The Road to Emmaus

April 28th, 2017

Last post I shared my wonderment about Good Friday and why it’s not called Black. Since then Easter has come and gone, but is it really ever gone? By coincidence (if one believes such really exist) I was recently commissioned by a friend, Chuck Smith, to paint a rendition of the Road to Emmaus story. It would be for his church.

Do you remember it? It’s part of the Easter story, happening the night of the resurrection. Two men who’d followed Jesus were leaving Jerusalem where all the bad stuff had happened, heading for the town of Emmaus, seven miles distant. Jesus joined them, keeping himself from being identified, and asked what they were talking about. Before long, still without revealing himself, he was telling them the whole story of how all this had fulfilled many prophesies and that it had to happen that way.

By the time they get to Emmaus Jesus acts like he’s continuing on, but they convince him to stay for dinner. He does. When he gives thanks and breaks bread their eyes are opened, they see who he is, and at that second he disappears. They, overcome with wonder, rush back to Jerusalem to tell the others, confirming that indeed he was alive, resurrected from the dead.

It’s a beautiful story, and I was happy to take the painting on, but what aspect?  I did a search of how other artists have approached it over time. I’ll share here part of what I found, and at the bottom, how I did it.


Here’s an icon painting of the Orthodox tradition, more symbolism than anything. Note the fish on the table. There’s nothing in the story about that, but later in the evening, back in Jerusalem when Jesus revealed himself to the eleven disciples, he asked for a fish to eat as proof he was not a ghost.


The account by the prolific, 13th century painter, Duccio di Broninsegna. Being pre-renaissance, he didn’t have the rules of perspective worked out yet. Depicted is the moment of arrival at Emmaus, the two were inviting Jesus to tarry.


Here’s a more familiar take by Swiss artist, Robert Zund, painted around 1900. It’s a fine piece of composition and story telling.


This is Friend of the Humble, by French painter, Léon Augustin Lhermitte, in the mid-1800s. Though he had access to all the colors of the pre-impressionists, he chose monochrome for the evening-lit room. At this moment, having broken the bread, the eyes of the disciples are opened. Note the wait staff has little idea what’s happening.


The dramatic renaissance artist, Caravaggio, painted the scene more than once. Anne and I saw his work in person while in Italy. Majestic, incredibly real, full of action and drama. Here the climax of the story is just moments away.


Here’s Rembrandt’s take, an artist who painted a great many Biblical images. Note the extreme dark to light to dark again, and the power of the expression as the diner recognizes who he’s been listening to, a split second before, poof, he’s gone.



There were more I researched, and more I’ve found since. In the end, after consultation with friend Chuck, I went with the moment of arrival at Emmaus, when Jesus was about to take his leave but was coaxed to stay. There’s meaning in it for all of us. The Lord has plenty to offer, but won’t push himself on us. Still, at our request he will stay, and dine. Left is a detail of the di Broninsegna piece shown at the beginning of this little art history overview. (Double click for larger view.)


Emmaus Road, oil over acrylic, 67×47.

Here’s to give an idea of the scale as I shared the finished work at a friend’s house before delivery. Hope you’ve enjoyed this little overview. It’s a painting to keep the story alive. In a sense, it’s always Easter.


Black Friday

April 14th, 2017


I’ve sometimes wondered why they call today Good Friday and the big shopping day after Thanksgiving Black Friday. Seems to me the titles should be reversed. Aren’t all the sales intended to be great? So great that stores open before dawn, with lines already formed? Isn’t that the inaugural day of shopping for Christmas? Isn’t it a good Friday for shoppers and sellers alike. Why it’s called “black” is a mystery.

On the other hand, why do we call this day, “good,” when history’s most innocent man was subjected a gruesome, public death. I don’t get it.

The Roman governor couldn’t find anything in him worthy of death . . . or worthy of any punishment at all. So instead he just flogged him within an inch of his life. For that we call the day “good”?

