Hot Air

 

Hot Air

travel memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

          The desert moon had not yet set onto the west horizon when Gretta and I walked across the resort grounds. We were like kids on Christmas morning, wide-eyed and ready for our sunrise balloon ride above the desert. I gazed at a nearby peak, and could see the hikers’ helmet lamps as they climbed in the dark. It wasn’t yet 6:30, the time the balloon service said they would pick us up.

           The driver and van pulled into the resort and we started to buckle the seat belts in the dark, but some of the belts were missing. Hmm. I’d hoped everything would be top-notch with this outfit. Details are important. This company is going to dangle us thousands of feet above the earth. The driver patiently threaded the belts through the seat so that we could get strapped into the van, and we were on our way.

          Phoenix was beginning to wake up. The busses were running and traffic was picking up on the thoroughfares. I noticed a large advertisement at one of the bus stops, identifying a local personal-injury and accident lawyer. The thought crossed my mind to write the number, just in case we survived a balloon mishap. Once onto the freeways, which were clogged with incoming traffic, we sped out of the city to a rendezvous point where we picked up more passengers. Our final leg of the van journey took us to Anthem, Arizona north of Phoenix amongst the barren patches of desert and miscellaneous mountains.

          I noticed we were following a truck, which had the balloon and basket packed in the back. They turned onto a frontage road that soon changed to dirt and then became little more than a jeep trail. All of a sudden, the van driver had his hands full, just keeping us moving and upright. We started glancing at each other in the van as we jostled and bounced along.  

          Gretta spoke out, “The van ride must be part of the adventure!”

Inflating the balloon

 

          After a couple of miles, the dusty landscape made it seem like we were on the surface of the moon. Wild burros peered over the cactus scrub to see what was causing the commotion. The crew hopped out of the truck and began to unpack and inflate the balloon. They jockeyed the 1200-pound basket to the ground, began unrolling the fabric of the 900-pound balloon, and cranked up the engines on large fans to blow the desert air into the fabric corridor. The balloon began to inflate, and a giant flying unicorn appeared on the side. Yes, Virginia, Unicorns do fly! When it was three-quarters full, the pilot fired up the burners and the balloon slowly tilted upright.

Unicorns do fly!

 

          “Everyone come on over and climb into the basket,” announced Tommy our pilot. There were twelve of us, plus Tommy, and he positioned us to balance out the load. I was lucky and was able to stand at the corner of the basket.

          “How long have you been flying balloons?” asked one of the passengers.

          “Oh, about three days,” Tommy replied. Then he grinned and began a big belly laugh. Actually, his title was Key Pilot. He was an expert who was allowed to fly all thirteen balloons owned by the company. Hmm, thirteen balloons — an odd, disconcerting number.

          “Now everybody listen up. This is the most important instruction that I’m going to give you,” shouted Tommy. Then he hit the burner switch. During the blast noise, we couldn’t hear a word he said. He turned off the switch and began to laugh again. “Enjoy the flight!”

          With more blasts from the burner, we began to slide along the ground. Finally, the balloon and basket lifted into the air. Everything was quiet while we watched the shadow of the giant balloon get smaller. It was so peaceful we began to whisper as we spoke.
 

          Tommy told us the balloon held 275,000 cubic feet of air, and cost about $180,000. The company had a larger balloon, almost twice the size of the one we were riding. It had a basket that held twenty people.

          It was hard to perceive we were even moving, but we began to see the haze on the ground, and noticed the mountains below us. Our ears popped as we moved upward. Someone pointed out a small airplane flying below. Tommy said we were at about 4,000 ft. altitude, or about a half mile above the desert floor.

High above the Arizona desert

 

          A big complex came into view on the other side of a mountain. “What’s that?” someone asked.

          “That’s a federal prison for white collar criminals,” Tommy said.

          I leaned my head outside the basket and peered straight down as the complex passed beneath us. Glad I’m up here and not down there.

          Pop. Pop. Pop. The noise began echoing off the mountains.

          “What’s that?” another person asked.

          “That’s the prison guards practicing at the target range.” Tommy chuckled with a big smile, “I’m sure the prisoners can hear them shooting.”

A federal prison below us

 

          Someone else pointed to a lake to the west. “What lake is that?” they asked.

