Beyond cows, coloring books and Greenwood Park

An accomplished artist friend of mine painted a marvelous account of Texas Longhorn steers. They are not your everyday longhorns. They are blue and green and purple. Something between color-blocking and paint by number but totally original and really neither of those…and certainly not static.

Then I came across an NPR article by Steve Drummond. (The People Vs. Coloring Books: The Verdict Is In,July 2)

The illustration by LA Johnson is of four cows in various colors, only two of which resemble real cow coloring.


The childlike drawings reminded me of my friend’s painting (which I now own) so I read the article which made me want to read the referenced book, Creative and Mental Growth by Viktor Lowenfeld.

When I was very young coloring was okay because I could use whatever colors I wanted; the “paint-by-number” stuff I got for Christmas one year bored the heck out of me after I’d tried out a couple of the pages. When my kids were little I taped brown paper around the living room walls and let them color to their hearts content. Outside the lines never bothered me.

Evidently it doesn’t bother Mr. Lowenfeld, either. He sees art as a way of life for children and believes we need to understand their view of the world…which is creatively expressed through their artistic endeavors.

I’ve long been a proponent of art in schools. I have always believed art education is not only desirable, but crucial to the development of our human sensibilities.

Art, whether it be painting or performance, large or small, architectural or botanic, fosters our innate sense of harmony even in epic depictions of war and violence. It calls up the tragic, comedic or breathtaking beauty in our soul so we can translate it visibly or audibly. This applies to our creation of an art and to our response to various art forms. Art teaches perspective, proportion, sharing, discipline, tradition. It develops fine motor skills. It teaches practical skills.

The only reason i know how to use a jigsaw is because my 6th grade art teacher taught me. She also taught glass etching, mobile making and all the planning and critical thinking that goes with it. My first encounter with “real” art came when I discovered paintings by Piet Mondrian at The Des Moines Art Center tucked away in Greenwood Park not far from a public swimming pool. The building designed by Eliel Saarinen, I. M. Pei was architectural art in itself. It has since been added onto without losing its original integrity.

Saarinen1 preview

Saarinen DM Art Center

Pei Courtyard preview

I. M. Pei DM Art Center

Art teaches patience. Art allows imagination and communication to be explored and expressed. Artists good at their craft acknowledge they have learned from and built upon those before them. So we also have a legacy of cultural and historical understanding. Problem solving and thinking skills are developed and strengthened. Art sets a foundation for the technological literacy necessary today as never before. I could go on and on, but you get the idea…and probably have some of your own.

Perhaps the purveyors of the fadish adult coloring books are inadvertently on to something apart from stress relief. Perhaps, if they had been more expose to more art  and art forms earlier, adults wouldn’t feel so stressed in the first place.

Art joy


Adult coloring

What if we lifted our eyes to the sunlit sky and let our hearts open to the thought that the idea of color is internal, not external? That every skin color is just as beautiful and radiant as any “color that is lovely in the rainbow or the flower, every hue that is vivid in a ribbon or sombre in the grave harmonies of some old Persian rug, the metallic luster of the humming bird or the sober imperial yellow of precious china.” Samuel Pierpont (Langley, 1889: The New Astronomy)

Color is only a name given to the collective effect of sun, retina and optic nerve on something, not the thing itself, just as a number is a representation, a name for a concept, not the number itself. Color is non-existent without a watchful eye and alert brain to interpret the sensation of color.

What we see as color is an inexplicability from the sun that animates a sensation in our eye and is then interpreted internally according to our biased experiences, culture, thinking, education.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” has more behind it than the now well-worn cliche from Margaret Wolfe Hungerford’s 1878 novel Molly Bawn. Beauty and the object or person observed exist only in the eye that sees it. Arguably skin is not the person. But it does manifest that way IF we let our prejudices control the interpreting of our mental impressions.

It is in each of us to dig deep within, ferret out the sound bites, the knee-jerk reactions, the media hype, erase the unfounded, the opinionated, to examine our own beliefs and then, and only then, act on the “lovely”, the “vivid”, the ‘luster” of color and what it really means as applied to mankind and his future.

