If it had not caught the attention of a handful of important readers, Jesmyn Ward’s “Salvage the Bones” would most likely have quietly faded into obscurity; many worthy books do. Now, however, this novel about a poor Mississippi family in the weeks leading up to 2005’s Hurricane Katrina has a prominent place in bookstores and boasts the gold medallion that comes with winning the 2011 National Book Award.
Book awards are marvelously idiosyncratic. While major film and music awards are based on the votes of a large group — meaning there is a general consensus or popularity — book awards are frequently selected by just a few people. In the case of the National Book Awards, five judges read 315 fiction submissions in a small window of time and choose their favorite. The result, this year, was that an under-the-radar second novel rose to the top of the pack.
“Salvage the Bones” is an intense book, with powerful, direct prose that dips into poetic metaphor. It’s told by a teenage girl, Esch, whose late-summer thoughts turn to Greek myths and her neglectful lover, Manny. “I imagine this is the way Medea felt about Jason when she fell in love,” she thinks. “That she looked at him and felt a fire eating up through her rib cage, turning her blood to boil, evaporating hotly out of every inch of her skin. I feel it so strongly that I cannot imagine how Manny does not feel it, too.”
Although Esch has been sexually active since the age of 12, Manny, a friend of her brother’s, is the first man she’s fallen for. Her desire for a relationship with him is more aspirational than realistic — their couplings are heated but passionless, and he lives with a girlfriend — but hopes, however tenuous, are the lifeline for Esch and her brothers.
The siblings have largely raised themselves since their mother died after giving birth to Junior, the youngest. After her death, their father took up a diminishing cycle of odd jobs, alcohol and anger. They live on several rural acres that belonged to their mother’s family, which once profited by using part of it as an ad-hoc dump. Broken appliances and partly working vehicles dot the yard between their house and the decaying home where their grandparents lived; chickens wander, no longer confined to an abandoned chicken coop.
Randall, the eldest, practices basketball with hopes that it might bring him to the attention of a scout and college. Esch longs for Manny. Skeetah, a year younger than Esch, thinks he’ll be able to sell the puppies from his cherished fighting dog, China.
This would probably be the right place to mention that if you have a problem with dogfights, this might not be the book for you. Or girls having casual sex with their older brothers’ friends at age 12, for that matter. Yet the story is told with such immediacy and openness that it may keep judgments at bay. We are immersed in Esch’s world, a world in which birth and death nestle close, where there is little safety except that which the siblings create for each other.
Ward, 34, accepted the National Book Award saying that she wanted to write about poor, black rural Southerners in such a way that the greater culture would see their stories as universal.
2011年12月29日星期四
2011年12月28日星期三
Freewood Acres Provides Continued Service in Family Environment
For Freewood Acres Fire Chief William Donahue and his brother and assistant chief Bobby, being at the firehouse is like being in their second home. After all, for as long as they can remember their father Donald was a member of the department and has the building's memorial hall named in his honor.
Because the brothers have such a strong family connection to the department, they said they try to make everyone feel like they are an extended family while serving a vital role for their community.
Founded back in 1951, even after 60 years of service, Freewood Acres is one of the newest members of the Howell Fire Bureau. With a total of 24 members, including 15 active members, William said there is plenty of experience to call upon when the tones go off.
As with the rest of the fire bureau, Freewood Acres serves a defined area that stretches a total of 15 square miles. Their service area includes from West Farms Road to Aldrich Road and from the Jackson border to the area near Howell High School and Middle School North. Even in that limited area, Donahue said last year they got a total of 344 calls with many of them being mutual aid to help neighboring departments. One of the more recent calls was a barn fire on Lemon Road where they were one of several houses to respond.
While they may not have the large numbers of some other departments, the Donahue brothers said they have what they need to help serve the community. "This is a small group of people that bands together when we really have to," William said. "We're not fighting fires with 50 to 60 guys. We're fighting fires with 10." Not counting the drivers of the trucks that report to a scene and he said that number drops to between four and six.
Just as important as what they do, he said is how they do it. "We grew up here so we know it's supposed to be family," he said. "When family's in trouble you're supposed to help them and we try to keep that going."
Since the time when their father first started with the department, they have seen the area the firehouse covers change greatly. The chicken coops that they say once lined the roadway have now largely been replaced by developments over the years bringing more people to the community they serve.
Having served as chief for 18 years, William said he has been able to combine his work as a professional fire fighter at Fort Monmouth with his time at Freewood Acres to do both jobs better.
In his time with the department, he said he has seen the good and the bad of firefighting and experienced some challenges himself. "We've had good fires where we've saved people and we've had fires where we just can't get there in time," he said.
Even after all these years, he said depending on the fire when the tones go off he still gets a rush of adrenaline when the tones sound. At the same time, his experience he said also helps him to prepare for the fire and help the members of the department do the same.
That experience also comes with some stories he will never forget. That includes a fire in 1984 when he said he stopped breathing and had to be resuscitated in the ambulance and one three years later on Lemon Rd. when he went crashing through a floor into the basement of a house. "I've had things that as chief my goal is to never let that happen to anybody else," he said. "I fell through a floor, I stopped breathing. These things happen in a fire service. If I can stop them from happening I've done my job."
