So. Facebook. What an interesting thing it's been. Beni Hana got me hooked up sometime in early winter and I can't help but comment that it's your friends, people you know, who turn you on to the most destructive but highly pleasurable moments in your life. Just try it, they say. That's how it happened to me. That's when I started.

That's not to say I have regrets. I don't have any! I really enjoy Facebook and have loved getting to know and understand the program. Quite a setup. I am no small admirer of the value Zuckerberg has amassed in the uber-rich data base he created, dubbed and marketed as a social utility. I've posted pictures, joined the Gonzaga wave, and taken the What 80's Movie Are You? Quiz on Facebook. I've given Chanel cyber gifts but my favorite gifts to give and receive, omigod by a long shot, are the Pandas. I love those little rascals! I've clickety clicked out pithy comments at lightning speed and laughed and marveled reading others' pithy comments, laid down on the run. I am proud to have stood up and been counted as a fan of NPR and Coeur d'Alene; of Beyonce and Shakespeare; and of Aretha Franklin's Inaugural Hat, the Vandals and In-N-Out, by God. Just where else can you do that and have it be known?

I have been quite startled to be friended by my children's friends on Facebook. Who the hell would want to be friends with me? I've been invited to parties on Facebook. Keen, witty, funny, sophisticated invitations and parties via Facebook. I've get updated looks on my nieces and nephews on Facebook and worry when they are taking tests and at some of the people they are hugging and kissing. Those kids, all of them, are good looking enough and smart enough that their parents, my brothers, should have put them in convents when they had the chance. And when my adorable nephew, the light of my late mother's life, railed against that drunk and liar, Nicole Tonasket, I practically dug out my 12 gauge out of the garage and began looking for the shells. He IS such a sugar baby, that Willie. Who is this skank Tonaket that's causing him angst? I assumed it was a work related matter and I jotted down numbers the general manager of Will's employer and their competitors in town, whom I know and with whom I sit on community boards, just to be ready. Few days later, Will lamented on his page that this Nicole is a heartless jezebel. So now it comes out that it's a matter of the heart. But as everybody knows, all's fair in love and war. That's another thing about Facebook. There is honor and a code of conduct; make no mistake. What goes on on Facebook, should stay on Facebook.

That's not to say it does, of course. There are snitchy moles who tell tales of Facebook off site but these people prove themselves over and over again. They do this in other communities and neighborhoods, too. My observation is that these are people who have such low abilities socially and such minimal social skills, they will always be clueless and always being looking for friends. They never will see the line and appreciate what's out of bounds. So by and large, people tell their own story on Facebook, get to speak for themselves and their friends respond, in some manner, or not. In a lot of ways, it's a cyber campfire, where people pass the stick and talk.

So having said all that, here's my observation. Facebook robs you of expression. Yeah, I know. That's pretty much contradictory. So I'll say it again. Carefully. Facebook robs you of expression. You're on Facebook for a certain period of time and you lose your muscle to lay down the written word-- make a statement and extrapolate your thoughts, develop them in a critical and creative fashion.

First, it's much too slow. It takes time to lay out what you are thinking and feeling. Might as well write a letter home. And you KNOW how long that'll take. On Facebook, you can nip in for 2 minutes and exchange pertinent details and up to the second information with 23 people, if you are me. If you are Greg Bennett, that would be 1600 people. In 2 minutes. But you do this with with very few original words--blasting into Facebook at the speed of light with a password and an email address, pinging around the status feature, the fan and friend feature and on a super leisure day, the link and photo feature. You don't ever really talk about your passions or why you deem Greg Bennett a friend, in my case a valued friend, you just hit and run, hit and run, hit and fun, in a funny, spirited, adorable pinball way and then you exit. bye bye. Keep moving. In fact, if you actually spend time on Facebook, you are teased by your friends. It really is not exactly cool to spend too much time of Facebook. So you get really good at jumping up, rattling the bats, running the bases and signing off. And it laps over into the expressive features in your other life. Your life off Facebook; it is so much more work.

I have wanted to get better at expressing myself through photography this year and have spent many hours taking classes, taking pictures and viewing the work of any and all photographers in an effort to get better. In the process, I felt my expression through photography grow but felt my voice through the written word tighten and crack. I have thought much about this trade off and the balance of power between my eye and my head, the inexplicit and the explicit. The one thing I know for sure about expressing yourself is that there are no short cuts. And as in many things, if you don't use it, you lose it. You must exercise discipline and maintain muscle to build muscle. In the Facebook lexicon, there is no discipline, no muscle; just pleasure quick and sweet on your tongue. Fast, fast food.

And now that I've got a taste of it, I'm hooked. You won't find me leaving Facebook. But I've got to get back to writing my notes up here much more often, scratching out what's going on at Bellemaison. Because if I don't, that darn Facebook just won't be sweeeeeet no more.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

Wednesday was quite difficult but yet a definitive victory as The Penske plowed through 435 miles of this United States. It was very, very cold in the Midwest on Wednesday. It was too cold for the chemicals and salt to work on the roads and as a result, it was treacherously icy. Pulled out of Chicago at 18 below and picked our way down I-90 to the Indiana Turnpike. Took us 3 ½ hours to book 60 miles and as a result, we ran behind all day and ended up short. Didn’t do the 525 miles that was on the plan.

