Pixma Skulls

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sepia Saturday #343: Work and Play. Work!! Work!! Work!! Number 4

The first thing directors say to you is "Relax!" Right—it's great advice and everybody does better on camera when they are natural and "just like they're talking to people in their living room." But that's easier said than done. On this occasion, the "California's Gold" television show was filming at Lawry's California Center in L.A. I was the Product Development Manager and was chosen to give a tour of the R&D facilities which were famous in food circles at that time. I was nervous and trying to erase the rictus from my face and replace it with a genuine smile. Sweat was trickling down my arms and I was worrying that huge stains would appear on my jacket. I don't remember much about the taping. I don't believe my part made it off the cutting room floor. I vaguely remember briefly meeting Huell Howser, the lovable star of the show. 

Huell Howser at Nisei Week 2007.

I'm standing in front of the "altar" which we used for product evaluations and meetings. I don't think anyone ever used a mixer on it as each food scientist worked in a "bay," two of which you can see behind me. I think the director wanted the mixer there as a prop...maybe that's what had me so nervous—I thought it looked silly...me in a suit with a mixer?? My cue cards were sitting on the corner of the altar too —I can't read them, but as I recall I didn't have too much to say and probably didn't say it well. 

Working at Lawry's was an excellent experience and totally happy. Our R&D center was in a beautiful garden location which conveniently incorporated a bar, where we could wander down after work and have a margarita and enjoy the mariachi music. We worked hard and played hard...an overused expression, but we did and the final photo shows me in the turquoise dress and co-workers having a staff meeting. I'm in contact with that whole crowd and we see each other often.

Lawry's California Center

La Barbacoa

R & D Staff Meeting.

Later on in my career, I started a consulting company, Food Smarts, and had as a major client, the California Egg Commission. Gawd...I made a lot of popovers when I worked for them. This photo is at a trade show, one of many each year, where we made and gave away thousands of popovers. My contract was for promotion of eggs in foodservice and manufacturing—we worked with anyone in California who wanted to use eggs in a commercial product be it baked goods, frozen foods, candies and in foodservice. I loved the huge popovers and wish I had that big photo. 

I bet you didn't know 1996 was "The Year of the Omelet." The Dow Jones average was 6448. My nest egg would have tripled if I'd just bought an index fund and left it alone. Mad cow disease broke out in Britain and for once I wasn't working for a company in the eye of the storm. (When I worked for Lawry's, salt was killing us all; when I worked for the egg commission, it was the cholesterol crisis). When I was feeling sorry for myself, I'd look at this poster, which I had hanging on my office wall. I'd remind myself that it could be worse, working for the Lard Information Council. 

How did I stand there (see photo below) with a straight face under that self-important banner, which declares "1996—the year of the Omelet" giving out data disks with formulas for manufacturers...the little egg-yolk yellow disks which we thought was the ultimate in tech-savvy promotion. The better question is...how did I stand at all in high heels at trade shows for 8 - 10 hours a day. 

With David Will in Las Vegas

This particular photo was taken in Las Vegas at the annual Pizza Exposition. We were promoting breakfast pizza. My cohort David and I decided, after drinking a little wine the night before, to show up in the booth in the morning in our pajamas to serve the breakfast pizza; we rushed over to WalMart and bought a couple of pairs of silly, colorful PJ's and big fuzzy slippers. We thought it was hilarious, but surprisingly few people noticed, which is a social comment of enormous import as it belies the state of wardrobe at that time in Las Vegas. Or maybe people noticed but didn't think it was as funny and David and I did. I do remember one woman asking us if we realized we were in pajamas. David and I both responded in the same way. "Oh my God, thanks for telling us!" Later in the day, when it ceased to be funny even to us, we changed into civilian clothing and acted like adults for the rest of the show. 

It's hard for me to believe so many years have gone by—hard until I think of standing for 5 minutes in high heels—never mind a twelve hour day afoot. 