          “That’s a reservoir called Lake Pleasant.”

          During our flight, which lasted about an hour, I felt removed from the madness of the world below. Everyone in the basket seemed relaxed, as hushed conversations transpired between one another. I could see the cars on the interstate, traveling towards the traffic jams in Phoenix. The sun had risen through the haze, and I noticed another hot-air balloon several miles away. The breeze was very slight, so we only traveled about five miles before the pilot began to look for his landing site.

Looking for a landing site

 

          We noticed how the wind blew from different directions at different altitudes, and Tommy seemed to be an expert at guiding the balloon to the area he picked for the landing. There was one small detail that concerned me. Power lines crossed the landing field in both directions.

           He announced, “We’re going to cross over Carefree Highway and drop down on the other side. I’m not yet sure on which side of the power lines we’ll land.” He radioed to the chase crew and told them to head into the field.

           Carefree Highway . . . near Lake Pleasant . . . it sounds like a peaceful place for a balloon accident.

          The winds were almost calm as we dropped lower towards the field. Coyotes began to scatter.

          “Bee-hive, bee-hive,” Tommy radioed the crew, “that’s where we’ll land.”

          I noticed some old bee-keeper’s boxes stacked in a clearing in the cactus — on the OTHER side of the power lines. The trucks raced to the clearing and the crew jumped out. We passed over the power lines by about thirty feet and the scrubby plants became visibly closer to the bottom of the basket. The other side of the basket scraped and cracked against a dead branch of Cholla cactus, just as the crew grabbed the sides. The plop to the ground was almost imperceptible. We were ten feet from the van. Pretty good, I thought.

Floating past the power lines

 

          Mother earth, beneath our feet once again! I’m alive!

          The desert clearing took on a party atmosphere as the crew set up tables and we ate a gourmet breakfast of quiche, apples and Gouda cheese. We savored the moment while Tommy gave us a champagne toast and recited the balloonist’s prayer:

“The winds have welcomed you with softness.

The sun has blessed you with his warm hands.

You have flown so well and so high,

That God has joined you in your laughter

And set you gently back again

into the loving arms of Mother Earth.”

          Nice prayer. Hmm, I’m also glad I said a silent prayer BEFORE we lifted off!

Sunrise breakfast on the desert

 

Roadside Gems

 

Roadside Gems

memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

           The air in the car was stuffy and smelly. I was bored, and already tired of the family vacation trip to Minnesota. All I could see was Iowa corn in every direction, and I was getting a headache from smelling my brothers and the diesel fumes from the trucks on the highway. We were shoulder to shoulder in the back seat, where our arms and hands were always moving . . . a shove here, a pinch or a poke there. We had to learn to take it like a man and be quiet, lest we alert Mom and Dad to a problem. If that happened, Dad would reach his arm to the back, grab one of us without taking his eyes off the road, and shout “Hey, let’s cut it out back there! Do you want me to stop?”

          At least there was a two-out-of-three chance to get a window seat. The best seat was the rear right side. Although it was still within Dad’s reach, I liked it because the signs and the billboards along the roadside were a relief to the boredom. In the ’50s and early ’60s there were no Interstate highways. I-35 did not exist. The signs and the farms were closer to the road, and the 60 mile-per-hour speed limit was much slower than today. Iowa seemed prettier than the dusty-brown Kansas countryside. The barns were red, the corn was green and the trees were lush along the rivers and creeks.

          There was something that sparked my interest in the colorful metal signs tacked to the fences and the barns . . . Chief Paints . . . DeKalb . . . United Hybrids . . . Mail Pouch Tobacco. They were cheery-looking and colorful, even when it rained. The billboards were a detective’s exercise. I always tried to guess the size of the town or city just by reading the signs. Was it a business town or a tourist town? Big or small? If there were more than two farm implement dealers, I knew it was a big town. All I had to do was read the billboards . . . International Harvester . . . John Deere . . . McCormick-Farmall . . . Case. All types of signs were fascinating to me.

 

 

          “Here come the Burma-Shave signs!” I shouted. Everyone, including Mom and Dad in the front seat, focused on the series of small signs next to the corn field. We all read them in unison – kind of a family bonding experience.

