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Coloring Club

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Brick red. Maize. Pine green. Cornflower. Raw sienna. Sepia. Gold. Silver. Copper.

What am I talking about? The Crayola 64 crayon box, of course. To my mind, the set of 64 was the greatest collection of them all.

I’ll bet you can remember that good crayon smell. Do you remember how you always had to peel the paper on your favorite colors, and how heartbreaking it was when one of them broke? And how you never used white?

A brief history: The first crayon was invented in 1902. First there were 8, followed by 16, 24, and 48. And then there was the set of 64, in 1958, and it was so unbelievably perfect that it was unchanged until 1990. (Little known fact: the Crayola crayon with the gross and ridiculous name “flesh” was renamed “peach” in 1962.)

The reason I’m bringing this up is that I just got home from a meeting of the Tucson Coloring Club. It was like being a kid on my first day of kindergarten. I didn’t know anybody. I carried my supplies in a bag and set them down on an empty chair. I went to the lunch line, got my lunch, and ate it with someone I didn’t know. Then I joined the rest of my new friends at another table and began to color and talk. It was probably the most relaxed I’ve felt all week. I want to be five years old again.

The Tucson Coloring Club is just one of many local Meetup groups. I recently signed up for a few that sounded interesting, including a hiking group that’s probably about my speed (out-of-shape to intermediate) and another group that goes to dinners and plays together. I decided not to sign up for the Tucson Python Club or the Tucson Geek It Up. The coloring club seemed like a nice, easy way to get my feet wet. Besides, I already had one of those trendy adult coloring books lying around the house.

We met at one of my favorite cafés, Bentley’s, which is about 20 miles from home. I ordered coffee, quiche, and a salad because I was starving when I got there, and decided to eat at the counter next to the table, in case I spilled something. (I could just picture myself knocking over my coffee cup or splashing blue cheese dressing on somebody’s art project.) Unfortunately, that meant sitting with my back to the group for a while, but then someone else’s lunch arrived and she joined me. I felt like I fit in.

After eating, I rejoined the group at the big table and began to color. There were the usual questions about where I live and work, etc., but there was also ample time to just listen to others and to color quietly. Some people never talked at all, and that was okay, too. It was just such a relaxed and accepting group.

There was a 20-something ex-teacher who colored a complicated design in an art nouveau book. She told us that every time she finishes a page, she writes a letter on the back of it and sends it to her grandmother. She talked about her grandmother, who lives far away, doesn’t like to talk on the phone, and may be depressed. Their only way of communicating is through those pretty colored pages.

Then there was a 60-something man who used to work in the computer field. I think he’s retired now. His coloring project was a geometric design with big open spaces. He said he likes the big spaces because he doesn’t have to plan too much about which colors to choose. He was friendly, asked lots of questions, and (refreshingly) didn’t talk about himself very much.

And there was an occupational therapist who teaches others how to work with their hands, but who’s been diagnosed with MS and is losing her ability to work with her own hands. She discovered that she can hold on to gel pens pretty well (and I suspect it’s good therapy, too). She’s been trying to figure out ways to get out of the house now that she needs to use a motorized chair. She’s able to fold it up and put it into the trunk of her car, but when she gets places she needs help getting it out and unfolded. She’s going places anyway, and figuring it out as she goes along. “I don’t have any other choice,” she added with a smile. We discovered that, by sheer coincidence, she lives right around the corner from me. Looks like I may be carpooling with her if I stay in the group. She seems nice and, who knows, I may have found a new friend in my neighborhood.

Some of us talked about our favorite colors, how we choose colors, and whether we press lightly or hard when we color. One person opened up about why she moved away and then came back, touching on some family issues. Another talked about a friend whose daughter has been cutting herself. A man talked about how he was in counseling and has used art in therapy. For a bunch of strangers who spent less than two hours together, the topics we covered were pretty amazing.

