This was our first time as participants in a sailing race on our own boat.  Kevin, an accomplished sailor, had been crewing on other boats for weeknight races all summer.  I, on the other hand, don’t know how to swim and am accustomed to leisurely weekend cruises on our Cal 25.  Guess whose big idea it was to enter the Commodore’s Cup?  Yeah!  We knew at the outset we didn’t have a butterfly’s chance in a tornado at winning, but there was so much we could learn from the experience!  Racing would force us to develop an efficient sailing team, choreograph an effective pas de deux — and bless us with an impressive collection of bruises.

Saturday was overcast with winds coming out of the east, which minimized the waves.  Winds that speed from the west would have given us 4-foot waves to contend with – conditions we had on Sunday, in fact, but that’s getting ahead of things.

To prepare for the race, we lightened the boat, removing tools and anchors, stowed everything else securely, and then went out to observe weather conditions on the lake.  Friends coming in from an early sail warned us of changeable winds with powerful gusts, which meant we’d have to choose wisely on how to set the sails.

We’d only flown our spinnaker once; it’s a complicated maneuver that truly requires an experienced team, so we vetoed that option immediately.  This left us with the three jibs to choose from: storm (smallest), genoa (largest) or #2 yankee.  Racing against the spinnakers other boats would be using made use of a larger jib tempting, but presented the risk of over-powering the boat in high winds.  Over-powering means the boat could misbehave in a variety of ways that I won’t go into, but most of them are embarrassing and soggy.  My vote was for the smallest (storm) jib, but Kevin opted for the yankee and that’s what we hoisted — for about two minutes.  Not to say “I told you so” but one of the least pleasant tasks is changing a head sail in high wind, and that was what Kevin wound up doing; the storm jib was right for the wind conditions, for beginners like us.  For extra caution, we decided to put a reef in the main sail: this is a way of shortening the main sail, making it smaller in a way that it could be opened up if needed.

Racing started at 10am, with a 5-minute warning horn, then a signal for everyone to begin a countdown. We had a little countdown kitchen timer attached to the bulkhead and as soon as it went off we were underway. For sailboat races, the idea is to cross the starting line of the race under full sail, so we tack back and forth to catch the wind until we know the race has begun, at which point we blast across the starting line.  How do we draw a line on the lake?  It’s the perceived “line” between the Committee Boat and one of the marker buoys they set out.

Knowing how competitive the event could be, Kevin kept us on the race course but carefully away from the thick of things; it’s all too easy, and occasionally disastrous, for boats to collide.  Nevertheless, as the races progressed the fleet compacted into a tight crowd, especially as we rounded the pins.. making for some unforgettable moments.

When a boat flies the spinnaker, it can be the same as flooring the accelerator on a Ferrari and this weekend’s wind was the equivalent of jet fuel.  Once the spinnakers were out, the fleet took off like cheetahs and we wallowed in their wakes — with our minimal sails, we had none of their speed — which is why an observer described me as having “eyes the size of dinner plates” when I looked behind us and saw nothing but a big yellow spinnaker.

We’d come around a pin just in front of a larger boat with a 5-man crew, and they had their spinnaker flying within seconds of the turn, so only the man on the bow could see us.  Kevin had been getting set for a tack when he heard my shriek and yelled to the other boat, but they didn’t respond.  We wound up doing an unintentional jibe, with the boom swinging wildly from starboard to port – I instinctively grabbed at the main sheet to slow it down and got thrown across the deck, but that move bought Kevin time to regain control.  For a few minutes afterward, all was quiet on our boat: I was expecting Kevin to yell at me for doing something stupid, but he was fearful that I’d gotten hurt.  I was fine, he was relieved, and we sailed on.

During the third race, we were the closest boat preparing to round a pin – which gave us the right-of-way – but that boat with the yellow spinnaker was rounding the same pin outside of us and giving us little room for the turn.  The captain of that boat yelled over to Kevin that we could round the pin together but that Kevin would have to haul in the boom immediately after that so they could get on the upwind course and fly their spinnaker.

The problem was, this maneuver had Kevin facing aft, working the main sheet and traveler, holding the tiller with his legs.  From where I sat, I could see the impending collision: our boat was sailing straight while theirs turned to port: toward us! I didn’t dare stand up, Kevin was busy, so the only choice was a Jackie Chan side kick to the tiller and a little prayer that Kevin didn’t lose his balance.  It worked and we lived to sail another race — the last one of the day.

Out of four races on Saturday, we didn’t come in last on one of them, which we considered an awesome achievement.  The race series continued on Sunday, but weather conditions were even more severe, with winds out of the west and gusts up to 27mph from a storm front that was producing waterspouts out on Lake Ontario.  Kevin and I went out to the point to watch the whitecaps raging across the lake, and although we were game to give it a shot with the same minimal sail arrangement, that never happened.  Kevin was asked to fill in for a missing crewman on one of the larger boats, I was allowed to come along for the ride, and we thus had the good luck to be aboard the boat that took the Commodore’s Cup this year.