Even after falling into the basement and being surrounded by fire, Donahue said he never considered walking away from the job. "I can tell you what a hot dog feels like when it's being barbecued," he said with a laugh. It was the words of a former fire inspector that he said helped get him back on the truck not long after being released from the hospital. "He told me flat out to get back on the horse," he said. "He said if you don't get back in a fire you never will. I will and I have. If you don't get back and do it you'll be so scared you'll never do it again."
His brother said it is their experience and training that has helped them get through the hard parts of the job. "It goes back on training and experience. You're not going nuts because you have a fire call," he said. "If you're doing this long enough it's, 'okay, we're doing this again.' You're not going nuts, you're not running and you're not going crazy."
Like many of the local departments, Freewood Acres also offers a junior firefighter program. Those area residents who are 16-years-old or older are encouraged to go to the firehouse to learn what is involved in the process. While they learn about the job and the house, William said there are some things juniors will not do. "The biggest thing is we can't put a juvenile in any kind of danger," he said. "We can teach them, but they can't handle a charged hose line, they can't handle any saws. Anything that's dangerous they can't do."
Bobby added that while learning about fire safety is important, they also stress the importance of schoolwork. "Our policy here is that it's also schooling and education," he said. "We make our juniors carry at least a 'B' average." His brother added that the education of their juniors is critical to their success with the department. "We tell them that school is first. Go home and do your homework, the fire department will still be here."
If and when they become active members, attendance at the house is more important, but both said for juniors they need to find that balance. "Because you're a junior we care more about you getting your high school diploma than you being up here learning," William said.
Finding people who want to join as active members can also be a challenge. In order to become a member the person must be 18-years-old, go through a background check and be voted on by the members of the house. After that they go through a rigorous training program at the Monmouth County Fire Academy. For some people, it is the training that William said scares them off from joining the department. "Being a volunteer how do you explain to your wife or kids or anyone I have to give up the next 11 weekends to go to fire fighting school," he said.
Fortunately, he said people continue to fill the department's ranks. "Out of our member's ranks probably eight or nine of them have been here for 15 years or more and they're not going anywhere," he said.
No matter what their numbers are, Freewood Acres is one of the houses in the Howell Fire Bureau. While the departments might keep to their own on a regular basis, they are always ready to do what has to be done. "When the tones go off you do what you gotta do," he said. "You work together."
For many Howell residents, the fire district they live in may not even be something they are aware of. William said when the fire commissioner elections come up in February they are explaining to residents where they should go to vote. And the vote, he said, is for a budget, which covers a very limited scope of items. "The budget is strictly for financing the district for fire prevention," he said. That includes items like trucks, gear and other equipment. All other items are funded through the departments themselves.
Because the brothers have such a strong family connection to the department, they said they try to make everyone feel like they are an extended family while serving a vital role for their community.
Founded back in 1951, even after 60 years of service, Freewood Acres is one of the newest members of the Howell Fire Bureau. With a total of 24 members, including 15 active members, William said there is plenty of experience to call upon when the tones go off.
As with the rest of the fire bureau, Freewood Acres serves a defined area that stretches a total of 15 square miles. Their service area includes from West Farms Road to Aldrich Road and from the Jackson border to the area near Howell High School and Middle School North. Even in that limited area, Donahue said last year they got a total of 344 calls with many of them being mutual aid to help neighboring departments. One of the more recent calls was a barn fire on Lemon Road where they were one of several houses to respond.
While they may not have the large numbers of some other departments, the Donahue brothers said they have what they need to help serve the community. "This is a small group of people that bands together when we really have to," William said. "We're not fighting fires with 50 to 60 guys. We're fighting fires with 10." Not counting the drivers of the trucks that report to a scene and he said that number drops to between four and six.
Just as important as what they do, he said is how they do it. "We grew up here so we know it's supposed to be family," he said. "When family's in trouble you're supposed to help them and we try to keep that going."
Since the time when their father first started with the department, they have seen the area the firehouse covers change greatly. The chicken coops that they say once lined the roadway have now largely been replaced by developments over the years bringing more people to the community they serve.
Having served as chief for 18 years, William said he has been able to combine his work as a professional fire fighter at Fort Monmouth with his time at Freewood Acres to do both jobs better.
In his time with the department, he said he has seen the good and the bad of firefighting and experienced some challenges himself. "We've had good fires where we've saved people and we've had fires where we just can't get there in time," he said.
Even after all these years, he said depending on the fire when the tones go off he still gets a rush of adrenaline when the tones sound. At the same time, his experience he said also helps him to prepare for the fire and help the members of the department do the same.
That experience also comes with some stories he will never forget. That includes a fire in 1984 when he said he stopped breathing and had to be resuscitated in the ambulance and one three years later on Lemon Rd. when he went crashing through a floor into the basement of a house. "I've had things that as chief my goal is to never let that happen to anybody else," he said. "I fell through a floor, I stopped breathing. These things happen in a fire service. If I can stop them from happening I've done my job."
