The nurse left work at five o’clock. Not the tall slender woman, dressed in her perfect white uniform, with blue eyes and a flawless minty smile. The nurse getting off at 5 A.M. was Bill, William H. Wellington to be exact. A large fellow with too much forehead and not enough chin. Bill sported a shaving blind spot that cultivated a patch of knurled whiskers to the left of his nose. Five A.M. placed Bill at the zombie end of a twelve-hour shift in a low-income area serving hospital.

Bill sees suffering and even death on an hourly basis. He sometime wondered about the afterlife but was most curious about the transition from life to death. One of his beds contained a suffering old woman; she was lingering and Bill was sure she would still be hanging on when he returned for his next graveyard shift. Normally when elderly loved ones near death grand kids, old friends and even faithful pets make the journey to pay their respects. Priest and Elders are supplied to anoint with oil and bless the soul. She had no one. As much as possible he tried to reach out and comfort her. She once asked with an breathless voice;” Nurse Bill, Will I see light?”

Bill didn’t know the answer; He wasn’t sure about the light. In fact, it didn’t sit well with him. It’s no wonder when you think about it. Bill was always under bright seemingly heavy lights. When he left for work, it was day; he would then spend the next twelve hours shuffling about under a buzz of relentless florescent tubes. When his shift was over, day light greeted him at the door.

This one morning Bill mad it home late and was thirsting for sleep. He readied for bed while his companion was reading. He crumbled into bed beside her. The one bedroom window is plastered with aluminum foil and the door shut in an effort to combat the light. The only thing keeping him from the dark he so craved was the reading light. Bill laid there thinking of the dying old woman and the dark. His wife snapped the book closed then clicked off the light on her way out for the day.

The light out, comfort rushed over him. He loved the dark and began to list its virtues in his mind. “Life”; he reasoned is conceived in the dark, our organs and bowels formed in darkness, and our first measure of conciseness realized in the dark. Naturally, when we die he deduced, we must pass through darkness.

Sleep teased him throughout his night and at his morning; Bill sat up in bed. A scrapbook of dreams seamed to slide down in his chest. He blinked, rubbed his eyes; and began piecing the disjointed bits of his dreams together. Bill dreamt he carried the old woman from the hospital down the hall to a roomful of therapeutic pools; gently he slipped her into the warm still water, the room dark. She was peaceful. He pressed on her frail shoulders and without a whimper, she rolled over face down. Her twiggy arms floated to the surface.

He suddenly realized what he had to do. Today Bill would murder an old woman.

Bill arrived for work to find the police coming out the main entrance of the hospital. He approached the door and as he entered, the cops were escorting out a tall blond woman.  It was the nurse; the one with the pressed white skirt. The nurse who always had perfect breath and a dazzling smile. Her hands shackled, they passed in the threshold. She lifted her head while turning towards Bill and flashed him her flawless smile then her head dropped and she was zipped away.

Bill followed the trail of commotion to the therapeutic pools. The lights were dim. Bill stared through the tinted glass from the adjoining office. The old woman was face down, dead in a pool. Her hair suspended in the water like a patch of silver seaweed… Bills eyes refocus and he could see his own face in the glass…

William smiled…

Do you believe in Karma?  You know the “Reap what you Sow;” approach to life. Many people do. My ex-mother-in-law would say in a threatening tone,” What goes around; comes around!”  NBC had a popular sitcom called “My Name Is Earl;” which lampooned what to some is a very deep and personal belief. Whenever I think about Karma, it sometimes makes me shutter to my very core. I admit I have done a few good things thus far in my life, but it’s the, “Bad Things”… that haunt me.  You may know what I’m talking about?  The stuff you do while you’re still learning about yourself and others; what’s good, what’s bad and what’s just plain stupid.  It scares me because I should have known better… and yet, I still did what I did.

