There’s a personnel connection that exists when biking through a neighborhood versus when driving through that same neighborhood. As an example I am much more likely to stop at a little store or bakery when on my bike then in my car. It just somehow seems like more of a hassle to pull the car over, get out, lock the car, shop, get back in the car, versus just getting off the bike and locking it. Sometimes, it is literally easier to park the bike right next to the store, versus finding parking somewhere nearby. During the recent storm, it was much easier to get off the bike and push peoples stuck car/s versus doing the same thing in a car. I have seen, over the years, dozens and dozens of walkers or bicyclists stop to help someone who needs a push in a car, versus seeing car drivers doing so. It is also easier to stop, check on things, double back to check on something, and if necessary intervene or call 311 or 911 when on a bike versus in a car. Lastly I am a better artist when on a bike. Its much easier to take a photo from the bike than a car.  Much easier to get off the bike to get a picture, then to get out of the car.  My point is that I am the same person when I am on a bike or in a car, but I am a better citizen, a better neighbor, a better artist, and a better asset to my community when I am on a bike.

© words and picture by Dan DeMarle 2017

Everything you think you own, everything you love and want, everything you have touched and desired, is not yours.  It will pass on to its next owner, to its next destination after you are no longer here.  All your acts, all your in actions, will still be here, although they will only exist as ripples.  Ripples lapping on distant lives that do not know where they came from.  So why are you here? Why do you try? Why do you act?  Because you are a unique collection of DNA that will never exist again.  You are a unique pattern of energy, and energy does not die, it simply changes. Because your life has meaning, even if it is only to you.

The lonely monocled British soldier stood silently on his watch in the field of fresh fallen snow.  His commander had ordered him to stand watch on the edge of the field. His feet were cold, his hands were cold, and his clothes were soaked.  As he stood he thought about the time Jane and he had gone into that chocolate shop in London and stood by the lit fireplace and had hot chocolate.  He was unsure what he craved more at that moment, the warmth of the fire, the Hot Chocolate, or the feeling of her hands in his as she stood on her toes and he lowered his head to kiss her lips.

Dusk 3/15/17 snow covered plant taken in the midst of a plus 20 inch snow storm

© words and pictures by Dan DeMarle 2017

My father had a pond dug, turning a seasonal wet land into a pond, in the far back of our yard. Our yard abutted a woods, so essentially the pond was in the woods.  My older brother then got ducks and geese to go into the pond.   A small flock of Canadian geese.  While this might sound quaint and picturesque, geese are one nasty creature, especially if they are nesting and feel threatened.  They will bite, and they will also attack you with their wings.  When your  a small boy, these can really hurt. Who am I kidding, they also can easily hurt a grown adult.  They also had a way of trying to sneak up on you, and trying to attack you from behind. This required constant attention, when you were in “their territory” working or doing other things. Essentially working in the backyard was like walking in a hostile territory, or like going into a group of bullies everyday.   Of course, we could have just killed the things, except for the fact that they were my brother’s pets.  So that wasn’t really an option.  These geese however taught me a number of lessons. First was how to grab a gooses neck, and wrap up its wings without getting buffeted to bad.  The second was how to deal with bullies. The third was that I loved my brother, because if I didn’t, I would have killed those damn geese.

Siobon waited.  The fog was growing thicker. She touched the cross around her neck.  Gripped tighter on her sword handle, and listened through the fog. On the other side of the bridge she heard the weeds rustle. She knew they were there.  She thought at least 30 of them, slowly creeping towards the bridge.   It was a cold morning. She thought it was either a good day to die or to do a lot of killing.  The King had said to hold this bridge.  She patted her horse and waited for the first to step onto the bridge.

1/22/17

© words and pictures by Dan DeMarle 2017

“I guess I’m just feeling Septemberish,” sighed Chester. “It’s getting towards autumn now. And it’s so pretty up in Connecticut. All the trees change color. The days get very clear―with a little smoke on the horizon from burning leaves. Pumpkins begin to come out.”
― George Selden, The Cricket in Times Square

© Picture Dan DeMarle 2016

When I was little, we went to church. Every Sunday.  Looking back on it now, it is striking for me to remember.  The Sundays in church were entirely white.  A sea of white faces.  The only black face was when a priest came from Africa.  At the time, that all seemed so normal.  My School was completely white, my church was completely white, and my street and neighborhood were completely white.

I am so glad and grateful that my life has taken on so much color.  All those colors of the rainbow were absent, when I was young. However, you can’t miss what you are never exposed to.   You can’t miss the taste of chocolate, if you have never tasted it.  You can’t crave a mango if you have never had one.  So go out everyone and have some chocolate, eat a mango, and think about your life, and what you may be missing, and are clueless that it is lacking from your life.  Then try to go get it.  A Rainbow is much more magical than a sheet of white paper.

In my day to day work life, families come into me to speak of their worries and fears about their children, whether these are children, teens, or young adults, or adults.  I can tell you with absolute certainty that the rich white mother, the poor white mother, the mom and dad, the two dads, the two moms, the grandmother raising her grandchild, the mom who was a teen mother, the divorced mother, the happily married mother, the older mother, the never married mother, the Black mother, the mother or an adopted child, the Hispanic mother, the Asian mother, the Biracial mother, the mother serving in the military, the employed mother, the unemployed mother, the homeless mother, the professional mother, the city mother,  the suburban mother, and the rural mother, all have the same fears. They also all have the same tears.  They all have the same battles, the same worries, and many of the same problems. So what exactly is it that we let divide us.

The day to day struggles that poverty causes in people’s lives are incredibly hard for people who are not poor to understand. The common trope that they are lazy and unmotivated is so utterly wrong. The amount of time and energy, for example, it takes to go grocery shopping when you do not have a car is staggering. At the same time, you may well have to buy higher priced and/or lower quality food, and put up with “s*&^” that white people or middle class or upper class people would never put up with. The amount of time it takes to get to work taking public transportation or to get rides from friends is incredible. You also end up working jobs that those same other people would never want their own children to have, except for a few years in High School.

© words by Dan DeMarle 2017

There were three flowers growing in a field.  As flowers would, they were arguing with each other about which was the prettiest.  One grew towards a spot where the sun was shinning brightest taxing its root system.  One grew its roots wider around it so that it could drink up more surface water and grow prettier faster.  One simply grew with no strategy trusting in the sun and water, and its adequate root system.  They argued and fought and tried to out compete each other.  Then a large object blocked the sun causing the first flower to begin to die as it had overextended itself by trying to reach that sunny spot.  Then the shape let out a tremendous stream of urine that formed a pool around the second flower, that was overly dependent on surface water.  It seems the cow from the neighboring field had wandered into this field when the regulations that had kept the cow on its side of the field were taken away. It seems a new President somewhere had loosed all types of rules.  The first two flowers died.  The third flower was overjoyed that it had not trusted in the sun or the water and it was the most beautiful. Who cared about the sun or water, or the other flowers they were immigrants it seems from another field whose seeds had spread in this field. This flower was the best ever, it gleamed beautifully and proudly to be a native flower of this field.  Then the cow ate it. The end.

© words by Dan DeMarle 2017