a travelogue for life … sometimes on a motorcycle!
by D. Brent Miller
Springtime does something to us. Natural instincts, animal behavior, or perhaps the act of creation. So in a creative moment, and with the help of a motorcycle, camera and audio recording gear, here is a little audio slideshow presentation. Enjoy.–DBrent
by D. Brent Miller
Need to go to the bank? That will do. Need to go to the post office? That will do. Haircut? That too. What about current photos of the new house under construction nearly 20 miles away and through country roads? Good enough! That’s perfect.
In other words, any old excuse will do to take a ride.
The house is barely started. Today, it is just a little more than a hole in the ground, and the workers are checking forms and waiting for the concrete truck to arrive. I can see lots of photo ops in the documenting of our house, AND more errand runs!–DBrent
by D. Brent Miller
Okay, this is not a fresh, “wait ’til you see this movie when it comes out” movie review. Because this film has been on the circuit for a little while–since December, 2006. It was one of those “We gotta go see that” movies that just kept surfacing. Well … we went to see it, and so should you.
Hurricane on the Bayou was a film that started production before Hurricane Katrina, focusing on the culture and mission of musicians to bring awareness to the disappearing wetlands that protect the mainland from damaging hurricanes. Circumstances, or fate some might call it, brought this film crew into full face with Hurricane Katrina–just the type of storm that highlights the disappearing wetlands. Enough has already been published about the devastation, and the images of magazines, newspapers and books are still haunting. But, you haven’t seen anything until you see the tragedy on an IMAX screen. It is nearly overwhelming.
Where the film does justice is keeping a focus on the necessity and function of wetlands and bayous. If anything, it takes a small shot at those who thought it best to build levees to hold back the Mississippi River years ago.
A wonderful production, the film will leave you feeling like you need to do something about our environmental concerns, and you might find yourself tapping your toes just a little to the music that is Louisiana Bayou Country.–DBrent
This will be the last report about our son, a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malawi.
A couple of weeks ago, we had some discouraging communications from him. Of course, we were concerned and anxious. It started with e-mail. We sent an e-mail stating we had been trying to call, but couldn’t get through. Cell phone service in Malawi is shakey, and he doesn’t have regular access to a computer and e-mail. But, he did get our e-mail, and his reply is reproduced here in part:
Yes, I really wanted to talk with you on sunday bad. It was tough, very tough. I returned to my site on saturday after a week on medical leave. I had some stomach issues … but needed to be taken care of away from village. … then the next day (sunday) the heat came and I had a period … of anxst. I think that I had imagined every flavor of american food, I walked down isles of grocery stores to smell the candy ….. This never-neverland experience was sparked by the heat, no food in the village, and no food in my house.
No matter how old the child, parenting never stops. Or should I say, caring about your kids never stops. The distance doesn’t stop the love, but it sure does hinder the ability to step in with care. In the USA, if you fall and sprain your ankle, you are probably just a few minutes away from an urgent care clinic or an emergency room. If your son is sick in Africa, the quickest you can get there is about two days of travel.
Next, he sends a text message to call, and luckily, I get through for a sixteen minute conversation before the call is dropped. He starts out with an announcement.
“I have some news. I am coming home.”
“Why? What has happened.?”
He went on to explain his health issues and how it was impeding his work.
We talked about his announcement and how he arrived at this decision, after talking with a host of friends and superiors. He did not make this decision lightly. He assured me everything was going to be okay, and he was looking forward to returning. He should be home in about 10 days.
Next call, he is in Blantyre House, a regional Peace Corps refuge. He said he’ll be going to Lilongwe in the next day or so to process paperwork and seek medical treatment. Even if his health improves, the living conditions will not.
I talked with him briefly when he was on his way to the airport for the long flight home. He provided a few flight details–Malawi to Johannesburg, South Africa to Atlanta, Georgia to Cincinnati, Ohio. We did not hear from him until we were on the way to pick him up at the airport. He was in New York. The airlines overbooked and put him on a different flight to the USA. He would be catching a flight later in the day. That was, of course, before all the airlines started cancelling flights on the east coast last Friday … and then Saturday! He was stuck in New York City. Luckily, he was able to connect with friends of friends and get away from the airport for a couple of days.
Finally, after four days of waiting, he arrived home yesterday. Skinnier than when we last saw him, he still looks good–even with the burr haircut!–DBrent
by D. Brent Miller
I am going back to Nashville as soon as I can. I was there last night, and quite unprepared.
I was in Nashville to pick up my wife, who was attending a convention on her vacation, and that is another story. She should be writing about that instead of me.
Hmmm. Where was I? Oh, yes. I was in Nashville last night.
We went with another couple to the downtown district for a little music and dinner. Being a Thursday night, and with somewhat inclement weather, there were small crowds on the street trying to hear the musical venues.
Since this was my first visit to Nashville, I approached it with awe and and curiosity, and I really wished I had my camera with me. While our party was bopping in and out of bars listening to the bands, I was observing the action on the street. No … nothing illegal. I was observing the people walking on the street, in and out of bars to the beat of music only feet away. They were searching for people with dreams and wanting to hear the aspirations of those dreams.
The neon glowed bright, and the street reflected the glow off its wet surface. Signs blinked, in contrast with the old paint on the brick facades advertising stores that no longer exist.
I wish I had my camera, and that’s why I am going back.–DBrent
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