Whittoons

When friends and relatives are generous with a gift, whether on a birthday, holiday, after a move into a new home or other special occasions, then I try to show our appreciation by drawing on a Thank You note. I am including some examples from the past and present. Most compositions are original though sometimes I use a familiar image e.g. the Morton salt girl, or reference some art, e.g. Picasso’s Seated Woman in Red Armchair and Bernini’s fountain in Rome.

People may be the object of my drawing if a significant birthday is about to happen, some one close to me is changing jobs or retiring, or the person was helpful to a stranger.

And then there are the whimsical notes dealing with animals I have known. There is a story behind each one of these notes…perhaps another time.

“You can always tell a Harvard man, you just can’t tell him much.”

In McKinley Park, I was taking a break after pounding spikes with my fellow extra gang members on the Alaska Railroad, and a passenger on the recently arrived train asked a co-worker if I went to Harvard and made this snide but classic remark. I had traveled around the world for two years after college, finally ending up in Alaska, far far away from the Ivy League only to be tracked down and given grief. OK, I am a Harvard man, Class of 1972. I don’t very often explicitly mention my alma mater since so many presumptions are made when ”Harvard” is heard. Is this false modesty? I think not, but perhaps I protest too much. When I meet people, I prefer a little time to get acquainted before labeling intrudes. Even the guys on the extra gang had not known from which college I had graduated. They just nicknamed me the Professor because I had the ability to compose letters for them.

[ No one wants to be labeled prior being understood as the person they have worked hard to become. I was approaching the American Embassy in Rabat, Morocco when a young FSO employee introduced himself and asked me to lunch at his home. A struggling grad student, I accepted. After spending some time with the gentleman and his wife, he asked if I was a Christian Scientist! What the heck? I had not been in a Christian Science church since I was 11, so where was the label on me? They were practicing CS folks and had a sense about my Being. You would think I would run for the hills (or the Middle Atlas Mountains) but I accepted their home as a base for my monkey business. That is the Truth. Ve Ri Tas.]

College reunions are not on any of my bucket lists, yet the 50th reunion invitation caught my attention as well as the chance to participate in Harvard’s first Alumni Day. I had not made a very large network of friends during college. I was an introvert who spent every summer and one semester studying monkeys in the Caribbean and Colombia, and then focusing on biological anthropology studies during the school year. Vietnam protests interrupted the first couple of years. (I took pass/fail grading in the spring of 1970 so that I could volunteer for a peace candidate in Pennsylvania.) My extracurricular activities were as a band member and eventually treasurer, and then I was treasurer of our house cafe. I only got drunk once after a Brown game celebration…drinking a lethal band-concocted brown punch. I weaved my way back to my room vowing never again.

So I was not expecting to do much bro hugging with long lost comrades. But I was hoping to the panel discussions among the Class of 72 graduates would be enlightening. And I might see a roommate or two. One lives in Seattle and my wife could feel comfortable with his running commentary and acerbic wit. Arriving for registration, I soon realized that, unlike the 25th Reunion when Harvard wooed graduates with swag and special events, this was a bare bones program. We would have to buy swag at the Harvard Coop if we wanted memorabilia. Given our rebellious reputation, our class never broke any ceiling in contributions, I guess Harvard had written us off as big spenders…so why offer perks. (Members of our class, including two of my cousins, occupied the Administration building during the Spring of 69 until the police dragged them out.)

Our choice for accommodations was a college room rather than a nearby hotel. How often does one get a chance to stay in a Harvard House? Of course this would mean sharing a bathroom, but we were game. We were assigned the newly renovated Winthrop House and lucked out with a suite facing the Charles River. No fine Egyptian cotton bedding with high denier, the sheets on the bunks had only a thin plastic thread count and the blankets were a diaphanous cotton tissue. Decor was minimalist with basic sturdy furniture. The fireplace was gone! Quaint was out, efficiency definitely in. At least the bathroom had private stalls for the toilets and showers. Michele only ran into one aging graduate in underpants and he never returned without long pants on.

Given the rise of Covid in Boston, we masked up in all public gatherings but we were in the small minority taking precautions. Doctors to the left, Doctors to the right, and not a mask in sight. OK, I exaggerate, they were probable a few lawyers, professors and CEOs around but we kept bumping through the medical field. Even the Class of 1957 was tempting fate as they shuffled to their destiny or rather destinations.

Institutional breakfasts were served in Memorial hall, a place of dread for me. Exams were held there and I often felt gut wrenching panic as I stared down at blank blue books. So Michele and I found safe spaces elsewhere for consuming the scrambled eggs and bacon. My gastrointestinal track appreciated the safe space. Hundreds of Class of 1972 grads plus partners were not so careful and gathered together for pre-set topics of conversation or just to chat. Way too close for us. What we would miss out on in comraderie, we would gain with peace of mind.

