The Dying Art of Sign Painting

Perhaps it goes back to the cave dwellers when paintings of deer, bear and other creatures was a way for the owner to advertise that he had smoked meat for sale, but it is clear that as we go more and more digital, we are losing certain artistic and hand-made skills.

Sign painter and mural artist Jackson
Smart talks about the tools of his trade.

As a Public Relations consultant years ago, I advised new businesses to think about how they were going to give their impression of what they were selling, which included signage. I worked with a few sign-makers in Boise, ID where my business was. However, even then I did not realize that, for the most part, the age-old apprenticeship program was how sign painters were trained. Tricks of the trade were not learned in books, but at the elbow of the master!

Recently I attended a presentation by a Port Angeles, WA, sign painter, Jackson Smart of SignArt Studio, demonstrating some of the learned techniques and the tools used, along with the paint construction. (The link is to an article in the Peninsula Daily News about Smart.)

There is a three-second rule for signs: it must be able to be seen and read, computed/internalized and a decision made in three seconds. "You are driving along the highway, see a sign and it either motivates you or you ignore it", Smart said. He added that it is not just letters, but colors and shapes, that convey the message and he is well known for his creative work around the Peninsula.

Smart demonstrates using a mahl stick to letter in script
style; it is used to keep hands and oils off the surface.

The Burma-Shave signs were inspired by the desire to sell. Started in 1925 to promote the shaving cream (purported to have ingredients from Burma), six signs placed in sequence along the highway originally sold the cream in little rhymes, but later offered safety messages.

One series I recall along the road from Peterborough, NH to Keene was this: Past / Schoolhouses / Take it slow / Let the little / Shavers grow / Burma-Shave. Although there wasn't actually a schoolhouse near where the signs were placed, we used to love to read them out loud as we rattled along to the lake, much to the irritation of the driver - usually our mother. Somehow even seeing them regularly didn't decrease our delight in this loud recognition of our reading ability.

Artist Smart uses a squirrel hair brush to demonstrate how
fine a line can be drawn with the right technique.

Increasing speeds, more sophisticated signage, television and other elements brought this roadside entertainment for the 'little shavers' to an end in the 60's. And just as the commercial elements of sign design were advancing, so was the looming digital age which would change it completely. And artist Smart opined that it is not just the digital age that is affecting sign painting skills, but there is a lack of desire on the part of the youth today to learn something that requires apprenticeship. "They want to be able to do it quickly. It requires learning about the shapes of letters, the distance between each letter, and the construction of the thinner and other chemicals in the paint and whether or not it is hot or cold outside, because that affects the performance of the paint, too." Smart says more and more signs are made on computer and fewer of the people who are making them have ever even used a brush.

Jackson Smart - an artisan and an artist - has painted on wood, metals, foam board, plastic and other materials. He has painted signs for businesses, on motorcycles, cars, trucks, and busses for a native american tribal casino as well as doing the Port of Port Angeles mural welcoming visitors from Canada.  As you enter Port Angeles from the East on Highway 101, you will see his sign greeting you to the city he has made home for the past 34 years. He is as much a part of the city as the signs and murals he has done here.

I'm a 'drive-by shooter'...

There wasn't much else to do; there was little opportunity to stop and shoot, and in some places it wasn't allowed at all. So this is the story and the reason why I am being called a 'drive-by shooter.'

Along the coastline of the Juan de Fuca Strait, northern
Washington State, heading toward Neah Bay in Clallum
County, the Makah tribal lands.

Last Thursday, at 9 a.m. a bus was loaded up with more than a dozen seniors from the Sequim Senior Center and we headed west (although it felt like north) for the Neah Bay and Makah (pronounced Mah-ki-ee) indian tribal grounds. I am usually pretty well informed when I head off on any trip, but this was a short notice event and I was sadly ignorant about a lot of the history of Neah Bay, located at the northwestern-most point of the U.S. in the State of Washington. It is about two hours driving time from Sequim, not including any stops, of which there was only one - in Joyce, at the General Store. (The link to Wikipedia will answer more of your questions, if you care to formulate any.)

Makah Senior Center in Neah Bay, Washington.