It happened that local composer/conductor WW had secured the rights to perform a “bluegrass mass” — The World Beloved — which has only been performed by the original musicians until now.  As part of the Women in the Arts festival, women musicians were preferred, and the score included parts for banjo, guitar, fiddle, mandolin, and bass.  I own all of those instruments, and I happen to be the right gender — the question was whether I could dredge up any dim memories of how to read a musical score.  And, I had to do it in four weeks…

I thought I was going to play guitar for the show, but a far better guitarist (male!) was secured; no other banjo players were available or willing (either or both?) to tackle such a complicated piece on short notice, and I only agreed when a pianist was added to the mix.  Her electronic keyboard was configured so her right hand would make banjo noises and play all those notey leads I couldn’t decipher.  All I had to do was plink out the chords.

How did it go?  Rather well.  After listening to the cantata for weeks, over and over, I learned a lot of it by ear, which spared me counting along with a score that went 2/2 to 3/4 to 5/4 and back to 2/2 with wild abandon.  I photocopied and sliced-up the score to make the page-turns possible, and decided that, for better or for worse, it would be over in a mere 45 minutes once we got going.  I heard a few fumbles in the performance, but the audience would never have known the difference, and they were too amused by the odd assortment of instruments accompanying the choir to really care too much.

When it was all over, I took a moment to shake the conductor’s hand, saying, “Congratulations!  You managed to paper-train a bluegrass band!”  No small accomplishment.

Big mistake, then, to visit Howe Caverns for the experience: they have lined the entire site with electric *colored* lights that obliterate the beautiful, subtle colors of the various minerals and rocks and create a wholly modern environment, miles below the surface of the planet.  Only in the photographs we took were the real colors visible, when the flash washed-out the artificial lights.  We used a cheap mayfly camera, but even then, the quality of the photos far surpassed what we saw with our own eyes.

So, I worried about the Lascoux Cave “virtual visit” when I first clicked on this site.  I’ve known of these caves all my life, and my father — a devoted rock hound and amateur geologist — shared with me his love for ancient mysteries that might one day reveal themselves in caves.

In some ways, the “virtual visit” is as disappointing as I’d feared.  First and foremost, the photos are much too small for marveling.  There is no sense of perspective in these narrowed views, and with no frame of reference, it is impossible to imagine the position(s) the artists had to assume in order to create these paintings and engravings.  I’ve read where there was necessarily scaffolding created to reach some places, but how big were the final works in relation to the average size of a person back then?  I wanted some way to understand the scale of it all.

Most of all, there is a loss of experience in being removed by both the camera and the internet.  Though I understand our breath alone endangers these works of art, and thus we cannot visit them in person, I feel this means we will never fully appreciate them, either.

Here is what I envision:
The artists of that time lived in a dark world when the sun set.  They were afraid of predators, including other humanoids, and they lived hard lives with work that had to be accomplished during daylight hours if they were to survive the night, the next few days, or even the season — and for that, they needed some easy way to train up their young and get them past the fears, past the errors, and quickly into the flow of
survival.  One of the best ways to do this is to fill the idle hours with stories, songs, and art.

Those caves were lit by firelight, by torches carried and thus in motion with every turn and gesture.  The animals would not only feel huge, they would feel alive and in motion — a clever guide could make the animals move to fit the story, could guide the rapt listeners through the tales.  They would mix truth and fiction, history and fantasy, to weave a cautionary tale, but also one of hope.

Some of the side areas, especially the one with the squares of color, tell me they taught others to create these paintings.  There was a class on how to mix or match colors — they had to work with materials at hand, had to spend a portion of daylight finding the red clay or burning the charcoal or otherwise developing what they needed for the artwork.

Some of the engravings may have been learning tools for shape, size, or design. Some of the handprints may have been signatures, tests for color, or even graffiti from later visitors — kids who dared sneak in, unguided. Some of the engravings might also reflect new techniques being explored, or reflect a time when painting materials became unavailable, or the artists were away or lost forever.

The virtual tour was a good start on imagining life in the distant past, getting a glimpse of the souls of these people not so very different from those of us today who love an illustrated book or even a movie.

I’ve never actually wanted to use the expression, myself.  When I suddenly realize that I didn’t know something that I now know, I’ve been glad I was ignorant at the time of the incident.  For example, the time a fellow high school student approached me, during an event when neither of us was at our own school.  I had no idea who this buzz-cut blond guy was, and making sure I was ready to sing when we got on stage was all that mattered to me, so when he started to talk, I paid him little heed.  He gave me a worldly(?) little smile and said, “All the girls call me ‘Felt Tip.’”  I took a look at his bristly haircut, shrugged, and replied, “Well, you could always grow it out a bit.”

