tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82986807691850516242024-03-04T22:22:53.039-08:00Robert F. Winne, a lifeLisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-4200575817873095222023-07-28T07:56:00.002-07:002023-07-28T10:03:21.143-07:00My Art Show called "Visits from the Muse" - most of it dedicated to, and inspired by who? You guessed it! My late father, Robert F. Winne<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC17mcknyKl5l4SmXIz3eeSdoOV5o3GevgRKwvshmpaBpLSqYtOF91Ygvs4H_32z39_PzfuAdIh5AsSzVhVOf79JuOvtSvGsBVa0fV8cigi_YVh2VMM-JyW24W6wQhvWwd_ghz35LXeqSK7AeAwx05N7qcNg8Ox8bwnEont0n8Apaahmuvc733p3arY5sQ/s850/Lise%20and%20Marina%20art%20show%20online%20poster%20twit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="850" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC17mcknyKl5l4SmXIz3eeSdoOV5o3GevgRKwvshmpaBpLSqYtOF91Ygvs4H_32z39_PzfuAdIh5AsSzVhVOf79JuOvtSvGsBVa0fV8cigi_YVh2VMM-JyW24W6wQhvWwd_ghz35LXeqSK7AeAwx05N7qcNg8Ox8bwnEont0n8Apaahmuvc733p3arY5sQ/w640-h502/Lise%20and%20Marina%20art%20show%20online%20poster%20twit.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">postcard from the show by yours truly<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">One artwork is specifically about him. I will be adding that later here in this spot. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">These are just a few of the others:<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4bLUhXB8K09oXXL74Mbs1-FSpjTM6Vuy43PzWu_bxv91qLipS7oygJcSl_cRZYjU6cVcaQyS3G6dk4iOkQzGTnwt7CfERDKer2N23h6A4G7N4OWcHmbpNZxr-uqWYdscRYGBX75YxaZ0E5KigcSThPb2QUI9K3DsDMq3uWKpua7pSMlaPZ3yzpqm2n92/s1295/The%20Embrace%20promo%20web%20version.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1295" data-original-width="850" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4bLUhXB8K09oXXL74Mbs1-FSpjTM6Vuy43PzWu_bxv91qLipS7oygJcSl_cRZYjU6cVcaQyS3G6dk4iOkQzGTnwt7CfERDKer2N23h6A4G7N4OWcHmbpNZxr-uqWYdscRYGBX75YxaZ0E5KigcSThPb2QUI9K3DsDMq3uWKpua7pSMlaPZ3yzpqm2n92/w420-h640/The%20Embrace%20promo%20web%20version.jpg" width="420" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDP59dTcyqfm1r9DcTCIar_FC-3vOX4arq6m4ydSV29lunk5bVr-lCrFMvqaU4CXX_mnGzDApT_49O-jNqwzAqLYoAM5Nw5KK7nJpkA-00jSXYhXUT4dqc7XJPFZLiO6kCKV8LhUJ7IU-H0WN_lIkkJ6vPgGCfyHNtoY7ynoRnV8Gtx2GJ4G8U6IMA0lMp/s792/The%20Cathedral%20web%20II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="792" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDP59dTcyqfm1r9DcTCIar_FC-3vOX4arq6m4ydSV29lunk5bVr-lCrFMvqaU4CXX_mnGzDApT_49O-jNqwzAqLYoAM5Nw5KK7nJpkA-00jSXYhXUT4dqc7XJPFZLiO6kCKV8LhUJ7IU-H0WN_lIkkJ6vPgGCfyHNtoY7ynoRnV8Gtx2GJ4G8U6IMA0lMp/w400-h400/The%20Cathedral%20web%20II.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br />My father was an architect, but also loved the natural world.<br />So I decided to do both.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The muse for this piece is Robert W. Davis (a social worker)<br />but some of my father's last words to me was to live "for the world"<br />and not to be docile.<br />So I made this piece:<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6aTA4oqeIyXcVyg960-ky7f5iLZ4vldnjuwAk_HDDtCHICYu8vRlc7zLwIA8ltqarYuwvsH7dztEjuCc344X7aRLehYQPd4e4UH7UpiYzOpeOeTEFrjE_ljx1PCxEKRc9xpzlHTTaAqbIoNa32y6ZOzEAk3WE_HUNCtvw4BeId99KEwOkrSf79o3OMyf/s882/scapegoat%20healing%20as%20is.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="696" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6aTA4oqeIyXcVyg960-ky7f5iLZ4vldnjuwAk_HDDtCHICYu8vRlc7zLwIA8ltqarYuwvsH7dztEjuCc344X7aRLehYQPd4e4UH7UpiYzOpeOeTEFrjE_ljx1PCxEKRc9xpzlHTTaAqbIoNa32y6ZOzEAk3WE_HUNCtvw4BeId99KEwOkrSf79o3OMyf/w506-h640/scapegoat%20healing%20as%20is.jpg" width="506" /></a><br />"Scapegoat Healing" © Lise Winne<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I have more to say about my father's memory. I will be back soon to write about that. </div></div></div></div></div><p></p>Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-46078658518952578702019-04-22T20:04:00.000-07:002020-04-22T19:51:55.574-07:00Robert F. Winne with his sister, Alice Garlock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFylQ2qzsxWz0h7nllpWb9WbojMciRTrHLVvt9qGkMafh647Ly8f58jiNsNFK5EVwkwO89V0MYAmQ1KzxEq7A2WDQSOH4SOI8HM2YysQY7K5fT39_xxQWjsGnz5Kmqz3w9YTAGxz7IAWC5/s1600/Bob+and+Alice+5x7+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFylQ2qzsxWz0h7nllpWb9WbojMciRTrHLVvt9qGkMafh647Ly8f58jiNsNFK5EVwkwO89V0MYAmQ1KzxEq7A2WDQSOH4SOI8HM2YysQY7K5fT39_xxQWjsGnz5Kmqz3w9YTAGxz7IAWC5/s1600/Bob+and+Alice+5x7+web.jpg" /></a></div>
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Robert F. Winne Jr., December 27, 1924 - April 22, 2013</div>
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with his sister, Alice Winne Garlock, December 14, 1926 - February 16, 2019</div>
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Some informal ones:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASXIBHOHlYsC2w5DeITWa2zdR7I8XPpeWpfGFqT8YzYPDt5eIaH2KHzMN7wp5v6BvgFmE8exVC_T7-dMgjWZF5klsDNZwVKSkp-3ncPvz7w-pKxInTTnmws_C5qe_b1JOnSHuEXnD3UlA/s1600/1929+w+Alice+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASXIBHOHlYsC2w5DeITWa2zdR7I8XPpeWpfGFqT8YzYPDt5eIaH2KHzMN7wp5v6BvgFmE8exVC_T7-dMgjWZF5klsDNZwVKSkp-3ncPvz7w-pKxInTTnmws_C5qe_b1JOnSHuEXnD3UlA/s1600/1929+w+Alice+web.jpg" /></a></div>
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1929</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Gi-dTfrMdYicMScYq6gChu-pD_aWtgmJX4b8l1nbN0FaXFLOKwhqD2h-olfWyHFK7JOqw0kh_Bofez51woGTYYsrSpLz9EwpE5CTtU-XdubYvbFm52Y7T0UoOye_AexG9as7_EpVdQQK/s1600/1929+kissing+Alice+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Gi-dTfrMdYicMScYq6gChu-pD_aWtgmJX4b8l1nbN0FaXFLOKwhqD2h-olfWyHFK7JOqw0kh_Bofez51woGTYYsrSpLz9EwpE5CTtU-XdubYvbFm52Y7T0UoOye_AexG9as7_EpVdQQK/s1600/1929+kissing+Alice+web.jpg" /></a></div>
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also 1929</div>
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Both of them were born in what is now referred to as <b><a href="http://alumni.brockport.edu/s/1549/rd17/interior.aspx?sid=1549&gid=1&pgid=367">The Alumni House</a></b> at the College of Brockport (State University of New York) when Alfred Thompson was the president. </div>
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Alfred Thompson was also their grandfather.</div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-72726961568944141602018-06-27T10:24:00.000-07:002018-06-27T11:44:34.995-07:00How My Father, Robert, Listened ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAlaYGEhqKrkuGSF0Oq6IkN3YrBy-tFTFa2tiXd89vD2N8amT6euck_4jfPuhTHwHhb6_7nloNYHJYC02piWCCzUFU9x2PnvINMZMdgjKSqsrnh7HtDEPHuahptEGnxqAdz4N1M94XOLh/s1600/replies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="734" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAlaYGEhqKrkuGSF0Oq6IkN3YrBy-tFTFa2tiXd89vD2N8amT6euck_4jfPuhTHwHhb6_7nloNYHJYC02piWCCzUFU9x2PnvINMZMdgjKSqsrnh7HtDEPHuahptEGnxqAdz4N1M94XOLh/s640/replies.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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(found on Facebook)</div>
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One of the things my father was great at was "really hearing" me (and most others). Not only was he great at listening and understanding, but his understanding went beyond how most people understand: he "got" the meaning, the emotion behind the words, the yearnings and personal philosophy behind those words, the words as they were meant, and even sometimes the past experiences that made me say those words. I have never met anyone in my entire life who came close to him in this way.<br />
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I attribute this remarkable and unusual ability to his childhood: he often talked to grown-ups who cared about how he thought, what he thought about, his ruminations and his interests, and they asked a lot of questions. And then when he went to Farm and Wilderness Camps in the summer (a camp run by "lovey-dovey" Quakers), he learned to be non-judgmental, or at the very least, to keep asking questions and looking behind the scenes to get answers that would reveal a pretty good approximation of the truth, i.e. "as close as it gets". </div>
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Who does that these days, an age of "a hurry to judgment", quick fixes, band aids, putting people in roles and hierarchies and if and when they resist, bully them until they submit to it, and self absorption to the point where it seems that most people only care what <i>they</i> <i>themselves</i> think, rather than caring about the truth (the truth has to involve what others think and experience if it is to be "the truth"). </div>
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It means the world we live in is a world of "untruths", of made up or exaggerated stories and explanations.</div>
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That is the world I have been shocked by since 2013 when my father died (more explanation <b><a href="https://robertfwinne.blogspot.com/2018/06/this-years-fathers-day-rememberance.html">HERE</a> </b>and <b><a href="https://robertfwinne.blogspot.com/2017/12/lessons-about-bullying.html">HERE</a></b>). That world was largely "his world", past and present, or many of the people who surrounded him. He protected me from it when he was alive, thus the "full force" did not hit me until he died. Many, many nights I have cried over what he lived through (because I had to come face to face with those same people). He deserved so much better. It became obvious very fast to me that too many people around him did not listen to him, or really hear him, or even really care all that much about him. I saw it in more vague terms (more as an outsider), and then when it was thrust on me after he died, it became overbearingly obvious to me as if I was continuing his lesson of it. </div>
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But he had also left me instructions in dealing with them: "don't be docile." </div>
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In these people's lives he merely provided "a role" in their lives, and in that role, he was greatly taken advantage of (even professionally: his architecture for a house on the coast, for instance), selling his things, you name it. Some people did understand him, and I thank people like Moonlight Davis, Paola DiStephano, Richard Hooke, Ken Webb, the Traschens, and some of his older students who really sought him out and understood his true nature. </div>
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So, here was my father, the great listener and empath, out to love, out to gently understand, out to create peace and beauty in the world, surrounded by people who never cared about him, who never listened to him or cared to understand what he was about, only to defend what they were doing in relation to him (which was not about doing right by others by a long shot). These were people with snap judgments, interested in "what he could give" <i>them </i>and <i>their</i> creature comforts, rather than what they could contribute to his life and to his memory. How awful! </div>
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Serving as his daughter in his steed and as his trustee did not garner better behavior. I was treated much the same as he was. His compromises and being bullied to submit to <i>their</i> demands did not help me in my fight "not to be docile". I occasionally melted into docility and hopelessness (what I call "The Cinderella role" they wanted me to play), but I also heard his voice in my head enough to get police involved and begin a campaign of exposing, something he would never do. As with him, they used what ever power and control they could gain from the situation <i>for them</i>, in the utmost way <i>they</i> could use it. In living through what he lived through, I understood the all-night high-anxiety walks through the town that lasted off and on for years, the inability to sleep, getting up at the crack of dawn to keep the mental wheels from spinning and the desire to fix un-fixable things from driving him crazy, the long walks by himself to clear the air, the need for exercise and finding beauty in the natural world (i.e. the world without people in it, the world he photographed), the drawing inward towards projects, the sad voice over the telephone, the panic over whether he was going to be able to hang on to what he built, the call to help when he was being strong-armed and threatened, the confusion over being smeared (confusion because what could <i>they</i> possibly gain?). </div>
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There were the town meetings where he was ever-polite, and knowledgeable, and explained things in patient detail, but where others with less knowledge shouted over him. And there was even the sadness he had over seeing a woman whom he regarded as family never acknowledge or appreciate the work he had done for her (even selling it to get <i>something else</i> she wanted more, and using the hard work he had done for <i>her</i> to gain personal profit). </div>
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In fact, too much of what he accomplished in his life was either sold, given away, claimed as <i>theirs</i>, destroyed or taken for granted. This will probably always bother me. So to keep it in perspective, it is my duty to show what he accomplished so that it doesn't just get forgotten or end up in someone's next garage sale or attic or distant unsure memory.</div>
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I also understand that he was hurt much more over what these people did to him than I could ever be, thus my tears over understanding the extent of what he lived through. Why the emotional brutality, when he also was a soldier in World War II where he lost his entire unit? Why couldn't you all be kind to someone like that? Why couldn't you appreciate it instead of using it for your own self gain?</div>
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I was never close to them in the way he was, where they could rattle my resolve to the core or effect my life to the extent that they effected his life. Who he had in his life would certainly effect me, but I have a happy marriage and I was able to pinpoint ways he and I were doing things that weren't working, and "go into the new" -- i.e. less brutal lessons. </div>
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But, the "going into the new" was something I felt I did for both of us, as a path to answer our joint problems and issues, especially when I was around empaths. I was able to accomplish a lot in the way of both work and understanding for both of us with empaths in my life. Our paths were very, very similar before then, even down to education, making things, music, teaching, and criss-crossed a lot, until 2001, or so, when I met my future husband, and began the very slow journey of discovering what both my father and I were missing and needed to know (i.e. in order to get beyond "being effected", beyond being Cinderellas in someone else's play, and at "the truth"). </div>
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My mistake was that the way my father behaved, in terms of really listening, really making it his first duty to understand from a compassionate point of view, to get all of the facts, to realize the emotions, normalized the experience for me at an early age. I thought I'd find a lot of people in the world, just like my father, who would hear me and care. Nope. If anything, I experienced too much of the opposite: people telling me what I experienced, what I felt, what my intentions were (to dominate me) without asking once for accuracy, talking over me, demanding from me what <i>they</i> wanted and expecting me to take orders at all times, or just being asses in trying to get their own way all of the time, every time. In other words, the opposite from the way my father treated me. </div>
