Instead of random family posts - I'm creating an online collection of stilgenbauer what-not.
Inspired by my father and his endless need to create (and my need to keep and display whatever I can), I started stilgenstories to keep it somewhat organized.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
A family history through plants
My father's illness has made me ever more aware that I am the last of my family and that everything we've created, built, made or done will matter little after I quit the mortal coil.
That's a difficult reality to face.
The thing I find myself mourning most is the garden.
We get the gardening from my mother's side. Direct ancestors came to NE Ohio from England to work on the Severance estate as gardeners, and we have spectacular pictures of them on handmade grapevine furniture in an outdoor living room.
Gardening remained a deep thread through over the years. My grandfather was the son of a family with orchards. My great-grandmother died when at age 88, she was carrying 50 lbs of canning equipment to the basement to get started for winter.
Growing up, we always had a garden, and I only understand now how extraordinary their commitment was. As I help my father in garden now, he tells me the history of almost every plant:
*the boxwood they bought in Ontario when I was in high school - all the bushes around the house came from two plants.
*the privet hedge that he cultivated from cuttings made illegally from the old rose garden at the beach (only the truly passionate would sneak into a park after sunset to cut privet hedge)
*the lilac volunteer that I took from the backyard of the florist's who hired me through college - it's still in a pot, 4 foot tall, and waiting for me to set my roots so it too can be planted, once and for all.
*the rose bush that was Grandma Margie's, then planted at The Pink House in Berlin Heights, that they managed to get from current owners before they tore out the old landscaping.
*the red honeysuckle they bought in Vermont when I spent two summers working there
Tree after bush after flower represents trips taken or milestones met - many have seen four generations of my family - it's like the plants ARE the family.
So I feel a bit guilty for being the last one -
Otto Schoepfle solved his dilemma by leaving his well-curated land to the Lorain County Metroparks, but this is a house on a street in an outer ring suburb...
And I need to figure out how these plants and their stories can live on beyond the lives of those that tended to them.
That's a difficult reality to face.
The thing I find myself mourning most is the garden.
We get the gardening from my mother's side. Direct ancestors came to NE Ohio from England to work on the Severance estate as gardeners, and we have spectacular pictures of them on handmade grapevine furniture in an outdoor living room.
Gardening remained a deep thread through over the years. My grandfather was the son of a family with orchards. My great-grandmother died when at age 88, she was carrying 50 lbs of canning equipment to the basement to get started for winter.
Growing up, we always had a garden, and I only understand now how extraordinary their commitment was. As I help my father in garden now, he tells me the history of almost every plant:
*the boxwood they bought in Ontario when I was in high school - all the bushes around the house came from two plants.
*the privet hedge that he cultivated from cuttings made illegally from the old rose garden at the beach (only the truly passionate would sneak into a park after sunset to cut privet hedge)
*the lilac volunteer that I took from the backyard of the florist's who hired me through college - it's still in a pot, 4 foot tall, and waiting for me to set my roots so it too can be planted, once and for all.
*the rose bush that was Grandma Margie's, then planted at The Pink House in Berlin Heights, that they managed to get from current owners before they tore out the old landscaping.
*the red honeysuckle they bought in Vermont when I spent two summers working there
Tree after bush after flower represents trips taken or milestones met - many have seen four generations of my family - it's like the plants ARE the family.
So I feel a bit guilty for being the last one -
Otto Schoepfle solved his dilemma by leaving his well-curated land to the Lorain County Metroparks, but this is a house on a street in an outer ring suburb...
And I need to figure out how these plants and their stories can live on beyond the lives of those that tended to them.
I'm sorry...what was that again?
Did I just read a headline in NYT about Monkeys controlling Robots with their MINDS?!?!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
What the cluck!
So this is Carl, Cleveland's blogging opera chicken.
He's got a great back story, and is surprisingly photogenic.
He's got a great back story, and is surprisingly photogenic.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Parade the Circle
Ok, so every year on the weekend that coincides with my birthday, there's this big celebration at University Circle that DRIVES ME CRAZY and I usually avoid like the plague.
So why does this weekend celebration of creativity, love, music and art make me want to rip my hair out?
One word.
Hippies.
Goddamned artist hippies.
If you do anything - anywhere - remotely creative, you'll find them.
I didn't begin to register them as a problem until I spent two years in Phoenix in the late 1990s. Arizona is like the final rest stop on the hippie highway that leads straight to California; quite a few stop to pee and realize they're out of gas and that the yurt would look good there in the shadow of the mighty saguaro and simply never moved on. It's the desert, and there's the draw of Native American spirituality, and drugs are plentiful and cheap.