Sepia Saturday 343: September 2016. Work and Play - Number 3

The prompt this month was "Work and Play" and I combined them by showing a little girl, me– playing but actually preparing, practicing care-taking for "work" later in life. But I couldn't think about the dolls in my own childhood without remembering Winnie Inch.


That day, I was playing in the side yard that separated our house from the Inches who lived next door. Dad mowed that small side lawn rarely and the grass was tall and soft. Hundreds of insects lived in the green, damp vegetation. I alternated between finding insects and looking up at the sky. A better day I couldn't imagine, at 6 years old, than lying in that grass on my back, watching the clouds pass overhead. On hot, humid summer days, this was coolest spot in our small yard. Mint grew two feet high in one corner scenting the air; hollyhocks, their stair-step blooms covered with buzzing bees, lined the side of our house. A rickety fence, always in need of painting, joined the two houses and defined the border line between our front yards—where you had to look good and stay clean—and the back yards, where you could get dirty and play around. It was paradise back there, back then. 

As I was staring at the sky, I could suddenly hear the Inches, Harry and Winnie, fighting. Yelling and swearing, their hot anger oozed out the open windows and landed on my little patch. It got louder and louder, doors slammed and I was afraid to move as I'd been taught not to eavesdrop and didn't want to caught there.  I had to sneak out of the yard, through two lilac bushes, silently, so as not to be spotted by the combatants inside. 

Crawling on my knees and elbows I shimmied my way out of the patch and into the house. The Inches anger had caught a ride on the minimal breeze and wafted through our windows. My mother knew the Inches were "at it again." She didn't say anything. She shook her head and went into the kitchen.

A half-hour of silence followed and our front doorbell rang. It was Winnie, eyes red and swollen. "Can I come in Jill?" she asked and walked through the door. I'd never seen or heard a fight like theirs and was curious, but also wanted to cry too, for Winnie was so sad. 

Every Christmas of my life, like my own personal Santa Claus, Winnie Inch gave me a doll. I treasured them—they were always the latest in doll fashion, like the crying dolls or the dolls with silky hair you could comb—and I loved Winnie.  In the photo above, from 1946, I have my Winnie doll in a pram with something furry, probably the cat. In 1947, I look much more grown-up and my last Winnie doll, which I have in a non-maternal strangle hold, is dressed for winter. 

"Harry's been out every night until 2 a.m. or later. I don't know what to do," she told my mother. Mother was solicitous and eventually, Winnie went home, somewhat calmer. Mom and I both cried out of tension and worry for Winnie. I vaguely remember that my Dad, upset by our tears, went next door to talk to Harry about the "commotion". 

There were a few more semi-public crises in their relationship. At one point, Winnie tried staying out later than Harry, to "show him." As you might guess, she could never out-do him and her hours of hanging around downtown killing time accomplished nothing. Harry always got home after her, or didn't come home at all. Looking back, I'm sure Harry was an alcoholic, which would account for his awful behavior and for most of their problems. Alcoholism was common among the many men in our neighborhood who were veterans. 

I've tried to remember what happened to them—I think Harry died finally and Winnie was released from that miserable relationship. The house was sold and Winnie moved away. That's all I remember. I know the paradise patch in the side yard, was never the same—I can't remember ever enjoying it again. 

When I look at these picture and think about all the dolls Winnie gave me and how generous she was, it seems amazing that I can't remember what happened to her. How self-centered children are! I hope she had a good life on her own. I like to fantasize that she met somebody wonderful—somebody who would treat her with respect and that she managed a little happiness in her later years. 

Barkskins

Writteninc. 

I've been reading Barkskins by Annie Proulx for our book club. Barkskins is about the deforestation of the world beginning in the 17th century and ending in 2013. How ironic that the naval orange tree in our front yard has been dying rapidly right in front of my eyes as I read about the great forests being cleared from our globe. Every time I look up from the book, the tree looks worse. Yesterday, Richard had the gardener slice off all the branches and the root/stump people will take out the rest.