What about the mock trial, conducted by an advanced society that knew all about justice—illegally conducted at night, with “witnesses” whose accusations didn’t match or make sense, and a fist to the face against the accused without recourse? What was “good” about that?

What about the desertion and denial of his closest friends at the moment of greatest need? Was that “good”? I think not.

There’s more: like the cynicism of the purple robe—appropriate for a king, but that’s not how they meant it. And what about that crown of thorns jammed down on his head, likely of the one- and two-inch variety. I wonder if that sadistic weaver punctured his own fingers. Would he have called that a good Friday?

Speaking of that, forehead wounds, with the myriad of tiny veins just below the skin, make for a face completely covered in blood. Not a pretty picture. Certainly not “good.”

There’s more: like being crucified naked, a public shame. “Good”?

And crucified! . . . an expression that rolls across the tongue as casually as hot cross buns on a stick. Loathsome spikes pounded through muscle and bone and with the weight of the body hung out to die. Thirsty under scorching sun with only vinegar offered to quench? What kind of day is this? Not “good.”

Then just to be sure he died they pierced his side. It was finished, and they called it “good.”

Why’d it happen? Why did everything go wrong that could? Because, they said, he claimed to be the Son of God. They didn’t like that. They put him away for “good.”

But the skies went dark, ominous and fearful, convincing the centurion he was who he said. It’s another reason, those dark skies, that this Friday should not be called “good,” but “black.”

It’s a mystery, these reversals of terms. In the end, reality also reversed. Two days later the tomb was empty and the sightings began. A whole new reality came to be with us, and has never left.

What could we call that but “good”!!


PS Here I am a year ago Easter, painting live at Saddleback Church, San Clemente. I call it Easter Night, on the day that really should be called “good.” Click on it for details.


A Word for Me (?)

February 28th, 2017

At the easel. An angel behind? What a thought!

Here’s a pearl. We’ll see if anyone recognizes it as such.

Three days ago I was at a conference where, among other things, some people who were apparently equipped to have special messages for specific people spoke them out. These are deemed prophetic, and if it resonates, can be encouraging . . . even supplying the courage to go out and do whatever it is.

My experience in this area is always a bit cautious, a mix of skepticism and belief. In this case, some seemed general enough they could easily apply regardless. Others were quite specific. During a break I approached a couple of the individuals who had received such and asked if they felt it was unique to them and helpful. They each answered in the affirmative and gave me details of why.

Okay. But not everybody was receiving. Most were just looking on. Including me.

But at the end of the day, as everyone was leaving, a young woman I didn’t know came up to me and said she had seen me in her mind the day before. I was younger, she said, and with dark hair. We laughed at that. She said she’d received a word for me, which she’d written down.

“Okay,” I said, “Read it to me.” She did. Here it is in full.

The Lord knows your name.
You are going to move forward quickly.
There is acceleration on your life—increase and acceleration.
The Lord sees you as a young man—with much time and much to still accomplish.
He is encouraging you to take a step, and when you do, great acceleration will happen.
Lots of quick movement in the Spirit and in the natural.
You will be very encouraged to see this happen, and see how quickly this will happen.
Step forward. Now is the time.

The Lord says He is in this. Be encouraged.
Everything He has shown you and told you in the past is all true.
Dream bigger.
There’s an angel who stands behind you when you paint.
You have a supernatural anointing for supernatural increase—and an anointing to give it away.
Many will experience increase and acceleration and will also benefit from your step of faith.
Now is the time!

So there it is. I asked if she’d give me the piece of paper and she did.

You’ll recognize a certain vocabulary, but of more interest is the repetition of certain points. Truthfully I don’t know quite what to make of it. What the step is that I’m to take is not known to me. In the past, steps of any significance have required either great courage or great sacrifice. Like, loss. If that’s required here, I can only hope I’m up to it.

I will say that an angel standing behind me while I paint is a powerful thought. I could wish instead that I stand behind him and he do the painting! But it’s never that easy.

