Glacier Racing

Flight Risk

2010-11-25T02:06:00.000-08:00

Fly? No. Thanks. I'm afraid. Not so much of terrorists. Or engine failures. Nor Marshalls with loaded weapons in pressurized cabins. Nope. It's the TSA screening I'm scared of. Firstly, I think I might have foot odor. Second, I don't profile well. I LOOK like someone who likes fire and enjoys blowing stuff up, because well, I do, but in mostly innocent ways. Also, I have lots of pockets. I like pockets. You never know when you'll need a dog treat or an aspirin, a blob of grease, or a firecracker. Or a serious pocketknife. And like most hoarders, its MY stuff, and I don't want to lose it, even if I don't know exactly what all it is. And like a ten-year-old, I can empty my pockets for a full ten minutes without ever finding what makes the detector beep. So, I'd get searched. Strip searched. And I might like it. And before you know it, I'd be working my way back to the head of the security line, missing my flight for a patdown. Soon I'd be one of those airline miles junkies who buy houses and cars with credit cards to get enough accumulated to fly to a European airport only to immediately reboard the plane, and fly back with two friskings under my belt. I'd know all the cavity specialists by name and have favorites, a notch on the handle of my carry-on for each experience. I'd be hopelessly hooked and homeless in an airport in Newark. And my family would find me and intervene, sending me to strip search rehab, and I'd have to memorize and live by the two-step program, and I would try, really try, but one night on the street two uniforms would walk by and one would ask a question I didn't hear, and the other would answer "Search me?", and I would fall to my knees and cry "NO... NO! Search MEEE!"
So. Don't ask me to fly. Besides, I don't have a passport. Or money.

Grubbin it up here, Boss

2010-09-01T14:39:00.000-07:00

- Wolves.   I was evidently raised by wolves. I never considered that someone would complain if I drank from the carton if nobody else in the household drank milk, but complain they did, which left me with a choice; to pursue my vice in secret by swilling from behind the fridge door, or to be blatant and challenging about it, growling as I guard the box in my embrace.
- You might say "There is another option!", but I tested that theory. I bought an extra carton and marked one 'WOLVES'. I didn't touch the one unmarked, and it went untouched. So much for others turned away by my habit. You might also suppose that I could just use a glass. The washing seems a bit wasteful, and would also require me to think and behave differently. This mind is besieged with requests for change without having the ability to even prioritize, much less act upon them. So, I openly imbibe in spite of the obvious health effects of whole milk and domestic discord.
- Then, in the workplace, another request for wolflessness. In a nondescript print on the anonymous dry erase board in the break room, someone had dared to display "NO GRUBBING IN THE M&Ms!! USE A CUP!!". Now, first of all, the wolves who raised me never bought a pound of candy, ever. And if they had, they would never have left it displayed in a bowl for just anyone to help themselves. And if that accident of fate WERE to occur, nobody would be surprised at the multitude of snarling snouts that would quickly empty the bowl, much less complain that no one knew where those snouts had been. So I am amazed. Amazed that I work for a company that actually makes an effort to fatten it's employees. Amazed that those well fed wage earners cannot refuse the beckoning of the sweet bowl to the tune of a pound of peanuts and dark chocolate per day. Amazed that, evidently, some of my coworkers, instead of just whisking a handful to their desks, are evidently sorting, swirling, and jumping in the candy bowl like children in a McDonald's ball pit! (We all know what disease laden bacteria breeding infestations THOSE are!)
- The guilt begins to settle in.  I think about all the places my fingers have traveled in the course of the day. Desktops, keyboards, stair rails, door knobs, steering wheels, shared pens and pencils, eating implements, armpits, and WORSE! I DO wash my hands several times per day, but I certainly cannot guarantee the contents of the water I wash them in. I feel horrible that at least one among my colleagues is living in fear of what the rest of us may transmit to the common vital m&m source. So, I resolve to do something about it.
- It's clear to me that behavior needs to change, and it's very unlikely the message on the board will change it. There are twenty people who will scoff at the writing, give the bowl a swirl, and trail a vapor of chocolate breath back to their desks without another thought. A few concerned citizens with less to do will stop to ponder for a moment whether 'tis a greater sin to use an extra styrofoam cup (putting the company's 'green' image at stake) or to palm at the risk of being confronted. (The latter always wins.) One or two will shrug, fill a cup to the brim, and take half home at the end of the day for the rat terrier they resent and wish to poison. (Sorry. Bit of a tangent there.)  But, obviously, the note on the board will cause none of these folks to adapt in a big way. Humans are resistant to change, and it occurs to me that it would be much easier to change the viewpoint of one person than thirty, and I set about finding out who wrote the note.
- "Grubbin' it up here, Boss!", I say to the receptionist, while I shake the bag. She laughs, so I know it wasn't her that wrote the note.
- "I've never heard you use 'grub' before!", I say.
- "Nope. And you won't, either." (Denying her involvement.)
- "But I heard you...", and I point to the message on the board. "Uh, Uh."
-  "Were they really upset?   Did they talk about it?"
- "Don't know. That showed up on the weekend. I was off." (Now we're getting somewhere.)
- "Probably just one of those night shift mood things. She sort of has a point, if you think about it."
- "HEEE" (quick to the defense of the sisterhood) "won't score points being bossy, even if he's tired."
- And so I've got my man; male, night shift on the weekend, and surely not the marathoner or the guy who takes the newspaper to the bathroom for his morning 'constitutional'.
- "Grubbin' it up here, Boss!", I say while shaking the bag the next morning, and every shift change thereafter for a week. I leave an article describing the permitted number of bug parts in the M&M manufacture process. I disinfect the desk surfaces before leaving, hinting that we all should, but only to him. I mention that the cloth chairs he uses must be loaded with dust mites in that they are inhabited 24 hrs per day. I wonder out loud about the air filtration in our old building. I leave out the link to the video site that shows disgusting things that happen in commercial kitchens.
- Where my help for this poor tortured individual ends, others catch on and take up the slack. Taped next to the message on the break room board is an empty candy wrapper and a note; "$1 from the vending machine in the hall! - Ungrubbed!". Someone else Saran-wraps the candy bowl. A few candies get left on a disinfecting tissue on the table next to a filter mask and safety glasses. A fake audit form is filled out concerning the spread of deadly diseases on workplace snacks citing specifically items that don't melt in your hands.
- The pressure is relentless, and our poor burdened soul eventually succumbs.   As I walk in one morning, he picks up the M&M bag from the break table in full sight of the entire crew.  "Grubbin' it up here Boss!, he says as he sticks his bare hand into the bag. "Grubbin' it up!"
- I'm thrilled I could help. It occurs to me, though, that I, raised by wolves, might be blessed. Wolves are happy to have a job. They'd be thrilled to have something to eat without risking death to get it. They can't worry about all of the parasites and stomach upsets hovering on every surface they touch. They maintain an ordered, cooperative society that caters to the best interest of the pack. They are civil to each other, because that is in their own interest. There are worse ways to be raised. And by the way, on the rare occasion that I can't walk past a dark chocolate covered peanut, I now use a napkin because, raised by wolves, I hadn't ever thought about it.

Last Bob

2010-08-24T22:51:00.001-07:00

- He only became "Last Bob" because one day the previous Bob just slipped into the trees and was never heard from again. But from the moment Last Bob became "Last", he was special. Now that he, too, is gone, the world is a sadder place.

- Don't get me wrong, I didn't always like Bob or understand him. His jaundiced skin, flippant manner, and relentless droll smile rankled me when my friend brought him along to play golf. I am a traditionalist. His presence denigrated the game. No real player would ever be seen with Bob on the course. Not that any of US ever broke ninety. After all, we're in Alaska. But we do all love and respect the game, and Bob's high visibility and doofey grin eliminated the sham that we are anything but hackers even before anyone witnessed the result of our stilted swings. I hated Bob because of what his just being there said about ME, until I got to know him, and where he was coming from.

- Bob, I'm sure you understand by now, was a golf ball. Not just any ball, of course. He was the cheapest chunk of junk plastic manufactured by the Wilson Staff company for abuse on a golf course. He was limey yellow, with a decal of the goofball kids cartoon character, Sponge Bob, smirking from his dimples. The sound and feel of a Sponge Bob ball off the club face is that of a chisel on granite. Bob is the ball that bad players pull out on the water holes, the lost ball you find while looking for your own but don't pick up, the odd one you find mixed in with range balls, the ball nobody wants. Bobs are reject balls, and I questioned him being brought into the cart.

- My friend, you see, is often an intense person when it comes to golf. He only learned to play as an adult, after his career was established, and his body had already begun to stiffen. But he attacked the game seriously when he chose it, buying the finest fitted hybrid clubs, a library of instruction manuals, and lessons from the best local pro. When his game progressed enough, he traveled to golf meccas in Florida, Hawaii, and the Monterrey Peninsula, to steep himself in golf tradition on it's finest courses. He came to know and accept the nature of the game as an allegory to life, a journey of growth, sometimes frustrating and occasionally magic. We never discussed it, but I've heard his preoccupation with golf began as a distraction from the pain of his disintegrating family. We have talked about his need, sometimes, to let a bad shot go and lighten up on the course. Usually though, after a couple of painless holes, a couple of painful jokes, and a couple of cans of swing lube (beer), he displays a mellower side. We share a special fellowship in our love of the game based on fun, integrity, and dignity; and he is the last person I'd expect to show up with Bob.

- The first time I saw Bob we were playing Anchor Point. My friend pulled a yellow sleeve from his bag, opened the box, and plunked them into the clip in the cart. I saw the googly eyes, took a closer look, and recognized the cartoon.

- I wrinkled my brow, rocked my head, and gave him a "What-the-hell?" look.

- He curled the corner of his mouth and shrugged an embarrassed "What-can-I-say" back.

- I turned away and shook my head in disapproval.

- He looked the opposite way, as if trying to go unnoticed.

- After two days sharing carts and a small car, words weren't necessary.

- Truth be told, Anchor Point was just the carnival course where Bobs fit. The greens are artificial and won't hold an approach shot anyway. The forest is thick and looking for lost golf balls is a futile exercise in bug spray effectiveness. All that was missing for the full adventure golf experience was a windmill. My friend actually played pretty well for early in the season, and lost two Bobs. I lost three Titleists, and I swear I saw him smile at the other Bob when he put it in his pocket.

- We played Birch Ridge at Soldotna on the same day. This is just a little nine hole course, but I knew I'd like it before my foot touched the grass. The pro's home was a perfect victorian gingerbreaded sweetheart that greeted you just inside the gate. There were guest houses out on the course. A fire pit and benches lined the tournament party tent. The staff dressed and acted professionally. The cart ran like a bat from hell (for a gold cart), the greens looked immaculate, and the practice facility was spacious. It was a player's course, and I was dismayed when the familiar yellow box emerged on the first tee.

- I looked at the ball tray and pleaded with my eyes.

- He crossed his arms in defiance and looked straight ahead.

- I pushed my supplicant hands toward Bob and then opened them as if to ask "Why?".

- He poofed a disgusted breath, pulled out a traditional white ball, teed it up, and sliced it completely over the trees bordering the property. One hundred yards up the fairway, nearly out of sight of the clubhouse, he plopped a yellow ball onto the short grass, hit a beautiful long approach shot onto the green, and bogeyed the hole.

- That was the first time I saw him speak to Bob. Now, all players encourage their golf balls. "Get up!, Run!, Bend a little!, STOP-RRIGHT--THERE!!" are common entreats. But my friend and Bob seemed to be having a private conversation between shots, even between holes. What I could overhear was gentle, confiding even. Sanity is not a requirement on the golf course, but I was beginning to worry. Two more Bobs were lost that round, but my buddy shot a reasonable score, and I knew I hadn't seen the last of Bob.