After our stop in Joyce, we drove up and over a portion of the Olympics to reach the Makah indian nation (This link to Wikipedia explains much about the tribe.). There is a lot of logging going on, as truck after truck went by loaded with timber. The road is windy with many curves designating 25 mph and indications of clear-cutting having occurred in the past. But there were also a significant number of old-growth trees still standing.

Periodically the road would parallel the body of water called Strait of Juan de Fuca, the main waterway route for ships coming into Seattle from their Pacific journey and an area of water that is loaded with fish of all kinds, including halibut.

Neah Bay from Senior Center looking toward marina.

Neah Bay from Senior Center looking toward Vancouver
Island, B.C. over Straits of Juan de Fuca. 

Outside the Makah Senior Center.

We arrived at the Makah Senior Center for the lunch we were promised, and it was a wonderful meal with a surprise gift of a tote bag, hand-made tea bag holders, a flashlight, and a hand-crafted necklace made by local seniors and members of the Makah tribe.

The meal was a delicious beef stew accompanied by a macaroni shell and shrimp salad, a green salad, bread and butter and two desserts - a fruit salad with coconut and a portion of pie.

No one left hungry, that was for sure! The views from the deck of the senior center were delightful and I am sure when it is a little bit warmer that this is a nice place to enjoy some sunshine and gentle breezes.

The welcome of the tribal members was very special and warm and was an added element of delight for the trip overall. We were bussed over to the Makah Museum where June, a tribal elder, gave a detailed tour of the artifacts. Our introduction was to learn that the name of the tribe means, "People who live by the rocks and seagulls." She explained the history of the tribal lands and how the Makah peoples lived. We were not allowed to take any photos or do any sketching, and although we were not told why, my past experience with native peoples is that it is because we are looking at 'remains' of their way of life, and while historically important, they are also part of the ancestral burial sites, even though - in this case - it was due in large part to a mudslide, not a planned location.

Ozette Lake is one of the largest natural and undeveloped lakes in the State of Washington, and is now a popular place for hiking and camping during the summer. But it was once the central home of the Makah tribe, a good place to have a home with access to the Pacific waters for whaling and fresh water for the tribal needs. The archeological information places the origins of the people back over 4,000 years, making it one of the oldest native groups in North America. The Makah used to be a whaling community, but with the devastating mudslide which destroyed the ancient village in Ozette about 1750 and the consequences of smallpox from the Europeans later on on another nearby village, the remaining portions of the tribe seemed to have relocated closer to Neah Bay. The archeological dig is on the National Register of Historic Places, but is privately owned by the Makah nation.

Shells collected on the beach have been strung together
with beads and a carved whale tail for this necklace.

In the museum we were invited to sit in a replica of a longhouse, the native american version of an apartment house where several families lived together, except that the families worked together to keep everything working which is where the concept diverges. There we heard about how the tribe was structured, without chiefs, but group leaders who helped their people survive. And how today the Makah are working together to keep their young people healthy and fit.

We were shown the beautifully crafted whaling boats, made from one large tree, and all the implements needed for bringing in the large marine creatures. One interesting fact is that there were several Makah 'warriors' who were trained to hold their breath long enough that they could swim to the mouth of the whale and sew it shut after it had been harpooned, so then it could not dive. This was fascinating to me; that these ancient peoples knew how to keep a whale afloat. And once it was secured, they would tow it back to the shore to harvest, using all of the creature for their livelihood - blubber, meat, bones.

This necklace of shells and beads honors the seal-hunting
traditions of the Makah people.

Another interesting fact was that the wife of the man who would do the harpooning was required to go to bed, not eat and be quiet while her husband was off looking for, and getting, the whale. It was believed that if she was peaceful, her husband would not have to deal with a thrashing and dangerous whale and he would come home with a successful hunt's reward, a large and bountiful whale. The other women in the tribe would care for her, wash her, attend the children, and generally support her for the two or three days of the hunt. In this I can really see the concept of "it takes a village..." at work.

The Makah Cultural and Research Center Museum is well worth a visit.
It will take at least two hours to complete the tour and shop at the store.

