Pain in the Grass

There are a number of theories that I'm currently entertaining to explain the rapid and explosive rate of growth of my lawn: One is that recent wet weather has fit perfectly into the growing cycle. Another is that Global Warming is tightly focused on my yard, for reasons as yet unknown. The third and most probable is that someone is applying fertilizer to my heretofore lackluster lawn in order to keep me shackled to my cordless electric mower, for no sooner do I finish the last pass with the mower than I begin anew where I first started.

Yet, given the magnitude and unpredictability of the drenchings, I am mostly reduced to staring out the window while the green grows skywards at the rate of jungle bamboo or, in economic terms, faster than the second-by-second increase in our national debt. Now I know why the President is named Bush.

During a thunder storm the other night I blinked as lightning struck nearby, lighting up the sky. During my blink the lawn shot up 2 inches. I sighed, closed the door and went back to bed.

After a week of rain my tears only added to the deluge, for the lawn must dry out before being submitted to the blade. Occasionally the growth outpaces the abilities of my mower, requiring that I first hack down the canopy with a machete honed to a razor's edge.

Once the tall grass is hauled away by a team of dull oxen, also known as oxymorons, I adjust the blade speed to approximate that of a black U.N. helicopter and make the first pass some 4 feet above the ground, necessitating the use of saw horses and 2x6's upon which the mower rolls while I teeter behind on stilts, carefully guiding the mower down the makeshift wooden rails. With each pass I lower the lot another foot and in only a few hours I have an area the size of a car carefully manicured.

I tried to get ahead of the curve by hiring a lawn boy, though one who doesn't drive a Mercedes and fan his nose at me as he speeds by with his other hand draped over the shoulder of his latest squeeze. The kid arrived by bicycle and used my yard tools.

Unfortunately, I lost track of the lawn boy in just a few minutes on his first day as I attempted to follow his trail as it entered the rapidly rising sea of grass. Much to our relief we found him 4 days later barking at the mailman through the hedge. I'm told that the kid will be out of therapy in a month or so and has already progressed to the point where he will look at a lawn, as long as he's standing on cement. I don't think that he'll be back cutting grass anytime soon, at least not in my jungle. The staff says his Johnny Weissmuller jungle cries sound quite authentic, which, I think, is encouraging.

Not to be a victim of inclement weather, I came up with a solution to my mowing conundrum. It was a simple matter of mounting a kerosene space heater on the mower like a jet engine, this to dry out the grass enough to make a clean cut. It takes a little adjustment to desiccate things just right without leaving scorch marks in the grass. The drawback is where once I had a battery operated mower that I pushed with pride, I now operate a contraption that spews fumes, requires a 200 foot extension cord and sounds like a street sweeper crushing gravel.

I continued my search for a more palatable solution, finding the solution in the form of a goat. I had plenty of feed growing and the goat seemed happy at first, but soon slowed his chewing, then gave up completely. I called a friend who raises goats and explained the situation. It was pretty simple to him...the goat was lonely, so I bought another goat and the munching picked up considerably. After a few more days both goats fell into a slump and boycotted both the grass and each other.

I called my friend again and unloaded. He said that sometimes two goats need the input of a certain other animal to make them happy. He said that he'd be right by with the solution, which turned out to be a chicken in a burlap bag. He let the chicken out and immediately the goats beamed at each other and lowered their heads into a feeding frenzy. Now this all seemed to make sense until, some days later, the goats and the chicken went on a hunger strike. They all just stood there with long chicken/goat faces and did absolutely nothing.

Back on the phone to my friend I spouted out an update of life in the yard. Again a solution was at hand. It seems that my dog, Spooky, had taken to sitting on the porch and watching the three critters. Turns out that the dog was in the dumps too, as he wanted to herd the goats and chase the chicken. His depression was apparently contagious and the root cause for the general animal malaise, which had sprung like dandelions throughout the yard. Following my friend's advise, I encouraged Spooky to do the dog thing and the result was a miracle.