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But, he was also often treated this way too with the exception of his childhood. So he understood my dilemma.</div>
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The kind of people I wished he had quizzed were some of the domestic violence counselors I have met over the years. Then he would have been able to understand so much more, even down to why people want to make war or fight for civil rights. Then he would have been able to not only point me in the direction of not being docile, but he would have understood every step needed in the process on how to do it and what it takes.</div>
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And this is when I hope that "the spirit" of our dead loved ones truly linger, to see it all through, the blunders we make, and the successes we realize. </div>
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With love<br />
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P.S. This is to say that true empaths really listen.<br />
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P.P.S. This is also to say that empaths also need to be awesome lie detectors and bullshit detectors. </div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-65286652035258607422018-06-17T14:06:00.000-07:002018-06-17T19:30:31.957-07:00This Year's Father's Day Rememberance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA3fZGq0ZkGaeYp81tOWUt_mjoPHL3uewcbigqZcpc4WbrSBgPNbn689OAenHbOUdMV0Wx2wRJbFErIa8jC3MGZDnTSPcE0H3lAIEsrLQPFuZafaGTKq5xig7gQwkc3F0C3K9aK01tQCEN/s1600/conclusion+to+a+test+III.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="550" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA3fZGq0ZkGaeYp81tOWUt_mjoPHL3uewcbigqZcpc4WbrSBgPNbn689OAenHbOUdMV0Wx2wRJbFErIa8jC3MGZDnTSPcE0H3lAIEsrLQPFuZafaGTKq5xig7gQwkc3F0C3K9aK01tQCEN/s400/conclusion+to+a+test+III.jpg" width="375" /></a></div>
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My Father as Saint ("Emergence and Conclusion to a Test")</div>
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I have often told my husband that my father was like "a pin that kept the bomb from going off." Or, as a domestic violence counselor once told me, "Sometimes the good people in our lives hold everyone else in check from being cruel, and then when they die, the bad people 'let everything loose' because they aren't competing, they aren't being held accountable, the bad they do is no longer going to be corrected, there isn't going to be any talk about "how wrong" it is, and everything that can fall apart, falls apart, and it is like a storm that reels around and around, taking everyone and everything in its path, even the next generation."<br />
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That would describe what I saw around me after my father died, a hurricane of the worst of humankind, more evil than I could ever fathom existed in my world at the time before his death.<br />
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The weird thing is, I had no predilection that anyone would be cruel, none. Well, one person, but that was it, and I thought it was temporary. In fact, I was often hugged, welcomed with open arms, my itinerary was kept track of, my heartache at the prospect of losing my father respected to the point where I was even comforted. Imagine that: being comforted because your father is dying. Then it all got turned off like a switch after he died, and the lightening of malevolence came out and lashed at me.<br />
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If I hadn't known that it was all done for their agenda of power, control and selfishness, I would have died right along with him. But for all the bad that surrounded me, I was also surrounded by some of the most enlightened and empathetic people I had ever met (aside from my father, that is).<br />
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One of those persons who went from nice to cruel in my life adopted the phrase "Be nice" as her most common and constant phrase (to many of the people in her life, often said with a little giggle), but apparently she never thought to "be nice" to me under the circumstances of my father's death.<br />
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On father's day in 2013 months after my father passed, I wrote, what I thought, was a heartwarming e-mail to a man who I knew, telling about my father and how hard it was to lose such a good man, but that I was trying to get outside the grief and wish him a happy father's day too. It was someone who also felt highly of his own father, and remarked so to me, thus the commonality of feeling we both had for our fathers. The response back was curt and cruel, something to the effect of he did not want to read my e-mail and went so far as to demonstrate where he stopped reading it with the word "snip" and erasing the rest of the sentiment. Now, what would possess a person who just lost their father, the light of their world, to act in such a manner? I never figured it out, and haven't given any thought about his boorish insensitive response except for today.<br />
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I am about to live the last of this "hurricane of evil" in a few weeks, and then I am free of all that got caught up in the hurricane: me, my soul, my health, my husband's health, our daughter's faith in others, the innocence we had and lost from the horror around us, my father's blood, sweat and tears fixed into the things he made in joy, the cheating, the jealousy, dishonor, lots and lots of deception, more threats than one usually hears in an entire lifetime, the desperate grabbing for power and control, which is what cruelty is about, without a thought to anyone's feelings or the repercussions of acting this way, some furniture, some art, a piano, everything and anything you can think of that can be taken up in a hurricane (and go wrong after one's father's death).<br />
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Although I was not aware of my fate as my father lay on his deathbed, he certainly was. "I was blind, but now I see" is a holy lyric, and he certainly made me see it in every way possible. His parting words to me days before he passed were: "I don't want you to be docile for anyone. They're going to put tremendous pressure on you to be that, to live for them and to take orders, but your spirit is too big for that. You are meant to do something for the world, not to be someone's docile 'yes' girl. Do you understand?"<br />
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"Yes, I understand more fully than I ever have before," I would tell him now, though I did plenty of "kicking and screaming" not to go down that path and be tested in that manner.<br />
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The freedom from these oppressive set of circumstances seems as inviting and warm as the July sun when it all ends and calls me to go forward, to close the door on the old, and open the door on the new. The brightness of promise! To say goodbye to cruelty and the oppression it brings. I wish my father had also been so lucky (and he was ... a little), but in taking on his karma and traumas, and also his likeness into my soul, I hope I helped live out the conclusion to all of the troubles he had. I hope that what remains left of his spirit will be valued from here on out, that the people who used power to do wrong will be corrected as he would have wanted them to be. I continued the trail for both of us, despite the tremendous setbacks, and the parched landscape that people with hate in their souls like to make of situations and the world, and I hope he would be happy with the conclusion of my part in this.<br />
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"I now go into the wild" -- Christopher McCandlessLisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-45886261543466028022018-05-22T20:56:00.000-07:002018-05-22T21:05:18.760-07:00New Pictures of Robert's House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Lise Winne writing the post:<br />
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In a <b>previous post</b>, I wrote how Robert's house went from a run-down Victorian to a showcase house.<br />
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In this post I reveal the newest photos of how it looked when finished. Just about all of the ideas and certainly all of the work that went into the house was my father's work and his brainstorm. These are more views of the outside of the house and its surrounding gardens and lawns (more views of the inside of the house are as follows):<br />
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This is a chicken coop in the back which will be torn down:</div>
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Here is what some of the inside of the house looks like.</div>
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This is the front door and entry-way. My father liked open window-sills to put plants. He built that and the closet next to it, and purchased the Turkish rug from a Turkish merchant. </div>
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Following is a picture of the livingroom. Because he was color-blind, he loved bold patterns and reds. The room is a very pastel kind of pink-purple (he painted the room). He also made the window in back of the couch. It has double paned windows (i.e. three layers of window panes if you count the storm windows. He built them in his shop):</div>
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Here is a view of the study, which he decorated and made in a similar fashion (the right window did not come with the original house, so this was his idea too):</div>
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Another view of the study:</div>
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Here is another view with the woodstove in it (the woodstove took up the middle of the room, not aesthetically ideal, but certainly made the house toasty and warm in the winter:</div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">And yet another view of the study (what is not visible is another bump-out window my father made just beyond the black chair to the right):</span></div>
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Next up is the diningroom. Again, he made the window, the window seat, the bookshelves, the cabinetry, the little nooks for picture-hanging, configured all of the lighting and painted the room and ceilings. </div>
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Another view of the diningroom (some of my hand-thrown pottery still in the shelves of the left hand book case):</div>
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Here is a little mini kitchen he put in the diningroom complete with mini fridge, counter-space, cabinets for mugs and small plates and a two burner stove (the room visible through the door is the study). There is also a bathroom he made sandwiched between the diningroom and study:</div>
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Here is part of the kitchen. There is a lot of recessed lighting in it as well as open shelving to mimic a pantry. Again, he designed the space, including the bank of windows. He thought a person who was washing dishes should always be able to look outside. The counter tops were hand made by him, and are higher than most counter tops (built for taller people so they didn't have to bend over to cut vegetables). The cabinets were also made by him:</div>
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Another view:</div>
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Another view:</div>
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Another view:</div>
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This is an upstairs hallway, complete with his built-in bookcases and re-organized rooms. The room straight ahead is a bathroom he expanded and re-did. It is a large bathroom with a stand-alone tub, and a big shower stall. It also has bookshelves in it.</div>
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This is the main bedroom with another bump-out window:</div>
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This is a rather large room. What you can't see are the closets he built, but you can see the small closets under the roof-line. This room is usually airy and light during the day. The desk is an oak desk my father built (with matching nightstands). Another beautiful Turkish rug he purchased decorates the floor:</div>
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What is not visible is another bedroom, which is small, with only one window (darker) and was the one I stayed in the most (if I was there during a time my step-family wasn't there, otherwise I slept on the study floor). </div>
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The next room up is the studio, but it is hard to see how big it is. It is quite large and was the place where my father did his drawings, had some work tables and painted the windows, doors and trim of the house. He put in the little drawer units on the side underneath the bank of windows (which he also put in and designed). The shelves in this room were always bursting at the seams with books of saved articles, tools, paint cans, jars of nails, drill bits, art supplies and other things. I'm not sure where it all went, but I inherited the work benches and the drawing table (which is now in my own studio being used every day -- ones he built himself). Also out of this room came 13 filled-to-the-brim bins of papers, most of it just catalogues, articles, clippings with his writing in them. I go through them from time to time, and always discover something about him and his interests. He had many, many interests from social issues to art to building projects. </div>
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Many of the books he had were sold, particularly his architecture books. Those the Winne family will miss. </div>
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Here is another view of the studio (note, the original studio did not have a green rug or a small table in it):</div>
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The following pictures are the garage and an upstairs loft area:</div>
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Isn't this little nook he made cute? It is where some of his grandchildren slept. It is also where I slept on more than one occasion, especially in the warmer months (and was much more comfortable than the study floor). It also felt like a retreat from the house.</div>
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The next scenes are in walking distance from the house, but they are not part of the property.</div>
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This is the parking lot at the recreation field (next door):</div>
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The beach area at Puffer's Pond (a half mile walk through woods):</div>
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The waterfall at Puffer's Pond (very close to the beach area):</div>