I’ll also say that as of yesterday morning I’m out of my slump. Remember my mention of that in my last blog with a number of pieces ending up in the fire? Yesterday I attacked two large works that had me stumped for weeks, transformed them both, and now they’re already hanging, still wet, in our Laguna gallery!

What’s next? Who knows? If you think this resonates, let me know. Or if you are encouraged by these words, then more power to you, too.

Either way, we’re all blessed.


PS  Tomorrow evening (March 1) I’ll be the guest speaker at the Huntington Beach Art League. This is a large and dynamic group where I’ve done this before. Besides a talk, I’ll be doing a live painting demonstration. It’s 7:30–9:00 at the H.B. Senior Center, 18041 Golden West Street. Open to all.

PPS  Thursday evening, this week, Anne and I will be in the Sandstone Gallery for the Laguna Beach Art Walk. I usually paint live during these events. All the galleries on the street are open. It’s 6:00–9:00.


Fake News, My Dying

February 14th, 2017

A photo from the working session in Crestline last year, alive and well then, and alive and well still.

Here’s a funny one. I recently got an email from a friend and earlier working colleague I’d not heard from in many years. We knew him from when we served with the Canada Institute of Linguistics (CanIL) in British Columbia, 1997 to 2001. He wrote with concerns for my health.

But why? Here’s what he said:

Hello Hyatt,

Greetings from your old haunt in Canada. It’s been so long. As I walk around the building here your numerous paintings remind me of our times together.

I received word the other day that your health is not good and I wanted to inquire if it was true. Please, if you are able, let us know how you are doing and how we can pray for you.



If I’m able? What’s this?

Here’s my reply (excerpted):

Hi Danny,

How great to hear from you. But I must say, along with Mark Twain, the rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated! Even the story of my illness seems to be another example of fake news.

That is, unless you’re speaking prophetically and I should stock up on miscellaneous medicines just in case.

But in fact, we’re prospering. I would be interested to know of what you heard I’m suffering, and who you heard it from.


To this he replied:

Hi Hyatt…

I’m so glad to hear that you’re keeping well. About where I heard rumors of your poor health, I received the following from our communications department:

Today I was updating our donor database to make the changes requested by our donors and I came across this bit of news.  Hyatt Moore requested that we take him off our list, giving the unsubscribe reason as “I’m dying.”

And now you know why I wrote! I thought, “The poor guy is packing it in and I had better get my farewells in before it’s too late!”

Keep up the good work and say hello to Anne!


This explained it. Here’s my reply:


Ha!  Now I know that somebody does read these things. I don’t remember asking to be taken off the CanIL list specifically, but it’s not unusual for me to do so, receiving so many mailings. These days it’s easy to unsubscribe to lists, but not without explaining why.  So the “I’m dying” has been my usual answer. Seems final enough . . . and there is some truth to it . . . just not eminent (I hope).

In any case I genuinely do appreciate your concern, had it been real. There’s much yet to do before I’m really dying.


Then finally, his last response:

Haha… You’re horrible!!! So you’re the originator of the “fake news”! Well thanks for a good laugh this morning.


That’s it. Maybe it’ll give you a laugh too.

Funny, though, how it does tie in with my blog subjects of late like Aging, and Obits. But we’re well, both of us, presently still doing art and enjoying life in Crestline, California. (More on that next time.)



February 6th, 2017


Anne, just setting up, her press behind her. Who knows what creativity will follow? Meantime, it’s a life.

Anne and I are in Crestline. It’s in the same mountain cabin, two hours from home, that we had the use of last year. Once again we’ve moved in with all of our art-making materials, rearranged the space into a double studio–for painting and printmaking–and have two weeks set aside for just work. It’s work we like, making it really play. Same thing. It’s life as we’ve designed it. How long it will go, who knows?

As we were setting up, spreading out protective newspaper on table tops Anne got to reading content. It’s just like her . . . in the middle of all the activity everything stops while she ponders something she’s come across. This time she happened to be in the obituaries.

It was a double-column piece about four inches long . . . a lot, it seemed for a death notice. Actually it was among others about the same size. Later I got to reading them too, retrieving the paper from the trash, by then used and blotched with printing ink.