Hot times in old towns of yesteryear

My husband and I were traveling fast from CA to Kansas City. There wasn’t any particular reason for speed except we wanted to get to my sister’s place. Driving through Kansas is pretty much a bore. Until… Suddenly I caught sight of a sign out of the corner of my eye…Council Grove. I pointed it out to Gene noting that’s where his dad was born…which is about all we knew about his dad’s origins. He and his brothers never talked about their childhood. Of course we turned around to follow the sign. It was one of those little green ones with the sparkly white letters. We found ourselves following a road down a fairly steep hill, which eventually flattened out and meandered into a small, old town, just barely stepped out of yesteryear. The sides of the street were peppered with those historic marker signs telling you something happened on that spot. We didn’t know until we read some of those that Council Grove was one of the last stops on the Santa Fe Trail.

But we were looking for the more esoteric, less epic Lampson history.

The square brick two story building identified as the Library seemed a likely place to start. We explained our mission to the librarian. She got pretty excited…like a sleuth with a new case or a young girl opening a letter from her lover. She led us to the basement where they had gathered up and stored old scrapbooks from waaay back donated by local citizens. (Yes, scrapbooking is NOT NEW!) They were full of pictures, old cards, and newspaper clippings, dried roses. Some entries were of stuff so unconnected we wondered why they were in the same scrapbook. I was especially taken with the notices about who visited whom from where and who was doing what. It was probably interesting neighborhood gossip at the time, but the underlying one-upmanship was very apparent and it made me chuckle. It’s not hard to see the beginnings of “society” pages!

We told the librarian our story…that all we really knew about my husband’s father was that he was born Jan. 2 in Council Grove, KS. She helped dig out likely scrapbooks and we started looking. We did find one small notice of someone visiting on the occasion of Max’s birth and some useless info about where the Lampsons had visited.


We were out of time, but so encouraged by search clues from the librarian, we got a room at The Cottage House, went to the Hays House for dinner and planned the next day as if we were mining for gold. My sister was as excited as we were when we called to say we’d be a day late getting in.

iu-1The Cottage House B&B

Hays House, the oldest continuously operated restaurant west of the Mississippi River.


We talked with a doctor who actually knew the Lampsons, but said lots of records were lost in a fire so that turned into a dead end.

On we went to Missouri to tell my sister and her husband the story so far. But it didn’t end there. Just wait until you read about Topeka and what happened on the way home!

Tuesday’s graceful child lets go

You know that old fortune-telling rhyme…

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay.

Somehow I got caught up in believing that. Which might not have been so bad had I not also believed I was born on a Wednesday or a Thursday. And had I not taken Thursday’s “far to go” as ominous. Why ominous? I have no idea. Far to go could very well have been an upward reach to the top, but somehow I connected it with Wednesday’s woe and it was just a private pity party from there.
I don’t know why I would entertain that this rhyme had any bearing on my life or personality. Possibly because I heard it so early in childhood.
As I got older sometimes I would read the fortune cookie I got at the end of a meal in a Chinese restaurant, but I never believed the messages and eventually I quit reading them altogether. I never had a Tarot card reading and never went to the fortune-teller tent at the fair. And yet Wednesday and/or Thursday’s child stuck with me.
As I grew older my faith grew into better understanding about my identity. And yet I carried those middle-of-the-week children around my neck as if they belonged to me.

Then one day, years later than it should have been done, I inexplicably looked up my birth date on a perpetual calendar. AHA! Tuesday! Well, that just changed my entire frame of mind and demeanor. Immediately. Instantly.

Freedom is a beautiful thing.

Times Flies, Goes Home and Becomes Memory

“The world is so full of a number of things, we should all be as happy as kings … .” — Robert Louis Stevenson

Some of those “number of things” are foods from other countries. Their tastes, textures and presentations are exotic new experiences guaranteed to excite taste buds unaccustomed to foreign cuisine and foreign ingredients. Some of those “number of things” are the friendships made as a result of being part of a foreign student exchange program through the American Field Service (AFS).

Wahizah Abdul Wahid of Malaysia has sent the Jack Stevenson family of Chula Vista to oriental markets for lemon grass and rambuten (a delicious, delicate fruit).

Karla Mota of Brazil has sent the Max Lampson family of Pacific Beach in search of manioc meal and dende oil, both staples of northeast Brazilian cooking.

Helena Nordman of Finland has promised the Walter Gill family of Clairemont that they will “love” the raw fish and smorgasbord of her native country.

These girls and their host families are representative of the variety of foreign students and American families exchanging culinary delights during the 1983-84 school year. Under the auspices of AFS International/Intercultural Programs, families in San Diego and its surrounding communities are hosting 32 high school students from 25 countries.

