Look at Me l951/Part One/ Chapter One

Look at Me
[1951

The Great Flood of 51

The night is dark,
the Mississippi lies asleep,
the moon is veiled in a velvet mist
with a blood-spattered chest.

It has hoary strange eyes,
restless with hazy fear,
slumberous and twitchy
with white thunder under her.

All who listen can hear
the whisper of the ghostly storm
booming farencircling near,
gliding overnightoverhead.

Opening: The Mighty Mississippi, as it has been often called, could be a time bomb at times, and has been for many; that is to say, along the river by what was known as the High Bridge in St. Paul, Minnesota, along the shoreline were flats, where at one time they were inhabited by the poorest of poor people in St. Paul; the river-front people, the people of the Levee, or also known as the Upper Levee Flats. In essence, at one time these were considered nothing but shanties, amongst a multitude of other names (lowbrow), but this brief will do. The Polish, Bohemians, and Swedes lived there, lived in this Shanty Town with its so called gloomy and haunting, drunken quarrelsome environment. Its atmosphere, its inhabitants were of a different nature, a different variety one may say, a whole new breed in comparison to the rest of the city, or so it was whispered: there were no church bells ringing in this area, or bibles or prayer books being carried by folks; nor was it slow and peaceful. If anything it was a dark nebuloussection of the city avoided if at all one could do so.

But that was long ago, even before Minnesota was a state, halfway through the 1800s to the beginning of the 20th century it held that reputation. Then it took a turn, slowly, but surely, and it gained a new recognition, [gratitude if not status, and was called Little Italy. Nevertheless, throughout its history [the Mississippi, from New Orleans to Minnesota it was known for its record flooding, disasters, that would leave thousand s homeless; in particular, throughout the 1800s, and into the twenty century. In 1951, there was just such a flood, a great flood, which did substantial damage to the dirt-road community, so great was it, the city decided to tare it downthe whole levee and its community, in consequence, thus, the last house disappeared, in 1960.

You are about read of just such a storm that took place [Look at Me, and when the levees sandbags and dikes cracked open, it became a displaced iniquity of disaster. Although this story is about one man for the most part that fades into the whole story, Look at Me, many of the events in this story are based on true events; as others are equally true in fact, and in spirit. But we must remember I have diluted it to be historical fiction.

A Daughters Voice

You can hear the sounds
Of a loved ones voice
A parents voice,
Gradually

Breaking In the Distant wind
While sending out
Waves of messages
Rising h igh, high up into
The fury of the storm
Stretching itself
Beyond its
Dikes and levees
Beyond its boundaries

[As if there was an
Invisible voice

Hand relaying

The safety
Of the childs voice.

There is no rest
Beneath ones feet
[In any world,
Visible or invisible
As the earth tries
Tries to settle

This dispute

No rest at all,
Until the child says:
All is well.

1

The Levee

Gnter Gunderson, past 50-and nearer to 60 now; a widower and friend to half the Irish, German and Italians in the city, land owner with several rental properties, along with some thirty-tenants, and father to only one daughter, Jean-lee Haigh, former: Gunderson: mothers maiden name: Betty Silluak, sister to Teresa, daughter to Anatolee

this (his daughters name) was not taken lightly, for he took his middle name and his deceased wifes middle name [his young wife dying of cancer, puttin g much thought into the process, earlier, and named his daughter at birth, Jean-lee capitalizing both the Jean and the Lee, to make it more distinct. In addition, he added the hyphen to show its individual nature, which he felt created the personification, or embodiment, of both his soul and his wifes into his daughters character.

When she cried, Papahelp! seeing him as she looked up, standing in one of her two rooms of her house [a shack more so than a house, along the levee, not far from the broken dikes that had kept the storms water from flooding the area an hour past, which was of course set up for that purpose, for just this design, to keep the flooding waters from drowning the houses on the levee, flooding the streets, sinking the houses into mud; but this storm was not an ordinary storm, it was one that could sink the Titanic, a horrific storm to say the least. And so history would record.

Standing was her father, otherwise known as Old Man Gnter, as he was often called, not so much because he was old, in which he was only fifty-eight (to some old to most, not real old I expect), but rather because he was like an old timer, his moods, his characteristics or aura. Furthermore, now he was like, that is, similar to a man on top of a vessel, a towering ship (as he stood on top of this roof), water all around the houses, and especially the twothe one he was on and the one his daughter was in, both of the houses sinking slowly, leisurely into the soft, the muddy, spongy gravel, into the muddy soft crust of the earth. With a stubborn, ascetic face, flabby-jawed, and dark-cave-eyes, gaunt arms and shoulders, he leaned forward, he could feel his stomach tightening. The house, the one he was standing on, and Jean-lees shanty was being cornered in by the storm, it was nothing less than a watery grave in the makings: perhaps he already knew this. He looked stern, unyielding as one might expect a captain of a ship to look when his ship is sinking, deliberating on something, looking severe, and thinking, thinking hard on how to save a sinking ship. Is it not so, a man takes on more than what he can, he learns how to bear what he shouldnt, thus, he learns he can deal with anything, and this was how he was feeling.

On the other hand, you could tell on her face, Jean-lees face was happy to have made the discovery that her father was there, it was not always a pleasant surprisebut it sure was this time, today, at this very moment. He heard voices here and there in passing, but not knowing where, the wind was carrying them. He always made things work out though, work out right that is, storm or not, surely this was just a matter of thought on his part, on how to save the day, or so she conjured. The roof of her house was torn off, dilapidated in the water not far from her shanty, the old man could see it, broken to pieces, boards here and there, everywhere; parts of it were sailing rapidly down the Mississippi. About this time noon tomorrow he guessedpossibly the forenoon, the whole damn roof would be in St. Louis along its docks, if not the whole house, he told himself.

He laid down flat along the stratum, joint [seam of the roof; it was extraordinarily strong he felt, that is to say, he felt it safer than the rest of the roof, and would be the last to cave in, and if it did, did cave in that is, it would serve as a boat, notwithstanding.

It was close to mid-spring, and everything was thawing out from a long heavy winter of over receiving [getting somewhere around, one-hundred inches of snownow melting and overwhelming the sewer system to where it also had overflowed. Along with the storm, the river had raised some thirty-feet, and was miles wide farther down the river, several miles wide if not wider.

As he looked about he noticed all her furniture, all Jean-lees possessions that is, to include the furnishings which was not much at all, but was all she had none-the-less, was all soaked, laying about, everything wet; in particular, her bed-mattress: he had given it to her on their wedding day, he was very proud to have done that, not many men think of that he remembered telling himself, think of insuring his daughter and son-in-law had a nice bed to sleep on; he believed that since one spends a third of their life in bed, it would be the perfect gift, yes, he was a proud man, and that also was destroyed in the wet decaying room she was standing in, the wedding gift, a heartfelt moment crossed his brow, like everything else, it to was sinking through the soaked-wooden floors of the house slowly, like rotting wood, unhurriedly as if to torture the house, or possibly give the occupant a last chance to get out bitter-sweet.

As the water circled the house, rising with the darkness, bit by bit, Gnter knew in due course, the whole house would be under water: it was just a matter of time.

Again she cried:

< p>PapaI see you! she said that to assure him of course, she had seen him, for he was calculating, staring, holding a rope in his hand, in one hand, firm, tight, as not to allow it to slip away, staring, just thinking and staring: it was a different kind of thinking from the way in which you and I know people to think. He looked this way and that way, every which way as if he was examining, analyzing his next moveediting his thoughts, his life if need be. The storm had between thirty-to-forty-mile an hour winds a times, he calculated, increasing, dying-down, then out of the blue, increasing again. He noticed trees were blown right out from under their roots, as he become aware of that, he gave more time to calculating, and recalculate: another man might have panicked and jumped in after her, but he didnt. (Be patient a little, for events move slowly in this narrative, lingers back and forth; but my chronicle will be swifter as soon as we get past some more rain.)

In Gnters world he was after a shadow with no face, it seemed all the time, busy, busy, and busier. Little interest in uselessness, idleness, he was the matter-of-fact person. Although there was sadness attached to his childhood, it never got in his way, he never blamed, pointed fingers, it was the way it was. Life was simple to him, mostly black and white, and not much gray. You lived, and you died; in-between was timeyou lived in the moment, that is how it was, how it was supposed to be, so he had told himself many times; it was an automatic thought now. There was an end to you, just like there was an end to everything. Cars get rusted out, building fall apart; people get old and worn out, horses get run down, not useless, just worn out. The good thing though, he thought was they got to display courage to help mankind during their time on earth(referring to people like me and you, the whole world) which was part of being a man, and a woman. Today was no different than any o ther day in that perspective, a decision had to be made, quick thinking, like in his Army days when under attack, he had to make a decision, he had to do it quick, I mean quick, or be killed, then and now. No time to freeze, to become scared and end up doing nothing.

Stay calm, Ill get you out, no oo problem! The old man yelled, commanded with a tone of voice as if he was still the Staff Sergeant he was thirty-years ago in the Army, or was it twenty-two [? time, just time he told himself, it passes quickly. He commanded only his own words this time thoughnot like in the Army, but they needed to be stern, he knew this, for Jean-lees composure was shifting, he commented:

No problem: no problem he said quickly in repetition, but there was a problem and he knew it. The storm was getting worse, not settling down. The sky was getting inky dark in spots, the moonan eldritch darkness was filtering around it, was becoming more pronounced. The water was becoming deeper. And how long could he last up on this roof without getting blown off; unanswerable questions.