I must say they were all fascinating, particularly when well written by a loving fan (family or friend). The one that first caught Anne’s attention was of a woman, a world traveler, event and reunion organizer, collector of interesting things, photographer, and on and on and on. We found it all quite inspiring.

Another was of a man with many credentials, military, board positions and CEO of more than one company. Also described was his fun spirit, family involvement, “love of the Lord,” and a mentor of his children and others.”

There were more details, and more people, and of course much more that could have been said for each. I got to thinking that the obituaries is the most inspirational section in the whole newspaper.

By coincidence, just this morning I’d read a line in one of my favorite books: The day of death is better than the day of birth.* That’s because once a life is lived there’s something to say . . . unlike at the beginning. And if a life has been lived well, there’s lots to say.

Who will do the saying, and how well, is beyond our control. What isn’t, however, is the content and meaning we put into it before then.

It got us thinking again today about how we’re living our lives now, and how we want to ongoingly.

It’s good for all us to do. Who knows, maybe there will be something to inspire another someday as they spread their newspapers around?


* Ecclesiastes 7:1 More on this in It’s About Life, available here.



January 30th, 2017

Reading opens windows to the wider world, and beyond.

“The book that’s too expensive is the book you don’t buy.”

I heard that once and it resonated. You never know what you’re missing in a book you don’t read.

Reading is a gift. I’m always grateful for the one or ones who taught me, long since nameless. Not that I’m so good at it. I tend to be terribly slow, lose concentration, forget eighty percent by the next day (or the same day), or fall asleep in the process. But for all that, what I do gain makes me more aware, slightly smarter, and a little bigger than I was before. I’m incrementally enlightened.

My life might be very small in comparison to all things, but reading expands my borders, exponentially.

It’s a gift we take for granted. Most of us don’t even do it much, what with all the other media that comes at us quicker and requiring less effort. But extra effort usually pays, in every field.

And in books you can find something about every field there is. Even a great deal about it.

As I see it, a book is generally written by someone who has thought more about a subject than I have, usually a lot more. So there’s a teacher-student relationship. But the learning is up to me; I can take it all in eagerly or put it down any time. All the knowledge I could ever want is all around me all the time. Reading is how I get it.

Not that all reading is for information or biography or history or inspiration or philosophy or self-help or how-to. Sometimes it’s just for the intrigue of story . . . the beauty of language, the transportation of thought and the sharing of minds . . . in fiction or non.

Whatever we read, we’re more for it.

It’s a gift.

And thanks for reading this. (I hope it helped.)



January 23rd, 2017


A long time ago I came to the realization that reasons matter most. It’s basic. We do things SO THAT something else happens, or can begin, or is satisfied. Without reasons it all goes dry.

I remember experiencing that in earlier days. There was a lot I hadn’t learned yet, but through a series of circumstances, even “successes,” I’d come to the conclusion that there was no great reason to strive further. You’d think that was ultimate. Perfect. Complete. But it was just the opposite; I was left empty.

We need to be active, occupied and purposeful to be happy . . . to be compete human beings. But we can’t be these things in a vacuum, doing them for their own sakes; we need reasons.

Even the writer of the book of Ecclesiastes said it, a number of times in a number of ways. He’d reached the heights of what a human being can do and have and experience but in the end found it all meaningless. He’d lost his reasons.*

Without a vision the people perish. That’s another from Scripture.**

At the beginning of this year, around the time I often reflect on where I am and what’s next, I wrote a list. But instead of activities and goals, I listed reasons. What are the deep seated motivators I can identify for doing anything. For living.

It was good. It even helped pull me out of a slight slump. How I might address these things can be varied, and changing as I go. But the reasons I do them are fixed, foundational, and life-savingly motivating.

I recommend it. You may not need such a list. Your sense of reasons may be so overwhelmingly complete you don’t even know they’re there. That’s good.

On the other hand, it might help. Do it SO THAT. It could make all the difference.


