Six degrees of separation?

Someone recently told me that we are connected in some way to every third person that we meet. I was surprised by this ratio, but I am familiar with the “small world experiment,” and “six degrees of separation” (or “human web”), a theory that everyone on earth is somehow linked to each other through an average of only six other people. Odd as it may seem, there is even a game out there called Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, which challenges people to see if they can connect any film actor in history to actor Kevin Bacon within six links. I’m not sure why he was the subject of the challenge, although for a time he seemed to be in every movie being made! Several scientific studies have been conducted to support these theories. I’m not going to spend any time here summarizing the studies, but if anyone wants to learn more, The Google is ready and able to help. I will, however, share just a few thoughts on the subject, and once again the realization of what a small world we live in, especially if we twist it my way.

At first, it’s hard to imagine how a kid from the east side of St Paul could ever be linked, through only 6 people, to someone in the Third World, or Queen Elizabeth, or Vladimir Putin. Even though I would be extremely surprised if a connection could be found from me to someone like Osama Bin Laden, I suppose, if a person could find just one link to another country, one could get real creative and find ways to link to almost anyone. It is just a matter of how many degrees apart we are separated.

Depending on what types of rules we place on this challenge, I think we could creatively link ourselves in odd ways to all sorts of people. For example, every time we attend a music concert or go to a sporting event, there is (somewhat of) a link starting to the people on the stage and playing field. And if one got an autograph or caught a foul ball, there is a definite link. Who knows where some of those links might lead?

When I took a writing class through community education a couple of years ago, my instructor was also a writer for Prairie Home Companion, so I suppose I could say I was therefore linked to Garrison Keillor. In addition, my sister-in-law works for Minnesota Public Radio and has met him on several occasions. In either of these situations I am linked by only two degrees of separation from the author/humorist.

As my wife and I were walking on a street in downtown Chicago, we nearly bumped into Oprah and her entourage. Does this mean we could say we are linked to her? If so, then we would be linked to everyone appearing on her show.

Several years earlier, the graphics company I was working for produced a small control panel decal that I later heard was applied to equipment that went to the moon. Therefore, could I be linked to Neil Armstrong? Well, that one may be stretching it.

There are, of course, plenty of direct links, when we have an opportunity to actually meet famous people. My friend and I noticed Minnesota Twins great, Tony Oliva, at the airport when we were waiting for a flight. When he had finished saying goodbye to his family we approached him, introduced ourselves, and asked for an autograph. We spent the next 5-10 minutes talking, and making a legitimate link. This connection then began a link between us and everyone else on the Twins, and potentially to many people living in his native country of Cuba.

One time, when I was having breakfast in a Milwaukee hotel restaurant, I recognized half-a-dozen Twins players sitting at the counter. I made a pest of myself and asked them all for autographs, unknowingly creating a link to each of them and their worlds.

One of my favorite artists, Robert Bateman, was in Forest Lake for a book signing a few years ago, and I took that opportunity to meet him and have a copy of his book signed. That was a direct, or real, link.

So there are the real links, and then some creative links like I have mentioned above. We all know what a small world we live in. There probably are many ways that we could find real or creative links to people, worldwide. The possibilities are endless, and the connections can be intriguing.

Do any of my readers wish to share links from their lives?

Stay in touch!

An approaching 40th high school reunion, and my thought process in trying to decide if I will attend, has me reminiscing again about the “old” days. In particular, my old art class memories have led me to wonder if the same experiences that I had are tolerated, accepted, or embraced in the classroom today. My guess would be that they are not, in part because we live in a society that is afraid to offend, goes to great lengths to avoid any sign of favoritism, and one that I think sometimes stifles creativity.

Memories of school often begin with my junior high school art teacher, Richard Wariakois, who got my attention early when he warned his students that the dense and opaque, black India ink would cause paralysis to our hands if a spill occurred. Yes, I was especially naïve, but it took me a couple of years before I realized that his words weren’t true at all, and that it was just his clever way of insuring we were neat and careful with supplies!

