Well, The Angel Child is in town--seems there's birthdays afoot--so we set out for summertime fun and adventure in The 'Kan EWA.

We had breakfast out on the front porch; set the little table with a linen tea towel from Lago Como and the Portmerion dishes with the French cotton napkins. The hues were purples and pinks and periwinkle blues framed in black, suiting the morning exceptionally well. The orange and red geraniums in the annual bed bordering the porch provided a colorful moat as others from the neighborhood set out on their morning walks or passed by on their way to the weekend. We sat and watched them as we ate and drank, in one of the finest traditions of summertime civilization, the family breakfast, a eucharist when at Bellemaison.

We set out kiwis, homemade vanilla yogurt and blueberries, croissants, white cheese, proscuitto, and sliced tomatoes along with deeply steeped, rich, black coffee. A veritable feast. We talked and laughed about past, present and future. Pending high school reunion/cocktail party, new neighbors next door who turn out to be old neighbors from the Rockwood Childhood Series, and our next family vacation. We always have much to say to each other and much to listen about and these meals could last for hours. On this day, however, it couldn't be because we had an appointment with DESTINY. Well, the Irish member of the family was in residence. And these things ARE a miracle, as Irish people will readily tell you. (Go with a very small shrug here)

Yes, we jumped up at precisely 8:45 am and threw on our IDAHO sweats, hit the car, jammed it into low and raced, RACED, for the Garden Springs overpass across I-90, where the Orange County Chopper Motorcade would pass, on their way to the Fairgrounds, where they were doing the things you do for money at the fairgrounds on a weekend. I must confess, this part of it is a bit of a mystery to me. I don't get to the fairgrounds much.

We had scouted this overpass the night before on the way in from the airport and were quite satisfied that we had picked the very best perch to view Sr. , Paulie, and Michael as they rode triumphantly into Jerusalem, uh, The 'Kan! The 'Kan, AS THEY RODE TRIUMPHANTLY INTO THE 'KAN. They would be riding their magnificent chrome steeds, those custom choppers they make on their Discovery Channel series, Orange County Choppers; one of the two shows for which I will turn the television on. I love Orange County Choppers. For me, a frustrated general contractor/manufacturer, it's about the machines they use to fabricate, cut out, bend and manipulate the thick pieces of metal into the fully operational recreational sculptures they refer to as 'choppers'. I love those freaking things. I'm afraid of them; wouldn't get on one in this lifetime, but I love 'em. Truly. So we were completely confident we had the total 411 on how to see the bikes as they were ridden into town by this Germanic dynasty of upstate New York.

We cruised up I-90 to see that we were not the only people with the Garden Springs overpass opinion; nevertheless, we hit the offramp (going about 75 or 80) because we could see there was still plenty of room for us. As I started to take the curve, I glanced over at the opposite on ramp, where the Teutel boys would access I-90. Of course, with my keen (ha!) eye I knew IMMEDIATELY that this was our real spot and ours alone. I downshifted the Audi to a violent stop, backed her up on the weeds alongside the offramp (the people who live with me have now fainted in a dead heap), spraying a little of my own gravel around in the process, grabbed my camera and started running. As a second thought, I ran back to the car and snapped on the emergency flasher lights, to see my daughter now out of the car, but with her mouth wide open and her jaw on her chest. But she was on her own; I didn't have time to see to her needs. I sprinted across 5 lanes of I-90 onto the median and began to focus and frame the shot, frantically searching for the best vingette. I turned around at a point and motioned, commanded, that the Angel Child join me smack dab in the middle of I-90 and she, an athlete of All-American status, tentatively stopped-and-started her way across the lanes of traffic, filled with people who wondered what the hell was the problem with those women in the road. They could get killed out there.