Spooky now chases the goats and the chicken with glee, this until he gets tired. Then everybody goes to their corner and eats their fill. The cycle repeats itself every two hours or so and the results are amazing. My yard is mowed, the animals are happy and the post office refuses to deliver my mail.

(Lance was last heard yodeling in the side yard. If you want to get Lance's goat, chew him out: lance@journalist.com)

Pickle Lady

OK, it's trivia time...

Who was the pickle lady at Omar's?

Meals Without Wheels

My errands yesterday took me to Medford. I used to think of the downtown there as one long car lot, used and new. Now, upon closer inspection, it has changed over time into one long car lot and an expansive community college.

During a stop for lunch I overheard the word "Ashland" and swiveled my head a few degrees to listen in. The topic was, more specifically, about Ashland's Meal Tax, which was politically finessed years ago as a temporary measure. Ha-Ha.

The table, to a person, took umbrage with our long-accepted tax, swearing to never again dine in Ashland. Most seemed to have made the vow years ago.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the Council declined to put a one percent increase on this questionable tax, as it would run on the ballot alongside yet another Youth Activities Levy.

My question is, how did this puppy get extended so easily and why, should we go back to analyze its' implementation, did it ever get into the mix without the exposure of the backbiting tactics employed?

The definition of politics is that if you win, then you were right.

Something terribly has gone wrong, not for the politicians, but for the eager and nervous restaurant owners who put it on the line every day, this to serve us few who still pay trying to ignore how hard the tax drives down total restaurant revenues.

Ask anyone in the restaurant business their opinion. The next time you want to meet friends for dinner in Ashland from the balance of the valley, don't be surprised if they suddenly decide to see to some deferred project.

Why pay 5% more for the Imperial Privileged to drive to Ashland, eventually find a parking space and rub elbows with condescending snobs? Well, this is what our Meals Tax conveys. Wish our elected officials understood this.

Art is the Way

Did the First Friday thing tonight, where Ashland's galleries are open for a wash of enthusiasts to wander, plod, prod and poke their way around this berg most artistic.

Dropped by The Black Sheep, there to marvel at the organic illuminated sculpture of David Gelfand, whose chandelier graces above the bar therein. Droves swarmed in a sheep fest, munching upon the offered delicacies as David's art shone, glowed, throbbed and pulsed as a packed house warmed, then swarmed in appreciation of his organic, humming, vibrant displays.

Weak-kneed wanna-bees stood frozen on the sidewalk below. Devotion and dedication was required to hoist upwards and revel in the midst of David's creations.

Have you yet viewed this most moist hanging?

Thereafter was a jaunt to Judy Howard's den of delight, where visuals are always enticing. Judy defines the artistic level to which we all strive to attain, so the visit only served to remind me that I should drop by with greater frequency, lest I find myself some day, devoid of the still sensitive nature I once possessed, wandering amidst alley dumpsters while wondering what is sacred and what is sacked.

Treats on the Tongue

My dog, Spooky, accompanied me for another daily walk down by the railroad tracks, with a particular focus on performing the most fun action of our promenade: playing "Rock Pile."

This game consists of Spooky sprinting to the top of a mound of gravel, there to sit while I wound up and underhanded him a biscuit toss that he caught more reliably than the accuracy of my toss. After a couple of tosses, we continued our walk, his tail wagging and my mind delighted that he is awash in a world of smells, sweet, fetid or otherwise.

Tomorrow is a new deal. God willing, Spooky and I will exchange treats near the point where the Golden Spike was driven in 1887, this the final event that connected the railroad from California to Oregon/Washington.

Spooky is so good at catching cookies that I'm considering unleashing him on my network, there to sniff, track and tackle all things untoward.

Fierce Winds of Winter

Went for a walk in the strong, dry, warm winds that caused my hair to seek shelter even as my eyebrows were beating like bat wings.