Mr. Wariakois must’ve recognized my love of art, and a talent needing development. Perhaps that was why he allowed me to work on larger and more unique projects when opportunity arose. One of those projects was a large oil painting of a serene pasture, with horses and a pond. When finished, it was hung above the stairway leading to the boys’ locker room. I didn’t take gym class and had no reason to be in the area, so I didn’t learn until much later that my painting was dubbed “the snag pit.” I won’t go into detail about why my painting came to be called that, but suffice it to say that junior high school boys often lack art appreciation, and good manners!

Another “special assignment” from Mr. W. began when he brought in two, 8’ long telephone pole sections, and asked me and one other student to go to work with chisels, mallets and knives to create American Indian totem poles. It was a challenging task for a couple of East Side, Scandinavian kids, but we must have done enough library research (thumbing through fat encyclopedia volumes) to make them believable, because the tall statues guarded the art department entrance for years after.

As the end of the school year approached, Mr Wariakois told me that I could have all of the opened tubes of oil paint. He would receive a new supply the following fall, and rather than throwing the old paint away he wanted it put to good use. It has been. I think that I just finished squeezing out the last of that paint this past winter.

High school art classes led to new adventures. I started with Art 1, since I felt like I should start at the beginning, but it only took a few weeks for my teacher, Richard Larsen, to recommend that I transfer to Studio Art. I maintained communication with Mr. Larsen, but Studio art was where I belonged! It was there, under the watchful eye and gentle guidance of Helen McKenney, that I was exposed to additional mediums, clay work, and new friends who had similar interests. Dave, Dave, Ned and I, quite often, would work while softly humming or whistling. One of our favorites was the theme song from the epic film, Exodus. (Thanks, Cousin Kris, for helping to identify the name. You, and your terrific memory, ROCK!)

I did editorial cartoons and caricatures for the school paper, many special projects, and started selling my art to other students. I joined Spectrum, the high school art club, and was elected co-president. (Sally: if you’re reading this, I apologize once again that while we shared the title, you did all of the work!)

I was a prolific artist, leading to more recognition as time went by. Once, during a school-wide art fair, my Spanish teacher asked the class if any of us had artwork on display. Before I had a chance to reply (I was quite shy at the time), one of my classmates boldy exclaimed, "I do! I've hung my work under my alias – Dennis Sterner!"

Unlike other students, when I occasionally ditched a class, I didn’t sneak out of school to get a burger or meet a friend or have a smoke. I quietly slipped into a studio art class so I could spend an extra hour in my favorite pastime. Sweet Mrs. McKenney never ratted me out!

I mentioned in an earlier blog that Mrs. McKenney gave me a blank canvas when I was about to graduate, and asked me to paint something for her sometime. To this day, I regret that I never did. I never saw her again, and have not heard anything about her since. Mr. Larsen supplemented his teaching income by driving a cement truck in Forest Lake during the summer; I’ve waved to him from time to time, but have not seen him for quite awhile. I heard that Mr. Wariakois recently died, and though I have not stayed in touch, I thank him for starting me in the right direction, and stressing the importance of keeping a tidy workspace and not wasting ink.

Memories are treasures that should be embraced. It’s a shame we get so busy that we don’t stay in touch with people who shaped our lives.

Maybe I will attend my class reunion.

One More Sterner

It looks like I'll be doing another "wedding" oil painting. My youngest son has gathered the courage to ask her dad for permission to marry, and then he popped the question. She said, YES!

We're thrilled! She's a keeper.

Brushing Up

I have occasionally blogged about the satisfaction I get from my brushes - the utter joy of picking up this instrument of the masters, gently drawing its bristles through my fingers as I prepare to dive into the medium, then leisurely extracting the brush and observing as it glistens in the light, and drips oil-based gold. The virgin brush is no longer the same, now permanently tinted to a degree; yet, if properly cared for, will serve me well for years to come. Through the pressure of my fingers and the sway of my arms, I apply the liquid hue to the textured substrate, admiring the change in the surface as it develops a radiant glow.

For the past two evenings, I have worked, and toiled, and blended, and stroked these painters’ tools, as I completed the single largest project I have ever attempted with my brushes. With a tremendous amount of assistance from my trusted associates, MBH, MOD and FSIL, we converted the 2000 square foot coniferous structure from a dull, drab and dusty surface, to one that shouts new life and promise.

My deepest thanks to My Better Half, My Only Daughter and Favorite Son-In-Law for helping me stain the house!