I got my shot ready, started to absorb the reality of standing in the middle of traffic on one of the most heavily traveled freeways in ther US and began to need to breath a little more deeply when here came the cops, making way for the bikes, those two-wheeled baroque chariots of leather and steel. I got one weak shot off and then had to stop; as gorgeous as those bikes are , and I have seen them on display before, I was disabled at seeing them glitter and sparkle in their natural habitat. They are HUGE, as long as an Audi A8L, they are powerful, they are singularly magnificent. Paulie was in the lead, whizzed past us doing 80, doubled taked to see people in the middle of I-90 wildly waving and gave us a big wave back. We whooped loudly in response and turned to greet Sr., who almost stood up as he gave us a HUGE wave; he is the muscle man, you know. Then came Michael, blond hair crazy in the wind, come to think of it just like ours, who gave us a huge smile and as big a wave as a non-athletic man can give, when riding a 700 pound motorcycle 80 mph down the freeway.

We had just personally greeted American icons, people who are passionate about their work and their life; people who fail miserably everyday yet get up again every morning, ready to go at it once more. We welcomed them to our town, our passion, and waved them in with the best wishes and summertime solidarity we could summon and in doing so, reminded each other that life in its simplest form is unbelievably delicious.


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

It had been a wet and cold June and this 4th of July was the coldest on record; on my personal record, at least. As my little boy lay sleeping upstairs, I stood at the front window and watched the rain pour into the streets, creating swiftly moving streams along the curb, streams clogged with mud and debris but moving quickly towards downtown nevertheless. I was 36 weeks pregnant.

I had been waiting for this baby for 7 months; that little boy of mine, now 3 years old, waited with me, full of anticipation for the new baby. He was a very busy boy and he kept me very busy. More busy than I wanted to be , with a big house and much responsibility. But this was my life and I accepted my responsibilities dutifully. My little boy was a curly-haired firecracker who talked and laughed and played with a curiosity and humor that was irresistible but exhausting. He was all boy. I had prayed and prayed and hoped--hoped so deeply for a girl. As the sister of 3 brothers and the mother of a boy whose father only had unmarried brothers, I really, really needed another woman in my family.

This was not the kind of thing I could say out loud to anyone in my own family, not to my mother, because it would too wonderful a thing to happen to someone like me. I could not express my fervant desire for a girl to my husband or his family because they thought the best babies were boy babies. So I stood at the window on the 4th of July and watched the rain come down, wondering what the month had in store for me, wondering where my fate lie.

I shivered and watched a log jam in the gutter break, which sent the muddy stream moving ever more swiftly down the street. Then I saw the most curious thing: pieces of sod, the size of a yard of fabric, floating down the street towards Sacred Heart. The neighbors up the street who had just relandscaped were losing their sod to this relentless rain. Just about as soon, they appeared, chasing their sod down Rockwood. I laughed to myself and turned to find a sleepy blond boy at my side, fresh from his nap. And this was my life as a 26 year old mother expecting her second child.

July 9 was the date the rain broke. It was beastly hot that day; I remember perfectly because that was the day I went into labor. I wasn't too excited to get to the hospital remembering the last marathon, so I took my time but finally decided to go when it got really hot in that big old house of ours. Good thing.

I went into the hospital through the emergency room entrance; from there I went up the non-public elevators on a guerney to the ninth floor where I was met by a delivery nurse as the door opened. A quick examination revealed that I was in the final stages, moments, of labor so they decided not to move me but to set up shop right there as a baby was going to be born any moment.

And born this baby was; She was wide awake and uttered not one cry or sound but began chewing on her fist happily. She turned her head to look up at me as She lay on my stomach, fully taking me in with her bright, pretty eyes. She watched me cry as the wish that was too impossible and too utterly wonderful to say out loud had come true. I had a daughter.

She had the face of an angel. She WAS an angel. She was an angel who was sent to me so that I could cope, I could persevere, I could survive and rise again. This angel was sent to me as covenant, much as God sent Noah a rainbow, so that I would know I was going to make it. And my little boy and I were going to be okay. On that day, my life changed forever.

I named my little bright-eyed rainbow Angela.


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

Been some talk around the internet lately about who I really am. The Chows got quite a kick out of that, quite a kick out the idea that something or anyone might change me. Truth is, I change everyday; everyday there's something out there that captures me and leaves its mark, that makes me different for always. At least on the good days. Cle pointed out to me that still, it's good to say it out loud every once in a while because it makes it real. And keeping it real, that's what we're about, right?