          At a quiz
          Pa ain’t
          No whiz
          But he knows how
          To keep Ma his
          Burma-Shave

          After laughs and snickers, my little brother, Tim, blurted out, “I don’t get it.” More laughs and snickers.

           Dad tried to make him feel better. “Tim, I think we have another state on the car tag ahead. Can you make it out? What is it?”

           Tim had the best seat from the rear to see between Mom and Dad and spy the tag on the car ahead. “I-L-L-I-N-O-I-S . . . Illinoise!” More laughs and snickers.
          Mom correctly pronounced the state for Tim, "Ill-i-noy. Land of Lincoln."

          Tim whined, “I’m thirsty.”

          Dad responded, “I need to stop for gas soon. We’ll see what we can find.”

          We all chimed in: “Can I get a bottle a pop? How about a Baby Ruth or a Pay Day? Do they have bathrooms? Let’s look for an A&W!”

          “We’ll see what’s in town,” said Mom, “We’ll find a restroom, but there’s not a prayer it'll be clean.” She pulled out some towelette packets from the glove box. “Here, use these when you are finished."

          Dad browsed the gas stations as we rolled into town, always looking for a place selling discount gas. If he didn’t find the cheap station, he would grudgingly pull into a Standard station. Stopping for a break was pure excitement for me. It was a chance to see new things, new places. My brothers and I would latch ourselves inside the tiny gas station bathrooms. We’d try every faucet handle and flush lever, just to see what worked. The faucets dripped and the porcelain lavatories were most always stained. The most fun was pulling on the cloth that “sanitized” itself as it looped through the box on the wall.

          If we were lucky, Mom would give each of us a dime for a bottle of pop. She was the keeper of the purse on our road trips. After every stop, she pulled out a small pad and pencil from the glove box and recorded every expenditure, no matter how large or small.

          The variety of soda-pop machines was interesting. Some were chest coolers that required the buyer to slide the bottle to the corner and pull it through a release mechanism. Others had a narrow vertical glass door, behind which the bottle caps were visible on the first bottle of each row. The buyer had to pull the bottle through the hole. Cans didn’t exist. I always looked for my favorite flavors: Nu-Grape or Mission Orange. My brothers and I made sure to put our fingers in all of the coin-return slots on all the vending machines. Free coins were like gold nuggets. When Mom and Dad weren't looking, we'd pull the chrome knobs on the cigarette machine, just for the fun of it.

          If we were really lucky, we might see a mechanic raise a car on the lift or watch him remove a wheel and tire from a truck.  The smell of grease and gasoline along with the taste of the candy and pop was close to sensory overload. It was rare to get a whole bottle of pop to myself. That fact alone created a vacation atmosphere. All around the gas station were more colorful signs for tires, batteries, oil additives, soda pop, cigarettes . . .Good-year . . . Bardahl . . . Royal Crown Cola . . . Seven-UP . . . Camel.

 

 

 

         
          All too soon, Dad would make us put our empty bottles in the slots in the wooden cases stacked next to the pop machine and herd us back to the car. I’d look at the nearby neighborhood bungalows and wonder what it would be like to live so close to a gas station. That would be cool, only if there were playgrounds and swimming pools nearby.

          Mom made us select a different location in the back seat just for change’s sake, and off we’d go down the road. I kept looking for colorful signs in northern Iowa. As we approached the border, I would look for the Leaving Iowa sign as we passed a perpendicular fence or dirt road, then we’d see the Welcome to Minnesota sign. I thought of the state lines shown on the maps at school, and I imagined a big black line painted on the ground or in the middle of the road we passed.

          Once we were in Minnesota, the anticipation began to build to see my cousins at White Bear Lake. I looked out the car window, but it still looked like Iowa. I didn’t see any lakes or forests, yet. I always looked for the first sign in Minnesota that had Larson on it. Sometimes it was an advertisement for Larson Outboard Motors. Other times a billboard would have the name of Larson Insurance or Larson Hardware.

          We kept getting closer to our destination and I was bursting with excitement. I wanted to run barefoot through the clover all the way to the dock and the beach at the lake, and ride the sailboat or splash in the water, but first we had to drive through Minneapolis and St. Paul.

