Something I wrote recently that didn't make it to print;

Cup ‘a Chowdah?

By Tammi J Truax

   “… when that smoking chowder came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh, sweet friends! hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuit, and salted pork cut up into little flakes; the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites being sharpened by the frosty voyage, and in particular, Queequeg seeing his favourite fishing food before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we despatched it with great expedition...”

     There has been a lot of chat around here lately about chowder. Former-for-a-little-while-governor Sarah Palin tried a bowl at a Seabrook clambake recently. Four thousand less well known people turned out at the 27^th Annual Chowder Festival in Prescott Park on June fourth to sample tastes of thirteen different chowders presented by area restaurants who contributed 500 gallons of their very best in a competition that brings tourists from far and wide to eat what we can have every day.

     The festival culminates in six awards; first through third place chosen by judges, and the paying people, who never agree on the same three. This seems to be the one truth when it comes to chowder. There is no agreement. Never has been. Never will be.

     There is no agreement on the origin of the word chowder. Maybe French. Maybe not.        

     There is no agreement on the origins of the recipe. Often it is said to have migrated south from Newfoundland, but is also attributed to area Native Americans, sometimes the Micmac. Most likely both are somewhat true as there has probably been a chowder of some sort brewing in the pots of seafaring people all over the world throughout history.

     And there is definitely no agreement on what is the best or correct way to prepare chowder. Sometimes there is vehement disagreement. In 1939 a bill was introduced in Maine to outlaw the addition of tomatoes to chowder. Each region of New England, and points beyond, have their own versions, influenced by the ethnicity of the people who settled those regions. The chowder pot is an excellent metaphor for the melting pot.

     They did all start out in the same basic way. A pot of water stewed into as a tasty a broth as providence would allow with salty gifts from the sea. To that was added, in layers, hardtack (or sea biscuit), a flour and water cracker that could be stored somewhat safely for months. If possible onion fried in or with pork fat was added.  Onion was the only acceptable vegetable until rather recently.

     In New Hampshire the availability of dairy products allowed the addition of milk, cream and butter, and eventually hardtack was replaced with potato. For a century or two no one messed with that basic recipe, but culinary adventurousness and global influence have changed all of that and today’s chowders vary widely from your basic baby clam to saffron scallop chowder. There is not even agreement about if clams or quahogs are best.

     Another change is that the fancier the recipe has become the less often we eat it. Chowder used to be a staple of the local diet, both on land and sea. Now it is more likely to be a treat, and with the addition of bacon, butter and cream in copious quantities that is probably just as well. Some of you will remember establishments like Clarence’s Chowder House on Market Street as being favorites for a hearty supper. You can still get a cup of chowder at most local eateries, but it is likely to be an appetizer, and not what you accept as a meal in itself. We are more likely to do so when we make our own, and that isn’t hard to do. Any local fish monger will advise what’s best for chowder today, and may have a pot simmering in the shop. If you are away you can order The Old Salt’s award winning chowder online.

   The overall winner this year was The River House Restaurant on Bow Street, a chowder I have enjoyed. The manager attributes their three year reign to the talent of Chef Gerry Walsh, explaining it takes years of perfecting the right blend of herbs and seafood constructed in a particular order for the proper blend of flavors.                                      

     When making your own chowder ignore any claims that say it is alright to use clams from a can. Whatever seafood is your preference it should be fresh. Clams should be steamed a bit, maybe potatoes too. Onions should be sautéed with garlic, celery and bacon. Milk or cream should be scalded but not boiled so it is always the last addition. I love to add as many fresh herbs as I can lay my hands on and use sherry or wine. Broth should be very thick, but never lumpy like you would get from a can. Chowder should be served warm, not hot, with an artisan bread and a chardonnay or pale ale. I like to make chowder the day after a back yard clam bake using all of the leftovers in the pot which seems to simplify things while being practical and delicious. Those are my rules. What are yours?

     “Chowder for breakfast, and chowder for dinner, and chowder for supper, till you began to look for fish-bones coming through your clothes. The area before the house was paved with clam-shells.”