Even after falling into the basement and being surrounded by fire, Donahue said he never considered walking away from the job. "I can tell you what a hot dog feels like when it's being barbecued," he said with a laugh. It was the words of a former fire inspector that he said helped get him back on the truck not long after being released from the hospital. "He told me flat out to get back on the horse," he said. "He said if you don't get back in a fire you never will. I will and I have. If you don't get back and do it you'll be so scared you'll never do it again."
His brother said it is their experience and training that has helped them get through the hard parts of the job. "It goes back on training and experience. You're not going nuts because you have a fire call," he said. "If you're doing this long enough it's, 'okay, we're doing this again.' You're not going nuts, you're not running and you're not going crazy."
Like many of the local departments, Freewood Acres also offers a junior firefighter program. Those area residents who are 16-years-old or older are encouraged to go to the firehouse to learn what is involved in the process. While they learn about the job and the house, William said there are some things juniors will not do. "The biggest thing is we can't put a juvenile in any kind of danger," he said. "We can teach them, but they can't handle a charged hose line, they can't handle any saws. Anything that's dangerous they can't do."
Bobby added that while learning about fire safety is important, they also stress the importance of schoolwork. "Our policy here is that it's also schooling and education," he said. "We make our juniors carry at least a 'B' average." His brother added that the education of their juniors is critical to their success with the department. "We tell them that school is first. Go home and do your homework, the fire department will still be here."
If and when they become active members, attendance at the house is more important, but both said for juniors they need to find that balance. "Because you're a junior we care more about you getting your high school diploma than you being up here learning," William said.
Finding people who want to join as active members can also be a challenge. In order to become a member the person must be 18-years-old, go through a background check and be voted on by the members of the house. After that they go through a rigorous training program at the Monmouth County Fire Academy. For some people, it is the training that William said scares them off from joining the department. "Being a volunteer how do you explain to your wife or kids or anyone I have to give up the next 11 weekends to go to fire fighting school," he said.
Fortunately, he said people continue to fill the department's ranks. "Out of our member's ranks probably eight or nine of them have been here for 15 years or more and they're not going anywhere," he said.
No matter what their numbers are, Freewood Acres is one of the houses in the Howell Fire Bureau. While the departments might keep to their own on a regular basis, they are always ready to do what has to be done. "When the tones go off you do what you gotta do," he said. "You work together."
For many Howell residents, the fire district they live in may not even be something they are aware of. William said when the fire commissioner elections come up in February they are explaining to residents where they should go to vote. And the vote, he said, is for a budget, which covers a very limited scope of items. "The budget is strictly for financing the district for fire prevention," he said. That includes items like trucks, gear and other equipment. All other items are funded through the departments themselves.
2011年12月27日星期二
The Real Cost of Backyard Chickens
It sounded like a killer let loose in the chicken coop, so I jumped from the couch in hot pursuit. With my bare hands—and still nearly napping, though my feet were suddenly flying—I was apparently going to have to best a raccoon or a fox, though perhaps I’d get lucky and merely have to duel a vole. Point is, my wife loved those chickens and it was her birthday, for God’s sake. Gallantry was in order.
I had to outrun—then outfight—this demon.
For those new to this column, let me chronicle how I arrived at a surreal point when a nap was punctured by a flat-out sprint toward venal killers—and in my backyard, no less.
Earlier this year, Lori and I surprised friends, neighbors and probably even ourselves by deciding to raise chickens. Never mind that we already had 3 kids and 2 dogs and 2 cats. And forget that we hardly have a farm, barely even 1/5 of a suburban acre. Fact is, we’re not alone in feeling a pull toward chickens. Chickens were referred to in The New Yorker as the new “it” bird and Alice Walker just came out with a book called “Chicken Chronicles,” essays of her thoughts while gazing at her navel in her chicken coop. (Yes, I bought it for my wife. No, I won’t read it, even at gunpoint.)
But I digress. The point is that there was an apparent massacre in my midst—Helter Skelter meets hens--and, hold on, I’m getting there. But first let me just say that our decision to jump onto the feathery bandwagon was easier said than done. I suffer from a bad case of nonchalance about how hard new projects will be, but even Lori was taken aback about how much it cost to build a chicken run and small coop.
We stopped counting at $1,800. There goes the economic justification for raising your own livestock.
But life stretches beyond the ledger. And chickens are (and I apologize for this ahead of time) odd ducks. Their necks bob with comic regularity even as their habits—reliably going home to roost every night—add a certain gracious, timeless cycle to a suburban life, otherwise too far in the hold of school bus arrivals and departures, a violin lessons here, grocery shopping there.
Was it all over before it had barely started?
Luckily, no. Despite the battle cries emanating from the chicken run, my tussling services were not needed, nor were the skills of a forensic specialist. All the hens were totally fine. The only sight out of the ordinary was Loretta Sopressata, one of our five, who was simply activated like never before. Clucking loudly, something had given her a shot to the spirit. Inspecting the run and its perimeter, I found no trespasser, or even an attempt at a breach.
