Tomatoes

They are ruby or golden, burgundy, orange or crimson. Some grow in small orbs clustered like grapes on a Tuscan vine. Others are meaty and hefty, their stem grasping the plant with determination to remain until fully ripened then yield to the gentle pull of a gardener's hand. They're often curiously named - Black from Tula, Brandywine, German Queen, Taxi, Siletz and Sweet 100. Whether hybrid or heirloom, determinant or indeterminate, each variety produces a delicious prize for the one who puts spade to earth and plants and nurtures a tomato vine.

In some parts of the world there was a time when the tomato was considered poisonous. What a shame for those who lived in those cultures to be bereft of the best of summer's garden treasures. A home-grown, vine-ripened tomato tastes sweet and tangy at the same time. It's firm and meaty but juicy. It's healthful, and eating one can make you feel pretty good even if you weren't feeling your best. Bacon, lettuce and a home-grown, sliced beefsteak tomato seasoned with salt and pepper sandwiched in between slices of toasted white bread slathered with mayonnaise is just about guaranteed to cure whatever ails you, or at least make you stop thinking about it.

Tomatoes are one of summer's greatest garden treasures.

Hurricane Ridge, Olympic National Park

WEEK 14 - I Know Who We Are...

The talented humorist, storyteller and author, Garrison Keillor wrote, "We need to write, otherwise nobody will know who we are." I believe this now that I've taken the West Los Angeles College business English class, Business 31. My instructor required each of us to write a blog every week and share it with the class. These writing exercises forced me to engage in a great deal of introspection and face some very painful experiences in my life. The writing assignments have also allowed me to discover that I have the ability to put pen to paper and share my interests, joys and heartbreak with others. I didn't know that I would so very much enjoy creative writing.

Before my Business 31 class started, I had at least a passing knowledge of nearly all of my classmates as they are all colleagues. Now, however, the gift of their words has allowed me to learn something special about each of them and to know them better.

Arturo's blogs showed me two of his strengths: his physical ability to train for and run in marathons - four of them to date - and his capacity to share difficult and heart-felt emotions with his classmates that stemmed from the illness of a beloved pet. Lisa audited the class at the start of the semester, but an unfortunate accident prevented her from continuing her participation. Her one blog explained to us the scope and importance of the filming industry in California. I wish she had been with us throughout the entire 14 weeks. Dwayne's writing opened a window to look into the life of a person who is of strong moral character and who believes in doing the right thing. He shared insightful analytical pieces on the subject of basketball, a sport much enjoyed by him. Then there's Shirley - always smiling and joyful Shirley who created a MySpace page. Her entries allowed me to understand the depth and importance of faith in her life, and that she's forged and maintained exceptional long-term relationships. Terence, a tall and talented photographer, father, and dedicated professional - his writing made me laugh. And I mean, really laugh when he shared a story about a trip down the lumber aisle at Home Depot and described the passion it evoked in him! You'll never live that down, Terence. And there's Bahston Joe. Laker-lover, techie and dad. He shared stories of the sweet nostalgia he has for his childhood athletic experiences and how he loves to create similar memories for his own sons.

Of course, none of this would have been possible without the instruction of our fine teacher, Isidra. She challenged, chided, encouraged and nurtured us this semester, requiring us to face weekly writing assignments and periodic extemporaneous and prepared speeches head-on. She is a creative, patient instructor who took what could have been a semester's worth of tedious memorization, and turned it into laughter-filled sessions of camaraderie and learning. Thank you, Isidra for believing in each of us and encouraging us to do our best.

I know we will all leave the library meeting room next week as better spellers, writers, speakers and grammarians. I will miss our fun Monday nights. Take care everybody!

WEEK 13 - I Love LA!

I originated in the Windy City - Chi Town - the city of Upton Sinclair's legendary novel about the meat "hacking" industry. When I was three, I was relocated to the South - Atlanta, Georgia - where I subsisted mainly on cornbread and red beans and rice. I saw blue gum people and heard Geechee spoken and by the time I was six, I could tell you the color of the people who lived on the "other side of the tracks" and knew what the KKK meant when they burned a cross on some body's front lawn. Gratefully, my daddy moved us "compass north" to Ohio. (What's round on the ends and high in the middle? OhiO!) We moved to an orderly community of conservative homes filled with White, Anglo-Saxon Protestants who never did anything interesting or daring.