      ~ Both quotes from Herman Melville’s 1851 Moby Dick.

2011 Chowder Festival Winners

Judges choice             Peoples choice

1^st        The Kitchen                The River House

2^nd        The River House         Captain Hutch’s

3^rd        Jumpin’ Jay’s              Bob’s Clam Hut

     This is superb in its simplicity. Called stew instead of chowder because you mustn’t add vegetables, it really is a chowder. The important distinction regarding chowder is quick cooking time. Soups and stews can be left to simmer for a long time which will ruin any seafood.

Old Fashioned Oyster Stew

2 pints raw shucked local oysters with their liquor
4 tablespoons butter
3 cups milk or half and half
1 shake Tabasco sauce
salt, pepper, and paprika , handful of minced shallots
minced parsley, sliced chives, or sliced green onions

     Be careful to avoid overcooking oysters, which causes them to become tough. Drain the oysters, reserving their liquor. In a large heavy pan over medium heat, melt butter. Sauté shallots. Add oysters and simmer very gently for about 2 to 4 minutes. While the oysters are simmering, in a separate saucepan over low heat, slowly heat the milk/cream, and oyster liquor (do not boil). When the oysters are cooked, slowly add the hot milk mixture to the oysters, stirring gently. Season to taste. Remove from heat. Serve in warm bowls and garnish with greens and herbed oyster crackers.

Herbed Oyster Crackers

1 1/2 tablespoons melted butter

1/4 teaspoon dried thyme, crumbled

1/4 teaspoon dried rosemary, chopped fine

1 1/2 cups oyster crackers

     Toss together and toast on a cookie sheet at 350 for ten minutes.

###

    

    

My two cents on the local public art conversation;

      Published in the current edition of Seacoast Scene with photos:

Pondering Public Art in Portsmouth

By Tammi J Truax

      Anything that sets a town to talking like the current debate about public art in Portsmouth has done can only be a constructive. First let’s clarify what we are talking about. Public art is defined as art that we encounter as part of the everyday landscape, making it accessible to far more than art displayed in galleries or museums will ever be, and it benefits communities in a variety of ways. Sometimes the art is commissioned by the city, maybe with the input of the people. Sometimes it is guerilla art, like graffiti, though when done without permission, it is usually illegal. Art is always meant to communicate, and sometimes to provoke.

     Public art is not new to Portsmouth. Remember the giant ant in Market Square? Overnight Art sponsors installations every other year by a variety of area artists. The Poet Laureate Program has added several works to the city. The mural behind Gilley’s, painted by John Perry of Wells, was paid for by the city. The Wyland Whaling Wall, one of the most important and site relevant gifts this city has ever received, continues to deteriorate in a shameful state of neglect.

     The Portsmouth Museum of Fine Art recently brought six international street artists who were specifically chosen for the variety and popularity of their work which has been displayed in cities around the world. The MFA says “Street art has its roots in rebellion. Once considered underground … it has over the last thirty years gained acceptance … in the art community.” The current exhibit showcases that work on and off the street. The artists are world renown. Chrzanowski, of Germany, whose outdoor work can be seen at 75 Pleasant and 653 Islington Streets (now vandalized) is widely recognized as possibly the best photorealistic spray paint artist in the world and has developed groundbreaking techniques.

      Much of the criticism of this exhibit is that local artists weren’t included and that the chosen artists didn’t respond to our community. Local artist Bill Paarlberg, whose work many are calling for, responded, “If the Museum wanted a show of graffiti artists, then they were correct to go out and get some known graffiti artists to be in their show.” It isn’t hard to see that some of the artists did respond to their surroundings, especially in Bumblebee’s plain “Bee is for broke” statement painted across a defunct gas station on Islington, and that each responded to their assigned canvas. Participation in one of the several types of tours that the museum offers, including a self guided cell phone tour, is likely to hasten understanding of the artists objectives.

     My teenage son called the exhibit “commissioned graffiti” and claims “it takes all the essence out of the art form”, the guerilla factor being important to him. Yet attendance at the opening reception of this exhibit was remarkable for the wide range of ages in the capacity crowd.

