The Rag Doll

Going through some papers, I just found this essay I wrote while riding the bus in San Francisco on November 6, 2002. I'm observing a bag lady who is so covered in rags that I never actually saw her face:

The woman is completely covered in tattered rags and torn clothing. Not one square inch of skin is visible to the outside world, even her eyes are hidden. How she sees enough to walk is somewhat of a mystery.

She scribbles notes on a stray news page - something about cab drivers. Bags and bundles of belongings follow her on her journeys throughout the city; I have come across her on nearly every bus line.

How do I know it is a woman? The frame that holds up this curious bit of obvious invisibility is so small, the wind might blow her away, like the trash she lugs around.

Where does she live? What must her house look like? Perhaps she's homeless. Yet there's something about her that seems proud, like she knows more than we do and must protect us from that knowledge.

Perhaps she's an alien. If one were of the scaly, green-skinned variety, and, say, trapped or left behind here on Earth, one would have to make due.

She just got off at Fillmore and Sacramento wearing tennis shoes. I get the sense that she's Chinese, maybe because I often see Chinese people wear air filter masks. Are they smart or just paranoid? I always wonder.

Mostly I think no one sees the Rag Doll but me.

God, I miss the bus.

(Photo: Liz Hafalia/SF Chronicle)

Mountain Man

Remember back when the new $20 bills came out? About six years or so ago? My job at the time had me in charge of the Seattle launch of these bills. (I was but one of a large team of folks doing this all over the country.)

Since it was a day of history, I thought it'd be cool to have an American hero buy the first latte with a snappy new Andy Hamilton, funky colors and all.

Luck led me to Jim Whittaker, the first American to summit Everest (on May 1, 1963). Not only was he game for my little media shindig but he showed up to the event on time, with his lovely wife, Diane Roberts, and was the happiest fellow ever. He cheerfully did whatever I asked of him - say a few words, whip out the new $20, buy a coffee, pose for photos, etc. - and did it amiably.

Now here's a fellow who not only was the first to plant the American flag at the summit - after having run out of oxygen - but he went on to do it 250 more times.
When President John F. Kennedy presented him with The Hubble Medal for the initial ascent (after his hometown, Seattle, threw him a parade), Jim famously uttered what has now become a bumper sticker philosophy:

"If you aren't living on the edge, you are taking up too much space."

Two years later, Kennedy's brother, Sen. Robert Kennedy, visited the Northwest and developed an interest in climbing Mount Kennedy, an unconquered Canadian peak named for his late brother.

"I said, 'Has he ever climbed before?' No. 'Does he know this peak has never been climbed before?' Yes, but he still wants to go...We stopped 50 feet below the summit and he walked up and became the first human being to stand there....That was a wonderful experience. It was one of those times when the tears freeze on the front of your parka. He was in better shape than some of the guys I had on Everest. I couldn't believe it."

--Jim Whittaker, on guiding Robert Kennedy to the first ascent of Mount Kennedy

Jim and Sen. Kennedy instantly became buddies and would take off on climbing, skiing and rafting trips together. Unfortunately, Jim was head of Kennedy's campaign in Washington when Kennedy was assassinated in 1968. Jim was a pallbearer at Kennedy's funeral.

"I'm telling you, he would have changed the planet," Jim has said in interviews. "That was a very tough time."

And if that weren't all enough for historical credentials, note that Jim was also the first full-time employee of Recreational Equipment, Inc., what we know now as REI. I've read that he was also its CEO for a time. Not shocking.

But after all these accomplishments and things he'd seen, you know what he talked to me about? His wife. He just kept bragging about her and her own climbing accomplishments. My brain has lost track of specifics but I recall hearing the phrase "the first woman to climb ..." quite a few times. He beamed at her and she gave a cute, "Aw, shucks" look. Totally endearing.

Anyway, I recently conducted some business at the Colorado Mountain Club in Golden. One of the lovely gals I'd met with happened to have one of Jim's boots from the original Everest ascent in 1963. (They were adding it to the Mountaineering Museum a floor below.)

That monster weighed at least 3-4 pounds, and that is without crampons. It was huge - I could have lost an arm in there. Here is my foot in comparison:

Literally and historically, those are some big ass shoes to fill.