I popped into the Airstream, there to sit in the dark for a few minutes to reflect. I went back in time to an dark Winter's eve on the Plaza. I was talking to a friend at Alex's when a sheet of solid rain began to fall with such prominence that I walked to the windows in amazement.

It went on for about 15 minutes, then the power went out. About then a fierce wind gusted through the Plaza and into the Park, there blowing over a half-dozen large trees. Seconds later a manhole cover in the street exploded upward for 40 feet, then fell back to the asphalt, barely missing a Volkswagen van that was hunting for a parking space.

I shook my head, went back to the table and lit a candle. Some entity was pissed and passed me by.

I like it that way.

Friendly Flames

I arrived at the Plaza today around 4:30 pm. The first thing I noticed were the twin chimneys, one at The Black Sheep and the other at Alex's sending out a plume indicating that a welcome hearth was ready to warm the chilled patron, there to enjoy something relaxing as the fires crackle.

Both of these fine establishments deserve our attention and devotion. Being able to invite family and friends to gather in a public place in the glow of a blazing fire, this over, perhaps, a warm beverage to sooth the chill of a Winter's Night...well, that's Ashland.

Drop by and let these fine folks know that you appreciate the little and important things in life.

Don't hold back. Go for the embers...

Calling All Cars...

I know that a some of you think that my writing is funny and occasionally a hoot...or not.

The truth of the matter is that my knowledge of grammar starts and stops with Sanskrit. My attempts at spelling are like watching a snow crab try to play a banjo, underwater.

So, here's the deal. I have a tour book and an anthology due out in two months. The only things I lack are an editor and a publisher. Sort of like a fuel dragster without an engine or a steering wheel.

Ashland has more writers, editors, publishers and other literary lions than dogs, except for typing pets, which are on the rise.

Drop me a line if you feel we can work something out. Otherwise, looks like I'll have to outsource my needs to a foreign worker in a mud hut.

Shoot me a line at: lance@journalist.com if you experience an epiphany or otherwise have insight into a solution.

The Lost Drums of Time

I walk my dog, Spooky, down through the Railroad Lands below "A" street daily. Some months ago I began to hear what sounded like a gushing of a pump or the beating of a drum, this from fenced off area which seemed like a diesel collection system, this to attempt to clean up after many decades of spills and other discharges of petrochemicals.

The sound seems to go upward, this from vertical tunnels in the earth. I'm sure that there is some explanation for the recent increase in decibels, but, truthfully, don't feel that the RR or the City care enough to look into it.

At some point the drumming will stop and if we don't find a fried pump, my money is that we'll find the sun-baked bones of Ancient Drummer, warning us away from the poison that we try our hardest to ignore.

A Rash of Renovations

It's now official.

The Plaza is being reconfigured.

No, this is not the doing of a City revisitation of the Downtown Plan, that citizen inspired document that morphed into a resume for a long-lost, though staff emulated, Department Head.

If you can't piece this together, just goose-step past the Perozzi Fountain in Lithia Park. The Idyllic baby exposed there is, according to local legend, none other than the likes of John Fregonese, whose mother starred in one of my favorite sci-fi thrillers, THIS ISLAND EARTH.

I'm glad that the City has chosen a large venue, unlike the council chamber, to hoist and host this sequel. During the many years that I owned the Historic Ashland Armory the City declined every and any free public usage of the building. Our Mayor, at that time, publicly bragged that he had never set foot into the building. That was when he was also Chairman of the Board for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. This played, of course, a pivotal role, as that was about the time that the Festival felt the primeval call to expand to Portland, by "invitation."

That the Festival had been negotiating the design and use of the Portland Performing Arts Center was lost on our local reporting. Years later the Festival dropped Portland like a hot potato, yet not before the Historic Ashland Armory was denied any funding. The head of the Festival told me that a "regional" facility should be based in Medford, in a building owned by his long time friend, Otto.

Swell.

Ashland's economy is strangled and constricted because the Festival didn't want any competition.