Time off work + Family Camp = Ahhhhh

I returned to work on Monday after a great trip to Madeline Island, off the southern shore of Lake Superior, near Bayfield, Wisconsin. Our vacation week actually started the previous Saturday in Birchwood, WI, with a surprise 60th birthday party for my brother-in-law, that became even more hilarious than expected when we learned that he had known of the surprise for at least a month, and never told anyone. Nevertheless, the party was a huge success, with family and friends getting together, having a good time.

On Sunday, Pat, Schroeder and I packed up the trailer and headed north, not really sure where we would spend the next couple of days. We found a very peaceful National Forest campground, north of Drummond, that gave us a chance to catch our breath from the busy weekend, and relax a bit. We were the only campers there.

Our next stop was Bayfield. We toured the town, treated ourselves to an ice cream cone and visited a couple of art galleries (one of my favorite things to do when away from home). Then, after checking out a small city campground just outside of town and discovering all our favorite, lakeside spots unavailable, we decided to board the ferry and start our island adventure a few days earlier than originally planned.

Big Bay State Park was our destination, on the eastern shore of Madeline Island, and though we had campsite reservations for later in the week, we assumed it would be no problem to snag a spot on a Monday. Little did we know that the campground was booked solid! (Fact: Big Bay has the highest nightly occupancy rate of all Wisconsin State Park campgrounds, according to a park ranger.) It was only because another camper had just canceled that we were able to settle into a site early.

The weather was beautiful during the early part of the week, and afforded plenty of opportunity to enjoy the beaches and tour the island. (Opinion: Housed in a former schoolhouse, Madeline Island has one of the most charming public libraries around!) I snapped some research photographs for future paintings, and spent a little time sketching some of Madeline Island’s landscape. Rain moved in Wednesday afternoon, and continued through Friday, but in between raindrops we hiked, and biked, and geocached, and read, and ate, and just enjoyed having free time. On Thursday, we moved to our reserved site in anticipation of Family Camp, our annual camping trip with our three “kids,” son-in-law, and the boys’ girlfriends. Camp was a great time, as always, and included some competitive games of Catch Phrase and Ladder ball, a round of golf, great conversation, a surprise visit from friends, campfire stories, moped riding, bicycling, a stop at Tom’s Burned Down Cafe, and delicious food in large quantities. It’s amazing to me how well we eat when we are on our camping trips!

By the time Sunday rolled around, everyone was sorry to see our time together come to an end. One at a time, each couple packed up and headed for the ferry. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, with calm water in Lake Superior, and several sailboats sharing the channel. A few of us met again on the mainland, and spent some time driving around in search of pie, eventually finding some wonderful apple and blueberry turnovers at Coco, in Washburn. We sat outdoors on Coco's colorful Adirondack style chairs, enjoying our treats, while bakers, Nick and Jim, popped a few more turnovers into the oven so we would have a supply to take home.

To a certain degree, I believe we were all delaying the inevitable. We knew we needed to hit the road; it was already 4:30 p.m. but no one wanted to see the trip end. Finally, amidst more hugs and good-byes, we each headed our separate ways.

I can’t wait until we can do it again.

Family Camp, 2009

Gardening like Monet?

Many years ago, I spent a Sunday afternoon at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, admiring a visiting exhibit by one of my all-time favorite masters, Claude Monet. From what I’ve learned, Monet noticed the village of Giverny, in northern France and on the bank of the River Seine, while on a train. He immediately knew he wanted to live there, and after saving enough money, purchased a house and land. It was there that he created the spectacular gardens that were the subject of many of his later paintings, and some of his most memorable works. As I left the gallery that day, I stopped in the gift shop and purchased a children’s book called Linnea in Monet’s Garden, and a small, cloth doll modeled after the main character in the book. Both were to be a treat for my daughter, Laura.

I’m not sure what ever happened to the book or the doll, but my memories of Monet’s garden paintings remain vivid. The tranquil scenes, and his use of color and bold brushstrokes have always been inspirational to me. It was, perhaps, with Monet's Giverny gardens in mind that we set out to build our own perennial garden in the back yard. Its main shape has been present for quite awhile, as has an arbor, covered with flourishing roses, and a flagstone walkway, but we’ve finally begun to polish the garden off. We’ve added and amended soil, and lined the garden edges with stones that we have gathered from all over the property. Over the last few days we have planted 20 flowering plants, thanks to generous birthday gifts to Pat from our children and her mom, and have added a healthy layer of mulch. It will require several years, and probably double the amount of plants before everything matures and fills in, but we’ve got a good start. The garden will be beautiful, and it will be a treat to watch it grow and develop.