In late August each year Neah Bay celebrates Makah Days, honoring the day years ago when the tribe accepted the flag of the United States to fly over their territorial lands. But it is sad to realize that the Treaty of 1855 took much of the land the tribe used, limiting their use to about one third of the original area claimed by the Makah. However, the elders were astute enough to keep in their rights to hunt whales and in May, 1999, knowing the whale population had improved, they asserted those rights and did go and bring back one grey whale, the bones of which are displayed in the museum.

The Makah people are instrumental in coordinating the annual 'journey' of native peoples by canoe and boat, a celebration of the old ways of living. This year the journey is in July, but the actual date was not discussed. Here is a link for the calendar of events of native peoples on the Olympic Peninsula. It should be a photographer's dream with all the colorful regalia (native dress and ornamentation) and events... I hope to be able to go and report on it, but I also have Colombia calling me, so we shall see what evolves.

At least no one was hurt in this drive-by shooting... and you can see more pictures here.

Singers, Songwriters and Banjo Players

Hearing that Richie Havens died at 72, I am struck by the fact that he was not that much older than I am, and he was a lead performer at the 1969 Woodstock Festival in NY. I very much wanted to borrow my father's car (quite likely the white '65 T-Bird convertible) and drive up to this early 'field of dreams.'
No surprise that I was not given the car, nor my father's permission... and back in those days girls did honor (usually) their fathers' and mothers' wishes.

These are Washington cattle, but the barn in the background
reminded me of the S. Woodstock structures; my former
school in Vermont.

This news got me started re-listening to some old songs, old music from the 60's and 70's, and it brought back some incredible memories of my days at the Woodstock Country School (continuum) in South Woodstock, VT. While the real school doesn't exist anymore, the energy and spirit that embodied this remarkable educational experience lives on.

I really wish my photos taken during those school years had survived. There were shots of me barreling down 'Suicide Six" with my ski team, me standing next to the weapons carrier, with 16 forward gears, that Bruce Fairweather taught me how to drive so I could join some classmates helping him to pull stumps in one of the fields. I know there was one of me with long hair, in bluejeans looking so very much like Joan Baez's sister that when I went to NYC and met up with some classmates and we went into a coffee house to hear a new singer called Bob Dylan perform, someone came up and hugged me thinking I was her. I went backstage and met Joan Baez that night... such a lucky kid. She said, "Yeah, you could pass for my sister. Must be the nose." (Thanks, Joan.)

No photos remain of me with my dappled horse, Topper. None of the work I did with Lowell Naeve, our art and photography teacher, has survived either. It was required reading to read his book, "Field of Broken Stones"about being a political activist. (Link is to an e-mail thread about the Naeve family.) Rare to go to a boarding school where the teacher can stand up and talk about something he believed in and show his commitment. And he was just one of so many who affected my life and my thinking during the two years I was there.  I still remember his admonition, "Really look and really SEE the essentials of what you want to convey... narrow the photo frame down to capture that."

Where else would a proper young lady learn to do mechanical drawing? Imagine letting a student leave class to simply walk around because she was upset about a family matter, and while never ignoring the issue several teachers checked up on her later on to be sure she was OK? We had freedom, we had incredible teachers who loved what they were doing and we called them by their first names, too! Our headmaster, David Bailey, was an old friend of my mother's which was how I ended up there instead of one of the other four 'strange' schools allowing co-educational boarding in those days.

Because of the folk singers who sang the story of our times, including Pete Seeger who came to the school a number of times to sing and to lecture us about being responsible citizens of the Earth, I learned to love music and to appreciate how it can influence change; something that would be useful when I eventually went on to make a career as a Public Relations counselor.

I want to support the Woodstock Country School philosophy because it really helped me to become me. And as one alumni said in the video, "We all turned out to be decent people." And perhaps some day in the future, there will be another school modeled on the philosophy that students develop a hunger to learn when they are allowed to explore the world in a safe way, keeping them grounded by requiring them to do certain agricultural tasks or washing dishes.

Bill Boardman, graduate of the Class of '56, keeps the historical School information. There was a reunion in 2010 at the Woodstock Country School which I wish I had known about. Well, I am intending to make the next one.

A Rose for Richie Havens... thank you for the "Sun" song.

But back to my Richie Havens purpose in writing. It was his 1970 hit song, "Here Comes the Sun" that would eventually become my Sun Valley, ID, theme song, sung in the car at the top of my lungs, driving through the rain or the snow or even on a sunny day. And he never knew how that song could lift my spirits, or that it is probably one of the ones my kids most remember me singing as we drove along.