I worked with hippies, I even lived with one and her daughter. She was an artist, living in the house she grew up in that was given to her when she became a mother.
Her daughter's father was a half Apache/half Navajo guitarist who also happened to be a heroin addict - with an inoperable brain tumor. He was a ward of the state when I met her and lived there, kicked out years ago when she learned he had spent the $10,000 they saved for after the baby in a short time on drugs... and guitars.
I moved in when The Little was almost three - it was fun. We had a pool and made art and generally enjoyed life. Because she had been there all her life, she was an anchor in the artist community - meaning that there were always weird sculptures in the backyard or bands practicing in the garage.
I liked her structure (thanks mostly to the needs of The Little) and we worked together, so we kept a similar schedule and had mutual friends.
But I learned quickly that hippies don't like schedules... or checking accounts... or logic. Which is why they are HIPPIES.
She kept her money in a black cat shaped candle holder called "Cat Head" because years prior she had late fees on a bank account and refused to pay, so she couldn't get another account. Cat Head worked for her because Cat Head never said no - whereas an ATM wouldn't give her $5 if she had $14 in the bank. She often kept her daughter out late so she could hang out with her after a gig - but I don't think 3 am banana cream pie at Stucky's was the best thing for a 4 year old. And I could NEVER get her to understand that it was more wasteful to turn off the AC when it was 110 degrees than to leave it at 80 during the day.
It was a good run, my time in Phoenix, but I had to get out and return the highly-strung puritan work ethic of my people in the Eastern part of the nation.
So what does this have to do with Parade the Circle....?
Hippies.
I am an artist, but was always a highly strung, get-it-done, technique-driven artist. Which served me well when I worked in museum installation or profit-driven scenic studios. It does not, however, serve me well in an environment where we all need to feel the energy, hear the paint, taste the colors and smell the universal human experience.
I tried to do Parade once before with an artist - she would tell me what time to be there - and I would show up. To an empty tent.
After a week of not getting anything done and her telling me to come back at 10 pm because that's when the spirits toast her inner joy sandwich and spreads it with create-o-butter made from the love of art beasts, I decided to JUST GIVE UP.
So ever since I have had this tremendous chip on my shoulder about Parade - except I am prying it off and giving it a whirl with some friends from the UU.
Artists, both of them, but both professional and "into" responsibility.
So I'm trying this again - but I REFUSE to taste the colors.
So why does this weekend celebration of creativity, love, music and art make me want to rip my hair out?
One word.
Hippies.
Goddamned artist hippies.
If you do anything - anywhere - remotely creative, you'll find them.
I didn't begin to register them as a problem until I spent two years in Phoenix in the late 1990s. Arizona is like the final rest stop on the hippie highway that leads straight to California; quite a few stop to pee and realize they're out of gas and that the yurt would look good there in the shadow of the mighty saguaro and simply never moved on. It's the desert, and there's the draw of Native American spirituality, and drugs are plentiful and cheap.
I worked with hippies, I even lived with one and her daughter. She was an artist, living in the house she grew up in that was given to her when she became a mother.
Her daughter's father was a half Apache/half Navajo guitarist who also happened to be a heroin addict - with an inoperable brain tumor. He was a ward of the state when I met her and lived there, kicked out years ago when she learned he had spent the $10,000 they saved for after the baby in a short time on drugs... and guitars.
I moved in when The Little was almost three - it was fun. We had a pool and made art and generally enjoyed life. Because she had been there all her life, she was an anchor in the artist community - meaning that there were always weird sculptures in the backyard or bands practicing in the garage.
I liked her structure (thanks mostly to the needs of The Little) and we worked together, so we kept a similar schedule and had mutual friends.
But I learned quickly that hippies don't like schedules... or checking accounts... or logic. Which is why they are HIPPIES.
She kept her money in a black cat shaped candle holder called "Cat Head" because years prior she had late fees on a bank account and refused to pay, so she couldn't get another account. Cat Head worked for her because Cat Head never said no - whereas an ATM wouldn't give her $5 if she had $14 in the bank. She often kept her daughter out late so she could hang out with her after a gig - but I don't think 3 am banana cream pie at Stucky's was the best thing for a 4 year old. And I could NEVER get her to understand that it was more wasteful to turn off the AC when it was 110 degrees than to leave it at 80 during the day.
It was a good run, my time in Phoenix, but I had to get out and return the highly-strung puritan work ethic of my people in the Eastern part of the nation.
So what does this have to do with Parade the Circle....?
Hippies.
I am an artist, but was always a highly strung, get-it-done, technique-driven artist. Which served me well when I worked in museum installation or profit-driven scenic studios. It does not, however, serve me well in an environment where we all need to feel the energy, hear the paint, taste the colors and smell the universal human experience.
