Left Coast Cowboys

We’re standing by for a couple of friends who have a baby due January 9th. But as of now, we are on elevated baby alert due to some enthusiastic kicking, massive amount of recent weight gain and some possible Braxton-Hicks contractions. Because this is their first baby and because Grandma-to-Be may not arrive from Virginia if things start happening early, we are the back-up troops.

I’m not quite sure what our value will be. Just like Prissy in Gone With the Wind, “I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies.” I mean I really know nothing. I have experience with new puppies, so if they need a little crate with soft cuddly toys and a wrapped up alarm clock, I can manage that. All my babysitting experience was confined to older (read potty trained) kids, because 1) it was less messy and 2) I quickly learned that you can actually charge more for older kids, especially the bratty ones that no one else will sit. See, an entrepreneur from an early age.

But back to the baby. I think we are mainly standing by to retrieve things that are forgotten in the rush to the hospital, to sit in the waiting room with a laptop full of DVDs and downloaded movies in case the father-to-be needs a break, or, in the case of my husband, arrive with a full case of cigars which said father-to-be and he can sneak out behind the hospital and smoke.

Butterfly McQueen is my guide here: "Miz Scarlett. I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no babies!"

Anyway, we’re very excited about the whole thing, although my observation so far is that “birthin’ babies” is a lot about hurry up and wait, false alarm and just hang tight. 

I think when things get rolling, we’ll amuse ourselves with coming up with great baby names since the parents are doing this really Old Skool and have no idea of the sex.

My current personal favorite name would be “Johnny Cash” if it’s a boy and “June Carter” if it’s a girl. The mother to be is less than enthusiastic. Or we could go completely California Hippie and give it a Planet/Plant/Color name. How about “Indigo Fern Uranus”. That’ll make her the popular kid in second grade.

Then there’s that old formula for finding your porn star name. What is it, your first pet’s name coupled with the name of the first street you lived on?

Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure that at the point where Mom-to-Be starts calling Dad-to-Be a “Filthy Bastard” that’s when the baby is about to be born. I’ll get the hot water boiling then.

Gee, this baby stuff is a cinch.

NOTE: The darling little gipper above is NOT a computer-generated model of the baby we are waiting for. He’s the progeny of a pair of our Scottish friends and is known as “Wee Andrew” or just “The Wee Man”. But he’s so cute, I couldn’t resist using him for a “generic baby”.

For others who may be facing this same situation, let me offer this handy Baby Care Chart. It should tell you everything you need to know.

Sometimes I wonder why everyone seems to know more camera stuff than I do. Maybe that’s why I’m on my second photography class at San Francisco Community College. This one is Outdoor Lighting Techniques. And just like the Beginning Photography course I took earlier, everyone, but me seems to know this stuff already.

However, there may be a few of you lurking out there who don’t know about Polarizing filters (this week’s lesson), so, for you, I’ll pass on what I’ve learned.

You’ll remember that Tuesday, we had a field trip to Pacifica’s Mori Point to seek out glare and neutralize it with a Polarizing filter. You’ll also remember that the fog came in thick and fast in that Northern California way. No sun. No glare. No dice with a Polarizing filter. So this week has been spent praying for sun and trying to fulfill the assignment.

Here’s the scoop on a Polarizing filter or at least what I’ve learned:

1. First of all, this is one of the most valuable, versatile filters you can have. It allows you to mitigate bright, glarey light. In that kind of light, it brings out details and contrasts that you wouldn’t normally see. And, if you get more advanced and try to create that “fuzzy waterfall” look by shooting in low light, the filter will let you simulate an even lower light to keep the shutter speed slower. (But that’s getting way ahead of ourselves.)

2. It’s relatively cheap as camera accessories go. I got one for $40. But it gives you a lot of flexibility.

3. The Polarizing filter is one of the easiest filters to use. Instead of having to take it on and off, you just twist it to select or deselect the effect. 

Here is the photo evidence.

Here is the back of our barn looking up toward the olive orchard. Note how blown out the sky is. Lots of glare and bright sunshine.

Now, I’ve twisted the Polarizing filter to activate Polarization.

Look at the clouds! Those wispy ones to the right were barely visible without Polarization. And now the sky is a more intense blue.

So here’s how it works with water. This is a shot of the pond in full sunlight.

As you can see, the reflected light from the water is bleaching out the color of the reeds.

Now look at it with Polarization:

The colors are more intense, both in the water image and in the color of the reeds.

In the right light, the Polarizer can change the whole nature of the photo. Here is the barn shot up against the bright sky. 

The glare of the light is sort of blackening out the windows. Bonus question: What's wrong with this picture?

 Now look what Polarization does to the glare in the windows.

Suddenly this is almost like Magritte's Barn.