Barkskins is a vast saga and involves hundreds of characters whose multi-generational family stories wind in and out of the tale of the trees. There are two strongly opposing points of views of the world which set the initial stage for the story: the Indians who believed people should live in harmony with the forests and the Christian settlers who believed there was a biblical mandate to clear the land. A tome, the book is 713 pages long, most of which is entertaining. It bogs down in spots, depending on your interests. 

Annie has incorporated many of her personal passions in the book: genealogy, forests, survival, women's rights. She and I share a French-Canadian ancestry and I looked through my genealogy documents to see if I could find a Proulx in my family. No such luck, but I did note that Zacharie Cloutier, one of the first of my family to immigrate to Canada from Saint-Jon-Baptiste de Mortagne in Perche, France, signed his name with a mark shaped like an axe. This fact is interesting if you read the book, as axe-making was crucial to the first French-Canadians who were clearing the land. The quality of the axe played a huge part in how fast and efficiently one could fell a tree. Stretching my imagination a bit, I could see my own relatives, rope makers and axe men, woven into the story. 

A gaping hole remains where the pretty tree, laden with oranges used to preside over our front courtyard. It's left a horrible empty space in our view and the new tree, soon to be planted, will take years to fill it.

Out of curiousity, I wondered how much is a tree estimated to be worth in hard cash, never mind aesthetics. From Nowak et al:  "Compensatory Value of Urban Trees in the United States" I found these figures derived from a complex formula...

In Atlanta, GA: $394

In Baltimore, MD: $1,187

Here's another interesting chart which reveals the per capita forest area in hectares per person, around the world. A hectare is roughly 2.5 acres.  

www.nrcon.gc.ca

"So read it, absorb it's urgent message—and try not to think about all the trees that probably went into those 713 pages." Quote from the New York Times book review by Annalisa Quinn. I'm not losing sleep from guilt as I read the book on my iPhone, iPad and Mac, easily moving from one to the other as Kindle cleverly and efficiently takes note of exactly where I leave off on each device. No trees used. 

Sepia Saturday 343: Through a window

The things you see looking through a window.....

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper

EDWARD HOPPER’S NIGHTHAWKS, 1942

The three men are fully clothed, long sleeves,
even hats, though it’s indoors, and brightly lit,
and there’s a woman. The woman is wearing
a short-sleeved red dress cut to expose her arms,
a curve of her creamy chest; she’s contemplating
a cigarette in her right hand, thinking that
her companion has finally left his wife but
can she trust him? Her heavy-lidded eyes,
pouty lipsticked mouth, she has the redhead’s
true pallor like skim milk, damned good-looking
and she guesses she knows it, but what exactly
has it gotten her so far, and where? — he’ll start
to feel guilty in a few days, she knows
the signs, an actual smell, sweaty, rancid, like
dirty socks; he’ll slip away to make telephone calls
and she swears she isn’t going to go through that
again, isn’t going to break down crying or begging
nor is she going to scream at him, she’s finished
with all that. And he’s silent beside her,
not the kind to talk much but he’s thinking
thank God he made the right move at last,
he’s a little dazed like a man in a dream — 
is this a dream? — so much that’s wide, still,
mute, horizontal, and the counterman in white,
stooped as he is and unmoving, and the man
on the other stool unmoving except to sip
his coffee; but he’s feeling pretty good,
it’s primarily relief, this time he’s sure
as h*** going to make it work, he owes it to her
and to himself. . . . And she’s thinking
the light in this place is too bright, probably
not very flattering, she hates it when her lipstick
wears off and her makeup gets caked, she’d like 
to use a ladies’ room but there isn’t one here
and . . . how long before a gas station opens? — 
it’s the middle of the night and she has a feeling
time is never going to budge. This time
though she isn’t going to demean herself — 
he starts in about his wife, his kids, how
he let them down, they trusted him and he let
them down, she’ll slam out of the g*******d room
and if he calls her Sugar or Baby in that voice,
running his hands over her like he has the right,
she’ll slap his face hard, You know I hate that: STOP!
And he’ll stop. He’d better. The angrier
she gets the stiller she is, hasn’t said a word
for the past ten minutes, not a strand
of her hair stirs, and it smells a little like ashes
or like the henna she uses to brighten it, but
the smell is faint or anyway, crazy for her
like he is, he doesn’t notice, or mind — 
burying his hot face in her neck. . . . She’s still contemplating
the cigarette burning in her hand,
the counterman is still stooped gaping
at her, and he doesn’t mind that, why not,
as long as she doesn’t look back, in fact
he’s thinking he’s the luckiest man in the world
so why isn’t he happier?