I went to their coop: also, all quiet. And that’s when I saw them: a pair of eggs. They were the first the hens had laid. That we had effectively paid $1,000 for each could be brushed aside, at least for the moment. These were our first eggs. They came a month ahead of schedule and right on my wife’s birthday.
I stared at the perfect pair of brown eggs, one elegantly spotted, for a few minutes, posed them for photographs and as soon as my wife came home, we called up the neighbors, who came over to gawk.
Both timeless and an idea of the moment, only chickens can turn the production of two simple eggs into a collective revelation.
I had to outrun—then outfight—this demon.
For those new to this column, let me chronicle how I arrived at a surreal point when a nap was punctured by a flat-out sprint toward venal killers—and in my backyard, no less.
Earlier this year, Lori and I surprised friends, neighbors and probably even ourselves by deciding to raise chickens. Never mind that we already had 3 kids and 2 dogs and 2 cats. And forget that we hardly have a farm, barely even 1/5 of a suburban acre. Fact is, we’re not alone in feeling a pull toward chickens. Chickens were referred to in The New Yorker as the new “it” bird and Alice Walker just came out with a book called “Chicken Chronicles,” essays of her thoughts while gazing at her navel in her chicken coop. (Yes, I bought it for my wife. No, I won’t read it, even at gunpoint.)
But I digress. The point is that there was an apparent massacre in my midst—Helter Skelter meets hens--and, hold on, I’m getting there. But first let me just say that our decision to jump onto the feathery bandwagon was easier said than done. I suffer from a bad case of nonchalance about how hard new projects will be, but even Lori was taken aback about how much it cost to build a chicken run and small coop.
We stopped counting at $1,800. There goes the economic justification for raising your own livestock.
But life stretches beyond the ledger. And chickens are (and I apologize for this ahead of time) odd ducks. Their necks bob with comic regularity even as their habits—reliably going home to roost every night—add a certain gracious, timeless cycle to a suburban life, otherwise too far in the hold of school bus arrivals and departures, a violin lessons here, grocery shopping there.
Was it all over before it had barely started?
Luckily, no. Despite the battle cries emanating from the chicken run, my tussling services were not needed, nor were the skills of a forensic specialist. All the hens were totally fine. The only sight out of the ordinary was Loretta Sopressata, one of our five, who was simply activated like never before. Clucking loudly, something had given her a shot to the spirit. Inspecting the run and its perimeter, I found no trespasser, or even an attempt at a breach.
I went to their coop: also, all quiet. And that’s when I saw them: a pair of eggs. They were the first the hens had laid. That we had effectively paid $1,000 for each could be brushed aside, at least for the moment. These were our first eggs. They came a month ahead of schedule and right on my wife’s birthday.
I stared at the perfect pair of brown eggs, one elegantly spotted, for a few minutes, posed them for photographs and as soon as my wife came home, we called up the neighbors, who came over to gawk.
Both timeless and an idea of the moment, only chickens can turn the production of two simple eggs into a collective revelation.
2011年12月26日星期一
Cooking has become the last true art
Why is it that TV cookery shows have become so popular? That recipe websites like Epicurious proliferate? That turning out palatable meals has ceased to be a woman's preserve and now draws men as well?
To make the question still more pointed, how come the culinary arts have grown in prominence, while other contemporary art forms are receding?
Consider modern classical music. One long-suffering audience member said it reminded him of a bus crash. Though read any of the top music reviewers, and you'll find them exulting over this tuneless mess.
Or take modern art. For a mere $140 million, you can buy a painting by Jackson Pollock called "No. 5." I forget if this is the one that hung upside down in a New York gallery.
But if you laid a piece of canvass on the floor of a chicken coop for three months, "No. 5" is what it would look like.
So too modern sculpture. I still recall the horror of local citizens in Kingston, Ont., many years ago, when the city commissioned a centre piece for MacDonald Park and the "artist" erected two huge sewage culverts with sludge spilling out.
The eyesore was improved one night when a bunch of engineering students from Queen's University temporarily transformed the culverts into perfect representations of a Coke and Pepsi can. But the sculptor insisted on returning to his vision of a bombed-out septic field.
You find modernity's palsied hand in updates of the Bible. Thus "Mary was with child" is rendered as "Mary had fallen pregnant," while "through a glass darkly" becomes "puzzling reflections in a mirror."
And what purblind revisionist struck out "It ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women" and gave us "Sarah ceased having her monthly periods"? (Hat-tip to the Rev. Dr. Peter Mullen, who nailed this miserable practice in Britain's Telegraph newspaper).
And while we're on the subject of contemporary poetry, can any of it keep pace with this sort of thing? (From Kipling, on the creed of Afghan warriors): "Four things greater than all things are, women and horses and power and war."
The problem with all these avantgarde monstrosities is that a form of elitism has taken over. The views of ordinary folks are discarded, in favour of appeals to a chichi minority. Values like beauty and harmony have become passé. Melody is dismissed as an affliction of the masses.
In his book on art, The Painted Word, Tom Wolfe perfectly captured the sterility of this project: "In the beginning we got rid of - realism. Then we got rid of representational objects. Then we got rid of the third dimension altogether. Art made its final flight, climbed higher and higher in an ever-decreasing tighter-turning spiral until it disappeared up its own fundamental aperture."