     There is a growing trend we have yet to see here called yarn bombing or grandma graffiti. A global phenomenon, according to Face Book June 11 is International Yarn Bombing Day, when “Fiber artists of the world unite to bring color and beauty to our urban landscape.” (Google it for a delightful gallery tour.) Like commissioned graffiti these knitted works are harmless and/ or temporary. Many are meant to beautify something ugly, like the visiting artist, Chrzanowski, who got started by using abandoned telephone booths and newspaper dispensers and turning them into something else, often with an underlying social commentary. Sometimes they are celebrating something already beautiful, like a doily wrapped tree. Video projection, street installation, and even flash mobs are considered other forms of street art.

     One question that doesn’t seem to be part of the discussion is if Portsmouth is doing enough about public art. Several objectives in the Master Plan make it sound like a priority. We do have an ordinance requiring one percent of the cost of new public construction be spent for public art. Private developers don’t have to bother. Our next exciting installation, a memorial for the African American burying ground downtown by sculptor Jerome Meadows of Georgia (which will incorporate the art of local schoolchildren) is receiving some public funding. It will enhance the city in a multitude of ways for decades to come. His work in cities like Albuquerque and Anchorage attests to that. The outcry about this exhibit calls our commitment to public art into question. Paarlberg asks, “How can a town that requires all its buildings to look like The Greatest Hits of 1820 Red Brick be at the same time one where creativity flourishes? “

     Portsmouth resident and Button Factory based artist Tim Gaudreau commented, “ I think The Portsmouth Museum of Art's recent street exhibition is really provocative in putting new stuff out in our city, but most of the already existing work is quite traditional -- that work seems to function as memorial or commemoration rather than creating statements of exquisite beauty or provocation.”

      Portsmouth could look to Newburyport as an example of what public art can do for a city. Gaudreau is one of several artists who are making a sustainable garden and pedestrian path along their Rail Trail. It was designed to heal a hurt piece of land and to strengthen the public’s relationship with nature. Among its many features are two grass couches that will function as living park furniture created by Gaudreau. A real green and interactive park, nothing at all like the costly and gray “green space” recently appearing on Ceres Street. Newburyport’s vast array of permanent public art can be inspirational to us all.

For More Information:

www.portsmouthmfa.org

www.cityofnewburyport.com

www.sustainablecitiescollective.com

There Are No Rules

If I had an e-book I would do this. I confess that I'm starting to cave. I've been having a strong desire to buy my kids the Nook lately. Not for me, for them. But it is starting to seem that the e-book is inevitable. I have said before, "You can have my hard copy book when you pry it from my cold dead hands." And I meant it when I said it. They, paper pages bound together within a lovely cover that I can cuddle up with, will always be my preference, but I am beginning to accept that some of our information, in the not too distant future, will only come to us in this form. That actually takes choice out of the equation. Like it or not.

There Are No Rules - 5 Free E-Books Every Writer Needs

I found this to be

worth sharing.
     Poet and editor Nate Pritts was quoted in a recent issue of Writer's Digest as saying, "... keep the faith. I think you need to do something that you know is right and keep doing it until everyone else is convinced, too. And I suppose I would encourage poets to realize that writing a poem is a small portion of what they owe to poetry. A poet doesn't just write poems. A poet starts a journal or starts a press. A poet gives a reading or organizes a reading. A poet reads poems - thousands of them. A poet cares about your poem as they care about their own."
     I am keeping the faith.

