"official" Easter Photos

So, yes, a little late, but we took E on Sunday and had his "official" Easter/Mother's Day photos done.



( two more behind the cut )

Then, Josh took E to his mothers and now he has a completely short "little boy" haircut.

“Without mysteries, life would be very dull indeed. What would be left to strive for if everything w

Mystery Statue

On Saturday, walking on the Eastern Prom Trail, we happened to spy a small mystery.

Its this statue.

Clearly, this was intended as some kind of public art. But, now, this (very well dressed guy) is behind a chain-link fence in a boatyard. I had to stand on a rock and lean way over the fence to get this photo.

You can barely see him from the trail. There isn't any way to access him from the trail, because all the land around him is chained off private property. I suppose that if you had a boat you could pull up to their dock and see him, but you'd still be trespassing.

So, who is he? What sort of charter is he holding in his hand? Who erected him, and why? And, if he was intended as public art, why is he now inside a fenced off boat yard? Why hasn't he been moved?

ETA: bubbette found him! His name is George Cleeve and he is one of the founders of Portland. Here's the story of why his statue is languishing on private property.

I have to confess to being very puzzled as to why this lovely statue wasn't accepted but this awful statue that is in front of Hadlock Field (apparently of a father scalping his families tickets while mom tosses aside the baby's teddy bear) was allowed to stand (despite it being rejected by the Public Art Committee)

I learned something today!

There is laughter every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta

A Brief for the Defense

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

— Jack Gilbert