AFS is a private, non-profit, non-sectarian organization founded on the concept that individuals must learn to live together in order to achieve world peace. Its purpose is to promote better understanding among people and it strives toward that end through exchange programs which give foreign students and Americans a chance to really get to know each other.

And what better way to get to know someone than through food?

As the students and their host families share knowledge, skills and talents with each other, “host family” gives way to “my family,” “my mom,” “my dad.” The students, who come as ambassadors of international goodwill, become true daughters and sons as each family explores the culture of its newest member. Exchanges of customs, lifestyles and traditions are made as the students learn their way around American habits and lifestyles.

Food is always a vital topic with teen-agers, so it is not surprising that many of these exchanges take place in the kitchen. The opportunity to share new taste treats and show off culinary skills is irresistible. The results provide some interesting taste and nutritional experiences. Although the idea is not so much to change each other’s habits as it is to satisfy curiosity and increase knowledge of another culture, myriad American recipes have traveled to new homes in Europe, South America, Asia, Africa and Japan via the returning students. Countless American families have expanded their gastronomic horizons in adapting their students’ recipes to the vagaries of the American market. After students have returned home, it is not unusual for host families to get requests for “care packages” of goodies and ingredients unavailable to them in their own countries. These items range from chocolate chips to breakfast cereal. What we buy packaged here must often be made from scratch elsewhere.

Wahizah Wahid, a raven-haired beauty from Merlimau, Malacca, West Malaysia, has been living with Jack and Mary Stevenson, and their daughter, Ann, in Chula Vista. She accepts praise shyly but her black eyes sparkle with pleasure as she deftly works her way around the conversion of the gram and milliliter measures of Malaysia to our ounces and teaspoons.

Malaysia is a multiracial society of Malay, Chinese and Indian, which explains the incredible variety of flavors common throughout Malaysian kitchens. Authentic national styles have been retained and blended within religious dictates. Because the Wahid famiy adheres to a Muslim diet, they do not eat pork. But that does not mean that recipes calling for pork are ignored — they are instead adapted to beef or lamb. Spices abound. Cardamon and ginger are common. Curry powder is a do-it-yourself mix of tumeric, coriander and cumin.

Wahizah starts a new recipe measuring amounts carefully, but she relies on the tried-and-true taste test in the end, adjusting seasonings accordingly. Wahizah is a practical cook, much given to time and energy conservation. When a recipe calls for fresh ginger or garlic, tradition gives way to convenience as she reaches for jars of powdered spices. The ever-present tumeric, cumin and coriander of West Malaysia are readily available in the United States. A visit to an Oriental store is necessary, however, for coconut milk, lemon grass or rambuten.

Wahizah calls rambuten “the national fruit of Malaysia.” It is found canned here and is good when added to a fresh fruit compote, but it is eaten fresh off the tree in Malaysia.

Seafood, mussels, prawns, soft-shelled crabs and rice are staples of the Malay diet. At home, Wahizah eats beef perhaps once a week, seldom eats lamb (“one time a year”) and rice is dressed up by American standards. Breakfast in Malaysia includes fried rice.

As in many foreign countries, lunch is the biggest meal of the day. It consists of rice, fish or curry and fried “veggies.” (Wahizah is quick with the American slang.) Here, as in Malaysia, she comes home for lunch, but Mary Stevenson says she doesn’t eat much. Dinner is much the same as breakfast and is eaten late — about 8 p.m. Tea time — the time for sweets — is observed about 4:30 p.m.

Wahizah, who has become partial to spaghetti and Mexican food, says she will return to her native food habits when she returns to Malaysia in June. She said she will not miss the tomatoes and cheese she encounters in food here.

Karla Oliveira Mota, our AFS daughter, is from the state of Bahia in northeast Brazil. Bahia is a sun-drenched paradise which has its own special culinary arts. I am learning a good deal about the regional differences in Brazilian cooking since Karla came to live with our family.

She is not a structured cook. Recipes are rearranged with abandon and ingredients interchanged. Although some traditions are observed, every Bahian cook does things with her own special style and Karla is no exception. The freshest possible ingredients are mandatory, as my husband discovered when sent in search of fresh cilantro in December.

Becoming familiar with Bahian cuisine means understanding that there is no substitute for the proper ingredients. Dende oil is palm oil from Brazilian or West African oil palms. It gives a bright yellow-orange color to dishes and imparts a subtle but distinctive flavor. Manioc meal is another “no substitute” staple of the Bahian diet. A grainy, flour-like, fine meal, it is ground from the dried pulp of the root of a manioc plant. This becomes the basis for a family of side dishes called farofas, and when toasted and mixed with dende oil, it becomes a garnish for any number of dishes.