          “Look over there, kids,” Mom pointed to a funny small building on a street in Minneapolis. “That was the first White Castle burger stand.”   The white castle-like building attracted the attention of passersby. It was a symbol, or a sign of sorts.


Original Minneapolis White Castle
Image on Wikipedia

          There was plenty to look at in the city, but I didn’t care by that time on the trip. I was locked in to the destination. I wanted to run free, to get some space between me and my brothers. Besides, there would be plenty of time to look at signs on the return trip home.

 

Wagner's Christmas Present: Siegfried Idyll

Lake Lucerne, Switzerland

listen to Siegfried Idyll: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=891JUSQplzU

Wagner's Christmas Present: Siegfried Idyll

essay

by Greg Larson

           I leaned out the dormer window on the top floor of the historic waterfront Hotel des Alpes in Lucerne, Switzerland, to view a panoramic sweep of the landscape. The radiant morning sun was a gift, creating sparkles and reflections from the placid surface of Lake Lucerne. The city was coming to life, and the lofty Alps created a hazy backdrop to the Chapel Bridge and the Reuss River directly below. It was a grand view to wake up to on our 2014 overnight trip to Lucerne. 

Hotel des Alpes, Lucerne, Switzerland

          Gretta tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a tourist map. “Where would you like to go this morning? We have enough time to do some more exploring before we have to board our boat.”

          I perused the pictorial map — the type with color drawings of the points of interest positioned on hand-drawn streets — and noticed a small museum in a historical structure, located near the shore of Lake Lucerne, just outside of the downtown. Then I viewed the index: Number 38 . . . Richard Wagner Museum. I turned to Gretta, “There’s a Wagner Museum along the shore. At least we can’t get lost. It would be a nice walk, and it doesn’t look too far.”

          Gretta flipped some pages in her Rick Steves travel book. “It says it’s only a ten minute walk. Let’s go.”

          We paced briskly over the river bridge, past the train station, and the boat landings. During the ten minute walk we passed a park, a tour bus parking lot, and a maritime museum, then noticed we were in the middle of some type of campus. College students were sketching each other along with the plants and the wild grass on the campus grounds. There were no signs directing us to the museum, and it seemed we were lost, but we exited the campus and kept following the sidewalks to stay close to the lakeshore while attempting to keep a rapid hiking pace. After another ten minutes we came to the end of the sidewalk path at a local boat dock. A path beyond was not visible. Gretta noticed a man near the docks and asked him, “Entschuldigen Sie.  Wissen Sie wie wir zum Richard Wagner Museum kommen?”

          He replied while pointing up an adjacent road, “Ja.  Gehen Sie diese Straße entlang.  Nach 100 Metern werden Sie ein kleines Schild für das Museum sehen.  Biegen Sie links auf den Pfad der zum Museum führt.  Es ist eine Strecke von nur fünf Minuten.”

          “Danke schön.”

          “Bitte.”

          Gretta turned to me, “He says we’re close. We’re supposed to go up that road to the opening in the woods. There will be a small sign and a path to the museum. It’s about five minutes from that point.”

          Following his directions, we entered the dense woods which eventually opened up near the end of a peninsula, with the tidy-looking Richard Wagner Museum directly in front of us.



Richard Wagner Museum - Tribschen

           “This looks like a historical house . . . a residence.” We slowed our pace and walked up to some points-of-interest plaques.

          Then something clicked as I looked at the surroundings. “Hey, is this where Wagner gave the Christmas present to his wife?” I looked at Gretta with amazement. “Remember the story the symphony conductor told us at the concert last December?”


           The associate conductor for the Kansas City Symphony, Aram Demirjian, had shared with the audience a poignant Christmas story regarding Wagner and his wife, Cosima, when they lived in Switzerland, in a house named Tribschen. Wagner rented the house in 1866 for a year, and he and Cosima were happy there, so they stayed for six years. While they lived in Tribschen, Wagner wrote a simple piece of music, a symphonic poem, titled Siegfried Idyll, named for their youngest son, born in 1869.