If I could get this rope down to her, he said with his rustic dominating and stubborn voice, as if talking to the rain, or the roof, or some invisible force, but talking out loud none-the-less, looking at her off-and-on as he tied the rope around his waist, wiping the pouring rain away from his eyes, wiping and wiping and wiping, reminiscent of wipers on a car window. He pushed his body out farther from the edge of the house, to where his shoulders were starting to lean over the arch of the roof, swaying the rope back and forth to get some velocity, thenthen with his hand extended he pushed forward with a sharp jerk to the rope, it hit his daughters dress, as she stood there mortified, almost paralyzed: un-winking, shaking, not knowing what to do, not grabbing it, but watching it with her light-blue wide, and bottomless eyes.

He knew shed had stayed right in that room , never moving, just remaining there, had not the roof blown off, stayed right in that room had he not shown up, and shed had gone down with the mud, drown like a rat, he knew shed do that if he hadnt come to save her, yes, shed had gone down to the bottom of the Mississippi, like everything else around this hell-forsaken levee. He knew she was mentally slow, he never liked to say that to her, just that she was slow, that is what hed say if she needed to talk about her disability, that was harmful enough: and she never knew why she was, slow thinking that is, just that after years of watching everyone else, she became aware of it. She had even asked her father once,

Why dad, why did God make me this way? He had a hard time answering that question, stumbling over thoughts, pausing in a blank stare, all he could come up with was:

Its the way things are, Im not sure why, you got to ask Him, you got to ask Jesus, but sometimes you build on them weaknesses, and d ont let it stop you from living, that is what you do. And she never did, not once, not ever did she let it stop her from getting married, working, having two children. It wasnt easy, but then life wasnt always supposed to be easy, she had learned that from her father.

Dennis Siluk you can see his books at most any book store, or order them at any book store, or any internet book site such as http://www.abe.com or http://www.bn.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Chapter story
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

Good Ideas for Halloween Costumes

Good ideas for Halloween costumes can come from a variety of sources, whether its the Internet, TV, movies or even your hobbies. Actors, TV characters, famous faces from the news, even characters from books can be good fodder for Halloween night. Looking for ideas for Halloween costumes for kids? Try the local toy store or your childs favorite Saturday morning cartoon. Dora the Explorer and Kim Possible are popular with girls now, and what boy will turn down the chance to be Spider Man for a night? Even items found around your home can spark ideas have you ever considered going to your next Halloween party dressed as a box of cereal, a toaster, or a bagel?

The entertainment industry is especially ripe with good ideas for Halloween costumes for groups of adults or children. Dress up your two children as Raggedy Ann and Andy, Sonny and Cher, or Mickey and Minnie Mouse. For three kids try Alvin and the Chipmunks or a trio of super heroes. Adult groups of frien ds will love dressing up as Charlies Angels, the Dukes of Hazard (complete with Daisy and Boss Hog!), or the Three Amigos. In fact the cast of any TV show or movie is a good way to get all of your friends or co-workers in on the fun. Good ideas for Halloween costumes are as easy to find as you make them. All you need is a little imagination!

By browsing the aisles youll discover an array of make-your-own costume supplies from angel wings to bridal veils. An art set could be transformed into a Parisian artists costume. Some flowing fabric and strands of bells could be used to craft an exotic gypsy costume. Craft magazines and catalogs are also a resource, as are your friends and family. Ask around; maybe your cousin dressed up as something or someone really spectacular three years ago and would be happy to loan you her costume. Good ideas for Halloween costumes are everywhere. You just have to be observant.

Do you enjoy sports? Love animals? Hate your j ob? Any of these subjects could result in good ideas for Halloween costumes even clever ideas! Arrive at the party dressed as your favorite sports star, as your favorite animal, or as your jerk of a boss. The more creative you can be the better. After all, Halloween is all about becoming an entirely different person for one night. Show your wild, funny, or truly absurd side and take home that Best Costume prize youve had your eye on!

Here's where you can develop your good ideas for Halloween costumes

Author:: Arthur Stoller
Keywords:: good ideas for halloween costumes
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

Audition Basics: A List Of Things You Should Know Going In

Before you go into an audition, know the audition basics, and be prepared for the experience. And get the results you really want!

There is no sense in feeling rushed or stressed about making it to your audition on time. If you arrive about 15 minutes early you will have time to warm up and make yourself at ease.

Smile and be confident! You might not realize whom you are speaking to while you wait. Maybe this person will be influential in the casting process. Be nice to everyone you talk to.

There will probably be waiting. Just sitting aroundmaybe getting nervous, maybe getting dry mouththese things are not going to help you. Bring something to read and a bottle of water.

Do not wear a costume. Your outfit can suggest the character such as a high-collar blouse for a period piece, but don't get all dressed up.

Do not be intimidated by the other people there. No matter how many there are, they are competing for the same job. Keep up your confid ence.

Do not let anything get in the way of your getting into characterclothes included. Wear comfortable clothes, you should look neat, but not too fancy. Make sure you can move around the room. You must be comfortable to really get into character. Do not let anything get in the way of your getting into characterclothes included.

Do not wear too much cologne or perfume. You dont want one of the casting crew to be sneezing or choking on how good you think you smell. What is to impress these people will be your talent, professionalism, and probably nothing else.

Be familiar with the company you are auditioning for. This will help you find the best monologue to audition with.

Smile! If you look nervous it will affect your impression on the casting crew in a negative way. You will not get every job you audition for, but you can learn from every audition experience.

Your resume should be firmly attached to your headshot. If possible, photocopy or p rint your resume to the back of the headshot. One page is plenty. Make sure that the headshot/resume you bring along is no larger than 8 1/2 by 11. This will fit into a folder.

Do not ask if you will get called back. They will let you know, and often do not make the decision right away. If you do get called back, wear the same outfit as during your first audition. It will help them remember you, and you will already know it is comfortable to work in.

Anne Clarke writes numerous articles for websites on gardening, parenting, fashion, and home decor. Her background includes teaching and gardening. For more of her articles on Acting please visit Acting Tips.

Author:: Anne Clarke
Keywords:: Acting, Acting tips, Auditions, audition Monologues, Monologues, Acting classes, Acting institutions
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

Twisted Sisters

I tried not to lean against anything. Leaning, I Feared, would give the wrong impression. It could seem too casual. Sitting was also not an option. I also did my level best not to make eye contact. This was harder than it sounds. When you are surrounded by people with dentition that resembles broken picket fences and forearms adorned with jail house style tattoos (some apparently made by carving shapes into the skin then pouring India ink into the wound) its very difficult to look anywhere other than their eyes. Fear causes this.

The name of the Bar was Twisted Sisters. Im serious. I wouldnt lie about something this deep. The place was run by two little old ladies with deeply wrinkled faces and Tom Waits voices. When they handed you a mug of beer the obligatory Here ya go hon came in a voice that sounded like it was sculpted by cheap scotch and cigarillos.

The place was peopled by extras from Hells Angels on Wheels and every bad prison movie ever made. This wom an kept bumping into me. She was medium height, slender, had long brown hair and three teeth. Her face looked a little like it had caught fire and some caring person had tried to put it out with an ax. Every time we collided I apologized nervously and she walked away. From behind she could have been Miss America. I swear.

I was in this dive because my old buddy Murphy had invited me. Murphys the type of guy who actually enjoys this sort of thing. The fellow is something of an enigma. He looks like he belongs in the back room of a place like Twisted Sisters, but those who know him know of his masters degree and the years he spent teaching at community college. Murphys a tough guy; did a little stretch in prison and another in the navy. Then he used the GI bill to obtain an education. Now he hangs out in places like this.

Murphy kept buying me beers and trying to get me to talk to the other patrons. I busied myself pretending to be an anthropologist studying some e xotic tribe. I didnt belong, but maybe I could learn something.

I had just started on another beer when someone dropped a few coins in the juke box. The music was bad country. To my utter disgust the first song that played was that I wanna stick a boot up your butt super-patriotic, ultra-jingoist thing by the guy in the Ford truck commercials. The people around me began to sing along loudly.

What the hell? Why would these people, this underclass, this despised minority, feel a kinship with a singer that represents the right wing status quo? Shouldnt these guys be listening to Steppenwolf (or at least Eminem)? Lets face it, the main stream of America doesnt hang out in places like this. In fact, most suburban middle class goons would prefer that these people simply vanish from the planet. So why would the customers at Twisted Sisters get behind this new super nationalism? This was like seeing Jewish kids singing Deutschland Uber Alles, for gods sake.

I decid ed to conduct a little experiment. I sauntered (or tried to saunter, its hard to truly saunter when you fear that you could be shivved at any moment, or worse: have your glasses broken) to the juke box and looked over the selections. I was hoping for Randy Newman or Bruce Cockburn or maybe even the Dead Kennedys. No such luck. Then I saw it. A CD by The Dixie Chicks. I dropped my money and chose four songs by the Dixters (I cant bear to type Dixie Chicks more than once... Damn. I just did it twice). Then I went back to my spot near Murphy and waited.

When my songs started I half expected a riot to begin. I thought that if these folks loved that Ford truck guy they might revolt at the musical stylings of those un-American girls. That didnt happen. After the first few Bars someone started to sing along. Then a second voice joined in. Then a third. After a minute or so everyone in the place was singing along with these traitors with the same fervor and joy they had exhibi ted in response to that earlier song.

I quickly came to a startling conclusion: people will sing along to anything. The content of the song doesnt matter. Politics simply dont enter into it. People are really singing along to the melody, or the bass line or something. What the words actually mean is immaterial.

A little later I waved my hand around in front of my face to clear some of the smoke and give myself a line of sight. I drained my beer and told Murphy that I had to bail. He slapped me on the back and headed toward the old scarred pool table. As I walked out into the sunlight I was thinking that Id never have to see the inside of that place again.