When I was 10 my father announced, "We're moving to California!" My mind raced in anticipation like a Sooner at the reigns of a Conestoga wagon. "Yippee! We're goin' to California!" I thought of the gold rushin' 49'ers, the dust bowl Oakies, and the Donner party who resorted to cannibalism to realize their dream of standing side-by-side in the golden land of milk and honey. I devoured every book in the Wickliffe Elementary School library that had anything to do with California, and can still remember writing "California or bust!" in crayon on our shipping boxes before they were stowed in the Allied Van Lines trailer.

It snowed that early December day we left Columbus, but the sun was shinin' bright in LA when our plane skidded to a stop on the tarmac at LAX. I remember riding up the 405 freeway, seeing the giant donut sign on Manchester Boulevard, Christmas wreaths on palm trees, and my father gesturing toward the Valley with an outstretched hand saying, "this is home" as we drove through the Sepulveda Pass. Coming from mid-western, cornfield flat-land, the San Fernando Valley and surrounding San Gabriel Mountains were like paradise found.

Since that day in 1971 I have loved Los Angeles. Everything I want and everything I don't is right here in this 469.1 square miles, infested with nearly 4 million people. Despite all its problems, I'll take this city over any other place you can plot on Google Earth. I'll even take LA's traffic 'cause I know where there's lots of people there's traffic. And, where there's people, there's stuff. Lots and lots of it. As for LA's people - they're certainly diverse - from the street corner mariachis of Boyle Heights to the young, crowned beauties smiling and waving from the Rose Parade Queen's float, to the brothers selling bean pies on MLK, the entertainment industry's royalty partying in their hillside homes, to the scab-faced, anorexic tweakers of Hollywood. LA is rude and gritty and rough, but at the same time it's also refined - full of history, culture, entertainment, world-class hospitals and universities, gardens, libraries, five-star restaurants and scenic vistas. Like I said, there's lots of stuff in LA. I know many people don't agree with how I feel about the City of Angels and would love nothin' more than to pack up and get the hell outta' Dodge, but for me, LA's the place!

View from the London Eye

WEEK 12 - I am Not an Armchair Traveler

Travel has been, and always will be my unwavering passion, for this world is meant to be experienced in the first person. It's to be tasted and felt and smelled and heard, not experienced vicariously through books, magazines and travel documentaries.

Since childhood, I had always heard how green Ireland is. But, until I stood among Celtic crosses and monastic towers, looking across the Boin Valley, could I truly appreciate just how green the Emerald Isle really is.

And, when learning of the holocaust in school, I thought I could grasp the extent of its inhumanity, but not really. Not until I opened and walked through the iron gate at the work camp at Dachau, Germany, the gate that bears the words, "Arbeit Macht Frei" (Work Will Make You Free), could I understand the holocaust's horror. As the latch of that gate clicked shut behind me, I could feel the weight of the despair that must have been felt by the many people who were imprisoned and died in this camp.

In Amsterdam, Holland, I experienced the narrowness of the stairway that led to the not-so-secret hiding place of Ann Frank and her family. In Normandie, France I wondered, "just how long did it take those brave, American soldiers to crawl on their bellies across that wide expanse of sand known as Omaha Beach, as they attempted an escape from slaughter by German snipers on D-day?" On the bluff above Omaha Beach, there are 10,000 Americans buried in the Colville-sur-Mer cemetary. I have stood there solemnly and contemplated the lives of the young men in repose. France cradles these heroes in her fertile soil, entombed beneath their cold, white marble markers. She must care well for them because she owes them everything. They paid for her freedom with their guts and their blood.

In this country, you cannot appreciate the handiwork of the magnificent tool that is the Colorado River unless you stand, gripping the railing at an overlook and with your own eyes, take in the grandeur, the depth, the width and the color palette of the Grand Canyon.

The range and depth of emotion that one can experience by physically being at a place cannot be elicited by a glossy photo. An armchair traveler, I am not!