Very well then. So why hasn't this happened to modern cookery? You could argue that momentarily it did, with the nouvelle cuisine movement and its emphasis on gauzy presentation rather than flavour or nourishment.
But thankfully that didn't last. Most top-ranked restaurants today are serving down-to-earth food. Indeed they display a healthy contempt for elevated views about diet.
In Britain, traditional country recipes are returning. You can eat pigeon pie or rabbit stew in any decent pub.
European countries have wild game festivals in the Fall. B.C. chefs are stressing the culinary delights of free range pork and fresh caught salmon.
And cardiac-implicated butter remains the fat of choice. Hyper-tensing salt is scattered liberally. Infanticidal veal adorns the plate.
These all, in one respect or another, tread on politically incorrect territory. One imagines vegans shrinking at this glorying in the virtues of meat.
The public health lobby is probably appalled at the thought of all that cholesterol being dished out. And the animal rights types must be incensed.
Yet strikingly, unlike the salons of art and literature, cookery has ignored the refined and high-minded. And while the world's great symphony orchestras are headed for the poorhouse, victims of an epic failure to understand their audience, restaurants are booming.
So how did this happen? I suppose one answer might be that food is so central to the human condition, faddists daren't mess with it. Though I wouldn't put it past them.
But it's not just eating in restaurants that's thriving. Home cooking has become a defining hobby of the Baby Boom generation. Forget bowling or ballroom dancing; we're in the kitchen slinging food.
And that, I think, explains why cookery has flourished. It doesn't depend on corporate sponsors or rich benefactors, as most classical art now does.
It is by nature, and by breadth of ownership, a labour of the common man and not of the elite.
To make the question still more pointed, how come the culinary arts have grown in prominence, while other contemporary art forms are receding?
Consider modern classical music. One long-suffering audience member said it reminded him of a bus crash. Though read any of the top music reviewers, and you'll find them exulting over this tuneless mess.
Or take modern art. For a mere $140 million, you can buy a painting by Jackson Pollock called "No. 5." I forget if this is the one that hung upside down in a New York gallery.
But if you laid a piece of canvass on the floor of a chicken coop for three months, "No. 5" is what it would look like.
So too modern sculpture. I still recall the horror of local citizens in Kingston, Ont., many years ago, when the city commissioned a centre piece for MacDonald Park and the "artist" erected two huge sewage culverts with sludge spilling out.
The eyesore was improved one night when a bunch of engineering students from Queen's University temporarily transformed the culverts into perfect representations of a Coke and Pepsi can. But the sculptor insisted on returning to his vision of a bombed-out septic field.
You find modernity's palsied hand in updates of the Bible. Thus "Mary was with child" is rendered as "Mary had fallen pregnant," while "through a glass darkly" becomes "puzzling reflections in a mirror."
And what purblind revisionist struck out "It ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women" and gave us "Sarah ceased having her monthly periods"? (Hat-tip to the Rev. Dr. Peter Mullen, who nailed this miserable practice in Britain's Telegraph newspaper).
And while we're on the subject of contemporary poetry, can any of it keep pace with this sort of thing? (From Kipling, on the creed of Afghan warriors): "Four things greater than all things are, women and horses and power and war."
The problem with all these avantgarde monstrosities is that a form of elitism has taken over. The views of ordinary folks are discarded, in favour of appeals to a chichi minority. Values like beauty and harmony have become passé. Melody is dismissed as an affliction of the masses.
In his book on art, The Painted Word, Tom Wolfe perfectly captured the sterility of this project: "In the beginning we got rid of - realism. Then we got rid of representational objects. Then we got rid of the third dimension altogether. Art made its final flight, climbed higher and higher in an ever-decreasing tighter-turning spiral until it disappeared up its own fundamental aperture."
Very well then. So why hasn't this happened to modern cookery? You could argue that momentarily it did, with the nouvelle cuisine movement and its emphasis on gauzy presentation rather than flavour or nourishment.
But thankfully that didn't last. Most top-ranked restaurants today are serving down-to-earth food. Indeed they display a healthy contempt for elevated views about diet.
In Britain, traditional country recipes are returning. You can eat pigeon pie or rabbit stew in any decent pub.
European countries have wild game festivals in the Fall. B.C. chefs are stressing the culinary delights of free range pork and fresh caught salmon.
And cardiac-implicated butter remains the fat of choice. Hyper-tensing salt is scattered liberally. Infanticidal veal adorns the plate.
These all, in one respect or another, tread on politically incorrect territory. One imagines vegans shrinking at this glorying in the virtues of meat.
The public health lobby is probably appalled at the thought of all that cholesterol being dished out. And the animal rights types must be incensed.
Yet strikingly, unlike the salons of art and literature, cookery has ignored the refined and high-minded. And while the world's great symphony orchestras are headed for the poorhouse, victims of an epic failure to understand their audience, restaurants are booming.
So how did this happen? I suppose one answer might be that food is so central to the human condition, faddists daren't mess with it. Though I wouldn't put it past them.