Being different in climate, people, history and language (Portugese, not Spanish) from the rest of South America, it is not surprising that the food of Brazil is also different. Brazilian cooking mixes Portugese, Indian and African influences.

Brazil is also the only place in South America where blacks have kept much of their original culture as the country has developed. In Karla’s home city of Salvador, this influence is dominant. Here, the Brazilian national dish — Feijoada Completa — is made with brown beans rather than the black beans used in the rest of Brazil. The African influence diminishes the further south you travel and by the time you reach Rio de Janeiro — 750 miles south — other traditions come to the fore.

In Bahia, cook-vendors set up their pots, braziers and tray tables along the streets and offer tempting treats such as Acaraje to passers-by. Acaraje is a mixture of shrimp and cowpeas fried crisp and brown by the spoonful. Custom dictates that Acaraje is always bought from the street vendor; one never makes it at home.

Living in an American home where running out of peanut butter and jelly spells disaster, Karla has had to make some adjustments in her eating habits. Sandwiches, for example, are not standard fare for lunch, the biggest meal of the day in Brazil.

Helena Nordman is from Helsinki, Finland, and is living with the S. Walter Gill family in Clairemont.

Her native land is a country of raw fish eaters and Helena’s gold eyes gleam as she talks about these uncooked delicacies eaten with vinegar and mustard. The meats and vegetables available in Finland are not so different from those Americans are used to. Barbara Gill said Helena “didn’t have much to get used to” with meats and vegetables, and that the young woman likes the fruits available in the United States. A short growing season in Finland necessitates the importation of fruit and when it’s available, it’s expensive. A day in Finland begins with a big breakfast of yogurt, open-face sandwiches and boiled eggs. And coffee, always, everywhere, in Finland there is coffee. “And, of course, clabbered milk,” Helena reminds. This yogurt-like substance is made with a starter (viili culture) stirred into milk and allowed to stand overnight. It coagulates overnight and is then ready for chilling. It is served sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon or seasoned with salt and eaten with dark bread. With a wistful smile, Helena concedes that she does miss Finnish black bread. Finnish bread is robust, substantial fare, the appearance of which Helena calls “ugly” compared to the bread in the United States. A better description might be crusty and hearty.

Because artificial ingredients (coloring agents and preservatives) are banned by law, Finnish food is natural and wholesome.

Although such familiar spices as dill and cinnamon are used, there doesn’t seem to be much preoccuption with them. Again, lunch is the big meal of the day. Helena says there is no such thing as a “sack lunch” in Finland. Whether at home, school or work, people take time to eat a substantial meal at noon. Meat, fish — especially salmon — and vegetables are standard midday food.

What has captured Helena’s fancy here is Mexican food — tacos and enchiladas. “And Chinese food,” she added. “We don’t have Chinese food like you do here.”

Terms must be clarified when talking to a Finn about pastries. They are not the sweet desserts Americans think of, but rather meat- and rice-filled pockets of dough. Sandwiches are not the filled concoctions of America, but open-face affairs with meat and cheese.

A Finnish feast in the Scandinavian smorgasbord tradition, the “bread and butter” table holds much more than that. It is a spread for company, and is not done just for the family, according to Helena. Fish, cold meat, cheese, boiled eggs, pickles and beautifully cut vegetables are included and, of course, many varieties of bread.

Food: steppingstone to world friendship
The Tribune – San Diego, Calif.

Author: Pamela C. Lampson
Date: May 16, 1984


Purple is kind of mysterious.

  • Deep or bright purples suggest riches.
  • Lighter purples are more romantic, delicate, and feminine.
  • Redder purples warm up your color scheme while the bluer purples are cool baby, cool.
  • Your choice which one describes Prince Rogers Nelson who was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Stone Temple Pilots also sing of Purple, but not Purple Rain.
  • Purple in France is fashion in a magazine.
  • Purple prose is not the blue some people think it is.

When I was a child I was given an amethyst geode by a rock-hound friend of my dad. I got to watch him open the stone  and we were all surprised by the gem inside. I also have a beautiful amethyst geode that belonged to my MIL as her b-day was in Feb. Purple was my favorite color long after the little girl “purple is my favorite color” stage. At 16 I was allowed…after considerable contentious pleading…to paint my bedroom purple. That violates all Feng-shui sensibilities, but what did I know…or care? But purple is also connected to spirituality and healing , which, if you believe in this stuff, would account for some of my best other-worldly thoughts and prayers.