~ Joyce Carol Oates, born 1938, American poet, novelist, and essayist

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I've always wondered about those 5 cent cigars, "Phillies" on the sign over the window. Here's what wikipedia says.

Phillies is a brand of American-made cigars, originally made in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, from which the brand takes its name. Phillies cigars, originally produced by Bayuk Cigars, Inc., are presently manufactured by Altadis U.S.A., Inc., the American subsidiary of Spanish-based Altadis S.A., which is in turn owned by Imperial Tobacco.^[1]

The original cigar, introduced by the Bayuk brothers ^[2] in 1910, was named the Philadelphia Hand Made and popularly shortened by the smoking public to "Phillies", a nickname that eventually became the brand name.^[3]

Phillies come in several sizes: Black Max, Blunt, Cheroot, Cigarillo, Mexicali Slim, Mini Blunt, Panatella, Perfecto, Sweet, Tip, Titan and now Phillies Finest.

A Phillies Blunt, often Phillie Blunt or simply blunt, is a popular name for a particular size of Phillies cigars, marketed as "Blunts", which are commonly sold at convenience stores and gas stations, as well as specialized smoke shops. Since the 1980s, this name has come to refer to all "marijuana cigars". An inexpensive cigar with a tough wrapper, it is often emptied and re-rolled with other smoking mixtures, the most common being marijuana. With its variety of flavors, a new market for blunt wraps, a prepared tobacco leaf paper similar to rolling papers, were introduced.

Phillies Blunt cigars are available in several flavors, including banana, berry, chocolate aroma, coconut, coffee, cognac, greene de menthe, honey, mango, peach, piña colada, rum, sambuca, sour apple, strawberry, sweet vanilla, sugar, tequila, watermelon, grape, and cinnamon. Barrel O' Blunt cigars are Phillies Blunts packaged in 50-pack "barrels". Phillies cigars also produces Mini Blunts. Single cigars are nicknamed "loose-ees" or "Loosies" (referring to a cigar that is loose from the box or pack and sold individually).

For more stories about work and play and gazing out or into windows, check out Sepia Saturday.

Halloween Costumes

 

 

Diane's chicken will be wearing her new shoes.

 

Pink is getting charged up about his Groucho look--all he needs is a cigar.

Wilder has seen the light and will likely wear his superman outfit.

 

I'll cobble together a witchy outfit. I can dye a lab coat black and add some net veil

ling to a gardening hat. Magic wands are a dime a dozen around here. 

    

 

Dragonfruit at Night

The dragonfruit put on a show the other night. I missed most of the blooms and caught them "spent" but leaving behind the beginnings of fruit. There's another set of buds forming so we'll get one more display before it's all over for the year. 

A bud forming. 

A Day at Del Mar

We decided to take Amtrak to Del Mar to celebrate my brother-in-law's birthday. Our train was supposed to depart at 1:00 in plenty of time to arrive for the first race. When we arrived in Oceanside, we were told the train would be at least 45 minutes late. Goodbye first race! Jim, Richard's brother noted that "getting there is half the fun." We killed time looking at pictures on the iPhone, taking pictures of each other and discussing our various fool-proof techniques for picking winning horses. 

Waiting....

There were no signs indicating where to wait for the trains—both north and southbound trains run on the same track which is a bit confusing. The person who checked the tickets as we finally boarded was surly and unsmiling. I noted that the service level was about the same as the Chinese trains we've been on. The 20-minute ride was uneventful; seats were comfortable. 