I believe it was 1967 and I was in my eleventh year. In our neighborhood, just one block west and two blocks north was a nursing home.  In those days we kids called it “The Old Folks Home.” It was a grand old building with gilded trim and majestic adornments.  It was not unusual for us on a hot summer day to find ourselves passing by the old Folks Home.  Having exhausted all adventurous activities for the time being. We would stop in and visit with the residents there.  We were joyfully welcomed by most and spent time listening to tales of the good old days. In the lobby was an old soda cooler; it opened like a chest and the bottles hung in rows, like little solders suspended in a magical cold mist.  A nickel would get a freckle faced towheaded boy 12 ounce of refreshing Orange Crush.  Gulping it down would give relief from the tart atmosphere that can stew in an old structure that was without a modern cooling and ventilation system. The patrons there were always kind to me and I felt close to many of them. I cannot believe it was I, who perpetrated such an offense against them.

Across the street from the Old Folks Home was a failing fence, the usual tall grass and then a sandy field with a sparse carpet of wispy shorter grasses; And of course at least one ancient, twisted and water starved apple tree.  We kids spent many a hot summer afternoon digging underground forts in the soft sand.  Our handy work produced a structure featuring a sun bleached plywood and plank roof with hand scooped shelves into the submerged dirt walls for holding our candles supplying needed interior illumination.  Once the roof was in position and the candles lit; our sand pit became a cool (as in groovy and cool as in cold) dark Gothic refuge.  You could taste the dirt with each earthy breath.  This particular time we had gathered a good pile of the sour and bug blemished apples as a cache of surely needed ammo.  A bunker like ours could easily be attacked from neighborhood foes.  The war ripened fruit would be well suited to repel any advance from the enemy.

There we sat, with our eyes peering through strategically placed gaps in the forts construction. Watching and waiting.  Cars zoomed by. Candles flickered. Blades of grass bowed in submission to the wind gust while sand peppered our anxious watchful eyes.  Nothing…  I was selected as a scout, then commanded to go out, observe, return and report.  I nimbly crept up to ground level while doing the classic Army Man crawl.  Clearly, I was an expert at this maneuver.  I made my way through the rounded dunes; I popped my head up quickly and then back down hard.  This method insured I would not be captured by the enemy.  All was quiet; all except some movement from the direction of the road.  A mad lizard like scramble and my chin was now resting on a fence board. I reached up and parted the tall grass, fully expecting to see a large contingent of enemy forces bearing down on or stronghold.  Alas there was nothing. Not even a cootie-infested girl who like to force dolls on us and into our underground fort. Nothing that is except family members across the street helping their old folks out of a car and into wheelchairs.  Rats! I crawled back on my belly and slid down into the fort.  I commenced to give my report while I scooped the sand from my pockets and dusted out my bellybutton.  Hopes of an all out war dashed.  But you guessed it. There was one kid. I honestly cannot remember who for sure; was one of those, “If you’ve been given lemons, then make lemonade” kind of people and with excited eyes said, “Ya know we have all these apples and we really can’t leave them, the skunks will get in tonight and sabotage our fort.”  “I say we attack!

Without hesitation, we loaded up our arms and army crawled over to the fence. I’m sure you’ve heard stories about what can happen to people under the spell of a mob mentality. It is true what they say about being caught up in the movement of the event. There we were taking aim and letting fly a barrage of hot weapons of apple destruction.

The ground around our target erupted in an applesauce hell. Many a round found its mark as their objections began to be screamed. The Old Folks looked around to see the source of the fruity offensive. A simultaneous retreat was achieved as we all Army Man scrambled into our fort hoping to escape the return carnage. We had dabbled war and now our hands were filthy dirty with its spoils. My heart pounded in the silence we all shared, waiting for the inevitable counter attack. It never came.

This is why I worry. If Karma is real then I should expect to be attacked. In my later years. When vulnerable, helpless and fully engulfed in the angst of old age. To be spattered with something sweet and sickly-smelly. Fully deserving of it. However, is that necessary? I quickly realized the error of my ways that day of apples from heaven. What I am hoping for is perhaps the Old Folks we bombed did something rotten when they were kids and Karma sent me there to administer their dose, with apples…. If not, then Karma is endless, those who deliver Justice will have Justice served on them, and the kids who smack me will get theirs, and so on, Apples from Heaven… Endless, Karma Apples. And so too it goes in war…

Me? I’ll keep my gaze upward.