WEEK 11 - Where is Velma Now?

The physical being of my husband's mother, Velma, lives in a beautiful facility on the outskirts of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Now, however, the non-tangible thing--the spirit and essence that had always made Velma, Velma, seldom occupies this wrinkled, stoop-shouldered, 87 year-old lady. Alzheimer's is slowly taking her from us. It will, at some point, leave us with only a body to be washed and fed and clothed until it can no longer withstand the terrible toll this disease exacts on its victims.

Velma was truly a matriarch. She nearly single-handedly raised two girls and three boys (two of them identical twins-one of them my husband). Because her husband's paycheck sometimes didn't cover much more than the family's bare necessities, Velma learned how to cut the children's hair, prepare satisfying but inexpensive one-pot suppers, and stretch a meager sock and underwear budget by being first in line at the local, annual white sale.

Grandma, as I usually called Velma, was about the most strong-willed person I've ever met. It was always hard to help her cook or perform other tasks because she always wanted things to be done her way. I learned it was better to get out of her kitchen and let her do whatever it was herself.

Now, the spaghetti-shaped plaque that is forming in her brain is robbing her of the ability to do all but the simplest of things. She is nearly incapable of speech, is incontinent and doesn't always recognize those people who were most precious to her, her children. Velma's physical being is with us, but her mind comes and goes and when it leaves, I wonder what its destination is. The doctors don't know, but I hope it's with her family; vacationing at campsite number 10 at Lower Billy Creek Campground, at the far end of beautiful Huntington Lake in the Western Sierra Nevada mountains, the place she loved best.

WEEK 10 - You Can Give the Gift of Life

Each of us has the potential to give the gift of life to a stranger or someone we know by donating blood or platelets at a local hospital or American Red Cross facility. Over the years, I've taken the opportunity to donate platelets and whole blood to a number of people, some of them forever unknown to me, and some who are dear friends and colleagues.

Over a two year period, I donated whole blood and platelets to my friend and former coworker, Gary who very nearly succumbed to a particularly virulent form of cancer. Thankfully, he's fully recovered and enjoying his retirement. A donation of whole blood I made at Children's Hospital of Los Angeles to an eight-year-old girl aided the recovery of this playmate of one of my colleague's sons. Her recovery from childhood Leukemia has allowed her to rejoin her classmates, and her father can now look forward to walking her down the aisle when she's a grown woman. At UCLA I donated whole blood to a Los Angeles County Sheriff's Deputy who sustained devastating injuries when a robbery suspect intentionally rammed his police motorcycle, breaking nearly every bone in his body. I understand this lawman is making good progress in his recovery.

I'm not telling you about my donation history to elicit pats on the back. My reason for sharing these experiences is to persuade you to consider donating whole blood or platelets. When you donate blood the first time, your blood is typed and its Rh factor is determined. If you're one of the fortunate few who are Rh negative, you can donate blood to premature babies and others with poor immune systems. Imagine your blood helping a newborn baby have a chance at life. How cool is that!

A visit to the Web site of the American Red Cross can provide you with detailed information on the blood and platelet donation processes. Please consider giving the gift of life. Give blood and platelets. It feels good.

WEEK 9 - My Mother's Hands

My mother's hands are small. As a child, her hands got scratched while picking lucious, dark blackberries. Her hands deftly collected eggs from the chicken coop and plucked clean the hen destined for the Sunday-supper pot. Her grip held tight the wooden pestle that pounded cabbage and salt into earthenware crocks for a winter's-worth of kraut, and ladled thick, sweet apple butter from the cauldron boiling in the rear yard.

As a young woman, my mother left her native Kentucky for a factory in Cincinnati where her steady hands skillfully soldered transistors onto circuit boards. After marrying, her hands changed diapers and turned the pages of bedtime stories that lulled her children to sleep. Her strong hands could wield a mean hickory switch when a child required a good licking.

Then, one day, my mother's immune system decided her hands were her enemy. Arthritis ravaged her joints into deformity. Fingers became twisted, joints permanently locked--inflamed, red, swollen and excruciatingly painful. These are now hands that have a will to open jars, touch type, thread needles, and plant flowers. They have a will, but not a way. I wish for my mother, the hands of her youth.

