For Joe, Denise, Seth, Jacob, Caleb, Benjamin, David, Josh, Faith, Hope, Joy, Patience, and Mercy Holman

Porch View

Misty Mountains

Rainbow Circus

Night Skyline

And just because I miss you soooooooooo very much…

Butter!

Love,

“Fernando, you said we would get to see the Pegasus today,” I said.

“Ah, yes. You still want to see it?” was his coy response.

“Yes. Tell me how to get there”

“I will show you.”

Once we were back in town the drive to the park where his art is on display took all of a few minutes, not far from my house. I had never been there before. For those familiar with the area we came up Simon Lopez from the Plazuela de Calal Cala and entered to the North after passing Beijin, the park is next to a canal on Awki Tupaji (I am pretty sure) about five blocks up from Simon Lopez. To think that it was so close, yet unknown to me, was like a juicy secret had been kept for just this special moment now whispered in my ear.

The story goes that the piece was done in dedication to a dear friend of Fernando Crespo named Ulises Hermosa when he passed away after a battle with cancer. He was a member of a famous Bolivian folkloric group called Los Kjarkas (clicking that link allows you to hear their music and read some about them). Actually, the whole park where the sculpture stands is dedicated to the memory of this man.

Pegasus being riden by Ulises Hermosa, sculpture of metal by Fernando Crespo 2009, Cochabamba, Bolivia

A view of part of the park that covers about three square blocks of land

The artist Fernando Crespo, Clara and Timothy standing in front of the piece

a view from the front

a view from the back

The signature in the top: "F.C.", as well as the name he is known by: "Tiburon" which means Shark

Plaque with the name of the park: Parque Ulises Hermosa

The inscription on the base of the sculpture are lyrics by Ulises Hermosa (translation follows)

Lyrics by Ulysis Hermosa (hermosa means beautiful)
on Pegasus piece by Fernando Crespo

(Ayer planté un arbolito)

Yesterday I planted a little tree

(Al borde de mi destino)

On the edge of my destiny

(Con el tiempo luminoso)

With the passage of the season of brilliance

(Era feliz y crecía…)

I [or it] was happy and grew…

(…ese arbolito querido)

…this dear little tree

(el que guardaba mis sueños)

That held my dreams

(Ahora refleja mi vida)

Now reflects my life

(Son extraños los misterios)

Strange are the mysteries

————————————

Yes, mysteries are strange. They are also awe inspiring, wonderful and call for reflection.

The End.

Here are the links to the whole story:

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to get Pizza Cones

A Familiar Perfect Stranger

Meandering Adventures

Huayculi or Bust

A Study in Livelihoods

And finally this post: Fernando Crespo’s Pegasus at Parque Ulises Hermosa

The next week the sculpture was gone; never to be seen again. Or so I thought.

The rumbling tummy told me we needed to cross back over and get food for lunch. Destiny had another idea. Brushing by us a man of the working class with heavy rumpled winter clothes and hands stained from his trade gave a sidelong smirk and a less than sincere greeting. Then he invited us to come in.

Surprised by the gentile gesture I motioned that we should step inside. One of us had the idea to ask if the man who made this large form happened to be around. Almost laughing, the butler in the rough told us he would call him. Now I was getting excited. I had admired the work of this artist for over a year. He is here? This is much more than a coincidence.

Tucked and strewn behind the massive structure lay a blacksmith shop. Furnace and metal hid a simple man who now emerged. Wiping the grease he extended his hand to say hello. Unassuming he listened as I explained our intrusion. His smiles under the bushy brows encouraged me to continue with praise of his work and inquiries thereof. His answers were simple with a hint of wit. Familiarity made me think I had known him for longer than just a few moments.

My manners not lost in the whim I introduced my parents as well. Translating a conversation is a test in tongue twisters and presence of mind. Who said what? Am I conveying the attitude as well as the thought? Did I use the right language with the right person? Surprisingly it seemed that there was a general understanding.