Hugh A. Harter, doctor of letters | SeacoastOnline.com

A tribute for a friend;

Hugh A. Harter, doctor of letters | SeacoastOnline.com

Wouldn't I have loved to be in the room

for this conversation?!

http://studentactivism.net/2011/05/20/

     And here is one of my favorite quotes on writing;

     "You write in order to change the world ... if you alter, even by a millimeter, the way people look at reality, then you can change it."
 ~ James Baldwin

And of course you know her famous quote on changing the world;

      "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
 ~ Margaret Mead

     This is the book the kid is talking about;

Building Bridges Real and Imagined

NHPR.org - Building Bridges Real and Imagined

        Last night I attended a talk given by Katherine Paterson, a remarkably prolific writer, primarily for children, whose work you are surely familiar with, and was fortunate to be invited to a more intimate reception for the author before the lecture, because of my work with Connections (described in the link above).
      I didn't expect much of the reception, figured it would be the usual rather boring mix-up of a group of people reflecting a lack of diversity listening to obligatory remarks and noshing on crudite' and cheeses. Instead, though I didn't get to meet the author, I had a very interesting time.  The setting was stunning to me, a law firm with a beautifully designed sky-lit atrium punctuated at one end with a massive spiral staircase. The other end, where we were milling about, held the only non-modern object in the space; a Revere bell that had once hung in The Stark Mill in downtown Manchester pealing people to work with a 4:30 AM ringing. I was rather impressed with all of that but what I loved the most was the diversity of people in attendance. From a NH supreme court justice and assorted political protege' to young refugee participants in the Connections program, everyone coming together to celebrate promoting literacy in the state of New Hampshire. Then, a surprise, I had a chat with my freshman high school English teacher. A first for me. We reminisced a bit about The Lottery, a story she had us enact in the ninth grade, (when I was the age my daughter is now) and I remembered rudely raising my hand and saying "I want to get stoned!", and that one day during silent reading time while I perused a magazine she had left out for us, I came across an article exploring Springsteen's lyrics, and I became enthralled with the poetic power of words right there in my plastic chair, and haven't been the same since. I told her that, and she told me that she was 21 then and it was her first year of teaching. I hope it was a nice moment for her too.
     Then we all made our way over to the beautiful Palace Theater, where I saw my first Shakespearean play at about the same time that I discovered Bruce's lyrics. (The latter would remain my bard of choice.)  The talk given by Mrs. Paterson was quite interesting. She made me laugh and frown, which I think is the mark of a well-rounded speech. She got those reactions from me because she is a truth teller which I guess is what all writers are.
     She said that the best advice she had ever received as a writer was to rewrite if you don't see any of yourself in your villain until you do, otherwise s/he won't be a complete character. Here are the books I bought at the event, there are many more I still want to get to. And I have never seen the film version of Bridge to Terabithia which I am now intrigued with.



     I was interested in the subject matter of Lyddie and started it as soon as I got home. I bought Flip-flop Girl for my daughter but will probably read it too. The picture book of her interpretation of Saint Francis of Assisi's Canticle of the Creatures was just an irresistible purchase. It is everything a picture book should be. I bought the last one, The Spying Heart: More Thoughts on Reading and Writing for Children for obvious reasons, I want more guidance from Mrs. Paterson who, though she begs to differ, certainly does know what she is doing.

On Partners

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/washington/2011/05/obama-poetry-night-white-house.html

      There they are. And at least they got noticed, even if it was mostly negative press coverage.

     I added something new to my writing regimen yesterday. I now have a fiction writing  partner, and we met for work-shopping for the first time yesterday. I think there is no question that this is going to be a very productive partnership. I completely concede that I wouldn't have gotten the work done (on a new novel idea) if I hadn't had the deadline of our meeting (though I must confess that I did not meet the five page quota I was supposed to). And the sharing, discussing and critiquing, of each others work is, of course, invaluable. Today I revised the piece and added quite a bit to it. Best of all, is that my writing partner is quite talented, and I'm really looking forward to watching his growth as a writer. There is no doubt in my mind that this is going to be fun and rewarding, and I will meet my quota next time. I am much more inspired to do so.

poetry night | Nikki Schwab | Yeas & Nays | Washington Examiner

      Man, I wish I was invited to this party! A poetry party at the White House.  Still, I am so very happy that my president and first lady are having it. The connection she is making with schoolchildren so that they may benefit from the event too, is under-appreciated. And did you see the photo of the president reading Chicka Chicka Boom Boom!? I'll post it for you. Wish I could hear that too. Can you hear me sighing?