Richard Wagner (1813-1883)

          Richard Wagner (1813-1883), a complex man with a big ego, was known for saying, “I believe in God and Beethoven.”  His music is noted for its fullness and grandiosity, but Siegfried Idyll is different from the typical Wagner fare. It is subdued and sensual, with a peaceful nature. His intent was for the opening of the piece to represent a sunrise on Lake Lucerne. The grandiosity attempts to break out now and then, but Wagner quickly tamps down the fullness to create a deep feeling of peacefulness.

          The music was written for thirteen instruments, something suited for a chamber orchestra. It was also written as a private gift to Cosima — a gift that was presented as a surprise birthday present on Christmas day.  Wagner completed the music in early December and then had a chamber orchestra practice the piece. He convinced the musicians to come to his house before sunrise on Christmas and secreted them onto the main staircase. As the morning arrived, while Cosima was still in bed, the orchestra began to play Siegfried Idyll.

          Cosima wrote in her diary, “As I awoke, my ear caught a sound, which swelled fuller and fuller; no longer could I imagine myself to be dreaming: music was sounding, and such music! When it died away, Richard came into my room with the children and offered me the score of the symphonic birthday poem. I was in tears, but so were all the rest of the household. Richard had arranged his orchestra on the staircase, and thus was our Tribschen consecrated forever.”



The staircase at Tribschen

           On the June morning in 2014, Gretta and I entered the museum, and before us lay the staircase. It looked much smaller than I had imagined, but I could picture the orchestra strategically placed upon the steps and the landings. Inside the museum, we found parts of the original music score displayed inside a glass-topped case. Other pieces of interest were Wagner’s cape and beret, as well as historical photos of some of theatrical sets and divas from Wagner’s operas.

          We climbed the staircase and peered out the big windows to view the Alps and Lake Lucerne. I could picture a quiet, crisp morning with the sunrise highlighting the surrounding peaks. For a moment I heard the violins in my mind, softly swelling at the beginning of Siegfried Idyll, and imagined a blanket of snow outside, with Cosima in the bedroom awakening beneath her blankets on Christmas morning to the music on the staircase.

          The Christmas of 1870 was a happy moment in Wagner’s eccentric life. His move to Tribschen was to escape creditors in Germany. Wagner was favored as a composer by King Ludwig II of Bavaria, who became his benefactor and paid Wagner’s debts, but eventually Ludwig’s political and personal problems prevented him from continuing the patronage.

          After their time in the house on Lake Lucerne, Wagner’s debts rose again. Much to Cosima’s dismay, he wrote a second score of Siegfried Idyll for a larger orchestra, and sold it to be played at public performances.

          Although there was much strife and stress in Wagner’s life, for a moment on the peaceful Christmas morning of 1870, all seemed right with the world when strains of Siegfried Idyll wafted up the staircase.

Richard Wagner Museum - Tribschen

Sources:

http://www.richard-wagner-museum.ch/de/index/index.php
http://www.favorite-classical-composers.com/richard-wagner.html
http://www.chamberorchestrasa.org/siegfried-idyll-richard-wagner

The Royals Rock On!

Baseball fans stream into Kauffman Stadum for World Series Game #2

The Royals Rock On!

memoir

by Greg Larson

           The Kansas City Royals baseball fans have endured a twenty-nine year drought of mediocre baseball. With the team’s postseason winning streak of eight games, and the World Series underway, the drought has officially ended. The Royals fans now wear their blue gear with pride.

          For years, if anyone ventured out to a Royals game it was usually to go on a family outing or field trip with the office gang, just to be sociable. Kauffman Stadium, the “K,” was upgraded in 2009 to lure more people into the park. Yes, the restrooms and shops are bigger, the food venues serve gourmet items along with wine, beer and cocktails, and the park has more flash and dazzle with multiple electronic screens and billboards (they even have mini-golf, a carousel and a ball diamond in a children’s park beyond the outfield). But until recently, the improvements to the park didn’t include the quality of Royal’s baseball. “There’s a ballgame on the field!” someone would say. Imagine that! What a novel idea. “Ah, let’s go hang out on the concourse and eat some chili-cheese nachos with jalapenos.”

          Sporadically, the team improved, especially in the last year. They began to play something that resembled baseball – and they started winning.

          This last August I bought some tickets on Royals.com, and my brother, Dan, and I ventured out to the “K.” It was like the old days at the ballpark, watching players who were good at their sport, and full of energy. The experience stirred memories and emotions I’d had from the ’70s and ’80s. Although the Royals lost to the Twins in ten innings on that night in August, it was good to see real baseball, complete with offense and defense.