It was the day of the trucks; they were hauling cars, candy bars, office furniture, huge tanks, pipe, tires, groceries, museum exhibits, medical equipment, pieces of steel, mail, cargo, gravel, garbage and all the other fruits of the Midwest labor. After looking them all over all day, my personal favorite is the Peterbilt. Like the name and like the look. The Penske got a little giddy going out of Chicago as she spotted another Penske that, I think, she wanted to get close to and play with. Hey, the road can be a lonely place. But that Penske exited so our Penske, The Awesome P, just settled down and started chomping on the Ohio Turnpike that lay in wait. She’s put Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio in the rear view mirror yesterday despite all obstacles. She is the Awesome P.

Late last night, the loop started to close when I saw the first This Way to New York sign. Got a big lump in my throat as I realized that we’re on EST now, The Penske and me, and that today is the last day of the New Year’s Inauguration Day Road Trip. We are a long way from home and the beloved pine trees and Big Sky of the west. But they have treated us nice here on the road so we’ll wrap up our business in New York and then climb on the airplane and fly back to The Chow Nation and our life that waits for us at home. But we’ll leave more than just a little bit of our heart and our youth on I-90 on the road to New York City.

JBelle
On Assignment
Clearfield, Pennsylvania

The Penske rolls on. Chunked out another 630miles today, sailing by barns and silos, wind turbines and the Mississippi River, and cornfields. Lots and lots of cornfields. It was a day of unprecedented cultural delights that only the midwest can bring. First, The Corn Palace the place to meet when in the Dakotas and boy howdy! check out that Space Needle! Made me feel really, really welcome.
Second, but certainly second to none, the mighty Spam Museum in Austin, Minnesota. My God. It’s the eighth wonder of the world, really. The people are darling, the exhibits incredibly well done and when you are finished if they were selling Spamburgers, you’d buy one. At the Spam Museum, you can put your own can of Spam together and race against the factory team putting together cans of Spam, all to the strains of Tchaikovsky. He’s a Russian. There are Spam recipes, a Spam exam and of course, the fabulous Spam Gift Shop. God, what a day! They had the Monty Python Spam thing, too. I told you this was a cultural experience second to none.

We rolled into Chicago on I-90 10:45, having crossed off South Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin and Illinois. Big wheels keep on turning…

JBelle
On Assignment
Chicago, Illinois

Yesterday was such a magnificent day on the road; an adventure from the time we opened our eyes, an odyssey that left us exhausted but happy and not able to even partially express ourselves once the big wheels stopped rolling and the snowscapes of the Wyoming quit flashing by, no matter how badly we wanted to talk about and explain all of it.

I think about it today and realize that the moonlight on the snowy fields of South Dakota was incredibly spiritual; miles and miles and miles and miles of moonlight glittering on snowy plains, with no sound save the pounding of The Penske’s tires on the pavement. It was an experience that cannot be movied; can only be written about to a certain extent; that certainly can’t be duplicated in Orlando or on Wii. No substitutes available for traveling in the frozen night air in the land of the Lakota, toward your destination where they wait for you and will bring you in out of the dark night with warm arms. And Mount Rushmore is a religious experience for any American. More so for me, I think, because I like pine trees. Talk about climbing to the high altar of American statesmanship!

Traveling in winter obviously is not a preferred vacation/tourist experience. But yet, there is joy, there is truth, in all aspects of life so you have to be open, remain open to the possibility of the day and not flinch when opportunity may slip a cold and uncomfortable mantle about your shoulders. The strata of 360 degrees of silver, gray and white has been magnificent to behold; the eagles and the owls soar and criss cross overhead through it all and search the fields for morsels of sustenance that may have somehow been overlooked. Today I am caught and captured by the trees of Minnesota; they have no leaves and I can watch how they grow and live, their bony skeletons standing upright in proud, stubborn stances in the frigid, still air. How I love trees. So the winter is an opportunity for contemplation, observation, and reflection that you just don’t get nor want in the summer because, well, the livin’ is too easy.

So despite what it looks like from there, Call it all Joy. Today the wisdom of the snow, the bare branches, the white sky and the icy path calls to me, embraces me with glad hands and reveals delights that I have always wondered about, but only just glimpsed. Today is another time where I sit deeply in my blessings, in the company of eternity.

JBelle
On Assignment
Worthington, Minnesota

The Penske ticked off 726 miles today; she continues to be my new BFF. Got up in the dark and headed out when the sun was just coming up into The Big Sky. Then drove three hours in uber icy conditions in a silver gray world; the ice on I-90 gleamed like good silver polished up for a wedding. Exquisitely beautiful; exquisitely dangerous.

Finally the monochromatic world of Wyoming gave way to sunny blue skies and drilling rigs of South Dakota and in another thrilling encounter, The Faces popped up through the pine trees. I am positive that Mount Rushmore is my very favorite American monument.

