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Cool Hand Nick

Nick Sitinas celebrated his 50th birthday, and I took pictures with a point & shoot (P&S). Not the greatest, but hey!

Cool Hand Nick

White Slut

A remembrance of things past

I was on my way to work at McKinsey & Co., in New York early one morning in 1988. My apartment at the time was on Lexington Avenue and 28^th Street, a mixed neighborhood with Indian and Middle Eastern grocery stores, prostitutes on Park Avenue, and a welfare hotel that spilled its contents onto the street on hot nights. My thoughts were on setting up the computer lab for a training session on Lotus 1-2-3. Walking up Lexington Avenue I heard a woman’s tirade “you goddamn slut, good for nothing bitch!”

As I rounded the corner, I saw the intended target, a young girl of about five. Oh my god, the poor child flashed through my head, just as I was blinded by a punch. “Don’t you look at my child!” she screamed. Suddenly I was it. I saw her daughter race to the corner and stop, looking back. From the feel of the punch the woman was built like a Sherman tank. I dropped my briefcase and went into a defensive karate stance, praying that one year of karate training would pull me through this mini-crisis. My instructor’s mantra filled my head – never fight unless you absolutely have to, walk away if you can. I also knew that I had the advantage of the unexpected – a corporate-looking white woman who was ready to fight. She froze and looked at me, inciting me to make the first move. In that instant when our eyes locked I felt the spark. I wanted to take the bitch out, but I held my stance.

When you’re threatened you’re on hyper-alert. Your senses are at a peak, time stops, your eyes widen and see every minutiae. Unexpectedly I saw a man cross the street.

Oh, oh. Now I’ve really had it. Two against one.

“Hey, be cool,” he said to the Sherman Tank. “Just let it go.” Her shoulders slumped, but she had to have the last word. “White slut,” she said as she walked away.

Thanking the man, I left with relief, still corporate, my dress unwrinkled, my hair in place. I did have to explain to my boss why I had a black eye, and to this day I wonder what happened to the little girl. A friend, who was a psychologist, asked my why I didn’t report it and have the woman thrown in jail. I often think my friend was unrealistic. Parents aren’t jailed for calling their children names; they’re jailed for beating them up. The girl had to live with her mother. I could have made things worse for her. I do know that I set an example. I showed the girl that others can stand up to her mother and not be bullied. I hope she remembered that growing up.

Pyramid Hill

Pyramid Hill
One of my favorite spots near Cincinnati is the Pyramid Hill Sculpture Park. You turn into the park and immediately climb a steep windy road. Overlooking the Miami River in Hamilton, Ohio the park spreads out over 265 acres, and is filled with monumental sculptures.

Summer concerts are popular in Cincinnati and almost every township has some type concert scheduled weekly during June, July and August. Pyramid Hill featured Grammy award winning artist Marty Raybon (above) of Shenandoah on July 14, 2007. People bring picnics and blankets, spread themselves out over the hillside and listen to some outstanding country music. You can hear a clip of Marty singing at http://picasaweb.google.com/sophiazib/Video/photo#5090167277565625858

















This dome is fun to look at and even more fun if you crawl inside and look at the sky.

Tamale Fest

Homage to Tula Overton

Aurora approached the brownstone at corner Hayes and Shrader in San Francisco with a small shiver of delight. Her best friend’s mother, Tula, loved to party, and tonight she was preparing a feast. Tomorrow was Saturday and the flat would be full of relatives, and best of all, boys. If only her mother knew. She rang the bell. The door opened and she pranced up three flights of stairs to the top floor.

Tula was in full swing making nacas – Nicaraguan tamales. Yesterday she had boiled the fillings: pork, chicken, olives, pieces of potato, and sweet raisins. Then she had used the broth to make the dough, after adding the traditional spices and her secret ingredient, shredded Monterey Jack cheese. Today she had wrapped the tamales with soaked corn husks, and secured them with string, twisting the string a different way for each of the five varieties. The cooking was underway and would last all night. The apartment smelled yummy. Aurora peeked at the tightly packed, steaming tamales. They were plump, each six inches long and two inches thick. Like Tula, plump, and begging to be eaten.