Our first gathering included a Class 72 survey review. I had answered but it was tedious. Who cares what flowers we like? Yet one question stood out. The request to answer what was the present distribution of wealth in America by population quintiles and what was the ideal, and this would be compared with the actual numbers when we gathered. Our class guessed somewhere around 45% of wealth was accumulated in the highest quintile. Wrong, oh so wrong. It sits at 80+%. How could a group of educated professionals misunderstand the realities of the world and the huge wealth gap? Perhaps they don’t want to face up to the accumulation of wealth in their lives, or the American Dream (read Myth perpetuated by major corporations and institutions) of equal opportunity blinds us all to the facts.

We needed refresher courses in radical politics. The panel discussion about protests and organizing helped ground us. Panelists included the Mayor of Cambridge, the Executive Director of the ACLU, a lawyer who briefly worked in the Trump White House and a woman who worked for a couple of Democratic administrations. The right of neo-Nazis to march in Skokie, Illinois back in the 80’s was defended by the ACLU, so Nadine Strassbourg (ACLU ED) defended that position and reiterated the necessity of protecting all forms of speech, while others considered that some limitations are needed to control the level of hate speech that causes irreparable harm, sometimes physical harm, as in the North Carolina march where people died in the march altercation.

Between events we did have time to check out a couple of museums on campus, and the FOGG, Harvard Museum of Art was top of the list. Wandering through the examples of early Egyptian and Indian art, I wondered, not when they were acquired, but when they were basically lifted off ancient walls by some historic ”Expedition” for the enlightenment of the privileged.

To be fair , one piece, a Benin bronze head, was in the early stages of a reparation process.

One painting I flagged due to subject matter and its meta perspective. In the painting on the left, Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres is depicting Raphael with his lover, Fornarina, on his lap as he gazes, not at his love, but the image of her. That original painting we had seen in Rome a couple of years ago. Raphael painted in his name on model’s arm band. Odd attachment for sure.

Then, just by happenstance as I walked past a piece by Louise Nevelson, a study in Black and White appeared in juxtaposition. The bodies aligned.

Alumni Day arrived with some pomp and circumstance. My classmate saw the Class of 57 members shuffling by and said out loud to one guy, “Wow, You are Old!” To which he replied, ”Fuck You!” Charlie loved the retort. We joined the procession behind our Class banner and ended up close to the stage…but far enough back that Michele and I could exit if this all was tooo much pomp. Among the distinguished guests attending was our most recent Supreme Court Justice , Ketanji Brown Jackson received a standing ovation. A beacon of hope in the darkness of the times.

(A lot of grey beards and grey in them thar heads.)

The Harvard Band played “10,000 Men of Harvard” and the aging crowd sang or mumbled their way through with great vigor. I did not join the band members, though band alums are very welcome to play (provided they can remember the notes and still stay in tune.) Chatting later with some Band Alums who were carrying their instruments, I teased them about the mellowing of the band spirit since the days when my brother was President and later when I was Treasurer. They were of the opinion that following those radical years, Harvard Admissions had screened applicants, taming the beasts within us.

Like A Virgin, I climbed into our first (rented) van, hoping to experience joy and be respected at the same time. We were cautious but eager to be enveloped by the Cabana van, relishing both the rush of the road and the calm of the night after the exhilaration of stepping into independent van life ( for a week.)

Michele and I have been indulging in the van life vicariously for several years – watching vlogs, going to a few RV shows, poking our heads into vans being customized in Seattle and just scrutinizing (read drooling over) the Sprinters parked near our daily neighborhood walks. The longer we waited to decide whether the van was in our future, the higher the prices climbed. And so the opportunity to rent from a company in Ballard came up, and we decided to make a trial run of it. Maybe it might be cheaper to rent a van a few times a year than buying?

Would the life style suit us? Would I fit (at 6’3”) or would I be forced to sleep in the downward dog position or the child pose? Would dumping black water be revolting or just routine? How comfortable was I with our own shit? Could we handle the gas guzzling machine given the sky high pump prices? Would I go into shock as the dollar figures climbed since I was used to eco-friendly Prius savings? Was packing light mandatory or could we indulge in a few luxurious personal effects, e.g. coffee grinder, back scratcher, fly rod, metal detector? ( No metal detector, but the Netflix show about the hobby was a hoot and intriguing. )

Managing to neatly fit some of our gear into the van (and then heap the rest on the bed) , and adjusting all the mirrors and seats to suit our needs, we headed out on the first leg of the journey to Waitsburg, WA. Pick up in the van was as sluggish as a sloth in heat. Yet once up to cruising speed, it had the momentum of a buffalo headed for the Yellowstone. The reservation at the Lewis and Clark Trail State Park was a safe stop since we had cruised through the sites on a previous visit to Waitsburg and Dayton. Though no park staff appeared to greet us, my name was on the site post so we felt welcome. We backed in and set up camp.