But it's not just eating in restaurants that's thriving. Home cooking has become a defining hobby of the Baby Boom generation. Forget bowling or ballroom dancing; we're in the kitchen slinging food.
And that, I think, explains why cookery has flourished. It doesn't depend on corporate sponsors or rich benefactors, as most classical art now does.
It is by nature, and by breadth of ownership, a labour of the common man and not of the elite.
2011年12月25日星期日
Our grandparents taught us what true forgiveness looks like
Much has been made of the Japanese government’s recent apology to Canadian prisoners of war. The apology was welcome and long overdue. Our government’s gracious acceptance was also a dignified gesture.
But while this meaningful exchange between two great nations is symbolically important, true forgiveness can only come from those who suffered, who bled, who lost all dignity during those dark days.
Without such forgiveness, we would never have been born.
On Christmas Day, 1941, our maternal grandfather, Ralph MacLean, was captured by Japanese forces during the fall of Hong Kong. He was an 18-year-old kid from the Magdalen Islands. He spent the rest of the war in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp. Released in 1945, he moved to Alberta the following year.
Like many vets of his generation, our grandfather spent much of his adult life saying very little about his experience during the war years.
He proudly put on his medals and marched with his fellow comrades in every Remembrance Day parade, but was largely silent around the details of his horrific journey as a prisoner of war.
Thankfully, later in life, Grandpa started to speak openly about what he saw, in an effort to share his experiences with family and younger generations and ensure they don’t forget the sacrifices made. It was not easy to hear. He lived through hell. He saw his buddies die. He ate little.
At 89 and living in Calgary, he is one of the remaining PoW vets. Many did not come close to the average life expectancy because of the treatment they endured while incarcerated. There, ruthlessness reigned.
In April, 1942, our grandfather, Hideo, and grandmother, Mitsue Sakamoto, both Canadian-born citizens, were stripped of their possessions and interned in southern Alberta.
Prior to the outbreak of hostilities, their lives were not all that different from ours today. They both grew up in Vancouver. Our grandmother went to high school during the day and Japanese class in the evening. Our great-grandfather was a successful fisherman and owned several vessels.
Hideo and Mitsue met in 1939 and married in January, 1942. They led happy, productive lives. They had running water, enjoyed family outings and were deeply rooted in their community. But the evacuation notice ended this life as they knew it.
Their government turned on them. Their friends outside the Japanese-Canadian community turned on them. They were outcasts in their own land. Families were torn apart and many were never reunited. As our grandparents boarded the train east to the cold Alberta prairie, they did not know what their fate held.
Here, too, ruthlessness reigned. They made their first home in a modified chicken coop. They worked day and night on a sugar-beet farm for subsistence wages. Their only crime was their ethnicity.
Two of their three children were born during the internment. They were allowed to leave at the end of the war, and by 1948, had saved enough money to move to Medicine Hat, Alta. At 91, Grandma Sakamoto is still alive and well.
Dignity was stolen, burdens shouldered and lives lost, on the battlefield and on the home front during the Second World War. Despite suffering such cruelties on both sides of the Pacific Ocean, our family instilled in us a deep sense of respect and understanding for ourselves and for others – not by preaching, but by living these values.
Our grandparents refused to pass on to their children resentment over the wrongs that had been committed against them. This is, above all, the legacy they bequeathed to their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
It is one of hope, of strength. This is what real forgiveness looks like.
In refusing to chain their children to the transgressions committed against them, they allowed our parents the freedom and privilege of an ordinary life. Our parents who, when they met in a high-school gymnasium in Medicine Hat, were not thinking about the fall of Hong Kong, or about evacuation orders and work camps.
They were simply two kids dancing to the Beatles and falling in love in 1967. They married in 1972.
That kind of forgiveness – the kind that makes life and love possible, even after the scars of war – is something no apology can guarantee, however sincere or hard-fought-for and won. This personal forgiveness is what allows the next generations to move on and live fulfilling and enriched lives. We are unspeakably grateful to our grandparents for this gift.
But while this meaningful exchange between two great nations is symbolically important, true forgiveness can only come from those who suffered, who bled, who lost all dignity during those dark days.
Without such forgiveness, we would never have been born.
On Christmas Day, 1941, our maternal grandfather, Ralph MacLean, was captured by Japanese forces during the fall of Hong Kong. He was an 18-year-old kid from the Magdalen Islands. He spent the rest of the war in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp. Released in 1945, he moved to Alberta the following year.
Like many vets of his generation, our grandfather spent much of his adult life saying very little about his experience during the war years.
He proudly put on his medals and marched with his fellow comrades in every Remembrance Day parade, but was largely silent around the details of his horrific journey as a prisoner of war.
Thankfully, later in life, Grandpa started to speak openly about what he saw, in an effort to share his experiences with family and younger generations and ensure they don’t forget the sacrifices made. It was not easy to hear. He lived through hell. He saw his buddies die. He ate little.
At 89 and living in Calgary, he is one of the remaining PoW vets. Many did not come close to the average life expectancy because of the treatment they endured while incarcerated. There, ruthlessness reigned.