- A full month later, I got a call from my friend inviting me to participate in a scramble the next day, all expenses paid. I laughed because I was driving past the course we'd play (in Palmer) when he phoned, and it was drenched, a record breaking rainy summer leaving puddles and bogs in every low spot on the open fairways. I told him no, I had a house guest, and besides, the tournament would probably be canceled. He reminded me that summer was getting away, and that the course condition was not important because it was a scramble. He sounded as if he really wanted me to play. I glanced over at the lady who'd enjoyed our guest room for the past four days, and asked him what time to expect me for the shotgun start. "Will you be playing Bob?", I asked. He hung up on me.

- It rained all night. When I crossed the Knik River bridge, The fog was so heavy I couldn't see the water. My friend called and asked where I was. "I'll be there", I told him. "But I don't know why. It's pouring."

- "We'll play. It's Alaska.", he answered. Sure enough, it was only drizzling when we teed off, and the sun came out at the turn.

- When I met our team, I knew we wouldn't share the leaderboard. This was going to be a strictly-for-fun outing. Scrambles are usually a good time, but they devastate my game for days afterward. Once a ball is safely in the short grass, the rest of the team tries to blast a drive as far as they can, with the usual effect that half the time you play the original and spend time searching for lost mis-hits. For a week afterward, I always have to work at slowing my swing, regaining my tempo. My friend was placing Bob squarely in the center every drive, quietly cheering him on during every ball flight; "Go Bob.., Atta boy Bob."

- Palmer is fairly flat and wide, but there are a few holes where you can miss by a little and pay a lot. Next-to-last Bob disappeared in the birch forest next to a long par three that my friend tried to reach with a fairway wood. It seemed to me he searched for an inordinately long time and was visibly disturbed during the hunt. I helped look for a while but tired of the devils club and mud pretty quickly. When I returned to the cart, I took his putter from his bag and reached into the compartment where he usually keeps his green repairer and distinctive ball mark, a steel wheat penny made back in the war shortage days. There was an empty box in the pocket, and I removed it for easier access. Sure enough, it was the box the Bobs arrived in. Taped in the corner was a little ladybug gift card with squiggly print. It said, "Daddy, I heard you like golfing now. I hope you like Sponge Bob because I do too. I love you. Penny

- I gathered myself before he emerged soaking wet from the woods. I handed him his putter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the now familiar yellow ball. "Last Bob", he said, mostly to himself.

- "Maybe you should hang onto that one", I suggested.

- "Nah."

- He hit his putt first, and drained it.

- With honors on the next hole, he produced a low draw that carried well down the fairway, caught the backside of a hard hummock and ran forever, at least 290 yards, no mean feat on a soggy fairway.

- "HOOYAH, BOB!!", I yelled. The guys on the green ahead looked back at the shot in disbelief, pumping their fists and thumbs upping us. The rest of the team wasted good shots thirty to fifty yards behind Bob, and we managed to birdie the hole, again with Bob falling first.

- "Since when can you hit a draw?", I asked my friend.

- "Since now, I guess."

- What followed is the most amazing thing I've ever seen on a golf course. My friend played a string of seven holes with Bob not missing a single fairway or green. Our playing partners were loudly singing the praises of Bob and his flight every shot, following our lead. While perhaps not professional quality, my friend's shots were by far the best I'd ever seen him produce, and we managed together to put a string of respectable pars and birdies together with our dismal earlier scores. It became a celebration, and the enthusiasm was spreading to the groups around us. At the post tournament scorer's table, the recorder said she heard we were having a great time. She tallied our unspectacular total and looked confused. "Today wasn't about a number", I told her. "Today was about Bob."

- The seventeenth hole of the day parallels a cliff along the braided Matanuska River. My friend decided to cut the blind corner just a bit. He didn't miss by much. Last Bob went over the edge and must have hit a rock. He was sitting up prettily on a sand bar hundreds of feet below us across a ripping torrent of milky water. The four of us gathered, staring at Bob from the cliffs edge. I took my hat off and put my hand on my friend's shoulder. The guys from the other cart followed suit. My friend tested his footing once, as if he meant to go after Bob. I wouldn't have stopped him.

- When we returned to play, my friend sat in the cart for while, took a deep breath, and removed a bright pink Top Flight from his shag bag. I started to protest, but he interrupted; "I'm calling him FLAMER."

- When flamer fluttered weakly into the deep grass on the next shot, I tried to lighten the mood by suggesting "Flame Out" as a more appropriate name. Starting the next hole, I put the thought in his head that he should do his best imitation Gay Pride parade dance if he didn't clear the ladies tee, never considering it might actually happen. Of course, he topped the shot and it dribbled about thirty feet. He immediately went into the most spasmodic episode of dainty twirling and flopping I've ever seen. When he finished, nobody smiled, or even moved. Four hundred yards away on the clubhouse deck, a man's mouth actually hung open. We finished the hole in stunned silence.

- "What, not good enough?", my friend asked as we returned the cart.

- "TOO good.", I answered.

- Several minutes later, he spoke again. "Thanks for understanding. You know. My being silly about Bob."

- "No sweat. Sometimes it's cool to be silly. But FLAMER! PLEASE... God I miss Bob."

Friday Foodie Forum

2010-08-21T11:19:00.000-07:00

- Mushroom omelets. Nothing special, right? Unless you have fresh eggs, veggies from the garden, just picked wild boletes from the forest, and character swiss from, well.., the fridge. There are things done right up here. Potatos, carrots, fish, berries, and wild mushrooms (among others). And for the first time in five years, I wish, while hunting and gathering yesterday, that I'd used sunscreen.
- Some AK things, though, Holy McGuffy. We decided, after a few years, to give Garcias in Eagle River another chance. Oops. I ordered the chile verde, pork and Anaheim peppers with fixin's. They served about ten half inch cubes of tough pork in a sauce that tasted like it was made from chile powder, and then spilled the black pepper jar into the mess. It came with a dollop of sour cream on the side, cold bland rice (refrigerator cold), and a pile of jalapenos. (SACRILEGE!!) Cold torts right off the store shelf. The salsa was standard Old Mexico watery chopped tomatos and onion with an overload of cilantro. (I'm tired of debating the cilantro issue. Please don't bother.) If someone wants to make a fortune in Alaska, they could start a restaurant offering quality Northern New Mexico cuisine using roasted Hatch green chile, barely burnt red sauce, sharp quality cheeses, freshly made flour or blue corn tortillas, meats that melt, and yesterdays beans. Serve in a rustic building with flagstone floors, vigas, and a view of the forest, and you could charge $30 a plate and have folks beating the doors down.
- The Palmer potato should be coming soon. Everywhere believes they have the best potato, and while not having traveled the world potato tour, I'll put new Yukon Golds from Palmer, Alaska right up there with any of them. They taste nutty and sweet. Incrediyum.
- The carrots here are like crispy candy. I can't describe them better than that.
- There, I've done delved into the realm of restaurant and food blogging. All I've established is that I like fresh ingredients, and that I'm a Mexican food snob without the guts (or money) to start my own restaurant. Guess I'll stick to my day blog.

The Golf Conundrum

2010-08-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

- I used to think I could play golf. Without the occasional bad hole blowing up a round, I was pretty competitive in the crowd I chose to be with. I also loved the game. I've found few other ways to spend time so totally zoned that all the usual brain clutter is silenced.
- But then I grew up. Golf is a waste of my time. Golf is a waste of my money. Golf is a waste of my/our land and water resources. Golf is selfish. (Proof: I've used I/my ten times already in this post!) Better to spend time building something contributing to the common good.
- Then, after ten years mostly golfless and living in Alaska, a coworker pushed for participation in a company tournament insisting that anyone owning clubs would not be exempted. (It's AK!) So, out came the five wood, the railed rescue club that never failed in the past. The matted practice range is daunting after so much time. My body has changed.  The clubs are relative antiques that have been shipped and stored and stacked for ten years. I've forgotten all the technique that used to be automatic. My muscle memory is just that, a memory. My vision and focus are shot.
- But the picture of a real golf swing is still wonderously embedded in the closet of my brain, and I just step up to the ball and stroke it. There is no feeling like that of a well hit golf ball. When this magic club strikes a friendly ball on it's center, there is no impact feedback. It's as if the ball didn't exist in the swing, just the click of it's departure, and the "feel" that the distance and direction will be spot on. And even though I know I will never be as good as I was, or as good as I could have been, even though the season here is frustratingly short, even though fishing and berry picking and touring must suffer, I'm hooked.
- The rest of the practice session and tournament didn't go all that well, as I should have expected. My solace was the poor play of the group, in general. But everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. My door prize was a new modern driver, which I'm learning to use to effect.
- UPDATE: My friend has a quest. I love quests. He wants to play every course in Alaska. He doesn't offer a reason why, and I don't ask. "How hard can that be?", I wonder to myself. So I offer to be Sancho to his Don Quixote, windmilling titleists on every groomed patch of mossy grass in this far flung land. I didn't know, when I offered, that there are some very remote places in Alaska that also happen to enjoy golf. So, I'm with him in the spirit of his quest, if not actually in the traveling to Kodiak for a round of golf part. We did play five courses on the peninsula in three day at the beginnng of this season, though. We did not play them well, but we played them.  I counted every stroke.
- Another UPDATE: Yesterday, I played the course I've been hoping to see since the bug bit again. Eagleglen is a track built for the military, designed by a famous architect. (Robert Trent Jones Jr.) It winds through a spruce and birch forest, crossing Ship Creek several times and rolling through generally gentle hills. It is a beautiful place to see, and a wonderful course to play, being forgiving and wide for beginners, and offering challenging risk/reward opportunities for true players. Convinced by my playing partners that it was not particularly long or hilly (it wasn't), and boosted by the first perfect weather in a while, I walked, carrying my bag. It was one of those incredible days that you'll remember forever, doing something you love the way it was meant to be done in a special place with good people. As an aside, at 5:30, taps was played on the loudspeaker on base, followed by the Star Spangled Banner. Play stopped on the course while everybody held their caps over their hearts. As if planned (?), an F22 fighter jet drowned out the 'rockets red glare', and I felt the stongest welling of patriotism since the days following 9/11.
- So. I've rejoined the pill in a pasture dark side, knowing full well that golf time can't be recovered, and money spent playing could make a big difference in a suffering child's life in South America (or South Anchorage, for that matter). If you climb mountains, hunt, bicycle groomed trails or tear up wild ones, race cars or snowmobiles, run rapids, or just play video games, you are using resources that could probably be better used, except that it brings you joy, and that is where the value lies. To me, golf is art; in watching those who play it well, in appreciating a course layout, in learning to play different shots, dabbling in the tradition and history of the game, or just allowing for a day idled outside with friends. There has always been debate over the value and expense of art and entertainment to society, but I believe we have an inherent need for it, in whatever form.  That doesn't mean we should not try to limit the impacts of our play, but I'll ignore the nitrates from golf courses causing algae blooms in the ocean while I'm on the course, because that's really the point of being there.

Sleepless Rambling

2010-08-18T13:14:00.000-07:00

1: I squinted when my words were later hurled back in my direction. I know why I've got crows feet. You are what you eat.

2: People work themselves to death in salt mines. I don't get it. Salt is just ocean - less water. Put some ocean in a bowl protected from rain and wait. Voila!

3: The next time I see someone in a pricey car parked across two spaces twenty feet from the WalMart entrance, I'm gonna wait 'til the car on their driver's side moves, then park six inches from their door, film their reaction when they come out, and make them famous on a TV home video show. With the money I'll win, I can fix the dings in MY car from doors and carts being thrown into it. Or maybe I'll have enough to quit shopping at WalMart (for philosophical reasons), or even enough to buy a new car, which, of course, I'll want to show off to my fellow WalMart shoppers while protecting the fruits of my hard won wealth.