WEEK 8 - Wondrous Wings

Oh tiny one, with wondrous wings that beat faster than the eye can see. I watch you from my garden as you take sugar water from the feeder. Sometimes you alight relaxed, and take long draughts like someone who's been long denied a cool drink. Other visits you make to the feeder are done warily, never perching. You sip quickly as you fly to and from the flower shaped opening, vigilant, ready to flee from danger.

Leonardo da Vinci studied you centuries ago, attempting to discover the secret held in the structure of your wings. The delicate wings that give you agility and speed that's never been duplicated by any human-made contraption. You tease us flat-footed, immobile mortals with your effortless passage through the air.

Once, I held one of you in the palm of my hand after you had taken your last flight in this earthly realm. Your weight was imperceptible. You were so light, no heavier than the breath expelled from a little child. I marvelled at your tiny feet and dark eyes and iridescent soft feathers. Next to the Peruvian lily, I buried you--the lily from whose blossoms you had undoubtedly sought nectar to feed your monstrous appetite. You little hummingbirds visit the feeder and the blossoms, and the blossoms and the feeder in a cycle that doesn't end but for the onset of night. Sometimes, your ceaseless diving and swooping and chirping tires me. But mostly, your wondrous, whirring wings bring me joy.

Anna's Hummingbird

WEEK 7 - Flog is Golf Spelled Backwards

Mark Twain remarked, "Golf is a good walk spoiled" and many a time I have agreed with him! Before taking my current hiatus from the game of golf, I have toiled many an hour on the links. Toiled, I say, because the Golf Gods love to sit, unheard and unseen from their vantage point and direct that little dimpled ball to do the cruelest things to the one wielding the club. The Golf Gods love to snicker at you after you've hit what you think is a solid shot over a water hazard, only to discover the drive is too short and the ball dives straight into the water. The Golf Gods think it's pretty funny too when you hit a "worm burner" and wind up in an adjacent fairway, or better yet, when your drive off the tee hits a tree or some other solid object and you wind up with NEGATIVE YARDAGE! This game coulda' made Carrie Nation drink!

Sometimes the Golf Gods are benevolent deities. They allow you to hear that wonderful plastic-on-plastic sound that's made when your putt makes one full revolution around the rim before coming to rest triumphantly at the bottom of the cup. There's those times too that the Golf Gods see to it your feet and body are in perfect alignment with your target and your swing is as sweet and smooth as The Big Easy, Ernie Els. You hit a perfect drive and feel like Tiger Woods--you hear the imaginary spectators yell out, "you're the man!" The Golf Gods bestow just enough pleasure to lure you back so they can screw with you again!

Even though I haven't played golf in several years, I have tremendous respect for the game. It's one of the few sports wherein professional players mostly earn their pay from how well they play in a particular tournament, not from how well their manager can negotiate some obscene, multi-million dollar contract. Golf is a game where a professional or regular Joe can demonstrate his ethic (or lack thereof). When nobody's looking, a player can use a "Texas toe wedge" to kick the ball to a place of advantage, or "play the ball where it lies" and take a double-bogey, if necessary, but play the shot according to the rules. A player can call a penalty on himself and show his integrity. In golf, I think honesty is the best policy 'cause the Golf Gods don't like cheaters.

EXTRA CREDIT - Momma Spider

Momma spider took up residence in my Double-Delight tree rose two summers ago. I went out to my garden one dewy morning and discovered her sitting on a sack of eggs that she'd securely fastened to a blossom with her silky thread. Since I'm not afraid of spiders, I didn't have an irresistible urge to squish her or run screaming into the house. Instead, I visited my local library and searched through books about arachnids until I found a photo of a spider that looked like her. The caption read, Green Lynx Spider, Peucetia Viridans. Momma spider (as she was affectionately known by my husband and me) was a non-venomous green lynx spider, a variety found widely throughout North America.