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For me it is the end of an era. It is saying goodbye to my father in a more complete sense. I suppose we are both alike in that way. I make art and most of it other people get to enjoy. He made a couple of beautiful houses, some cabins and other buildings, and mostly other people get to enjoy them (because he was always toiling with the projects themselves). It is what happens when you are a maker. </div>
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The people who didn't appreciate him and used him are also not going to be able to live on the back of his labor any more, his good-heartedness and all of his blood, sweat and tears on their behalf. In a way, that is a relief. That is the good in all of this, like an unburdening.</div>
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I also know there are some big changes ahead for me, and I believe this is the first of the big changes. </div>
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In the meantime, a toast to my father and all of his excellent vision and hard work to make the world a more beautiful place!</div>
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Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-73269664868567589722018-05-01T19:44:00.000-07:002018-05-01T19:52:30.032-07:00Pat and Robert's houseMy father liked Victorian houses. I think they reminded him of his childhood of growing up in a neighborhood in Brockport, NY, a neighborhood and way of life he tried to recreate in his later years.<br />
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Victorian houses are roomy and built to last and at one time they were fairly inexpensive to own, especially if they needed work and tender loving care. My father fixed two Victorians and one 1940s house over his lifetime. He also had impeccable taste when it came to interior decorating.<br />
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This is how the house looked when they originally purchased it (it needed a lot of work, my father's architectural and carpentry skills, but it ended up to be quite the show-stopper in the end! -- see the results towards the end of post).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjFaSH7iKkIyv3BmqTWOOQnipC8dC7edak_niR6HtgDQxsfR3KhKe8BaBdiH62srNUocm6yUYMp4dxWX8J-SWV7ZajiGf5ghesFTWL42ndO9TTehodv_Ybfn74oCOUeVt30LKPfzl6By-/s1600/back+porch+sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjFaSH7iKkIyv3BmqTWOOQnipC8dC7edak_niR6HtgDQxsfR3KhKe8BaBdiH62srNUocm6yUYMp4dxWX8J-SWV7ZajiGf5ghesFTWL42ndO9TTehodv_Ybfn74oCOUeVt30LKPfzl6By-/s1600/back+porch+sm.jpg" /></a></div>
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diningroom:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5GuTuAt-p9I0gFocqDPeRdqajrp6_8VdnmpxKVFHU1PZ3hYqPAssuwqAZFNzKNtPB1QycEnwWohWy39m4e430cXVSnEJ0Mg4cfrmNucxk2WBJxTBdwFpNCd1UvMH7haSxIZHLrFmCgm9/s1600/diningroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5GuTuAt-p9I0gFocqDPeRdqajrp6_8VdnmpxKVFHU1PZ3hYqPAssuwqAZFNzKNtPB1QycEnwWohWy39m4e430cXVSnEJ0Mg4cfrmNucxk2WBJxTBdwFpNCd1UvMH7haSxIZHLrFmCgm9/s1600/diningroom.jpg" /></a></div>
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this is how it looked after they moved in, but before my father rehabilitated it:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidhASB9mF5ervOahMo99PRlK_jbn91MYkqqbUasnc3mWnNvaDHtAE1Xo5GoiFpmgjgfq3x1VC3IE_UM2PC_ONF5PH65De2PQSbfe4jivMeJ1SEpTAgsZQ-pRsLRppq4z8I2cPayEtq0tYs/s1600/old+diningroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidhASB9mF5ervOahMo99PRlK_jbn91MYkqqbUasnc3mWnNvaDHtAE1Xo5GoiFpmgjgfq3x1VC3IE_UM2PC_ONF5PH65De2PQSbfe4jivMeJ1SEpTAgsZQ-pRsLRppq4z8I2cPayEtq0tYs/s1600/old+diningroom.jpg" /></a></div>
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old kitchen:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_DfDasOT8XZeROPfsqcHZjwipxL5ighflSyzWdIGL0FHFGXOwpT0X9IgJM5lFM4wNVZnrEa9zNJtgeL6Ib3mopeCxNfSi-kiEIxtyo9mFYr5LAFAI7w3gUZ10hk8EmlI2Qu1NOnxSRQa/s1600/kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_DfDasOT8XZeROPfsqcHZjwipxL5ighflSyzWdIGL0FHFGXOwpT0X9IgJM5lFM4wNVZnrEa9zNJtgeL6Ib3mopeCxNfSi-kiEIxtyo9mFYr5LAFAI7w3gUZ10hk8EmlI2Qu1NOnxSRQa/s1600/kitchen.jpg" /></a></div>
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old kitchen machines:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHzIVw91IffXIN76VRl7SCmnjVwla6gbNocpl6GMm62FJxSifziicYyIyaNJKad0TsoJ7Gzhk0IqJn1b4AM3IzrbrXFtIcQ-F16QX8U3pfKWrKDUtWd99vbbaSHrJVr0tWCFL-s6xd3tr/s1600/kitchen+machines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHzIVw91IffXIN76VRl7SCmnjVwla6gbNocpl6GMm62FJxSifziicYyIyaNJKad0TsoJ7Gzhk0IqJn1b4AM3IzrbrXFtIcQ-F16QX8U3pfKWrKDUtWd99vbbaSHrJVr0tWCFL-s6xd3tr/s1600/kitchen+machines.jpg" /></a></div>
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big bedroom:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSD5f303uzkNwnOuyKpg36L0THkyR6w04cErf2goiZK5GKKUm81NOKSMu2c_kS-Va_7dZ0Ih_aTlXdP7Di75m23q01-HERSOYf_dHmQNB_eWxxz55G4bCMp68l1nqfmScH16N1myDAPP_/s1600/big+bedroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSD5f303uzkNwnOuyKpg36L0THkyR6w04cErf2goiZK5GKKUm81NOKSMu2c_kS-Va_7dZ0Ih_aTlXdP7Di75m23q01-HERSOYf_dHmQNB_eWxxz55G4bCMp68l1nqfmScH16N1myDAPP_/s1600/big+bedroom.jpg" /></a></div>
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little bedroom:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDRLsbXaLQ_mUt7etqEP3pA2BD6JbGSuRTolllrmII-q6zvBsL6znwjgmv1XDjD0XcWchJd1wLy84Ag3a7tuguiQB97mKRCyFqVP5lJ1NjROBTdJxfE9fGjVr_5nkxDhsezI5PY11X2ep/s1600/little+bedroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDRLsbXaLQ_mUt7etqEP3pA2BD6JbGSuRTolllrmII-q6zvBsL6znwjgmv1XDjD0XcWchJd1wLy84Ag3a7tuguiQB97mKRCyFqVP5lJ1NjROBTdJxfE9fGjVr_5nkxDhsezI5PY11X2ep/s1600/little+bedroom.jpg" /></a></div>
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old study:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBs5-ZbJW7NsdXBhGW1FC8RK2adVMlfJjW2aTfQXiTCD7nHaWbJhwBr6wqxFq4O1gINJOPuRboeOn3PGZ4NyXkWMk41saJLt70jQlGXidHwPnm9CwV4GmmfFPL17JqreTGvOQWZdvhnv2l/s1600/old+study.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBs5-ZbJW7NsdXBhGW1FC8RK2adVMlfJjW2aTfQXiTCD7nHaWbJhwBr6wqxFq4O1gINJOPuRboeOn3PGZ4NyXkWMk41saJLt70jQlGXidHwPnm9CwV4GmmfFPL17JqreTGvOQWZdvhnv2l/s1600/old+study.jpg" /></a></div>
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another angle:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5XZzfC5stD0S3q1GxKhXUdnjentLRNc7wJ8c1XAI54KrH8kPFcos6szQbEKP80GrHGJ5fdb3MZPQtiDwi3NEhEXh0ltS4Zuqf4lwwm2MJkD8DFDdthyphenhyphen9edpdw-4oq4EqViJ49WeHy5Gt/s1600/old+study+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5XZzfC5stD0S3q1GxKhXUdnjentLRNc7wJ8c1XAI54KrH8kPFcos6szQbEKP80GrHGJ5fdb3MZPQtiDwi3NEhEXh0ltS4Zuqf4lwwm2MJkD8DFDdthyphenhyphen9edpdw-4oq4EqViJ49WeHy5Gt/s1600/old+study+II.jpg" /></a></div>
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upstairs bathroom:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAhiaDwZM4DawLWRrcOfmz5mQQdv0ErPa93zPkIrjJfcAihp08mb-bZ-PvJBk4fk5nPiY1kuJzkmYfwd3KtOR2cl_AJEWzZVEdnjrz5bdVl1WpOQlnRdolS6pjoBjvtzj1oBoLA-M7qaW1/s1600/upstairs+bathroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAhiaDwZM4DawLWRrcOfmz5mQQdv0ErPa93zPkIrjJfcAihp08mb-bZ-PvJBk4fk5nPiY1kuJzkmYfwd3KtOR2cl_AJEWzZVEdnjrz5bdVl1WpOQlnRdolS6pjoBjvtzj1oBoLA-M7qaW1/s1600/upstairs+bathroom.jpg" /></a></div>
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another angle:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiabswealvAsybDE0cLpi18BW7FYBgshyphenhyphenf70Dx2afofDeG2F5HDfGyXpY-TPvCfpNBHf9bEAv0VW49-82eXT7cnxGoJmjdC1yC85T6MmSFDKg2NUFCLoP2W2mXYbJp_PnlDx6tTzXBf1W-w/s1600/upstairs+bathroom+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiabswealvAsybDE0cLpi18BW7FYBgshyphenhyphenf70Dx2afofDeG2F5HDfGyXpY-TPvCfpNBHf9bEAv0VW49-82eXT7cnxGoJmjdC1yC85T6MmSFDKg2NUFCLoP2W2mXYbJp_PnlDx6tTzXBf1W-w/s1600/upstairs+bathroom+II.jpg" /></a></div>
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the basement:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYPloZCPumyvRyw8C1xlo4FNXLNiPOk7BTjh5f7vZUqOdWNY8a_wTdjbktc98EQ0QAem087rbRgK15K9E9VreVTnC_cAv9vunNUJx3IPGpaixXeepIrD1iapei0j8kqnSTRZUiDVzVjR5d/s1600/the+basement.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYPloZCPumyvRyw8C1xlo4FNXLNiPOk7BTjh5f7vZUqOdWNY8a_wTdjbktc98EQ0QAem087rbRgK15K9E9VreVTnC_cAv9vunNUJx3IPGpaixXeepIrD1iapei0j8kqnSTRZUiDVzVjR5d/s1600/the+basement.jpg" /></a></div>
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my father on a ladder fixing up the house:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptk4lxIYCtwMd9wWCRAsuz-mKk3EESk4aM4PvcnsenvdKHiaSOCz6_nJbZcuLfKFgcQVC8r7W6Snb5fMtQvDP96U8GCTrN3DuI3rm4IrQ1jv1W43nesOZqsan4uDpDbfoTjOeIelMkwUp/s1600/Dood+on+ladder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptk4lxIYCtwMd9wWCRAsuz-mKk3EESk4aM4PvcnsenvdKHiaSOCz6_nJbZcuLfKFgcQVC8r7W6Snb5fMtQvDP96U8GCTrN3DuI3rm4IrQ1jv1W43nesOZqsan4uDpDbfoTjOeIelMkwUp/s1600/Dood+on+ladder.jpg" /></a></div>
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the studio where my father first set up his workshop (it later became the place where he did his architectural drawings and where he painted all of the windows and doors in the house):</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRGeuHMP3bBrTwvOzfJn9pawE9T2-9OTtBsQfWiTeP2AA_DnPxPvpIVc8sY7zg6iuqE_rdCdh4sRq5Y0K7ge6mzb2sHYTLeaPWHlsqdaVfRbYEzgZF26MXWD_NBA9bVgjNjVGgWrk2BeUe/s1600/the+studio+where+he+set+up+a+workshop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRGeuHMP3bBrTwvOzfJn9pawE9T2-9OTtBsQfWiTeP2AA_DnPxPvpIVc8sY7zg6iuqE_rdCdh4sRq5Y0K7ge6mzb2sHYTLeaPWHlsqdaVfRbYEzgZF26MXWD_NBA9bVgjNjVGgWrk2BeUe/s1600/the+studio+where+he+set+up+a+workshop.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
the bank of windows in the studio<br />
(note for the slots under the windows, he put in little drawers):<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnRE-qoD0RtFGrOjTmwDDwUeIdngtS8s70_urcj6PT9-YVdw0Z_qAX4-YKdbw5iglQ-eTOCDKRsRRYdig_MWWSH6neqHaL98qf0qRJHIM4L3mkV2wCQkDkPfdWe9tb0mH4Ue1ZHKhtntlM/s1600/the+bank+of+windows+in+the+studio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnRE-qoD0RtFGrOjTmwDDwUeIdngtS8s70_urcj6PT9-YVdw0Z_qAX4-YKdbw5iglQ-eTOCDKRsRRYdig_MWWSH6neqHaL98qf0qRJHIM4L3mkV2wCQkDkPfdWe9tb0mH4Ue1ZHKhtntlM/s1600/the+bank+of+windows+in+the+studio.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
This is what those banks of windows looked like from the outside<br />
(with view of the back porch):<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovxJNchBBvGxFEDrPeN3y1UYiKHaNlAl0FElsCnf_T8dSpFnT-BcgYKRhxsv1Ri9tGdjs1QioEB5D8ZaVsHZzdVUvNgskouIjqNf7m9UTKgiA0lezHudi2F_oNU-litqVdfWkgZ1afMkz/s1600/side+porch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovxJNchBBvGxFEDrPeN3y1UYiKHaNlAl0FElsCnf_T8dSpFnT-BcgYKRhxsv1Ri9tGdjs1QioEB5D8ZaVsHZzdVUvNgskouIjqNf7m9UTKgiA0lezHudi2F_oNU-litqVdfWkgZ1afMkz/s1600/side+porch.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
this is what the diningroom eventually looked like<br />
(with window seat, colors, plants, new double paned windows and the wainscoting taken out):<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKMrcEoeFI6DJ3gaqzPsMM3EL3C_ZZ8ejGMAdWvwfiT1f4kvshxm_OeiMew_C8x4j8NplMsdRBmOVdaDzczliJ_LRCgvpQcEBVrjRcwR1jhOR8GT_zSV5b9HSQ-CHKa3wYRW10C67uGgi/s1600/diningroom+with+window+seat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKMrcEoeFI6DJ3gaqzPsMM3EL3C_ZZ8ejGMAdWvwfiT1f4kvshxm_OeiMew_C8x4j8NplMsdRBmOVdaDzczliJ_LRCgvpQcEBVrjRcwR1jhOR8GT_zSV5b9HSQ-CHKa3wYRW10C67uGgi/s1600/diningroom+with+window+seat.jpg" /></a></div>
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another view of window seat in the diningroom:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxg_do8MxxfwsBKgwvZAnCfa549B_OP5RqQpvcX4W4Mhgzjj6te5boKQRHaFRvasa8WhB9k7i7RFfqlXcaD4WoHoyam0PHbHXkUIjK4ymGpWid_LIPwJCVRf-QuOG530qKqd7-OCjFNHC/s1600/diningroom+another+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="775" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxg_do8MxxfwsBKgwvZAnCfa549B_OP5RqQpvcX4W4Mhgzjj6te5boKQRHaFRvasa8WhB9k7i7RFfqlXcaD4WoHoyam0PHbHXkUIjK4ymGpWid_LIPwJCVRf-QuOG530qKqd7-OCjFNHC/s1600/diningroom+another+view.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
here is what the newly constructed diningroom bump-out looked like:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVoiA19pFddKOmVLSIcHCL5VQtjgCwt1ggnvCImHbA-O72Aa1ANZe6r-CDE3nk5v5v8XIVsQ6IEIId56Nw7T-wdccpgrEr3wccg1j8ardCuF0xsarSpiKdVRmBY1jbbifaaB2a3GDFRJKp/s1600/diningroom+bumpout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVoiA19pFddKOmVLSIcHCL5VQtjgCwt1ggnvCImHbA-O72Aa1ANZe6r-CDE3nk5v5v8XIVsQ6IEIId56Nw7T-wdccpgrEr3wccg1j8ardCuF0xsarSpiKdVRmBY1jbbifaaB2a3GDFRJKp/s1600/diningroom+bumpout.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
how the livingroom came out:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzLHaSe2FZveRkom5DySbdS0ww7H6HRw___YJnIu7dDuhnrKe4S2_HiiWYibr2YddOdX7uQ-r_nH2VWHg00MYLXmGJ27VkPOiQ6JBp5QbDJdhMnp3Zmz_z00zqejpShZcXx9yH0LHMf6zV/s1600/livingroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="711" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzLHaSe2FZveRkom5DySbdS0ww7H6HRw___YJnIu7dDuhnrKe4S2_HiiWYibr2YddOdX7uQ-r_nH2VWHg00MYLXmGJ27VkPOiQ6JBp5QbDJdhMnp3Zmz_z00zqejpShZcXx9yH0LHMf6zV/s1600/livingroom.jpg" /></a></div>
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house with newly constructed bump-outs (the nearest is the livingroom one):<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3X4cla68Lm52qxr_GjKNhI5zYPAlzONBk6HVPP9_9Pf8fS092n1-Y-jQdiT3OjtuSYyNGpEct0eKmYwJeYUdYaaak3FPcTpyVwWgjwM25wNknc11QIICP0Nz065PwGPSF6ZaSONexZ04b/s1600/house+with+bumpouts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3X4cla68Lm52qxr_GjKNhI5zYPAlzONBk6HVPP9_9Pf8fS092n1-Y-jQdiT3OjtuSYyNGpEct0eKmYwJeYUdYaaak3FPcTpyVwWgjwM25wNknc11QIICP0Nz065PwGPSF6ZaSONexZ04b/s1600/house+with+bumpouts.jpg" /></a></div>
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here is how the front porch looked:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHE9tWH250VcwoWKbTMrwLUQP5Zsl71cIojWS02uc2om6vCV74OYHaSebI0Ps6sCKj-E1Jo69pEdy3X_PVXOSvzBvQtrsOLVkm0Oj2IP3qHlL_QZXyFNg1odBInzxjlfCf60XdXExq67V/s1600/front+porch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="824" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHE9tWH250VcwoWKbTMrwLUQP5Zsl71cIojWS02uc2om6vCV74OYHaSebI0Ps6sCKj-E1Jo69pEdy3X_PVXOSvzBvQtrsOLVkm0Oj2IP3qHlL_QZXyFNg1odBInzxjlfCf60XdXExq67V/s1600/front+porch.jpg" /></a></div>
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the house in autumn:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOE3aSPEtLtIaNIt3wsmeQ5qywylmMwqMrsJA9Na34yI_bm2nWhzVGsQG2I18vzpvsv47se2GmvoPapDq4nlLvVE_e76ZvCLldPTSGKGmnioFbMXz-93ptPsvpx0ZKbPw8yfypEpv9vTd/s1600/house+in+autumn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="368" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOE3aSPEtLtIaNIt3wsmeQ5qywylmMwqMrsJA9Na34yI_bm2nWhzVGsQG2I18vzpvsv47se2GmvoPapDq4nlLvVE_e76ZvCLldPTSGKGmnioFbMXz-93ptPsvpx0ZKbPw8yfypEpv9vTd/s1600/house+in+autumn.jpg" /></a></div>
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There will be some updated photos of this house soon as the house is going on the market. I'll add them when I can. </div>
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It is amazing how a tattered house can become a masterpiece. Hope you enjoyed!</div>
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Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-37772043813808078032017-12-09T14:39:00.000-08:002018-02-01T12:36:44.585-08:00Wedding photos of Robert F. Winne and Patricia Holland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyphenhyphen7VHDZYVQxMm-jluYdZRBUdRFeZ_14cKNkegHhmv6_ZSjQ9xm5Xxc1SnvNSSmwmOlrVmWx4X5q3ERZqwv4MkrWbZxdX3gXf4J0yvc7N7qYBLSx-ngt6PJvkC84-I4uKDiMBWUZ88gM01/s1600/Dood+and+Pat+cake+cutting+cover+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="754" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyphenhyphen7VHDZYVQxMm-jluYdZRBUdRFeZ_14cKNkegHhmv6_ZSjQ9xm5Xxc1SnvNSSmwmOlrVmWx4X5q3ERZqwv4MkrWbZxdX3gXf4J0yvc7N7qYBLSx-ngt6PJvkC84-I4uKDiMBWUZ88gM01/s1600/Dood+and+Pat+cake+cutting+cover+II.jpg" /></a></div>