4: I know someone who jumps a foot every time the cell phone vibrates in her pocket. Everyone around her also recoils when she gets frantic for no apparent reason, like horses on the trail when the lead spots a rattlesnake. She doesn't get many calls, but when she does, the whole room becomes energized. I call her occasionally from the business phone a few feet away just for effect. I'm considering packing my own cell on vibrate, or maybe just randomly flinching or squirming like a chipmunk ran up my pants leg, just to create some buzz.

5: A safety memo came out warning of the dangers of leaving the paper shredder powered up when not in use. I wonder out loud what horrible accident created the need for this notification. I'm picturing the destruction of a perfectly good silk tie and someone's face. I.., um, someone... printed a copy of the document and mangled half of it in the shredder, then smeared a bit from a catsup packet on what remained. It rested on the brink of the trash can for the night shift to notice. It was not IN the can the next morning, and I'm fearing a long and expensive investigation into whichever sophomoric moron is not taking safety seriously in the company. If they find them, they should fire them.

6: We set a record for consecutive days with rain in Anchorage. Woo-hoo. Not many folks seem to be celebrating our accomplishment. I, on the other hand, am a lemonade fan. A wet summer has many (ok, some) benefits. The parks are not crowded, so, while we took our lab swimming (he doesn't mind the rain), we picked over forty types of mushrooms. We brought them home for study, compared them to the trusty guide, and found three that "might" be edible (and might be poison). So, I took the puppy into the dark forest on the slope of my property, and found more interesting varieties, all without food or hallucinogenic value (darn). But we learned a lot, and the shrooming season has just begun. We did find that the rain has not dampened the bugs' spirits, or slowed any plant growth. There were a few berries, and a place where a large animal made a day bed (probably at night). It's looking like we can put off getting refrigerated air for another year, and there will be plenty of mulch for the perennials. I haven't spent much time or money on golf, or wasted any effort searching for northern lights or meteor showers. I chose not to feed my lawn in the rain, so it's growth has slowed to where weekly cuttings are enough. Anywhere else, these rains would create torrential floods, but there is no natural topsoil for our gardens here, so the water just drains away. And as any true Alaskan knows, it's plain silly to complain about the wet; You don't shovel rain...

7: At the end of the golf season you can find bargains on golf balls. I bought some new Armour brand for a third of the normal price. They seem very playable, but I understand the marketing problem that exists with the hot-dog connection.

8: My partner was wearing a tortoise-shell claw in her hair. It looks like some kind of medieval torture device. I asked if the thing was a brain monitor and how it was doing. She said, "Actually, it's not doing much of anything." She said it. I didn't. Not to worry; She seldom reads this stuuuuuu

Ow.

Low-Word

2010-07-05T14:53:00.000-07:00

- Pizzaman has really good local pizza. They also serve schooners of microbrew. So, with our house trembling from guest prep, there was little question where I was going for take-out. When I walked through the door, a line of folks waited for seats. One bleached little southern lady in heels bypassed the line and beat me to the cashier. "How long is the wait?", she drawled.
- This cashier is one of my favorites. She is cute, courteous, professional, and very, very pregnant. She asked about the size of the party and estimated a fifteen minute wait.
- The tourist raised her eyebrows, hesitated a second, brought three fingers to her cheek, and wailed "Oh Low-word!". Thats the way she said it; two full syllables. The hostess noticed my reaction, but controlled her own. She shrugged an "I'm sorry", and the little belle wheeled and stormed away.
- The cashier smiled at me, reached for my order, and told me what I owed.
- I threw my hips to the side, raised my hand to my cheek, shook my head, and moaned "O Lo-word!!"
- I must have done it well. She doubled over and roared. The next customer in line was laughing one of those mouth-wide-open-but-no-sound-coming-out guffaws, and the waiting-for-tables crowd, who hadn't heard the earlier exchange, were smiling that somethings-funny-but-we-don't-know-what confused half grin. I shrugged an "I dunno" at them and waited for calm, but it wasn't happening. The poor girl laughed so hard that she sat, actually sat, on the floor gasping. Two waitresses ran out of the dining room to her side. "My God, What happened? Are you okay?"
- Through tearing eyes, she was staring up at me staring at her with a fake concerned look. "He... He...", she tried between heavy breaths, "is gonna make me have this baby!"
- The man behind was shaking his head. One waitress was giving me hate looks, the other was helping the plumpish one to her feet. She took some time, softly cradled her belly, then waved the other staff away, composed herself, and took my money. She thanked me with a smirk, then pointed her finger at the man behind and said "Don't even think about it!"
- From the car I could see her calmly handle business with the next customer, and as she called someone to fill in, I saw her mouth the words you come to expect from a woman in her condition, "Low-word, I gotta pee!"

Fireworks - A Requiem

2010-07-04T18:47:00.000-07:00

I used to love big fireworks shows. Now I don't care. Last night I sat alone in the guest bedroom and waited after midnight for the first boom. It shook the house and startled the puppy from his sleep. I hugged him and crated him, and went back to the show that was well on it's way. There were no oohs and aahs, no squeals of delight, no patriotic music; Just me, a wall full of family photos, and a picture window dotted with colored splashes against the dusky Alaskan sky. And like the movie that isn't quite good enough to involve you in the story, the show became interesting for it's rhythm, and the exact two seconds it took for the sound to travel to me, and the puffs drifting in the breeze the opposite direction of the clouds behind them. I began to start predicting which types of shell would come next, and wandered to the realization that nothing had been new in the fireworks game for a very long time. Then I began to remember the fireworks of my childhood, where fuses were lit only by child-like adults, and the explosions were all huge, and names were written in sparkler glare. I remember losing power to the entire block when a tossed splattering stick crossed the feed wires. When I first beheld a commercial display, with it's shimmery old glory and layers of exploding beauty, I knew my life had purpose. But there is no Stanford School of Pyrotechnics in my old neighborhood, and the closest I could get was to become a professional firefighter where all of my coworkers were similarly obsessed. I had eighteen runs including a house fire one July 3rd while operating only a brush truck, and it was the pinnacle of the adrenaline driven portion of my life. But the best, the very best, fireworks came when my girls were little, and we watched the reflections in their wide eyes, and their wriggly forms, hands on cheeks, backlit by the flashes, jolted by the booms.
- One of those girls came to visit last week. We had a wonderful time, and now she's gone off again to grad school, and she's grown into a beautiful, fun-loving and independent woman that any father would be proud of, and I'm sitting here watching the celebration of the birth of our nation considering whether her generation will be able to restore any of the ideals dreamt of by the founders, then mortgaged by the people on my wall, me included. I'm wondering if one man's vote will mean again what it should, and if real leaders will emerge that can decide issues based on diverse individual judgement rather than a party line. I wonder if race will ever become irrelevant. I'm hoping that the earth isn't already too polluted to recover. And I'm wondering, watching fireworks, how many of those other people watching are still proud of this country, willing to make real sacrifices for what it stands for, what it means to the history and destiny of humankind. I'm missing that feeling in myself.
- Mostly though, I guess I'm just sliding off the highs of last week, sad that time is over, already missing my daughters, missing my youth again. Even fireworks don't fill that hole.

The Boring Road

2010-06-23T18:19:00.000-07:00

- There is a road in New Mexico that no locals want to drive. "It's the most boring drive in the world", they say. "Look harder", I tell them.
- Hauling a load of European tourists, I kept hearing how beautiful the rocks were. (The ROCKS!) How the layered colors of the badlands played the light between snow and shadow, the sedimentary folds in the cliffs. I remember feeling closed in when I first visited a place where the vegetation was so thick you couldn't see into the forest. I remember visiting a place where the sun didn't come up that day, at all, and the still cold caused the cabin smoke to shoot a fifty foot column into the air before it dispersed. I thought it was beautiful, but I didn't live there. Those who did live there thought it dreary, and miserable, much the same way most feel about this road. It's a matter of perspective, and the willingness to look.
- Folks used to mount plates that read PRAY FOR ME. I DRIVE NM44. The highway number has changed. The speeds have dropped while the surface is better. But black ice and alcohol, large wild animals and very rural driving habits still kill people here too often. The old road ran along the cliff edge. You can still see remnants of Dead Man's curve, where a pile of old cars used to rest.
- There is a place close by where water flows in decent volumes from the ground, so hot you can't touch it without scalding. But cold water flows on the surface here too, and by careful placement of a rock or two, you can soak in a healing bath, take in the clean pine scented air, and study 600 million years of geology in the red sandstone cliffs across the canyon. When the air is still and cold, you can see the steam plumes here; hundreds of them. There was a hotel, with a swimming pool, once. Then it became a commune catering to "flower children", and they predictably didn't pay their bills, and the tribe that owns the land bulldozed it.
- There is the old Blanco trading post, where the trader McDonald was murdered, and his ghost still wanders. Navajos avoid the place. The "chindi" drives them away.
- There is the long white hill, at the north end of magic valley, so full of fossils that a young mother told her little daughter that a whale had died, and all the little creatures it had eaten are preserved there in stone.
- A rancher still runs his cattle along the Rio Puerco in a place infested with tree cactus. On the day he rented equipment and chains to clear it, the blooms were stunning, and he couldn't destroy them. The same rancher found the body of a man who had "fallen" from an airplane on a remote part of his property. How did he know where to look?
- The ghost town of Cabezon somehow still exists near the volcanic remnant with the same name. They filmed a movie there, but nobody knows it's name. The Spanish conquistadors camped near long before. What maladies did they encounter along the trail of the seven cities of gold to have named the mountain "Head of the Devil?"
- There is a place the bureaucrats call a wilderness, where no tree grows, just round clay hills, plates of sandstone, hoodoos, and wide fossil filled washes. I did have a picnic under a tree there, however. Sticking out of the undercut bank of a black arroyo was a huge petrified log. The sand was moist and cool, and the shade was most welcome.
- A narrow guage rail line ran here, to haul lumber and coal. The real old-timers still hear a steam whistle now and then.
- Just over the hill on the old road, before the washed out bridge, is a field of random large white boulders. There are no white mountains nearby. How did they get there? In the fall, the fields around those boulders are filled with purple aster and grey sage. One hill beyond is arch spring, with its little black and red painted Ansazi birds, and the outlier ruins on the bald hill across the valley.
- Near the gypsum cliff is a square rock that will warp your radio signal. A physicist told me that is impossible. His radio didn't work either.
- Two sandstone owls used to guard the magic valley, the boundary between the nomadic Navajo and Apache lands, and those of the more citified pueblos. The legend says the owls warned the pueblos when raiding parties came near, and that as long as the owls stand guard, an uneasy peace will exist between the tribes. Today, the owls have eroded to nubs.
- "La Ventana" was a long stone arch you could walk across only fifty years ago. Today, it's a pile of rubble, and almost nobody knows why it has a name.
- There is a gnarled grove of pinon trees, just hundreds of feet from the highway and hundreds of years old, that will produce, every seven years, the sweetest fattest nuts you can gather anywhere. At the right time you can lay an old sheet under a tree, send a limber young person into the branches to shake it, and within minutes you'll have more pinons than you can use. You will also have one filthy, tarry limber young person in the car with you, so take an extra sheet.
- There. We've traveled the road some think is boring, and we didn't get into any of the outlaw stories, or the tales of the rough and tumble Truby sisters. We didn't discuss horse rustlers, or quicksand in Largo Canyon or barfights at the Coon's Holler. We didn't mention that the whole town of Counselor was for sale not long ago. Wiese's place with the ancient orchard, sawmill stories, Chaco canyon... Shoot, we're really just getting started.
- Every boring road has a thousand stories. Many quiet persons have a tale or two to tell.