About The Author

Nathan Tyree is a writer living in Kansas. He is the author of Mr. Overby is Falling.

http://www.geocities.com/nathanctyree; nathanctyree@yahoo.com

Author:: Nathan Tyree
Keywords:: Taverns,Sisters,twisted sister,Bar,Spirits,Friends
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

How To Draw Caricatures

Anyone can draw a caricature, but only a real artist can transform a doodle into a work of art. If you are serious about improving your caricature drawing skills, you should consider taking classes. Here are some tips to help get you started.

Observe, observe, observe. A caricature is only effective if it actually resembles the subject. More than artistic skills, you need keen observation to pull this off. Carefully study your subjects facial expressions, outstanding features, angles and mannerisms. Think of ways to capture the subjects personality and character to give life to your caricature. Zoom in on details like what type of clothing the subject wears, the gadgets he has in his hands, and other minor details.

Exaggerate like theres no tomorrow. A caricature is always larger than life. Dont be afraid to lay it on thick if the subject has distinguishing features like a particularly big nose, highlight it even more. Use bold lines for distinct facial edges such as the upper eyelids. The best thing about Caricatures is the creative freedom it gives you. Dont be afraid to use it.

Vary your strokes and lines. Caricatures rely on the quality of its linear structure for its composition, so use it to give dimension and shadow. Be sure to vary them to avoid making your caricature look flat. Use harder strokes for facial edges such as chins and noses and lighter strokes for other details such as facial lines, unless thats the distinguishing feature of your subject.

Finally, have fun. Drawing caricature is a serious art form, but no one says you cant have fun doing it . If your first few attempts do not quite make the cut, set them aside and move on. Making mistakes is part of the fun. After all, even in the world of art, the old adage is still the golden rule practice really does make perfect.

Caricatures provides detailed information on Caricatures, Celebrity Caricatures, How To Draw Caricatures, Caricature Artists and more. Caricatures is affiliated with Vintage Comic Books.

Author:: Jennifer Bailey
Keywords:: Caricatures, Celebrity Caricatures, How To Draw Caricatures, Caricature Artists
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

"Dead Love Dead Hearts Dead City: Goodbye!" a poem

Deep Days in the Dead City

Deep days in the dead city, in its jungle like streets, Our days are numbered, Ive heard that somewhere along lifes line; in songs, perhaps in the Bible, here, there, but Im still here. Everyone wants to play in this game called life, I just want to get away, out of the city, its parks and dogs, its streets, and family members that are more strangers to me than strangers Ive just met; I think a city over 50,000-you lose something (if not your heart, your head). The Devils around more of the time I believe, in such bigger cities; I know Hes here in my hometown, St. Paul, Minnesota; Hes at the movies a lot also, Id say. Im not missed here much, and I live here, no reason to stay, love is in some other place. But He likes it like this, more games to play.

I had to cross many rivers, many streets, or so I feel to get to so many people that are too busy to give a damn, or a once of time, whom are more stuck in their own cocoons than I. Wha t is my solution? Go to the mountainsleave them all behind, leave them before you lose your mind, there is no love no affection, pretense is like a vine, it wraps around their busy, busy, busy minds. Here my eyes never go dry; Im like a ship sinking, everyone grabbing the rafts from melet him sink, they sing, we got money to make, do other thing.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, hope never to see you again, everyone. Dont need me anymore anyway, time, struggles, the big city, the jungle streets: you never gave an once of peace, or sleep, and everyone thinks he or she is the great somebody, the man, the king of the house, the whore who never scored, the bitch who got rich, and lost her soul for a dead fish. Raise the kids to spit farther, too late to teach them right from wrong, respect or regret, the city will tell you how to act and raise them, or perhaps it did: its your children, the citys got your best interests: and the kids turn out to be worthless. The walking dead , better you talk to stranger, less dread, or go to the mountains instead.

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

Stay Down Old Abram Chapters 5 & 6: Returning of the Bones

Over five thousand people came to see the lynching the following week, they came from every county within 150-miles, and here Jeremiah stood in front of the crowed, stern-still, stoned-faced, flat affect, deep-narrow eyes of black and redan iris as big as a cows; there he stood on the wooden gallows: yelling to the crowd; --and as he yelled the several closest to the gallows got sprayed purposely with slim and spit from his mouth, dribbling, slobbering all over everyone as he laughed and spoke:

Get on with it whitey [he shouted, yous keeping mes from having dinner in hell, whts ya problem boy! [Then he started to swear again at the crowd, obscenities no one had ever heard, the white women held their hands over their childrens ears. Every white person stood there in shock, as if he was supposed to use his last words, his last moments of life to repent with, and show some kind of remorse, yet he didnt, not at all, matter of fact, it was dramatically to the contrary. Yes, these brought back some old memories for the group watching Old Abram hanging. A hundred years had pass, but the attitude of the county had not changed.

[Somehow those old memories were started to settle wrongly in the old mans head, he couldnt squash them in the corner of his brain anymore, they started to seep out, as he sat back in the rocking chair, grabbing a little white-lightening.

5.

Back to the Trailer Court

Unhurried now, yet a bit tired from all the excitement Chris looked in his rearview mirror witnessing the old man steadily plowing through the mud to the porch beyond, trying to get to that old rocker, from time to time, checking out the dubious looking sky.

As Chris drove the road steadily, the rot, stink of the flesh and wet bones was on his person, he could smell himself, it was nauseating, and his stomach was turning. He told himself, dead bodies smell, look nasty, have many colors to them, dull brushed colors. It was not a pretty sight by far. The sky was getting even darker as he raced down the lightly paved road: --racing as if the demons themselves were against him for taking the bones, an unblessed treasure, their feast, to look at, how they made man into a beast and had them kill for them. And now Thompsons car would smell it was no more than a hearse for the moment. Along with the dark clouds, dust was befalling the earth around Chris. A chill went up his spine, now he was questing himself, did he do right? It was not a chill of fear he told himself, rather one of tampering with the sacred remains of another person. Yet it was better to preserve a mans remains, bring them to a dignified closing, than let them rot like a meal for a vultures on a white mans farm; his sins were no greater than anyone elses, he told himself[for he really didnt know Old Abram, and much less he presumed than the old mans, the one with the rocker on the porch.

--As he got closer to town, outside of the city was a cemetery, he entered it through a back road, saw a sign that read, Cremation, and parked the car, went inside the one story building, and made arrangements for the body parts [mostly bones, and the skull to be cremated, and picked out an urn: one of wood. The cremating cost him $50, which was ten-day pay, and the urn, which was five-day pay. He was making about $127 a month, and that was taxed, with six-dollars a month coming out for bonds. But he figured hed drink off the other guys for a week and mooches cigarettes off his friends-likewise; what the heck he thought, they did it to him all the time. It was all worth while he told himself, feeling guilty for putting that young black girl, almost a woman, and possible a woman in harms way; this was the least he could do. Plus, it just felt good. He told himself, God puts people in funny situations, and most people go tell someone else to do whatever they think should be done, when it is them who should be doing it, and so he did it. His mother had told him that once; he never forgot it; kind of like telling someone else to take their own inventory, instead of taking yours, which so often people do.

--When Chris returned the car to the trailer court, he explained everything to his friend Thompson, whom simply shook his head, saying:

Things are quite different around here Chris, you got to stay out of the way of the issues they got down here, youre going to get yourself killed, and my damn car impounded for being part of this southern charade.

Then he added,

But its quite noble, I doubt Id have done something like that, matter of fact, Id never would have talked to the black girl in the first place, you know, one thing leads to another, just like its happening now then he gave Chris a pat on the shoulder, kind of man-hug one might say for his daring. After that Chris grabbed a phone book, he remembered Elsa had a diabetes name chain around her wrist, i t read, he remembered: Elsa something, and quickly thumbed through the location section of the phonebook.

WhiteheadBoston BostonBoston Rebecca Whitehead-Boston, he said out loud, it must be Elsas relative.

There, he told Thompson, There she is, Elsas last name, it was a funny one, a double one, Whitehead-Boston, got to use your phone please. At this juncture, Thompson thought Chris just had a baby, he was so excited to have found her identity; then Thompson handed him the phone with a sigh oozing out of his chest and mouth as to not delay Chris mission,

Good luck?

Hello, a females voice came over the phone.

Elsa Boston? asked Chris I mean Whitehead, Chris confused.

Yes, yes, dhats me, why? [A pause this is Elsa, why?

Hello again, this is, isI hope you remember me, Im Chris, and I met you about a month ago [Oh came over the other side of the phonewith nervousness to it; I dont mean to bother you but [A pauseBut what, doan mess wid me again replied Elsa.

She was listening intensively now.

As I was about to say, I have a gift for you.

Im using my Aunties last name and [she hesitated to fill in the sentence, she corrected Chris, as if to alert him that she was the right person, but she was not giving him her legal last name, possible for personal reasons. And what might that be, and howd-ya get my phone number? she commented a little sarcastically.

Its a grief gift, the ashes of your Old Uncle Abram [Then Chris explained what he had done.

During the clearing up of events [namely, telling him her story, Elsa was idle, without words, and a few tears were sensed over the phone, which came with a sniffling, a cry, a moan: thought, Chris with a sense of relief, now she [they can grieve,--put a closure to it, if thats what is really needed.

Aunty, Chris heard over the phone, Uncle Abramhes-ahes comon hom I guess. Then with a pause, as Elsa clarified to her Aunty what was h appening, she saidin all the excitementshe had forgotten his name, then abruptly said:

Is you gona stop over tomorrow?

Yes, replied Christopher Wright, as she thanked him several times.

6.

Returning of the Bones

[Wirily and still a bit tired Chris woke up early the next morning, it was Saturday, and borrowing Thompsons car again, he went and picked up the ashes, with the wooden urn [he had ordered, which had a wooden cross and butterfly carved of wood attached to the urn in the front of it; and headed out to find this black-girls house.