About The Art
This is my latest work and is titled
“Doll Cross”
It is 85in. tall and about 50in at the widest part.
It took me about a week to complete.
It has nothing to do with the story
“Karma Apples from Heaven”.
I just took the opportunity to show it
off with this story.
It is currently being shown at
ANGST Gallery
1015 Main Street, Vancouver, WA 98660 360.253.1742 Leah.AngstGallery@gmail.com
Wednesday to Saturday, Noon to 5:00 pm or by Appointment

Desert Trout

Completely ship me, sailing out;

About the brow of Desert Trout.

With fins of glass and salmon doubt.

Completely ship me… sailing out.

Aboard her lofty hull of skull,

I feel the draw of your pull.

I taste myself; and find it dull.

Aboard her lofty… hull of skull.

Soft boney combs of skeletal fish.

Fathoms deep will crush and squish,

While passing waves of radon swish.

Where rocks and sticks can only wish.

Cool Ray bans rest upon the nose.

The rotting smell of tuna rose;

In misty plumes of wingless crows.

To spite the throws of dancing toes.

Do you suppose?

To shed your scales in tidbit wails;

With trinkets, stones and bones?

The sands will swallow

All who will follow.

While maggots calculate the end…

The End

The End

The End

Posted in art, Duke's Cooking Stories, poems Tagged: glass, maggots, raybans, sailing, salmon, stones, trout, tuna ]]> http://dukedesrochers.wordpress.com/2009/04/05/desert-trout-a-poem-by-duke-desrochers/feed/ 8 dukex scan0027 http://dukedesrochers.wordpress.com/2009/04/02/retro-active/ http://dukedesrochers.wordpress.com/2009/04/02/retro-active/#comments Thu, 02 Apr 2009 23:25:29 +0000 Duke DesRochers http://dukedesrochers.wordpress.com/?p=137 ]]>

I like to think of myself as a “Retro” kind of a guy and also somewhat “Active.”  This mirror piece could could be seen as a reflection of my Retro-activeness.  People always ask me where I get all the items I use in my art. My answer is; I salvaged much of them over time.

Title: RETRO-ACTIVE

For example in this work here I acquired the Mercury hubcap a couple of years back when my family and I were swimming in the Lewis River at Lewisville Park just north of  The City of Battle Ground, WA. We love to swim in the rivers here and find them to be very clean and refreshing.  Lewisville Park is wonderfully maintained.  A green and lushly forested place with many amenities.

We always bring snorkel masks and gear when swimming and spend a lot of time scouring the river floor looking for treasure.  The Mercury hubcap was one of those great finds.  It didn’t come easy though, we had to work for it. It was wedged in about two feet of swift water and only about 6% of it was showing.  We didn’t know what it was until we freed it from the two or more large river rocks which were teamed up and intent on keeping it for themselves. I tugged and pried at for about thirty minutes until my oldest and much stronger son Ryan worked at the task. I was certain it would be one of those “help me open the jar of pickles Son” moments.

After another thirty minutes he gave up.  Well, we can’t just swim away and leave this thing here.  It looked much too promising,  a real treasure I’m sure.

So I went back at it;  and after another hour was able to free it from it’s watery grave.   “Aah haaaa I yelled as I thrust it into the air along with an arch of river water trailing the motion as I waved it like a flag.

The people at the swim site did glance over at me for a second, then realizing it was just a crazy old pastey white guy with an enlarged, overly exposed belly, they quickly turned away.  I proudly sloshed my way up the bank and presented my trophy to my wife  like a proud Golden Retriever with a freshly bagged duck in its mouth.

She in all her beauty and wisdom said, “Nice, the trash can is over there.”  “Are you kidding” I quipped.  “This thing is awesome, I’m keeping it”.  To which she replied, “what are you going to do with that thing?’ “I’m not sure, but I’m keeping it, thank you very much.” And I did as you can see.