So who am I? Where do I live? Well, folks, I'll tell ya: I am a child of Penn Ave and sidewalks with huge maple trees; I am a child of church bazaars and ceramics with Mrs. Capaul and meat and potatoes fresh rolls and homemade dessert dinners on Third Street. I am a child of the Palouse, the St. Joe, and mounds of sawdust from freshly cut lumber. I am a child of Viking pride.

I live in the shadows and around the corners from goodbyes; still hate 'em and still can't figure 'em out. I live in the garden with the roses, hydrangeas, rhododendrons and pinecones. I live at my desk with problems that need solving, people that need soothing, numbers that need boxes. I live in the laughter and applause of great theatre and in the windows of skillfully inventoried stores. I live in the paint and paper and clay of beautiful art. I live in the stories and melodies of the car radio. I live on my bike. I live in the laughter of B, A, and J. I live in the lap of J, listening to him sleep. I live with the hearts of my friends, glad, glad, glad. Lucky.

I look for the sunset and for the first sign of a fruit fly in the kitchen. I also look for a scratchy throat, a hot ear, pale gums. Old habits die hard. I look for really good shoe sales. I look for dust on the pictures in the living room, nice firm bananas, and patterns of numbers that levitate off the page. I look for clues in the eyes. I look for as many different shades of green in the trees that I can find. I look for the slightest scrap of anything in the back seat. I look for colors. I look for the perfect pair of black pants.

I read. I think. I laugh. I fuss. I fix. I worry. I try.

I try.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

A Tuscan table

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

Winding through the narrow streets of Firenze I am changing camera batteries to look up and see what is clearly the GU bar in Florence. Never made it there but loved knowing it was there!

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

JBelle reacts to the scathing treatment of Marmitetoasty on HBO.

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

This is a common sight in Italy. The one and only place I did not see cranes and new development was Positano. Tuscany is full of 200 condo developments; I am assuming European tourists are creating the demand. There is more development in Italy than on the Rathdrum or Moran Prairies. When the time comes, I'm retreating to Slave Lake; or the Yukon.

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWa

One of my favorite sculptures, in the Duomo in Milano; this is St. Bartholomew whose artist escapes me at the moment. If you remember, St. Bartholomew was flayed and here he carries his skin around his shoulders. I love his resolute, unmartyr-like expression and his athletic stance. ha!

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

We talked to a couple on the ferry on Lake Como; they were from Florida and were quite nice. We struck up a conversation with them because of the logo on the woman's blouse. Amazing. They know my hometown well.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

On the Duomo roof, Milano

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

Another Italy Great Thing

Your typical Tuscan pottery shop





JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan Ewa

One Great Thing about Italy

Police Uniforms!

Sling-back 3 inch spike heels and official Prada bags

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

It's a done deal. I forgot my camera so the tiny logging towns, stunning Victorian farm houses and fields and hills and trees and creeks and dormant volcanoes and Lake Washington and Puyallup (hisssss) will reside only in my mind, at least until next year. I wonder, maybe still in a blood sugar deprived state, what 'Centralia' would be in French? Centralia is the overnight heart of STP--quite a dynamic place for at least one night a year. Being prejudiced about wonderful names for wonderful towns, I'm just think it deserves a nicer name....So many people camp. Vikings, Goths, Huns, otherwise warriors, those. There were cops everywhere! I'm so naive; I thought the cops were the help the bikers navigate the commercial/residential paths to the SRs and secondaries that are STP. Nope. They are to pull the bikers over and TICKET them if they don't make the stop sign. Actually rerouted the ride out of Yelm; Yelmites don't like this ride or the people who ride it. okay. I loved coming into St. Helen's from the Washington side. Never have before. And the Lewis Clark bridge is just your requisite damn scarey steel bridge. I think Oregon has the world franchise on those. Gold Wing Club did an escort over for the bikers. Cool. Funny. People love to ride up to you and rip on you because you have a mountain bike. sigh. And riding in to the finish line through Nopo was highly emotional. Cried a little bit. How I love that Nopo.