At Solano Beach, we got on the complimentary shuttle along with a busload of ancients. Most of the seniors heaved themselves up the bus stairs and waddled down the aisles, collapsing in the seats with much huffing and puffing. The aroma of lunchtime martinis and Mai Tai's drifted over us all.  The bus driver in a ploy for tips, sported a lei and played Tiny Bubbles on his ukelele. People were discussing their various potential winners in uber loud voices—hearing aids were being turned up and down accompanied by the usual squealing feedback. I could detect a whiff of cigar smoke. As we drove to the track you could close your eyes and identify the various restaurants we passed en route from the waves of aroma we encountered: barbecue smoke - ribs, grilling meat - steaks, Chinese food, McDonalds. As we de-bused, everyone ignored the driver's huge tip vase, conspicuous on the dashboard and seeded with fives and tens.

It was a beautiful day. 

Track Monkeys

California seniors seem to a man person to have recently experienced the removal of those pesky pre-cancerous skin flaps and barnacles. Half of our bus companions wore tell-tale band-aids on cheeks, foreheads and arms. My doctor is a gerontologist; he carries that freezing instrument they use on moles around with him from examining room to examining room. You don't get out of there without having something frozen off. I've suggested he get a holster for the device and practice whipping it out like a pistol. Everyone our age has mottled arms - thanks to the baby oil/mercurochrome basting sauce we used to slather ourselves with at the beach. We're still slathering but now instead of inviting the sun, we fight it off and you can see the ashy residue of sunscreen SPF80 on the exposed body parts sticking out of the ubiquitous Hawaiian shirts. To complete the costume, racing forms protruded from shirt pockets or sticking out of pant's back pockets. Everyone wore big sunglasses. 

After we settled at our table and ordered lunch, I noticed a man walking around in a pure white suit with a pastel shirt and a lovely tie. You might think "Kentucky Colonel" but he was in good shape and had a nice head of white hair, no beard or mustaches. It was the woman with him who got the most attention. She was probably sixty-five with over-bleached hair, streaked with colors. Heavily made up, she sported a set of puffy "soup cooler lips" you can buy at your local plastic surgeons. You could hear her coming, she was wearing so much jangling jewelry. Her leather mini-skirt exposed her thighs which had succumbed long ago to gravity and slid down to her knees where they stopped abruptly and lodged in rolls creating an effect similar to when sleeves are pushed up to the elbow. Above the knees, above the rolls lined up like waves waiting to break on a beach, her thighs looked wasted and were puckered with cellulite. Teetering along in 6-inch hooker heels, she looked freakish and every step must have been painful. It was a sad spectacle indeed but then, the man in the white suit must have thought she looked pretty good—"a chacun son gout." 

Declaring $.24 winnings to the IRS.

In counter-balance to this scene, we had a group of twelve women "of a certain age" (appropriately dressed) next to us, all having a wonderful time celebrating a birthday. The up-beat ladies were enjoying the races, the wagering, and most of all each other's company. Martini glasses, margarita glasses, and tortilla chips littered the table tops; the laughter was non-stop. 

It was bad, bad day for me. I think I won $.40 on one race. Richard won $10.00—Jim and Paula a couple of bucks. I bet on a couple of long shots who performed as expected, "sucking the hind tit" all the way, but who can resist 80-1 odds? 

Sepia Saturday 343: Mostly Work

Work and Play are the themes for this week's Sepia Saturday. The prompt photo is of a 10-year old spinner in 1908. 

As we're invited to post 4 times on the now monthly theme, I'm starting out with a few "work" photos from my collection. The first is an old favorite and I've posted it often—my family (Irish side) on a friend's farm, harvesting potatoes. The event was one of our year's highlights; we packed a picnic, dressed in our oldest clothes and spent the day in the country, picking bucketsful of our favorite food. I can conjure up the loamy smell of the earth and the warmth of the sun on our backs. We knew winter was coming soon enough and we savored the opportunity to be outdoors unencumbered by boots, heavy coats, scarves and mittens.