And I still sing at the top of my lungs while driving on the back roads... where no one is likely to think I'm some batty old lady at a stop light.

The Little Nash Rambler

Actually, this is a photo of a 1961 two-seater Nash Metropolitan (link will take you to history on Wikipedia), perhaps the precursor to today's Smart Car, as it was intended as a commuter vehicle but the marketing was aimed specifically at the post-war women needing a 'compact car' (although that marketing phrase was still several years away) to run errands or for the dad to leave at the train station. To disprove the theory that car manufacturers cannot, or have not been able to, create a vehicle that gets good mpg, this car got from 29-39 mpg depending on speeds traveled - that was 60 years ago, folks!

Restored in the familiar colors of the time period (1954-1962), this cute little buggy (smaller than the VW Beetle) was recently offered for sale in Sequim, WA. I don't know if it is still for sale, but seeing it, I was reminded of the song called "Beep, Beep" that came out in 1958, made popular by the Playmates. (Click here to listen to it.)

1967 Nash Metropolitan, a two-seater, for sale in Sequim, WA

Perhaps you do as well... it starts off slowly... and builds up speed as the song progresses, a technique called accelerando in the music world. On Wikipedia it is stated that in order for the song to be released in Europe they had to change the words to "bubble car' and 'limousine' to avoid mentioning specific trade names, but since the vehicle was being partially constructed over there I am not sure what purpose that served.

Songwriters: Cicchetti, Carl / Claps, Donald

[Very Slow]
While riding in my Cadillac,
What to my surprise.
A little Nash Rambler was following me -
About one third my size.
The guy must've wanted to pass me up
As he kept on tooting his horn. Beep! Beep!
I'll show him that a Cadillac
Is not a car to scorn.
Beep beep. Beep! Beep! Beep beep. Beep! Beep!
His horn went beep beep beep. Beep! Beep!

[Slow]
I pushed my foot down to the floor
To give the guy the shake.
But the little Nash Rambler stayed right behind;
He still had on his brake.
He must have thought his car had more guts
As he kept on tooting his horn. Beep! Beep!
I'll show him that a Cadillac
Is not a car to scorn.
Beep beep. Beep! Beep! Beep beep. Beep! Beep!
His horn went beep beep beep. Beep! Beep! 

[Normal]
My car went into passing gear
And we took off with gust.
Soon we were doing ninety -
Must've left him in the dust.
When I peeked in the mirror of my car,
I couldn't believe my eyes:
The little Nash Rambler was right behind -
I think that guy could fly.
Beep beep. Beep! Beep! Beep beep. Beep! Beep!
His horn went beep beep beep.

[Faster]
Now we're doing a hundred and ten -
This certainly was a race.
For a Rambler to pass a Caddy
Would be a big disgrace.
The guy must've wanted to pass me up
As he kept on tooting his horn.
I'll show him that a Cadillac
Is not a car to scorn.
Beep beep. Beep! Beep! Beep beep. Beep! Beep!
His horn went beep beep beep.

[Fastest]
Now we're doing a hundred and twenty -
As fast as I could go.
The Rambler pulled along side of me
As if we were going slow.
The fellow rolled down his window
And yelled for me to hear,
"Hey, Buddy, how can I get this car
Out of second gear!"

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

Front view of the Nash Metropolitan in Sequim, WA.
When the car was offered new the price was about $1700,
but comparatively it was not an inexpensive choice.

It seems to me there were more silly songs back in those days, or maybe I'm just not getting the humor of the songs played today... Hope you enjoyed this 'reverse gear' reflection....

Happy Birthday to my Baby Bro...

For you... I hope you enjoy it!

He won't remember this, but I do... I was about six, and since he's almost exactly three years younger than me, I still have my wits about me to do simple math, that makes him three in this recounting.... we were at Dublin Lake in Dublin, NH, being watched by someone, but not very well. (He was called another name as a child and has changed it many years ago, but we will, for the sake of having some kind of title, call him YB - Younger Brother). Well, YB decided that the making of sand castles was no longer interesting, and he wandered off. But he didn't wander off toward the changing cabins - to the right - but toward the area where the boats were launched - to the left of the beach.