* For this and more, see my book, It’s About Life, featured at right.
** Proverbs 29:18


Time for Learning

January 16th, 2017

Okay, Da Vinci wasn’t Hindu, but he never stopped learning.

Many years ago I did a short course in comparative religions. Actually I was teaching it, which is the best way to learn. It was in a setting of young people who were even more naive than me so it was easy. Of the many things I learned, one in particular stood out.

It came out of the section on Hinduism. It wasn’t anything about the religion, per se, but more the culture, their view of life stages, a later one set aside for learning.

In our culture, that’s early. We have a whole, long process for orienting youth to be conversant citizens of the wider world. After the required years, there are options for more of the same but deeper, continuing on from there with all manner of specialization. That’s us.

How ever many years we spend at it, though, finally we tell ourselves, or we hear it, “That’s enough. It’s time to get on with real life.”

Of course there are exceptions, but among the Hindus it’s different. In their view there are four stages of life.

Childhood is for the instilling of basic values and character.

Early adulthood involves having a family and full focus on providing for it. Happily, grandparents are on hand, living right there or very near by, to help with the children.

And that’s the third stage, when there’s finally time for real learning. Learning is what defines this time of life.

The forth, by the way, has to do with hitting the road, becoming ascetic and begging for a living. I couldn’t relate to that so much.

But that third stage, the “still strong but not as stressed with expectations on every side,” reserved for the rest of education, that inspired me. And still does.

For the Hindu, this has most to do with the study of God. I like that too, though my understanding of Deity is certainly different. Still, I take inspiration from their model . . . mine, to learn in every subject that interests, including God.

It’s a great stage when you think about it. And there’s so much to think about.

Agreement anybody?


A Thought about Aging

January 9th, 2017

La Sagrada Famila in Barcelona.

I read an article where, now older, comedian and film star Steve Martin no longer signs autographs. I think I’m going to make the same resolve.

The difference, of course, there was a time when Steve Martin’s autographs were in demand. Mine never were. But no matter, it’s a choice both of us can make.

Aging is a funny thing. It’s something everybody’s heading toward, but no one wants to face. Or even talk about . . . unless with one’s doctor. Or psychologist.

I read once where the 60th year is the beginning of old age. I thought that interesting as I cruised through that year all sails flying with a crisp breeze. At 65 it was the same thing. At 70, same.

Seventy is the new 60, we might say. But even with that, eventually we’re back to “the beginnings of old age.”


Some years ago I found myself standing in line at La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. Anne and I were in Spain in one of our later-in-life international excursions “just because.” Seeing the cathedral itself was a high point of the whole trip, and a wonderful example of a man, an artist, a Christian, pursuing his life work to the end.* But that’s not my point here.

Waiting in line we got to chatting with a medical doctor from Santa Monica. He said, by his experience, people often carry on strong until their mid-80s. It’s different for every person, of course, but generally until then people will say, “I feel fine; I’ve got the same energy and interest in life I’ve always had.” Then they stop saying that so much, after which things can start changing pretty fast.

It was a good bit of insight from a person with plenty of experience with aging people.

The nice thing is that perhaps 80 is the new 70.

But 85 is still likely the same 85.

Just something to think about. Maybe I’ll write more on it another day.

(Meantime, let me know if you want my autograph.)


*Antoni Gaudi, architect of Catalonia


Main Street, Afternoon Stroll

November 13th, 2016

On these trips we really do spend most of our waking hours working. That’s why when people wish us well on our “vacation” I bristle a bit. Not that we’d have it any other way; this is what we like to do. Every now and again we do get out. At least daily we take a walk, up and down the neighborhood hills for the exercise it brings, or down to Main Street for whatever we might encounter among the shops. We were out on one of those ventures just now, Anne needing to put birthday cards in the mail at the post office.


The Holy Toledo, one of a number of bars helping to keep Main Street going.

