More Indonesia

A  few more photos of the Bogaardt family

Military Dad

Lots of water in Indonesia

the family

Papie and his moped (Holland)

 

Wally

 

 

 

Some photos of New York family next week

Cottonmouth

Corey liked collecting golf balls. The owner of the golf shop gave him a nickel for every ball he turned in. Even though it was an especially hot sweaty day, he went to the golf course to search the edges of the greens for balls. It took him a half hour to find just one. He was about to give up the search when he looked across the broad field and saw a small group of golfers. One swung his club and the ball flew off at an angle. “He’s gonna miss the green,” said Corey to himself. The ball didn’t only miss the green. It flew into the swampy cypress grove close to the highway. Corey ran for it, hoping he would find it amid the cypress knees. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cypress_knee

 

Of course his dad had once warned him to stay away from swampy places. Corey knew there were biting bugs, big spiders, and even snakes. Coral snakes were common to Florida, but they would be easy to see, because they had bright red, yellow, and black bands of color. Besides, he’d learned that even though they were venomous, they were too small to be dangerous. Their poisonous mouths could only do damage if they got a hold on the fold of skin between fingers or toes. Cory wasn’t about to reach out toward any colorful snake, even if it wasn’t poisonous.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coral_snake

Before he entered the swamp he put the sneakers hanging from his belt back on, just to be safe.  He looked around for a stick to probe the wet grasses for the ball. Slowly he inched his way forward, stepping across cypress knees and fallen branches to avoid the mushy ground. The leaves and plants were bright deep green, unlike the grey bark of the tall cypresses.  He searched between the trees and knees.  

He clung to the trunks of the trees to steady himself and found the white ball lying on the other side of a fallen log. He picked his way over the mushy ground. By the time he reached the log, his foot had slipped and his sneaker got wet. Dad would be mad if he found out about the swamp, but his shoe would dry out quickly in the heat. Corey put his other foot on the log to test that it wouldn’t roll. It didn’t. He balanced himself to walk across it. He kept his eye on the ball which lay by the cypress knee next to this natural bridge. He didn’t see the long dark snake lying against the log.

Corey wiped the sweat from his forehead with his elbow. He took a deep musty breath and stepped forward. Out of the corner of his eye, a dark shape moved. Corey’s heart started to thump when he saw the snake. He decided it was probably just a green garter snake, and dared to take another step. A dark narrow head slipped up over the log. Corey stopped and faced the snake sliding toward him. He didn’t have time to make a decision about crossing to get the golf ball. The snake rose up in an attack position and opened its pure white cottony mouth. Panicked, Corey turned and ran and ran and ran, splashing through the cypress swamp and up to the highway, never turning back. He would never forget that mouth, because he knew it was a Cottonmouth; and he would never go into a swamp again.

 http://www.wf.net/~snake/moccasin.htm

  

God's Finger Painting

A priest friend once shared his favorite pastime. To relieve stress, he would engage in finger painting. He would take a sheet of smooth paper, squirt various slippery colors on it, and then dip his fingers in the soothing cool paint to spread and smear it. The end product lacked structured design because it was a free-form activity, but it produced fabulously interesting swirls and twists and mixes of color.

Shortly after the priest introduced me to his hobby, I happened by JPL-Nasa. At the time, I was head of the VCAS junior astronomers, and had gone there to pick up some space photos to share with the kids. I was given an envelope full of eight by ten inch photos of planets, galaxies, nebulae and comets. The Hubble shots were stunning, but one photo in particular was a jaw dropper. It was a full color-close up of Jupiter’s storm bands, including its red spot. As I stared at it, I could almost see the fingers of God spread and mix the colors of the planet, creating the swirls and waves of a supernatural finger painting. I reserved the photo for my favorite priest, who remarked, “What a glorious finger painting. Who did this?”

I couldn’t help but smile at his lack of astronomical knowledge, and simply answered, “God.”  

 

Image from JPL-Nasa

It rained

See the dandelions?