[Chris had stayed overnight at the trailer court, drinking the night away with Chief, and Thompson, talking about his good deed, and not so good idea to get involved; --but both friends encouraged him to follow through on it, none the less. They all had but two weeks to go to graduation, and it was best to settle this so he could get back to studying for the examination coming up in a weekthus, clearing hi s mind.

The Shanties

On the way to the black-girls shanty, Chris noticed, as any single GI from the Midwest might have noticed, the strange area he was driving into: strange because it was extraordinary in contrast to the area he had just left, which was quiet visible, immediately when he turned the corner off the main highway, prior to entering the shanty-city; for the most part, now there were no more road signs anywhere to be seendirt compacted roads only [in St. Paul, there was nothing so drastic in changes like this, from one extreme to the other, why: wheres the tax money goin, he whispered-out loud to the windshield. The shanties were sparsely placed he noticed, some clusters of them here and there, some black kids running after chickens, chasing them down. A man with an ax chopping away at the roots of an old tree, a stump of a tree that is; another someone: somebodyblack-lady, collecting eggs inside a chicken-coup he noticed [she was walking on her han ds and knees backwards to not allow the chickens to escape in front of her; as he drove down the zigzagging road.

The countryside, to include the outskirts of the city was quite a ragged sight compared to the inner city structure, or the Military Base; another world one might sayof itself. It seemed like a version out of one of Steinbecks novels, of the Depression timefigured the soldier. Like most country roads, this one was of hard gravel, deeply rutted by trucks and car tires; some old timbers were lying about, erosion beaten, and with the window open, the landscape reeked everywhere, leaving a bad odor to his senses.

[Inquisitively Chris saw an old man resting [as he drove his car between five to seven miles an hour over the rouged terrain, doing a double take, he almost smiled at him, --the old man was lying peacefully against a huge Cyprus tree, laying against it with a shoe for a pillow; --his head pillowed on one of his shoes [an idea he thought that m ight be useful, come in handy on some of them long Army marches, he told himself, especially when one gets only a fifteen-minute rest after several miles.

In the not too far distance he could hear a train whistle, --couldnt see the tracks nor the train, but they had to be in back of the shanties somewhere he presupposed, where else, that was where the sound was coming from? The car came to almost a complete stop trying to get around, and drive over the holes and bumps in the soil, trying without breaking the cars axel, for should he continue this way, hed surely break something: again, the odor, a different smell to his liking, come through the window, garbage possible. It hadnt occurred to him, lifestyles were so drastically different, to be precise, poles apart, when everything was so close to the city or Army Base. The only possible conclusion was, wet wood, a cooler atmosphere, less grass and more bare-brown earth, and a graveyard that was being used as a garbage facility; everything uncultivated, long-haired grass everywhere. He concluded the benefits of modern life had not yet brought profit to this section of the county, or for that matter, country. Bad roads, bad schools, bad shanties, and bad health; everything was poorly maintained--: no resemblance of a plan. Houses zigzagged all over the place.

The so called Negro settlement was an abandon area for the most part, an area in a process of decay. Yet still, Chris was intoxicated with the idea of bringing back the bones of a black-man to his kin; therefore, he looked every which-way for her, or her shanty. He was now a half mile down the dirt road, and some old Negroes congregated at a corner of the road, they were doing something, playing chess or checkers, he couldnt make it out, yet he could see the uplifting of one old mans brow, seeing the whites of his eyes, big eyes: both eyes checking out his bluish-green eyes. He was, or so he noticed, the only white man in t his shanty-town.

Revenge or Redemption

It was [thoughts going through his mind: Chriss about 104-years in the past when this area was a slave society; where slaves and slavery were frequent subjects, and the white man was still at the forefront of this, a century later, or at least in the eyes of the black man, he had just seen, it seemed to be not much different: that is to say, decades had not washed or cleansed the sins that evidently were committed here, and his bones, the ones he had sitting on the seat beside him, proved just that. Another amazing thought that went through Chris head was the display of rich and poor living so close to one another, sometimes a grave apart, or a graveyard apart; he wasnt quite sure how to place itto measure it, but it didnt seem to digest quite right.

Now he saw her house, it was standing as she described it, her shanty, like a dog-trot log cabin with planks, and a huge chimney to the side of it that stretched from the ground to over the roof, the chimney looked as if it could have heated up a mansion at one time, and probably did. It looked as if it was built over another foundation [the shanty, and it was held up on short pegs, possible to keep the wiggly creatures away, such as snakes and so forth

what was going on in Chris mind, no one really knew, possible not even him, possible only God Himself; but what it seemed like, what it gave the impression of was a poor response, from a poor white boy, a soldier, a white soldier who put aside, or wanted to push aside resentment and revenge for an alternative response called redemption for his race. And so he looked at the bones, and the black girls shanty, and proceeded with his forbidden quest.

Returning of the Bones

It was now 9:30 AM, he parked his car at the bottom of the road that led into what looked like a campsite; walking up the incline, he showed up outside of Elsas house [shanty, it was in the back of the cemeter y, he had found out, as he looked south-east, her house being more north-east. Not all that far from where he was [he noticed was actually the city. Matter of fact, he noticed the cemetery was used for garbageas expectedand peoples old car parts, old tires and so forthyes a junkyard to boot, and some very old graves where about [as he had walked up the dirt road, he had noticed the unfenced in cemeterys abandonment, and walked through it partially, so old were some of the names, that they were worn down to make the stone only carry a shadow within its surface, and only a few dates remained clearly identifiable.

Her shanty was quite small [as he looked ahead compared to the houses he was used to seeing in St. Paul, Minnesota, where he was fromthe Midwest. There were several houses in a row; actually they all looked rather small, similar to a one car garage back home. There wasnt much grass around her house either, weeds for the most part, and only dirt roads in and out of there, that lead in and out and around the back of the cemetery, her neighborhood. It was startling for Chris, for not far from there were expensive mansionswith seven bedrooms mansions, four bathrooms in some, and here were almost dugout houses of a century agonow called shanties. What a difference, what a 360-degree turn abouthe pondered.

As Elsa met him at the doorway, as she was expecting to, she took the wooden box from his hands, hugged it for a moment, almost fearful it might drop, it was about a foot tall, and half foot wide, still holding it as if it was a baby, her eyes filled up with tears, and her mouth quivered, her legs seemed to weaken, the grieving process had started Chris told himself, it was marked by pain, and relief, sorry and sadness, but mostly love. The young soldier [Private First Class Wright looked kind of down on the ground for a moment, almost as if to give her a moment to get herself back together, yet he really didnt expect or demand that, it was all a new experience for him also. He was trying to figure out what a person says in such a case, and in lack of anything intelligent he babbled:

I dont know what to say, but Im here for you, she slightly glanced upand smiled, evidently that was what she needed to hear. He never expected she was that close to him, evidently, he had lived there with them; it seemed that Aunty, or Rebecca Whitehead [Boston was the sister possible, to Abram: or so Chris deduced. But he left well enough alone, and didnt prysaid no moreshifting a series of illusions in his head [phantasmagoria as if he had made the world a little bit better; plus, he knew he was getting too involved, as he was told by his Army friends, which wasnt wise, and so he concurred with them at this point; for her he felt the previous unfinished grieving (she needed to do), could now be done properly; wherein if not done, possible creating more resentment, for as the old saying goes: Out of sig ht, out of mind, if that was the case, time would tell.

She implied to the young soldier: he now would be handled with respect and dignity. She didnt ask any questions, it just didnt matter anymore it seemed, or so her face showedpale as it was with holding of the asheswith a little animosity. He was dead and right or wrong would not bring him back, nor would the people who did this atrocity get punished for it: not here on earth anyhow, and if so, shed probably not hear about it, but she had learned the old saying was true: What goes around, comes around, and so the monsters that did this could only expect some kind of ongoing nightmares concerning this matter, knowing everything has a price. For the moment she was just happy to see that there was a proper ending to all thisa closing if you will; something she had not expected. Chris couldnt see her aunty but he heard her:

Wes got a jug in de bushesshe bellowed; there was a long pause, as Elsa held the urn, an d Chris stood on one foot suspended over one of the three steps to their home, the other foot on one of the square blocks of cement leading to the steps, his balancereadily available to go up or back at any command. She was trying to be polite, and possible it was all they had to offerthe home made whisky. Then she asked a funny question, or so it seemed to Chris, since this was the first and only meeting theyd ever have, and under such circumstances, she asked:

Hows it to be a soldier, I mean, is it a good life?

Said Chris with a stunned look: I like it, it gives me a roof over my head, three meals a day, a little money, some rank: I hope to get more rank, maybe be a sergeant someday and make more money, and I can go to school on the GI bill while in the Army. I guess you cant beat that, smiling.

Oh, she murmured.

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Chapters
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

Indian Summer

It was a warm, sunny October afternoon one day when I was a kid, and as I walked up the hill of our driveway after getting off the school bus at our Wisconsin dairy farm, I wondered how many more nice days we would have before winter came.

I was still wondering about winter when I entered the kitchen a few minutes later.

What did you learn in school today? asked my mother, who was in the middle of peeling potatoes for supper.

Every day Mom asked what I had learned in school, although most of the time I didnt know how to answer because it didnt seem like we had really learned anything.

Today, though, I had something to tell her.

We learned about Indian Summer, I said.

My mother paused and looked over at me. Its not Indian Summer today.

I frowned. Its not?

Mom shook her head.

But our teacher said so.

Thats what the Weatherman said on television this morning, too. But its not Indian Summer, she replied.

How com e? I asked. Our teacher told us that its Indian Summer when we get a warm, sunny day after it freezes.

My mother shrugged. Seems like just another nice fall day to me, she said.

Then what makes it Indian Summer?

Mom paused to select another potato.

We have to get snow first before its Indian Summer, she explained.