Obamas to hold White House poetry night | Nikki Schwab | Yeas & Nays | Washington Examiner

This is a program...

worth supporting. Plus I love the poems about boys!

http://www.youtube.com/user/GirlsWriteNow

http://youtu.be/7nxFnRuBMW8?hd=1

Neil English: Model T truck driving poet, preacher, carpenter, peace maker | SeacoastOnline.com

Neil English: Model T truck driving poet, preacher, carpenter, peace maker | SeacoastOnline.com

Was I too quick to cancel my print subscription?

Was I too quick to cancel my print subscription?

I didn't get the Sunday paper and I have been absolutely jonesing all day long! Really, even feel irritable, like an addict deprived.
Then I read this from the CSM and now I want you to read it too.
When was the last time you got your hands dirty?

This morning's column...

Nancy Hill: 'This is a city that loves and nurtures the arts' | SeacoastOnline.com
Later we'll talk about use of the pronoun I....

Children's Literacy: See Spot Surf the Web

     I read an interesting piece in the Sunday Boston Globe yesterday about the death of the printed book. This is not news to anyone of course, and something we've all seen coming, and some of us have been anguishing over, for a long time. I find these reports distressing and depressing most of the time. What I liked about the piece yesterday (I'm sorry I have forgotten the author) was that I was left with one very hopeful feeling. The author said that children's books were not on death row, that the creation and sales of good children's literature was and will remain strong. I needed to hear that having long been a proponent of the myriad joys and benefits of reading to small children (as well as a writer of children's stories). Hearing that did my heart a world of good.
     Follow that this morning by this interesting piece from NPR about the changing world of children's literature;

http://www.npr.org/2011/03/28/134663712/childrens-book-apps-a-new-world-of-learning

     The conclusion I have come to is that the situation is really the same as it is for adults, it is just far more important to understand the consequences for children. The fact is we are talking about two different kinds of literacy. All children, every single one of them, need to be both print and digitally literate. Each is a different set of skills that requires exposure to an abundance of quality literacy of both types, the printed word and the digital word. Each requires the brain to operate in a different way, and both are best learned in developmentally appropriate ways during early childhood. One will never replace the other, and never again will only one suffice for later success. Mastery of digital literacy always has been and always will be dependent on print literacy making the picture and early story books more important than ever, but the importance of digital literacy for children probably can not even be imagined by the confines of what we know today.
     My stubborn attitude of refusing to even look at an e-book is actually a childish indulgence no child can afford, or be asked, to make.

Poets on Poetry

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20035

       I found this  piece from poets.org quite interesting. It caused me to reflect a bit on whether or not I follow Horace's advice for poets written hundreds of years ago, and on whether or not it is still sound advice. I'm happy to say I think that I do and it is. His counsel was to, " read widely, strive for precision, and seek honest criticism". Still, upon deeper reflection, I am sure that I can and should be doing better at all three. In writing, as I imagine in all professions, there is, and always should be, room for improvement. So please excuse me now while I get to that. I especially want to study a poem the author mentioned by Sharon Olds poem, which I will copy below;

Take the I Out

But I love the I, steel I-beam that my father sold. They poured the pig iron into the mold, and it fed out slowly, a bending jelly in the bath, and it hardened, Bessemer, blister, crucible, alloy, and he marketed it, and bought bourbon, and Cream of Wheat, its curl of butter right in the middle of its forehead, he paid for our dresses with his metal sweat, sweet in the morning and sour in the evening. I love the I, frail between its flitches, its hard ground and hard sky, it soars between them like the soul that rushes, back and forth, between the mother and father. What if they had loved each other, how would it have felt to be the strut joining the floor and roof of the truss? I have seen, on his shirt-cardboard, years in her desk, the night they made me, the penciled slope of her temperature rising, and on the peak of the hill, first soldier to reach the crest, the Roman numeral I-- I, I, I, I, girders of identity, head on, embedded in the poem. I love the I for its premise of existence--our I--when I was born, part gelid, I lay with you on the cooling table, we were all there, a forest of felled iron. The I is a pine, resinous, flammable root to crown, which throws its cones as far as it can in a fire.