The sun fell quickly and just as quickly the moon rose. We rode along for hours in the moonlight, watching the winter night in silence. Pulled into the Holiday Inn Express by Cabela's at 11:15 pm to find the lock on the back door of The Penske frozen shut. These are the things you just can't plan for.

JBelle

On Assignment

Mitchell, North Dakota

So The Penske pulled into The Best Western in Laurel, Montana at 10:30 pm tonight in a blinding snowstorm. Which means 529 miles evaporated while bombing through clouds, mists, snow, rain, sleet, hail, the University of Montana, Yellowstone, Rock Creek, five ski areas and the state prison at Deer Lodge which only in part comprises Segment I of the Sugar Hill Sponsored by Penske New Year's Inauguration Tour 2009. And to be clear, Deer Lodge should not be confused with Warm Springs, the site of the state mental hospital. Nor with Three Forks, the confluence of the Madison, Jefferson and Gallatin Rivers, where Lewis and Clark spent the summers of 1805 and 1806. The Penske blew by them, too. Never even slowed up.
But The Penske was slip sliding around on 29th early on out of Bellemaison but got its act together on the Freya hill and pretty much smoked every truck on I-90. The Penske rocks. Took on some tax-free cargo on at Costco in Missoula and have pretty much got this freight on function down to routine. But I need a pair of Carrharts coveralls in the worst possible way for people to take me seriously.

JBelle
On Assignment
Laurel, Montana

well. got all the furniture id'd and pulled from storage. we dismantle the upstairs bedroom today and put it in the truck. Got a big yellow Penske. Went to Costco and bought groceries. Some habits die so darn hard. Point being, for those of you in the dark, what major effort is major without laying in groceries and supplies? Laundry detergent, fabric softener, stain remover? check. 3 gallons worth. Swifter floor, surface, light fixture hardware and software? Check. Clorox, Kirkland antiseptic wipes, 3 kinds, Windex, rags? check. check.check.check. Light bulbs, toilet paper, hand soap. Roger that.

Diet Coke, red licorice, Walker's shortbread. check. Dried cherries, blueberries, dry roasted almonds. check. iPod, HP, camera, cellphone, hard copy Contacts. check. cordsandcordsandcordsandcords. check. Spitzer's new book; Obama's biography. check. Gums. Lots and lots of gums. check. nalgenes. check. coffee, tea, cocoa, thermos for each. check.


the artwork. the CDs and books. the golf clubs. check. the casseroles, bread pans, french press coffee pot and grinder, and crock pot. check. the Foreman. check. rags. already got those. here's more. check.

Tripe A books from here to New York. check. Corresponding maps. check. Truck rental papers. check. truncated tool box. check. RAGS. check. bungee cords. gloves. boots. check check check. cash. check. one way return airline tickets. check.

Quartermaster passed me on my inspection. Countdown starting.


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

It started with a bed. Doesn't make too much sense to have the smaller bed from storage sent to the new apartment and leave the big bed in his old bedroom. Don't know when exactly he'll be around to sleep in it again. And the matching big dresser with the big mirror would be much more helpful in his new bedroom than in his old one, holding his old Search t-shirts, his football work out shorts and that Austin Power Halloween costume he was so funny in. That way, I can quit searching for a good deal on a new mirror and also abandon my efforts to find a new dresser for his new apartment in his new hometown.

So I've never moved out the bed of anybody who has ever lived here. As poorly constructed as that last sentence is, the idea of moving a bed out of the house triggering a personal crisis of sorts is even a more poorly constructed idea. But I think that's what's going on.

My own mother suffered her rite of passage crisis when she no longer made sack lunches for all her sons; she missed her boys deeply but didn't fully absorb the loss of their childhood until she no longer made them lunches to take to work in the woods, on the highway and to the mill. I for myself do love a good bed and carefully selected each and every bed my children have ever slept in. When they were old enough, I had their mattresses custom-made. Good sheets and pillowcases and down pillows were and are an entitlement around here and treated with the respect we give our family silver, which has been among us for four generations now. Our bed-making technique was learned at the hand of my Aunt Winifred, who was a Red Cross nurse. Speaking freely and plainly, no one makes better beds than us. I have my grandparents' bed in the guest room. So along with the kitchen and with the table, our beds and our bedroom spell the reassurance, sanctity and refuge of home unlike any other thing around here. The lilacs bloom in spring, the roses in June and the lavender blooms in July. But as long as the dust ruffles skim the wood floors, the duvets are puffy with fluffed up down, and there' s a little light left on nearby, none of that matters. We here love our beds. That's what makes our home.

And now this will be the house with the rooms with small beds. Because that's what works best these days. Small beds. The Christmas tree still glows in the dark and the wind flaps the plastic tarp that protects the dogs' kennels on the patio. It is a dark, starless night that came from a rainy, ashen day. It's hard to know exactly, just how tomorrow will be.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

I am not ready to take down these dabs of adoration and put them away. I could Christmas all through January. This nativity is actually a cake a ordered for a party I gave in early December. It's frosting, through and through.

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

Lenox

Germany

a handmade gift of Michael Lydon

Haiti

Russia

Christmas is almost over....

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA