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June 26 1999

admin — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 07:12:41 +0000

A momentus day in the car department. Moo and pop went for a walk in the arboretum. Moo opted out of going to see Austin powers make fool of himself in favor of going for a walk with *her Poppie*. I stayed home and wondered about dinner. Tico Tacos it was. Developed film found in the old saab…the roll contained Neens ninth birthday. I think that was a nine on that cake. The other shots brought back old house lust, my garden, our kitchen, our home……geez. And I sat on the bench this afternoon, knawing on a chocolate covered banana, with nuts mind you, thinking about how comfortable I felt here on the hog. Sun setting, trucks on the near by highway temporarily silenced, Godilla sized misquetos,not yet on the prowl. Neen was out on the movie circuit with another Johnny. After completing a birthday party adventure. Moo left a message on the machine last night that was totally unintelligible. I had to play it back 20 times before I had the brilliant idea of simply turning the volume down, which allowed me; the worry mother decipher this phrase in LikeSpeak *smgnimgingtotpoftheparkhomemidnit,kay* click…Pop led a layed back un policed teenage life.I let him deal with the late arrivals, sudden changes and overall chaotic teenage whoha. I deal better with the sensible suggestions of taking care of oneself, as I was brought up by the queen of worry and distrust. The fireflies are again amazing. They prace around the hog til the wee hours. They are like mini fireworks. All is silent as they do their dance. Where oh where are the crickets.

31 perch or so the fish story goes

admin — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 07:10:18 +0000

I fished every day most summers that I can remember. If we were not in the water we where on the water. Fishing was a great occupier of time. It offered me a silent pass time, my own passion. Calmly waiting for the fish to bite or nibble, silence, gazing out over the water, damsel fly, toe biting horse fly…..During my grandmothers rein you started out fishing with ice fishin’ poles. Short stout and convenient, no castin just drop it in and wait. We fished from the dock for hours back then. Layin face down oblivious to the sun, scoping out the warm, dark underdock bluegill havens. The fish nested in our beach. I dropped my line between the dock boards, oblivious to the fact that I might catch a fish larger than the 1/2 inch spacer. On those occasions you had to call for help, pull hard or go under and get it. The later option was icky even though we swam in the muck and weeds all the time, under the dock it was really smooshy. Better that my dad came and got the fish off the hook. I had to be able to worm my own hook….that was the test of having access to pole with out supervision. As time marched on, you graduated to your very own bamboo pole. Or at least you adopted one and called it your own. I would beg my father to go fishing, I even was known to get up early and go fishing. I also had to beg my dad to dig worms. That wasn’t too hard because he had the only real live worm patch in a 200 mile radius, and the neighborhood kids knew it. He watered it even. On a moist day you could literally lift the leaves gently and find em’. We had perpetually filled worm cans. We went fishing, Grandmother, cousins and uncles included, off the tip of Blaine Island. I seem to remember red woollen plaid shirts, long pants, misquetos, wet tennis shoes and silence. The sun setting the fish jumping and frogs grumping. Fished til dark and often past dark.
With the advent of Kmart came the availablility of casting rods and reels by the hundreds to choose from. Bamboo poles are still to this day my favorite. Oh sure, I had my rod and reel days but they always got left out on top of the boat house and stolen, bamboo was a safer bet, they usually stayed on the boat house roof longer. I fished as I got older from dock to dock, and in the boathouse. Each beach had its own special charateristics, so did each boathouse. So on it went, from dock to dock… pole, worm can, stringer and bucket in hand. I didn’t hear “erica, do this, do that when I was fishing because I was 20 houses down hoping for perch. My ma hated that. And then I graduated to the dinghy. A boat just my size, no motor, just oars and me. Okay I had to wear a life jacket but I was free. I took that boat everywhere. And then as things progressed I got access to the 7.5 light blue, evinrude, extra-long shafted outboard and the aluminum boat. Lookout I had wheels. Serious fishing.
When I was about 8, I went out fishing with my Uncle Bert, at Grand Island. We went out a short distance from the cabin, dropped anchor and as the story goes caught 31 large perch, oh me just the thought of eating perch, oh. And the perch were biting, one after the other it was grand. I had help continuing my fishing passion from my boy cousins, especially Craig. Craig back then (and still) was a passion person. When he did it he did it the whole way. If he was into fishing he fished all day, all night and then some. He even knew if a school of something was passing through on a regular basis. When he built miniature ships, he built em perfect, then he blew them up, when he learned to do tricks on water ski’s we all got dizzy going around in circles. He used to go from dock to dock with me, he often knew of some new hole to try. He sometimes took me trolling, while that technique garnered more fish it seemed like hack fishing to me. When I was lonely at the cottage, which was semi often, I would go fishing. I was so fortunate to have my cousins right down the road. They needed a break from tag along kids. I have passed on the torch to a couple of young folks, I sat in a boat for along time with Cate, fishing. I was once at a party on a lake and some folks were fishing off the dock. One female started skreeching that she had a fish and started waving the poor thing all over the place instead of taking it off the hook. I calmly dipped my hand in the lake, grabbed the fish, dehooked him and tossed it back, to the astounded gathering. They were open mouthed that I touched a fish, I guess.
I prefer perch for eating but have caught everything from a gar pike ( I let her go) to big ole bass. I am telling you this story because my Neen asked to go fishing last weekend. What kind of looser am I that I don’t live on a lake so he can go fishing all day everyday? Can’t have everything. He went fishing with my Dad. They caught 12 fish. My dad filleted them, Neen brought them home and I fried them up. We ate them for dinner last night and they were heavenly.