The Armory had a State Grant for $500,000 set up by Lenn Hannon, though for reasons more symbolic than sincere. I used the State funded parking lot on Pioneer and Lithia Way as a grant match, this approved by the State's head of Economic Development. Our long-time City Administrator, loyal to the ways of the Festival, refused to sign a document to release the funds for many months, until catastrophic fires consumed the budget.

So, who won?

The Mayor protected the Festival.

The Administrator served his masters loyally.

The Senator got to slap the Admistrator with a cold cod, this for the fact that when the Senator worked for the Ashland Street Department, he was not allowed access to a phone during his lunch hour. Now there's a fat case for offering a half-million with no intention of delivering, this all just for show.

Bite Me!

Who lost?

The restaurants, retail businesses and general citizenry of Ashland. We now send the business to the Ginger Rogers/Craterian in Medford, perhaps in double effrontery to our local Meals Tax.

Be good and don't ask questions. Buy your Festival tickets in advance and stand in awe in the shadow of the Lenn and Dixie Hannon Library at Southern Oregon University.

The truth is between the lines.

JB has gone South...

Jerry Barnes(JB) and his wife, Shelly, have officially removed themselves from these Essential Climes to roost just North of Puerto Vallarta. I've been trying to get JB, who is a very talented writer, to contribute to my travel website.

Unfortunately, his latest dodge ball move is to hide behind a fictitious bot, while he and his wife wander through their village, aimlessly drifting towards lunch, dinner, margos or whatever.

The guard who protected their construction site is named Don Cleto and though getting on in years is immensely respected, owing mostly to the 3 foot machete that he handles as deftly as a toothpick in the hands of a dentist.

I relay JB’s note only with the deepest and most enduring respect and admiration to the Don, who I might meet, accidentally, at some point in my life.

"DO NOT REPLY TO THIS AUTOMATICALLY GENERATED MESSAGE

This is an automatic response to your email generated by AutoJibBot. The person or persons to whom you sent your email cannot respond as they are deeply under the spell of paradise and cannot move a muscle save to fix Cuba Libres, Margaritas, or, their latest fave, rum and tonic, which, for lack of a better name, shall be called a Cuba Jibre.

Any and all attempts to rouse the person or persons to whom you sent this email from their idyllic stupor will be summarily answered by a short, stocky Mexican wearing a cowboy hat, carrying a 3-foot long machete, answering to the name of “the Don.” DO NOT LET HIS AGE FOOL YOU. He is armed and very, very dangerous. If you answer the door, the first things you will notice are your ears traveling in a lazy arc over the Don’s head and into the bushes, even though he appears to be completely motionless. Do you have too many arms? Offer him one in a friendly handshake motion and watch the Don’s inventory reduction technique in action.

If and when the aforementioned person or persons ever escapes the gravitational pull of their hammocks and figures out how to turn on the computer and actually write anything, there is the wee slightest chance of receiving some communication in a form other than triple-DOD encrypted code buried up a worm’s ass at the bottom of a bottle of mescal."

So, folks, what should I do?

My best instinct is that I should fly down there dressed like a ninja, jump over their broken-glass capped high stone wall, then leap across the scorpion trench and sit myself under their palapa and ring the bell.

If you like my thoughts, please send your contributions to: Save JB from the Rot, C/O Lance Pugh. Email me for the correct bank, which I change daily. Stay tuned for more riveting events in The Daily Tidings on Mondays and daily at http://essentiallyashland.blogspot.com/.

More Dog Parks?

It's a delicate art to walk a dog in a politically correct fashion.

I take my dog, Spooky, out every day for a proscribed tour of the railroad tracks and alleys. Part of my baggage includes some plastic bags to recover what he thought deposited and a pocketful of dog treats destined to be delivered to him and a dozen other doggies along our route.

Ashalnd has a nice dog park, thanks to a groundswell of citizens and an eventually responsive Parks Commission. It would be nice to have another couple such parks around town.

I can think of several places where they would be welcome and appreciated.