The interesting thing I learned from this exercise: you don’t necessarily have to be standing out in bright sunlight for your Polarizer to help you. Look at this photo taken under the eaves near the stalls in the barn.

Although you wouldn't think there was a lot of glare here, apparently that metal strip toward the front of the eave is bouncing light back. As is the reflection of the white gravel.

Now check out the subtle, but important difference the Polarizer makes.

You can see how all the glare on the metal strip is gone and look how much deeper and richer the colors in the wood are.

I should offer full disclosure on Polarization. It’s not always as easy as twisting the Polarizer to “on” position or “off” position. Light and glare are tricky little suckers. They bounce around from all angles. In my experience, you just have to play with it. Maybe move yourself around at different angles to the light. Then practice with Polarizer off and on to see what works best.

Oh, and note to self: Make sure, as your stubby fingers are fiddling with the Polarizer, they aren’t still in the way when you snap the shutter. (See the non polarized photo of the barn above!)

And don’t take my word on all this. I’m just an an amateur. Here and here are some great articles on using a Polarizing filter.

I bet that one slipped right by you. Some of my Black friends used to joke that, when they finally got a Black History Month, it was February, the shortest one. Now it seems, we’ve designated a month for Native Americans. And it might as well be February what with Thanksgiving and the fact that we check out and start thinking Christmas thoughts immediately after the turkey. In fact, it seems the government can’t even agree on what to call this month. Some sites call it Native American Heritage Month, others American Indian Heritage Month or even American Indian and Native Alaskan Heritage Month.

Well, whatever we are going to call it, I’ve got two great documentaries I’d recommend as good starting points to understanding what I guess we are supposed to get in touch with this month: the contributions and place that Native Americans have in our nation.

The first is The West, produced by Ken Burns and written and collated by Geoffery C. Ward who wrote all of Ken Burns greatest documentaries. While not strictly a documentary about Native Americans, this documentary features them heavily, since what examination of the West could leave them out. But their contributions, culture and tragedy is handled much more in depth than the usual examination of Western America which jumps from the Plains to the Reservation to the Wild West Show and drops the subject there.

And by the way, if you’ve found the pan and scan of old letters and photographs grew old in Baseball, Jazz and The Civil War, fear not. One of the incredible things about this documentary is that Burns & Co. take so much of it outside. To the real West, the West that — in spite of all the development, the exploitation and the abuse — still exists. There are incredible aerial shots of buffalo stampeding, and places like the Bad Lands, the Southwest and the Plains just being spectacular. A side benefit of viewing The West, is that you will find yourself calling your Congressman and demanding more protection of our western heritage sites. At least, I hope you will.

Another wonderful thing about this documentary is that it doesn’t attempt to relate history, although it does that very well. It’s main purpose seems to be to explain the dream of The West. What did it mean to the Anglo, the Spanish, the pioneer and the people who were already here. The usual all-star line-up of great actors brings historical words to life and larger-than-life characters like former Texas Governor Ann Richards are interviewed. The series begins with a quote from Kiowa poet N. Scott Momaday who posits that “The West has to be seen to be believed. But also may need to be believed to be seen.” The goal of this documentary is to make us believe in The West through the eyes of the people who were drawn to it. Almost disproportionately, the series shows us The West through the eyes of the people who believed they were placed exactly here by a higher power.

On a personal note, I’ll disclose that I own this series and watch it at least once a year or before every road trip into sites in the West. I always get something new out of it with every viewing.

The next series is 500 Nations, which has the direct goal of explaining the totality of the Native American experience. The most astounding lesson to be learned from this series is the massive diversity of the Native American world. There were Indians who built and lived in cities, those who were nomads, those with matriarchal societies and others with traditional hunter/gatherer lives and societies that were more advanced than those of their European invaders. Even tribes that inspired our Founding Fathers with a new idea of a Democratic government. What is also illuminating is how much interaction these widely diverse societies had. Tribes in Minnesota wore shells from the Gulf of Mexico, Aztec and Mayan nobility wore turquoise mined on Navajo land.

The series is produced by Kevin Costner and somewhat marred by his deadpan codas at the end of every chapter. But he’s a minor distraction. The series is a great, sweeping introduction to nearly all segments of the Native American experience, from East to West, from North to the South of Mexico. One of the strongest aspects of this series is the liberal commentary by contemporary Native Americans from a wide range of tribes.

I should note that both series come with companion books, both of which I own. Both are well worth the purchase price.

Obviously these two series are a starting point. I’d also recommend trying to attend a Native American Pow-Wow. There are a surprising number of them, at least in California. I’ve always found them simply by Googling just those keywords.

Both The West and 500 Nations are on Netflix. And both companion books are available on Amazon. Rent the series and read the books before Thanksgiving. And remember who saved the Pilgrims’ bacon as they starved in a land the local Wampanoag knew as a land of plenty.