NiaShani The n e w e s t Font Creation of erksnerks

admin — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 07:07:58 +0000

Kwanzaa is a spiritual, festive and joyous celebration of the oneness and goodness of life, which claims no ties with any religion. The focus of Kwanzaa is centered around the seven principles of Nguzo Saba with particular emphasis on the unity of families. It is a time for gathering of our families, and for a rededication to manifesting the principles of Kwanzaa (Nguzo Saba) as a way of life.
UMOJA (UNITY) (oo-MOE-jah)
To strive for and maintain unity in the family, community, nation and race.
KUJICHAGULIA (SELF DETERMINATION) (koo-jee-cha-goo-LEE-ah)
To define ourselves,name ourselves, create for ourselves and speak for ourselves.
UJIMA (COLLECTIVE WORK AND RESPONSIBILITY) (oo-JEE-mah)
To build and maintain our community together and to make our brothers’ and sisters’ problems our problems and to solve them together.
UJAMAA (COOPERATIVE ECONOMICS) (oo-JAH-mah)
To build and maintain our own stores,shops and other businesses and to profit together from them.
NIA (PURPOSE) (nee-AH)
To make as our collective vocation the building and developing of our community in order to restore our people to their traditional greatness.
KUUMBA (CREATIVITY) (koo-OOM-bah)
To do always as much as we can, in the way that we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than when we inherited it.
IMANI (FAITH) (ee-MAH-nee)
To believe with all our hearts in our parents, our teachers, our leaders, our people and the righteousness and victory of our struggle.
Kwanzaa is a way of life; not just a celebration. As a living social practice, it is a week of actual remembering, reassessing, recommitting, rewarding and rejoicing. For evaluation of ourselves and our history, we relate to our past, reassess our thoughts and practices, and recommit ourselves to the achievement of liberation and the betterment of life for all Americans Black, Red, White, Orange, Yellow, Purple and Green.
Nia Shani is a child of Purpose.
NiaShani is made up of all a full character set.

erksnerks.soul

admin — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 07:05:21 +0000

erkadays and motherwrite

admin — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 07:03:59 +0000

dayz of the past and on into the rest of the days

Welcome to the Art of Motion Dance Theatre

admin — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 07:01:36 +0000

(313) 834-9501
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Reflecting on our daily moments

admin — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 06:59:28 +0000

April 9 – November 4, 2007

Many many hours and days and weeks and months have gone by, passed pulling with them people, elated happiness, great sadness since I have written here.

It all began in February when Bunny proposed to Stinky. I traveled to Italy, Pop traveled to Germany and then Italy. We met family we bonded with Italy, we were ready to move forward. Moo returned to the states in April, she settled in and we began to prepare for her wedding. Neen completed his first year of college with a 3.94 and returned home. We were all back together again. Such fun.

June 8, 2007. My father passed on leaving us stunned and soaring in a vortex of sadness. He died quickly, relieving us the need to live through his desire to not age in a home or connected to tubes but to die at his own hand if necessary with dignity. His passing has not yet settled with me. I still cry, I still look at trees, clouds, birds and spectacular sun sets and wait for the phone call from him to tell me to go look. Finding an old, old, old, down right ancient, saab station wagon in the parking lot at the Whole just about killed me. My father’s passing brought me cousins, aunts, uncles. Stories, photos, dinners, smiles and heart pain. The boat is gone from the drive way, the solar house is infested with raccoons and rotting away.