In April, 1942, our grandfather, Hideo, and grandmother, Mitsue Sakamoto, both Canadian-born citizens, were stripped of their possessions and interned in southern Alberta.
Prior to the outbreak of hostilities, their lives were not all that different from ours today. They both grew up in Vancouver. Our grandmother went to high school during the day and Japanese class in the evening. Our great-grandfather was a successful fisherman and owned several vessels.
Hideo and Mitsue met in 1939 and married in January, 1942. They led happy, productive lives. They had running water, enjoyed family outings and were deeply rooted in their community. But the evacuation notice ended this life as they knew it.
Their government turned on them. Their friends outside the Japanese-Canadian community turned on them. They were outcasts in their own land. Families were torn apart and many were never reunited. As our grandparents boarded the train east to the cold Alberta prairie, they did not know what their fate held.
Here, too, ruthlessness reigned. They made their first home in a modified chicken coop. They worked day and night on a sugar-beet farm for subsistence wages. Their only crime was their ethnicity.
Two of their three children were born during the internment. They were allowed to leave at the end of the war, and by 1948, had saved enough money to move to Medicine Hat, Alta. At 91, Grandma Sakamoto is still alive and well.
Dignity was stolen, burdens shouldered and lives lost, on the battlefield and on the home front during the Second World War. Despite suffering such cruelties on both sides of the Pacific Ocean, our family instilled in us a deep sense of respect and understanding for ourselves and for others – not by preaching, but by living these values.
Our grandparents refused to pass on to their children resentment over the wrongs that had been committed against them. This is, above all, the legacy they bequeathed to their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
It is one of hope, of strength. This is what real forgiveness looks like.
In refusing to chain their children to the transgressions committed against them, they allowed our parents the freedom and privilege of an ordinary life. Our parents who, when they met in a high-school gymnasium in Medicine Hat, were not thinking about the fall of Hong Kong, or about evacuation orders and work camps.
They were simply two kids dancing to the Beatles and falling in love in 1967. They married in 1972.
That kind of forgiveness – the kind that makes life and love possible, even after the scars of war – is something no apology can guarantee, however sincere or hard-fought-for and won. This personal forgiveness is what allows the next generations to move on and live fulfilling and enriched lives. We are unspeakably grateful to our grandparents for this gift.
2011年12月22日星期四
Tampa's 'Exploding Chicken' sculpture set for new roost
Within months the so-called "Exploding Chicken" sculpture, which roosted downtown for 22 years, will be settled in its new home at the Channel District roundabout.
"I would anticipate that the bird will find his permanent roost early next year," said Bob McDonaugh, the city's acting administrator for economic development. "After it's erected then it will be repainted and dedicated."
The 19-ton, 36-foot-tall piece officially known as the untitled George Sugarman sculpture flew the coop from Ashley Drive in April 2010.
Volunteers – including members of a local steelworkers union – disassembled the sculpture. It was lifted by a crane onto flatbed trailers and taken to Gulf Marine Repair Corp. for safekeeping while new accommodations were readied.
The original principal tenant of Rivergate Tower, NCNB National Bank of Florida, commissioned the sculptor's work in 1988. In 2005, when the distinctive riverfront cylindrical building at 400 N. Ashley Drive was sold to American Capital Partners of Miami, the new owner donated the sculpture to the city.
McDonaugh said he wanted to make sure it didn't disappear.
"It's a recognizable Tampa icon," he said. "People like it; they're fond of it."
The sculpture's foundation is under construction and will be completed in the next few weeks, McDonaugh said.
Asked about the sculpture, Mayor Bob Buckhorn said, "I'm the last person to ask his opinion on art because I'm barely qualified to offer one. But it's a conversation piece. … If people are making fun of it, that means they're talking about it."
The abstract piece was given its popular nickname by longtime Tampa Tribune columnist Steve Otto.
Otto was excited to learn the chicken's return is imminent.
"I'm sure they're doing it for the Republican Convention – for the national exposure that it's going to bring the city," he said.
"I would anticipate that the bird will find his permanent roost early next year," said Bob McDonaugh, the city's acting administrator for economic development. "After it's erected then it will be repainted and dedicated."
The 19-ton, 36-foot-tall piece officially known as the untitled George Sugarman sculpture flew the coop from Ashley Drive in April 2010.
Volunteers – including members of a local steelworkers union – disassembled the sculpture. It was lifted by a crane onto flatbed trailers and taken to Gulf Marine Repair Corp. for safekeeping while new accommodations were readied.
The original principal tenant of Rivergate Tower, NCNB National Bank of Florida, commissioned the sculptor's work in 1988. In 2005, when the distinctive riverfront cylindrical building at 400 N. Ashley Drive was sold to American Capital Partners of Miami, the new owner donated the sculpture to the city.
McDonaugh said he wanted to make sure it didn't disappear.
"It's a recognizable Tampa icon," he said. "People like it; they're fond of it."
The sculpture's foundation is under construction and will be completed in the next few weeks, McDonaugh said.