JBelle
On Location with STP
Lloyd Center, Oregon

4:41 am and I wake up in my own bed in The 'Kan EWA. Just how did I get here? As my eyes adjust to the very dim daylight poking through the shutters, there is luggage in this, my own bedroom, and a wad of clothes, look like mine, on the floor. Have I been somewhere? What was I just dreaming?

(Absolutely exquiste pink sky of sunrise this morning; I am positive you can only get this sky here.)

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

The GJWHF Summer tour 2006 has the amazing good fortune to be playing The Continental Hotel in Sorrento on the Amalfi coast of Italia.

I write to you from the veranda of our room, done in blues and crisp whites, with three of everyuthing, including robes, which tells us they personally prepared the room for just us. sigh. Ne less than four different kinds of palm trees flank the veranda, framing our spectacular view of the Mediterranean Sea. Frankly, Caesar was crazy to want the UK, Gaul and Africa; this, my firends, is the true, real real estate for which your ambitions should run greasy, hot and smoky. Mio Dio!

We've had an amazing good fortune on the Italian leg of the tour and our good luck continued last night as we celebrated the Italians' latest World Cup victory, borne on the back of a sterling performance from their goalkeeper and three very solid goals from the boys up front. The national pride around the Italian soccer team is just one more thing I love about these people. Just as the pace flags were predominant four years ago, the red, white and green flag of Italia is everywhere, everywhere, in solidarity with the boys in Germany. You really do see the flag literally everywhere and my favorite was the tour guide in Rome who had amassed curled red, white and green ribbon at the end of a television antenna to use to lead her group around the cobbled streets and piazzas of the Eternal City. Another favorite was glimpsed from the train, in a marginal area that was quite reminiscent of Tiajuana. Three neighbors pooled their efforts to drape the railing on their tiny balconies with solid red, white and green banners, creating one marvelous big flag. In Naples, in a similar neighborhood, they flew their little flag off a similar tiny railing, but then attached red, white and green wide, wide ribbons, stretching them four stories to the ground in a national pride cascade of sorts. Such unqualified happiness; so simple, uncomplicated.

Sat in the bar downstairs last night with an English girl who joined me in rallying Germany past Argentina in penalty kicks--another multo bravo performance by the goalkeeper. Her countrymen, also present, sneered and mocked Germany's perseverance but as I told them, one thing you gotta give the Germans, they are damn good looking people. (tongue in cheek here, along with innocent smile.)

So the party continues in Sorrento, where the lemon trees grow thick as noxious weeds and shoulder the burden of hundreds of lumpy, sweet lemons happily--this is Italy, where the muzak plays opera, every man and woman alike is beautiful, the goals stay out of the net on one end of the field and go into the net on the other, yet new pieces of the exquisite jigsaw that is la douceur la vie.

JBelle
On Location
Sorrento, Italy

The turquoise blue swimming pool is nestled among the olive trees, perfectly situated in the Tuscan hill that holds the villa where we currently reside.

Roses climb the fences, the walls, lending their fragrant scent to a soft, hot air filled with the sound of hundreds and hundreds of birds, bees, crickets, toads and geckos. No pesticides or herbides here, where the world's finest grapes begin their maturation, in anticipation of fall and the harvest.

The potted lemon trees flank the veranda where we sipped our thick morning coffee, perfectly pruned to allow them to grow in the same pots for years. The fruit has set, grown and is now ripening, pale yellow today--deep, shunshine yellow in a month.

Flocks and flocks of birds hustle across the hills together--ever in search of the best bugs and that one speck of dried fruit on the vine that all the others overlooked.

The hills are criss-crossed with tidy rows of grapes and olive groves and the air is still--almost in suspense. What lies around the next hour of this day?

As I sit and write, a small bouquet of lavendar rests at my hand, carefully picked from the many clumps throughout the grounds. The faint smell of night blooming jasmine lingers, murmuring the memories of last night's magic and mystery in the Tuscan hills. An ancient abbey high on a hill across the valley stands silent in the mid-morning sun, a sun already molto as the smiling, elderly gardeners puts it. Sole molto. This land, these hills are not for the thin-skinned, faint of heart. To survive here, you must be able to bake until a thick crust forms, making you immune to the heat and the harshness that the light can bear upon you, as the perfumed air quickly swirls around you in a slight breeze, then settles and the songs the church bells toll slowly waltz through the hills....