My Refuge

When I feel overwhelmed, which is most of the time, I hightail it for the nearest patch of green, even if it is covered in ice. Washington Park, you are my quiet little sanctuary.

Stock Show Stuff

Meet Silverado Shadow, the biggest kid on the playground. At five years old, he weighs in at 1700 pounds. His horn span measures seven feet, tip to tip, and even though he looks like the biggest, baddest Longhorn you've ever seen, he's also a kind, gentle fellow who will eat from your hand.

He's just one of the many friends I make volunteering at the National Western Stock Show every year. This weekend, I spent my time helping out with the Wild West Show and we were encouraged to dress in costume. HEAVEN.

I still shake my head in wonder when I think about how I had to move east to really understand The West but it's so true.

As a nation, we look westward, always have. When you grow up in LA, you don't think toward any direction at all because you are already there, which gives you plenty of time to worry about your tan and sit in traffic.

And so, I must declare that there may not be any place so fervently Western in this country as the place where The West really began, right along the Continental Divide.

This year, I got to help with dragging a giant metal 'Ring of Fire' into the arena. Yup, it's a big metal hoop that was indeed set aflame so that a guy STANDING on TWO horses at full gallop could jump BOTH OF THEM through the flaming ring. Have I mentioned that horses hate fire?

You know what else they hate? Boredom.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Yes, I know - two Dad-themed posts in a row ... What can I say? I love the guy. Yes, I'll get to the unsavory grizzle that is the Real World eventually in this space for but for today, it's all about the Dadster.

I dug this photo up while researching his life. It makes perfect sense; at 76, he's still the most American Boy I know.

Missing Dad

One of the things I really love about my Dad is that he is always willing to be my model without question.

If, for example, I should say, "Hey Dad. Let me put these Confederate Flag flip-flops on your belly for a photo. Just be the backdrop, okay?", his response would undoubtedly be, "Okey-doke!"

And really, what's better than that? Answer: Nothing.

I should point out that I am not in charge of his facial expressions. He gets total artistic freedom with that.

So Long, Mr. Wood

There are teachers and then there are Teachers.

Quentin Wood, "Mr. Wood" or "Woody" to us kids, was one of the latter. He was born to teach and and it was a joy to watch him do so at Lakewood High School. Mr. Wood passed away last week at the age of 66 from liver cancer. Soon after, my Facebook page filled up with sad updates from my former classmates that all read the same: "I loved him!"

So, remember how in high school, we were all trying so hard to be cool but having no idea how to pull it off? Well, Woody was naturally cool and we admired him for this. Despite his wacky, gregarious nature, he never wavered from his suit-and-tie get-up, no matter what. This alone made him stand out at the beachy, suburban high school. Looking back now, it makes perfect sense. Woody was a Professional, through and through.

In addition to his fantastic style, what made Woody so beloved is that he taught with great humor. You wanted to hear what he had to say in class, in case you missed a great line. Mouthy dumb asses stood no chance whatsoever, he simply shamed them into silence. He also had a hipster presence when heading down the hallways of LHS. Because he was a smoker off-campus, he chewed gum a lot at work. I picture him in my mind, swaggering across campus like he owned the place and chewing gum like some distracted artist.

In truth, Mr. Wood was funnier and cooler than any of us could ever hope to be in our impending adulthoods...and we knew it.

At the very core of Woody's teaching ability was a deep love for his students. He genuinely enjoyed teasing us, challenging our minds and making faces behind our backs. (See photo.) I don't know where he got the patience but he pulled it off - class after class, school after school, year after year. A write-up in our hometown paper, Press-Telegram, included quotes from people describing him as a "true educator", "zany" and "just brilliant" at reaching students. All true.

As a side note, Woody was also a customer of my father's (he sold insurance) and they would occasionally get drunk together. In my mind, this gave Dad a sort of Rat Pack cool factor he did not previously possess. Both men were cut from the same cloth (although Woody's was much dressier) so I can only imagine their adventures ...