Knowing he is an artist gave my mom an idea. She is a potter. She works with clay. When in France last year she was able to throw a pot on a wheel. She wanted to do the same in Bolivia. She thought this man might know something about the elusive potting community in Cochabamba. We had been hunting and asking around to no avail. So I asked. Then he asked if we had been to Huayculi. No, what’s that? It is a pueblo where the people make pots of clay.

What happened next shouldn’t have surprised me because it is just the way Bolivians are; nevertheless I was pleasantly surprised.

“How long are your parents in town? I can take you next week if you like,” he said as though he was speaking to an old friend. I translated his offer to my parents. I gave them the look to feel them out if this was something they would like to do. We ended the conversation finding out how we could reach the artist to make plans if it would work out to go.

“I am here every morning. Just stop by anytime,” he said. Of course, why didn’t I think of that. The earthy simplicity of a familiar perfect stranger told me I would soon find myself having a similar talk with this kind, round man.

Fernando Crespo and the Condor - July 2010

To be continued…

There is this food here in Bolivia called the Pizza Cone. Thinking this is an imported concept I was surprised to find that my parents hadn’t heard of them and found them to be a novel as well as delicious food. On the busy day that we went to grab this fast food (which ended up not being that speedy) we found ourselves, unknowingly, on a serendipitous path. Thus it began.

A funny thing happened on the way to get pizza cones. As we stepped out of the truck I pointed over the zooming cars to a bit of bronze peeking out over one of the many walls guarding the row of many little houses.

“See that bit? That is a sculpture,” I said in passing hoping to rush by the blurb and have a story to tell as we waited for our food. Alas, interest was peaked, there was no rushing this moment. The artist ears pulled my mom closer to said zooming cars in hopes for a better look.

“This will never do,” I said to myself as I watched the wandering soul crane to see more. We decided to cross for a better look. Peeking in through the door I wove my treasured background story to the tune of the oohs and aahs of my dear old mom and dad.

“You might remember some time back I posted a picture of a similar bronze sculpture. That picture was taken through this very door where we are standing. Do you remember the Pegasus?” Apologetically they told me that they did not. I explained that I had seen the wing tips over the edge of the wall and my curiosity got the better of me. Much like they were drawn to the art that was now in the workshop; I too, couldn’t help myself. I stole a few shots of the wonderful piece and posted it up on my blog.

The next week the sculpture was gone; never to be seen again. Or so I thought.

To be continued…

This picture leaves me speechless every time I see it. I snapped the shot when I was coming in to church on Sunday. These lovely ladies are Dreamers at the House of Dreams. They all got new hair pretties and were happy to show me. You can click on it to see the original sized version.

Saturday morning my kids donned their gym shorts and school shirts. Accessorized in team colors and cool water bottles in hand we were out the door for Field Day. After an Olympics style entrance of each class with flags and fanfare they lit the torch. The Bolivian anthem was sung and the student athlete code recited. Shaded under the newly finished covered sports area the kids’ competitions began.

Timothy and Raimy were pitted against one another in a game of “Street Baseball”. The size of the concrete field doesn’t allow for a full on baseball game. So this modified version makes use of a ball made of socks, four corners marked with cones for bases, and the use of the palm to hit the ball after the pitch. Timothy’s fifth grade team gave Raimy’s sixth grade team a run for their money. The final score was 9 to 7, all blacks sixth graders taking the victory.

Gabrielle played dodge ball. At the school I attended when I was a kid dodge ball consisted of all the littler kids lining up against the brick wall outside while a bigger kid pegged us off one by one. The dodge ball games played this weekend were much more involved. There were teams and rules. You continued playing even after you were hit by trying to catch the ball from the end of the court and throw it at an opponent. I enjoyed watching them.

The final game of the day (which happened to be a dodge ball game) was a real thriller. It was a free for all, mixed grades, mixed teams competition. Everyone was kinda tired so lots of kids were out fairly quickly. Then the ref announced that Gabriela (my Gabrielle) was the last one standing for her team. The game lasted for another long five minutes as there were about 10 kids all trying to get out my girl. She was great at dodging and ducking and jumping around. She had a blast but finally was bopped on the top of her head. What a good sport she was as she laid down on her back in the middle of the court and laughed while saying, “That was great!”