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Patricia and Bob cutting their wedding cake </div>
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Note: I have not included the names of guests. If someone wants their name associated with a particular photo, please contact me.</div>
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the couple:</div>
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some of the guests:</div>
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wedding announcement in Robert F. Winne's hand:</div>
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part of the vows said at the wedding:</div>
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Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-66973065334629219782017-12-08T13:44:00.000-08:002017-12-08T14:07:37.944-08:00lessons about bullying<div style="text-align: center;">
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This is a photo I took of my father at age 15 (I was taking care of him at the time).<br />
I took this picture to never forget what he had been called to go through.<br />
The original wasn't blue, but that is all I changed about it.<br />
It is clear to me now that he was going through severe PTSD at the time.</div>
<br />
(written by Lise Winne, Robert's daughter)<br />
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There were some issues that my father struggled with all of his life. Some of the conversations went on for days, as though he was trying to crack the code. One of those issues had to do with "bullying."<br />
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I would describe my father as ill-prepared for that darker part of human nature. He didn't grow up with controlling parents and he had a loving, respectful relationship with his sister which rarely broke out in fights.<br />
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He sometimes acted up as a child, which, as I understood it, happened most often when he was put to bed. Like a lot of children, he still hadn't finished playing or talking and would somehow manage to do both in a dark room with the lights out. His parents would come into the room and say in a reasonable calm voice, "Now you're getting awfully obstreperous in here; it's time to go to sleep, Bobby." They would keep saying it, through the evening if they had to, but they never punished him or made him do a "time out" (isolation for a period of time). He was certainly never physically disciplined by them and hated the thought of them being disappointed in him, so for the most part, he worked very hard to gain their approval. They exhibited a very gentle style of parenting and gave him a lot more independence than a lot of parents in those days. So there was no bullying in the home.<br />
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His parents were a very loyal couple. My grandmother in her sixties and seventies, was still good looking and young for her years, and became a "desirable catch" among older men in her senior living home. Her husband had passed away a decade earlier. She would tell these elderly gentlemen that she was already married. To her, marriage was forever, and if she went off with someone else, it would mean she was unfaithful. She took "until death you do part" to mean her death, even as she outlived her husband by twenty years. Even so, it was clear that she deeply loved and adored Mr. Winne Sr., that he was the apple of her eye, that no one could replace him, and she would always keep her marriage vows in honor of him.<br />
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My father's grandparents lived only blocks from his home and he would often stop to chat with them on his way home from school. They treated him with the same kind of respect that his parents treated him with.<br />
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His town neighborhood consisted of families very much like his own. Everyone had unlocked doors, and children could go into a house and announce their presence. My father would let the neighbor know he had entered a neighbor house by yelling, "It's me, Bobby! I'm downstairs in your livingroom!" and the woman of the house would greet him and ask him a bunch of questions, and even give him a snack if he wanted one. He learned how to talk to many adults, and I think this is why he always had a very respectful manner of speaking and an unusually keen way of listening and absorbing what was said. My sense is that neighbors were a resource for all children, and if a child couldn't get a skill from his parents, he simply went to another house to learn the skill.<br />
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The other children in the neighborhood were brought up in the same style as my father, respectful of adults, in homes with loving faithful parents who took their vows seriously, so there was no bullying to be found in his neighborhood.<br />
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He went to school in a town renowned for its teachers' college. The teachers were non distracted spinsters who were fabulous at their professions, but also very strict. As my father told it, "There was no nonsense in my school. You toed the line or else!" There were many young student teachers as well, but they were under the watch of these heavy-handed nun-like matrons of education. So there was no bullying there.<br />
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The camp that he went to every summer was run by a couple of <i>lovey-dovey</i> Quakers who believed in talking things out in a systematic, non-confrontational way. He became heavily influenced by them and sought the same ideals they did. So he didn't experience bullying there either.<br />
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For all intents and purposes, he was a sheltered child in the way that he never saw unpleasant human interactions, much the way the Buddha never saw old age or death until he left home. <br />
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I would describe my relationship with my father very much like the relationship he had with his parents: I was never physically disciplined by him, he had a calm way of parenting and I didn't want to disappoint him. I was probably a good deal more <i>misbehaving</i> than he was as a child (I did have a lot more anger than he did, but it had nothing to do with him at all). I did experience quite a bit of bullying as a child, but never quite understood why I was a target (what child does?). A few incidents had to do with bigotry and sexism (I was naturally non-prejudiced) and in school, my clothes were sometimes an issue (out-dated clothes make one a target). But beyond that I never understood what makes a person a target. Even when given reasons, the reasons always seemed irrational.<br />
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So, both my father and I were ill-equipped to know how to deal with bullying, why people wanted to bully, how they got that way, what was the grand purpose, and so on. We couldn't even muster up the thoughts "because of the bully wanting to dominate, for power and control" in those days. I can tell you that it was the single-most troubling issue of his life. It became the most troubling issue of my life too. The times in his life where he was hurt deeply, had to do with this subject. The pain festered in his heart for years, even decades. It took direct assault on his self esteem, his sense of security (in a world where a brutal war had already done quite a bit of damage in terms of PTSD). I didn't know what to do to ease his misery, to pluck it out of his mind or heart, or understand it myself. All I could do was commiserate. I would just try to find distractions, suggest walks, look at art together, talk about projects. In the end, it would sometimes amount to a long conversation about morality.<br />
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In my own life, as a child, I either put up with bullying by counting days I would be at summer camp (safety) or I would isolate to my room with a guitar, art supplies or by writing. In adulthood, I dealt with it by running away from it and the people who perpetrated it.<br />
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So when this subject was continually brought up by my father, I would listen for long periods of time, shrug my shoulders and say, "I guess some people are just bad and don't care." In other words, I didn't think to study it. All I knew was that I didn't want bullying in his life, or in my life.<br />
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The last few years of his life, I began to resent his insistence on returning to this subject. I don't know why I had such little tolerance for it other than it disturbed me that he hadn't found a way to work it through his system all the years, but I see now, that it was an unresolved, not-understood issue in his mind, all the way up to and through his death. In a way he was looking to me to absolve him of this terrible burden. "Oh, but Dood, I love you. You're the apple of my eye," I'd say, hoping that would ease his pain.<br />
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I think it is so clear to me now why being bullied was such a festering wound: no tools, so ill prepared, the arrows went right to his heart and he didn't know how to block it, other arrows went to his head and he didn't know how to block it there either. There was very little understanding of why people indulge in this activity when it is so unpleasant and hurtful to other people (I don't think he ever felt a lack of conscience, so he couldn't understand why other people weren't haunted by their actions).<br />
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I don't think lessons ever stop because a person dies. I was with him when he died, so in a way, I felt that the lesson simply jumped over to me and continued within my life. And oh boy, did it ever!<br />
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The one thing that I did differently was to try to understand it at every angle through research and talking to thousands of people (yes, thousands). Every time I would discover something, I'd say, "Are you listening Dood? Did you just hear what I heard? It has absolutely <i>nothing</i> to do with you."<br />
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I have had many vivid dreams of my father on this journey with me. Even though he has passed away, I feel it is a discovery for both of us and I'm working so hard to uncover what it all means in his honor. This is one of the reasons I am making illustrations on the subject, why I wrote <b><a href="http://lisewinne.blogspot.com/2014/09/scapegoat-healing.html">this blog post</a></b> on family scapegoating and why I ended up <b><a href="http://angry-alcoholics.blogspot.com/2015/04/what-are-types-of-abuse-scapegoating.html">writing an entire blog on the subject</a></b>. I could make art in his honor 'til kingdom come (and my art and studio are very much linked to my father), but resolving the bullying issue, even if it never gets resolved with the bullies themselves (and becomes only a contribution to society) is what I seem to be living for, for both of us.<br />
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My father, as soon as he was an adult, became part of the force of pushing back one of the most notorious bullies and sociopath narcissists of all time: Adolf Hitler in World War II. He lost his entire unit and almost lost his life. Going from a serene polite childhood surrounded by honest people of integrity to an all-out assault kind of war with inadequate equipment (no winter coats or boots, very few reinforcements, sleeping on the ground in winter), had to be incredibly traumatizing for him. I can't under-estimate the trauma that it caused. <br />
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In civic and personal life, bullies were even more perplexing, i.e., "why does this have to go on in peace-time as well?"<br />
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Bullies can't see you for who you really are (<i>the divine self,</i><i> agape love</i>); they only see you in terms of what they can or cannot control. You live or die in their hearts based on that. They see you only as an extension of their wants and needs and you can be demoted and discarded at any time for not feeding it. They have an intuitive sense of your vulnerabilities (where they can play on your shame and self esteem, and even where you'll get sucked in by <a href="https://angry-alcoholics.blogspot.com/2017/08/love-bombing-by-narcissists-and.html">pronouncements of love</a>) but beyond that, they can't see a thing. They are pure manipulators, always trying to get a talon into you or punish you if you get too far out, always trying to get you to think about them, even if they have to use fear to do it.<br />
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War is probably not much different: a soldier's <i>divine self </i>is probably rarely considered and, at any rate, much like the uniform where one soldier looks like another, not about a person (their individuality), but only about their fitness, <i>their resources</i>, their <i>abilities </i>and how they can be manipulated and controlled to bring about <i>an outcome</i>. My father described the war as "deeply impersonal" (his quotes). In other words, who knows who you're firing at between the trees: saints? an only son? a father of a sick boy and a deceased mother? What horror!<br />
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So he never wanted to be put in a position like that again and was determined to live in peace ... except: bullies found him! And rattled him to his core!<br />
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The thing is, my father died in peace, with a clear conscience. You have to have incredible courage to go through the dying experience. He died with unresolved issues, but no regrets. Both he and I have had near death experiences (that is, before he died). We knew that near death experiences could make regrets loom huge over your consciousness and practically take over. In fact, regrets can be like demons (yes, you hallucinate, and no, you don't have control over them -- the regrets are in your face all of the time, totally terrifying, haunting). Many therapists say that this is when people who have been sleeping through life with their egos on begin to wake up. If you have near-death experiences, you begin to want to clear your conscience sooner before the BIG D. When you are in the throes of experiencing pain, you do not want to cause pain to others, and the memories of the pain can linger, meaning that you won't hurt people long after the experience either.<br />
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People always have a chance to wake up at any time and do the right thing, but for some reason, bullies usually run away from doing the right thing. They leave behind the good people. Honest people don't think about their egos; they think about intimacy. Life always challenges us: we can either take on more regrets or lessen the regrets we already have. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFmNtHSjg9XN4XRm4A48-tc7gYTHWZBb1sVt37BYyZjqteuB3JGZkMhSQ86to07E-m-yGm_mLkFDbaWPeR50bGcnFcMaDmGuntK_Z9HkZr9RLOeF8RJuh8s75_oem1WuvCZzEri9C0a7g/s1600/breathing+life+into+darkness+300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFmNtHSjg9XN4XRm4A48-tc7gYTHWZBb1sVt37BYyZjqteuB3JGZkMhSQ86to07E-m-yGm_mLkFDbaWPeR50bGcnFcMaDmGuntK_Z9HkZr9RLOeF8RJuh8s75_oem1WuvCZzEri9C0a7g/s1600/breathing+life+into+darkness+300.jpg" /></a></div>