I felt compelled to write this up because I don't believe that day-to-day heroes like Quentin Wood should pass through this life without a big, fat "Huzzah!" He was a wonderful teacher, a delightful human being and, as my dad said, "A helluva nice guy." We were all better for having known him, his students especially.

So long, Mr. Wood. I hope they don't stop you for a hallway pass on your way up to the Principal's Office in the Sky ....

A Weekend in Aspen, Dahling

With my New Year's Eve plans up in the air, I made the brilliant last-minute decision to join Reid in Aspen, where he is 'stuck' working for a few weeks. What was supposed to be a 24-hour visit turned into 72 hours. Aspen is not unlike Hotel California ...checking out is one thing but leaving is another.

Aspen is a town so bursting with natural beauty that the locals have to adorn themselves, just to keep up with their glorious surroundings. The historic town is brimming with shiny, happy white people and unspeakably gorgeous scenery. Here's me at Aspen Furs, trying on a few things. As a struggling vegetarian, fur coats aren't going to be part of my wardrobe any time soon but I couldn't resist getting the feel.

I asked the proprietor if chinchilla still sold. "Sure," he said, "we just sold a chinchilla throw for $35,000."

That's right. A casual couch blanket the cost of a down payment on a house. Aspen has very little in common with the real world.

New Year's Eve was so magical. A huge community bonfire was raging right in front of our hotel (the charming Mountain Chalet, family-owned for decades) on the rugby field. From there, we all watched the gorgeous fireworks light up the town, those black diamond slopes and the entire Aspen mountain.

We spent the rest of our time checking out a nearby ghost town (Ashcroft), drinking with Hunter S. Thompson's ghost at Woody Creek Tavern, watching other people exercise, exploring Explore bookstore and their incredible pescatarian restaurant above it, drinking vodka infused with Earl Grey at The Library in Hotel Jerome and hanging out in a very large hot tub.

We also checked out two new films, "Avatar" - an epic masterpiece that blew my mind so hard, I actually needed Excedrin to recover - and "Sherlock Holmes" - a rollicking good time which made us both grateful that Robert Downey, Jr. never did overdose.

All in all, a perfect way to sweep out the old and welcome in the new.

Post-Holiday Thotz

Technically, we've still got New Year's Eve to get through - with a full moon, no less! - but the blur of the season has mostly passed.

I arrived home last night after a wonderful visit with the Mississippi family and today, I feel a bit wrangled. That 'where-am-I-supposed-to-live?' feeling is extra intense. Saying goodbye to people you love makes you wonder why you live so far away.

I love this photo of my 6-year-old nephew, Robbie, waiting for the adults to clean up the dinner dishes so that the unwrapping can being. I so remember this feeling of impatience. I remember looking at the adults who were casually chatting and thinking to myself, "What are they DOING??? Do they even know what day it is? What we could be doing right now? How can they just TALK?!?" I imagine Robbie had the same confusion.

This year, I had a the terrific joy of gifting my father with a book about his life. (Thanks, Blurb!) I'd planned to do it last year but my scanner died on me and my ancient Mac wasn't up to the task. After a full equipment upgrade, the project continued and I spent the last three months scanning and designing the book entitled, "A Bob's Life: The Life and Times of Robert Edward Clisby, Jr."

He was stunned and amazed. He just kept looking it over and saying, "Heather Ann! I can't believe you did this! You could not have given me a better gift."He really loved the book and it was so satisfying for me.

Friends and family who came over were also taken with it, especially the men. Watching their faces, they intensely scrutinized every page with serious concentration. Maybe there's something in there about a man's legacy that touched them deeply. Their faces all said the same thing: "I want one for my life." So, get crackin' people!

Here is my lovely sister-in-law, Mary Ann. She is always teaching me about what it means to be a Southern Woman. Rule #1 - You must have several jars of bacon grease on hand for cooking. Here she is demonstrating her collection of THREE jars in the fridge. She's an amazing cook and now I know the secret ...

Dadgum. I miss them all so much today.

Cross-Post: Visiting Santa's Reindeer Fleet

(This is a cross-post from BlogHer. I seem to be brimming with holiday joy this year and I've decided not to fight it.)