A local, who was standing in the nearby stream with her dog, recommended going up stream to seek a swimming hole. Avoiding the dreaded hemlock plant on the wooded path, we found the spot of gravel and narrow hole with some current. Jumping (actually easing my way as my groin sucked it up) in, I swam a few strokes against the current – not managing to make any progress but emerging energized by the brisk water.

Pulling out the kitchen drawer from the ”garage” under our bed, the stove was no different than the mid-century Coleman design my family used when we tented across America. No Coleman lantern with fragile mantle (that my father cursed over ) was necessary since the two solar panels on the van lit up the interior and exterior.

Walking around the campground, we found the state offered two tipis, for the total immersive experience in Sacajawea style abodes. Culturally inappropriate…nah! Just loads of fun for the family in TP2. One child was riding around in his PJs, and his sister toured the sites with training wheels rattling along.

Next stop Helena…and little did I know how much driving this would entail. Through the Palouse to Lewiston,

and then swerving through the Bitterroot Moutains for 200+ miles along the Lochsa River.

Beautiful views for the passenger Michele (she does not get carsick), but exhausting focused attention for me. We passed multiple Lewis And Clark historical markers dotting the landscape, and only stopped at one marking their climb up Lolo Pass in hail and thunder. And then we zoomed past Lolo Hot Springs…oh, I could have used a soak but dinner awaited in downtown Helena. I resorted to sitting Tai Chi warm up exercises. Anyone passing the other direction might have worried about the head rolling neck moves and shoulder shrugging that the driver was having a seizure. I was maintaining an inane smile that would appear certifiable to the observer passing at 50 mph.

North Helena KOA Journey offered an end row at a little extra cost, which included a gas fire pit and two fire-red plastic Adirondack Chairs and a view of the valley. And…And..we had power, if needed, and a black/grey water connection! The KOA offered miniature silos ( ovens most likely) and cabins in addition to multiple sites with bits of lawn spaced between the behemoth RVs. These were mansions on wheels often with a SUV in tow. Why do they even leave home if they are insulating themselves from the world with sofas, mini-bars, tubs, king-size beds, TVs and micro-waves? Where is the adventure? Not that one must deliberately face hardship on the road, but damn, the owners of such monsters never have to leave their safe bubbles. The only stress they must endure is the mounting gas bills. But for most that probably is chump change. They are Easy Riders in Easy Chairs.

One huge advantage of the 19’ van is that parking is not a problem…well angle parking is not a problem so heading into to town for a meal or checking out attractions in a more urban space remains an easy proposition.

A favorite attraction for us in Helena is the Archie Bray Foundation ceramic center and its bizarre location at an old brick factory that is crumbling into the valley floor. The aging kiln stacks added a surreal Dali touch. Their annual auction was fast approaching but the items’ prices would be out of our league so we found some token pieces in the shop.

Our visit was intended to honor the memory of Michels’s Aunt Cal who died at 102. At the Helena Veterans cemetery she was given a memorable send off, complete with Bugler in 19th century Calvary outfit. Watching him as he played with a dry Montana hillside as a backdrop, I felt I had stepped into a Charles Russell painting. Aunt Cal’s husband , Uncle Bob and Michele’s mother Ethel used to peer into Russells’s studio to watch him paint, until Russell’s wife would shoo them away.

Yellowstone National Park was next on itinerary and we passed through gorgeous country to reach West Yellowstone. Rolling hills with pines softening the ridges, and ranches spreading across the valleys. Mountain ranges framed the scene. Ennis, a fly-fishing mecca, was packed and the western style store fronts were a stage set for tourists. Virginia City is just up the road, so it comes by its heritage legitimately yet the faux rustic look hid pricey souvenirs and western attire. Not a parking space to be had. Last time we came through here, our car broke down so we had to spend the night. The town was less faux rustic then. I did get some tips on fly fishing from the repair guy though.