It was just so nice to sit there and think about colors today. It literally brightened up my day.

*****

My new photo book about the Pacific Northwest, “Standing in the Surf,” is available in e-book and paperback formats here:

The Games People Play

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It’s officially the start of Labor Day weekend. So, in honor of this most important and historic of holidays, let’s take a moment of silence to think about work.

OK, time’s up.

I’d much rather spend my Labor Day weekend thinking about work’s opposite: play. Just the sound of that word, play, sounds … oh, I don’t know … playful. There it goes, rolling off of my tongue, bounding past my lips, doing a somersault down my chin, landing onto the sidewalk, and dancing down the block. I think I’ll follow it.

Hey, play, wait for me! Tell me a little bit about yourself.

What’s that? Your ancestors were Dutch? Their name was “pleien,” which means to leap for joy or to dance? I like that. It sounds a lot like our English word “playin’,” as in, “playin’ hooky.” As someone who’s played hooky on occasion, I’m somewhat familiar with that particular sense of joy, that feeling of a dance coming on.

Nobody knows for sure where that word “hooky” came from, but since it’s Labor Day weekend and I’m on a break, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, “Who cares?!” Enough with the etymology. Let’s just enjoy the weekend!

Let’s go to the Strong National Museum of Play, in Rochester, New York. (I was just there in July.)

Porter at the Play Museum
Spiderman at the Play Museum

 

You can see more photos that I took at the play museum, over on my Photos page.

Or, let’s play some actual games. What was the first game you ever played? Was it peek-a-boo, duck-duck-goose, or hide-and-seek? Quick, go find somebody to play one of these games with and then come right back and tell me about your experience in the Comments section below.

Canada Geese at Irondequoit Bay

Or if you don’t have anyone to play with, you can always play Solitaire. I don’t have anyone to play with at the moment, but I’m not going to let that stop me. I just played a game called List of Games. Here’s what I’ve got:

Board games, guessing games, pencil games, card games, dice games, brain games, games of chance, team games, game show games, song games.

Your turn.

I wonder what makes games so much fun. Is it the element of surprise? Is there a Psychology of Games? Is it possible to get a Ph.D. in Games? Would you then be a Dr. of Games, and would your title be D.o.G.?

Earlier today, I made a game out of listening for references to games in everyday speech. Less than five minutes later, someone used the phrase “the domino effect.” Bingo!

Then it got even spookier. I was watching the West Wing, and suddenly one of the characters pulled out the game of Risk while they were all under quarantine at the White House. There’s seems to be no end to the game references in pop culture.

Well, all of this typing feels too much like work. I think I’ll get back to watching TV. Game of Thrones is on.

*****

My new photo book about the Pacific Northwest, “Standing in the Surf,” is available in e-book and paperback formats here:

 

Liberation

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While listening to NPR on the drive home from work today, and wondering whether or not I had anything to blog about, I heard these words: “Gloria Steinem is 82 years old.”

Not possible! the voice in my head argued. (I never talk to myself out loud while driving, at least not when other drivers are close enough to see through my window.) But then I reasoned that it must be true, because it was NPR, after all, and doesn’t that stand for Numerous Professional Reporters?

I let Ms. Steinem’s age (and, therefore, my own) sink in for a few flips of the odometer. And even though I was driving forward, my mind was spinning backward, to much younger versions of Gloria Steinem and myself. It was an era that many know about only from history books (the good ones), documentaries, or their mothers’ reminiscences. I’m talking about 1960s feminism.

I have to admit, though, with much chagrin, that even I (someone who shares a home town with Susan B. Anthony) was caught off-guard when my college roommate joined the women’s liberation movement of the 60’s. “But I like being the weaker sex,” I remember telling her. (It shames me to my core to reveal that here, but if I’m going to blog, I want it to be honest bloggery.) I’ll never forget the look on her face when I said that: pure disdain. We were never that close, but I think our friendship died that day.