Lynx spiders got their name from the fact they appear to pounce on their prey. They don't build a web in which to snare their next meal but instead rely on their speed and agility to capture a bee, grasshopper, or whoever else flies or jumps through their resident bush or shrub. Momma spider's eggs hatched and she remained in my tree rose until I put her in a special bug container. During the cold, rainy, winter months, she lived in her little bug house in my kitchen. She seemed happy as I had made a nice habitat for her with leaves and sticks and fresh foliage placed weekly inside her plastic aquarium. She ate crickets that I purchased at my local pet shop and an occasional fly or bee.

In the Spring, I released her onto my tree rose but soon thereafter, I didn't see her again. Later that Summer, a smaller green lynx spider took up temporary residence on the same tree rose and I surmised this was one of her children. This year, I hope I'll have the enjoyment of another another visiting lynx spider in my garden.

Green Lynx Spider - Peucetia Viridans

WEEK 6 - April 29, 1996

Monday, April 29, 1996 was the worst day I have lived. It was the day my father took his life. A single round from a .38 forever closed his handsome blue eyes and silenced the gentle voice that had always encouraged me. With that muzzle flash, he broke my heart, betrayed my love and all that I had done for him. He left my family shipwrecked, like so much flotsam on a sea of pain.

His passing was unexpected and unbelievable. Eleven years have come and gone and I still have difficulty comprehending what happened. Sometimes, I think I'm having a nightmare that I'll wake from but unfortunately, his death is a reality. About the only solace I've experienced has come from the passage of time. Time does round the sharp corners and dull the vivid images of grief.

My father was a highly intelligent, principled, ethical, unselfish, and gifted person. I loved him so much and have had to cope with the incredible anger I've had toward him for leaving us. Even more than the anger, it's the unending sadness that grips me--the sadness for all that was, and all that could have been. It's the sadness and regret for the stories we won't share, the trips we won't take, for the grandchildren he won't hold, for the unshared love from his family and the unpaid respect from his colleagues and friends. This sadness holds me like a vice and I don't think the passage of time will force it to slacken its grip.

WEEK 5 - The Electrified Fountain

Every morning, he's there - kneeling in the same pose as the day before. He hasn't moved in the 24 years I've passed by him. In fact, he hasn't moved since he was placed atop his perch in 1931. Who is he? He's the Gabrielino Indian guide who sits, cupping his hands together, catching precious drops of water from the overspray of the electrified fountain in Beverly Hills, California.

The Indian Rain Prayer fountain, located at the intersection of Santa Monica and Wilshire Boulevards was the first electrically lit fountain constructed in Beverly Hills. Its $22,000 cost was funded by wealthy Beverly Hills citizens who wanted a focal point along the beautiful Beverly Gardens parkway that stretches from the East to West City limits. Today, the fountain provides something beautiful to watch while inching through the interminable gridlock of one of the Westside's busiest intersections. The fountain is lit with colored lights, and if you get caught at red light, you'll fortunately have enough time to watch the fountain cycle through most all of its different spray and illumination patterns.

Wilshire Boulevard was laid down over the path worn into the earth by the Gabrielino Indians as they passed to and from the coast to trade with other Indian tribes. I guess that's why he was chosen to sit high above the place where his people had moved along quietly, carrying baskets of fish and acorns through stands of oak and willow trees. These days, this Indian guide witnesses the incessant honking of horns, people waving with one finger, and the terrible wreckage that's created when man or cyclist and machine collide. I'm sure he has seen it all.

I'm always happy to see him presiding over the intersection. I like to think he's a guardian angel of sorts, who cups the precious life's blood of this great city in his hands and perhaps, bestows a little blessing on those of us who don't honk too much and who wave with all five fingers.

WEEK 4 - "La cuisine est la coeur de la maison"

This French quotation, "la cuisine est la coeur de la maison" translates in English to "the kitchen is the heart of the home." While not true for everyone, my kitchen is indeed the heart of my home. I also consider it my realm. When my husband and I moved into our house four years ago, he was given reign over the three-car garage. In return, he recently gave me a beautiful, newly-remodeled kitchen of Canadian maple cabinetry, Caesar-stone countertops, and stainless steel appliances.