UNH Magazine: Revisiting "Peyton Place"

This is an article I wrote that was just published at www.unhmagazine.unh.edu. It has of course been edited after it left my desk, so a few of the sentences are not my own, but it is something I worked very hard for several months of last year. It will be of particular interest to writers and anyone with a link to New Hampshire.

UNH Magazine: Revisiting "Peyton Place"

My column;

Mary Z. Walker and The Women's City Club | SeacoastOnline.com

Sounds fun

I want in on this game. Another lovely diversion;

The Top 10 Poets

The Top 10 Poets: Who are the Greatest? : Dean Rader : City Brights

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/drad...

http://www.sfgate.com

My writing with a slide show by Goya

Fighting Bull

By Tammi J Truax

Published by Seacoast Media Group, September 2008

     This summer marked a relatively major milestone for me; I took my first transatlantic trip alone, southern Spain in June. I saw and did many wonderful things while I was there. I could go on forever about just the museums in Madrid, or just not go on at all, and die happy over tapas and sangria by the Mediterranean Sea.

     One traditional tourist activity that I weighed heavily both before and after my trip was Corridas de Toros, a bullfight.  I decided, after much thought and study, to go - “when in Spain”.  I wanted to see and judge for myself what Hemingway called “a wonderful nightmare”.  There is intense controversy all over the world and within Spain about the ethics of the bullfight.  It has never been more intense, or more in the bull’s favor, than it is now, but anti-bullfighting sentiment is apparently not new.

     I was surprised to learn while viewing an exhibit on Francisco De Goya at the Prado Museum that he had passionate feelings about the subject when he created the series of prints called La Tauromaquia in 1815 and 16. (You can view these as a slideshow on YouTube.)  Art historians contend that the etchings show “Goya’s need to express his criticism of man’s deep rooted cruelty … brutality, which is explicit from the outset of the series, is an inherent characteristic of the figures from this world as a veiled critique of human barbarity.”

     To truly understand the bull fight, which may in fact be impossible for those of us who are not part of the Spanish culture, one must at least evaluate it within its current cultural context, and its significant historical context.

     The bullrings, themselves sometimes architecturally visit-worthy, probably originated as temples (Celtic-Iberian) and the rituals that took place in them were about sacrificing bulls to the gods, practices that ancient peoples almost certainly saw as necessary to their own survival. Stories of such sacrifices can be found in the bible and other ancient texts.  The bull was the supreme sacrifice because it was the largest of the domesticated animals to offer.  Under primarily Roman influence, over what was obviously a very long period of time, the religious significance waned and the rituals became more about entertainment. Though for another lengthy period of time Catholicism became entwined in the entertainment as it did in most aspects of Spanish culture. James Michener wrote elegantly of this entanglement in his novel Miracle in Seville. Now of course, no religious connection whatsoever can be made, and in fact, bullfighting was declared as “cruel and disgraceful exhibitions of devils” by Pope St. Pius V, who forbade attendance under penalty of excommunication. Nowadays, some seriously call it a sport, and some seriously call it art and as such integral to the culture, and some just call it a spectacle, including many Spaniards.

     I tried to keep an open mind about all of this when I purchased my terribly expensive ($110.US) ticket for a non-luxurious seat in the sun at an unimportant fight on a Sunday afternoon in Marbella.

     The adherence to the antediluvian rituals of the ceremonial opening may indeed have artistic merit. Regalia is almost always arresting. But the work of the matadors, though I was not seeing the rock-stars of the bullfighting world, really didn’t reflect what I would call artistry. Frankly, I have seen better moves on the dance floor, and I was watching hard for, maybe even hoping for, an artistic rationalization, as I had read about, what is supposed to be a spiritual symbiosis between man and beast. I didn’t see it.