A great hullabaloo went up when it was determined that he was no longer on the beach, and lifeguards and other adults were launched into the Great Search Party for YB. I watched this with some interest, but not enough to get as excited as they were getting. I continued making up the moat, the next bucket level of the castle and then someone ran over what had been our creation, mashing it back into the sand.

Now I was fully bored with all of this action and I decided to walk toward the left side of the beach because it would take me away from the hysteria, and because even the lake water is more peaceful over there. As I padded along on the needle-studded dirt path, I noticed a movement ahead. As I got closer, I thought I could see YB. (I should add that as a severely near-sighted child, any fuzzy image might have been mistaken for YB.) He confirmed my suspicion by whispering, "Don't tell them I'm here." I was tempted to obey his command, pretend I didn't hear him, but I also knew there was likely to be a greater consequence for keeping his secret. What a conflict!! Let him stay lost and thereby redeem my spot as the adored younger child, or become a heroine by revealing where he was and have to endure his presence for a little longer? I opted for the latter. I could try and dispose of him later on. Immediate gratification for being the finder of the lost won out.

NOTE TO YB: I really am glad now I wasn't able to carry out all my early dastardly attempts to remove you from my life... has it really been 60+ years of our sibling rivalry? Hope this birthday year is one of the best so far and all my love to your long-suffering wife!

A Community Affair

I've been wanting to see more of the Sequimites (if that's how they call themselves) so I was looking forward to the Nash Farm community potluck and barn dance, held at their farm this past weekend, kicking off the annual Irrigation Festival. Fortunately for all the activities held this weekend, it was a perfectly lovely sunny and almost-cloudless time.

Earlier in the day I managed to take this shot of the San
Juan de Fuca Strait looking toward Seattle.

Sons and mothers turned out to share time together.

 For many who attended, it must have been more like a family reunion than a community-wide gathering, but even for those of us who are new to Sequim, it turned out to be a very friendly experience. 

I met three delightful young women who were all, like me, struggling to find their way in a place that is new to them and where it is not always easy to get into the 'pipeline' of information about activities. I urged them to come to the Open Mic and just after I started talking about it, I was able to introduce them to The Computer Guy (you know who you are!) and the Musician (you also know who you are!) I featured in my previous blog about the Wednesday night entertainment. I realized later it is something I have always been good at - putting people together to make a successful something happen. I'd love to see the Open Mic evening become better attended, for a lot of reasons, some of which are selfish.

The Nash team provided us with some awesome organic
hamburgers, and plenty of smoke to keep critters away. 

Soon we had a table filled up and we were laughing and kidding with each other as if we had been friends for a long time, and it was a sweet feeling - like getting your hand squeezed under the table in the high school cafeteria by someone who wanted you, and only you, to know you were special. It was an evening to fill up both the physical and emotional gaps and to make connections that might go a long distance.

I love being around people who use words to play around, who can pick up on subtle and possibly outrageous pairings to turn what might have been an innocent comment into something hilarious and unexpected. 

The musical entertainment during the time we were eating was just perfect; I confess I didn't get the names of the players or band(s), nor did I  get details on the really wonderful Blues band that provided the dance music, but like the smoke from the barbecues that was blowing past my head, the earlier music provided a curious foggy background presence which made the evening pleasurable.

The potluck/buffet table was an ever-changing source
of salads, casseroles and desserts. No one left hungry.

The food contributions were impressive. I got there early and enjoyed the first round of salads and casseroles and ate too much to have room for more than a couple of fresh strawberries for dessert. Even after 8 p.m., more people were coming with more food so next year I will be aware of this and plan accordingly.

The sun finally dropped behind the building so I could stop squinting, and the dance band started playing; wonderful memorable tunes that made me stop at the entrance.

I watched the dancers and dreamed...

He held out his arms and she moved into them easily, and it seemed like a perfect match even though they had never danced together before. His grace and strength gave her courage to relax and enjoy the moment of contact, hands to hands, and to laugh and see the smile in his eyes. It was only a dance. He was virtually a stranger, but for that moment in time, he was so much more, and she let the music take her away. 

And after all was said and done, there was the lesson about
recycling - tastefully managed.