I finally have the perfect place to practice my kitchen "alchemy" and the home canning of orange marmalade is my favorite culinary challenge. Sugar, pectin, and orange segments, along with hand cut slivers of orange peel that have just enough pith to give the finished product some bite, are the basic orange marmalade ingredients. Add to those basics a quantity of water, a fair amount of luck, a great deal of patience and the end result is the satisfaction of lining up a dozen or so jars of sweet, lovely marmalade that shine like citrine jewels.

My kitchen is the physical "heart" of my home, but more importantly, it's the place where I put a bit of my heart into everything special I prepare. Cooking can be more than just making something to fill the void in one's stomach and to me, cooking is a way show and share love.

WEEK 3 - Dry Fly & Bubble

A dry fly and bubble combo on an ultra-light spinning rod is a fine piece of equipment to use when fishing the pristine lakes of the Eastern Sierras. It's an inexpensive bit of gear that's guaranteed to catch Big Fish. Just ask my husband. He'll tell you all about it.

I bet you're thinking my story will describe to you the weight and length of the biggest, most colorful rainbow and Alper's trout ever to be pulled from the depths of the Mammoth Lakes by my husband. Not. I catch the Big Fish.

My husband taught me everything I know about fishing. He taught me how to rig up a pole, select the proper test (weight) of leader line, attach a swivel, tie a bolin knot and pick the most tempting pattern (dry fly) for the lake I'm fishing. He taught me just the right way to cast that dry fly and bubble (bobber) out across the lake so the line will travel smoothly off the reel without tangling. He taught me when when to flip the bail on the reel at just the right time so the line will go taught and the fly and bubble will land in the water with just a little splash so as not to frighten the fish. I learned how to set the hook and to keep the line in front of me when reeling in the fish, and the great importance of keeping the tip of the rod up and the fish in the water until you have your net ready to scoop him up.

All of this I learned from him. The great fly-fisherman. The man who has spent thousands of dollars on the finest fly-fishing rods, reels and various accoutrement including a five-foot long pontoon fly-fishing "vessel." I have stood endless times in tackle shops listening to my husband debate the fine points of sinking vs floating line, rod length, fly patterns, hook size, etc., etc. I have witnessed the nearly excrutiating amount of time it takes him to don his fly-fishing garments and rig up his rod (tying a fly on tippet is like tying a hook on the end of a spider web). I have listened to him tell me how wonderful he feels to be bobbing like a cork on the water, in the great outdoors, dancing the line and tippet and the fly in a barrel-roll cast above his head. Oh, and the fight of the fish on the line. The diving and jumping and pulling of the fish and the winding and coaxing of the reel - the glory of it all! That is, until, the fish gives the hook the "spits", the line goes slack, and the hook gets caught on the bottom of his waders...

When he does land a fish (and he does catch a lot of them), they're normally pretty itty-bitty compared to the whoppers I've hooked up! You should've see him this one day when he rowed into shore, bragging about all the fish he'd caught on his fly rod only to lay eyes on the most beautiful three pound Alper's trout you've ever seen! On my stringer. I can still remember him shuffling out of the water with his head down, dejected, muttering to himself.

So, guys - if you're going to teach your wife to fish, you gotta be able to take it when she reels in the big ones!

WEEK 2 - Digital Photography

I started this blog on February 25 then updated it on February 27...

I just received an email from my teacher that instructs us (the Business 31 students) to create a second blog entry before tomorrow's class. I'm not feeling particularly inspired right now because I'm preoccupied with the facts that I haven't yet read chapters 1 and 2 of the textbook, nor completed the reinforcement exercises, and I still have to cook dinner, print some digital photos, get ready for work, and hopefully, watch some of the Academy Awards.

My instructor asked us to add a photograph to this week's blog and in the absence of any other ideas, the topic of this post is digital photography.

I've been using digital cameras since late 2001 and I absolutely love digital imaging! I can't ever imagine going back to using film. I'm on my second consumer grade digital camera (a Nikon Coolpix L1, 6.2 mega pixel, 5x zoom). It's pocket-sized but you can still get a good grip on it, uses SD media and all-in-all takes pretty nice photos. The price was right too, costing just over $200 delivered from Amazon.com. My only complaint is it doesn't perform well in low-level light conditions.