Thirty years later, that conversation looks a lot different.  Given today’s knowledge back then, I think I might have blushed to death.

Friends have pointed out to me that I happen to be a woman, myself, (I knew that, btw,) and therefore ought to be well aware of this topic, but that’s completely my point.  I take people one at a time and don’t actually believe there is an entity of Women as a solid front, a single organized force or character.  There are too many variations on the theme, and simple genetics isn’t enough to create unity.  I fight enough with my brothers to know that.

I’m not even certain what the difference is between a Social Movement and a fad or fashion trend, in some ways.  Is a Social Movement necessarily a cause toward some ideal?  I’d welcome thoughts on what the definition might be.

I’ve always been geared toward taking people one at a time and rolling my eyes in impatience when I see generalizations — that “we” in statements like “We love our hamburgers in the US!” is particularly annoying, since I live in the US, but I don’t even like hamburgers, much less love them.  And statements like “We are fascinated with [celebrity]” actually anger me, since I’m again clumped in by default even though I have no idea who they’re talking (or writing) about most of the time.

This all must change for the next four months or so: I must embrace the collective and pretend that Women behave en masse like some sort of Hive mind (Ender reference) and then study this chimera.

So, here’s a research stab:  How many of you have a take on women and the Internet as a social medium rather than an information resource?  Do you find you encounter more (apparent) women in discussion boards, or social sites, or blog sites?  Any thoughts on that?

I am slowly awakening to the fact that I have made a lot more women friends through the internet than I ever did in the Real World.

And, is blogging a Social Movement?

GOODNIGHT, BUSH
Written by Erich Origen and Gan Golan, and clearly not for (or about) innocents, Goodnight Bush vivisects the current Administration with merciless accuracy, using every possible razor edge that has caused this country to bleed since the stolen election of 2000.

Fans of the original will be particularly enchanted by the complete loyalty shown to the Brown’s text and Hurd’s illustrations — the gentle rhyme scheme, the simple lines — all reimagined with a Gestalt effect.  Where sweet love and innocence were the essence of Brown’s book, Origen and Golan replace every sweet detail with malice and guilt.  Cheney whispers “Hush” to a worshipful FOX, the fire in the hearth is fueled by election ballots, and bin Ladin is easily found on every page.  The details are exquisite, such as the titles on books that line the shelves, like Rapture the Flag.

You can order your copy wherever cool books are sold, like Amazon.  Or Powell’s.  Or Barnes & Noble.
ISBN: 978-0316040419
Published by Little, Brown & Company.

I’ve got two on order already.

The website is also offering a Couplet Contest, asking for headline-related entries in poetic form, as a sort of farewell celebration, between Independence (from Bush) Day, 2008, to January 19, 2009.  Enter as often as you like, and perhaps you’ll win a free, autographed book!

I asked about my chances for success in my current educational endeavors: currently working on the last two classes needed for my BA in U.S. History.  The cards essentially came back with “Rotsa ruck!” and the clear indication that signs did not point to success.  While not encouraging, and while it wasn’t the message my friend would have chosen to give me, there was still plenty of room for interpretation.  I chose to consider the message of the cards as a challenge to my creativity, and I took a second look at my methods to date.  What was I doing, and what else could I do?

Emails weren’t working as a method of contact with the local university, but I work near the campus, so I tried the direct approach.  A quick visit to their Information Booth equipped me with a map and a few words of directional advice; from there I parked my car in a visitors’ lot and started hiking.  In the course of the afternoon, I visited the History department, the Registrar’s office, and the Admissions office.

The biggest problem I faced was the competition for seats in a class.  Courses at the 400-level are offered to upperclassmen – kids who have been in the school system, chosen their majors, and know what they must do to complete their studies.  The largest classes offered at the 400 level accept only 15 students, and others accept ten or only five students.  As such, long before the Spring semester has ended, students have already raced to lock in their seats for Fall – every one of the classes I asked about had been filled and closed.

However, the kindly Secretary of the History Department explained the rules: the professors have the final say on their classes.  What I needed to do was write to the professor who would be teaching the course I wanted to take, explaining who I am, why I need the course, and asking permission to be a student in that course.  Once I had a note from the professor accepting me, I was in, and it was a simple matter of printing off the emailed acceptance and bringing that, along with my “non-matriculated student” application form, to the Admissions office.  I have both papers in-hand now, and am ready to find out how much I will have to pay for the privilege.

Coming up this Fall:  Women & Social Movements in 20th Century U.S.