Mercury Hubcap

Also in this piece is an old microphone which came from a Wire Recorder that was manufactured in 1945. That’s right, before CD’s, cassette tapes and even 8 tracks. I’m talking way back; even before reel to reel tape recorders there were Wire Recorders!  This was a home or office model and was quite portable for its time.

Of course I am much too young to have used one of these in it’s prime, but I purchased it back in 1970.  I was in the sixth grade and my buddy; let’s see… For the sake of this story I’ll call him John; John Ford (because that is his real name.)  John Ford and I went to the Ellsworth Elementary School annual rummage sale.

Somehow?  I can’t remember, we earned tickets through some kind of games.  While digging deep into the heaps and piles of rummage I came across the Wire Recorder. I was amazed and marveled at it’s clean lines and Commando Cody-like design.  It was complete with all necessary parts and even extra spools of wire for recording.  The price was a dollar but I only had six tickets valued at 10 cents each.  I really wanted the recorder so I talk my friend John into pitching in his four remaining tickets (we did stop off at the bake sale room first after all.)  He did so and we agreed to joint ownership of the grand device.

We took turns with it at our homes and recorded many prank phone calls and I’m sure some flatulent tones were captured as well.  I even had my friend Donnie Thornburg call my girlfriend at the time, while we recorded him telling her I wanted to break up. (Duke; you coward.) I do feel bad for that. (Sorry Janet.)

Old Mic from Wire Recorder

So let’s review… I got the Wire Recorder in 1970, dragged it through countless moves, in and out of damp basements and dusty attics and not least of all… into my third marriage.  Yikes!  Do you think it was worth it?  Anyhow last month I dug it out and sadly it no longer worked. So I gutted it, harvesting it’s more interesting parts.  Old radio tubes and of course the microphone.  John; John Ford; if you’re out there and want your portion of the Wire Recorder. I have divided it.  Remember its 60/40 in my favor.

The Aquarium

“9 Blakely Way.”  That was the address of our home back in 1957;  the year I was born.  No NW, SW or Southeast just, “9 Blakely Way.”  We lived in a small housing project built from the 30’s to the 40’s which was on the outskirts of The Dalles Oregon.  It was a time of paper boys and the milkman, yes and Service Stations with .25 cent a gallon gas.  Common; was Mom charging groceries on a tab at the market and Dad working a couple of nights a week cleaning up the butcher shop to pay the bill.

Our home phone number was 6-9414; that’s right, just 5 digits, no area codes or mandatory prefixes.  Looking back I can honestly say it was a simpler time.  I was born the last of six children and I admit I was a bit of a momma’s boy.  All of the others had a time when they were the baby, but it only lasted until the next uninvited child came along, but me, I didn’t have that problem.  No one came after me…

This meant I spent a lot of time hanging with my Mother and her other stay at home mom friends.  I was a curious sort in my pre-school years and would ask questions like,” Do trees have blood?”

I learned at a young age that there were treasures to be had if a boy would keep his eyes peeled and on the ground.  It happened when I was walking the neighborhood.  Something shiny caught my eye. It was a glorious silver dollar. It filled my hand out to the very edges of its span.  It was embossed with stunning detail.  Man it was beautiful.   I wanted to keep it for ever!  

Until later that day, when the older kid two doors down informed me that I could have his Nestles Chocolate can full of marbles in exchange for my object of delight; the silver dollar. I jumped at the deal and made it home to show my mom what great glassy jewels I had leveraged for a mere dollar.  In the early 60’s a person could get a lot for a dollar and my mother being a sharp girl, pointed this out. She further instructed me to return the treasures and get the coin back. I did so reluctantly.

Upon returning home she loaded me into the car and we went to the market where I was unleashed on the candy section. I could truly see the wisdom in her actions and the events of that day only added to my awe of her position of greatness and knowledge of life.