JBelle
On Location
Panzano, Italy

Princess Alexi, Miss Rhonda and I loved to sit in the piazzas of Firenze and Fiesole and watch the people go by. We were able to conclude, after several days of exhausting research and certain quantities of refreshing Italian beer (huh?), that some things are universal: red pants on well-dressed men; orange ties on well-dressed men; mullets on well-dressed men ; mullets; fanny packs, however are strictly a Milano phenomenon.

I love how the Italians meet each other, young and old, in the piazza and share a bottle of wine or a bottle of water and laugh and visit and spend time with each other. Of course, the Piazza della Signoria was the place in Renaissance Florence where the people were summoned to hear the latest initiatives of their government and in some cases, to express their righteous indignation (read that Savonarola) . These days a number of statues occupy the piazza including a copy of Michelangelo's David and Cellini's bronze Perseus Holding the Head of Medusa and my other personal favorite, Hercules and the Centaur by Giambologna.

At any rate, the Italians enjoy this state of living that allows you to be with your friends in a public place for a social encounter, with nothing but your dialogue and conversation to entertain you. For them, it's entirely enough. American teenagers understand the beauty of this exchange, they call it "hanging out" but as "hanging out" is not a productive effort, in the style of the American protestant work ethic, our teenagers are roundly criticized for these exchanges. They resort to the 'nothing to do' defense, which is entirely unbecoming. American parents would do well to follow their teenagers to the parks to meet their own friends for discourse and conversation, as well as observe and monitor the social interactions of their children. What's the worst that could happen? A few relaxed moments in the afternoon sun or evening air? Some smiles? laughter? Oh dear ...just how would Wall Street take the news?

These particular children had the best Joe Rivetto regalia and as they all spoke brilliant English, had a great time initiating us into the world of Joe and all things hip and cool in Firenze, Italia. The class is not water. The best is yet to come. All this and more. See for yourself.

JBelle
On Location
Chianti, Italy

As it turned out, we had the amazing good fortune to be out and about on the Saturday that is the feast day of the patron saint of Florence, San Giovanni Baptista. The Duomo was closed to all visitors, turning all away at the front doors but being long in tooth and wide in bandwidth, we went around to the side entrance, breezed past the guard, muttering "Massa", sailed in and sat down while throngs of people clogged the front doors, hoping for just a glimpse of what is the magical, some would say alchemic transformation of the Catholic Mass. Soon the mass started and the processional came dowm the center aisle, a full-blown spectacle that only the Holy Roman Church can mount. 125 priests preceeded by full choir, another 25 monsignors and a few cardinals following the auxiliary bishop, the Bishop himself, along with assorted men and women in ethnic regalia of varying sorts, all escorted the red Florentine banner to the songs of the people and the doleful churnings of the magnificent pipe organ.

The mass began and although it was said in Italian, was completely familiar. The cadence, rhythm, lyrical beauty translate and transcend all lingual limitations and boundaries. Italian, Latin, French, English--it's all the same; no more, no less beautiful. On this day, heady clouds of incense wafted skyward, to the magnificent dome detailing The Last Judgement, carrying the prayers of the faithful to the heavens on high. The people themselves sat with straight backs and firm lips, in great pride and satisfaction as their beloved Giovanni, the champion of all Florentines, was exalted and glorified. The unmiced words of the bishop's homily rang round and round the gigantic church, a perfect exercise in natural accoustics.

Again, it was an experience that I am helpless to fully describe, although I savor its memory in my quiet moments, over and over. O Florence!

JBelle
On Location
Firenze, Italia

This morning I sit high above Florence, in the hills of Fiesole. I look out over a verdant valley dotted with villas, olive groves, vineyards. I am sipping cappucino brought to me by the owner, who wears yellow pants. He has built this hotel in the manner of a villa and supervises the final touches on the extraordinary outdoor swimming pool, fit for a Caesar. Nearby are the doctors who are here as well, chatting and laughing in a manner uncharactristic of American MDs as they prepare to head to Florence for their annual medical society meeting. Florence is overrun with these men and their wives. We like the men....