In trying to wrap my head around Santa's looming global task, my mind wandered to his flying fleet. Just who were these magical creatures of the season? In an effort to learn about the elegant reindeer, I soon found myself (along with two pals) at the Laughing Valley Ranch in Idaho Springs, Colorado, face-to-antlers with Mrs. Claus (Carol Lee) and a real live reindeer herd.

Lo and behold, I had no idea that the 85-acre ranch is also a training ground for Santa's elite fleet. (That's right, THE Santa - not the guys at the mall.) Since these animals only live 15-20 years, new recruits are always being sought for the most coveted job in reindeer-dom.

The name 'reindeer' is actually the Northern European term for 'caribou', in the same way that that 'burro' is the Spanish word for 'donkey.' (Reindeer are commonly known as domesticated caribou.) There are at least seven sub-species of caribou but Santa favors the Pearyi Caribou, as they are smallest, just three or four feet at the shoulders. Of course, these reindeer are native to the North Pole.

Turns out, only 1 in 3,000 Pearyi reindeer have what it takes to be part of Santa's fleet. Each animal must be in peak physical condition to perform the herculean task of bringing Christmas joy to the world's children. Once trained, these unique animals will have to fly 75 million miles over a 48-hour period (December 24-25) at 650 miles per second. (Many times the speed of sound but not quite the speed of light, meaning they arrive long before Santa's "Ho, ho, ho!"'s do.)

Santa's fleet is usually made up of steers (castrated males) or cows (females) but never bulls (intact males.) This is because they are usually too grumpy and weak from the autumn rut - the stressful mating season. During the rut, bulls will go without eating for up to 45 days and often lose their antlers just before Christmas. (Antlers are necessary for flight, providing stabilization much like the wings and tail of an airplane.) The final reason: Bulls don't live as long, just seven to 10 years.

Carol (born on Christmas Day) was kind enough to give us a tour of the ranch, while her husband, Bill (Father Christmas, Chief Wrangler and the storyteller known as 'Red Tail the Mountain Man') was out with two reindeer at some scheduled holiday appearance. Bill started with two reindeer about 25 years ago and the herd has grown. When I'd asked Bill on the phone how many reindeer he had, he responded firmly, "Nine, of course!"

I discovered that to own and exhibit reindeer in the United States, you have to be licensed, as they are considered 'exotic animals.' This license is dispensed by the Department of Agriculture, out of its APHIS department - which handles the exhibition of exotic animals. It also helps to belong to the Reindeer Owners and Breeders Association (ROBA) which offers the tagline: "Reindeer .... Not just for Santa anymore!"

Like their cousins, moose and elk, reindeer lose their antlers each winter, and grow them suckers right back in the new year. Carol says they grow up to one to two inches a day. A giant brush from a street cleaning truck stands end up on their pen - ideal for scraping their annual velvet off their antlers. "You can almost see them growing," said Carol. "You touch them and can feel them pulsating."

Originally, reindeer were found in Scandinavia, Eastern Europe, Russia, Mongolia, and northern China. In North America, they were spotted in Canada, Alaska, and from Washington to Maine. In the 19th century, reindeer were still wild in southern Idaho. Although still wild in the Arctic and Subarctic, reindeer can be found on various ranches throughout the Northern U.S. (There are three in Colorado alone.)

Seeing the reindeer in person is like seeing anything iconic image in real life, not unlike the first time I laid eyes on the Sydney Opera House. Yup. There they were - big antlers, funky beards, barrel bellies and those very, very odd split hooves. They are wide 'dew claws' that act like snowshoes or fins in the water. (Turns out, reindeer are not just skilled in the air, but in the water as well.) Moving around, they 'click, click, click' with their hooves and antlers. And while they all have individual personalities, both Carol and Bill agree: "They're like Siamese cats with antlers." Kind of skittish, weird and yes, cute.

Being outside in chilly weather is key to the animal. "If you bring them indoors, they start to pant and get very uncomfortable," said Carol. In addition to special nasal passages that help heat the cold air before it enters their lungs, the reindeer coat has two layers of fur - a dense woolly undercoat and longer-haired overcoat consisting of hollow, air-filled hairs. In short, the perfect winter animal.