Growler

2010-03-19T17:23:00.000-07:00

The widow's lamp is still lit. The Iditarod is still running. Half the field has finished. Lance Mackey and his dream dog team won again. The Seaveys, Mitch and his son Dallas, finished strong in the top ten together. Dee Dee Jonrowe smoked in her pink outfit (the dogs had pink booties) and took 22nd. She dedicated the race to her Mom who has cancer, and whom I'm sure is so dang proud. Newton Marshall, from Jamaica, looks like he'll finish, but is rumored to be a bit miffed at the -40 deg temps Alaska provided. Pat Moon is recovering from the conk in the head he got from running into a tree. Celeste Davis also blacked both her eyes on a tree, but she's still running for the red lantern. Trent Herbst, the fourth grade teacher from Idaho who summers in Homer, has made it into Safety and looks sure to finish. His students, who helped build his sled and sewed booties for his dogs, are probably glued to their monitors, cheering. Wattie McDonald, running Siberians he raised in Scotland, looks to finish his first run. The lost dog, Whitey, was found, and flew in his owner's arms back to Anchorage. The convicts in Eagle River correctional center took care of the dropped dogs until they could be returned to their home kennels, and I'm guessing some serious bonds formed in the week they had together.
Vik stopped at the Moose Tooth for a growler of Raspberry Wheat for yours truly, and I'm sitting next to a comfortable fire, raising a frosted mug to the athletes, man and dog, gutsy enough to run the Iditarod, the last great race.

Action in IHOP

2010-03-19T07:34:00.000-07:00

- 5a.m.
- IHOP near a military base.
- "Good morning sergeant-major", as the last seat is taken at a table full of camo clad soldiers planning a day of training.
- Two elderly gentleman meeting for almost silent breakfast, like they do every morning.
- Two young men in civilian dress, but clean shaven heads and hangover eyes.
- Two gumpopping waitresses loudly discussing their boyfriends.
- A very young couple walks to the register. He's in fat pants, sheer t-shirt and sideways hat. She's in heels, tight jeans, and cut frilly blouse. She knows she'll be watched, so she puts on a show. Everything that can bounce and jiggle does.
- The breath audibly leaves the hangover boys.
- A forkful of waffle stops midway to a mouth at the geriatric table. The conversation stops, though, for only a few seconds.
- Training of he US military is temporarily on hold.
- Waitresses roll their eyes.
- Boyfriend is oblivious as girl looks back and smiles big. She takes her boyfriend's arm and struts out.
- My partner says "Clank", and I say "Ow."

Some are concerned there is debauchery here. Nope. Just nature. Some are concerned that men see women only as sexual objects. Nope. Very sexual beings, and so much more. Some would say something evil happened here. Guess I missed that part.

I'm allowed to notice, just not to stare. She says she'd worry more if I DIDN'T notice. I tell her it probably wouldn't matter if she worried, I'd probably still notice, but I'll try to not over-notice. She used to say she knows where I sleep, and she'll make me get down the heavy old cast iron pan so she can clank me with it. Now we're older and that sounds like more work than it's worth, so she just says "Clank", and I say "Ow", and we get the gist if not the lump. It's a pretty good arrangement, but it's still in my best interest not to notice to excess.

Portraits - Part 3 - Springtime in Moose Tooth

2010-03-19T06:35:00.000-07:00

- Oh, he was good. Spectacular, even. Professionally groomed, I'd say. He had short curly brown hair, sparkling dark eyes, and artist's hands that floated through the air when he spoke. His age, rounded down, was twenty. His smile glistened, and when he deemed the timing right, he flicked it on like a light switch. The tie knot was tight and straight, the white shirt new or starched, his sweater brushed wool in formal gray. Not many folks in Alaska wear dress wool, but he was pulling it off. The person he was selling to had a dour expression, but was being won over. Every face in the Jim Carey portfolio was being dealt with deft plasticity. First coy, then boisterous laughter. He was SO confident; and he was winning. He was... polished.
- Across the room, a bicyclist ate vegetarian. Middle aged, round Lennon glasses, a graying beard, pink knit hat with tasseled ear flaps, a loud coarse Scandinavian sweater, and tight lycra pants that delineated not only his package, but his flat, almost non-existant butt. But people noticing were seeing his shoes; faded red plastic crocs with no heels and big holes like pale flesh colored polka-dots.
- Near the door, a heavy couple ate a heavy meal. The man had dark red hair and a perfectly manicured matching beard. His head shape and size were that of a buffalo, and his demeanor the same. He was bullying the timid waitress, glaring as he complained loudly about the soggy crust on his pizza.
- Near the big picture window in the back of the room was a boisterous family from the Alaskan bush. They were ten strong, and celebrating something, perhaps a birthday, or the return of the sun. At the head of the table, Dad was putting on a show, dinging his beer glass and toasting loudly. He was a large man, large voice, large forearms, large belly, large scraggly beard. He'd taken off his stained hooded work jacket, but not his crumpled ball cap, or his frayed flannel lined shirt. His joy spread across the table, the adults giggling at him, the children excitedly taking in the strangeness of their surroundings, guarding their slices of pizza.
- Two tie-dyed watresses worked the room. The smaller girl with dark hair had a round face, honest walk and smile, and a confident, serious manner. She flowed, minding her tables without being obtrusive, conversing with the customers that prompted, but silently caring for others conducting business or wishing to be left alone. She was reserved, but her eyes danced, and her posture and clear sharp speech suggested strength, like a "takes no crap" note was pasted to her forehead.
- The other waitress was more geisha-like in her approach. Like many girls who deem themselves too tall, she slouched, and ducked her head when she listened or spoke. She crossed her hands and backed away from the tables when she'd taken an order. Her eyes turned dreamy when Salesman flirted, but welled with tears when she shuffled away from Buffaloman, nervously stroking her pigtail as she returned his food.
- A glance in the four directions of the brewhouse showed four men raising their glasses simultaneously. Salesman alternated pizza bits on a fork with measured swallows of red ale, careful to dab both sides of his mouth each time with a napkin. Vegan swirled the lime in his light ale and sipped, sampling each taste as if it were his first. Buffalo bit at his dark stout, slarping audibly and wiping his mustache with his sleeve. BushDad took long draughts, examined the foam lines on the glass, then poured from the pitcher and took another. A ten year old at the table proudly downed half of his root beer in one pass, leaving the foam on his lip just like his father.
- As if a silent alarm had sounded, four sets of eyes searched for the restroom sign, four glasses were lowered, and four men stood.
- Salesman said something apologetic to his client and winked, actually winked, before he danced Astaire-like down the aisle, sparkling at every woman who caught his eye along the way.
- Vegan shifted the crocs he'd removed back onto his bony feet, slid out of his booth, stretched his arms high, and rolled his head in circles both ways before he strode strode away like a nordic skier.
- Buffalohead rose slowly and painfully, adjusted himself, then waddled exageratedly bowlegged between the rows of tables. The tall waitress dove out of his way, but the little server, carrying his pizza, saw him and froze in the middle of the aisle, challenging with her stare. The standoff lasted several seconds. He finally heaved a huge disgusted sigh, and worked his way out of the passage. "Excuse ME!", he snarled at her. "Okay," she said pleasantly, and took the platter to his table while he struggled his way to the john.
- Bushdad burst urgently and comically from his chair and hurriedly walk-ran to the bathroom smirking, mumbling and apologizing to everyone and noone in particular while his family smiled lovingly after him.
- I believe that a great deal can be known about an establishment by observing their greeting and leave-taking, and how well they design and maintain their facilities, including restrooms. This restaurant does a wonderful job, and I was caught once studying the abalone tile mosaic on the Moose Tooth bathroom wall. The facility is beautiful if not spectacular, and clean, but small; too small for the crew of four full grown that gathered there with business at hand. I can only imagine the exchange that took place, as I'm rather glad not to have attended, but I can report that each of the four was smiling when they left, looking toward their tables and rolling their eyes, and I have never seen an entire restaurant of patrons more interested in a return parade from the loo.
-
-
-Aside: My co-fly-on-the-wall believes the man with the large head may have had a medical condition in his nether regions causing discomfort he couldn't help but share. Thinking back, she's probably right. That's the thing about her. She believes man is intrinsically good, and there is always a reason for lousy behavior. I say we are a diverse group with choices in how we act and portray ourselves. We are not always good, or bad, or genuine. But we certainly are interesting!

Portraits - Part 2

2010-03-11T00:15:00.000-08:00

- I didn't buy enough finish nails to finish, so ten dollars in fuel and an hour was spent to get less than a buck's worth of pin steel from the megamart.
- Four college aged girls were smacking a puck around the store's arcade air hockey game, shrieking as they traded turns. Their joy was contageous. Bank tellers and stylists in the neighboring booths were giggling just listening to them. As I walked by, there was a loud 'chink', several simultaneous screams, and a laughing "OH... MY... GOD!!!" as the little disc flew out into the store and skidded under the cart of a surprised mother pushing two toddlers. Both little heads swiveled to watch the puck slide under, then turned to see the gangly figure charging out of the arcade to retrieve it. "Sorry... Sorry... SORRY!", she said as her arms and legs flailed; the most uncoordinated portrayal of running I've ever seen. "Get back here!" she said to the puck, as she slid to a stop, hovering over it. "HA!", she huffed as she plucked it from the rubber mat at the stunned cashier's feet. "I've GOT you!" And she stood, holding the puck extended over her head like a gleaming medal in the flourescent sun, then marched back into the game room where her friends were appreciating her performance. The girl in the pink pajama capri pants was actually sitting on the floor laughing, her legs folded, her head tossed back, clapping and rolling in little circles of joy. Another, in a green UAA sweatshirt two sizes too large, was bent at the hips with only her head on the the hockey table, holding the plastic paddle to her stomach, shuddering strangely, drawing long straw-sucking breath sounds between horse-laughs.
- The toddlers studied the foursome, filing every mannerism for future use, I would guess. The cashier just smiled and said "Ah, spring break in Alaska, poor things." The greeter, who'd missed the flying puck scene but was enjoying the after-riot, said "I guess you had to be there!", and the store manager poked his head around the corner, found nothing in the ruckus that would create paperwork, and resumed his rat-killing.
- Foot traffic at the store entrance began to move again, and as I walked past the arcade, I noticed the fourth girl. She was standing calmly by the table, her hockey paddle held to her chest, lovingly smirking at her friend's antics. There was something about her, something familiar, a connection to her my mind wouldn't drop, and I watched longer than I should have. When she sensed I was looking, and I am convinced women can sense such things, she scanned, and we locked stares.
- Let's get something straight right off the bat. I was not stalking or attempting at a love interest here. I have distant daughters older than this girl. The curiosity I had was more familial, like recognizing a shared heritage. Imagine running across a brother or niece of whom you weren't aware. That's the connection I felt, and it was stronger when our gazes met.
- Normally, in our culture, holding eye contact with a stranger is exceedingly rude or flirtatious. Standard procedure is to avert your gaze, sending the message that you are not wanting to offend, nor do you wish to allow unfamiliar others into your space. But this girl held her eyes on mine, and I was mesmerized, in part because they were so piercingly blue. In the place where I was raised you occasionally met people with Old Spain blood that had dark blue eyes, but these eyes were deep heavy blue, like the blue of the glory pool in Yellowstone. They were bottomless, and sadly haunting.
- When I was able, after about ten seconds, to smile apologetically and work my way toward the finish nails, I began to analyze her image captured in my brain, and why it was so interesting to me.
- It wasn't that she had Hollywood good looks or spectacular fashion sense. She didn't. She was dressed plainly in comfortable jeans and a sweater. Her hair was very dark brown, semi-eighties high, and had that just-out-of-the-shower crazy bounce that really curly hair gets. She wore very little makeup, but then she really didn't need any at her age. She wore wide striped socks in Birkenstockisk sandals, but with a closed toe. It was as if she tried to dress as goofy as her friends, but something wouldn't let her pull it off.
- I kept remembering her intelligent eyes, focused on the brows, the heavy lashes. Then it hit me. There had been redness to the lining of her eyes. Perhaps she was sick, had allergies, or had been crying. Maybe she'd just laughed so hard with her friends that she teared up. But there was something else in her eyes when she looked at me. A longing maybe? A question? There was of course no way for me to know what she was thinking, and I laughed at myself for my habit of reading too much into the moment, a tendency I have. But she touched something, and I couldn't figure it out or make it go away.
- I'd stopped on the greeting card aisle after the hardware section because a birthday was coming up, and because it feels silly to go through the line to spend 79 cents. The girls had been carousing through the store, laughing and yelling in that sorority dialect so popular today. Pajamapants was pretend skating past my row, her hands behind her back as she shoosh-shooshed onto the seasonal card section one aisle over where her giggling friends were gathered. I listened to the voices, wondering if I could recognize which went with blue eyes.
- They read the first page of several St. Patrick's day cards, then held the card open for the others who hooted, leaving me to guess at the punchlines. "That's what you get for listening!", I scolded myself.
- Then Puckchaser blurted "SHEEZ. They've already got Mother's Day cards! Even FATHERS Da...", she stopped herself. "God. I'm sorry Karen. I'm so stupid."
- "Yes", said PJ. "You are."
- I finally heard Blue Eyes, Karen, speak. "It's okay." She started to sniffle. "I just really miss him.", and she started to throw big heavy croaking sobs.
- "We know you do. Cry it out, girl."
- A church bell clanged in my heart. I felt like I was going to break in half. I hurried past the group hug on the card aisle. The cashier looked like she was about to call security re the crazy person trying to hide his welling tears, crying over a 79 cent purchase.
- What I wanted to do was join their hug. What I wanted was to tell her how sorry I was for her loss, that her father had to be so proud of her, and that he would want her to live a full and happy life. I wanted to tell her that if she needed anything...
- What I did, however, was rush out of the store, overwhelmed by the sudden release of my suppressed grief over my own alienated daughters. My parking lot sobs rivaled hers, and theirs, until I could gather myself enough to guide the Jeep home.
- That look. Those forever eyes. The connection I couldn't have guessed. They haunt me.