In the history of cryptography, Angōki B-gata, codenamed Purple by the United States, was a diplomatic cryptographic machine used by the Japanese Foreign Office just before and during World War II.

Purple Heart medals are awarded to US servicemen wounded in combat.

And now I find there is a “Purple Economy”. Defined as that part of the economy which contributes to sustainable development by promoting the cultural potential of goods and services.

The 2nd International Purple Economy Forum took place, appropriately in Abu Dhabi with the theme “The cultural challenges of the globalized economy”.

Purple is a term sometimes used for governments or other political entities consisting of parties that have red and blue as their political colours. It is of particular note in two areas: in the politics of the Netherlands and Belgium and in the politics of the United States.

And of course there is Barney…a category unto himself!iuPurpleheart

Barney Hero Shot.

Barney Hero Shot.

Celebration time, c’mon, America persists and her dream sustains

The United States did not grow from empty concepts, nor is she kept alive with apathy.
America’s ideals and promises exist because her citizens believe and care and hope. They are maintained with sweat and devotion. They should be celebrated with fervor and passed on with zeal. Contemplation of the effort and courage it took to make both a reality is not always enough to sustain our belief. We need to touch and see and feel the spirit. We need to kindle that spirit persistently with dedication and commitment.

Despite her promises, America has used religion, race, heritage, economic status, gender and physical attributes and mental capabilities as bases for denial of equality.
And yet America persists. Her dream sustains. Her people endure. People clamor to come to her shores. Liberty continues to captivate the imagination of the world.

July 1986. I have watched the celebrations, listened to the speeches, read the personal accounts of disillusionment with the distance liberty has traveled during 210 years of American history. Now, in quiet reflection, I am able to answer those people who used this time to protest that America has not fully realized her potential and not completely fulfilled her promises.
To them I say:
My Irish ancestors, my French ancestors, my English ancestors and my Indian ancestors were all, at one time, in one way or another, discriminated against. But that was then and this is now. I have never been able to measure up to the slender sleekness that Madison Avenue thrusts upon us as the image of perfection. I have felt the humiliating sting of poverty in the land of plenty. I have been refused work because motherhood “might” interfere. But that was then and this is now.

Liberty cannot be measured by time nor by space. “how far” is not a distance history can cover by marching through quotas and time tables or arbitrary definitions of desire. Liberty is measurable only through the shining eyes and swelling hearts of her believers. Evidence of the gratitude, the pride, the care, devotion and love of those committed to her cause is abundant. A pause for celebration does not blind Liberty’s children to the collective and individual imperfections of America and her citizens. It does not ignore her shortcomings and it does not repudiate injustices, past and present.

Even the most ferocious battles are littered with strategic pauses and re-groupings, however brief. Celebration of an ideal should be one of those respites. Inability to leave the past in its proper place puddles ones perception of the present and clouds ones vision of the future with unnecessary murkiness. For one brief, shining moment Liberty’s flame should be allowed to chase our disappointments into the shadows.

There is no better refreshment for the spirit than unabashed patriotism. There is no better way to commemorate the visionary ideals and idealistic visions of our forefathers. We have erected impressive mental and physical symbols to remind ourselves of those visions and ideals.

Many of America’s children have heard the stories. They have not experienced the anguish, the sacrifices, the injustices endured by older generations, but they do have to cope with discrimination and injustices, dreams and desires repackaged in twenty-first century clothing. As they go about resolving these problems, we must show our children, vividly, eloquently, poignantly, why we cherish and protect the symbols of our freedom so that Liberty herself continues strong for future generations. They must know that vigilance is not a sometime thing, nor is it static. Celebration is but one manifestation of our passion. It is as necessary as the fighting spirit that gave us something to celebrate in the first place.

Perhaps the Statue of Liberty, the Stars and Stripes and the homage we pay them are but symbolic sparks, but held lofty and strong those sparks fuel magnificent fires. Without fuel a fire will die. Without hope human hearts will not and cannot struggle. Hopeful celebration should not be abandoned because we have not yet achieved perfection. America’s passions run deep. Her fire must not be allowed to grow cold.
America’s celebrations bear witness to the strength of her determination to never forget why she is here, nor lose sight of where she is going.

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