The thumbnail images can be clicked to see a full sized picture

(click the image for an enlarged view)

Background of the pic: I took this pic on Monday, April 12, 2010 at the House of Dreams, our orphanage. His name is Yamil. He was watching my husband hold a baby.

Saturday, April 3, we carved out time to climb Mt. Tunari. Climbing with friends makes the road not so rough. We communed with eachother, with creation and with our Maker.

Enjoy the pictures!

(Click the play button to open a new page where the images will be displayed. More photos on FaceBook)

Free scrapbook design customized with Smilebox

Until the next climb…

Image can be enlarged by clicking on it.

When asked as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up my response was one of two things: famous or a farmers wife. Sometimes I threw both of them in to see the people’s response.  Yes, I wanted to be famous. I remember the day that acting fame, my most desired of all kinds of fame, slipped away and lay dying on the floor of my high school auditorium.

He was a kook. The drama teacher always directed the plays. Our theater was state of the art. Traveling acting troupes would use the stage. The city boasted of the wonders of this renovation. Naturally the man took all things performance very seriously. The scenes he made when he got flustered at our mediocrity in class and stormed out of the room were fit for any high-school comedy movie. You just never knew what to expect.

Auditions had been held for the next production. There were usually two or three major ones throughout the year. The cast list had not yet been posted. Rumors were flying about who we thought would get the parts. A handful of talented students usually got the leads. I hung out with them, but always held a fringe position in the clique. After drama class one afternoon the teacher pulled me aside. I did not expect what he asked of me.

“I want you to show me two different voices,” was the request.

“Like two accents? Or two different ways to say the same thing?” I sought clarification.

“Two distinct characters with two different voices,” he said.

I froze. Worrying I would disappoint paralyzed me. Stutters and false starts made my heart race. Finally I gave up.

“I can’t do it,” I said. The look on his face was smug to my nervous eyes. Without another word we parted ways.

For the rest of the day I beat myself silly because I couldn’t get my act together. It would not be until practices started that I would understand the gravity of my crumbling that day.

The cast list was posted and all the regular players were on the top. The date practices would start was followed by an invitation to any and all who would like to be part of the crew. As had been the case in all previous performances (except one when I danced in the Wizard of Oz at the back corner of the stage for less than five minutes) I helped with the crew. Once again I was the prop girl.

Still, I got to be at most of the practices. I loved it! Being there was so much fun. I watched them run lines and learn how to put on a good show. One certain scene shed light on the interaction I had with my teacher. He stood with one of the lead actresses and told her that she needed to make each character distinct. Her role was that of a spy who was disguised in order to solve a murder case. So she had to play both parts. That was the role the teacher was trying to see if I could do. I knew right then that I had blown it.

At the end of my senior year we had a mini-oscars amongst those in the drama circle. I was awarded ‘Best Proppie Ever’. All my hours of scouring mildewy thrift shops for the best period furniture at a cheap price had paid off. All my running around town to the flee markets for multiple sets of china to be crashed and broken each night of the show had not been for naught. Finding the perfect pipe tucked away in the corner of an antique shop was worth it.

For years that regret of a missed opportunity hung over my head. I am over it now. It wasn’t meant to be.

Funny thing, though, once a proppie, always a proppie. Who knew that as a pastor’s wife my prop girl skills would be called upon? My husband and I spent this last week putting together a new stage for church. It was fun. We got to collaborate in the painting, design, and creation. We are pretty happy with the results. This was the third one this year. So far we have done: a construction zone, a bank and now a living room / coffee shop set. This series will last twelve more weeks and we have already started to think about our next set design.

To be clear, DaRonn’s degree in marketing has been helpful in this design endeavor as well.  I would be remiss in leading you to believe that this was all my doing. It really is a joint effort.

(The images can be seen larger by clicking on them.)