          Fast forward to the wildcard game with Oakland – the game with multiple personalities, both literally and figuratively. The Royals came back from a 7-3 deficit in the eighth inning to win in the twelfth inning with a score of 8-9. The Royal’s players showed spunk and moxie. My fan juices began to flow again. I had worn my old 1985 World Series t-shirt to watch the game on TV. That was the good luck charm.

          After that game, I received an email from Royals.com to sign up for a lottery that would give a selected few the chance to buy two tickets to a World Series game at the “K,” if the Royals made it that far in the post-season. I’m not one to gamble or buy lottery tickets, but I signed up online for a chance to go to the World Series, and then I forgot about it.

          On October 13^th, I received an email titled WORLD SERIES TICKET OPPORTUNITY. Sounded like a scam to me, but then I realized it was sent by Royals.com. “Congratulations! You have been selected for the opportunity to purchase two tickets . . .” Holy Moly! This was the real deal. On October 14^th, I was sent a password and a link to a website that put me in a virtual waiting room with all the other lottery winners attempting to purchase tickets. After twenty-five minutes of waiting, I was linked to the ticket-purchase website. Instructions said the tickets had to be purchased in five minutes or I would lose the opportunity.

          The ticket prices were sanctioned by Major League Baseball. I remember the prices varying from approximately $100 for standing-room-only to over $800 for the best seats possible. Then a rash of horror struck me. The ticket selection was color-coded, and I’m color-blind! The clock was ticking. I tried to stay calm. One category was listed as “Hy-Vee box seats,” for $245.00 per ticket. I knew the Hy-Vee grocery stores sponsored the upper-deck, and from past experience, I knew the upper-deck box seats were close to the railing above the infield and along the first and third base lines. Bingo . . . I clicked for the purchase of two tickets to Game #2 and a parking pass. I received a confirmation number for seats in the upper-deck section 413, near home plate. WOO-HOO! (After I bought the tickets to Game #2, I noticed on the internet that tickets in section 413 were selling for $1000 to $1200 apiece).

          It seemed bizarre. I printed the tickets in the privacy of my own home, and kept rubbing my fingers over them. Every so often I would pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I offered the second ticket to my brother, Dan, who is much more knowledgeable about baseball than me.

          The thought of going to the game with Dan brought back memories of my dad taking the two of us to Lawrence Stadium in Wichita, Kansas, in the 1950s to watch the Wichita Braves, Milwaukee’s farm team. I remember smelling the cigar smoke from the crowds, and looking at the stadium lights shining on big players who ran the chalk lines or chased the ball on the neatly trimmed grass. For me, it was the big leagues.

          Another early childhood memory was our tabletop baseball game, a pinball machine. We’d pull back the plunger and watch the ball arch and drop to the pockets for base hits, home runs, or strikeouts. Our teams were selected from Dan’s baseball cards, and we moved the players around the glass top as we scored or made hits. That was the beginning of our interest in baseball, and now we were going to witness, in person, a live World Series game.

Dan and Greg at Game #2 at the "K"

           On October 22, 2014, Dan and I left in the afternoon for the “K.”  We packed the car trunk with tailgate items including food and beverages, and I put the World Series tickets in a big envelope and locked it in the glove box. The 1985 World Series hats I’d pulled from a keepsake box added a nice touch to our blue jeans and Royals sweatshirts.

          The baseball gods delivered perfect weather, with a cool breeze and warm sunshine washing over us in the parking lot. We sipped our beers and kept saying, “It doesn’t get any better than this!”

Pre-game view from our World Series seats

          The party atmosphere pervaded the sports complex from the parking lot to the stadium. Since the Royals lost the first game of the World Series (7-1) on the previous night, the fans were hungry for a win. It was a raucous crowd. The chanting was loud and constant, much like a football game. The crowd screamed on every pitch to the first batter for the San Francisco Giants. The count went full at 3-2, and on the next pitch, he hit a home run. You might have thought the crowd enthusiasm would deflate, but it didn’t. We just kept on screaming as if to will the Royals a win.

