No more close friends nearby who knew the song in my heart…. No more cozy places where my children grew up.  Wonderful places like Zilker Park, McKinney Falls, the city of Austin, the state capital building, San Antonio Riverwalk and Zoo, the list goes on and on…..

My artful “new beginning” in Concord took 3 years to get off the ground.

I started teaching watercolor painting and drawing in a lovely hobby shop called Dabblers.   That teaching job led to another gig:  Teaching at the Weston Council of Aging which…

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