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Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-76633400987545389332017-08-27T07:10:00.001-07:002017-08-27T19:51:54.674-07:00Robert F. Winne and Patricia Holland with family in Alaska<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCmg33FHKG-lKRhIoHsca9B9p8Fye0uheMvvT79Kq6W_vR8UMxFLDkdbIdQvEIEN3ZYFOJn1C2RJqr_XZDJl6ifkL_wiD5HNhS00I4FvUBoFxK8ZTiVn2ygbUAwdoU-fwgN-Jy8kZa1DO/s1600/Dood+and+Pat+and+family+in+Alaska.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCmg33FHKG-lKRhIoHsca9B9p8Fye0uheMvvT79Kq6W_vR8UMxFLDkdbIdQvEIEN3ZYFOJn1C2RJqr_XZDJl6ifkL_wiD5HNhS00I4FvUBoFxK8ZTiVn2ygbUAwdoU-fwgN-Jy8kZa1DO/s1600/Dood+and+Pat+and+family+in+Alaska.jpg" /></a></div>
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Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-52466790703178469472017-06-18T20:29:00.000-07:002017-06-18T20:29:45.083-07:00Camp Seaforth in the Virgin Islands<br />
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Lise Winne writing the post today.<br />
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My understanding of my father's role in Camp Seaforth in the Virgin Islands is that he designed some buildings for it, accompanied on his trips to the location by Ken Webb, starting somewhere around 1969.<br />
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The Beach area where the camp was located was full of manchineel apple trees -- "quite poisonous, with acidic sap that could burn one’s skin" (quote by Rick Hausman).<br />
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Rick Hausman recalls setting up the camp:<br />
"I went alone to Virgin Gorda via Puerto Rico. In P.R., I bought tents, dishware, cookware, and related supplies to outfit the camp. Meanwhile, back at the office, we were recruiting campers and staff."<br />
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He had a few other words to say:<br />
"... you’ll hear wondrous tales of evacuations and near-miss hurricanes, a tiny sunfish sailboat with a single camper spotted just before he disappeared around the end of the island into the Atlantic current, the days when there was no motor boat to ferry water and supplies. I believe a sometimes-functional walkie-talkie was the only means of communication with the outside world. If the ACA only knew…"<br />
<br />Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-84819534320435163922017-04-22T18:52:00.000-07:002017-04-22T18:54:16.834-07:00A Celebration of His Life Today<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41aynn2wYxnY9OTIW_43Vy4o_5w9YE4u1RPp1-HUSl1B6_QrAlpWoBraRtIJ9FqpRsriTV65Ur895nETWgz7RJu6PqSTa0JECCWvWO9XUM4WRN5JAoRHX61OCTvKjno5WS8gSJhwsGdAm/s1600/Dood+smiling_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41aynn2wYxnY9OTIW_43Vy4o_5w9YE4u1RPp1-HUSl1B6_QrAlpWoBraRtIJ9FqpRsriTV65Ur895nETWgz7RJu6PqSTa0JECCWvWO9XUM4WRN5JAoRHX61OCTvKjno5WS8gSJhwsGdAm/s1600/Dood+smiling_1.jpg" /></a></div>
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It was 4 years ago today that my father, Robert F. Winne, passed away. </div>
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I found this lovely picture of him in the computer today. I think this captures his essence: innocent, sweet, ingratiating, evolved, thoughtful. Most of all, he was super-lovable and an ultra-empath, something the world always needs more of (and which I am seeking in my own life -- to be, and to be around).</div>
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I think about him every day, and particularly when I am in my studio (which happens to be almost all day long these days). He inspires me in my art, in my life, and in the last conversation I had with him: "Don't be docile" ... "You are meant to do something for the world" ... I hope I am fulfilling his dream of me in the moments in the studio as I draw and paint on his tables.</div>
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❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxR8jBe8p1uJfHROcZ3xhEYOmdeU1SksMqVER7yGPzVqhJgo4kPNC3RHqc03z12aTtXDmgyJmulwc8fQteh94mBsgB2hXMjnXKJ_z-U_uRONdXUFechRC9U3Ilvdja9epNNuaz47v9Bvv/s1600/dove+with+a+mission.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxR8jBe8p1uJfHROcZ3xhEYOmdeU1SksMqVER7yGPzVqhJgo4kPNC3RHqc03z12aTtXDmgyJmulwc8fQteh94mBsgB2hXMjnXKJ_z-U_uRONdXUFechRC9U3Ilvdja9epNNuaz47v9Bvv/s320/dove+with+a+mission.jpg" width="230" /></a></div>
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Here is the unadulterated photo of him (without the border). Love you, Dood, and for all eternity:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknOGfZqlM0jxczMLHxv7Y_iC1vTIlECtqdgX2EcwtGTJLSgwl6YiuwfiybrF89WcmJy5eE8XyGGsUNSsm8gz7eYOBUnxzEGK6U_4spUz-bLdBOwPdXXJZYt-7vCc9_4k2mta_IbhRxP1P/s1600/Dood+smiling+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknOGfZqlM0jxczMLHxv7Y_iC1vTIlECtqdgX2EcwtGTJLSgwl6YiuwfiybrF89WcmJy5eE8XyGGsUNSsm8gz7eYOBUnxzEGK6U_4spUz-bLdBOwPdXXJZYt-7vCc9_4k2mta_IbhRxP1P/s1600/Dood+smiling+photo.jpg" /></a></div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-54241881709608488182016-05-11T05:24:00.000-07:002016-05-12T19:54:27.781-07:00a philosophical moment with my father during his "dementia years", plus solving the hypoglycemia problem by taking away sugar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"Contemplating the Big Life Issues"</div>
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Lise Winne writing the post today:<o:p></o:p></div>
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There was a remarkable experience I
had with my father during the years when he had dementia. It was as though his
dementia disappeared for awhile, and in its disappearance, there was a deep
conversation that took place. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He actually realized he had
dementia, and he did not like that he couldn't remember things from
moment-to-moment, but in many other ways, he did not seem like someone with
dementia at all. In fact, he was teaching me French in the last four months of
his life, and retained a remarkable vocabulary, and could even rattle off names
of artists who were influencing how he looked at landscapes or street scenes as
we took drives here and there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, he came to stay with us for
a long period of time, just him, by himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the first few days, my thoughts
were very much focused on how to keep him safe, and that meant cutting back on
anything that could be confusing or where he could get lost. In fact, a
"dementia episode" happened in Portland, Oregon where he went to go
for a walk, but then forgot where he was or how to get back. He was then picked
up by police. The police called me first, as my number was found at the top of
a list located in his wallet. He was rescued by the people he was staying with,
but I wanted to make sure it didn't happen again, especially under my watch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, I kept away from turnpikes where
the bathrooms had too many stalls, and there were too many cars to choose from
in the parking lot. I always traveled back roads with him, and never once did
he panic at not knowing where he was or where to go. I tried to make traveling
and our times together in my home as stress-free as possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had read somewhere that some new
research had uncovered that simple carbohydrates and sugars had a lot to do
with dementia. He had a terrible time with hypoglycemia, fainting or feeling
faint on walks, usually starting in mid-morning, around 10:00. So, I had a<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>sixth-sense</i> that the
hypoglycemia was connected to the dementia somehow, even though I did not
thoroughly research it at the time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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His doctors in his own home town had
suggested he carry around candy lozenges and granola bars to use when he felt
faint. These are loaded with sugar, of course, good for an emergency. The
problem with this approach, as I saw it, was that the whole day, then, would be
full of, what he termed as<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>sugar-lows.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>Every two hours, like clock-work,
the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>sugar-lows</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>would reappear, and there would be
another crisis, where he would have to sit down or lean on me until his
lozenges or candy bar would revive him again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Sugar-lows</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>were greatly debilitating. He had<i> </i>tingling
in his hands and feet, blurry vision, feelings that he was
sleep-walking, slurred speech, looking dazed and confused, feeling weak,
being barely awake for lunch, and a host of other problems. In other words, he
was clear in the morning, but by mid morning and the rest of the day, his mind,
memories and speech seemed to suffer. He would also take huge naps in the
afternoon. With the exception of his professorial intelligence, it was like
taking care of a toddler in that he needed a big nap in the afternoon, and
everywhere I went, I had to take snacks, and be fine tuned to how he was
feeling at all times. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, I tried a different approach. I
took his lozenges and all of his<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>pick-me-ups<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>out of his luggage when he would
arrive for his visits. I cleared my home of fruit juices, honey, chocolate,
raisins, boxed cereals, ice cream, anything that resembled franken-food (like chips, a simple carbohydrate, though
there was never much of that anyway), indeed every kind of sugar-laden thing
except fresh fruit (whole and fresh like oranges, grapes, blueberries,
strawberries and the like). In the morning I fixed oatmeal and eggs. He as sure
wanted sugar with these meals, but I didn't give it to him, and explained that
I was trying an experiment to see if it made a difference in terms of his<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>sugar-lows</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I can tell you that it made a huge
difference. While I did carry around his lozenges in his snack pack for the
first few days of this experiment, I eventually saw that I didn't need to, that
I could carry around nuts, or crackers and cheese, or crackers and unsweetened
nut butters, with water. In general, except for the whole wheat crackers, I
kept carbohydrates to a minimum. In the evening I sometimes made pasta with a
lot of vegetables or fixed a potato, but primarily most meals were soups,
salads, meat, fish, lentils, split peas, eggs, dairy, stews, avocadoes,
sometimes with or without a small portion of wild rice or brown rice. For dessert, I would hand
him a banana.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
All meals were also alcohol-free
(alcohol turns to sugar in the body).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I ate this way right along with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
How did it make a difference? Well,
first off, he no longer felt faint<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>at
all</i>, and I mean<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>not at all</i>.
He did not even need his afternoon nap. In fact, not once on these solo trips
did he even suggest that he needed a nap. While he still had dementia, it
seemed to cut the symptoms in half. He was as
clear in the morning as he was in the afternoon. It cut way, way back on his
confusion, the disorientation episodes, the tingling sensations, feeling weak
and unable to continue with an activity. He could still have issues with short
term memory, but even that seemed "better." <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The lesson here is perhaps that if
you are feeling physically well, your mind responds better too?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I tried to tell some of my other
family members about my experiments with his diet, but I was not taken
seriously ("You are not a doctor", I was told, among other things).
So, when he was not at my home, he was back to his old diet and his old ways,
and there was not much I could do about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
If you are reading this, and have an
open mind, try this experiment out yourself if you have a loved one who has
dementia and/or hypoglycemia. It may bring your loved one back to life, or at
least reverse the effects of dementia somewhat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Anyway, my times with him in the
"dementia years" were mostly about activities, taking long walks,
going to art museums, taking pictures together, playing music, listening to
music, gong to parties, and so on. I actually did not engage in many<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>full</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>discussions with him, especially
emotional ones, because I did not know how to proceed into these subjects when
dementia was part of the picture. So, I would often end these discussions with
suggestions like "Would you like to pick flowers today? Look at how sunny
it is!" often hugging him from behind. I felt optimism, light, nature and
fun might be a good antidote to dementia, and hypoglycemia, and past
experiences he might dwell on where he had experienced too much depression and PTSD.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
But, I realized I was too quick to
judge his capacity for deep thought and conversation. The whole way driving him
home, the conversation between us got deep and philosophical, and I was floored
by his ability to have such a discussion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
It went something like this, though
obviously this is the shortened version:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
As I was driving, a car came into my
lane and my father yelled "Watch it!" The other driver managed to
swerve back into his own lane just in time. The road at that point was carved out of a cliff. On my side, there was a steep drop. The other lane had a steep rock bank. In other words, we were trapped in narrow confines, with nowhere to go should the driver have not realized what he was doing in the nick of time. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
It was <i>pure luck</i> that
we managed to avoid a car accident. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
He seemed a bit shaken up after wards, and
I said that I was sorry, that the type of road it was had not given me many
choices. And then I said that it was perhaps a matter of<i> being lucky</i>, and that perhaps he, my father, was my "lucky star" because
he had managed to be the only one of his troop in WWII who was not killed or
injured, and that maybe he was carrying his star in the car with him at the time (I admit that sometimes I talked to him as though he was a child).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
His response was something like
this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>Well, maybe I do have a bit of luck.
