Can i Get a Ushahidi?

Press Play then Proceed. :)



So today, as beautiful a day as I could ask for, as I tend my flowers in the front yard, I see the well dressed strangers walking in pairs, door to door. It has been some time since Jehovah's Witnesses have come to testify and try to save my soul from damnation with the hope of eternal paradise as promised in the Bible.

I smile, try not to offend or cut short the introductory speech. I look at the pictures of Paradise and the quotes of scripture printed in their little book. I want to show them my Bible, my books on religions of the world, my old hymnal, for there are some interesting and lovely words in them too, but I say only thank you, I have my own Bible, my own relationship to the Lord and no need to discuss it with someone I do not know, but thank you and have a nice day. The quiet one compliments my ferns, and I thank him, telling him they are my pride and joy, my rescues from the Lowes last chance bin, $5 bucks each, rootbound and dying. They only needed to be repotted, fed and loved to become so grand. They both told me my yard and flowers were lovely, and I said I do what I can to tend the Earth, and off they went to try to save other souls.

This must be the 12th or 15th time I have encountered the Witnesses in my life, and I still find their earnest hope to be oddly confusing and comforting. I wish there were some sign I could leave them to let them know I have listened and considered and they may as well save their breath. But they'd probably feel the need to try harder to save me. It's nice to know some people are certain of something, and at peace with what they believe. And appreciate a happy fern and a content human when they see one.


Today, my email brought me a TED lecture on the idea of cognitive surplus, which is the amazing things that come from our spare brain time and the internet: sure, blogs and lolcats, but also Ushahidi. It is Swahili for Witness. In the wake of social turmoil and internet shutdowns in Africa, a lone blogger asked her readers what was happening where they were, to help track the violence. She was quickly overwhelmed. Two programmers offered to help her and in months created a framework to track events all over the world through the use of computers, internet and cell phones.
Cognitive Surplus at its finest. Track the violence in Africa. Track the disaster in Haiti. All updates uploaded by the community, for the community at Ushahidi.

How about the Gulf Oil Spill? Where is it really coming ashore? Seen some oil and want to add your sighting?

When I experienced my first earthquake in IL, I googled USGS, figuring they would know what's going on. They did, and they wanted to know what I knew. Did you feel it? What time, and what did it feel like. They posted the data, and thousands of us were willingly creating a database, standing witness to the world around us. The earthquake in Quebec last Wednesday was reported by almost 57,000 volunteers.
USGS Did You Feel It? Site

There are hundreds of examples of these type of volunteer, grass roots, sharing enterprises happening every day on the internet, and their power is being harnessed in most cases for the greater good. When we share a recipe, or blog our events, or add a silly caption to a cat photo, or help track politics or natural events, or form support groups or friendships, book clubs and craft connections, we are all creating something valuable, breaching the intangible for the greater good and because we can. Wiki, Ushahidi, YouTube, Flikr, Twitter, Etsy, Blog: what are they if not the greatest collaborative projects of the modern era? The output of our collective cerebral surplus. Pretty Freaking Cool.

Can I get a witness?

Here's the TED lecture if you'd like to ponder in depth.


In light of the feral homes posts, I'm looking forward to listening to this TED talk on retrofitting abandoned suburban america and reclaiming wetlands.



Have a great day and enjoy playing with your cognitive surplus! Stand Witness to something and share it with the world.

Feral Houses and Ghost Homes

Wow. Sweet Juniper's series on feral houses really struck a chord with me. I never thought to call them that. I guess I thought of them more as ghost houses. I've been taking pictures of them in and around my old home town in rural Delaware for decades. Anything old, falling down, abandoned or ghostly catches my eye. If I don't have time to stop, I'll slow down will take a picture out the window, because once, I didn't stop, and the next time I went back east, it had burned down. At least I have that picture in my head. It was a spectacular ruin of a house, complete with hoarded piles of cars and appliances and a porch groaning with clutter and what not, sitting alone amid the cornfields.

Most of the ghost homes I see are family farms that have been sold, or lost, or disappeared, as I'm sure is happening across the country. These abandoned homes seem more natural somehow in their rural setting, and it is more unsettling to imagine them in a city like Detroit.

Anyway, here are a few of mine.



These two have turkey vultures or buzzards on the roof, which I find very unsettling. Many years back, an unique old man named Charlie Winder lived alone outside of town in a falling down old house. Charlie loved to tell jokes, laughed with his whole body, and always said Baaak Baaak Baaaak like a chicken when he saw you. He had no family and when he died neighbor saw the birds on his roof and found him there. I suppose they did him a favor, for who knows how long he might have waited to be laid to rest if they had not come.



This old house with the wrap around porch I find very haunting, as I almost expect to see the ghosts of the families who lived there in the windows or on the porch, looking out over the marshes.

I can't say exactly why I'm fascinated by them, except the fact that whoever lived there, and their stories are now gone. I find that both mysterious and sad. And perhaps it's the circle of life thing, the inevitable decay of the things man builds. For whatever reason, I take their pictures so I can remember what they look like and imagine what they once were.