We rushed through West Yellowstone, since it was teeming with tourists and shops stocked with cheap memorabilia , stopped at the obligatory Painted Pots geysers and Old Faithful (also packed with visitors from around the world,) crossed the Continental Divide three times and found our camping site at Bridge Bay. Registration took a while because the staffer needed to inform us about the recent bear sightings and instruct us on how to prevent evening visits from large, furry intruders. I knew all about close encounters with bears in Yellowstone. As a kid, when arriving at a camp site in Yellowstone with my family, we stopped to observe a couple of brown bears raiding the garbage cans, (Yogi Bear would never stoop so low.) I was transfixed as I stared out the half open car window. This was better than any Route 66 bear trinket. Our neurotic poodle, Suzette, was also transfixed. One bear decided to check us out and soon enough was almost to the window. Suzette lunged just as the bear found my door. With one commanding scream from Mother, my brother reached over and rolled up the window as the bear’s nose smeared the glass.

(For more on Ursa and Suzette check the story on my blog.)

Our site was level and near the edge of the woods,…and also near the dumpster where many campers left trash to avoid attracting bears at their sites. Well what about us? We appeared to be at ground zero for bear marauders. So we made our S’mores over the open fire, burnt the hand carved sticks for roasting the marshmallows, doused the flames, locked the van doors and slept peacefully – glad we were not hunkering down in a tent.

Next morning we drove to the nearby Lake Lodge…and found one of the most peaceful spots. A stroll on the beach was out of the question, since a Very Large Buffalo had usurped the best sunning spot.

Hardly anyone was at the Lake Resort Store and their selection of goods was a cut above the Old Faithful products. Check out the glasses. I was inspired to Buy some Bison.

South to Grand Teton National Park, but first we needed to get around a couple of traffic jams at wild animal photo ops. A Park garbage truck driver was not pleased at the slow down, honking and gesticulating wildly to clear the way so that he might make his appointed rounds. .

Checking in at Colter Bay campsite, we listened to more bear warnings (one bear sighting per day), and were given the reassuring advice that we would be fine hiking nearby as long as we had our bear spray. What the Hell! That item was not in my ditty kit. We walked to the beach unarmed but vigilant. No huffing or puffing or grunting near the path. We survived.

Our Jackson Hole rendezvous with Connie and Rich happened at the Center For Creative Arts. Connie had curated a show of artists who had collaborated, poets with painters and sculptors (and contributed her poetry.)

Touring some of the facility, we came across another temporary exhibit with one piece that seemed apropos given all the warnings about trash and bears:

At dawn, we pulled up stakes (actually thank goodness we no longer had that chore), dumped the black/grey water to lighten our load over the pass and headed back west to Pendleton Oregon.

Eleven hours later (mostly highway driving dealing with some hefty crosswinds) we found our Pendleton KOA. Our site was right next to a federal agent who parked his big black SUV next to his large trailer (a more permanent resident). Our cement pad cracked under the back wheel, but at least it did not turn into sink hole. The view at sunset made up for the crumbling space.

Pendleton Woolen Mill was our highlighted stop the next day, after a walk along the dike until the town woke up (nothing was open until 10 am). We did walk away with a blanket (with flaw and discounted price) plus a western shirt for me. My excuse, we were in the town where the Pendleton Rodeo stirs up plenty of dust so I needed to blend in.

If you have ever heard of Sam Hill, you will know he loved building with cement whether it was a highway, mansion in Seattle, the Maryhill Museum or his version of Stonehenge. You gotta love his vision even if the end result was choking fumes and paving of paradise. The Maryhill Museum was initially envisioned as a utopian community and when that failed, a museum was born. Rotating exhibits of indigenous artists pulled us in, though some permanent exhibits of Rodin sculpture and Romanian furnishing are worth a look.

Sam Hill’s Stonehenge is one remarkable oddity high above the Colombia River gorge. The story goes that this exact replica (of the original Stonehenge design) is not quite in the proper alignment to signify the accurate days of the solstice , but whose quibbling over a few degrees. No Druids buried here, only Sam Hill’s gravesite down below the edifice, sitting alone on a bluff.

I only asked for one more detour on the road home, and that was to check out the changes in Tieton outside of Yakima, off of Route 12. Years ago, two Seattlites had a vision and bought two old apple warehouses to make it a reality. One warehouse was converted to condos, and the other for art installations and climate controlled storage of coffee table art books. Now a small artist colony has developed that has aspired to be inclusive of the surrounding Latino community. Around the square are a couple of Mexican restaurants, a local grocery store, a community art center, a Tieton Made shop selling locally created goods, some studios and office space. Most spaces were closed. Weekends appear to be the best time to visit. We will return on the Day of the Dead.

Back in Seattle, it was a relief to dismount from the beast of a van yet we both feel this mode of travel has its advantages. Cabana is offering 15% discount on our next trip. Where to next?