Snow?

Even though it was already October, I didnt figure it would snow for a long time yet.

Does it have to snow a lot? I asked.

No. Just a little bit. Then after it melts, and if we have some nice, warm, sunny days, then

THATs Indian Summer, Mom said.

How come?

My mother sighed. Well, I dont know why, exactly. Except if its a warm fall day, how is that any different than any other warm fall day?

I thought about what shed said for a few moments.

But if we think its going to be winter, like when it snows, she continued, and then it turns warm and sunny again, then we think its more like Su mmer.

Her explanation made quite a bit of sense, but still, if my teacher AND the Weatherman said it was Indian Summer

Did you just make that up? I asked. About it not being Indian Summer until after it snows?

No, my mother said, I did not just make it up. Thats what MY mother and father always said.

My mother's parents, Nils and Inga, were immigrants from Norway who had died long before I was born.

Does Norway have Indian Summer, too? I asked.

My mother shook her head.

Why not?

No Indians, she replied.

We had learned in school that Native Americans were the first people who lived here. And if they were American, then of course they wouldnt live in Norway, too.

Did Grandma Inga and Grandpa Nils know any Indians? I asked.

No, Mom said, although there were still a few in this part of Wisconsin when my grandpa first came to live here. Or so Ive heard.

Did they call it Indian Summer? I asked.

Who? Mom inquired.

The Indians who were here when your grandpa was around, I said.

My mother shook her head as she finished peeling the last potato. I wouldnt have the foggiest notion, she replied.

Later that fall, it snowed a little bit. After the snow melted and the Weather turned warm again for a while, I could see what Mom meant about how if it snows, we think its going to be winter, but then if the Weather turns nice again, it seems more like Summer.

Nowadays I often hear Weather forecasters proclaiming that a sunny, warm, fall day is Indian Summer.

I know better, though.

If my grandparents and my mother believed that snow was a prerequisite for Indian Summer, well thats good enough for me.

About The Author

LeAnn R. Ralph is the author of the book, Christmas In Dairyland (True Stories From a Wisconsin Farm). Share the view from Rural Route 2 and celebrate Christmas during a simpler time. Free shipping on autographed copies. Read sample chapters and other Rural Route 2 stories http://ruralroute2.com

bigpines@ruralroute2.com

Author:: LeAnn R. Ralph
Keywords:: indian Summer,Weather,Seasons,Summer,Sunshine,Heat
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

Smart or Too Smart?

As long as I can remember, I have had the smart guy tag applied to me. Its not really much different than always having been tall (definitely *not* me), or always outgoing and popular (again, not me), or always overweight (only in the last dozen years or so). The issues come about when one makes too much of the fact, or relies too much on their individual talent or exceptional characteristic.

In my own case, my social ineptitude was only magnified when my parents allowed my elementary school to move me up a gradein the midst of the school year. To their credit, they did not allow the school to move me two grades, which would have been a complete disaster. As it was, I went from a class where I knew a few kids pretty well to a class of kids older than I was who had no intention of befriending the little nerd thrust into their lives.

Reflecting back on that time in my life, now nearly a half-century past, I can see the seeds sown of a life-long difficulty being a ccepted or fitting in, mostly of my own making. It was my intelligence that got me into the mess, and it was my intelligence that prolonged it.

At last, I think I am making progress at using my smarts as a tool instead of as an identity. Finally growing up when well past fifty years of age is a bit embarrassing, but I guess it beats never doing so at all.

The key for me was to begin to see with clear eyes how others viewed me. Because I identified so strongly and relied so heavily on being smart, others came to see me as a tool! I dont know the answer to number 4lets ask the smart guy! I had become Mikey of cereal-commercial fame (Give it to Mikey! Yeahhell eat anything!!).

Changing that perception was as simple as changing my own view of myself. Okaymaybe simple is not the way to put it, but it really was easy to do once I saw that I was creating the problem I had viewed for decades as being something others were doing to me. Im a smart guy, yes. Im also a shy person, a witty soul, and somewhat of an oddball. What I have only recentlyand very consciouslybecome is someone who listens carefully to his friends when they want to talk. Someone who learns what makes others happy or feel good, and thinks of ways to provide those moments for them. Someone who is capable of caring a great deal about another who is not really very similar, yet almost a twin in some ways. Heck, its nothing exotic or fancy: I simply have learned how to be part of the human race!

Heres the key: focus on the ways you are the same as someone else. Thats where the bonding opportunity lies. You can quickly get to the point with someone else that, by celebrating your similarity first, you can jointly enjoy your uniquenesses. Friendship is the best ship I know of for cruising this world, and you can go anywhere on it. I am glad to learn this lesson in my youth. After all, I have a life expectancy which projects me having almost as many years to go as I ha ve already spent. My intent is to use that time to spread the word. Were all unique, perfectly formed to be exactly who we are, and all stunningly the same in ways we can choose to seeor not. Its that not part that has mankind in the morass it is in. We dont belong there.

My passion, today, is to see us all grow beyond the how are we different? state, to the place where we can touch each other as individuals, where we can see beyond the labels, where we can find the common ground that eliminates the need to bleed. We dont have to kill each other. We only think we do.

So, smart becomes too smart when it is a barrier to bonding. Thats why we are here, you know. Its not to kill all the folks on the planet who dont think as we do or worship as we do. It is to become friends with those peopletry out their foodlearn something of their lives and culture.

What if we did that? What if, instead of shunning people out of fear or lack of understanding, we sought out th ose who look like the bad guys to learn how they are just like us? Or, in a smaller step, what if we simply got to know that person at the office or in the plant or at the grocery store who has always rubbed us the wrong way? What if we made the conscious choice to love instead of distrust? To offer willingness to understand instead of an insistence on impenetrable walls?

You tell me. Im done being too smart.

Rick Hamrick is a computer guy for a large corporation. His aspirations are many, and his goals are diverse. He has a strong predilection for naps on the weekends, as well.

Author:: Rick Hamrick
Keywords:: Connecting,Humanity,Friend.friendship,save the world
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

Arizona BlueGunfighter: A Rough Year1844

Arizona Blue, remembering his family leaving their homestead in Quincy, Illinois, now looking down at Cheyenne, about to head on into town; it was a rough year, he told himself; looking at Dan, his horse. Cheyenne, was just another town, no big thing. It was 1878; he leaned on the mane of his horse, thoughts coming to his mind. His mind was like a blackened out room, now it was filled with his youth.

It looked like a parade with the eight wagons, dogs, horses, children, livestock and all. A few folks came by to see them off, and then they were gone. His father at the time was 46-years old, his mother, a tiny woman, was twelve years younger. Grandpa was 70-years old. It was fathers 3rd marriage, and his best.

Blue, noticed the oxen didnt seem too interested in the journey, as the teamster cracked his bullwhip, and the train started. Blue was a handsome lad, as was his father, in his younger daythat had a square jaw, which made his face handsome, and mannish. His face was well-trimmed, his beard that is, and was fast with the gun, so people had said.

He used to drink a lot, mom said, and served time in the Kansas state Prison. He had a bent, or that damn broken nose, he looked more like a boxer than a gunfighter, retired gunfighter that is; mom made him stop, or gave him good reason to. Had a $500-Reward on him at onetime. His nickname was Scotch; he drank so much of it I guess. Someone said he robed an old lady, him and gang of other men, and was too drunk to hightail it out of town. The booze makes a man do stupid things I declare.

Blues mothers name was Margaret Teresa Dalton. And I suppose Scotch will do for his father. At that time, Scotch had a daughter from a previous marriage; she was 14-years old. And at that time people were itching to move west. Scotch had a horse named Dan and Scotch seemed to talk to him all the time. Matter-of-fact, sometimes he preferred to carry on a longer conversation with him, than w ith anyone else.

Sarah was the only young girl on the wagon train. Scotch and Blue drove one wagon; Scotch couldnt see the road too well, so Blue became his navigator. Caddy and Margaret kept each other company in the back of the wagon; avoiding the flying dust, insects and prairie sounds.

Farwell, my good friends, Scotch said to the St. Clairs, outside of Quincy, as he passed their farm.

There was a storm in the mid-afternoon, a flood of rain slapped against the wagon train, and the passageway was thickening with mud. It wasnt long this second day they had to stop the wagon train , it was sunset and 90F out. That old Mrs. Jason, everyone called her that, not sure if that was her husbands first name, or her last name, but everyone called her that; anyhow she died of a heatstroke, so I heard; no matter what it really was she died. She was 59-years old. She suffered it seemed (painfully) from the scorching heat: she was helping her husband drive the team of h orses. It was my first time I saw death so close, so clear that is, like looking through ice and seeing a dead fish.

Yes, it was an arduous tripthe prairie travel, wagons, a drenching thunderstorm the second day, emigrants encamped here and there on their way to California, or Organ.

We left a sign back a-ways on the prairie road for Mrs. Jason, a headstone made out of wood, and an old family bible. It only read: Mrs. Jason, l844; nothing else.

Father liked to swear when things went wrong, and he was swearing like a chayote hollers throughout most of the trip, especially when we crossed the creek, and the wagon fell into it: mud up to the wagons seats; it sunk like quicksand. It took a week to fix everything on it again and the family had to walk that week along side the wagon, run a bit, ride the oxen, and Dan. Some supplies were left in the mud behind. That was a rough year1844, it would be my first year dad would teach me how to shoot.

[Episode S even: August, 2005

Dennis Siluk see his website http://dennissiluk.tripod.com and see the world

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Short story
Post by History of the Computer | Computer safety tips

Oil Painting Tips Organizing Your Palette

Having a clean organized palette is an essential part of good painting. If you are just starting out with oil painting, these tips will help you get a good start.