Portraits - Part 1

2010-03-09T23:49:00.000-08:00

- The convenience store clerk is cherub faced, receding fortyish, round features, big creamy flitting eyes. His flowered shirt is buttoned half way up, and tufts of reddish chest hair waft out. His arms are just as hairy, and his cheesy (actual cheese smears) company blue vest with the Tesoro monogram is a size too small. He runs, actually runs, to the back of the store when I walk in. Vik says I look like a cop, but this guy was working alone on a snowy night, and I'm guessing he was thinking I might represent the other end of the crime spectrum. He watched me from behind the soft drink machine. I'd come in for a loaf of bread, but I should have known they'd have only three day old cheap heart stopping 'Sunrise' brand, with baked-in-Alaska plastered on the side (as if Alaska bakes better). I make a point of searching too long, acting shifty for the clerk's sake, then choose the wheat bread (as if the bit of extra brown in the commercial "wheat" version might prolong my life), then I catch the man watching and lock onto his eye, and when he he looks away, I walk to the counter. I hear the air poof out of him. His shoulders drop, and he starts toward the register.
- The cashier looks relieved, at first, when another customer rushes in. This guy looks rough, and urgent. He has a black scraggle on his face and a three day neck beard. His eyes are black, his crumpled frayed cap is black, his carhartt bibs and plaid flannel shirt are mostly black, and his mood, black. He nods an apology, but steps in front of me anyway. "I need to use your restroom", he booms. God, what a deep, clear voice.
- The clerk glances at the open bathroom, but snits, "Well.., actually..., our restroom are reserved for our customers, and..." He turns his head to the side when he talks. His voice is as light and creamy as his skin.
- The other customer cuts him off. "I think I'll use it anyway", he snarls. He glares, gets no response, and hustles into the john.
- The clerk looks only at the register and the bread while he silently charges me three times it's actual nutritional value, then bags the bag in another bag, which I remove. I stuff the change in my pocket and start out the door when I notice the liquor side of the store. Beer is on the list, so I trip the door sensor, pull a pack of Molson's, and put it on the shared counter. The other customer has returned, looking much relieved. He is buying a pack of cigarettes from the sulky clerk, perhaps validating his use of the restroom, or more probably just needing a smoke. He smiles and shrugs when my eyebrows rise at the announced cost of his Marlboros. You must need a good job in Alaska to support an addiction. He opens the pack, taps one out, and lights it. Rules don't rank high on his priority list, evidently.
- The clerk turns to my beer and whines, "Fyi, in the future, you can take your bread into the liquor store and make a single purchase. You just can't do the reverse."
- Several responses crossed my mind. I could have told him I'd just remembered the beer. I could have apologized for inconveniencing him. I could have walked back into the other side of the store and bought a quart of milk for the hell of it. I could have told him that the order of my purchases was none of his damn business, and walked out. But what I DID do was laugh, and start to leave, when I heard that big voice again.
- "F---Y---I!", he almost shouted. "In the FUTURE, it don't matter how me or this guy get our shit, so long as it ain't here! Cuz you are the creepiest fucker I've run into in a long long time."
- I nodded my agreement, stripped the flimsy plastic bag from my beer, fired up the Suburban, and waved... to them both.

Dog Gone

2010-03-06T19:02:00.000-08:00

Last year we discussed how much I enjoy this dog race. Today was the ceremonial start. All the mushers' profiles, pictures, and human interest stories were in the paper. The food caches are stored. The GPS trackers are in place. The game faces are definitely on. We decided to skip the crowds and catch a more remote view of the first day. Still plenty of folks cheering, though.

Vik had a good time. A girl even told her her hat was cute.

The dogs seemed fresh and happy. The dog on the right can touch his eyebrow with his tongue. We all have talents.

And I decided I NEED a fat tired bike. Like these:

Occasionally I get to do a post Facebook style; the "Gee, I had a great day!" kind of post. We got cold and wet, we saw heros, we talked to normal folks having a wonderful time, we saw silly kids playing in the snow, we were mocked by a raven, we ate at Mark Schlereth's favorite burger joint in the world, and we sat together by the fire watching it snow. All in all, the kind of day you wish they all could be. Doggone good.

Stop That!

2010-03-01T20:05:00.000-08:00

A wonderful mom created a wonderful story with a wonderful purpose.

"The queen ant was directing her workers, urging them to push a huge ball of horse manure up the cone of the ant pile. You ARE aware of the food and heating value of horse poop to an ant, right? She was directing her workers with antennae sign language because, as you should also know, ants don't speak English. As the lump approached the steepest part of the hill, some of the ants started to goof off, thinking the job was essentially done. The queen called for larger numbers to ease it over the crest. But the extra workers didn't respond quickly enough, The ball teetered, and froze, the pushing crew straining against it's weight. More ants scrambled to help, but the number of slacker ants was growing as well. The ball started to rock, seemed to lean, and began to creep back down the hill. The gathering mass became terrified, and several colonists were crushed, but the army continued to grow heroically, everyone looking to the resolute Queen, firmly on the battle line, signing orders to her workers."

At this point, the mom made a fist, then extended her index and little fingers, waggling them at her rapt little audience like the queens antennae.

"The colony was at risk, and the Queen made sure they knew it. Not one ant quit. Even the goofoffs gave their all. It took everything the community had, but they managed to change the momentum, and eventually, under the direction of their unbending queen (waggle, waggle), the dungball was wrestled into the burrow, and the colony survived the winter warm and well fed. (yuk) Of course you know what the Queen was signing, right? (waggle again) She was saying... STOP THAT HORSE SHIT!!!"

When this mother was in public with her sometimes unruly children, even after they were grown, all she had to do was waggle, and they would giggle, and settle down to pitch in. Her family is warm and well fed.

Cookies

2010-02-28T11:11:00.000-08:00

- It's that time of year.  Cookie time. Cute kids in badged brown banners hawking kill pills. Must have.

- Like a toll taker at the traffic funnel exit of the store, she flashes that gapped smile and lisps her question, prompts your answer with an affirmative nod, then glances at her military stanced father for verification she'd followed procedure.

- I told her I'd waited a year for a thin mint and a snickerdoodle, and I wouldn't be denied. She didn't understand. I said, "A green one and a blue one, please." She selected one of each from the stacks behind the polished "display" boxes, setting them carefully by the cash box, awaiting payment. I asked if she had change, and offered a twenty. She looked as if I'd slapped her, and whispered, "Yes."

- Her father snapped into action, opening the cash box and taking the bill. "So! At four dollars each, he wants two. How much would that be?", he pressured his daughter. She could only muster a blank look. "Four...,  Plus four?", he asked.

- "Eight?", she whimpered.

- "Righto! And how much change should we give him?" She just shrugged and looked at me apologetically.

- "Well then....", he snitted. "I guess it doesn't matter."  He reached into the pile of money and started to give me a fistful.

- "DDAAAADDDD!!"

- He handed me the correct change. "Sorry", he said to me. "She's just like her mother."

-  I don't know why I chose to continue her pain, but I did. "So!", I said (mimicking her father), "I would like to take this twelve dollars and donate two to your 'Help the Wounded Warriors' box." I held the two ones in my left hand, the ten in the other. "How much will that leave me?"

- She looked pained. Her dad looked more pained and turned away.

- I gave the ten a little shake, and her eyes lit up.

- "Ten!!" She puffed her chest out. Her Dad looked back, shocked. "Right!", he huffed.

- I put the two dollars in the slotted reciever, winked to her and said to her dad, "I'll bet her Mom is cute and a lot of fun, too."

- They put a third as many thin mints in a package as they used to. Not many left in the rig when I got home. I'm thoroughly busted. I have ten dollars.  Must go back.

Soft Point

2010-02-22T10:27:00.000-08:00

The night's rest is not complete, my mind hovering in that phase between dream and controlled thought, when through a blurred half-lid I see the sillouette of her backlit by the dawn, and my hand travels (because it has to) to the soft curve on her side, my favorite, where her hip meets her waist, where she is so very female, and I embrace for the thousandth time how fortunate I am to share her bed, and her life. She starts at my touch, and I glide into the small of her back with my palm; slow, rhythmic circles. When her breathing is steadier and heavier I ease the motion and press deeply into her back with my hand, and the wakefulness seems to drain from her in a relaxed wave. I slowly, ever so slowly back away as she starts to gently snore. Then (because it has to), my hand travels back to the soft curve of her hip. I mouth the words "I love you" into her curls, and she answers from her sleep, "You, too." And I wonder for the thousandth time how she does that.

Sweethearts

2010-02-14T18:27:00.000-08:00

- Sweetheart candies have updated flavors and sayings. "Text Me", XOXO, and "Email Me", are written in brighter colors and boingier flavors instead of faded ink on chalk. I liked best the accidently old fashioned message I found. It should have said "MEET ME", but a few bars were missing, and it said "MELT ME" instead. Sweet.

Build It...

2010-02-12T17:43:00.000-08:00

      Old guys cuss youth. What is, is. Deal with it.

-    Today's kids are gutless.

-    There was a cool old dude in another century that would do things to stimulate the neighborhood kids. He had no children of his own and enjoyed watching the crew where I was raised. He would grab a chair and popcorn when the sandlot games began. Binoculars sat on the window sill, handy for snowball wars. An old push scooter just showed up on his lawn one day, and the temptation was too great not to test drive it. We didn't consider we'd stolen it. Just used for a bit. The scooter became the property of the entire neighborhood, and when not in use, could always be found under the juniper bush in the old man's yard. When it broke, it somehow got fixed.

-    We had an abused soap box go cart that steered with rope and when the hard rubber lining stripped away from the wheel, a new full axle set was found in the street.