Aurora loved Tula. She was so vivacious, so different from her own worried mother. And while Tula’s daughter, Julieta, wasn’t allowed to date, her mother made up for it by having wild Latin parties bursting with song and dance. Aurora sighed. She wished her parents were more like Tula. She wished fun wasn’t forbidden.

“Rorie,” Julie said, “my mom wants you to try on this dress. She wants you to have it if it fits.”

Julie was standing in the middle of the living room dangling a mustard-colored sleeveless corduroy sheath by the shoulder seams.

My mother will never let me accept this dress, Aurora thought. Accepting this would be an admission that we are poor. That’s ridiculous! Julie’s just as poor.

Aurora frowned. She had been hoping to sneak away for a few hours on Saturday afternoon, and this dress presented a dilemma. She’d have to tell her mother about the party and persuade her that Tula didn’t expect anything in return.

Maybe I can tell my mother about it, she thought. Mom’s not the puritanical one.

Aurora’s father was an enigma. He did not allow Aurora to date, to go to the movies, or to dance. He acted like a prudish evangelical Christian, yet he was a guitar playing atheist. Aurora remembered the times that she, her mother and her brother had spent clandestine Saturday afternoons at the Haight Street cinema watching cartoons and musicals. Her mother’s admonition, “Please, don’t tell your father,” had been completely unnecessary.

Aurora touched the dress. “Muchas gracias, Julie. Maybe I can borrow it. Can I change in your bedroom?”

After Aurora changed, she danced into the living room. Grabbing Julie’s hand, she started singing, “There is a rose in Spanish Harlem, a red rose up in Spanish Harlem. It is a special one, it's never seen the sun, it only comes out when the moon is on the run… La-la-la.” The last notes trailed off as the girls ended Ben King’s song in unison.

Credits: “Spanish Harlem” song by Phil Spector, lyrics by Jerry Leiber. Sung by Ben E. King, 1960. #10 on the top 40 charts in 1961, when this story is set.

Pond water

I love to look at what's floating in pond water. This picture was taken in October at Spring Grove Cemetery. Do you see the 3 leaf clover? St. Patrick's day is coming. Scroll down to see more about Spring Grove

Humor from Spring Grove Cemetery & Arboretum

You've gotta love this... the fact that there is an association for gravestone studies, and the tongue in cheek title. Only in a graveyard...

Venus, I suppose

One arm is gone and her breasts are bared. She guards the pond, or maybe she is a representation of the pond.

I moved from noisy, crowded Brooklyn to Cincinnati on October 1 of 2005. I thought I would make a lot of friends, since I now live in a large apartment complex. But, in a way it's lonelier here than in New York. In New York there is always something going on 24/7, and you don't need a car to participate. Here it's definitely a car culture. I lucked out by meeting two wonderful women with whom I go on photo shoots through a friend of a friend from New York. It's a small world. I'm looking forward to spring, and more wildlife returning. Maybe I'll get a bird feeder. The swallows are already circling around the trees outside my balcony and my car has birdshit on the windshield.

Spring Grove Cemetery & Arboretum

Spring Grove cemetery is located in Cincinnati. It is also an arboretum, and a quiet place in the middle of a somewhat noisy city. No noise like New York though! This is the pond where the ducks frolicked and the swan glided. There are miles of walking trails for the physically active. The 3.5 mile loop is unmarked as far as I can figure out. Maybe you follow the light green line in the center of the road from the starting point on the map. Have to check this out.

Swanee

This truly elegant swan was trailing his webbed feet while gliding through the water.

The most common city duck of all...

The male mallard was having a wild time. He raised himself out of the water.

Male Mallards

I was so pleased with my photo expedition today. My new Nikon captured mallards frolicking in the cemetery pond. The detail is incredible. I can see individual drops of water, and feather banding on the birds. Wish I had a macro for flowers and gemstones.