I should mention that Laughing Valley Ranch has more than just reindeer roaming around. We met eight Scottish Highlanders (hippie cows), 15 goats, nine Shetland sheep, two 'generic' sheep (Murphy & Chuck), bunch o'chickens (they sell eggs), dogs (three inside, three outside and 20 foster pups, including three wolf-hybrids), 12 llamas (including Fozzie, who loves to kiss the girls), 30 donkeys, mules, horses and one alpaca named PacMan. Everybody gets fed twice a day except the cows and the reindeer. Why? Because both animals have four stomachs.

My favorite? It has to be Heather, the pygmy goat with the broken leg in a cast. She lives in the gated playground in the front yard and is snugly by nature. She is one of Carol's 'bottle babies', animals that have had to be brought in to the house to be bottle fed. Carol is clearly the mother of all these creatures and it is she who names all the animals.

Although I shouldn't forget Primrose, the world's first donkey to be fitted with a prosthetic. (She's a big star on PBS.) "She's a real sweetheart," said Carol.

Throughout the year, the Lees provide animals for petting zoos (two of each animals) but for six weeks out of the year, Operation Reindeer goes into high gear. That's when the couple's five horse trailers get put into action as they deliver animals for nativity scenes, children's zoos and any Santa-scene where reindeer are required. "From the day after Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve, we are in demand," said Carol. It's quite a task to even imagine and each reindeer needs their own 'elf' to keep all the pointy madness under control.

People like Carol and Bill put in a lot of hours to help keep the Christmas magic alive. It makes me feel grateful for the whole shebang, which is the whole point of the season, right? My take-away from my visit to Laughing Valley Ranch is this: Make your best effort - no matter your spiritual beliefs or non-beliefs - to keep your eyes on the skies late tomorrow evening. You might just see some funny-looking hooves float above head...

Ho-Ho-Ho!

(More photos from the day's visit here.)

Maximum Joy

It's been quite a week of nonstop birthday and holiday revelry - my cup runneth over. These lights on the state courthouse resemble the inside of my brain lately; in a word, LIT.

Energy-wise, I hit a wall more than once but dug deep and kept going. In an effort to allay the fatigue and accompanying headache, I took what I thought were three Ibuprofen. I realized the next day they were actually three Tylenol PM's, which would explain why I'd passed out like a rag doll in broad daylight.

And this time of year, it doesn't let up. If I wasn't celebrating my birthday (thanks, everyone!), I was helping my pal, Reid, celebrate his. I think the Friday bash at his place was unquestionably the Party of the Year - tons of people, food, booze and live music. (His son, Jay, plays bass in a kick-ass group called Green Mountain and they are very tight, very loud - the best combination.)

Somewhere in there, my childhood pal, Kristen, flew in for a visit. Thankfully, she is super easygoing and was happy to tag along wherever I went. After four whirlwind days of parties, holiday jaunts, concerts, animal visits, shopping, spiritual journeys and family reunions, I put her on a train bound for Chicago today - our 38-year friendship deepened and our bodies, exhausted.

Here's Kristen, getting llama kisses from a flirty beast named Fozzie. (I dragged Kristen and Reid along to a reindeer ranch for a Blogher assignment. Will cross-post here later but here are some photos now.)

And so, the madness continues. In approximately 11 hours from now, I will set off on my own journey to New Orleans. My dad will pick me up at Louis Armstrong Airport and we'll visit our favorite place for whiskey drinks and sweet potato fries. We'll catch up and delight in seeing each other's face and eventually, we'll drive to Ocean Springs, Mississippi. There, we'll celebrate Christmas as we always do - with lots of laughter and love, on the bayou.

Happy Holidays everyone!

BELIEVE

Over Thanksgiving, we visited the family's legendary mountain retreat, Chez Clisby, in Green Valley Lake, California. Some friends came along with their 18-month old beer-retriever and a snowy good time was had by all.

One of the weekend-after-Thanksgiving traditions at little Green Valley Lake is the Holiday potluck held at the club house down by the lake. On Saturday evening, everyone brings a dish to share, Santa visits and the flip is switched on the main tree lights ... Ta-da! There's also caroling, hot chocolate and a silent auction of local goods.