When a person is planning to purchase a digital camera, I believe he/she should give some consideration to a number of things so that the person will have a satisfying relationship with the camera. Here are some considerations I think are important:

Media: Digital cameras use different types of media (also known as memory) and normally the type of media is predicated by the brand of the camera. Sony, for instance, uses a propriety type of media, while Nikon uses SD memory and Olympus cameras use XD-picture cards just to give several examples. Many PC and notebook computers, as well as photo printers have media card readers that accept the most popular digital media cards. (Since Sony uses a propriety media card, I believe you have to use a Sony computer and printer for compatibility). I chose to purchase a camera that uses SD memory because I understand it is the most widely used and compatible digital memory currently available.

Batteries: Digital cameras are battery hogs! Battery type, life, and rechargeability are all important factors to consider when selecting a camera, in my opinion. If a person travels a great deal, especially to the back country on hikes and camping trips, or to third-world countries where access to a reliable electrical source to charge batteries is iffy, I would recommend purchasing a camera that uses standard, AA batteries. Your only limitation to the number of images a AA battery digital camera can take (provided you have ample media cards) is determined by the number of AA batteries your sherpa can schlep. It's kinda hard to plug in your proprietary nickle-metal hydride battery pack when you're on the back of a Yak at 18,000 feet elevation! If you're not straying far from home, rechargeable battery packs are fine. Also, when you head out on the road to those not-so-exotic locales where electricity is available, don't forget your battery charger!

Pixel Count: The imager of a digital camera is expressed in mega pixels. The higher the pixel count, the greater the resolution of the picture. Moms who just want to print 4 x 6 pictures of junior smearing his birthday cake all over his face don't need to invest big dollars in a high pixel count camera, whereas someone moonlighting as a wedding photographer needs the higher resolution so that the images can be enlarged and still look sharp. Higher pixel count equates to a higher purchase price.

Give a little thought to your needs before you buy your digital camera and I'm sure you'll make the choice that's right for you.

Now, to my photo: This is a digital image of a "fresh fish" sign that I took last October at Pike Place Market in Seattle, Washington. I really loved all the old neon signs that are still plentiful in Seattle. Pike Place Market has incredible fresh fish stalls, and I like to fish, so this sign particularly caught my eye.

Fresh Fish - Pike Place Market

WEEK 1 - Getting Started

"Dear Diary, uh, I mean, dear blog"...

I have been compelled to create a blog for a college writing course. "Blogging" is something I never would have done on my own but I'm trying to approach this assignment with an open mind. I experienced a small amount of confusion when creating this thing 'cause I'm a bit beyond being a "twenty-something." I equate those who are under the age of 25 with having a little extra special something in their DNA that allows them to effortlessly blog, MySpace, text message, chat, google, download/upload, sync, podcast, Ipod, MP3, Blackberry, blueberry, strawberry - oh, my God, I still remember my family owning a rotary telephone! Things have changed. When I was growing up, about the most "technology" one could ever hope for was to have your own telephone line in your room! Now, kids zoom around on their Razor scooters while they talk to Chad or Brittany on their Razor phone about what TV show their mom Tivo'd last night and they know what LOL and BTW means in a text message. When I was finishing my Bachelor's degree, I had to call my mom on a pay phone to ask her to return the 8-track tape that I'd borrowed from the library the week before! I worked for a video store that sold Pioneer LaserDiscs (anyone remember those 12 inch shiny, silver beauties?) Still, my family only owned a beta cam video cassette recorder. What I did have going for me, however, was access to WordStar because my dad owned his own consulting business. WordStar! Wow!! (If you don't know what it is, you can look it up on Wikipedia). If you took WordStar and added an Atari 2600, you were the envy of everyone on your block!

Today, technology fascinates, irritates, annoys, enables and entertains me. It also costs a lot of money. Today's households have the previously unheard of expenses of cable or satellite television, a DSL connection, a satellite radio subscription, cellular telephone charges, etc. Sometimes I wonder why I don't give up some of these things to save money but honestly, I don't know how I could. I'm hooked.