Remembering this; from then on, when traveling by foot I always kept one eye on the ground. You never know what you might find. In my travels however the treasures seamed to be few and far between. Oh sure there were plenty of sticks, rocks and lizards to be had and I did revel in shinier, more magic ones.  Sometimes my attention would be drawn to a particular stick or rock. I would pick them up and after surmising that they were of no particular worth and not possessing any magical powers.  I would drop them back to the ground.

As I walked away I imagined the object pleading with me not to just leave them there. The stick would reason with me that by picking it up I had gotten it’s hopes up.  Perhaps it had dreamed of coming home with me, maybe even finding a nice cozy place in my room on the headboard of my bed or in a dresser drawer.

Needless to say I was an easy mark and often fell pray to their pleadings. This also translated into a personal theory that objects may very well have feelings, perhaps objects could dream, long for a “Someday;”  What if they could feel disappointment and pain like me?  What if that rock I just tossed into the creek couldn’t swim?  Maybe it was laying next to its Mother rock and because of me it may never see her again? This could get very complicated. What about my reckless shuffle across the field?  Did I disrupt the lives of many a happy object?  You’ve got to get a grip here Dukie!

OK, so let me think? Maybe objects do have feelings and maybe they don’t, I’m not sure. Many objects did seem to speak to me in their own way. But maybe that was just the imagination of a goofy little boy; who by the way sported an endless bad haircut?

Well at any rate I do know this; by looking at this world which is so bejeweled with endless objects of interest and delight; having an appreciation and reverence for that which was left here by the hand of God or fashioned by mankind, a person could develop a peculiar kinship with “Things.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of the guys whose a slave to his car or boat (I wish I had a boat). I don’t spend hours polishing and waxing anything. In fact it’s just the opposite; I need to take better care of the things I have. Instead of being enslaved by the objects of my life, I like to think of myself as their Master. Maybe even the Lord of what I possess, heh… maybe even, like… the lord of my things. That’s it! I am “The Lord of My Things. No wait, try this. “Lord of the Things”. I like it!  I am “Lord of the Things”. More like a “Junk Whisperer,” really.

I want to believe the past few years of my artistic endeavors have reflected my close relationship with the objects of this realm. Thus far I have found it to be a natural and rewarding approach.

Have you listened…?  Then heard the whisper…?  If so you know what I’m talking about.

This piece is a tribute to the 1985 adventure movie, “The Goonies.”

Back in 2003 my family and I took a trip to the Oregon coast and when we passed through Astoria we stopped to see the infamous Goonie House.

We walked up the drive like the sign that welcomed all the “Faithful Goonies” asked.

At the top of the driveway we meet the woman who lived there and she invited us in to see the new renovation of the interior. She was very kind and well versed on the home.

I noticed on our way out the old kitchen cabinets on the side of the house and asked if she was sending them to the dump?

When she said that she was; I asked if I could have them?  They were graciously given to me and I strapped them to the top of my 1988 Chevy Suburban.

Well they spent the next few years under plastic behind my barn and when we moved the only thing that wasn’t too water damaged was a cupboard door. I saved it for another two years and finally did this wall hanging.

OK, I’m sorry!  To the great multitude of my blog followers, I am truly sorry.  It has been a very long time since I’ve posted anything and I know many of you were worried about me.

The rumors are true;  I did have an Art Attack.  It all started very suddenly and I wasn’t able to call for help for months. My body is showing the signs of the wear and tear that such a major event can have on someone.  For example. My belly is sticking out as far as it ever has and all my t-shirts are stained with paint and globs of glue.

One day I even found a screw behind my ear. I spent many long hours, hunkered down in my garage under hot lights with the fumes of thinners and spray paint.

I lived only on Diet Coke and sunflower seeds.

The radio was switched back and forth from classical, classical to classical rock. My fingers had large balls of gluey sawdust at the tips, like when you’re breading fish; I guess you could call them “Liquid Nail, Hush Puppies.”