What's your call?

Public Works Director Weighs Anchor

This deal in Iraq is beginning to touch more and more of us. Our Paula Brown, Director of Public Works, was called up for duty in Iraq. Since traditional warfare doesn't exist there, everywhere is dangerous. She's a Captain in the Navy Reserves, with decades in the military. I can only wish her the best and pray for her safety.

If Ashland ran things, of course we would not have invaded. Yet we all were told that Weapons of Mass Destruction were stockpiled to be used against us either by Saddam or Al Queda. We were told that Sadam constituted an imminent threat. What we were told was not the truth.

It reminded me of the vaunted Domino Theory that was the underpining of the Vietnam War. The fact that the Vietnamese had been fighting the Chinese for a thousand years was inconvenient and immediately dismissed. That war tore apart a whole generation of Americans. Iraq has the potential to do the same.

We dreamed up a little Gulf of Tonkin fantasy to get the public and politicians in a froth, then expanded the war. In the end we lost a bunch and the vietnamese lost millions, mostly civilians.

I know that Paula has only good in her heart, but many who are fanning the flames there have souls of coal.

I don't want to rain on anyone's parade, but I'd sure like to see the troops start coming home. An endless war on a noun or belief is, by definition, unwinable.

When we invaded we captured all the oil infrastructure, but didn't have the troops or the orders to protect the museums, libraries or other cultural institutions. We built a military base on top of Babalon and used artifact laden sands to fill sandbags for defensive positions.

I am happy that some rebuilding is being done, yet I can't help but lament our total disregard for the Cradle of Civilization. We refuse to count or acknowledge the many tens of thousands of civilians that we have killed.

We're going to need a lot of luck or a change of direction.

Is SpongeBob gay? OMG!!

I watch very little television, though when my favorite show is spotted, a hush settles upon the room as I enter a very special world, there to spend it with...SpongeBob SquarePants, the most fun and entertaining cartoon character who ever lived underwater in a pineapple.

Thus, I was awash with froth to learn that James Dobson, founder of Focus on the Family, wants a cartoon music video which features SpungeBob, to be barred in thousands of schools that it was to have been sent to in March. The makers -- the nonprofit We Are Family Foundation -- say the video is designed to encourage tolerance and diversity.

Dobson believes that SpongeBob is gay and that the tolerance implied is towards the gay community, something that strikes fear and loathing in the hearts of certain conservative Christian leaders who believe that they now drive the Administration. Sponges can't be gay or straight, especially cartoon sponges, though this is lost on those with a tight, narrow, constricted agenda. Most sponges are hermaphrodies, that is, they produce both male and female sex cells.

Makes for an interesting day shopping at the Mall.

Let's sponge up this mess before the Pentagon comes up with a plan to destroy all sponges on the Planet.

Elks Lodge

Just finished a very good Slider, AKA cheeseburger at the Elks Lodge. Soroptimists were just finishing up their weekly luncheon as I arrived, there to see my wife Annette for a few minutes before she went to show some property.

Glenda served me this fine lunch while reminding me that the Ashland Elks will be celebrating their 100th year anniversary during the 11th, 12th and 13th of March.

The Elks have been a central part of community for a very long time. Learn more about your town by visiting: http://www.ashlandelks.org/index.html.

Chamber This!

Awhile back the current council chamber was designed, funded and built. Those behind the project apparently presumed that the citizens of Ashland were not much interested in the running of their government. Another view is that the sizing of the chambers was a conscious act to limit public access. I think that I know the truth of this matter.

Regardless of your view, things are too small there. Every time a controversial measure is discussed, the public overflows out into the lobby and out of the building. Oh, for the days when the public got so discouraged that they went home and reorganized the pantry.

Efforts to include the public interactively through the Internet with the Council are greeted by the City with all the enthusiasm usually reserved for lean budgets and public accountability. It's just so much more easy to encourage public input, then make it so difficult that knitting and cross-word puzzles become more attractive options.