-    We used the concrete flood channels for playgrounds. Skateboards were ruined where the steep sides met the flat channel bottom. The old man down the street spent a weekend building curved plywood ramps in the ditch. We never considered that he spent retirement income on us. To my knowledge, none of us ever thanked him. When he died, nobody went to his funeral. We read his name in the paper and thought of him fondly.

-    My home sits on a steep circle drive. The island in the circle is the respository for snow cleaned from the roadway, which we get a bit of. From the piletop of snow to the bottom of the street is a vertical drop of about twenty-five feet.

-    I've watched a dutiful mom pull her bundled little people up to the base of the snow pile and give them a gentle shove. I've listened to the squeals from the toddler and noticed the eight year old looking wistfully up at the huge mound of snow.

-    A coworker gave me a small broken fancy toboggan because I have tools and time. I fixed it. It hogs a surprising amount of valuable storage space in my garage.

-    I'm sure you know where this is going. I cut a staircase into the backside of the hill. I flattened the top for a perfect mounting platform. I sunk past my waist filling the gaps between peaks. I piled and packed, got cold and wet, polished the path, misted the soft spots, waxed the sled, set it in plain sight atop the hill, and went inside to warm up and watch.

-    Nuthin'.

-    Now I am certain my activity was noticed. My old Santa shaped neighbor shook his head. The sulky teen who shortcuts through the deep snow in the corner of my yard walked past and turned his head away instead of offering to help me extricate myself. The two little guys who had already made the street glassy had their faces plastered to the minivan windows when they came home from school and daycare.

-    I got a long stare from one kid I've never seen before. He walked the entire circle, suspiciously inspecting the setup from a distance, but could never make himself climb the hill.

-    The lady I share my life with laughed at me. She told me that while I won't admit it, winter is getting to me. She says that I so miss fishing that I built a deathtrap for children, and I am enjoying watching them being drawn to it. She giggles that the children are too smart for me. She says I am fascinated like a NASCAR fan waiting for a wreck, or a hockey fan. She won't quit. She says she doubts our insurance agent would be impressed. I say "What sled run? What Toboggan?" She says that perhaps I should demonstrate the sled run for the poor hesitant children. Right.

-    And now I have an epiphany. The nice old man from my childhood was evil. He was a disaster junkie and empowered children to kill themselves while distancing himself enough to deny liability.

-    The sky turned red and I retrieved my toboggan with disgust. Cowards, this new generation. Smarter than we were, but cowards.

Tell me how to feel...

2010-02-10T12:26:00.000-08:00

     Someone close got news that mattered. Her monster died. The man that molested her when she was a child passed away. She was not alone; he was a pedophile all his long miserable life. She managed to protect her sister from all but the introduction to his 'affections'. She confronted him when she was old enough to do so. She alienated distant family by warning them to guard their children. She has always felt guilt for not managing to do enough to stop him. Sadly, the people most of us depend on to protect us were no help to her. She has lived in the shadow of what happened for forty years, and now he is dead. And she is not sure how to feel about it.
     I don't see her celebrating. She won't call attention to his memory or travel to grind her heel on his grave. She can't grieve him or offer solace to those who cared about him, but I've heard her consider what drives someone to that sort of addiction.  She wonders if his 'illness' was inflicted by a previous generation, and if other family was involved or victimized. She wonders if he suffered Karmic retribution or guilt. She believes in the power of forgiveness. But she can't. Even in death.
     She describes being "ruined", his taking something precious he didn't deserve. Her love relationships have been rocky, and she understands that HER choices were to blame, but can't help the discomfort her introduction to intimacy caused. I've seen her reaction to the place where it happened, and I don't think her mind has blocked anything, though she doesn't talk details, and I don't ask.
     She opened up more to me than she ever has when she heard he'd died. She'd like to care. She'd like to stop hating. She'd like to forgive, at least those who should have shielded her from him. She'd like to forget. But his death seemed to just stir the old emotions.
     All I could suggest was to be thankful for the future. He can't hurt anyone else. Times have changed and folks don't sweep psychopaths under the carpet like they used to. Allowing him to occupy her thought empowers him, even in death. Maybe some day she will understand what drove him, or those who wouldn't stop him. But dwelling or forgiving isn't necessary. There is so much positive in her world now to busy her.
     She is a caring and nurturing partner in a ten year stable relationship. She is aware of her trust and intimacy issues, and is dealing with them, finally. She has special bonds with her children and has a second grandchild on the way. She creates art in the kitchen, and has embraced the technologies she feared, even blogging and skyping with joy. She is appreciating her own health, getting baseline tests and watching her figure. She is funny, and capable, and generous. And now the evil in her mind's closet is dead. She may not be able to celebrate, but I am. I will celebrate that she is wonderful, and capable of overcoming what he did to her so long ago. Ding, dong.

MLK Day at My House

2010-01-20T16:49:00.000-08:00

First direct sunshine on my house this spring. Houseplants are doing their sunshine dance. (slow, but joyous)

Didn't last long... but woot.

No moose tracks in the yard. (droppings either) Just sled tracks.

Hoar frost lacey in the trees. Only a foot or so left. Spring verging! (right.)

Bigger

2010-01-20T12:00:00.000-08:00

Like a stuck song jailed in my brain, a good story has been simmering for weeks now. For the last couple of days, following a clear dream (that terrified me), the issue has not been how to develop the plot, but how to tell the story without casting a dark shadow on those I MUST draw the characters from. They have done nothing wrong. Exactly the opposite. They are perfect.
Perfect people give me the willies. In the six decades I've been watching, I've known exactly four perfect couples, and three folks who got it right on their own. The catch phrase is "old souls"; folks who instinctively know the right direction, choose the right partners and careers, are comfortable with their bodies and their faith or lack of it. Perfect people are untroubled (from this viewpoint). But evidently God wants to challenge all of us, because in every case, the perfect people I've known suffered some random disaster that dramatically changed or ended their lives.
They all reacted heroically, of course. But being close to the tragedies that felled them due no fault of their own, the rest of us suffered, too. Makes you jaded. Most of us fail the life test early on; I sure did. All I could do was start over, and celebrate the folks still on their game. But after watching them cut down, I'm like the fan at baseball watching a pitcher's flawless performance; you don't dare mention it, for fear it will end, and you'll be blamed. I love these people. I don't know if I could stand the heartbreak.
Of course I have to write the story, if just to purge it from my thoughts. The characters might be changed enough to deny liability should the plot or future similar events prove true. But I'll know. I know now.

(edited)

The Sitter

2010-01-16T23:43:00.000-08:00

The family was considering going to an "R" rated movie. The youngest in the group (four) wasn't interested. Neither was the oldest (eighty eight). Finding a sitter on short notice was proving difficult.

"What's wrong with Great-Grandma?" asked Great-Grandma, miffed that nobody had considered her capable of watching a kid for a few hours.

"We'll be fine", she said. "We both know how to use a phone if we get in trouble."

The cars hadn't left the drive before the evaluation started.

"Do you know how to make cookies?"

Yes, I do.

"We should make cookies."

No, we shouldn't.

"Let's go to the park!"

I don't drive anymore.

"Do you want to play on the computer?"

Do you know solitaire?

"Hmm. I think I'll take a nap."

Sounds good.

"I'll get my bear. You start the movie."

Movie?

"I can't go to sleep without my bear and my movie in my room."

OK. Get the bear. We'll see what we can do.

When the family came home, great-grandma was slumped on the couch, snoring. The four year old and the stuffed bear sulked next to her, arms crossed. The DVD player, the computer, and the kitchen needed reconfiguring.

The little girl has a new respect for her regular sitter, offering plainly that great-grandma "doesn't know much."

And the next time there will be an answer to the question, "What's wrong with Great-Grandma?"

Not Like You, Dad!

2010-01-13T11:40:00.000-08:00

My friend was worried about his sensitive youngest son. The hockey coach said the boy was distracted. His teacher (fourth grade) reported worse work than usual. Dad decided it was time for a talk.

Ok buddy. What's wrong?

Sorry Dad. I don't feel good.

Really? Should we see a doctor?

No.

So?

The boy started to weep. "It's Heather."

Heather? Hockey Heather? (The only girl on the Mighty Moose team.)

"Yeah." Sobs.

What about her?

"I'm in love. And it hurts inside... so much." The tears are falling hard, now.

Dad put his arm around his son and just sat for awhile.

Then, "Listen Buddy, I understand. I've been there."

Yeah?

Yeah. But listen. You need to leave a little room in your head for the rest of your life. You don't want to be like me.

What?

"Look at me. I'm old. I'm chubby. You're mom tells me what to do." He opens his empty wallet. "I don't have any money. I don't have a degree. I can't even skate."

His son stared like he'd never really seen his own father. Then they hugged again.

"You're right, Dad", he blubbered. "I don't wanna be like yoouuu..."

That's right.

Later, after they'd beaten the Mooscateers, the boy asked his father if he'd really ever been in love to the exclusion of everything else in his life. "Still am", He said. "Thank goodness you're half your Mom or you'd be worthless." He winked.

My friend hopes the boy carries a picture of him, pulls it out whenever he faces a life decision, shrieks, and does the right thing.

There is more than one way to be a role model.

Luminarias

2009-12-24T21:31:00.001-08:00

Harken back a few years. I was THE expert on luminarias in the old land. Tonight we decorated the Alaska house. Looking at the finished display, I had to laugh. The spacing was shoddy, some bag seams had been placed out (sinful!), and the little tea candles were barely bright enough to light the bags. We put out a third of the number I'd deem adequate, and our steeply pitched roof and lot don't make much of a palette for the maestro of Christmas candle light.
But our little display drew a minor parade of light watchers. Our neighbor's house blazes and both of our homes are visible from the main road, so quite a few folks drove by, many of whom I am sure, living in Alaska, had never seen luminarias.
Lame as it was in comparison to past efforts, I couldn't help but be as enchanted as ever. The soft flicker reached into my heart and pulled some favorite memories with friends and family. The thought of a village street in Penitente New Mexico on Christmas eve, a chosen young couple and baby leading the townsfolk along the farolito lined path to midnight mass, celebrating the birth of God's promise of peace and forgiveness; it charms and awes me still.
Merry Christmas Alaska. And Merry Christmas too to those who live in places with more Christmas tradition. May it never fail to stir us.

The Company

2009-12-21T17:08:00.000-08:00

Out takes from the best weekly report yet -
Facility One: Routine ops - Preparation for solstice party.
Facility Three: Whiteout conditions. Stayed inside for training covering new paperwork.
Facility Four: Completed an exercise on prevention and response to workplace violence.
Facility Seven: Almost finished knocking out our punch list...