You should have the right kind of palette to start off with. Your palette should be non-porous to prevent absorption of oil from the paint. Palettes come in a variety of different materials from glass to wood. My personal preference is the BOB ROSS Clear Palette. I have found this palette the easiest to clean and best for mixing colors.

When you are first starting out, it may be a good idea to start with a fairly limited palette of colors. If you purchase every color under the sun, you may find yourself mixing too many different colors, which will result in a muddy painting. Start off slow in the beginning, then add more colors as you become more experienced. Color choices for a limited palette vary from artist to artist. Here are the colors of my palette: Yellow Ochre, Cadmium Yellow Pale, Alizarin C rimson, Cadmium Orange, Phthalo Blue, Burnt Sienna, Burnt Umber, Cadmium Red Medium, Phthalo Green, Titanium White, Ivory Black. I recommend purchasing 1.25 oz tubes of all colors except Titanium White. Purchase a larger tube of Titanium White, as you will be using more of this color.

First, you should get into the habit of laying out your colors the same way every time you paint. This is just good practice and keeps the painting process flowing nicely. Arrange your colors along the edges of your palette leaving a lot of room in the center for mixing.

Don't be afraid to squeeze out a good amount of paint, especially your whites. You will be more productive if you aren't continuously stopping to squeeze out more paint.

Make certain to include all of the colors you think you will need to complete that session of painting as well. Again, this will make you more productive.

When adding paint to the palette, I have found that squeezing the paint out in lon g lines, as opposed to puddles, keeps my colors cleaner. When you have puddles of paint, they tend to get soiled by other colors when mixing. With a long line of paint, you can just take paint from the end as needed and not dirty the rest. Keep some rags or paper towels handy for wiping your palette knife clean.

It's a good idea to continuously wipe your palette clean during the painting process. There is nothing more frustrating then trying to remove dried up oil paint. Keep some alcohol handy so that you can keep the mixing area of your palette clean.

I hope these tips have helped. Happy Painting!

Ralph Serpe is Webmaster and Founder of Creative Spotlite. Creative Spotlite is a free educational art and crafts community. Visit Creative Spotlite today for more free art lessons.

Author:: Ralph Serpe
Keywords:: oil painting tips,art lessons,oil painting lessons
Post by History of the Computer | Computer sa fety tips

Romancing San Francisco (Chapter #3 (part one): Sexual Education)

Sexual Education

The weather was starting to change --coolness was coming into San Francisco. As I got to know my friends, and was partaking in the bars around the area, Joe looking for a place for me to stay, I was learning I was far from being educated in the world of sexuality. That is to say, I didnt understand the world of homosexuality, and in San Francisco, especially the Castro area it was famous for it, if not down right swamped with homosexuals. Again my Midwestern lack of education came into play. I had been noticing a few things happening that was coming to light. If I knew anything in this area it was primitive at best. And for being prejudice, I didnt even know the word existed. And so I was an unlearned as a carpenter needing an apprentice.

I had went into a bar the second month I had been in San Francisco, about a block and a half away from the dojo. I sat in the bar and drank for about an hour, and a young good looking man came up to me b uying me drinks. I thought it strange at first, but back home it was common for someone to buy you or the whole bar a round of drinks, --nevertheless, having said that, as the time went on, he would not allow me to buy him any drinks back. Then he asked if we could go to his place and drink. I asked, What for he said, You really dont know? He quickly found out I didnt, and I said I think I need to go. I explained I was taking karate at the dojo around the corner, and I was from Minnesota. I do not think I impressed him, other than being a virgin I suppose, in his eyes.

Look at the pictures on the walls, around and towards the ceiling, the ones hanging by wires, he asked me. And so I did.

Now what do you see?

Almost completely naked men, I said.

Youre getting it, he commented, And dont worry about buying me a drink, but you will be back for me, I know. I told him I really had to go but I liked our conversation. I kicked myself in the ass for b eing so dump, when I left the bar. Then I got thinking about the guy who picked up my matches that fell out of my hands the other day, he almost fell over and got hurt trying to pick them up. He wanted to take me home. Things were starting to fall in place.

Under questioning myself, I tried to recall a few more instances. The guy in the bar by Sammies kept trying to put his arm around me one early evening, and I told him to stop or Id get mad and have to do something. He just kept it up, and the bar tender didnt do a thing, so I gave him a solid right elbow in the side of his rib, and he fell over onto the bar, I think I heard it split, and the bar tender called the cops on me.

I said:

Why are you calling the cops on me, hes the one attacking me, Im just defending myself, it wasnt all truthful, and he knew it, but he was trying to violate me.

Get out of her before the cops come and haul you in Mister, he hollered at me, in fear Id start trouble . It took me a while to put two and two together, and figure out it was a gay bar. Poor man, he was just trying to come on. I thought what next. I left the bar quickly, and watched my language, back then I hardly ever swore anyhow, it was not the thing to do. My mother chased me out of the house at age nine-teen for swearing and I guess I dont blame her, and this was not the time or place to start.

Years later people back home would tell me I was living in a city of sin and perverted people that I had most likely slept with, to include men. I said nothing, for what could you say these were people from my home town, and they would never understand, I mean never. And if I defended myself, theyd take that as a yes to me having sexual relations with men, and it would just get all around, and god help me with my mother, and you got it, everyone. Again, it was best to leave it alone when I did leave San Francisco.

But as I had learned in San Francisco, it was just a world I knew nothing about, it was part of the times, and it was the way it was. Like old man Mr. Green, it was just the way he was. If anything, I tried to understand, what I didnt know, which was a lot. I never made protests for anything, Vietnam, Gays, you name it, and life was just too short to get so involved with trying to persuade or change someone to be like you.

I didnt like drugs either, nor was I experienced in the homosexual world, or for that matter, not all that much in any world besides St. Paul. I had sex one evening with a white prostitute down on Mission Street where I worked by Lilli Ann, I was half drunk, and she was not at all what I wanted, a beast of the raw kind. Another time I had sex with another prostitute downtown San Francisco, she was a black woman, we screwed for hours and she said, Man, you like to screw, but I got to go make money honey, you can sleep it off here. She left, and when I woke up, she never took a thing, and I simpl y walked back to the dojo.

I wasnt looking to carry on any long term relationship, and to be quite honest, I was wondering why men were finding me attractive, but felt it was best in leaving well enough alone, it would go away. If anything I was more scared to find out which ones were, and what approaching new friends might be of that nature, I needed to kind of rehearse and let them know this was not my preference. I guess it was not acceptable to me to hate, or for that matter beating up people for their likes and dislikes. I would prefer to fight for honor, sport and practice, or safety.

Poetry & The Ghost

It was a Thursday evening, I had walked back to the dojo, --it was going on 5:30 PM, I had stopped at a Chinese restaurant, ate dinner, some rice with beef and dark gravy and green peppers over the rice, it was delicious, and had some tea, that sunk to the bottom of the tea-pot, that also was excellent. Then again, back to the dojo. By the time I reached the dojo, everyone had left, it was 7:00 PM, usually I got back early to work out, and Friday nights I avoided going back to the dojo because it was Black Belt night until 8:00 PM. None-the-less, I entered the dojo, and sat back placidly against the sofa, the counter to my left, the archway to the gym [dojo straight ahead stared at me; as it normally did. And then it happened, it was close to 10:00 PM; -- what everyone had told me about, the ghost, that is what happened, oh yes, I met him. I cant describe it emotionally with prose, so I had to write it down after the meeting in poetic verse, I never did give it a name, the poem that is, so lets do it now, how about The Ghost of the Collingswood Dojo, ok? And now for the poem:

I heard him last night

About 10:00 P.M.
(In the silence of the wind)
Trying to get in;
Tapping at the windows
The podium stand;
Knocking over wooden chairs

As I was half-asleep

In the gym.

I heard him last night

10:05 P.M.
I was standing by the archway

To the gym;
Alonein the black-silence

Of his night.
His footsteps passed me
I saw the wooden floor

Absorbing them

I stood in a warriors stance

(I remember) --
And said with a cry of sin:
I wasnt about to let you in.

Then with hidden strength
I called to the Lord (although

Something told me to

Challenge him)
In less than a second
I heard the silence in the wind:

Evaporating-shifting,
Leaving in all directions.

Ten years had passed [l978

Since thenwhereupon,
I met a woman: she
Seemed to understand more than I

What really took place
In the silence of that night?
(Maybe I was too young back then)
To realize what was really happening):
But before she leftlike in

The silence of the wind
I heard/she said:

It wasnt a dream,
But a scheme;
Thank your Lord;

You didnt challenge Him.

Even now [l982 as I write

I can feel his pulling
On my pen.

Note: Originally published in the Minneapolis, Minnesota, Independent Newspaper, Insight, January 6th, l983, under the title About 10:00 P.M.

The evening was a chilling experience, after the event, of yelling into the wide open dojo, where no one really was, the chairs that once were rocking, as many of black belts had told me, and feared to sleep overnight in the dojo, stopped. The steps that made the wood crackling noise as if a giant was walking by me, I could see its [his weight upon the wooden floor absorb into it, I stood still as still could be. The windows stopped chattering, and went back to its stillness, which was part of the nights atmosphere, notwithstanding. I would not move out of the dojo, unless told to, the spirits or ghosts would have to deal with me, as I would them. And so I fixed my pillow on the sofa, put down a fighting stick, an d went to sleep, as usual.

At all events, I was surprised that Black Belts, highbrowed and such felt they had no power over the unseen world. Stern as they portrayed themselves to be, was this all the courage I could find in them, nothing beyond the visible; doubtless, however, no wonder envy got them. For I did not envy what they had, as they did I; --and I thought I had very little, although Gosei and Bucks friendship was a treasure. The black belts could not understand, or maybe they could, I was simply enjoying what they had found, the wisdom and golden grain of the Master Yamaguchi. Yet with all this fuss, I was not thinking anything bad of them, for they originally made me feel at home, and I loved them for it. But now they did not like my relationship with Goesi.