I wrote this June 27th. My Daddy died, Friday, June 8th of a stroke. He would have been 82, July 11. We were at the garden in the early pre work day when the phone call came. “UofM hospital, 2 emergency vehicles, raincoat over pajamas, just now figuring out the cell phone to call you…..”My mother did not accompany him to the hospital as she had on her PJamas, and well, I think she knew. It was fast. Moo and the Neen were able to get to the hospital to see him but not before he was gone. My mother was the last to nag him. He is resting in peace.
The days after his death are a blur. I stand in numb shock some days and true un denying clarity on others. Moo gets married to Stefano regardless. There are chores to be done and letters to write regardless. I have had to add my Daddy to the in memoriam on the wedding program, right there with Hughie. The grampa memorial. I cry as I type this.
I have been very busy at work, at home, at the garden. I have neglected this journal. Zoe says that I have left everyone in Rome.
Currently the garden is right on the edge of kicking it out. The swiss chard is gorgeous, the reds and the few thrown in golden tones pick up the garden in all of it’s green. I just planted amaranth this weekend for some color.
The bathroom is painted Erica purple as Veda calls it. I have a spot of paint on my index finger to remind me that I have to go get new fabric to create curtains.
The downstairs bathroom is wheat green yellow, Pop calls it puke. I have found that chores of painting has kept me sane among the insane members of my family. They know who they are. I have been a tower of restraint, and I am leaning ever so slightly beneath the weight of their neurosis.
Grilled eggplant and driving down back country roads along ripening wheat fields are a couple of things that make me think of my Daddy. Me breathing the air and seeing the sights without him twists me up. Green herons, hummingbirds and the moon. The almost daily phone calls to let us know about the weather, a show that we should be watching, or an astronomical siteing that we should be prepared to stay up all night for.
The night of his death a screech owl let loose in our yard. Loud screaming as if in denial.

I have never felt so ill or so dispised as I have in the past few weeks. I am immune most days to the arrows and darts.

My father’s silence is no different now than it was when he was alive, as he listened to the nagging, weighing the ups and the downs. And I find that though I can talk, if the spirit so moves me I can be silent, listen and observe before I move my mouth.

The memorial service was on a hot saturday afternoon. I woke up to cut a woods bouquet in my pajamas, barefoot I walked the hog dodging the poison ivy to pick this and that. A cattail from the pond across the road stood centennial above it all, hickory, oak and fir. Ivy, plantain, day lily and lilac. My mother wanted a photograph and an urn of ashes, my sister wanted his odds and ends: his sun pin, the flaming chalice pin and his magnifying glass, the material, what she has left. Veda brought the The duct tape, mark the the WD40. I wanted the leaves and the trees and the pond and the weeds, all of the woods. We gathered in the big church beneath the arched ceiling, fans working it above. 180 to 200 of us family, friends, comrades, students and colleagues. On a pedestal sat the snowbirds under glass. Neen played a clarinet solo. Moo read Death by Kahlil Gibran. They were proud tearful grandchildren. Neen sat behind me next to Bucko with the Petite One, I sat with my arm behind me so I could hold his hand. klm lead a responsive reading, and told a story that was about Daddy and her when he got caught doing some creative recycling behind a Wayne State building on a sunday morning. He found hobart dishwasher trays, and thought they may fit the churches Hobart. They got tsked at by a fellow UU lady because they got caught trash picking. It is strange what folks hold on to. Creative recycling can be good and bad, it can become an insane addiction that can ruin relationships in the end. It was hard for me to have my Dad made fun of enough as it is growing up.

My cousin Mark spoke, watching my face, I tried to send him strong, but Moo sat next to me in tears pushing him the other way. He spoke about the insect on water that will for ever more remind him of my father, his uncle. Mr. Silverman spoke, a colleague, he was good and could have gone on some more and it would have been fine with me about the things my Dad got done in his life as a high school Science Department Head. The Petite One sang A Blue Boat Home. Donna spoke. Pop spoke, we laughed and we cried. All in all it was a good thing.