This year, too much dawdling and last-minute cocktail-making made us tardy and we missed Santa's appearance. We were worried about my nephew's disappointment but he took it in stride: "That's okay. I'll see him in Mississippi. He comes there too."

Robbie is at that age where his parents are fiercely protective over his Santa beliefs. I certainly support this effort - it certainly helps keep Christmas that much more magical for the whole family. After all, we all former Santa believers and once that spell is broken, you never get it back.

But later that next day, we all witnessed a scene that quite possibly brought us all back to that lovely, suspended stage of belief.

We were all walking back from Inspiration Point when out of the woods, came an elderly fellow with a long, white beard and a black dog. Mary Ann yelled and pointed, "Robbie, it's SANTA!" Robbie turned and stared at the man and the rest of us just crossed our fingers that the fellow would play along.

He did. And then some.

Mary Ann explained to the man that they had missed him the night before a the town gathering. After some initially risky statements about some Santa gigs he'd had at South Coast Plaza, Mary Ann got him back on track just in time:

"Well, hello Robbie! And what would you like for Christmas this year?"

My nephew's face was completely awestruck. He got out of his wagon, approached the gentleman and stuck out his hand in greeting. What a little man! After a bit of conversation, he said to the man, "Santa, I didn't know you had a dog! I have a black dog too. His name is Joe and ..."

"My dog's name is Rudolph. He turns into a reindeer when I need him to," said Santa.

"REALLY?!?" said Robbie. This would give him a whole new appreciation for Rudolph.

After some picture taking and whatnot, Santa bid us goodbye and wished us all a Merry Christmas and reminding Robbie to leave out milk, cookies and "a carrot for Rudolph." Robbie was completely starstruck, watching him walk away. The old man ambled down the road a ways then let out a booming ... "HO HO HO!'

It was then that the rest of us got chills, like the Christmas Spirit just whooshed right through us. Corny? TOTALLY.

After that, we told Robbie about eight million times how lucky he was to meet Santa on his 'day off' in his 'regular clothes' and 'with no other kids around.' He just kept smiling.

Later that night, as he was falling asleep by the fire, we were talking about the exciting episode again. "You know, at first I didn't really believe that it was really Santa," he said.

"Oh yeah?," I responded. "What convinced you?"

"He knew my name," he said.

The old fellow had picked up on Mary Ann's cue without skipping a beat ...right? Hmmm, when I really think about it, I'm pretty sure Santa knew Robbie's name all along.

Yuletide Feline

So, there I was, helping my friend, Reid, trim his Christmas tree when I lifted a branch and found two bright eyes. His kitty, Beaudreux (he let me name him), thought we'd brought home the tree just for him.

Ignite Boulder 7 Tonight!

If you had five minutes on stage what would you say?

Let's say you only got 20 slides - that rotated automatically after 15 seconds - to make your point, what would you show? Around the world, geeks have been putting together Ignite events to make their points.

Ignite was started in Seattle in 2006 by Brady Forrest and Bre Pettis. Since then, hundreds of talks have been given across the world but none better than in Boulder, Colorado.

At Ignite Boulder 6 in September, I was fortunate enough to present ("Screw Logic: An Unbelievable Look At Bizarre Beliefs") and I've only just now found the video from my talk. I didn't do too bad although you can see that the advancing slides got ahead of me, a typical problem. I had a ton of fun putting it together and the heckling crowd made me giggle.

I look forward to tonight and all the brainy geekdom. There are still tickets left so come by if you can - you won't regret it.

Passport - Found!

Sure, we all lose things as we trample through life. I go through phases, for sure. Just recently, I lost a beloved hat, a favorite scarf and a few other things within the space of a few days. God, I was pissed.

Eventually, I'll forget. (Although there are a few pieces of jewelry that are gone that I will never get over. To this day, I believe they were stolen from my hotel room. BITTER.)

This is what happened with my original passport circa 1990. I'd gotten it to explore Europe with the Dowdy Brothers. I'd hurriedly obtain a photo and it ended up being the best photo ever taken in my entire life. (I was not as lucky with the current passport photo in which I resemble a greasy, bespectacled church lady.)