Main Street has a certain intrigue. Come to think of it, I don’t know when we’ve seen another pedestrian. Half the store fronts are empty. Many of the buildings are quite handsome, remnants of a prouder time. There’s a large paper mill in view just down the river, great stacks of smoke and steam (which?) with all night industrial sounds and gasps as the night shift keeps things humming. A railroad line runs by and through town with it’s own short whistle blasts as it forwards and backs at the mill. There’s even a railroad “museum,” outdoors, with a relic of a steam engine and passenger cars and flat cars with massive chains that once hauled giant cuts of giant trees from the hinterland down to the coast and the mill.

But I was going to stay on Main Street for the moment, and our little walk. As I said, we didn’t see any other walkers, but we did have a number of friendly encounters with various proprietors looking for business or just another human being to greet. Passing by a breakfast and lunch place that was just closing, the owner, though talking on the phone at the time (a land line with a long cord) called out to us, “Do you want a doughnut?” We didn’t particularly, but to decline would be


Where the friendly gentleman offered us doughnuts. I love the curtain on the upper floor.

unfriendly so we said we would and he put his call on hold while he went behind the counter and fetched two homemades and another morsel with a French name (beignet?) and handed them to us in a little paper hand-held. We thanked him and went on our way, tasting the beignet, tiny and rumpled, and sharing the first of the two doughnuts. I didn’t want to feel ungrateful for such a selfless gesture but I should have asked for the grease in a separate bag. We didn’t eat the second one.

Up the street we ran into a man we’d seen yesterday, one who’d remembered (when reminded) of two earlier visits here. He runs a most expansive antique and “art materials” store, now closing and with everything “half price.” I never saw the art supplies, but he said it’s mostly “found objects” that people use to make other stuff. We wondered if some of what we were looking at was of his making.


The “antique store,” a business the proprietor told us there’s no longer a future for.

We’d bought a couple of treasures from him before and thought this might be our chance to really score, what with the prices. We just couldn’t find anything that would make any sense even with our widely eclectic tastes. We did get from him a litany of opinions about the town and the neighbors which I won’t record but was pretty interesting to listen to–for insights about the town and about him.


A view inside. At first everything appeals, but on closer look, very little. Still, such a fun place.

When we saw him today he was going into the Methodist Thrift Store, “shopping for himself” he said. Following that guidance, we went in too. I remember in the past I found a number of books in their outside dollar shelf, all on subjects Methodists would have relished but apparently no longer. I think I’ve read them all since to some profit. Today I looked for more such, but found none.

On the way out we saw a rug in the window, a runner of pleasant design and color. It seemed of some quality and after discussing how we could use it, went back in to get the price, but it wasn’t for sale. Isn’t that how it is?

One more thing about the thrift store and all the used and cheap items was the girl behind the counter. I couldn’t look straight at her so my impression may be off, but it seemed she had tiny rings in a couple places in her lips and nose, as well as little “earring jewels” pierced around her mouth and a couple places high on her cheeks.  She was otherwise not unattractive.  I was tempted to say, “I’m sorry about your accident,” but figured she’d not take it as pity, even if that was my ultimate sensation.

Walking further along a man came out of a store front and called after us, “I do photography . . . and music.” Ahh, okay. He’d just been setting out postcard racks of his photos in small print form. “And I do big oversize prints, too.” We went in, more for his sake than any real interest of ours. He did have pictures on the wall, done back in the 80’s he said, with a Pentax Sureshot, of homeless types in Portland. They were interesting enough photos, black and white, not particularly artistic like a real photographer might aspire to. “Those were the wino days,” he said, adding that he was just getting sober himself then and knew half of those he photographed. Said he’d take their picture in trade for a bottle of something.

He went on about how he misses those days, and downtown Portland. “It’s not like that now,” he said. “They’ve cleaned it up?” I asked. “No, it’s much worse. It’s drugs now, and younger. I’d get killed going around with a camera up there now.”

With that, and a little about his own life (“a very long story”) and how he’d be playing music tomorrow (didn’t catch which instrument) invited us to come back. Right.