The Mad frenzy of production which accompanied my Art Attack resulted in the completion of several works. It had the therapeutic affects of a good artery scrapping.  Aside from the belly protrusion, I feel great.

I hope this puts to rest all the chatter about my whereabouts and concerns about my health. I had an Art attack, and I survived. I am posting photos of the bits and pieces of junk that were removed from my being.

P.S. I promise to take better care of myself.

I was Working the broiler end of the dinner line at the plush Maxi’s Restaurant. A popular up, up and upper scale hot spot in the Red Lion Hotel located at Jantzen beach on the Columbia River in Portland Oregon. This was a very busy and challenging place to work as a cook, or any other position for that matter. We all worked hard, especially the people in the dish-room.

The kitchen was a grand masterpiece of planning and engineering. In addition to all the latest industrial cookware it had the square footage to match. The main kitchen was centered between Maxi’s hot and cold lines and the coffee shop area with its short order line. The adequate banquet prep and dish up area was located off one end of the setup while the dish room was at the other.

It was the early 80’s and we the crew had just been swamped by the thanksgiving holiday. (Where do all these people come from? Don’t they have homes to have their Thanksgiving holiday in?)

The days were busily slipping by and soon it would be Christmas. You don’t really know Christmas until you’ve worked one at a large hotel.

In the late 70’s and early 80’s the USA was the beneficiaries of several waves of immigrants whose families were suppressed and in real danger from their own governments. Many of these hard working people found employment in the food industry. I was really impressed with them; Men and women who back in their home countries were doctors and held other positions which I considered to be highly skilled. Now they were happy to be scrubbing potatoes and washing dishes.

They quickly earned the respect of me and many of my co-workers. I was always curious about them and their former life in Vietnam or Cambodia. They talked freely of the good things and seemed to be understandably guarded about the horrors they had seen and lived. I respected them for the positive attitudes they displayed. I never once heard a complaint that was common to the hard work and long hours that go hand in hand with the food service industry.

As I had mentioned earlier, Christmas was coming. I was feeling the sprit of giving and love. Prep work for the dinner rush meant many an afternoon shoulder to shoulder at the sink peeling and de-veining large shrimp with the help of a dishwasher/prep cook named Dohn. I really enjoyed this quiet time with my belly up to the stainless steel sink while the faucet trickled water over the thawing blocks of shrimp.

Much of our conversation was about the up coming holiday. I noticed that Dohn was not in the same zone I was about Christmas and so I asked him about his plans for that day.

Now I’m not sure if he knew or even believed what it was all about but he was courteous and gave a real effort to converse with me in spite of his limited English.

One of my many questions for Dohn was, did he have a Christmas tree yet? To which he replied that he did not. He went on to explain that he, his wife and three small children could not afford the $10 price tag for a tree. Ten dollars for a Christmas tree makes me pine for the 1980’s.

So being that I was in the Christmas Spirit and wanting to hug and kiss just about everyone I saw, I offered to provide one for them. It took some persuasion on my part, but Dohn agreed. He gave me the address to his home and a time when I could drop it by. It turned out that his family lived only a few blocks from my home and I kept the appointed time without much effort on my part.

While I was untying the tree from the roof of my car Dohn saw me from the window and came out to greet and help me with the tree. On the way to the front door he invited me in. Curious little hands and faces festooned the door and gave way to his lovely wife’s smile. I was warmly greeted and directed into their home. Things were being said to me I’m sure but I was in a state of amazement at the time so I can’t remember what.

The front room had exactly nothing in it. No couch, no big easy chair, no TV, no coffee table, nothing. I dragged the tree to one corner and leaned it up to the wall. They all urged me into the kitchen where there were some furnishings. A small kitchen table with one chair. Now, you can probably guess that they insisted that I sit in the one chair and be comfortable.

The next few moments were that of gratitude expressed in English and Cambodian. In my shock I was able to ask about his family and about how they came to America. He shared with me some of the many challenges they experienced in the past few years. Meanwhile in my mind I was asking myself a couple of questions. “Why did I bring them a stupid tree? What are they going to do with it; they had no lights, no garlands, no ornaments and defiantly no gifts from Santa or anyone else for that matter. The tree really is no good to them except to chop and burn in the fireplace.