٭

One night after eating at the Japanese restaurant, Joe told me he found a place for me to stay with a Mexican family, that hed show me the place the coming weekend. He then said something very strange.

The black belts dont like you chumming up to Gosei so much, Im telling you to pull back for your own good.

What if I dont, I asked.

Well, Ill have to kick the shit out of you.

Listen Joe, I said, I might be backward in this big city, and you being a second degree black belt Id be crazy to fight you, now what do you think I would do. He looked strange at me, and said, You tell me.

Id have no choice; Id do what anyone in my old neighborhood would do, that is, go buy a gun and shoot you. I was kidding, I think.

He started laughing, Youre kidding then looked at me for an answer.

You dont know us Midwesterners do you. I said cunningly. That was it, he never brought the subject up again, and we remained distant friends, although he let me go to his house the following day to take a shower, I had not taken one for three months, and he throw two bars of soap in and told me not to come out for an hour. To appease him I stayed in for about 40-minutes; couldnt find another area to scrub.

I didnt know how anything was going to turn out, only that I wasnt willing to accommodate the black belts in their game, and they were starting to take a disliking with me, and again there was not much I could do about that. If I had learned anything in Minnesota, it was you do not back away, if need be you get your ass kicked. I guess they had their own commoroady, and I was in the way.

Chapter Three

My New Home [The Latin Family

◊

Joe came over in the morning with his mothers car to bring me to this Latins familys home, ---I was to rent their screened-in-porch attacked to the house. It wasnt all that far from the doJo, which was located on Collingswood Street, not far from Market Street which went into downtown San Francisco.

It was Saturday morning, Joe came in the dojo, I could hear the doors open, then up the long flight of stairs, I heard his heavy feet, when he reached the top, I was looking at Bucks gallery of books in the back of the dojo, I was always amazed how he could have read all these paperbacks, mostly Edgar Rice Burroughs. Sometimes I thought he read them for a distraction, you know, so as not to have to think about maybe unpleasantries at home. Not sure how his home life was though, only met his mother once and they he and his mother both seemed pleasant, and very much to their own, although they seemed to have gotten along also.

Chick, Joe called loudly, I heard him. He was always tanned, a natural tan, that Latin look. He had very white teeth, short hair, about 5ll and with a leonine head.

What you up to, he yelled, ----Goesi was not in yet, it was 8:30 AM.

Were lucky, he commented when he saw me at the other end of the dojo, on the stage area checking out the books.

Whys that Joe, I said.

Mom needed the car, but decided at the last minute I could use it, in spite of, au--grocery shopping, I suppose. I told her Id be back before noon.

No problem, I got everything ready. I didnt have much to carry, just a small suite case, and a medium size box filled with cloths, karate suite, and shoes, a jacket.

Theyre good Spanish folks, youll like them, Joe tried to convince me. I think the whole black-belt committee felt a little safer now,--I say,--safer because now they could have Goesi to themselves. Ive never competed for his friendship, he gave it willingly, and I was always overwhelmed that he liked me, and proud of it; and at the same time, not really knowing what to say half the time.

I also think part of this move I was about to make was because of Coleman, the black young man, 2nd degree black belt. He had come in one night, it must had been around 10:30 PM, expecting to see me sleeping, he caught me with a girl, a Latin gal from Nicaragua. I had met her on the bus coming to the dojo from work about a month ago, and went over to her house, and her mother jumped all over us with this Spanish lingo, only thing I remember was my little Latin beauty saying in Spanish she didnt understand, and adios, and we took off. She was slender, with a fine looking face, about 54, and boy she could kiss. We laid in the back of the dojo, where there was another coach for the visitors, and she was half naked and Colman came in. Well, he got even Im sure.

Come on lets go gooo said Joe; --he also was anxious to get rid of me. Joe could be hilarious at times, that is, in a concealed annoying way. I dont think he ever was on his own for a day in his life, but he tried to be a good guy, none the less.

As I got into his Volkswagen he drove down Castro Street. I was thinking of the tournament coming up soon. I would still be part of it all. Maybe not be able to go with the black belts anymore, but Buck would take me back to Berkeley possible, see Goesi in action teaching out at San Francisc o State. And possible Id see the garden spot in the hills and the Claremont Hotel and Tennis club, once again, it was pointed out to me once, I think it was that big white structure on the hill. Things would change, but they had to.

We drove for about ten minutes, we ended up down around Mission and Dolores, in a small neighborhood, to the South of us was these old expensive looking mansions, and the street was filled with beautiful palm trees lined all the way up the street. Now why was I not going into one of them houses I asked myself?

Here we are Chick, said Joe. I got out, and he walked me up to the small house, and introduced me to the woman of the house, Joe spoke Spanish, I never knew he could, and spoke it very well.

Hola, amigo, she said, We ee, happiee to oo tenerte, --hav u, she was trying hard to speak English, and called for her boy, Georgeeeeeee

Puedes ayudarme a traducir para el gringo [Can you help me to translate for the blond hair boy?

Quickly the young boy who was about eleven years old appeared, in front of me answered his mother by saying: Si mam [Yes mother.

She said something, and I quickly learned he was going to be our interpreter.

Well, Chick, said Joe in a happier voice, I hope all turns out for you.

Yaw, thanks Joe, it was real nice of you, as he removed himself from my presence quickly to get his mothers car back, for he had to drive back over to Oakland, and it was a little ways, he never turned back to look at me.

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Chapter Stories
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Ferocious Centipedes

As a child I lived for a long period of time in an extended family environment, my grandfather, Anton was the head of the house, and it was my brother and I, my mother, and two of her sisters living in a small three bedroom house. The house was heated by a space heater in the living room. The ice man had to bring dried ice to keep our icebox cold; we had a well along side of the house for water, and there were old barns next door on each side of our house, being converted into garages. The city of St. Paul was quite conservative back then [Minnesota. And many families lived like ustogether in an extended family environment; those setups seem to be coming back some nowadays, with the shortage of houses in Minnesota, and high rents. They were hard-working folks, my family: uncles, aunts, grandfather, and my mother; my mother worked for Swifts, at the stockyards, and my grandfather a painter, worked for a few outfits, and eventually, acquired a restaurant, along with his day job as a painter and had someone work it when he couldnt.

My brother Miketwo years older than Iand I slept in the bedroom next to the dinning room; my mother in the bedroom across from the living room; and my grandfather in the bedroom across from the bathroom. The two sisters slept on the couch and a rollaway bed, in the livingroom, and sometimes with my mother. This was during the early fifties [1951-57. We did have plenty to eat on the table back then, just not much money to do anything else. It was in 1956 when we got our large black and white television, and what a crown of glory it was for the house.

Of all those days, there are a few select that will never slip my memory. My mother, poor woman, shed be walking in the dinning room setting up lunch, or wiping down the curtains, and a centipede would appear; you know, those little creatures, wormlike animals with a hundred legs, one for each section of its body, slim body, and little antennas (modifi ed legs, that can be poison fangs) you cant really see those legs, unless you are on top of them. Little beady eyes and yellowish in color (they came in all sizes: large, medium and small back then), some a bit more tan. They could run when cornered Ill tell you that, perhaps faster than the Roadrunner, and I suppose that is what made them more creeper than a mouse, for my mother was not afraid of mice.

But let me get to the point here. Shed jump and scream when she saw a centipede; indeed she would, scream until her lungs almost collapsed. She definitely looked as though she needed calm down pills. Arrayed in a morbid, pale face, grandpa would come running from wherever he was: basement, kitchen, cellar (feeding his pigeons), thinking the roof fell in, fell on top of heronly to find out he had to undertake the killing of a ferocious centipede, thus, he would take his bare-foot, smash it, and walked away saying,

I cant believe this, ititby god-what is the matt er with that woman! and then came an entourage of four lettered words.

Next, shed quickly put on her slippers if she didnt have them on already: white-moccasins, with beady-laced trim around, and in the center of the leathered moccasins; she was partial fond of that kind of footwear.

To be quite frank, I never saw a more frightened person over a centipede in my entire lifethen, and up to now then my mother. During these outbursts, she seemed to suck up all the oxygen in the room she was in; yes, without a doubt, Id seem to get exhausted just watching it, watching these trials of fright; during those years we lived at 109 East Arch Street. I really felt for her, I mean, I felt helpless wanting to help her, and perplexed at the same time, because I couldnt; trying to figure out what was so scary about a bug, other than it was creepy looking.

Then there was the spiders who loved to entertain my mother, and they seemed to paralyze her like the centipedes, to t he point there was no escape from them, but to scream; and scream she did; again I say, old grandpa would look at her when shed go into those ferocious spells, and just utter, Yeah, yeah (and the four letter words) and shake his head as if it was loose at is core. But I kind of miss those days. Well, kinda, shes been gone now for a few years, and just before she passed on, I brought back a large dead tarantula, from South America, and told her if she could hold the dead creature, Id give her a little pot of bullion, and she held it, but only for a five seconds, and she got her pot.

See Dennis Siluk's books at: http://www.alldirect.com or http://www.bn.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Short Story
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Oldtimers Told Whoppers About Cowboys Drunks

In the good old days before television -- or even radio, if you can imagine that -- folks hereabouts amused themselves in their idle moments with whoppers.

These were improbable stories that were sometimes true, partly true, or figments of imagination. It didn't matter so long as they were extraordinary.

The acknowledged champion storyteller was Morgan Bonaparte Mizell. He was ramrod for Ziba King, the cattle baron of Fort Ogden back when Charlotte and DeSoto counties were still part of Manatee County.

To Mizell's friends, and they were legion, the consummate Florida cowboy was better known as Bone.