I've never thought of myself as lucky, but perhaps, in the end, that is what
life is about more than our plans, or our abilities, who we marry or don't
marry, who our kids are and what they become or don't become, who we meet or
don't meet, or even whether I can control what happens to me in a car on the
way home. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>And I'm not even wanting to control
this car. I know somehow, that I have lost my ability to drive effectively,
with my memory and all. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>I notice that a lot of old folks,
when they lose control, can't stand the idea, and try to overcompensate by
trying to control more in their lives, rather than less. I think that is
foolish. I think at some point, you have to realize that life is very much
about going with the flow, accepting fate, and people for who they are, and
things that happen. It is a kind of surrender.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>The life of surrendering my goals
and my control is a good experience, I feel. It comes with a kind of beauty and
peace. It is like looking at a field of flowers, say, and instead of picking
flowers to take home with you, the flowers are already picked, but with your
eyes, instead of your hands. You surrender to leaving them where they
are. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>Even if you don't have flowers at
home, memory is like a flower. Do you see what I'm saying? </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>You open your memories like a flower
opens to the sun. And mind goes to the memory of the field of flowers instead
of concentrating on a lack of flowers at home. When you realize this, a lot of
peace fills your life and even your body. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>You'll get to this place too, one
day. So, just remember what I'm saying. We all get to the inevitable, but this
intermediary phase is worth experiencing in all of its glory, without
struggling against it. If you struggle against it, you won't truly experience
what it is, and you won't see the beauty in it. There is a lot to be said for
bringing your mind into a state of feeling fearless in the face of death, and
that is what this is. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>My initial reaction to that car was
a knee-jerk reaction of fear, of course, but the fear is not long lasting and
does not make me want to struggle with it and hold onto it. I let it go, and the trust returns. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>That is the thing about all of us
animals. All animals have to travel somewhere. We are not always safe, but we count on the herd, more or less, to keep us safe. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>Some animals drive the pack. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>Some animals get swept up in the
herd, going forward. If you don't follow, you get stampeded. That's where I
am. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>The contentment that comes at the
end of life is well earned. It's a very different life than when you are a
young buck and you are trying to get your career going, and a family started
and all of the responsibility that comes with it. And when you are at that
point, you think it will last forever. You realize you could have something
come up that could end it all, but for the most part, you are trying to sustain
that day to day. You don't have any concept of living in the state I am in now.
I'm sure that it doesn't cross most young minds. But I can tell you that from
this vantage point there is a kind of claustrophobia about the day-to-day
striving, carrying a mortgage, worrying how whether you are treating your kids
and wife the best way you can treat them so that you don't do any damage to
them, how to be the best teacher you can be, how to play an instrument expertly and with feeling, how to keep the
weeds out of the garden, how to make the perfect architectural drawing that
will change your life, how to treat your colleagues in meetings where there are
a lot of different perspectives and sometimes very opposing perspectives, and
being able to afford the next new car -- all of those things. And it really
isn't what life is all about; it is only a part of what life is about. And
maybe it is much smaller than the allotment we give to it. It certainly seems
to be too much of what life is about early on, so that you miss a lot of
experience of just enjoying your relationships, and your children, and your
home. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>I like getting up in the morning,
going downstairs into the dining room, and looking out at the bird feeder, and
enjoying the potted plants in the windowsill, and seeing the place mats all in
a row on the table. You miss so many of these simple things running here and
running there, and trying to keep so many things together. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>It is like this great whirring
machine slows down, and goes quiet, and you finally understand what real peace
and joy is: it is just in these simple things around your home and your garden.
It is just where you are at any given moment, even if it is just closing your
eyes in bed. When I close my eyes I sometimes remember the bad things that
happened to me, but mostly these days I remember the good things. I think a lot
about the past. For instance, I might think about how my grandfather carried me
on his shoulders when I was a tot, and how much I felt lucky to be his grandson
and to be loved by such a great man. I might think about how one of my army
buddies came to comfort me after a big battle, which can mean the world when
you are frightened out of your wits. I might think about Ken Webb and his grand
visions. It is all of these things, reliving them with a different perspective. And
sometimes I am not in bed with the lights out when I think about these things.
Sometimes I am thinking about these things while enjoying watching some
squirrel trying to get at the seed in the bird feeder. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>It is enlightening to come to this
point. If I am intentional about it, it seems to stoke the enlightenment about it even
more. I just notice so many more things now, without feeling I have to be an
active participant. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
After this conversation, and letting
him out of the car, I drove home with tears in my eyes, realizing that he was
one of the most beautiful evolved souls I had ever known, or indeed ever had significant
time with during my lifetime, and that I might lose him and his perspectives
some day. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I would think a person would have to be evolved to think in this manner in the first place, but with dementia it seemed incredible.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
There were times I wondered if he had dementia at all (he was actually diagnosed with Alzheimer's -- but based on memory tests alone), but at these times I had my doubts. I could call him up on the phone and he might re-tell the same story over and over and over again, seem confused about nearly everything and be slurring his words. And then there were times like this, where he was so clear as to seem misdiagnosed. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
In fact, I sometimes wondered if the hypoglycemia was driving the bus, rather than some kind of brain defect. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Writing this down is a way to always remember
the things he said. I also share it with family, and with others who happen to find this page, about one way to live in the world, especially
when you are old.<i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXn77nj-OFpU39pgdRqTMTxQFC_VzNm6AZy0vOvyAdlPFEh0-Ut0o_6LasaL1nGnLf4VkwBOiW7fzwD8LlwTEXtdlUYxo5UX2cFhq1RJ-Xg1MeQcoREN_4uxQDnB4LvRgkTKr2VSOeyBu/s1600/Cushman+market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXn77nj-OFpU39pgdRqTMTxQFC_VzNm6AZy0vOvyAdlPFEh0-Ut0o_6LasaL1nGnLf4VkwBOiW7fzwD8LlwTEXtdlUYxo5UX2cFhq1RJ-Xg1MeQcoREN_4uxQDnB4LvRgkTKr2VSOeyBu/s1600/Cushman+market.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> </i>Robert F. Winne as an old man</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(photo taken in a small food market) </div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-81347551412795589122016-04-22T19:59:00.002-07:002016-04-22T20:01:00.238-07:00remembrance and a tribute by Jim Manngard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0_CPv__4NNS-xs5jGtcczW0CEkni3Bev0J4xx5-lilEHTkH4AlzbVMEbJR4VCDTl_ax40IVQ8ZpP7N1HeGD8siRzDfBZcG_xgW6lU4zsiNO0qEt__RZj54VMlXnW3JgtbQJzTx_wlFu0/s1600/Dood+by+Jim+Manngard+sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0_CPv__4NNS-xs5jGtcczW0CEkni3Bev0J4xx5-lilEHTkH4AlzbVMEbJR4VCDTl_ax40IVQ8ZpP7N1HeGD8siRzDfBZcG_xgW6lU4zsiNO0qEt__RZj54VMlXnW3JgtbQJzTx_wlFu0/s1600/Dood+by+Jim+Manngard+sm.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
commemorative digital art by Jim Manngard</div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-31697197485032794032016-01-12T14:22:00.001-08:002016-01-12T14:34:10.805-08:00remembering my father on snow days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIv2TgP7W2iF_UPDXmUnUKk0pYiE09dGUXxuPCDj3aV_5heIM1FxFDVnpWE0jsHpmFuSDUTjdElp6fI9qSlmM1tjas5dzAATD_CT9RUaK1YofJoYlrwFUIQpzlVh2hp4HfH7RbSINaatcw/s1600/heart_in_snowflake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIv2TgP7W2iF_UPDXmUnUKk0pYiE09dGUXxuPCDj3aV_5heIM1FxFDVnpWE0jsHpmFuSDUTjdElp6fI9qSlmM1tjas5dzAATD_CT9RUaK1YofJoYlrwFUIQpzlVh2hp4HfH7RbSINaatcw/s1600/heart_in_snowflake.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Lise Winne, Robert's daughter, writing the post today</i>:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Today is a snow day. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Since my father died in 2013, I think of my father every time it is snowing ... without fail.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Why? Because he always called during those times. He called because he wanted to make sure I was safe, not out on slippery roads. As he would say, "I hope you don't mind. It eases my mind. You'll always be my little girl." </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We both used it as an excuse to talk about many other subjects too (often for hours).</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Not a week would go by without his phone call, regardless. And we would often talk more often than that, sometimes every day. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So there is something special about snow for me at this point in my life: it is when my memories of him come alive. In fact, the snowflake is one of my inspirations for my art (I am an artist) ... and it all has to do with him. He was also born in December, a snowy month.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In a way, the snowflake represents the kind of art he liked too: detailed, symmetrical, abstract.</div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-90156472764771206232015-06-21T09:36:00.000-07:002015-06-24T12:32:36.064-07:00father's day rememberances<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFxGfOBT4fRjQMU_zIS7sdnASUFly-F_DIl5ogxB85mUNdoxGlMEc6q8cMr1rLiaZYxA7IJvXHhV7_6ekfmEeB0Pwckckeacgj6be21MrXymeGsspV3J7XIGRMmTLLyRkMJQ_jc14IXQ3j/s1600/with+Mary+Lina+Alice+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFxGfOBT4fRjQMU_zIS7sdnASUFly-F_DIl5ogxB85mUNdoxGlMEc6q8cMr1rLiaZYxA7IJvXHhV7_6ekfmEeB0Pwckckeacgj6be21MrXymeGsspV3J7XIGRMmTLLyRkMJQ_jc14IXQ3j/s1600/with+Mary+Lina+Alice+web.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
circa 1930</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My father (Bobby) wedged between his great aunt (L) and his grandmother (R)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and his sister (R)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Lise Winne (daughter of Robert F. Winne) writing the post today:</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
One of the things my father could boast of was an idyllic family life and an idyllic childhood. Even he would say it was "idyllic". I loved to hear his stories of his childhood, which he would recount in great detail. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It was apparent that the members of his family had huge hearts, which he inherited and used on his two wives, sister, inlaws, elders, children and grandchildren. I hope the compassion, integrity and undying love he had for members of his family lives on in his grandchildren.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
His neighborhood in a small upstate NY town seemed to be made up of similar kinds of people.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
One of his stories that I keep thinking about went something like this:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In his neighborhood, most women stayed at home. They took care of the housework, looked after children, even neighbor children, shopped for groceries and medicines, and doted over their husbands. As women got into their mid-forties, it wasn't uncommon to find the lady of the house <i>in bed at her time of the month</i> (note: female surgeries were the exception and not the rule then, so a lot of women in their forties and fifties would often be found in bed). Neighborhood women helped other women not feeling well by bringing medicines and comfort, occasionally cooking, and also helping with children and shopping. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If a woman got through <i>the life transition</i> without a hitch, this is when she might get a job, or at the very least, volunteer in the community, or volunteer to look after the grandchildren.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If a woman wanted to work (and not be relegated to home and hearth), she stayed unmarried. A popular profession for working women in his town was school teacher. My father recounts school teachers as being excellent at what they did, and furthermore, "no nonsense" (as he used to like to say, wagging his finger), but also very warm (like a mother would be). He said that because they weren't distracted by a husband and children, they were absolutely and fully devoted to their professions in ways that he didn't see from teachers in the 1960s and beyond. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Indeed, the great aunt pictured above, was the school teacher in the family. She helped her sister with babysitting my father and his sister. He saw a lot of these two women as he was growing up.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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For his lunch breaks from school, he went to his maternal grandmother's (pictured here). She lived in a large Victorian house. She would serve him up lunch, and then she would sit with him at the piano bench where he would do his half hour practice (he started practicing piano at age four). Sitting with him every day gave him an audience, confidence and the motivation to keep playing and to get better at his technique (in order to impress her). If he played well, she would clap. Many parents these days leave their children alone with instruments, expecting them to have the discipline to keep going, but to me it is obvious that this older generation had the right idea. </div>
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On his way home from school, he often stopped into his paternal grandmother's house for some afternoon conversation and biscuits, and fruit when it was in season. </div>
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It was an unusually polite society, where your elders listened to you, and you always listened to them. Respect was a two-way street. One on one conversations were the rule and not the exception. Children very rarely competed for attention or shouted over each other because there was plenty of adult attention to go around. Child rearing was a community effort. Life was largely about conversation. Conversation meant listening intently, politely and thoughtfully and offering up your best response. It was about reflecting. It was about allowing space within the conversation to get a full understanding about what was being said. This is one reason why my father was a master at self reflection and composure, and was often looked upon as wise by those around him; it was part of his everyday world as a child. </div>
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Life was considerably slower then, as there was time for reverence for your community and neighbors. </div>
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In his neighborhood, no one had locked doors. Neighbors looked at <i>children of the neighborhood</i> as a community responsibility where every woman shared in the task.</div>