I tried to do Parade once before with an artist - she would tell me what time to be there - and I would show up. To an empty tent.
After a week of not getting anything done and her telling me to come back at 10 pm because that's when the spirits toast her inner joy sandwich and spreads it with create-o-butter made from the love of art beasts, I decided to JUST GIVE UP.
So ever since I have had this tremendous chip on my shoulder about Parade - except I am prying it off and giving it a whirl with some friends from the UU.
Artists, both of them, but both professional and "into" responsibility.
So I'm trying this again - but I REFUSE to taste the colors.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Prom!
Saturday night I went to Prom.
It was the Beachland Ballroom's third annual prom event: all the kitchy fun without the crippling adolescent self-hatred.
We had a blast - most people showed up in prom attire - I went in tails and my friends all wore formal wear from past weddings, borrowed or thrifted vintage.
D went as far as to buy a corsage - THAT is dedication.
The tunes were mostly 50s and 60s rock - the only thing missing was some 80s tunes between live sets and a blue Olan Mills style background for photos.
Also, they had this guy perform wicked yo-yo tricks, and I'm proud to show off my camera's video capabilities.
Not entirely NSFW - Lots of drunk people saying "Fuck Yeah!" everytime he releases the yo-yo.
It was the Beachland Ballroom's third annual prom event: all the kitchy fun without the crippling adolescent self-hatred.
We had a blast - most people showed up in prom attire - I went in tails and my friends all wore formal wear from past weddings, borrowed or thrifted vintage.
D went as far as to buy a corsage - THAT is dedication.
The tunes were mostly 50s and 60s rock - the only thing missing was some 80s tunes between live sets and a blue Olan Mills style background for photos.
Also, they had this guy perform wicked yo-yo tricks, and I'm proud to show off my camera's video capabilities.
Not entirely NSFW - Lots of drunk people saying "Fuck Yeah!" everytime he releases the yo-yo.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
bad bad bad-ity bad bad bad
I canNOT make this a habit.
Deeeeelicious sugar cookie and grande iced green tea no fat no whip shake yo booty and dance dance latte.
UPDATE: For the record, I am somewhat of a sugar cookie connoisseur. It's a recent development, in the last 5 years or so, following swiftly on the heels of my new found interest in marshmallows and cotton candy (hated the stuff as a child - I was all about the savory, then).
That said, I try glazed sugar cookies whenever I stumble upon a bakery and I'm surprised and somewhat embarrassed to say that the Bucks of Star's newest cookie beats almost any I've had in recent months: Zoss, Heinen's, even Sweet Mosaic's (say it ain't so!). And I know this is a recent change. I had their penguin cookie at the holidays and it was stale and sawdust-ie with a *just* hint of cardboard. I don't know if all the internal corporate restructuring has brought about this new dawn of sugar cookies - but as they say, the proof is in the sweet sweet perfectly crumblie cookie.
I hesitate to call it "perfect," but I must indulge and say, for my own personal tastes, the texture, flavor, sweetness, size and overall product is as close to the phantom sugar cookie of my dreams as I will likely ever come.
I will, however, redeem my "buy local" and say - for the record - that Sweet Mosaic's Ginger Chewy beats all takers in all contests - except maybe their gingerbread layer cake with cream cheese frosting....
Deeeeelicious sugar cookie and grande iced green tea no fat no whip shake yo booty and dance dance latte.
UPDATE: For the record, I am somewhat of a sugar cookie connoisseur. It's a recent development, in the last 5 years or so, following swiftly on the heels of my new found interest in marshmallows and cotton candy (hated the stuff as a child - I was all about the savory, then).
That said, I try glazed sugar cookies whenever I stumble upon a bakery and I'm surprised and somewhat embarrassed to say that the Bucks of Star's newest cookie beats almost any I've had in recent months: Zoss, Heinen's, even Sweet Mosaic's (say it ain't so!). And I know this is a recent change. I had their penguin cookie at the holidays and it was stale and sawdust-ie with a *just* hint of cardboard. I don't know if all the internal corporate restructuring has brought about this new dawn of sugar cookies - but as they say, the proof is in the sweet sweet perfectly crumblie cookie.
I hesitate to call it "perfect," but I must indulge and say, for my own personal tastes, the texture, flavor, sweetness, size and overall product is as close to the phantom sugar cookie of my dreams as I will likely ever come.
I will, however, redeem my "buy local" and say - for the record - that Sweet Mosaic's Ginger Chewy beats all takers in all contests - except maybe their gingerbread layer cake with cream cheese frosting....
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