     What I saw was a very predictable series of grossly unfair fights between a lot of men, and one bewildered animal after another. Each fight went down in exactly the same way so that it became almost boring. I found myself unable to be impressed when a young man, no matter how handsome, stabbed an animal, and then paraded himself, in a rather girly get-up, around the ring to receive applause while over gesticulating to the crowd. The act of hacking off the dead bull’s ear to toss to someone in the crowd as a gift, though deeply entrenched in tradition, seems absurd. I may have been impressed if anything at all had been in the bull’s favor during the fight, but it wasn’t. The matador who makes the final kill has a whole team of men working to weaken the bull first, and when anyone is in any danger they jump behind a wooden partition that the bull rams into, or if too far away from the well placed partitions they just jump the wall. We did see one matador get into what may be one of the most hazardous positions he could be in when he lost hold of his cape, and there was nothing artistic about the way he threw himself into the stands like a rodeo clown, causing my young American companion to remark, “Funny how fighting a bull becomes a lot more difficult when you lose your blanky.”

     In truth, the bullfights have clearly changed a lot over the last decade or two, largely in response to global demands.  It has become as humane as an animal killing ritual can probably get.  The elimination of the goriness there once was has also eliminated much of the peril that has rendered the show relatively facile, and really an almost risk free farce.

     Still, in the end, it is about killing. A bull fight is not over until either bull or man is dead, except for in rare instances when an unusually impressive bull is pardoned by the presiding authority. The kill itself, which has been called “the coup de grace”, does appear to be as merciful and skilled as an execution can be. The matador makes one swift thrust of his sword near the base of the skull, which severs the spinal cord, and death is supposed to be instant and painless. Of course, by this time the bull has been physically worn down by a series of other injuries that were not painless. During one bout I heard a bull cry, and I am not sure I’ve ever heard a sadder sound.

     I did not enjoy attending a bull fight. I did not enjoy the admonishment of my Madridian amigos several days later claiming that it is tourists like me who keep the bull fights operating. That may be partially true, but the Spanish are ultimately responsible. Some cities, like Barcelona, have outlawed bullfighting. Attendance all over the country is at an all time low, as is commercial sponsorship and televised fights, which were common not long ago. Still there are government funded bull ranches and bull fighting schools in Spain, and money is still being made.

    In the end though, it is hard for me to completely condemn the bullfight. It feels too hypocritical, as condemnation usually does to me. The Toro bravo is actually a distinct species of bull, bred for aggression, supposedly of an ancient race conserved only in Spain, and they are revered animals by the Spanish. They are raised in relative luxury and leisure, especially in comparison to most of the ungulates on this planet. They have to work only once in their lives, when and if they are chosen to enter the ring at the age of four, having been respectfully cared for and even blessed. Though I could not verify it, it is said that the dead bulls are always eaten, served in elaborate banquets to the townspeople or fed to the poor.

     If I were a bovine I would much rather go out that way then to be raised in an assembly line, live a brief and unnatural life, until killed by mechanical slaughter, and ultimately ordered up as a burger through a plastic clown’s head in a drive-thru eatery at an ugly American strip mall. Give me; give us all, a dignified death.
     All rights reserved. Do not use in whole or part without permission.

    

Dave Kiley Jr.: Portsmouth's only and original river pirate | SeacoastOnline.com

Dave Kiley Jr.: Portsmouth's only and original river pirate | SeacoastOnline.com

Distractions; Old and New

      I've been distracted lately, very distracted, and since my distraction all stems from a piece of my writing I thought I'd post it here and see what you think. I thought about writing this piece for a few years before I did. Then it sat around for a few years after I did. Over the last few months though, I sent it out. Hadn't really planned the timing, it just worked out that way. I submitted it to the famous Modern Love column and received my first rejection letter from the New York Times. That was a little exciting, a little fun. A copy of the piece also made it to the subject through a circuitous trip across the country. And he has been my distraction of late. That has been more than a little exciting and more fun than I can say. Here it is;

A Declaration of Love

By Tammi J Truax

     I’ve been wondering a lot lately just where it came from – this need of mine. This deeply rooted and undying need to hear my significant other make significant (preferably urgent and unique) declarations of undying love for me. I have reflected long and hard on it, on why it is so important to me, when in fact it has for most of my life been an unmet need. And I think it can all be blamed on Warren Kelley.