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My father said he could go into any house in the neighborhood and announce his presence: "Hi, Mrs. ________________, it's Bobby! I'm down in your kitchen!" And the Mrs. would go into the kitchen and say, "Bobby! What a nice surprise! Oh, I'd like to hear how your piano playing is coming!" ... or something of that sort ... "Sit down and I'll fetch some cookies!" It was like that in just about every household. </div>
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I think this is why my father retained his politeness throughout his entire life. He never swore (except when he didn't saw a board straight in his woodshop) and he always made an effort to be respectful. Being able to listen intently, to have an unusual amount of self reflection, to be considerate and moral in his responses, paved the way for an exceptionally close father-daughter relationship. </div>
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Since I have been out in the world, I have realized how special that closeness was, and how incredibly unusual. My only hope is that this will inspire another father to be close to his daughter, by being respectful and a good listener, and offering up the most thoughtful and caring responses. It changed this daughter's life. Maybe it will change yours.</div>
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More childhood pictures:</div>
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Bobby as a toddler with his grandmother</div>
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circa 1928</div>
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Bobby with his handsome father at Georgian Bay</div>
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Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-11899359737008079922014-07-06T17:11:00.000-07:002014-07-06T17:38:40.946-07:00Robert F. Winne Memoir Notes I<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxfuIFEPD6agXa9ePA-TgwmtKr5dPO9KYqpLy9wycgAxjJcXX9d1xJROptAyLTIQjPLwZJMjFlJ49E-bMexGFKwhd4uiiQkGAlYvjbgry-mbn_ahC6j-Tc9gUhFlnIPnecu0bTBEn6UW5/s1600/sketch+of+Williams+farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxfuIFEPD6agXa9ePA-TgwmtKr5dPO9KYqpLy9wycgAxjJcXX9d1xJROptAyLTIQjPLwZJMjFlJ49E-bMexGFKwhd4uiiQkGAlYvjbgry-mbn_ahC6j-Tc9gUhFlnIPnecu0bTBEn6UW5/s1600/sketch+of+Williams+farm.jpg" /></a></div>
<b><span style="color: #783f04;">quick sketch of the William's farm</span></b><br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">(Robert F. Winne intended on making a better drawing at some point, I'm sure, as his architectural drawing skills are to be admired, but this is all we have -- if I remember correctly the house is located on the bottom left and the barns and out-buildings are at the top of the page). I don't know where the lake was situated. There was a view of it from the house, so it was probably somewhere on the right of the page or the bottom. The William's farm is no longer there, including the house and all of the barns.</span></div>
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(This post was written by Lise Winne, Robert F. Winne's daughter except for the memoir part of the post).</div>
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My father wrote two sets of notes for memoirs. They were found in different folders. The one I am posting today is short and the other one is more fleshed out. Which is to say, most pages just have notes and don't read as a story. It seems obvious he meant to use them for a full-fledged story. </div>
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I am just posting one of them today. The second version will follow this one. Look to the right for the full table of contents.</div>
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These memoir notes are very rough drafts. It is too bad we (his family) don't have more to work with, to see and to know, but somehow, and sadly, I think my father didn't think his life was interesting enough for a long lengthy memoir. I was happily surprised to see that he had gotten as far as he did as he never let on that he was attempting anything of this kind! I was constantly urging him to write one and so glad he listened to me (a bit) about that. How comforting to find these after he passed away! </div>
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These memoir notes were written by Robert F. Winne in his own beautiful hand writing. There was a lot of editing and cross-outs with further writing and thoughts in the margins. I have included these in this post, but it should be obvious to the reader that I don't know where the writings in the margins would fall in terms of the paragraphs, so I am making the best decision I can.</div>
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My father did leave behind an incredible number of letters from his years in World War II and from his first years as an architect in Texas. So we have a lot of material from those years, even if written at the time the war was in full swing and during his time afterwards as a budding architect living on his own far away from home.</div>
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So without further explanation, here is Robert F. Winne speaking (in his own notes) about his childhood:</div>
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<i>For better or worse, I was born two days after Christmas of the year, 1924. I'm not sure why my parents decided on such a date (if there was actually any plan at all). The outcome forever after was that everyone was so exhausted after holiday festivities there was little drive for another one. Yet, they always came through -- modestly.</i></div>
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<i>Born in the President's residence on the edge of the college campus in the front bedroom of a large, rangey Victorian house </i></div>
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<i>overlooks the spacious central green </i></div>
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<i>the west 'piazza' a summer livingroom,</i></div>
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<i>fully furnished, with green view, </i></div>
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<i>altho it was grandparent's house</i></div>
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<i>I spent at least half of my childhood days there</i></div>
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<i>exploring its endless no. of rooms</i></div>
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<i>sliding down the long, curving front stair rail banister</i></div>
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<i>(grandparents on both sides of the family figured large in my early years)</i></div>
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<i>house arranged in long sequence of rooms from front to back:</i></div>
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<i>entry hall with long winding staircase</i></div>
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<i>front parlor alongside</i></div>
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<i> -- a favorite sitting room for grandparents</i></div>
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<i>lined with floor to ceiling bookcases</i></div>
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<i>middle parlor cut laterally across house, its portico-ed fireplace room a favorite space for putting on plays, for family consumption Sun aft.</i></div>
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<i>dining pantry room and finally a large kitchen at rear </i></div>
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<i>dominated by huge, coal-fired stove, with gas burners at far end</i></div>
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<i>Grandma skilled at gauging oven heat by sticking her hand in</i></div>
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<i>there always seemed to be some kind of food preparation going on,</i></div>
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<i>entirely Grandma's labor</i></div>
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<i>doughnut making the most memorable</i></div>
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<i>upstairs a seemingly endless succession</i></div>
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<i>of bedrooms ranged along a central corridor</i></div>
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<i> a hierarchy from front to back</i></div>
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<i>the prime bedroom at the head of stairs (my birth room)</i></div>
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<i>ordinarily reserved for my great grandmother</i></div>
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<i>who moved from Hadley to Brockport</i></div>
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<i>to spend her final years with her daughter</i></div>
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<i>I remember her as a wise and stately presence in the household</i></div>
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<i>regally ensconced in that high ceiling-ed front bedroom</i></div>
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<i> always looked to for imparting wise counsel on family matters</i></div>
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<i> sadly she didn't live long enough for me to get to know her.</i></div>
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A couple of notes: He is referring to "Hadley, <u>Massachusetts</u> to Brockport, <u>NY</u>" (above paragraph). At the beginning when he talks of being born in the Prsident's residence, he is talking about the President of Brockport College (at the time of my father's birth, the president of Brockport College was his grandfather). </div>
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The following is a vignette about his years as a boy on the William's family farm during The Great Depression (that were in with the same papers): </div>
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<i>A Crucial Skill</i></div>
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<i>I delighted in riding the top of the hay wagon, and when older, helping, with pitchfork in hand, to distribute the load for proper balance. When the wagon was full, it was brought up to the hay barn. The unloading process was an ingenious system of pulleys and winches that grasped with big claws a load of hay, raised it to the peak of the barn, sent it laterally into the loft, and on signal, tripped it into the appropriate spot -- all of this accomplished with the horse team pulling a line outwards from the barn.</i></div>
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<i>Handling hay with a pitchfork, I learned, was a true art. Gathering up stray piles that the horse-drawn rake missed and assembling its rows into "shocks" with a 3-pronged fork required knowing how to interweave the haystacks in a way that holds the whole pile together for final heaving into the wagon.</i></div>
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<i>Once the hay harvest was safely stored in the loft, I delighted, in my younger years, romping in the hay -- occasionally encountering a mouse at close range, which startled both of us.</i></div>
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<i>The barn was always full of fascinations, redolent of fresh hay, a place to play hide and seek with neighbor kids, burying ourselves in hay.</i></div>
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<i>But my contact with kids my age was rare so I had to concoct solitary games and pastimes that might include the family collie. We often went searching in the fields for new woodchuck holes which needed direct assault. Their holes could break the leg of a horse that might stumble into them. The occasional trip into town (Naples) was a special excitement which occurred only every 3 weeks or so. It was a time to shop for the few necessities not supplied by the farm itself, and to make brief visits with family friends and relatives. The trip was a bumpy ride on a single-lane dirt road that weaved along the ridge facing the Canandaigua Valley. The trip usually included brief stops to connect with friends and relatives that lived along the way.</i> </div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-78197890812522051012014-07-05T14:42:00.002-07:002014-07-05T14:57:20.968-07:00Letter from Miriam, Robert F. Winne's mother, during World War II<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Robert F. Winne before he went into the army</div>
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(This post is written by Lise Winne, Robert F. Winne's daughter)</div>
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There are many letters that my father wrote home during World War II. However there is only one that exists from his mother, Miriam, during that time. The following is her letter to her son (Robert). Some of the names of his friends who stayed behind in the USA and what they were doing have been edited out (with the exception of <a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/democratandchronicle/obituary.aspx?n=charles-h-meinhold&pid=155262831&fhid=13366">Charlie Meinhold</a>, a close friend, also deceased, who my father went to <a href="https://farmandwilderness.org/">Farm and Wilderness Camp</a> with the first summer that it opened). Names of people who are still living I have referred to by initials to protect their privacy. </div>
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<i>Jan 7, 1945<br /><br />Dear Bob,<br /><br />Last night I wrote you a long letter and then tore it up. Frankly, I am so frantic with worrying about you I can’t write coherently. Your last letter to us was dated Nov. 28 and with the mails so slow from the European area I can well understand why we have not heard since. Of course we did get your cable and flowers which meant so much to us. But now the terrible news of the big German offensive has thrown me into a panic. The paper states that the 75th Division is with the First Army fighting in Belgium against terrible odds, blizzards, eighteen inches of snow, etc, etc. You can well understand how I feel as I do; mothers are made that way, you know. This waiting and wondering is awful so if I really let myself go this letter will not make very cheerful reading.<br /><br />Your watch came this week and you surely did a good job packing it. What a shame it had to act up when you are out of this country. I should say the main spring was broken and that will happen to the best watch made. <b>A</b> took it into Mr. Ring and I will send it back to you as soon as I can.<br /><br /><b>A</b> left for school today. It has not been a very exciting holiday for her, but it has been a vacation and she has seemed very contented just being home ... The girls have had a lot of hen parties and (<b>A</b>'s friend) has written that she has not had any dates either in Atlanta. (a boy interested in <b>A</b>) was here for a week but <b>A</b> does not consider him a date. (a boy in interested in <b>A</b>) —boy has not changed a bit so I hope the army will do something for him. He expects to go in Jan 10 ...<br /><br />We have been snowed in again – this time the fourth big storm and they have all been paralyzing. Even the trains could not get thru Buffalo this week, to say nothing of buses and cars. It seems as tho your father has been home more this last month than in months – simply because he could not get out of town. You simply can’t imagine the amount snow we have – I never saw anything like it in my sixty years on earth. You see I am no longer forty – this war is getting me down. I guess we can take the snow and sub-zero weather tho when you boys must fight in the worst kind of weather.<br /><br />Charlie Meinhold came to see us when he was home for Christmas. The lucky guy is at the U. of Maryland and seems to like his work in dentistry very much. <br /><br />(A friend who was a fellow musician) is back at the Eastman School taking the public school music course.<br /><br />We had a very quiet New Year’s eve and it suited me fine as I can’t say we feel much in the mode for celebrating ... We had a nice supper at midnight and wished for a better 1945 with you and (friend serving in the Pacific) safely home by another New Year’s eve.<br /><br /><b>A</b> spent most of New Year’s eve and most of the next day in bed – too much candy and stuff. (a boy interested in <b>A</b>) sat with her awhile which must have been exciting but she did not miss any parties and she didn’t feel too bad.<br /><br />I am glad the holidays are over but I shall miss <b>A</b>.<br /><br />(a friend in military training in Texas) wrote his mother the first gloomy letter this week. The weather has been as bad in Texas. He is afraid their training will be prolonged for another month. Of course, his mother is tickled to death that he will be in training that much longer.<br /><br />Did I tell you that (a friend) was killed in a plane accident at Westover field? He was first commissioned and looked so well in his new uniform, had lost a lot of weight too. He had only been at Westover field a few days after being home on leave, when he was killed.<br /><br />I do hope we get some word from you but I suppose that is too much to expect. Just communicate with us in any way you can whenever you can. I keep writing and probably by June you will get all my letters at once.<br /><br />How I do hope we hear from you soon!<br /><br />Best love<br /><br />Mother</i><br />