Hearing myself utter those ridiculous words must have embarrassed me into rethinking my position, and I soon came to embrace feminism and to strive to live my life in a more liberated way from then on (although sometimes it’s been a struggle). But I’ve come a long, long way from the high school girl who once let her date win at bowling (by purposely throwing a gutter ball), to the woman who is incapable of doing that today. (And not just because I don’t know anyone who goes bowling.)

In my defense, the prevailing mode of thought in my teens was that girls should learn how to cook, sew, wear makeup, and catch a husband, and boys should learn how to fix things, build things, make out with girls, and settle down with a good wife. And, by the way, that wife could never, ever, dream of being President of the United States.

Just take a look at what my classmates actually said in response to a poll (“A Woman President?”) published in my high school student newspaper in 1964 (the year that Margaret Chase Smith ran against Barry Goldwater for the Republican nomination):

S.G.: “I feel that a woman could be a good president because of her natural ability of arguing for an idea until hoarse, yet easily changing her viewpoint for different people.”

D.W.: “In this time of crisis we need a strong president. Foreign leaders would not respect a woman especially in the Asian countries that still consider women inferior.”

B.F.: “I couldn’t respect a woman president. I think a man should hold such a position of leadership. If a woman were president, I’d feel responsible for all her mistakes.”

D.S. “I’d agree to having a woman president if they’d change the age requirement to between 21 and 30 years old.”

J.K.: “We have not yet reached the point of social equality. A woman could not be accepted in this country or in foreign nations.”

R.F.: “I would not elect a woman to the office of president since the job requires a rational, objective thinker. A woman does not possess these essential qualities.”

G.A. “A woman can hardly balance her own budget let alone that of a country.”

K.B.: “If she has the same qualifications as a male candidate I don’t see why we shouldn’t have one.”

H.R. “We might as well have a woman for president. The whole country is a matriarchy anyway.”

J.K. “I don’t think we should have a woman for president. Most women wouldn’t vote for her because of jealousy. She couldn’t handle world problems as efficiently as a man.”

N.B.: “Woman’s place is in the home. I don’t see how her marriage could work if her husband was continually subjugated to her duties as president.

B.A.: “I feel that a woman is just as capable as a man to handle the presidency. However, I believe that the woman to hold this office should not have the responsibilities of raising a family. A woman such as Margaret Chase Smith would probably do a fine job, I’m sure, but it will probably be quite a long time before the opposite sex really makes a race out of the Presidency.”

G.S.: “I can’t see a married woman in the White House. She couldn’t run national and world affairs and at the same time let her husband run the family. Not only would she have a press secretary, but fashion secretaries too. And one more thing, I can’t see her husband decorating the White House.”

J.K. “This country is not ready for a woman President. I think there are women capable of the job and I am glad there is a woman brave enough to pioneer in this field previously untouched by women. Perhaps the country is ready for a woman vice-president.”

D.C.: “This is a woman’s world anyway. Why not a woman President?”

That was 1964, when I was just a freshman.  In 1966, that same paper published my anti-war poem. And the changes just kept on coming.

When I vote this November, I’m going to be thinking about Gloria Steinem, Susan B. Anthony, and my old college roommate, and uttering a deep and profound thank you to all three of them for raising my feminist awareness and giving me the gift of a liberated life.

*****

My new photo book about the Pacific Northwest, “Standing in the Surf,” is available in e-book and paperback formats here:

The Center of the Universe

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An article last week in the New York Times has me thinking in a whole new way about my place in the universe. Dennis Overbye (the article’s author) explains it much better than I can here.

If you don’t have time to read the article, I’ll summarize it for you: We are, each one of us, at the center of our own universe.

Using Einstein’s theory of relativity as the basis for his argument, Overbye says that everything that we experience through our senses has had to travel some amount of time (no faster than the speed of light) before it reaches us. Everything that we can possibly see, hear, feel, or otherwise sense has already happened. Whether it’s a star, a planet, the moon, the girl next door, or the raindrop that just hit your face, it’s in the past. We’re looking out at the past from our own unique point in the present, which he calls the center of the universe.