Do yourself a favor and have a look at Sweet Juniper's photos if you haven't already. They are amazing, as is his entire blog.

Summer

Some things blooming in my yard:








I haven't posted in a very long time. I've been busy. I've been irritable. I've been finding my way. I've come out of my little funk smiling, and enjoying the summer sunshine. Made my page yellow just because I can. And because of the daylillies, creamy and buttery and yellow that make me smile. So the irises are gone. The daylillies are here and so am I.

Hope the sun is shining on you, where ever you are, and you're finding something to smile about. Happy Summer.

Eyes Bugging Out of My Head

This is what May felt like inside my head. My eyes are tired from looking. It was amazing. I don't think I missed a thing.

The lilacs bloomed in a riot of fragrance, 2 brief weeks. The iris are done.

The woods erupted in green, punctuated by Wild Blackberry, Solomon's Seal, and Black Raspberry whites.

Phlox in lavender, purple and white.

Wild roses, climbing 7 feet into the trees, intoxicating fragrance.

Wild Viburnum, beloved by tiny butterflies and bees.

Wild Hydrangea, home to strange and interesting insects.

Fleeting, blooming and vanishing in one to two weeks, these are the sights that saturate my brain, the reason I've taken 1800 pictures in May alone, trying to capture it, to make it last. It's like grabbing smoke.

UnStuck a Little

I started this post two months ago for the Sepia Saturday series and got stuck. I should have known not to try a post about Dad so near his birthday. I couldn't finish it and surrendered. I've felt stuck since he died, which will be two years this July. Two. The pictures can't begin to capture who he was or the life he led, and words fail me lately. Who is there to tell things and discuss the world with if he's not in it? But I got unstuck a little and wanted to finish what I started, to move forward a bit. I'm gardening again, and trying to be hopeful, it's the least I can do to honor him. Here's a few highlights from the amazing life of a wonderful man I called Dad.

Dad's Tree

Memories, mementos.

A rose is not just a rose.

He watered and filled the birdfeeders almost up to the end.

He shaved his head with Mom when chemo took her hair.

50th Wedding Anniversary. Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer days later.

Happy times in the mountains of North Carolina, multiple childhoods revisited.

The Salisbury Zoo, MD, our favorite family day in the park place.

Road trip to the Dakotas with the grandkids.

The first grandchild, a manchild.

25th Wedding Anniversary.

Family of the year, literally, and pillars of the community, small town, USA.

A wedding on short notice, a prostitute paid to stand witness.

You may now kiss the bride. Some more.

Just Married.

Soldier Boy.

Scenes from a Birthday Cake.

On the Beach.

Fisherman, with Uncle and Dad. Bait used: spark plug.

Fine young man.

Handsome teenager.

Pensive boy.

Sickly survivor child.

Good boy who wrote to his Mom on the back.

He never knew how to ask for much. But he was all heart.

Loving and beloved Brother.

Beloved Child.

Waif.

Intrepid explorer.

Life Force.

Beloved.


Peter Ransom MacVeigh. Almost bled out at birth from his circumcision and a clotting problem, bit by a rabid cat and survived the injections, hit by a car with multiple head injuries and shattered ribs and legs, electrocuted twice saving a friend stuck to a power line and temporarily blinded, radiated with xrays and uranium to treat mastoiditis and perform adenoidectomies, lived in poverty and hunger several times in his childhood, nearly drowned surfing paddleboat wakes in a canoe on the Mississippi, surprisingly unmaimed or killed playing with dynamite caps and explosive coal mine chemicals with hooligan friends, shuttled across the Atlantic in a rusty transport that sank in the harbor as it arrived in Germany, again, surprisingly unmaimed or killed from ordinance duty in the war's end stage, survived a heart attack and quadruple bypass in his 40s and triple in his 60's, plus emphysema from smoking and living asbestos and lumberyard filled childhoods, until finally, his heart gave out in his 70's. Neither his sense of humor or grace in the face of life and death ever surrendered. I worried he wouldn't live to see me graduate college, or marry, or have grandkids, or celebrate his 50th anniversary, but he made it to them all, and then some, always grateful, always smiling, blue eyes twinkling, happy to be here, alive. I was always a mixture of scared he was going to die, and hopeful only Kryptonite could get him. He wasn't afraid at the end, only worried he was a burden to Mom and that he hadn't done enough for those he loved. Silly, I know.

He is loved and missed irrationally for someone who wasn't supposed to be here in the first place. We were lucky to have him as long as we did. But still. His absence is acute, some days more than others. I watch the kids and think, he'd be so proud. I watch the news and think, he'd be so pissed about the Gulf Oil Spill, he loved the water and he always hated greed and shortsightedness. I see my garden and think, he'd love these flowers. I hear the birds and think of him watching them for hours, turning his yard into a sanctuary. I watch the sunset and think, he'd marvel at the colors. He knew how to appreciate the little things, make the best and be happy. I wonder if he had any idea how hard he'd be to miss.