It doesn’t rain much in Southern California, but when it does, the land turns green with things I haven’t planted. Some of those things are edible, as I noted in an earlier blog entry, but most demand weed killers like me. I've already received the annual notification from the fire department to clear the land before June 1. (I pity people who live in wetter climes)

Here are a couple of “before” I clear the land pictures of our property. Maybe by next Thursday I can post some “after” the weeding pictures.

the stair? where?

What a driveway!

Oh, did I mention the gopher holes?  Looks like there aren't enough cats in the neighborhood to rid us of those pests. Or maybe it's just the weeds. That's food for the little critters. Time to get to work!

Where's Gophy?

Promoting a Composer

Last week I attended a concert by the Dilijan Chamber Orchestra in Los Angeles. The purpose was to connect with Mr. Pogosian, its director, and leave with him Sevanian’s memoir and some of his music. Such connections are always cordial. Like the recent connection I made with Maestro Dudamel of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, I was informed that the programming of music is limited by various requirements. Often, a new piece of music becomes part of an encore. Yet, how else does the music of a composer become accepted by the audience, any audience, from conductors, to musicians, to music lovers world wide.

I recall how, on several occasions when I attended concerts together with the composer, Ara Sevanian would make his way backstage to introduce himself and his music. Now it is left to me to carry on his work. Thus, I send copies of his memoir and some of his music to various orchestras, string quartets, pianists, and other musicians. After all, musicians often seek new sounds, new approaches to musical construction, new bridges between ancient motifs and modern styles.

Sevanian promotes hiimself

It appears that the American musical community is interested in the Armenian touch. It was conductors like James Domine, Robert E. Lawson, and Walter Moek who were intrigued with Ara’s work and conducted it. Among the symphony orchestras which have played Sevanian’s music were the Van Nuys Civic Orchestra, West Valley Symphony, The Symphony of the Canyons, and the Los Angeles Philharmonic and the Chattanooga Symphony.   

To these conductors and audiences I now dedicate my efforts to carry on the promotion of a composer's life work.

Good Shepherd Sunday

three wooly's on the road

This Sunday’s Gospel reading speaks of the good shepherd. Understanding the behavior of sheep can help us understand the image Christ presents. His words, “I know mine; and mine know me” are as accurate as it gets when it comes to sheep. It’s true that sheep listen to no one but the shepherd. Don’t believe it? You would have to have experienced what I did the day I visited Cal Poly in Pomona.

I had purchased a goat, and since the college has an active animal husbandry program, went there to learn how to milk my new pet. I arrived on time for the prearranged lesson. The blonde haired college student that would introduce me to the farm talked about the program, then added with a grimace, “The department head is a shepherd,” as if to say, goats don’t count for much. That didn’t matter to me. I had eight children and needed cheap milk.

We had hardly finished tying up one of the milking goats, when someone outside shouted “The sheep are loose!” Both of us dropped what we were doing and ran outside to join other student workers trying to catch the sheep. The curly haired beasts had managed to get past the gate and cross the highway to greener pastures on the opposite hill. They were dispersed all over the grass and under trees, leaving us all worried they’d get hurt. The group of rescuers moved toward the heard from different angles hoping to contain the sheep; yet, every time anyone got a little too close, they beasts scattered. During the confusion, another student came running down highway yelling, “The shepherd’s on his way.”

Half a minute behind him, a lanky middle aged man with sandy hair and glasses appeared at the fencing. He surveyed the scene thoughtfully, raised his chin, and clapped his hands once. In less than a heartbeat, the entire herd of sheep pounded toward him with such speed I thought they’d run him over. A second before they did, the shepherd spread his arm wide. The animals stopped dead inches from the shepherd’s knees, then mulled around his legs as if they knew he was their “daddy.”

The final surprise came when the shepherd signaled a student to help him separate an injured sheep from the herd, a sheep none of us had noticed was in trouble. Then, injured sheep in his arms,the shepherd did an about face, and led the woolly’s back to their safe pens. Naturally they followed like sheep.