Royals fans scream for a San Francisco Giant to strike out

          The Royals scratched out a run in the bottom of the first inning, and we knew it would be a dog fight the rest of the night. With the score tied 2-2 in the bottom of the sixth inning, the Royals put two men on base with a hit and a walk. The crowd was restless and the noise level continued to rise as the designated hitter, Billy Butler, came to the plate. On the third pitch, Billy hit the ball to left field and the crowd exploded as the leading run scored. The Royals kept up the scoring, with the piece de resistance being a two-run homer by Royal’s Omar Infante. By then, the San Francisco pitching had come unglued, the score was 7-2 in favor of the Royals, and the fans were ready to party the night away. Our arms were tired from twirling the souvenir towels we’d been given at the gate, but I didn’t care. This was the big leagues, and our Royals had whumped the San Francisco Giants! Royals manager, Ned Yost, relied on the trademark succession of relief pitchers (Herrara, Davis, and Holland) to wrap up the win.

The Royals team celebrates their win in Game #2

          Game #2 is now etched in my baseball memory. Who knows how long the Royals run will last? Whether or not we win the World Series, I’ll always remember the 2014 Royals, with a roster full of unsung heroes who stepped up to the plate to make a key hit, or an impossible catch . . . a team who played their hearts out for the love of the game.

Asterio Pascolini (1932 - 2014)

An artist with a passion for beauty

memoir and tribute

by Greg Larson



Asterio Pascolini

         Ding! – an email arrived from Asterio Pascolini. I read it and then took a second look. In 2005, it was the first communication I ever received from Asterio. Included in the email was a copy of a photograph I had taken of Gubbio, Italy, during a bike tour. I’d shared some photos with cycling friends at Hallmark, and I discovered that the pictures had been passed on to Asterio, a retired Hallmark artist and photographer, who was born and raised in Italy. A red circle marked a building in the photo, and Asterio included the caption: "I was born in this building!"





Asterio was born in Gubbio, Italy

          Uncanny. What were the odds? We traded emails, and I discovered that Asterio was interested in seeing all of my pictures of the bicycle trip which my wife, Gretta, and I had taken across Italy. We agreed on a date for Asterio and his wife, Barbara, to come and meet us to look at the photos.



          The much anticipated day of our meeting finally came, and we warmly greeted the guests into our home.

           Asterio’s soft voice and Barbara’s gentle manner made us feel at ease.

          With a big smile and a twinkle in his eye, he handed me a manila envelope. “Here is something I want you to have.”  As I began to open it, he continued, “I brought you a print of a watercolor painting of mine. It is of Sorano, Italy . . . you may not be familiar with it because it is a small town off the beaten path.”
          I looked at the print and then I looked directly at Asterio. Chills ran up my spine. Our eyes met as I answered him, “Asterio, not only have we been to Sorano, but we stayed in the Fortezza Hotel which is in your painting!” I pointed to the building on the hillside overlooking the town. “We had a window view of the entire town, and I know your exact vantage point on the hillside when you painted the picture!”



Asterio's watercolor painting of Sorano, Italy

          It seemed like it was “meant to be” for us to connect. From that point forward I had a friend and mentor, someone who thought much like I did about the creative process and the composition of art and photography. Over time, I learned that Asterio had the ability to connect with many people, and he had been a valued mentor to many artists at Hallmark during his career.