As he became a legend in his own time, Bone dropped his given, middle name and adopted that of Napoleon. He felt it added more class.

Bone spoke with a decided lisp that enhanced both his story-telling prowess --and sometimes his appeal as the subject of whoppers.

Meaning of Moomph

For example, a thief stole some of Bone's hogs one time , and Bone tracked the animals to a pen three miles away. Bone's ear notch -- registered with the county clerk -- had been freshly altered.

Nevertheless, Bone drove the hogs back to his spread. The hog thief boldly swore out a warrant for Bone's arrest.

Bone got off on the wrong foot with the judge when he walked into the courtroom with his hat on. The judge demanded that Bone remove his hat. Bone refused.

This here is a $10 Stetson; and there's a lot of thieves in here, not all of them accused. The judge relented and let Bone keep on his sombrero.

When called to the witness stand, Bone was asked how long the hogs' ear-notches had been changed. About a moomph, he replied in his drawling lisp.

What's a moomph? the prosecuting attorney demanded with a sneer.

Why a moomph is firty days, said an astonished Bone. I thought everybody knew what a moomph was.

No Knife Needed

In those days, cattle and hogs were marked with the owners' d istinctive notches cut into ears, and with brand marks on left flanks.

On one round up, an ornery cow defied all attempts to brand her and ran off into a dense thicket. Buck King, foreman of the drive, announced in disgust, Anyone who can catch her, and put his mark on her, can have her.

Only Bone was brave enough to take up the chase into the thorny tangle of vines and palmettos. The other cow hunters gathered to see how Bone would make out.

There was a lot of crashing around, cursing and bellowing. Bye and bye,Bone staggered out alone -- his clothes in tatters from the thorns and his hands and face not much better.

What's the matter, Bone? the cowmen taunted. That old cow get the best of you?

Not at all, said Bone. I done put my notch in her ears.

How's that? the men hooted. You don't have a knife.

Marked her wif my teeth just as good as wif a knife,declared Bone.

In disbelief, the Cowboys circled the thicket and drove out the recalcitrant cow. Sure enough, Bone had bitten out a piece of each ear in the shape of his own notch.

Snarling Bob Cats

On another drive, Bone signed up to help Willie Williams get a herd to market at Fort Pierce.

That night the drive put up in a cow pen, and the men began to cook supper. Bone volunteered to get waterfor coffee from a nearby pond.

Bone was gone, and gone, and gone. The other men started eating and were grouchy because they hadn't any coffee.

Finally Bone appeared, carrying a couple of lard cans of water. Whatinell kept you? his comrades demanded.

Said Bone in earnest tone: Boy's, I just saw the damndest cat fight anybody ever saw. On the edge of that pond, two old bobcats was fighting and growling at one another. All at once, they stood up on their hi nd legs, clinched, and began to climb each other. I stoodthere and watched them until they clumb clear out of sight.

The boys weren't amused, being more interested at the moment in coffee than in whoppers.

After the cattle were delivered to Fort Pierce, the Cowboys started home. Again they camped at the same pen where the celebrated cat fight had supposedly occurred.

Also again, Bone volunteered to go for coffee water. OK, but don't be so durn long this time, they said.

Bone came back promptly. One of his buddies inquired with a smirk, See anything of those bobcats?

No, boys, said Bone. but I guess they're still a'fightin, cause the fur is still afallin.

Dueling Storytellers

A whopper duel was hard to beat.

One day Bone and Cy McClellan were riding along on the 90-Mile Prairie east of Arcadia. Cy stopped his horse, stared intently at the horizon and pretended to see a ship.

Why, there's the Lily White, he said. I think she's a mite off course. The Lily was a schooner that carried necessities to Fort Ogden, navigable headwater of the Peace River.

Bone stopped also and shaded his eyes. Yes, I see it; and there's a big horsefly on her mast.

By gosh, you're right! said Cy. I just saw it blink an eye.

Outran Deer

Another great spinner of whoppers was the Rev. George W. Gatewood -- Methodist circuit rider for the southwest Florida settlements.

As a minister, Rev. Gatewood respected the ninth commandment. However, as arenowned exhorter, he could not resist embellishing a good yarn. Hisaccount of a hunting trip near his homestead in Bermont is an example.

One day I was hunting in the eastern end of the county where the almettos were thick. A deer jumped up and took flight. I went to shooting, not seeing any other human being near.

Guilford Lewis, though, was about 150 yards from where I was. He could see me but did not see the deer.

D.H. Huckeby, a Cleveland sawmill operator, also was about the same distance in another direction and could see all of us -- me, Lewis and the deer.

Lewis heard my bullets whistle through the air near him, and he thought I was shooting at him. Huckeby said Lewis outdistanced the deer, keeping ahead of it until he got out of breath.

Fortunately, I did not hit either Lewis or the deer.

Deathless Turtle

In a first-rate whopper, Rev. Gatewood let exhortation get the best of him.

J.W. Thomas, a blacksmith at Bermont, had a spring near his house. One afternoon, he went to get a pail of water and found the spring rather muddy. Investigating, he found a large soft-shell turtletaking a bath.

As turtles of that kind make a choice dish, Tom took that one to a block and beheaded it. Then, he hung it up to bleed until the next day, since it takes a turtle a long time to die. In the morning, upon touching the turtle's flesh, it would jerk.

When his neighbor, Pat Murphy, came over, Tom told him that a turtle had more lives than a cat.

Pat said, No. The turtle is dead but not conscious of it.'

That afternoon the old man began to prepare the turtle for the pot. Still, it jerked every time the knife touched it. By taking a pair of pliers in one hand, and a butcher knife in the other, Tom finally got it cut up for cooking. Then, in the pot, the pieces got to jerking and kicking the water into a foam.

Tom said he just couldn't stand it any longer. He jerked the pot off the stove and dumped its contents into the hog pen. The last he saw of that turtle, he said, it was running around the pen in sections the hogs chasing after.

Buried Alive

At that time, A.C. Freeman owned and operated a hardware store at Punta Gorda and had a stock of coffins in the back room. Later he was mayor of the town, and then sheriff of DeSoto County before Charlotte County was split away.

Rev. Gatewood's favorite whopper involved one of Freeman's customers.

A certain neighbor of mine, whom I will call Cox, used to go on periodical sprees with John Barleycorn.

While on one of these toots, he wandered into Freeman's store and into the undertaking department unnoticed. Cox climbed into an open coffin that looked comfortable with its velvet lining.

Unfortunately, he lay down with his head to the narrow foot of the casket and got wedged in. He couldn't get clear in, or pull himself out.

Freeman's wife, who helped in the store, went to the back room for something and discovered a man's foot sticking out of the coffin. Horrified, she yelled for help.

Freeman came a-running. He had to call for help to extricate the inebriated intruder. Cox became agitated, thinking they were trying to bury him.

He kicke d over every coffin in the place before they could calm him down.

Lindsey Williams is a Sun columnist who can be contacted at:

LinWms@earthlink.net

LinWms@lindseywilliams.org

Website: http://www.lindseywilliams.org

Author:: Lindsey Williams
Keywords:: old timers, Storytellers, Americana, Cowboys, Florida history
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Experience Of Commissioning A Portrait

Every one of us has dozens of photographs that we see only on rare occasions whenever we feel like reminiscing. Some of them are the ones that really cherish the moments, which always stays fresh as memories. But to make it more memorable, imagine having an oil painting of that Photograph hanging above your mantle or other places in your home or office.

Let me just briefly depict my experience of commissioning a portrait. It was the birthday of my grand mum and I wanted to gift her with something that she would really cherish. I was utterly in loss of ideas, as she either has all that she needs or just doesnt care to have anything. Then my wife suggested why not gift, her with a life size portrait of my grandpa. It was the best idea, so I went out looking for people who could blow up the photos I had of him and make it into a six foot tall image. I found that lt was virtually impossible even with the latest photo resizing and enhancement to make the old Paintings which I had to be converted to what I wanted it to be. Then when I chanced upon a site that offered to commission a portrait and make it look alive. As if when hung the portrait could speak to you.

I decided to commission a portrait. It turned out to be the best gift I had bought ever to anyone. My grandma was in literal tears when she saw the Image come alive in front of her. She felt as if my grandpa was standing right in front of her. It was simply awesome. This was when I realized that Oil paint portraits are more than just work of art but a reflection of a persona coming alive.

From then on I have been a avid fan of Oil paint portraits I have suggested it to over a hundred people and most if not all agreed with my views and ended up commissioning a portrait.

Why a Portrait?

M any people from all over the world Commission to hand paint, portraits of their family or of their Children or wedding portrait. It always reminds us the pleasant memories or event that we shared. Commemorating these experiences with traditional oil painting is a unique expression of love, respect and admiration for a time or event that may never come around again, it can be shared by your family and your descendants.

Commissioning a portrait:

Because an oil portrait will be a treasured heirloom the goal is to create a painting that will stand the test of time as a compelling work of art. Portraits are intended as a celebration and affirmation of the life of the sitters; each is an exploration of their unique character and personal strengths.

Oil Paintings capture qualities that are quintessential dynamic with authenticity and compassion. Painting portraits is about exploring the lyricism of character and levels of personality within the painted surface. More than a photograph made to look like a painting, portraits are the real thing. A love of people and a deep interest in the human experience is the key to a painting that lasts forever. The time necessary for a commissioning a portrait varies with the length, scale, background, medium and the material available to work with. Allow the leeway of a couple of weeks then see the wonders come to life right in front of your eyes. Capture memories make them last for eternity.

About the author
Travis Jones recommends Canvaz (http://www.canvaz.com/portrait.php) for genuine work of art in Oil paint.

Author:: Travis Jones
Keywords:: Commission Oil painting, Paintings, Oil Painting.
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