Photo of Chief Joseph of the Nez Pierce by Edward Curtis.

 On the eve of what every pundit tells us is THE MOST IMPORTANT ELECTION IN OUR LIFETIME, I was shocked to learn that an otherwise educated and aware acquaintance never votes. He had some convoluted argument about how Henry David Thoreau was against voting on the theory that “it only encourages them” and, “no matter who won, it wouldn’t make any difference.”

I could have started the quote game with him. I distinctly remember reading in Civil Disobedience that Thoreau said, “Cast your whole vote, not a strip of paper merely, but your whole influence.” I always took it to mean Thoreau was warning against just casting a vote and thinking that you’d done your bit for society. That voting is a starting place, but demanding accountability from government constantly was the next, logical and more important step.

But Thoreau was beside the point. What shocked me is that someone couldn’t be bothered to perform the absolute bare minimum of what our society asks of us. My friend is white and educated and professional, as I am. He’s probably right, no matter who wins, WE will be okay. Our taxes might go up or down. A war might rage, but we won’t be called to fight in it. We’ll go on buying iPods and laptops and watching our TV shows without too much inconvenience. Sort of the equivalent of Thoreau living in his faux woods, yet stepping out to enjoy the spirited conversation and dinner parties of his intellectual friends, protected by the militia and laws of the town whose limits he still lived in and whose maintained roads he travelled on although he refused to pay for them with his tax dollars. Nice to opt out if you can still keep all the privileges.

What I really want to talk about when someone says they can’t be bothered to vote are The Black Church Ladies.

In college, I became involved with a Democratic-backed initiative to help the elderly and those without cars get to polling stations on voting day. One of the areas that most needed those services were the slum areas around the dying mill towns that dot Massachusetts. The seasoned volunteers didn’t really want that duty, so they were more than happy to delegate it to the college students who didn’t know any better. My college friend and I were assigned to work with a predominantly Black church that needed cars and drivers to help their many elderly and poor members get to the decentralized voting places. (I’m always amazed in San Francisco that I walk in the sunshine to my neighbor’s garage and cast my vote. It wasn’t that way in Massachusetts in the 70s. Voting places were at schools in the suburbs and the weather always seemed to be harsh.)

The minister gave us a list and addresses of the “Church Sisters” who needed assistence. In these days before SatNav and Google Maps, we were lucky groups of them had chosen to gather at a few houses and at the church for their rides. It meant fewer hour-long round trips at 30MPH in the sleeting rain. The unexpected benefit was that it meant a chance to listen to these ladies talking among themselves and to us about their voting experiences.

The most amazing thing we discovered when we pulled up to our first stop, was that these ladies were dressed to the nines: church clothes and magnificent hats. This wasn’t just voting, it was a momentous occasion. Once loaded into the van, the ladies began talking about what it used to be like in the South (most were from the African American Diaspora of the 30s and 40s when many Southern Blacks fled Jim Crow Laws for what seemed like better opportunities in the factories and shipyards of the North.) Every one of the ladies knew or knew of someone who had been beaten, harassed or even killed, not just for trying to vote, but sometimes for having been seen with a vote organizer.

The next thing we discovered was that there was a tremendous pride in walking into the polling place. Some of the ladies had canes and walkers. They were happy to let us help them out of the van and negotiate the path to the polling place. But at the door, they all dropped our arms. Damn it, they were going to walk in on their own steam, heads high in magnificent hats and cast their votes under their own power. It was a matter of pride.

The choice that year included Jimmy Carter who many of these women saw as someone who would be attuned to the needs of people like them. But in the end, they were still voting for another White Man. Didn’t make a difference. They had the vote and no one was going to stop them from using it.

After each round of passengers had voted, we were instructed to drop them off at the church where a large pot-luck supper and celebration was planned. Voting day was almost like Thanksgiving Day for a whole community.

So that’s what I think of when anyone tells me they can’t be bothered to vote. I think of those wonderful Black Church Ladies who remembered when they couldn’t vote or were prevented from voting. Who knew people, even relatives, who died because they tried to vote. And after hundreds of years of disenfranchisement from the American system, still had the belief that their votes mattered.

I know the Seventies seem like ancient history to many of you. Things have changed, those scars are healed, right? Nobody, even the Black community looks on voting as such an important act.

A trip to the Civil Rights Museum put me in contact with more marvelous Church Ladies.

I would say you were wrong. Last summer, my niece and I took a cross-country road trip. One stop took us to Memphis and the Civil Rights Museum housed in the motel where Martin Luther King was shot. We were surprised to be surrounded by at least 10 parties of family reunions. (Southern family reunions, especially among African Americans, are a wonder. They get T-shirts made and family members come from hundreds of miles away to participate in what are often three day events.) It seems in the Memphis area, a stop at the Civil Rights Museum is a must.