I don't remember those days on the farm as work; it was sheer joy. Little contests broke out—who could finish a row the fastest; who could find the largest potato; who, the funniest looking potato. My normal interaction with these relatives usually took place at my Grandmother's house where we drank tea and chatted after mass on Sundays. Potato picking was the only annual occasion where we were outdoors, horsing around and actually having fun together. We ate egg salad sandwiches (my mother always cut the crusts off), dipped crunchy radishes in salt and ate them with dill pickles on the side. 

Continental glaciation flattened the landscape in Manitoba. Every time I fly into Winnipeg, I'm stunned by the endless open landscape a glimpse of which you can see in the photo. On and on and on and on it goes with only a trace of slight undulation now and then. 

I'm the shortest with my sister Eilleen (glasses) behind me and my mother with the dark hair to my left. The buckets and bags are full of potatoes. Child labor!

Much later, I had a garden of my own at the same family friend's farm. I could claim to have done all the work here, but old Bob, the farmer did all the hard part— prepared the land, even set the rows. I came along later and dropped in the seeds. A couple of weekends were spent weeding and other than that, Mother Nature took care of the watering. Our harvest was splendid and my boyfriend and I loaded up his little Austin convertible and delivered carloads full of fresh vegetables to St. Joseph's on Saturdays. It was a learning experience and aroused an interest in gardening in me—the quantity of food that grew out of a few pounds of seed! Little did I know this garden would be my horticultural zenith, never to be surpassed.   

Next photo is of my brother-in-law Jim, who was doing an internship at General Hospital in Winnipeg—this was real work. He's holding his infant son and taking a short break from the grueling schedule. The photo is dated April 1962, but I think the film was in the camera for a while before it was processed. More than likely, from the winter clothing on my little nephew, it was December and Jim would have been about 1/3 of the way through his internship year. In those days, the early sixties, they almost killed interns with 24 or 36-hour shifts. The interns were young and eager cheap labor; hospitals then and now unloaded a lot of scut work on them; and there was a machismo factor between the competitive interns as to how much stamina each one possessed. I remember Jim sitting at the dinner table with us on the rare occasions when he had free time during that difficult year. His stories were fascinating and his ability to endure the hardship amazed us all. He went on to "pay back" the Canadian Navy, as they financed his tuition, working in Comox, B.C. for two years; he and my sister then immigrated to the U.S. and he did his residency in radiology at USC. Next month he goes to Winnipeg to celebrate his 55 or 56th medical class reunion. 

Photo dated April 1962. 

And finally, this photo which appears on the internet from time to time. It's usually in a group under the title, "Why can't I find a job?"

Visit Sepia Saturday for more memoirs stimulated by the prompt photo. 

Variations on Pink's Toes

  

 

 

 

 

I’m reading Ursula Le Guin’s excellent book, “Steering the Craft: A 21st Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of a Story. These short pieces below are two responses to her suggestion of warm-up exercises before writing. She asks the writer to listen to the sound of the writing - use repetitions, luscious word-sounds and the “crunch and slither of onomatopoeia. 

I think one of the most important thing I’ve learned from the first couple of chapters is that narrative writers need to train their mind’s ear to listen to their own prose and to hear as they write. One narrative sentence should lead to the next sentence to keep the story moving forward. Ursula in her instruction is inspirational in her use of words. She asks for exuberant vocabulary (I love that), musical rhythms, and dramatic phrasing. 

Exercise 1 Working on the sound of your writing

She woke up, trembling, on a golden sandy beach feeling the grit beneath her cheeks and sand in her teeth. She tried to blink but her eyelids were pasted almost shut with dried sand. Her ears were filled with the sound of surf rolling up beside and around her. Deep, rolling waves shattering into a glittering spray of millions and millions of droplets. She used a finger to wipe one eye clear and gaze around.  Sand, sand, sand lay ahead and she could just see the tops of green trees swaying in a line about 400 feet away. She tried to stand up, but her rubbery knees wouldn’t hold and she fell down on her behind with a thud and a small splash. A bird cried in the distance; another overhead. She craned her head upwards to see, but the blinding sun forced her to cast her eyes away and shut them for a moment to ease the burn and glare the rays had etched onto her eyeballs.