For a traveler, the first passport is magical. Literally, it is your ticket around the globe. I used this original passport to explore at least 20 countries. Such experiences opened my eyes, stretched my perspective and enriched my brain. All this due to a small blue booklet.

Sometime after my trip-'round-the-world in 1996, I lost the passport. Desperate, I looked everywhere but it had disappeared. All those wonderful, exotic stamps from faraway lands - gone! I was so bereft over losing it that it took me years to cancel it and apply for a new one; I kept holding out hope that it would resurface.

Over Thanksgiving this year, I was going through some drawers in my mother's house - upstairs in the game room, next to the ping-pong table/pool table. I pulled out a bunch of essays from college ("The Deteriorating Image of Marriage"), my graduation certificate from junior high and ... the long lost passport.

JOY! There was the photo of a young blonde Heather, wide-eyed and ready for adventure. There was the initial stamp from an immigration officer at London's Heathrow on June 6, 1990 - the first of many.

Flipping through, I recalled how many of the visa stamps were required before leaving the U.S. It was frightening to drop my passport in the mailbox, addressed to various embassies in DC, hoping ...PRAYING, that it would find its way back to me. I had to do that at least four times (Zambia, Australia, Zaire, Tanzania) and each instance was a nail-biter.

Best stamp of all: A muddy footprint on the final page, the remnant of a harrowing episode that involved a bus, a beach, two nuns, a guy from New Jersey, polizia, mass confusion and me spending several hours in an Italian jail - a story for another time.

Back to Work

After sipping on a lovely cocktail of post-layoff emotions (one part relief, one part joy, one part panic - stirred, served tall) for six months, I've finally landed a legit gig. Yay!

From now through February, I'll be working on an event for the Colorado Office of Film, Television and Media. I'll be working with some cool peeps and, even better, gathering up tech and entertainment brainiacs for a panel, a party and an exclusive screening.

I'm so jazzed to have a project to sink my teeth into and flex those manifesting muscles once again. I hope I don't scare everyone off with my over-enthusiasm and 3:00 a.m. emails.

Another Argument For Having Kids

Beer delivery.

I shot this at our cabin last weekend. Emerson is just 18 months old and very determined to please her daddy, Matt May.

My Bro, The Survivor

Back home in Colorado after a week of food and hijinks with the tribe in California. We all took gravyloads of photos but here is one of my faves.

My brother, Rob, making yet another turkey sandwich wearing a souvenir t-shirt from a devastating natural disaster. I found this incredibly American in spirit. After all, nothing is so bad, so terrible that we can't make a t-shirt out of it.

Art Begets Art

Earlier this year, while pulling paparazzi duty on the Kentucky Derby red carpet, I snagged this photo of football great, Eli Manning. I posted the photo, along with many others, on Flickr and lo! I got feedback.

One of them came from an incredible soul, Susan J. Richards. She and her husband share in raising a special needs son. To relax and reflect, she paints in acrylics.

Somehow, she came across my photo of Eli and asked me if she could paint it. It was very sweet of her to ask, really. In return, I requested a shot of the finished product. She came through and here it is:

Pretty nice, eh? I love that she captured the eye twinkle that I saw from my own viewpoint behind the lens.

I just love it when one person's art inspires art in another. It feels great to be part of that chain.

"Boarding pass and ID, ma'am."

Later today, I'll hop on that SuperShuttle and head to DIA to join the holiday migration. I'm heading to Long Beach, where my mother will make too much food and my brother, sister-in-law, cousin and nephew and I will try to work it off on the Wii.

I'm looking forward to seeing my family, of course, but am scared of all the food - the responsibilities of cooking it, eating it, cleaning up after it and, as my mom will say, "Finish it off!" And, I admit, I don't look forward to giving up the crisp fall weather here for the standard issue 75-degree day. Every. Day.

Meanwhile, I took these photos at an organic turkey farm that we visited on Sunday, about 30 miles east of Denver. I'll do a full post about it soon because it ties in with all the animal-food-environment-spirituality stuff that I'm burying my head in lately. Lots of revelations all over the place but basically, it comes down to one thing: Eat local when you can.

More photos from our turkey jaunt here.