Creativity

Even Grandpas can make mistakes. I would like to think that grand-kids consider grandparents amazing creatures that can do no wrong. And although I try not to disappoint, I admit that from time to time, I am not perfect.

Last weekend, our twin granddaughters were at the house. To keep them occupied, I suggested they write and illustrate a story. They took to the idea right away. Caiti immediately began to lay out the story of a deer that got caught in the rain, or something like that. She dictated to me and I wrote a sentence on each page, then printed the story out on several pages, ready for drawings.

I was pleased about how I stimulated some creativity in them. Perhaps a young writer would grow out of this exercise. Caiti finished with the first page, and with some pride in her voice, showed it to me. It was a picture of a deer, with a big number "one" crowding his face.

"Oh," I said. "Usually you put the page number at the bottom of the page."

Her voice changed to a sadder tone. "I messed up," she said.

I tried to convince her that it really was OK, but the damage was done. She knew that this was a "do-over." The problem is that she never did it over. I broke the creative momentum with my editorial comment. The project now lies dormant.

That's right--me, Bubba--trying to be an editor, even with the kids. Oh, well. Live and learn.

The next day, I finished a photo project I was working on. It was an idea I had to layer photos between glass sheets. The effect is a multi-dimensional view. In this one, I took shots of the girls making funny poses one day. I then printed the photos and layered them.

This particular picture has one girl behind the other. Cori's picture turned out smaller, so I put her behind Caiti. Something in the back of my mind told me that this might be trouble; I always try to treat each of them equally.

When I showed the end results to them, Cori immediately picked up on the inequality of the project.

"Why am I behind Caiti?" she asked.

Quickly, I responded: "Uh, it's because you're special." There--Bubba fixed it.

"Does that mean Caiti is not special?" she asked.

OK, Bubba, now what?

Unique and Charming

I love to learn about the differences between countries and cultures around the world. I've bemoaned (belabored?) the fact that Costa Rica has become in some ways more American. I love my own country, but when I travel, I prefer to leave our commercialization behind as I observe and enjoy the unique and charming culture of a foreign destination.

As the world becomes smaller and more connected with satellites, cell phones, and Internet communication, some of that which makes a country unique and charming can get lost in the rush to the future. But in our recent visit to Costa Rica, I was pleased to note that one interesting feature of this country has remained. It's something that I noted as a traveling youth there almost four decades ago--postal addresses.

Most places around the world have pretty standard street addresses: a house number with a street and maybe a neighborhood designation. House numbers may be used in Costa Rica, and some people even use a post office box. But if a letter is addressed to a physical address there, it might resemble how a stranger gets directions. Here's an example, translated (note that a "vara" is roughly one yard): From the Golden Pig, go 50 varas north and 100 west. Papaya-colored house. Unique. An address familiar to me years ago translated to: Llobet Lots, 25 varas to the west of Daniel Vargas' workshop. Charming.

Over the years, the Llobet development expanded, and I learned that sadly, Daniel Vargas is gone from this earthly realm. But that address still has kept some of its charm. It is now just Llobet lots, the fifth street. This simple address (that hints at a simpler life), along with the addressee's name is enough for a letter carrier to complete the task.

The other day, I ran across a Costa Rican document for a prestigious organization. It had a professional letterhead across the top. At the bottom of the document, there was a hint of Americanization, but it also showed a resistance to change. The address of this organization was something like this: From the Pizza Hut, go south 200 varas, then west 150 varas. And if the Pizza Hut gets bought out by Starbucks, or if they ever build a Wal Mart there, I hope that at least the address will remain unique and charming.

Another Observation

My beautiful Costa Rica--how it has changed. I've commented previously on the inevitable and sometimes lamentable changes (lamentable at least to me) that have occurred in "mi segunda patria," Costa Rica. The traffic (lamentable) was one of my observations, and this is a little paradoxical to me. The bus system appears to be alive and well, even as automobile traffic has increased. My unscientific observation would be that the population has increased (duh), and maybe the person-to-car ratio is close to one-to-one, as in the states. Who knows.

The buses used to be called "cazadoras," or "hunters," and still were called that when I first stepped foot in that remarkable country in 1970. I'm not sure, but I don't recall hearing them called anything other than "bus" while I was there this year, so that distinctive name may be a thing of the past, too. "Hunters" was perhaps a slightly outdated name even in 1970, as the moniker referred to the routeless system of days gone by that had buses driving around "hunting" for passengers until full. I imagine that even in the wild days of Costa Rican buses, there had to be a general direction for each bus; I can't imagine a people so carefree as to get on a bus and pay for a who-knows-where destination.

Along with their colorful name, the Costa Rican buses during my first visit still had the vestiges of that earlier era--each bus was a former American school bus uniquely painted and decorated on the outside, and personalized by the owner/driver on the inside. Surrounding the driver might be an homage to the Virgin Mary or Jesus, lights, colorful fringes across the windshield, ribbon-wrapped steering wheel and gearshift knob, risqué cartoons and decals...you name it.

Not anymore. The Costa Rican buses today are modern homogeneous monsters that are luxurious compared to the small, hard-seated, grade school accommodations of the older models. No personalization in the cockpit, either. About the only remnant of the old days that I saw was some graffiti scrawled on the backs of some of the seats.

Money is now collected at the door. In my day, a "cobrador" would come by sometime during the trip and collect. This collector would have Colon notes folded between his fingers and coins in his palm. He would jingle the coins, alerting passengers to pay up. On my second visit in 1972, one friendly driver allowed me to be an honorary cobrador. There was a lot of wide-eyed wonder from passengers as this tall, blue-eyed, fair-skinned American kid walked and jingled coins from the front of the bus to the back, collecting and awkwardly making change.

Life goes on. My memories live inside me and I cherish them. I know that I sound older and older as I make these casual observations about the past and the present. On our last visit to Costa Rica, I mentioned to a young lady the train trips to the coast that I took in 1970 and 1972. This 22-year-old smiled at me and informed me that the trains haven't been running for a long time.

[Sigh]