Last year, another good friend — a Canadian with vast experience in the educational milieu –- told me that pursuit of my Bachelor of Arts degree was very much dependent upon how well I learned to jump through hoops, in the metaphorical sense. I needed to learn how things were done and negotiate the labyrinthine process just as much as I needed to actually learn the course content once I finally got into the classroom.

All of this keeps me sane as I chase down my final two college courses.

Hoop 1: My “Home” College. With regard to requirements, the college where I am matriculated handed down some clear-cut rules: I need to take a course equivalent to their Seminar. They gave me easy terms, though — a weakened windmill moment: any class offered at the local University, at the 400 level, will suffice, although I would be wise to make certain they approve my choice before I hand over any cash. I must also take one more 3-credit course – any course at all – to achieve the correct number of total college credits earned. I’ll take that course from the local Community College.

Hoop 2, parts A and B: The Local University. Thanks to a dear friend who works there, I have – after months of fruitless inquiries – made contact with the Admissions Office and the Secretary of the History Department — two windmills still standing firm

A) Admissions tells me I need to enroll as a ‘non-matric’ so as to create a presence in their computer system (which probably translates as items on the final bill) which will then enable me to sign up for my desired class this Fall.

B) The History secretary told me I needed to send an email to the professor teaching the course I wish to take. I sent him this message:

“I just completed a 300-level course at [Name Withheld] College (Modern Latin American History) but all the rest of my History courses were taken at [Distant College] in 1981 or earlier. I still believe I can complete your course this fall, having been alive during the intervening years and thus inescapably exposed to the content we would study.”

I will be on the University Campus tomorrow afternoon and should have at least one of these matters resolved by the end of the day.

Hoop 3: The Local Community College. The last course will probably be another online class. I took my Biology class this way last year, and it went pretty well – there were clearly-defined expectations that were easily met, so long as I kept myself organized, and it’s not only far less money per credit hour, there is no gas money spent getting to class.

I’m within reach of the goal, and I’m keeping a positive attitude toward the whole venture. The worst I can do is spend my entire economic stimulus check and still need to take another course. There are worse fates, by far.

We always think “It can’t happen to me” no matter what misfortune we hear about — and within a few seconds of that, we start to think about why that isn’t really true. 

Functional or not, we mammals have breasts — male and female.  Since the tissue is there, cancer in that tissue is possible.  My father had breast cancer when he was in his 60s, and had to have surgery; he was embarrassed to be stricken by a “female illness” and because of this, we kids were not told anything until after he died.  That means that both of my brothers are as much at risk as I am, and perhaps moreso because they say my chances of getting it are slim.  I’ve had several pregnancies and I nursed all of my children, even though it wasn’t “fashionable” at the time.  I’m wondering when surgical scars will become fashionable?

Last week, we got the news that my aunt, in her 80s now, has been diagnosed with breast cancer.  She is, of course, frightened.  She had no children, but she took good care of herself and had no reason to suspect she’d face this affliction… except for the daunting statistics.  One woman in eight will get diagnosed with breast cancer every year; my aunt was that one, last week.

The Breast Cancer Site helps to fund mammograms for women who cannot afford to pay for this simple test.  Early diagnosis allows for early treatment — possibly something far less traumatic than radical mastectomies, for example.  I honestly don’t know the procedures, but I know I’ll be learning steadily more about all of it now that my aunt will be making decisions and undergoing treatments. 

I have clicked on the pink ”Help fund mammograms” button every day for years now, simply because it is so easy to do something so good.  The click is free: it tells advertisers that you were there, and in return they send money for each click to a fund that pays for mammograms — it’s that simple!

The Breast Cancer Site needs our help, now, though.  Lost in the shuffle of distractions (vote for an idol, anyone?) and heavy information highway traffic, the site is not getting enough clicks to fund these tests.  Let’s get the word out — please visit the site, click on the button, and then look to your left for the “Link to us” link.  Pass the link along.  Save a life.

Lowen & Navarro are musicians I met years ago at the NERFA folk music conference. I remember Eric Lowen as a very tall, powerful man who walked with a cane. We went down a hallway together on one of those hectic evenings and I remember him asking me about what I do. I told him I wasn’t a “real musician” as he was, because I don’t write songs, don’t record them, don’t do all those things we associate with professional musicians. I remember he looked down at me with those kindly eyes and laughed. “None of those things make me real and you not,” he said, “It’s only that we do things differently.” For the rest of the walk, I felt as tall as Eric.

I hadn’t seen him since then, and now I know why: ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

And, what does Eric do with his music now? He sings it better than ever, and raises his voice with those of others afflicted with ALS, to raise money for the research into finding a cure.

Please watch Lowen & Navarro’s video – each viewing generates a donation. This is folk music at its most powerful.  Sing along.