Asked about the sculpture, Mayor Bob Buckhorn said, "I'm the last person to ask his opinion on art because I'm barely qualified to offer one. But it's a conversation piece. … If people are making fun of it, that means they're talking about it."
The abstract piece was given its popular nickname by longtime Tampa Tribune columnist Steve Otto.
Otto was excited to learn the chicken's return is imminent.
"I'm sure they're doing it for the Republican Convention – for the national exposure that it's going to bring the city," he said.
2011年12月21日星期三
A roost of one's own - now available in Muncie
Muncie might not be a major automaker anymore, but we've established a toehold in another key manufacturing domain.
Chicken coops.
Brook Linton, who runs Solid State LLC out of a cavernous 90-year-old warehouse on the city's near south side, recently explained what got him into it.
"Nobody around here was doing it," he said. "Nobody was making chicken coops. A lot of people are getting into chickens again."
Tall and lanky, Linton was bundled against the cold air flowing through his drafty building at 800 S. Liberty St. last week. As he talked, everywhere you looked in its western end were stacks of old doors, tumbled sinks and bath tubs, framed windows reclaimed from walls and felled porch posts waiting to rise again.
All this, he noted, was salvaged from old houses razed over the past couple years.
Can't find an eight-foot door? This is your place.
"All the components of the house, we resell them," Linton said. "A lot of people who can't find anything in the box stores come here."
It was at the far eastern end of the warehouse, though, where employee John Halsey was hard at work, building a new chicken coop from recycled wood.
"We have a pretty set pattern," Linton noted, of his coops' design.
The young businessman launched this part of his enterprise about eight months ago. Halsey was working on the seventh coop, and four have been sold. A couple of the others sat outside the warehouse, looking like big doll houses, their weathered blue and yellow paint schemes determined by the color of the reclaimed wood that went into their manufacture.
"We really don't paint them," Linton said. "Whatever reclaimed color the wood is, that's on the walls."
So, what will a chicken coop cost you?
If you'd like the large coop, one that as many as 25 chickens would be proud to call home, it will be about $1,000.
On the other hand, if you are more of a 10-chicken man (or woman), that will run you only about $550.
The smaller coop, by the way, was specially designed with ease of hauling in mind, Linton said, it being small enough to fit in the bed of a compact S-10 Chevy pickup truck.
Of course, if your chicken ambitions far exceed 10 or even 25 fowl, don't despair.
"We can make bigger coops," Linton said. "It's custom sized."
By the way, each coop contains a roost inside.
"That's because chickens like to sleep up off the ground," Linton explained, just that quickly doubling the scope of this reporter's chicken knowledge.
Who are the folks buying his chicken coops? It's probably too early to have accurately identified a market demographic yet, but he said one customer was a new retiree.
"He just wanted something to do," he said.
More power to folks like that, he continued, and their dreams of raising chickens.
"We're hoping that it catches on," Linton said.
Chicken coops.
Brook Linton, who runs Solid State LLC out of a cavernous 90-year-old warehouse on the city's near south side, recently explained what got him into it.
"Nobody around here was doing it," he said. "Nobody was making chicken coops. A lot of people are getting into chickens again."
Tall and lanky, Linton was bundled against the cold air flowing through his drafty building at 800 S. Liberty St. last week. As he talked, everywhere you looked in its western end were stacks of old doors, tumbled sinks and bath tubs, framed windows reclaimed from walls and felled porch posts waiting to rise again.
All this, he noted, was salvaged from old houses razed over the past couple years.
Can't find an eight-foot door? This is your place.
"All the components of the house, we resell them," Linton said. "A lot of people who can't find anything in the box stores come here."
It was at the far eastern end of the warehouse, though, where employee John Halsey was hard at work, building a new chicken coop from recycled wood.
"We have a pretty set pattern," Linton noted, of his coops' design.
The young businessman launched this part of his enterprise about eight months ago. Halsey was working on the seventh coop, and four have been sold. A couple of the others sat outside the warehouse, looking like big doll houses, their weathered blue and yellow paint schemes determined by the color of the reclaimed wood that went into their manufacture.
"We really don't paint them," Linton said. "Whatever reclaimed color the wood is, that's on the walls."
So, what will a chicken coop cost you?
If you'd like the large coop, one that as many as 25 chickens would be proud to call home, it will be about $1,000.
On the other hand, if you are more of a 10-chicken man (or woman), that will run you only about $550.
The smaller coop, by the way, was specially designed with ease of hauling in mind, Linton said, it being small enough to fit in the bed of a compact S-10 Chevy pickup truck.
Of course, if your chicken ambitions far exceed 10 or even 25 fowl, don't despair.
"We can make bigger coops," Linton said. "It's custom sized."
By the way, each coop contains a roost inside.
"That's because chickens like to sleep up off the ground," Linton explained, just that quickly doubling the scope of this reporter's chicken knowledge.
Who are the folks buying his chicken coops? It's probably too early to have accurately identified a market demographic yet, but he said one customer was a new retiree.
"He just wanted something to do," he said.
More power to folks like that, he continued, and their dreams of raising chickens.
"We're hoping that it catches on," Linton said.
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