We surreptitiously tacked ourselves on to groups to overhear what was being said. Church Ladies very much like my Voting Church Ladies were herding grandchildren through the exhibits and adding personal commentary: “I remember when this happened. I was with your grandfather at Selma. Our neighbor was lynched.”

It took me a moment to realize that these Church Ladies were not MY Church Ladies. They were probably the daughters of those Church Ladies. Which meant the personal lessons of sufferage were thriving and being passed on actively through the generations. I’m hoping most of the little kids I saw that day will come back to Memphis when they are fifty and take their grandchildren through the exhibits, recounting tales from their elders. And I hope they’ll be telling those grandkids that they remember when the first African American President was elected. I think they will.

This is a long post to share with you the best Political Science lesson I ever learned. Those Church Ladies taught me never to take my vote for granted — even though I never had to struggle for it. For those who suffered or even died for the right of enfranchisement, you MUST cast your vote. And do it in an informed thoughtful manner. It’s the least effort that citizenship requires of you, except it may be the most important requirement.

Those Church Ladies didn’t quote Lyndon Johnson to me, but they had high regard for him. I think he may have said it best:

“The vote is the most powerful instrument ever devised by man for breaking down injustice and destroying the terrible walls which imprison men because they are different from other men.”

Image at top left from Google Images and inmagine.com

 Of course the Internet can be a colossal time-waster. Just between Facebook, Twitter and Flickr, you can blow a good hour or two before you know they’re gone. But the real danger are all those weird and wonderful, fun and freaky sites out there that offer nothing more than weird stuff you can play with, link to and send to your friends. The danger of these sites is that time isn’t all you stand to lose.

I thought I’d rest my wrenched back for an hour and do a bit of work on my laptop while Andy transferred the Mourvedre and Grenache to oak barrels. (Don’t feel sorry for him. It takes about 5 minutes apiece and involves no labor harder than hooking up two ends of a hose.)

I was looking for gardening sites that would help me with winter plantings and somehow ended up on the My Heritage Site. Which has nothing to do with seeds and planting. Unless I googled heirloom seeds and somehow got dumped here. But isn’t that always the way on the long and winding road that is the Internet Superhighway.

Turns out My Heritage offers a feature that lets you find your Celebrity Look-a-Likes. And it just so happens, in last semester’s photography class, I produced a self-portrait project where I made myself up to look like dead movie stars. Hee-Hee. Wouldn’t be funny to take my Gloria Swanson, Alla Nazimova and Jean Seberg pictures and see if Heritage actually matched them up with those celebrities?

So I submitted my self-portrait as Jean Seberg shortly before the pills and suicide took her:

And here’s who they pegged as my celebrity look-alike:

AL PACINO! AL FRICKEN’ PACINO. And not just Al Pacino, but Al Pacino as Tony Montana in Scarface! Sorry, but worse than being told you look like a guy is being told you look like a guy that guys don’t even want to look like. At least match me with Brad Pitt. We’re both blond.

Sure they’d made a mistake, I hacked around the site until I found you could make a collage with all the celebrities you looked like. Here’s what I got:

Jeeez. If Al Pacino wasn’t bad enough FRANCOIS MITTERAND?!!!! ADAM SANDLER???

Then there are the guys with facial hair. And I don’t even want to know who Conor Oberst is.

Maybe, I rationalized, it’s because the photo is dark. So I quickly uploaded me as Alla Nazimova, Vamp of the Silent Screen:

So here’s what I got:

My top match is still a guy. In fact most of my matches are guys, but at least I got some female matches.

But Tupac Shakur? There isn’t enough space to print WTF as many times as this warrants. Don’t get me wrong, I was impressed with the guy’s talent. But in what universe is my lily-white face a twin for Tupac?

ROBERT DE NIRO???? I’m working my way through the cast of the Godfather movies? I decided it was too dangerous to my ego to upload any more pictures of myself, so I posted up this one:

Heritage told me to upload a picture of a “real face”. Apparently on some places on the Internet, they actually CAN tell if you are a dog.

So now I’m depressed and contemplating a drastic course of self-improvement. Like Botox or plastic surgery.

Or maybe the healthier plan would be to embrace my inner (and exterior) Al Pacino:

Think I look like a guy? Well say hello to my leetle friend!

Postscript.

Is this unfair or what? Andy’s celebrity look-alikes:

Yet another postscript:

I’m getting myself geared up for NaBloPoMo or National Blog Posting Month, where you commit to posting once a day, every day for a month. And no cheating and writing 5 advanced posts on Sunday!

This is my flight check week.