My mother wanted an “old hymn” sung at my Father’s memorial. My sister disagreed and stated with certainty that she knew what Daddy would have wanted. My choice was to go with whatever my Mother wanted. My sisters choice was to choose a hymn that was politically correct. Now you have to understand that lyrics rewritten to outsmart the original lyrics are typical Unitarian practice. I have discovered that I have no need to rewrite the world to be comfortable with it. The words were written, placed in a hymnal, which floated to a congregation, that sang the songs over and over, words interpreted by many over and over again. the song was of an era and there for it meant something to someone. If you must rewrite the words bend them so they are politically correct, write your own damn song right down to the last quarter note and get a grip.
The organ played my Dad home as loudly as it possibly could. We vibrated with Alex.

I wrote this June 28th. Once I get out of the confines of Ann Arbor into the wilds of due west I am soothed by ripening wheat fields that roll in gold and the slight green of still young. No animals on my drive out, just cars and trucks and trees and finally fields of corn and wheat. Another summer, but a very different one. A very unusual one. A trip abroad, a death, a wedding another trip abroad and then another one. No time to get things done for ourselves. Lots of time that is slowly dwindling to do for others. I have not read a book in weeks. I have knit in spurts. I have painted two bathrooms. Cooked many dinners. Shopped for hand rails, found a huge mirror just sitting in a garage waiting for me, chose a light fixture that looked cool there but will take some getting used to now that it is up and on. I have been to the florist, the jewelers, the tuxedo-man’s joint, I have gone hunting for paper and bought perennials in the hopes that they will flower for the wedding. I have unscrewed 3 inch screws out of rotten wood of the deck with the Neen looking on. I have planted a garden. I have harvested garlic.

Italy begins to arrive on July the 3rd and I realize that I have not yet taken time off for the wedding. What am I thinking.? We have not figured out flowers for the two vases at the “alter” and have not cleaned the wax off of the candle holders that the Moo wants to use, let alone found two tapers. The flower twinkle dresses are laid out on Beth’s dining room table. Shantung silk with tiny pearls sewn across the entire yardage for the skirts and plain shantung for the bodice. A big bad ass bow in champagne for the finishing touch. The groom is trying to get me the mother to let loose on the bride to be’s gown over the air waves of gchat. Silly besotted man. What do I look like? The Neen is up north with Ugo and Gramma learning to carpenter. They are building a shed. They put the rafters up yesterday.

I flew to Malmo, Sweden for work. I left on Tuesday and returned wednesday.

July 14th, 2007. Bunny and Stinky were married at the UofM league garden. We all got dressed up. The bell tower bells rang out from the time we stepped out onto the mall for photos, right through the ceremony. It was awesome. The sun shone on family and friends. We sat down to dinner in the ballroom, Beth led us in Amazing Grace, we sang as we held hands around the tables. We ate and then danced until midnight.

Bunny and Stinky left for Milano and their new home way to soon for me, but then the knowledge that we would all travel to Rome for a September 1st wedding kept things interesting.

I flew back to Malmo Sweden for work and was gifted with a long walk in Copenhagen. We walked to the mermaid and back to the hotel which was across from the Tivoli.

We flew into Rome and the whirl wind began. We toured, ate, walked, sang, watched. We started our tour in Fregene with dinner on the beach and then stayed in Rome. We toured with an Italian, two Argentineans, and three Americans. We spoke spanglish, english, italian and italish. We saw Bunny and Stinky wed in a chapel dressed in gold and angels on September 1, at eleven am. For three minutes we were not tourists but members of the bridal party, and the tourists were on us like the pigeons were on the arborio rice that we threw. There were the hired paparazzi to deal with all day and night. After the wedding in Piazza Novona we drove to Fregene to the sea and met with Marco, Daria and later Donetella. Then the wedding party and dancing and eating and drink.

My Uncle Jimbo passed on Friday October 19th. He was my favorite uncle on the planet. College educated farmer with a degree in the Korean War. We visited him in ICU at Ohio State. He could not talk, but his Ohio twang came out regardless. I am glad and sad that I spoke to him on last time. It wasn’t enough.

November 1st, 2007. Our Grandma Mary passed away. Here we sit numb.

2007 copyright erksnerks, e mercer

Classes and Workshops

admin — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 06:56:07 +0000

Classes and Workshops
African dance & Afrocise with Karen Prall

For further information
(313) 834-9501

The Art of Motion Dance Theatre
Karen Prall, Director
313 834-9501 / Fax 313 834-3585
or EMAIL us
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The Art of Motion Dance Theatre
P.O. Box 27749
Detroit, Michigan 48227