So, here is the dirty little secret. When topics draw the public, the meeting space overflows and is in violation of Fire and Life Safety Codes. If a private business does this, we flow enforcement officers into the breach, issuing citations and closing down the operation. When the City does it, well, err...Let's gavel this meeting to order and not pay attention to the law.

The Council says that you must attend meetings in person in order to speak. We're paying for AFN, several times over, which has the capacity to allow otherwise, yet City Council meetings are a one-way deal for those not inclined or able to park their backsides in a small, hot room.

What's wrong with Digital Democracy? Why can't Ashland promote it, using the remarkable power of the Ashland Fiber Network?

Swan Song

I first wondered at the swans of Lithia Park in 1972, sitting on a bench at the lower duck pond with my Mother, who, understandably, thought that my decision to move to a spec of nothing from my former position in L.A. as a buyer of Men's Sportswear for 22 department stores was, well, just short of absolute insanity.

Occasionally, I reach back and lash myself for having dropped so much money in the move, but, more often than not, rejoice in my decision to park elsewhere.

For those of you who are droopy-eyed or otherwise predisposed, the icons for our fair city, two idyllic swans, are no more.

Over the years they proved to be cranky and, well, not versed in the gentle sensibilities of pleasing our visitors. They would honk, flap, lurch and lunge, this until they were either rendered by an unleashed dog or one of our City dump trucks in reverse.

They became a pain and were clearly the blame.

Now that our attempts to keep the Upper and Lower Duck Ponds free from fecund scum have so abundantly failed, we frame our City Icons in the past tense. The trumpet of a swan no longer signals the triumph in the pond.

With an annual budget of more than 90 million dollars, we can't figure out a way to allow two swans, mated for life, the dignity to swim, frolic and waddle in an increasingly artificial aquatic stage. Maybe they need more City underwriting.

If swans could vote your goose would be cooked.

The Temple of Learning

I dropped by the library the other day. I haven't been by often since the cozy days of reading a magazine in front of a crackling fire, next to the snoring dog of another patron.

In these days of big on building, short on staff, I waited outside patiently, as hours have been curtailed. Wandering up from the boulevard, I noticed that there were no benches provided, so I stood, in the rain, wondering how such a mixture of low-budget and inconvenience had landed on the footprint of a formerly quaint, yet comfortable, facility.

After the locks were turned I immediately noticed that I was not alone. Many others had been hovering nearby, seeking refuge from the weather and in search of knowledge.

Of those about me, every single one immediately pounced on a chair in front of a computer connected to the Internet. They didn't come to hold the bindings of a book, rather to do what most of us do from home: Access the Internet.

I once thought that the Internet would make library expansion a non-priority. Yet new and remodeled libraries abound, concomitant with a reduction in staffing and reduced hours of operation. I never thought that access to the Internet for those with modest incomes would be such a huge draw for the Temple of Learning.

Ironically, the library's Wi-Fi was down, disallowing my laptop access to a wider calling. My research required that I hike to the Lenn and Dixie Hannon Legacy Library at SOU, as the public facility lacked a crucial microfisch. There I found that I was one of a few within the expansive facility. I walked around and noted that another public patron had also relocated to the Shrine, as SOC had their Wi-Fi working.

It looks like we're big on buggy whips and short on horsepower.

Heavy Lifter

The European Community yesterday announced their brand new Super Jumbo airliner, the gargantuan A380 produced by Airbus, which will seat 555 in First Class and about 2 million as a cattle car.

Meanwhile our Space Shuttle sits idle and we depend on a Russian supply ship, purportedly crafted from plywood and bailing wire, as the only lifeline to the International Space Station, with an astounding crew of two.

We seem to lack the money or vision to make progress in space or on Earth. We have only a single focus and that seems to be to deliver "democracy, peace and prosperity" to Iraq, this in the form of massive death from above. If you were one of the many who believed in WMD's winging their way across the Atlantic aboard drones made from trash cans and rubber bands...well, get over it. There are none, there were none and we're proud, standing tall, ready, willing and eager to place the widespread use of torture on 2-3 grunts while everyone else in higher positions who encouraged this abuse is being promoted, feted or showered with medals.