Greg & Gretta's view of Sorano, Italy from Fortezza Hotel

          He and Barbara genuinely enjoyed listening to us talk about our bike trip across Italy as we looked at the photos. We learned that although Asterio was born in Gubbio, his family eventually settled in the Tuscany region near Florence.
          He showed one of his creations: a DVD slide show with background music, entitled “The Colors of Tuscany.” It was a countryside view of Tuscany from his camera lens during return visits to his relatives in Italy; photos of everything from vineyards to flower pots and doorways – an intimate view of his old turf. I was spellbound. He asked for a copy of the pictures from our bicycle trip, and said he wanted to create a slideshow with them. 
          “You want my pictures?” I asked. I was stunned. My pictures?
          “I like your photos. They give me something to work with,” he said.
          I wished the incredible evening didn’t have to end. Asterio and Barbara were so cordial and genuine, and we enjoyed sharing stories about Italy.
          As they left to return home, I looked at Gretta and said, “They are really nice people.”
          A few weeks later, I found a package in our mailbox - a DVD from Asterio. It was late in the day, so I waited until morning to pop it in the DVD player and turn on the TV. I was in a hurry to eat breakfast before going to work, so I began to eat as the pictures and music came on the screen. The bike trip photos appeared while soft accordion music played in the background. I dropped my fork on the plate, walked to the living room and plopped down on the sofa. Asterio’s slideshow creation mesmerized me. I was speechless. In the ten minute video, he transported me back to Italy. I was ready to jump into the screen and get on the bicycle.
          Through discussions with Asterio, I learned he was recruited by J.C. Hall in 1958 to come from Italy to work at Hallmark in Kansas City. Hall liked Asterio’s sketching ability, and he wanted to inject some international talent into the creative staff at Hallmark. Asterio told me that once he came to Kansas City, he desired to learn as much as he could about different art media and techniques. He taught himself the basics of watercolor and of photography as well as other media. At Hallmark he was always eager to try something new, including digital photo editing.
          Over the nine short years I knew him, we traded many emails. Asterio was one of my biggest blog fans, sending me an email after each posting. He would copy his favorite line from the blog and send it back with encouraging comments and a “Bravo!” or “Magnifico!” He also sent me many links to photography websites when he found what he thought were really good art photos.
          I don’t know if Asterio ever put into words his definition of beauty, but I do know that he knew it when he saw it. He looked at photograph after photograph on his computer screen, and when he saw something he really liked, he stopped, stroked his beard and emitted a soft, reverent, “Ohhh!” When I heard that “ohhh,” I knew what he saw was special.
          I loved his anecdotes of how he put his paints and supplies in a car, then drove around the Tuscan countryside to find a hill or vineyard to sketch or paint. After showing me a painting of a vineyard, he explained that he sat outside, next to the car, and proceeded to paint the vineyard scene.

Asterio creating a watercolor in Tuscany

          “As I began to paint,” he said, “I could hear two women talking loudly across the rows in the vineyard while they were picking grapes. . . and guess what? All the time I was painting, I learned the latest gossip and the history of their families. Ha!”

Asterio's photo of vineyard in Tuscany



Asterio's watercolor of vineyard in Tuscany

          Asterio and I met a couple of times a year for various reasons. At Christmastime, Gretta and I drove to Barbara and Asterio’s house to say ‘hi’ and give them a card or a small gift. On other trips, I took him CDs with our latest vacation photos. Even when his health was failing, he invited me to sit at the large table in the Pascolini kitchen where he gave me a watercolor lesson when I asked for advice on how to shade an architectural rendering. Another time, he offered to be my audience for a historical lecture and slide show that I’d developed. His encouragement and advice were always welcome, and I always went away from our meetings with something new that I’d learned.
          I loved his Italian humor that came through when we met. Whenever he got frustrated with his computer or when things were out of his control, he put his head in his hands and laughed. He shook his head and said, “Sometimes, all you can do is laugh to keep from going crazy.”
          The last communication from him was an email response he sent regarding my December 2013 blog relating childhood memories of electric trains. He included some photos of train layouts he’d made for his kids. I looked in amazement at the molded mountains next to the bunk beds, where train tracks snaked through tunnels and scale-model Italian villages hugged the mountainsides. His mind seemed to have a limitless capacity for creative ideas.
          Now, I miss his emails. I miss the visits to see his smile and hear his laughter.  To ease the sadness, Gretta and I watch the “Colors of Tuscany” DVD, again and again. I see the sparkles of sunshine on the dewdrops of the Tuscan flowers, and the memories of Asterio, his artwork and his stories come flooding back. The tears begin to fill my eyes, and I realize they are tears of joy for having known such a wonderful man.

Asterio Pascolini (1932 - 2014)

Author’s Note:

          I want to thank Barbara Pascolini (also an accomplished artist) for her gracious permission to allow the use of Asterio’s photos and artwork for this article. After she read the tribute, she invited Gretta and me for a recent visit. It was a happy time in which we shared memories and stories. We cherish Barbara’s friendship and the memories of Asterio, and wish all the best for her and the Pascolini family.