     In the third grade Warren Kelley and I sat at adjacent little wooden desks, he to my left. I remember him as softness. Velour, corduroy, and a downy crew cut everyone wished to touch but only adults could get away with. Softer still on the inside, with a sweet spirit the likes of which I’ve rarely encountered since.

     Warren spent most of each school day that year, not practicing spelling words and times tables like we were supposed to be doing, but writing and passing to me an endless series of notes on which he had printed, in soft gray graphite block letters, the same simple message; I LOVE YOU. My own desk was stuffed full with them. He would extend his arm into the aisle between us every few minutes, and I would then extend my hand and accept the little white note. I did not respond to Warren at all beyond taking and reading each and every one. I did not encourage him to continue or tell him to stop in these effusions. I seemed to know without question, that it was the perfectly appropriate, and probably involuntary, course of action for any man to take who was seriously interested in winning my heart.

     When this effort seemed to be an inadequate way of expressing his fondness for me he did what I think any good man would or should do; he made an embarrassing public demonstration of his  passion.

     There was some kind of parent function in our classroom one evening. As usual, Warren and I were near each other, but were not talking to each other. We just looked at each other silently, both of our little faces sprinkled with freckles and wonder. The reason for actually being there was rather lost on us. A considerable crowd was gathered in the stuffy room when Warren stepped up right in front of me and my ex-Marine father, and began, one ravenous rip at a time, to tear off bites of his Styrofoam cup, and ceremoniously chew and swallow each mouthful, as I silently stood before him and watched. The room grew quieter as people began to stare, and finally my father, leaning in just a bit, asked me, “Why is he doing that?” To which I immediately responded, by softly stating what I thought was perfectly obvious, “Because he loves me.”

     That was one of the few times I’ve ever sensed my father’s pride in me, I guess for bringing a boy to such romantic ruin, but that was not why it was such an important moment in my life. Warren changed me then. Changed me forever.

     He set in motion that year an expectation for me that my man should, well, gush for me once in awhile. The words need not be eloquent nor the gesture elaborate, but the message is mandatory. And sometimes, there must be a public display of this affection, the love affirmed for the whole wide world to see.

     I have spent a considerable amount of time ruminating on this expectation of mine, as well as on the men I have known who have not lived up to it. I have even attempted to alter it. I have made some attempt at loving a man unconditionally, forsaking my need. It doesn’t work. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. That kind of love is best reserved for one’s children, not one’s partner. I have come to the conclusion that my needs really aren’t that unreasonable.

     I don’t need a handsome knight in shining armor to come cantering up to my door on a white steed. A kind of cute guy in an old pick-up truck would suffice. He doesn’t need to be bearing gifts of glistening jewels; a handful of meadow flowers he picked just for me would be perfect. I don’t really need thirty seven love notes a day; I could get by with two or three juicy ones a year. I don’t long for a man to make a spectacle of himself for me, but paying more attention to me than the most statuesque blond beauty at a party is essential. I must confess that, while I wouldn’t want any man to cause himself bodily harm for me, the truth is, seeing my name emblazoned in ink across a man’s upper arm would be a dream come true. A request my late husband declined to fulfill.

     So, I’m left still wondering. Wondering what to do, what to think. Sometimes I also wonder what became of Warren Kelly. I wonder if his significant other ever needs reassurance of his never-ending love and desire. I wonder if the ingestion of 1970’s chemically questionable cups during his formative years caused him any later harm. I wonder if he knows how deeply touching his unselfish and courageous affectations have been to others. I wonder if he even remembers me, or has any idea that he set the bar for all other men for me, forever.

      It seems to me that the Fab Four were wrong, with all due respect to them. In the end the love you take is not equal to the love you make, it’s equal to the love you declare, freely and fearlessly.

      Warren, I’m sorry I never responded then, but I do declare now;

Thanks, and

 I  love  you.

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I interviewed a beauty queen;

http://www.seacoastonline.com/articles/20110106-LIFE-101060323