I don't know which tuxcedo to use for the coronation.

America. We serve burgers and coffee to the World.

Participatory Democracy

We have a 14 million dollar gigabit ethernet fiber network ready to use in new and creative ways.

How about allowing residents to log into City Council meetings in the form of a video conference, there to correct factual errors, comment, get more faces into the process. Everything could be shown on the regular television coverage.

Parents with kids at home, the handicapped, the elderly, students hitting the books...all could have access to the meetings without the outdated requirement that in order to speak, one has to be physically present and seated for hours.

What a concept! Using technology to improve democracy in a town that prides itself about an advance data network.

What do you think?

Abundant Yes Men

Been tortuing the keys for the last couple of hours. Looking forward to a workout at the gym and getting some submisssions out.

I just read that Colin Powell told the President that "We're losing" in Iraq and that Bush's response was to tell Powell to leave.

Swell.

The man in the most important office in the world doesn't want to hear anything but praise. Reminds me of feudal kings who surrounded themselves with sycophants who always smiled and kissed royal hiney. This is delusional.

Goodbye, Joanie

I don't remember exactly when I first met her, but I felt the energy. She used to take my orders at Geppetto's, talk to me on the street, and wish me the best whenever we met. She bubbled, emoted and exuded at the upper reaches of the human broadcast range. I never gave a thought that she might have needed help, as I am, as most of us are, utterly distracted in our own self-centered petty-dramas. It takes a lot to get our attention.

This has got my attention.

She cared for so many of us, for reasons I don't fully understand but deeply appreciate. I say this in the present tense, for if I had opened my mind and heart more, I might have seen the signals of her well-concealed desperation. She was bright beyond reasonable belief, but always took care not to slap a slower person in the face with that fact. She always had time to listen. There's no doubt that she could party. I wish all of us could with the same attitude and zeal. We'd have less time to pound the environment with our unreasonable and unthinking demands. We'd be more human.

She looked at the Big Picture, but attended to all the little details that make people feel special. She was the glue that kept many of us in the Ashland Play aware of each other. She was a walking, talking, laughing, mocking, caring Institution. She was welcome everywhere she went, her presence lifted spirits and carved opportunity out of insipidness. Larger than life no longer lives. Damn.

Her one-woman play was cutting, witty and focused. Her brilliance, combined with a mountain of humor and satire, got the story told while the audience laughed with wide-eyes. That she felt she somehow failed because money was lost only underlines how our society values individuals. If you have a lot of money, it's cool. If you are scraping by, we tend to turn our heads and wait until your fortune resurfaces. If you are down and out, many write you off, as if you've contracted some extremely contagious moral disease.

She was so many things: Actor, comedian, fundraiser, environmental activist, artist and merry prankster were just a few. Whenever we met her only concern was what was happening with me. Within a blink we were both laughing, making light of the toils of the day, making room for a measure of mirth.

It was clear that Ashland doesn't have a building large enough to hold all those who mourn her loss. The service on Sunday was standing room only with many overflowing into the lobby and to the outside. The lesson seemed to be that we need to reach out more readily, hold that hand, get lost in a friendly hug, take time to listen, to care. The other lesson was that our mental health establishment needs more attention, a lot more.

Joanie told me what a thrill it was for her to be a delegate to the National Democratic Convention. Though she didn't mention it, I'm sure that her energy grabbed and held the attention of many of the participants, just as she did with so many of us here in Ashland. When she returned from Boston, she was firing on 12 cylinders, eliciting enthusiasm through her sparking eyes under the blinking protection of her large eyelashes.

So, to the radiant, powerful, funny, supportive, inspirational woman with the Big Hair…we will never forget you and anticipate a warm reunion when we next meet.

Goodbye, for now.