Milan is a blur of Prada, Duomo, Nambuca and the darling Ambasciatori Hotel with its blue doors, coral leather sofas and wonderful reception people. Miss Rhonda played the Mileage Plus VISA Marathon in Milan, outlasting those bastards in Evanston, Illinois to successfully use her credit card in the manner in which it was intended. What would make VISA security think that they could keep us down under any circumstance? While we did come here to pray and to reflect, we came here to shop, too, and so far...so good...(insert small wry smile here).

I am the subject of a certain curiosity as I write to you this morning, sitting on this exquisite veranda, with the magic of the valley and hills spread out as a fan at my feet. I wear my MONTANA work out shirt and my Oakleys and all the doctor stare, unaware I an see them perfectly behind my glasses. They wonder, what the hell is theese MONTANA? Where the hell is eeet? I, of course, act completely uninterested and wholly unapproachable to exacerbate their curiosity. Score at the end of the first half: North Idaho 1, Italia 0. Not many can play with the girls from CHS <insert very small wink here).

I seem to have gathered a certain notoriety with my traveling compansions, Miss Rhonda and the Princess Alexi. Seems I "got" the first butt pinch and the next day, the follow up dry knee hump from Mario, the gr-AA-test WAY-ter een oll off EEEEE-ta-LEE. Quite clearly, Ma-DRE-o is attracted to women who think, with a certain intellect, and who process internally. I'm just about sure that's what he sees in me (sunglasses off, lip curled here) (the service was great, by the way, and I do not think we would have ever order the cantelope gelato by ourselves, which we loved). sigh. Use 'em and leave 'em.

The trick is to save a part of yourself from it all--a part that maintains a sliver of sanity, the part that helps you understand why it's so beautiful and why it almost haunts you, it's so beautiful.

First, the hotels and villas are completely restful becaue they are quiet. No vacuum cleaners in the villas because the marble and composite floors are best kept with damp mops, improvised in some cases by wraping the push broom they just washed and swept the veranda with with a wet rag. Small but important point. No shouts of "HOUSEKEEPING!" up and down the halls.

No paper plates, napkins, cups. Therefore no litter or debris anywhere. Least of all along the walkways and streets or in your wastepaper bakset in your room.

The hot weather keeps the pace brisk but civil and wonderfully, elegant and deliberate.

Miss Rhonda is fascinated with the manner in which the motor scooters, bicyclists, walkers, cars and buses all share the road with no mishap. They all live together peacefully, none claiming victimization at the hand of the others.

Princess Alexi is seen by one an dall as the local with Miss Rhonda and me, her houseguests, hospititi de casa. We love that. (insert happy little huge to self here) And so we romp and dance through Italia, our Italia. On to Tuscany tomorrow, in pursuit of ever greater wonder, bigger, fuller laughing and happy, secret sweetnesses that the day brings, over and over....

JBelle
On Location
Fiesole, Italy

Lake Como is all it is supposed to be and more. Brilliant puffs of crimson and tangerine geraniums frame each window. Mysterious, moss-laden stairways made from hand-hewn stone lie around every corner. Tall, tall cypress, spruce, fir and cedar trees stand silent guard over all the terraces and gardens. Shrouds and shrouds of blooming wysteria hang off arbors and pergolas everywhere while bright, white ferries criss cross the diamond blue water of the lake with an endless repetition and an unfailing effort.

Pliny the Elder had two homes here--base camps for his definitive research and works on horticulture and botany.

The textile center of Italy is in the town of Como itself, making exquisite and gorgeous silken blouses, scarves and shawls plentiful and cheap.

The shrine to the patron saint of bicyclists is here, at the church of Madonna del Ghisallo, a mecca for touring cyclists from every country in the world.

The local parish church, Chiesa Parrocciale San Giorgio, has a full color, slick, 3-page duplexed oversized brochure, detailing its art treasures and architectural features.

Spiritualism and industry coexist and coincide here with seemingly no effort and the result is stunning--words cannot describe. Douceur de vie, douceur de vie.



JBelle
On Location
Varenna, Italy