What had happened? She saw that her jeans were torn ragged from the knees to the thighs and her tattered shirt barely covered her arms. Her feet were bare and itchy. She bent over to scratch and saw with horror that hundreds of tiny sand fleas were crawling up from the beach across her feet to her ankles, leaving a red path across her skin. Overcome with revulsion she jumped up, screamed and ran back into the water brushing off the irritating insects and crying at the same time: gurgling, gasping, and snorting for breath. She wiped the snot off her nose with her arm. Back turned to the sun, she staggered out of the cool water and began to walk across the hot sand to the shade of the trees.

As she walked, she kept her head down but was keenly aware of everything around her. In a short choreography, small green turtles scampered ahead of her feet, dove into the sand and instantly disappeared. A pelican landed, almost silently on a shard of brown mottled driftwood; all she heard was a whooshing noise as his wings beat the air just before his landing glide.  Showing off, he looked at her from his side with one piercing eye, then puffed himself up. Dismissing her as a danger he shook his feathers like a maid would shake a dust mop out a kitchen door. Her throat was dry as chalk. She could barely swallow. She was going to need water, and soon. Were those coconuts in the trees? Was this a desert island? Her mind rushed through the panic to her favorite childhood story of The Swiss Family Robinson. And to Tom Hanks washed up, like her on a beach, but with Mr. Wilson. But she had no Mr. Wilson—or did she? 

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Exercise 2 Describing emotion

Terrified, she looked around in panic, eyes agog. Everything was blurred; she couldn’t focus. Blood was pulsing hard in her temples and she could feel sweat in her armpits. Suddenly she could smell herself, the smell of raw terror— the stink she used to smell from the trucks passing by full of cattle going to the abattoir. Her stomach churned and she was conscious of her pounding heart and the raw wound on her hand. In the distance, she could see the shark fin retreating but he wouldn’t be gone for long. She tried to think but fear stabbed at her brain repeatedly, like dagger thrusts. Dizzy now, she groped around in the lifeboat to see what she could use to beat the beast away at his next attack, leaving a bloody trail as her arms moved. What was that sound? Her ears were feeling, not listening. There was a roaring coming from inside her head so hard and deep, she felt her ears might explode. When she tried to crawl across the boat, her knees had locked in place and she was panting like a trapped animal. What to do, what to do….she couldn’t think—panic obliterated all her neural connections. It was as if a fire alarm was ringing in her head and a flashing sign in the bloody red, swirling spaghetti strands of her brain, warning—Danger, Danger, Danger!!! 

Thematic photography #382: Street Signs

The theme this week for Thematic Photograpy #382 is Street Signs.

For people who don't live in Southern California, this sign below, might be unclear. To those of us, particularly those of us living in the San Diego area, we see these signs almost daily when we pass the border patrol checkpoints on the freeways.  

The signs were erected in the late 80's and early 90's because dozens of illegal immigrants were accidentally struck by stunned drivers who failed to see people, sometimes whole families running across the freeway. Dozens of immigrants were and still are brought into the country by "coyotes." If a surprise checkpoint was set up on the freeway, the coyote vehicles would stop on the side of the freeway and tell the illegals to run as fast as they could...it was often across six-ten lanes of heavy freeway traffic—the kind of traffic most of the people had never seen before. Horrible accidents happened—children killed in front of parents; parents in front of kids. In an attempt to stop these ghastly events, CalTrans graphic designer, John Hood was commissioned to design an image that could alert people to the possible danger. It was extraordinary image and became a strike point used for years by people on both sides of the never-ending immigration debates. 

In short order, the image was on T-shirts, stickers, coffee cups, ball caps. 

Both sides of the fence.