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Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-5630012981166497122014-06-28T19:15:00.001-07:002014-06-28T19:34:32.048-07:00the role of Larry Kagan in our lives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Larry Kagan Sculpture with Cast Shadow</div>
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(please note, if you are new to this blog, Robert F. Winne is my father and I am his daughter writing this post).<br />
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Today I went to a <a href="http://larrykagansculpture.com/"><b>Larry Kagan</b> </a>exhibit at a prestigious museum in my area. If any of you saw <a href="http://robertfwinne.blogspot.com/2013/12/introduction.html">the first post</a> on this blog, Larry Kagan was my father's colleague at RPI (Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute). Larry was also my first drawing teacher. My father sat in on some workshops Larry taught as well.</div>
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As I looked through Larry's pieces in the show, I wished my father was with me to see the direction Larry went with his art (and sometimes I could just about hear my father say, "Oh, my goodness! So interesting ... and so well done!"). Indeed, it is a unique direction! </div>
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Larry makes art that makes shadows. They are abstract sculptures that are screwed to the wall to make another image (in shadow) that is realistic, recognizable and common. There is usually one light coming in a certain direction to make the image.</div>
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Here is a video I saw on You Tube that describes his process:</div>
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As for art lessons with Larry? My father loved lessons about "free-ing up the hand" to make spontaneous liberating drawings, usually of figures (as an architect he was expected to make very tight precise drawings all day, so you can imagine this was a breath of fresh air). </div>
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As for me? I remember drawing in the boiler room with a lot of pipes in tangles. That would have appealed to my sense of intricacy. </div>
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Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-56732542481165511242014-06-25T08:59:00.001-07:002014-06-25T11:58:23.517-07:00the role of Albert Bigelow in our lives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwv_FaGB71MZeQVeTaomdu6yOkUzjSQjrO8pSUlrjp9YAThBeHobCHyhZnbq1JAp05FWz_65ibClizA5MO9kXz8D8y2CASPWPxN0MLLuG8i0_LIYYBBi-7aZV7Ny5x71Sqm1f_9n-G9-u/s1600/Albert+Bigelow+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwv_FaGB71MZeQVeTaomdu6yOkUzjSQjrO8pSUlrjp9YAThBeHobCHyhZnbq1JAp05FWz_65ibClizA5MO9kXz8D8y2CASPWPxN0MLLuG8i0_LIYYBBi-7aZV7Ny5x71Sqm1f_9n-G9-u/s1600/Albert+Bigelow+.jpg" /></a></div>
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Albert Bigelow's obituary from The New York Times</div>
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with my father's handwriting in the corner</div>
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One time I asked my father (Robert F. Winne) who he liked and admired most from my mother's side of the family and he said without hesitation, "<b><a href="https://www.google.com/search?gs_rn=48&gs_ri=psy-ab&cp=6&gs_id=p&xhr=t&q=new+urbanism&es_nrs=true&pf=p&output=search&sclient=psy-ab&rlz=1C2OPRB_enUS566US566&oq=new+ur&gs_l=&pbx=1&biw=1152&bih=763&dpr=1&cad=cbv&sei=GdqqU8qeM8WYyAS70YH">Bert Bigelow</a></b>".</div>
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It is easy to see why my father would have a special place in his heart for my Uncle Bert. For one, my uncle did not judge people based on hearsay (and there were a lot of false stories circulating about my father in the family at that time). I saw my uncle quite a bit because he was the trustee of the school I attended, and some of my one-to-one conversations with him were about my father and how much they had in common. </div>
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My parents were divorced at the time, so my father would often come to the school on his own to visit or on one of the drives for my school breaks and we would run into my uncle. My uncle took us out for lunch a couple of times and he and my father would have long talks about architecture (they were both architects with a similar philosophy, aka <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Urbanism" style="font-weight: bold;">The New Urbanist Movement</a><b> </b>...<b> </b>Uncle Bert, in fact, helped with a Massachusetts government sponsored project to build low-cost housing for veterans). Although my uncle had long since moved on to a life as a painter by that time, he was interested in my fathers perspectives about humane buildings and civic design, and indeed, Uncle Bert asked to see some of his projects and send materials in the mail. I have no idea whether written correspondences went beyond that, but I wouldn't be surprised. They seemed like kindred spirits.</div>
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In many ways, their lives followed similar paths and interests.</div>
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Uncle Bert served as a navy lieutenant commander aboard destroyer escorts in the Pacific during World War II. He became disgusted with war, and in the early 1950s became a Quaker (upon reading the teachings of Mahatma Gandhi).</div>
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My father went the same path (even with the reading of Gandhi) except he became a Quaker sooner, and served as a common soldier in the German theater and fought in the Battle of the Bulge.</div>
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Both also became active in causes. My father's causes were mostly civic (protesting in town halls), though he did join and support some national causes too ... whereas my uncle's causes were mostly national (protesting nuclear weapons, chemical weapons and being active in civil rights causes), though he did join and support some civic causes too. </div>
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Uncle Bert can be seen in the <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/freedomriders/" style="font-weight: bold;">PBS series about the Freedom Riders</a> ... or you can hear his name mentioned in the Democratic National Convention<b> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uWuhPU6GkZM&sns=em">in this video</a>. </b>He<b> </b>is also mentioned in Black History Month <a href="http://ivy50.com/blackhistory/story.aspx?sid=3%2F11%2F2009" style="font-weight: bold;">in this issue</a>.</div>
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As for me? Although I saw him as a child at his house and my Great Grandmother's house on Cape Cod, it wasn't until highschool where I forged a meaningful deep connection with him. He sent letters and cards to me up until he died with the greeting, "Dear Twin". I think we may have been twins in more ways than one. </div>
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He was a teetotaler (like I am) and major events at his house were alcohol-free. I remember talking with him about alcohol on a few occasions. He flatly said, "Alcohol is poison" as he was pouring juice into a glass from a punch bowl at a wedding. When I pressed on about the subject, he said it poisons the body, the spirit, the morals and the drive to do anything useful for humanity (keeps one stuck in narcissistic concerns). I have come to a similar viewpoint, at least where it concerns an active addiction. </div>
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The obvious artist connection is there too (my art and music blog is <a href="http://lisewinne.blogspot.com/" style="font-weight: bold;">here</a>).<b> </b> </div>
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And as with him, I look up to Gandhi and Martin Luther King, and don't back down from injustices and immoral policies easily.</div>
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If I were to pick a member I admired the most from my family on my mother's side who I personally knew, it would be Albert Bigelow too. </div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-44774513408123155622014-05-15T16:56:00.000-07:002014-05-15T16:56:44.275-07:00Mary, a drawing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgztuU8KgIrQuZGIHNxcZCyASh6K_7WN-skFTvDmYxYT0r2Ctr6ml127ne-wrlvyK_H6Yc6wZa_ozjj2xPSzMzniLjaKoO0g6rdqN7uuU83KNVfXGNWC4-dFdz_TCxGqJFz7FYwiwKC2yr/s1600/RFW+drawing+first+wife.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgztuU8KgIrQuZGIHNxcZCyASh6K_7WN-skFTvDmYxYT0r2Ctr6ml127ne-wrlvyK_H6Yc6wZa_ozjj2xPSzMzniLjaKoO0g6rdqN7uuU83KNVfXGNWC4-dFdz_TCxGqJFz7FYwiwKC2yr/s1600/RFW+drawing+first+wife.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b style="background-color: white;">Mary</b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">drawing by Robert F. Winne </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">(note: this is an old drawing, possibly from the 1960s ... the paper is getting fragile, very yellowed and faded and it is on letter paper, not on acid free drawing paper)</span></div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-59732302472958111652014-05-01T11:00:00.000-07:002014-05-01T11:00:31.486-07:00a thought for today and a blessing for Robert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuv7Y0svSbe2EgRt-vuSBksmQhd-o4jEFj_AmIB5dfCdD6LyPMAATIokHDVxJEOxbh6NELteeWd5LdyLupitQOwbJ_ZyxwlQShe3Hi8YegnVUHHA5EUUh1UnEKCW_AyMQfocrLb3TV0E6/s1600/created+to+be+victorious.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuv7Y0svSbe2EgRt-vuSBksmQhd-o4jEFj_AmIB5dfCdD6LyPMAATIokHDVxJEOxbh6NELteeWd5LdyLupitQOwbJ_ZyxwlQShe3Hi8YegnVUHHA5EUUh1UnEKCW_AyMQfocrLb3TV0E6/s1600/created+to+be+victorious.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>A loving thought for my father, Robert, today</b></div>
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all applies except for the word "guilty" (he knew better)</div>
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photo by unknown <span style="font-size: x-small;">(found in a Facebook feed)</span></div>
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love forever</div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-16672833132512546982014-04-27T09:08:00.001-07:002014-04-27T09:14:35.264-07:00Robert F. Winne drawer unit repainted (and dealing with grief)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRn9Xco9KbfQlC_TvjJjFjp_nAiyrHw9Q2zshGkmPVl4Kac9Atu3K7kQjggxYKnH7YQd06WnWR3XxRGWUaVBYqqYM6ND0MMkBj3tEp4G9cdw7writ1hoyP3a_K4BsJn3ohaRsUylbOKgxq/s1600/Cabinet+for+Dood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRn9Xco9KbfQlC_TvjJjFjp_nAiyrHw9Q2zshGkmPVl4Kac9Atu3K7kQjggxYKnH7YQd06WnWR3XxRGWUaVBYqqYM6ND0MMkBj3tEp4G9cdw7writ1hoyP3a_K4BsJn3ohaRsUylbOKgxq/s1600/Cabinet+for+Dood.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #783f04;">Plywood Camping drawer unit made by Robert F. Winne</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #783f04;">(he used to take this on camping trips to Cape Cod to store matches, writing utensils, swimming goggles, mini flashlights, et al)</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #783f04;">repainted by Lise Winne (his daughter) to help her through the grieving process of losing her dad (or Dood, as he was called by his children and grandchildren)</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #783f04;">This drawer unit is in use in Lise Winne's studio</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #783f04;">Each drawer has art supplies in it at the moment to help Lise get inspired and to help her feel that her inspirations come through her father</span></b></div>
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I was responding to a friend on Facebook who was going through a soul crushing experience with grief at losing the love of her life. </div>
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This was my advice: What I do in dealing with the grief is wear his shirts (been wearing them since he passed away), reading his "I love you" notes to me, reading some of the many papers he left behind, contemplating how he would view an experience (which happens to be most of the time), researching subjects thoroughly (which he also liked to do), painting commemorative pieces (which this drawer unit is just one example), trying to live by his example, trying to love others the way he had loved me, thinking about him in challenging situations and what kind of guidance he would give me. When I feel like I can't live without him, I just don't: I live with him in my mind and spirit, even through mundane life experiences, and particularly while I am creating art.</div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-90225113772565088332014-04-24T05:52:00.000-07:002014-04-24T05:54:14.685-07:00A favorite photo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8kDs9V3LBn01hoOrY7i_co85EGsROzDryc80Wgd11jwIMwyoDmG5qPsmQLR3KnTFnR7o3HjtdFlEosV-JBv5UzwcufpvfsCWCjDPP4eoWimSdHMZbrTedvOKtpnPTaW_UGP2n3zCb10P/s1600/Bob+Winne+fav+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8kDs9V3LBn01hoOrY7i_co85EGsROzDryc80Wgd11jwIMwyoDmG5qPsmQLR3KnTFnR7o3HjtdFlEosV-JBv5UzwcufpvfsCWCjDPP4eoWimSdHMZbrTedvOKtpnPTaW_UGP2n3zCb10P/s1600/Bob+Winne+fav+pic.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Robert F. Winne in his sixties</b></div>
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<b>at Cape Cod</b></div>
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Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-33836745808684058472014-04-22T15:43:00.000-07:002014-04-22T15:43:42.346-07:00Commemorative Art: Robert F. Winne and Lise Winne art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCjXEQkhInU-Hq1OcVv4DBTgge9ZiMD8Vl5lgUii8U9fa55CISZ8fDFKNI1dP8gX0x6lm85ynf5__kjwD-Uc-ZyIknlhyphenhyphenZVZykwDCBLmd4_OUzvP3LBftU0etz6v6-GL1PuFREpA-ZbT06/s1600/Robert+and+Lise+Winne+pattern+art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCjXEQkhInU-Hq1OcVv4DBTgge9ZiMD8Vl5lgUii8U9fa55CISZ8fDFKNI1dP8gX0x6lm85ynf5__kjwD-Uc-ZyIknlhyphenhyphenZVZykwDCBLmd4_OUzvP3LBftU0etz6v6-GL1PuFREpA-ZbT06/s1600/Robert+and+Lise+Winne+pattern+art.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Robert F. Winne and Lise Winne pattern art</b></div>
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<b>© 2014</b></div>
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Robert F. Winne (father): center art</div>
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Lise Winne (daughter): complementary border</div>
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commemorative art for the one year anniversary of Robert F. Winne's passing</div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8298680769185051624.post-62703334785140676642014-04-09T20:07:00.000-07:002014-04-09T20:08:31.170-07:00RPI faculty meeting sketch doodles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1mO0WL-0kWrVzoun0CoDOULt2BBIAiNljoq3uRFhbLqEdXzId5HQRV2hoPy-dn6l8XqW6hKHsNxGW4D86vRg_Yle5Zh0C5sctPFlprw-CGKhPOVxR28Vx4PCz6ssGPzJ5oSII0vgsV5hK/s1600/RPI+Winne+sketch+doodle+I+c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1mO0WL-0kWrVzoun0CoDOULt2BBIAiNljoq3uRFhbLqEdXzId5HQRV2hoPy-dn6l8XqW6hKHsNxGW4D86vRg_Yle5Zh0C5sctPFlprw-CGKhPOVxR28Vx4PCz6ssGPzJ5oSII0vgsV5hK/s1600/RPI+Winne+sketch+doodle+I+c.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAlOJVji1xLHd2J8yJhBAOnzSOsRufnUaU86Wu_xWAG6ahTcwp8AYmuclC68jt-02LhVLiAoc9twF4fG4JrkMAY2YXDsCBVazrJXLi6QZCiK6stkNo_okpn6snrDDSEdj7HOv-2a7Qq5s-/s1600/RPI+Winne+sketch+doodle+II+c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAlOJVji1xLHd2J8yJhBAOnzSOsRufnUaU86Wu_xWAG6ahTcwp8AYmuclC68jt-02LhVLiAoc9twF4fG4JrkMAY2YXDsCBVazrJXLi6QZCiK6stkNo_okpn6snrDDSEdj7HOv-2a7Qq5s-/s1600/RPI+Winne+sketch+doodle+II+c.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #7f6000;">RPI faculty meeting sketch doodles I and II</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #7f6000;">by Robert F. Winne</span></b></div>
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Professor Winne has a lot of little doodles he made during faculty meetings at R.P.I. These are just two of them out of around 150 of them. </div>
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Was he bored at these meetings? If he was like me (which I suspect he was, since I am his daughter and I am an artist too), doodling actually enhances concentration on what is being said at the meetings. It is like knitting, creating fun little patterns.</div>
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I like how his pen moves around or inbetween the RPI emblem and words on the page.</div>
Lisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06266942951190435796noreply@blogger.com0