Overbye goes on to say, “Your eyes are the cockpit of a time machine, filmy wet orbs looking in the only direction any of us can ever look: backward.”

Or, I picture it like this:

We’re all reflections on the outside of a gigantic soap bubble, gazing toward the inside of the bubble, where our pasts reside. From time to time we’re able to make tiny ripples in the surface, which can affect our futures, but we’re unable to turn around and glimpse our futures. Meanwhile, the bubble keeps expanding, and the surface tension holds us tight, until it isn’t strong enough to hold us anymore, and we disappear with an infinitesimal movement of energy and light. Are we gone, or have we just moved somewhere else? Neither I nor Dennis Overbye can answer that one.

I’m thinking about my past now, and also about how I can make more positive ripples in my present. In fact, I’ll start right now by signing off and going outside to take in some sunshine that left the surface of the sun about 8 minutes ago.

*****

My new photo book about the Pacific Northwest, “Standing in the Surf,” is available in e-book and paperback formats here:

Connections

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Keene Valley, NY

According to U.S. News & World Report, my job as a school psychologist ranks #2 among social services jobs. Granted, that’s a pretty broad field. They’ve included lawyer and nail technician in that group of professions. But still. I’d have to agree that being a school psychologist definitely rocks.

Here’s why: We make strong, personal connections with people every day. And connections seem to be what keep people healthy and happy, or so I’m told.

Take that kid that I met last spring, a high school sophomore whom I’ll call Angel. That’s actually his middle name. Angel had terrible attendance, and a reading disability. I talked with Angel about his attendance. He told me that he likes learning things outside of school, and he told me how connected to the universe he feels when he works in his garden. He loves learning about the universe.

“Did you know that we’re all made of stardust?” he asked me.

“Did you ever hear the song, Woodstock, by Joni Mitchell?” I replied, going on to quote the lyrics, “We are stardust, we are golden and we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.” I also told him about the TV series “Cosmos.”

The next day, Angel told me that he’d looked up both the song and the TV series on YouTube, he liked the song, and he’d watched two episodes of Cosmos.

Just that morning, I had received an email about a special summer camp at the University for high school kids, all about outer space. I gave him the application. He noticed the tiny acronym, NASA, at the bottom of the form.

“Guess what!” he exclaimed, pulling something out of his backpack. It was an extra t-shirt that he just happened to have with him, with NASA emblazoned on the front.

I wondered if Angel would return to school this year.

Last week, I started back to school after summer vacation. The students weren’t back yet. Towards the end of the day, I walked  across the parking lot to my car and saw someone heading toward me. It was Angel. He greeted me and gave me a little hug. He told me that he’s decided to go back to his former school; he just came in to pick up his transcript. I wished him well.

*****

My new photo book about the Pacific Northwest, Standing in the Surf, is available in e-book and paperback formats here:

 

 

First Story

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Hello. I’m Lori, and this will be my first story.

You may wonder what I’m doing over here at wordpress.com. I’ve been blogging  for a few years now at pacificbuffalo.com, so why the sudden change? Well, the best way I can explain it is that sometimes change is good. The other site is still active and will continue to be used in relation to my old band, Pacific Buffalo. This new blog will be my own. I’m thinking it will be part journal, part photo book, part totally off the top of my head nonsense.

Besides, with wordpress, you can sign up to get automatic notification via email each time I add a new blog post. That way, you’ll get all the vacation photos (that means you, family) and you won’t miss a single episode of Loristory. If interested in this nifty feature, just leave a reply below, and check the little box that says “notify me of new comments via email.” (You can leave a reply without checking the box, it’s up to you.)

So, welcome to my new flight of fancy. Let’s explore parts unknown together.

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