The prosperous looking but always closed boutique furniture and “art” store.

Crossing the street we came to the store we’ve never seen open the five years we’ve been coming here. It’s a big expansive place crowded with interesting furniture and whatnot, the kind that invites browsing, but we never could because it was never open. One year we saw a parrot in a cage and I think a cat so we figured somebody must be feeding pets anyway.

One time when were were here over a Labor Day weekend (having been invited as visiting artist for their yearly event) we did encounter some other people on the street. As we looked in through the windows once again at this spacious store a man who seemed to know the place greeted us. When we told him of our dismay of never finding it open, first he said “They’re open on Labor Day weekend.” Of course it was Labor Day weekend, or a day after. Had we missed it for another year? Then he offered, “Well, they’re old,” and then gave an age the same as mine, less a year. As he must have seen my general exasperation he offered to call them on his cell phone which he immediately did. “They just live upstairs,” he said. He got an answer and explained our situation to the person at the other end and then, cupping his hand over the phone he turned to us and said, “She wants to know if you’re going to buy anything.”

How were we to know? So that was the end of that.

Today it was our good fortune to find a human being, a not-that-elderly lady in the french door, top half opened, but the bottom still blocked with all manner of decorative obstacles. We chatted in a friendly way, told how we’ve often been by and always curious to look in. “We’re open on first weekends,” she said. So we missed it again. “All this furniture is for our apartments and houses that we rent out in town. We’re really an art gallery.”

Actually I don’t remember seeing art in the store. Now it’s harder anyway to see anything as they’ve put something of a frost over most of the glass. I offered that we art artists, in town temporarily, staying at Michael Gibbons’ place. I thought this might help, and she did say nice things about Michael Gibbons, but never took the hint that we might like to just peek inside.

This is all the stranger as it is the only large and prosperous looking store front on the street, directly across from the Toledo Hotel (closed) and the Shiloh Thrift Store (closed) and the El Roca Mexican restaurant (closed) and a number of other store fronts with no names, also closed and empty.

The only places open, it seemed, are a tax office, a couple of cafes, a jewelry store (sometimes open), an county office for the elderly and disabled, a pool room, a tee shirt store, a gallery of local “art,” a couple of bars, and, newly opened since our last visit, a medical marijuana front.


The vintage Indian, but the real business is behind that door.

Actually I didn’t know what it was at first. I saw the signs plastered all over the front warning against those under 21, in English and Spanish. Inside was just an empty room, though with some wonderful relics of motorcycles, a 1920’s era Indian, some Harley-Davidsons, and a few others of early vintage. That will always pull me in, but so far I still didn’t know where I was. There was an elderly couple (younger than me, but older than one might have expected) at a sort of bank window at the back of the room, the attendant being hidden from view. Then I noticed the door to the back room and, when it opened, a bar with a few younger types inside. That’s when it all came together for me, though I smelled not a thing. Exhaust fans? I smelled nothing on the street either.


A clinic indeed. So helpful for humanity.

Back outside I saw the signs I’d missed going in, “Green Dragon Herbal Clinic, Edibles, Flower-bud, Clones, Concentrates and Extracts, Local Blown Glass, Local Art.” Local art again, something I didn’t see any of. And there was nothing to satisfy my curiously about the motorcycles. I did see two young girls (over 21 of course) come out and get in their pickup truck and drive away. Made me glad I was walking.

So, it’s a clinic! Even had a big green cross in neon in the window, front and back, and a big white flag with the same green cross. How healthy. At least I’ll say this: It’s a store front that’s open; maybe it will help keep Main Street from dying altogether. Or maybe it’ll follow in the steps of our photographer friend’s downtown Portland.

There’s more to this town, and much that’s good, delightful and pretty. My few remarks about Main Street are probably not fair for those who live here and love it. Maybe I’ll tell more later.

For now, I notice that second doughnut is still looking at me. Just because it looks nice and was freely given, do I risk it?


PS I know this is mega-longer than usual.
I just couldn’t resist.
Let me know what you think.