After a pleasant time with Dohns family around the kitchen table I explained that I had to go, and we said our good byes.

That night at home I told my wife about what I had seen and she and I agreed we had to do more than just a tree with no lights. We got together with our friends from church and discovered there were many people who wanted to give to Dohn and his family. So the call went out and soon folks were showing up at our door with so many wonderful gifts and household items. After a couple days I made another appointment to visit with Dohn at his home again.

This time I was not alone. We had three cars and two trucks behind us. I knocked at the door and when it opened a precession of strangers began to enter with armfuls of items he and his family desperately needed.

A couch and a loveseat, an old easy chair, coffee table and a book shelf and TV. For the kitchen a complete dinette set with matching chairs, boxes and boxes of canned goods along with a turkey, a ham and all the fixings. The bedrooms were set with bunk beds and dressers. While the tree… The tree was covered with lights and propped by neatly wrapped gifts, covered in ribbons and fanciful bows.

I can hardly describe the scene without getting more than a little choked up. The children’s faces were all ramped up and their eyes were glazed over in disbelief. Dohn and his wife were conflicted between the blessing of this Christmas gift and their humility. 

Few words were spoken while hands were grasped and arms draped around one another.

Many years have passed since the night we shared in that wonderful Christmas. I often wonder about Dohn and his family. I am sure he has been in a position to reach out and help someone in kind.

I do know this for sure. Anytime we reach out to help, and by so doing, lift a fellow human being, we ourselves are elevated.

Welcome to Christmas Dohn, Welcome to America.

If Only I Listened To Mom

I am a humble Renaissance Man. Inventive and creative ideas are thrust at me like stones from outer space. Fortunately I am able to shield my brain quite effectively with a large screen plasma TV. 

Heh, I wish I had a plasma TV. I only have your standard 32in. table monster. “Large Screen Plasma TV” does make for a better read, don’t ya think? Anyhow; I am happily and completely married to my dear, lovely wife Patsy. We have 8 kids and 4 grand children between us. (Mostly the grand kids are between us on the couch).

Growing up I always had a dream of becoming a Food Network Star. My Mother, bless her heart had a different vision for me. Astronaut. That’s right she was under the impression that I should be going to the moon and other daring missions in space.

I do believe this all started when I was in the third grade. One afternoon she and I were at the food market shopping for the family dinner needs, when we ran into my third grade teacher, Mrs. Smith, really that was her name.

Mother and she exchanged the usual pleasantries when my mom followed up with this question, “So how is Duke doing in school?” She was very pleased when Mrs. Smith replied with, “He’s taking up space”.

Sorry mom, I never made it to the moon. I did eat a Moon Pie once though.

I love and miss you.

Oh, my. I hope this all doesn’t go to my head.

My cousin, Lorelle VanFossen of Lorelle on WordPress wrote about me and announced me to the world in “Duke DesRochers: Future Social Media Renaissance Man.”

She had so much fun, she’s also covered my video in her Exploring Social Media Series on the Blog Herald with “Exploring Social Media: Social Means Personal.”

In it, she says:

They key to social media is the personal. It’s about being personable, getting personal, and being a person – a real person.

Duke’s video could have been just like all the rest of the auditions for The Next Food Network Star. He could have dressed up pretty, made something pretty, been wacky and silly, exaggerated and dramatic. Instead, his video works because he is “every man” and we know him. He is our next door neighbor or relative.

And he’s a rule breaker without being a wacko. In the video, he uses common woodworking tools like the lathe and a drill to carve up vegetables into beautiful arrangements and dishes you can eat. He leaves the audience laughing but thinking, “I can do that!”

He’s accessible. He’s real.

Wow, blush, and giggle. I’m just a humble, common man who knows his way around a shop and kitchen and likes to combine the two from time to time.

Thanks, cousin, for the kind words. I hope I can live up to them.