Flaky Weather

2009-12-15T10:57:00.000-08:00

- At first they were thumbnail sized feathers. You could count ten-miss'ippi from the time you saw them 'til they lighted. The trees were already laced with hoar-frost, so the flakes clung as if they were magnetized. So lacey and light the shovel wouldn't hold them. Should'a used the leaf blower. Overnight things got a bit more weighty. The shovel works now. The operator, however, is not so ambitious because the sky is still falling. I'm waiting for the right moment.
- The Christmas bear on the lawn has no legs and wears a white gnome hat. He's like one of those ads with a splotch of color in a black and white background, all the life in the picture blanketed or dulled by winter dim. "Another week and things will start lightening," we glibly tell ourselves, knowing full well that winter is just begun.
- Next week they predict we'll settle into negative numbers on the thermometer. "They" predict. I want that job. An Alaskan meteorologist is not held to any standard of accuracy. No expectations. Smile at the poor suffering populace from your warm studio and share your best wild ass guess. Don't keep records. Don't look back.
- The weather is unpredictable, so Alaskans wager. The Nenana ice classic puts a tripod on the river ice, and folks wager on the spring breakup. I know someone who missed the gist, and bought five tickets, then recorded the same time and date on all five. I told her she'd better hope not to win, for she'd be famous as a lucky idiot. She corrected me. She'd be a RICH famous lucky idiot, and would happily claim her five shares of the prize.
- The fluffy snow is taller than the rat terrier now. It's grand comedy to watch her poof her way to the shelter of the spruce tree for her morning business. Some day soon she'll brush a branch and get dumped on. Hope I see it.
No. Vik is sure to clear a path off the other side of the deck so the poor hairless mutt will have a place to go; when it stops snowing; IF it stops snowing. Meanwhile the dog sleeps all day in front of the wood stove... and tries to hold her water.
- The cat is well prepared for the outdoors. He's longhaired and white, with an excellent insulating layer of chubbiness. But his idea of winter adventure is demanding to be let out, then wandering to the edge of the deck to watch the occasional vole dart about under the bird feeder. After a minute or so of "hunting", he lazes back to the door and complains to be let back in. If I can't be a weatherman, I want the cat's job.
- Late in arriving this year; this is sure to be the storm that makes the pavement disappear. We'll drive on ice until April. One would think folks here would be expert winter drivers. One would think. Last year in January, there was a fluke rain over the ice. Eighteen cars were off the road in the sixteen miles between my house and the city. Over a hundred accidents in the metro area. Seems lots of folks have to learn every year to slow down, and that fancy SUVs still don't stop on glare ice.
- If you let it, the cold and gloom can overwhelm. If you let it, the serene beauty of Alaska in winter can overwhelm you, too. Right now the snow is fresh, and soft, and pure. The forest is frosted, the field is a quiet, untracked blanket. Snow has it's own smell, and faint wood smoke also hangs lightly in the air. You can hear the little sounds, like the chittering tiny birds, or the skier on the trail in the distance. Ravens return calls across the valley, and somewhere a steep roof whumps off its load. At night the city lights will bounce off the undersides of the clouds, creating a "snow-glow" in the distance. The mountains will reveal themselves after the storm, and the light will play off contours that only show themselves in winter. Ansel would be scrambling to capture the patterns of dark and light on film. I am content to sit here and describe them to you.
- My good neighbor ruins the silence with the little snowblower he loves to use. His dogs are supervising from the window. His wife will light the night with her holiday decorations, which she won't remove until March, when she'll start lighting the neighborhood in a different way with brilliant floral displays in her container garden.
- Now, though, the snow is getting heavier. The afternoon is waning. The fire needs stoking and dinner needs considering. The driveway will still be there, somewhere under there, in the morning.

UPDATE! - I used my own snowblower last night. Then we got another foot. The Christmas bear is gone. (buried) Valdez has blizzard warnings and six feet on the ground, so I won't complain. (much) Happy Holidays!

The Global Warming "Scientist"

2009-12-12T11:58:00.000-08:00

The response to the recently hacked email from research scientists charged with documenting global warming has me miffed. Here's why:

- They took my money (tax) to produce scientific data (truth) and conspired to hide the facts (fraud) from the public (freedom of info act) because the actual numbers didn't support their agenda. Like an arsonist firefighter, a crooked judge, a bought legislator, they violated me, you, their cause, mankind. Science is the search for truth. When the data doesn't support a theory, you try to learn why. To ignore or manipulate the data is anti-science. Jones and Mann should be in prison for misuse of funds or at least banished from the scientific community. (DISPLAY their names!)

- Folks want to know who did the hack, who funded it, and why. Nice redirect, but wrong focus. If the emails are real, they bring into question the entire premise of global warming, casting a shadow on all the untainted research that's taken place. If that sells oil in the short run, blame the guys who lied about the cold temps, not the guys who caught them doing it.
- I know a few things about global warming. When I was a kid, we didn't need sunscreen. Glaciers, in general, have thinned and receded. Big chunks of polar ice are breaking off; of a size and frequency we've never heard of. China and India have horned in on our party, using energy at logarithmically increasing rates. Oil is a finite resource. We'd better be looking at how we will ADAPT to less available energy, much higher prices, and the possibility of high temps, storms, and drought.

- Bad science publicly predicted we'd be out of oil by 2000. Sold plenty of books. Bad science predicted the millenium would crash the world's computers. Maybe measures taken saved a few. Bad science has created plenty of folks conditioned to ignore good information that suggests we should change our ways, or at least prepare for what we think will happen if we don't. You really can't blame people for thinking the whole thing is a hoax, however. Like politics and religion, most folks won't hear what they don't want to believe. And weve also been conditioned to understand that EVERYBODY who gives us information is serving their own purposes, even those scientists paid with our own dollars to just give us the facts.

Order

2009-12-07T19:44:00.000-08:00

There are no handicapped people (certified) in our building. So don't bother scolding when I confess that I occasionally do business in the larger, quieter handicapped bathroom. No women, in particular, should gripe. When the cleaning dude had the door propped open, I saw their large private space, with it's floral display, scent plug-ins, wallpaper borders and fainting couch. I'm not really complaining; most guys (including me) are perfectly happy with our mini-stalls and no art on the walls... usually. But sometimes it's nice to have a more private room with a larger volume of air.
Anyway. Hung temporarily on the backside of the wide door for the nonexistant handicapped people is a sign that says 'OUT OF ORDER'. Perhaps there is occasional trouble here, when the sign is moved to the door front to protect people from danger I don't want to think about. I'm sitting in this quiet, large, clean, functionally perfect place, looking at the sign on the door leading out to an increasingly chaotic world. Out of order. How appropriate.

Therapy

2009-12-01T17:14:00.000-08:00

The lady with the broken arm got her cast off, scheduled to start physical therapy this week. Now she can tell all the gals in line dancing class she's seeing a therapist, then wait for the rumor mill to start grinding out the stories.

Buzzless

2009-12-01T15:06:00.001-08:00

I'm out of coffee. Yes, it is TOO worth posting about. No holiday shipment. I TOLD them this was an emergency. They just whined about "time with family" and such. And here it is Tuesday. I'm out of coffee and all any of you can do is sit there laughing in slow motion...
.
Still out of coffee. Tracking says it shipped. Tracking says it left the city. Tracking STILL says it left the city. Tracking NEEDS TO GET A MOVE ON!!
.
Brown truck on the block. I'm humming Wells Fargo Wagon song. Doesn't stop. It's getting dark, and I'm out of coffee.
.
Stripping the cabinets. I've got tea. I've got chocolate. No coffee. Not even crappy coffee. Next time I hide a baggy from myself. Dab the grinder with a wet finger, then remember to unplug it. Catch myself holding the empty mug, rubbing it, like a genie will pop out and give me some DAMN COFFEE!
.
Ok. Get a grip. Breathe deep, imagine yourself in a better place, like a Kenyan plantation or a high ridge in Jamaica. Focus your thought on anything but coffee. Not coffee. Some men survive without ever having tasted coffee, poor coffeeless bastards.
.
They have coffee in town. It's a poor imitation, but it's coffee. Three bucks for fuel and global warming be damned. I'm driving into town for five dollar coffee.
.
Coffee. I want coffee. This is a coffee shop, right? I want coffee. Black. Leave the pot.
.
Just fine, thanks for checking. The box was on the porch when I returned, brewed up a pot right then. Life just percolates along...

Jessie's Wrong!

2009-12-01T13:29:00.000-08:00

Two young men came to Alaska in May to work a bit, adventure a bit, pursue fame and fortune; the same things we all came for. Vikki put her arms around the younger one and asked if we could keep him. I didn't say yes. They're still hanging around. I've grown kinda fond of them. Don't tell them, though. I got a rep.
So the older kid left an "acquaintance" Outside. Jessie. She was raised in Alaska (Willow), and told the guys they wouldn't like it here. No pretty girls.
Now there is no documented evidence of my ever actually noticing any pretty girls in Alaska in all my time here, but when I heard this particular horse ploppage, I took issue. "Jessie's wrong," I suggested.
Once again, I want it understood that I was not involved in the mutual "noticing" that went on between the guys and a large contingent of gorgeous females in Anchorage. At a favorite bakery, one brother said to the other, "Jessie's wrong, Jessie's wrong, Jessie's wrong!", once for each of the smiling cashiers. He bought a loaf of bread at each register.
I overheard "Jessie's wrong! Ten o'clock!", when a lovely in snow boots popped out of a boutique. She may have overheard, but she definitely understood, and smiled at them. "How do they know?" he asked his brother. Perhaps it was the stopping in your tracks, googly eyed jaw drop that gave her a hint. Sheesh.
I don't know if Jessie has been made aware that her incorrect assertion is debunct, or that her name is now code. And I don't think the the sisterhood of the forty-ninth state has recognized her insult..., yet. That may change. The younger brother has a plan.
He intends to start a "Jessie's Wrong" Facebook site. He will start by meeting as many Alaskan girls as possible, taking his picture with them, and posting those pictures with a first name and where they live or visit in Alaska. He intends to create a craigslist ad asking for photos, explaining why he needs ladies' help (and their friends) in proving his point to miss Jess. To his credit, he says there will be no restrictions for age, race, body type, hair color, etc. He will just ask for a first name, a hometown, and a favorite pic; nothing racy and no contact info. All in the name of promoting the image of Alaskan women. Thousands will respond. A noble thing, he is convinced.
I told him Alaskan women are notoriously independent and strongly opinionated. He seems nonplussed. I told him some women will be offended, and many are very good shots. He says, not entirely correctly, that bullets do not travel along the cyber "inner tubes." He already has plans for Jessie's Wrong clone sites for other states. Hmmm. I told him I want a piece of the advertising action and if he needs a moderator...

Disclaimer: Vikki says she would be more concerned if I DIDN'T notice a beautiful woman. She says that.

Bounce

2009-11-17T05:24:00.000-08:00

How quickly some young adults transition from "Won't it be great having no one telling me what to do!", to "I wish I was a kid again! I can't make all these decisions!"
I'm watching several just-launched independents struggle. We smiled knowingly when they sneered back at us from the edge of the precipice, having enthusiastically jumped ourselves, once. It's amazing how they can thumb their collective noses while freefalling. Observers with vested interest can only watch hoping they'll bounce, then remain ready with restrained support if despair gets the upper hand.
We've been sharing our collection of hardship stories since they were little, but it's nature's way for youth to unhear over-the-hillers so they'll have the courage to create tales of their own. And we are still amazed when they are faced with difficult classes, ominous rent payments, or work, and in spite of our discussions, they whine "This is HARD!"
And so: To the people I know who are newly adults and have yet to "bounce";
Yup. It IS hard. Almost as hard for the people who love you to watch as it is for you to struggle through. But, if you are ready to listen, I can help. My assistance won't be painless, though. It involves being honest with yourself. It means facing some hard realities. And it means spending a few minutes away from the clutter of your day, but that's a big part of my offering - Get rid of most of the clutter of your day.

1: Write it down.

Figure out what matters to you, and put it somewhere you can look at it. I'm not kidding. It may sound like a waste of time, but time is exactly what we're up against here.