The Waterlily Pond, by Claude Monet. (Public domain image.)

The last plant was put in its place last night, and because it is close to 6 feet high and very thin, I thought I would attach a tall, wooden stake for support to the nearby retaining wall that faces the pond. I carefully positioned it so it was vertical, and pounded the first nail through the cedar into the wall. Then, just as I was going to strike a second nail, I found myself inside of a swarm of angry bees. Evidently, my pounding caused an unwelcome vibration in the wall, about two feet below the new plant, and the bees’ peaceful existence was disrupted. I must have looked like one of those cartoon characters, running from a swarm of bees with legs spinning, arms flailing, and (almost) screaming obscenities at the little honeys! My hammer, nails and pride went flying as I was chased out of Linnea’s Garden.

Luckily, I only got three bee stings, one on my shoulder and two behind my knee. Nevertheless, I was sore and quite exhausted from the ordeal. Some baking soda paste on the stings and a cold washcloth on my forehead, and I was ready to return to the garden. Treading lightly and keeping my eyes and ears open, I tied up the plant and then skedaddled out of the area, leaving the bees and wall alone. Until another day.

Where's a clothespin?

After I inserted a couple of bagel slices into the toaster this morning, I looked for a clothespin to reclose the bag. I hate, with a vengeance, those little white plastic “C” shaped clips that are often used on bagged products. They just aren’t user friendly. The only thing worse for this purpose is the wire clamp used to hold potato bags closed; those are not reusable at all. In our house, potato bags get ripped open, and never again closed up properly. Anyway, I digress. Back to the clothespin.

I needed a spring-type clothespin. We usually have a few in a drawer, along with twist ties, rubber bands and a variety of bags and wraps and such. But today I couldn’t find one. Where in the world, I thought to myself, are the clothespins? I knew that we keep a few in a bag in the laundry room, but I couldn’t find any out there, either. We’ve purchased clothespins in the past, in big packs of 50 or 100. Perhaps some have vanished forever, springing their escape from clothing hung outside to dry on a windy day, but not many. To where do they disappear? Is it like the sock that always seems to show up without its mate at the end of the wash-and-dry cycle? It’s not like a clothespin can cling to the inside of a pant leg with a static charge! Early on a Monday morning, when cranky ol’ me is trying to choke down some breakfast at 5:00, I just didn’t need this annoyance! A twist tie would have to do.

Fast forward to noon. I had lunch at my desk, like I usually do, and ate a few mini carrots instead of potato chips. (I gave up chips a couple of years ago as part of my attempt to eat healthier.) The sandwich was great, and the carrots were fresh out of a new bag. As I was ready to close up the bag, I blindly reached into a drawer in my desk to find…a clothespin! In that couple of nanoseconds, my brain registered, Sure, you don’t have any clothespins when you need them at home because they’re all in a drawer at work!

Hmmmm. This drawer is often bumping into my keyboard, so I don’t usually open it all the way. For some reason, today I pulled it open as far as it would go, and what did I discover but 29 clothespins, buried beneath legal pads and Post-it notes! A veritable goldmine of those little wooden, spring-loaded suckers. In a series of quick calculations that almost prove I must have some degree of OCD, I figured out that the 29 clothespins, along with perhaps 15 twist ties, and a handful of rubber bands, equates to around 50 bags of carrots that I have brought to work for lunches. And, since I very seldom go out to lunch, and since a bag usually lasts me for a couple of weeks, and 100 weeks is about two years, and since I have been eating carrots instead of chips for two years, I have now solved the case of the missing clothespins!

Sometimes it amazes me where an idea for a blog will come from.

Editor’s note (a.k.a. Mrs. S.): If the writer of this blog would look, he might also see that there are at least ½ dozen clothespins in his studio - on nearly empty paint tubes, holding paper to the easel and clipping various papers together. :-)