Your life is half over. Really. Not measured in years, but measured in growth. Do you remember when you were little, and somebody told you you'd have to wait an hour for something you wanted? An hour was forever. An hour was a thousand toddler experiences. An hour felt like a lifetime. At your age, you are capable of more measurable accomplishments in an hour than you ever were or will be. You can cram four chapters, send fifty texts, type 100wpm (Yes you could!), reach highest score in a video game... and so forth. That's why you need to tackle things like college or a new job now. It doesn't get easier. I'd submit, though, that your mind as a toddler grew more in different ways in the same sixty minutes than you do even now.. Growth defines life in nature. If something (or someone) stops growing, changing, developing, it's dead. You'll be dead soon enough. Resolve to keep growing.
Have you ever been frustrated watching over your parent's shoulder while they slog on the computer, wanting to rip the mouse from their hand to just get the deed done, dying while they suffer through learning new software, setting up a dvd player or a game? Have you heard an older person ask where the last twenty years went? Have you seen them write a check in November with last year's date? It may be funny to you now, but I have depressing news. That's you before you'll see it coming. It seems so distant now...
You've read this far, so there's a chance you'll try this little exercise. List the things that are important to you. Yes, get up, get a pencil, and give up a few minutes to improve the quality of your life. Here's the hard part, though. I want you to be honest. Record the things that are, not the things you would like to be. Nobody but you is going to see the list. Put it in code if you want, but don't lie to yourself. The other thing I want you to be is selfish. I want you to list the things that matter more to YOU now, not what you think should matter, or what matters to anyone who might judge you. You don't know where to start? I'll throw some things out:
God: Once again, be honest. Don't list him because your Sunday school teacher said you should. If religion is important enough in your life that you commit a serious portion of your time and life to prayer and church, list God. If you have faith, but participate sporadically (most of us), that doesn't mean you won't fall back on God at some time in your life. List him. If he plays no part in your life, off the list.
Family: Do you depend on your family? Do you call them daily or on their birthdays? Measure the depth of your concern and communication. Try and feel what it would be like if they were taken from you today. Picture whether you could stand growing distant over time. This is an easy category to underrate when you have just left the control your parents exercised over you, you have sibling issues, or you were abused, but family is on the list for most of us.
Money: List it if your goal is great wealth, or if you are having trouble making payments. If it matters to you, list it.
Country: After 9/11, I felt and noticed a lot of selfless patriotism I didn't know existed. If you feel blessed to be an American, and you are committed to protecting what it stands for, or want to make it better, put it on the list.
Relationships: I'm talking about love interests, here. Casual or life partner, either one.
Friends: Don't underestimate what social animals we are. I hope you have friends, and they are important to you.
Cause celebre: Are you an activist? A politico? An artist? A volunteer?
Body: How important is maintaining your body, brain, and appearance?
Stuff: Flat screen TVs, laptops, phones, play stations, Chevelles, dishwasher... Do you collect? Could you live without it?
Partay!: Do you live for the social scene? Is fun your dominant drive? The pursuit of sex, memories, etc?
Learning for learning's sake, solitude, power, fame, a legacy; if it drives you, write it down.

Part 2: Priorities

Take your draft interests and rewrite them with numbers in front of them. Yeah, I know, you could just slap the numbers on the draft. But rewriting them gives you at least a few seconds to think about them. Again, I don't want you to put them in the order your parents would expect. If the hottie in chem class is THE dominant force in your life, admit it to yourself.
Chances are, you'll have to ask yourself some questions. If your iphone broke, or you found out the object of your desire preferred the other gender, how would your life change? Would your list change? I'm just asking you to order the things that matter to you most right now, considering the flightiness of most of the daily chaos you deal with. Think a bit about what type of events could change your list and what might make you celebrate or break your heart?
Got your new list? If you put yourself into it, you've got a snapshot of your character. You're going to need it. It helps to have an idea of who you are if you are to envision who you will become, and that's what I'm going to ask you to do next.

3: Suit Yourself!

There is one person you owe. If you thought I'd say "yourself", you're right, but with a twist. I want you to envision yourself in one of those forensics aging programs, turning fifty years old. I'm serious. Close your eyes and try to form an image. Design your face, imagine the setting, think of the people in the background. When the image is complete, visualize printing it on the back of your brain. (Hear the paper feed!) I should have warned you, once you capture the image, it's evidence. It's real. The person in that photo is someone you'll have as a consultant whenever there are decisions to be made. They are the person you are responsible to because they are you; and they are not that far away.
Take a look at the person you created. Are they smiling? Intense? Surrounded by family and friends? Do they have good stuff? A nice house, cars, clothes? Try to get into their head. Build a story and a character for them like you were writing a novel. Put some effort into your future self. You deserve it.
And now, treat yourself like an actor in your own movie. Put yourself in character as your future self, and redo your list. Think about how technology will change. Consider how your parents will have aged. Will you have a spouse? Children? What great memories or wisdoms will you have gathered? What will matter in thirty years that doesn't now? What on your current list will be meaningless? Sounds like work? You bet. Maybe more than you know. But what you'll have when you are done is a mentor; someone you can trust when you need advice.
If you pictured your future self behind bars or homeless, kid yourself that you just don't care, don't believe you'll live that long, if you choose not to look because you're scared of what you'll find, or if you accept that you're not worth taking seriously, it's time to grow up, and that's the next step.

4: Grow!
When you were two (more or less), you went through one of the toughest times ever. From the whole world rotating around you and only you, you were shocked into the reality that the planet and the people on it were not created for only your pleasure. Demands and tantrums were ignored or even punished, and you had to start exploring ways of getting by, to make it work for you. If your parents were being parents, they helped you cope, to make that transition more easily. Later they helped you adjust to having people tell you what to do (like teachers and bosses), how to apply yourself to earn what you want across time instead of expecting gifts, and how to compromise to grow relationships. If your parents were really good at their jobs, you didn't even realise you were changing, you were so confident and competent. But, unfortunately, you didn't come with a manual, and the perfect parent doesn't exist. So you may have to fill in some gaps. News flash! You are going through another transition, and you are not the only person to have ever gone through it. Let me define growing up for you. It means taking responsibility for the person you intend to become. Things may not work out exactly as you have them pictured now, but having that vision of your quality future self, putting forth real effort to become them, and making short term compromises and sacrifices to that end are what matters.
Not growing up is not an option any more than not growing taller (or aging), so complaining about it is wasted effort. Excessive worry doesn't help, either. When you are faced with a decision, gather all the facts, consult your future self (and the list), act, and don't look back. Take solace in the fact you made the best decision you could at the time based on all the information you had, and understand you are going to make mistakes. Most of those mistakes you'll be able to fix, or at least overcome. The most important part is that you don't keep repeating them.
Again,that's what growing up really means. Making decisions rather than avoiding them, taking the reins of your life rather than letting things just happen to you. Living, rather than existing. Your future self wants some positive memories, honor, health, and self respect. Why deny yourself?

5: Getting Started
If your future self didn't make a list yet, tell them to get busy. You need concrete terms to live by.
Next, you'll need a routine. Remember I said your life is half over and that time is the enemy? Taking control of your time is the hardest part of being an adult. A century ago, most people had lives ruled by routine, but you are lucky enough to have been born into a wonderfully complex age, full of opportunities, but also chock full of distractions from what you need to be accomplishing for your future self.
Make a schedule. Write it down. Reserve time for your needs, first. Make yourself understand that sleep, diet, and exercise are time stretchers, rather than time wasters. You'll function better every day and for a lot more days if you take care of yourself. Don't deplete your sleep bank, but don't use sleep as escapism, either. Wake up at a regular time. It's easy when you get used to it. Have you noticed how many people complain about jet lag when daylight savings changes their schedule by an hour? Circadian rhythms are real, and fighting them makes you less alive.
Exercise is simple. Reserve time to move. What you don't use, you rapidly lose, and your future self doesn't want to do without.
Nutrition is trickier. You can make a production of a meal that is less nutritious than some fast food. Generally, though, you intuit what you need and what is good for you. Reserve the time to put together the right number of decent meals and snacks. You really are what you eat and so many of us are, well, crap. Make up your mind to eat well. Like every routine, diet may be hard to establish, but after a few repetitions, becomes automatic.
Lay out your hygiene needs, clothes and and other personal routines. Keep it simple. Try to create efficiencies.

START NOW! Choose the clothes you'll wear tomorrow morning. Set out your toothbrush, towel, etc. Think about your meals. Block time to move. Resolve to do these routine things every day until they become so automatic you can do them in your sleep. Some day you'll have to.

After your needs routines come your responsibilities. Try to think of your responsibilities as creating a body of work, like a resume. Showing up for work (on time), studying, paying bills, personal finances, growing professionally, and keeping a decent household and vehicle. Responsibilities are fulfilling your contract, doing what you tell others (and your future self) you'll do. Like a credit rating, think of it as an honor rating. Depending on your priority list, you may consider maintaining certain relationships as responsibilities as well. Only you can weight them. But the point here is to take care of your responsibilities before you move on to other things, like wants. I'm not saying your future self is so rigid you can't take a personal phone call before folding the laundry, but if you feel a tinge about leaving necessary tasks, you need to take care of business. Things undone clutter the brain. They nag at you and waste thought and time. Save yourself the trouble. Get it done on a schedule and then go enjoy yourself.
Now the hard part. Wants. With small children, it's all about wants. Part of growing up is learning to weigh our desires against their cost. We should learn early on the value of paying up front with money we have earned ourselves, but we live in such a land of plenty that for generations the American dream has been so easily grasped that many consider it a birthright. Stuff and entertainment dominate our lives. Marketers have trained us to the point of addiction, spending our resources (money and time) on new technologies and distractions to the point we have little time for anything else. An average American spends 4 hrs daily with the TV on. Video games are the new bonding medium for males. Texting, Facebook, Twitter, and Myspace interrupt the flow of hundreds of millions of otherwise productive days. My point here is that only you can decide how important it is to read your "friend's" post that they are going to the bathroom, but if it is distracting you from your adult responsibilities, then you have a problem you need to deal with. If you play video games or surf for more than an hour per day you probably have an addiction. If your passion is porn, methamphetamines, or Halo, you are cheating your future self.
I'm not saying you should not have wants. If your future self would value a high game score over a backpacking trip or a night out, or a credit rating, or... well that's between you and them.

6: Success and Failure

Traditional success may not be your thing, but I'll tell you why it matters. Doing what you should do now opens doors for what you want to do later. When that great investment opportunity or bargain pops up, you need cash in the bank to take advantage of it. When the job you love becomes available, you need the skills and history to land it. When things happen in life that require strength or resourcefulness, you will be glad for having gathered some. If you have to rely on friends or family for support, those relationships will only be as strong as the foundation you've built. Take an honest look, and judge for yourself how much you've contributed to your own future. I can almost guarantee the future you envision won't be the exact reality you'll find, but thinking about where you are headed and moving that direction will make where you DO end up a much better place. Failure is allowing yourself to become stagnant, giving up on yourself. Picture your future self as someone who likes who they've become, rather than someone who "didn't pass the IQ test."

7: Education and Altruism

Look at education as a way to listen to dead people. Humans have been heaping this huge mound of information throughout history, and universities glean and concentrate the best stuff so that you don't have to. You can't learn everything about everything in a lifetime. You can't even learn everything about one topic in a lifetime. All you CAN do is pick a pile of knowledge you think you can use and tackle it the best you know how. You have to trust the dead people, at least a little, to give you mostly truth without too much extraneous BS. You can't learn it all any more than you can finish the internet, but the system is there for a reason, and one reason is to help you succeed. But there's a problem. Educational systems also exist for other reasons. They block stamp needed "professionals", and they do research to further expand human knowledge and experience. Sometimes students are lost in the cross purposes.
A degree defines you as someone with the basic theoretical skills to do a job society needs. The paper also tells the world you have the discipline and self respect (grown upp-ed-ness) it takes to wade through all of the structural obstacles and bureaucracy the system will throw at you. The degree says you weren't sitting on your butt for the last few years. What a degree does not show is whether you have acquired the social skills required to get by in the real world. It doesn't say you've made goals, or you're competitive, or that you care about others, or you have ambitions to change the world. Of course the lack of a degree doesn't demonstrate those things either.
One of the most successful people I admire believed that "school got in the way of his education." He never got a diploma, but studied literature on his own, traveled, and lived one grand adventure after another. He knew he wanted to write. He woke up every day reminding himself of the writer he wished to become and the stories he wished to tell. Others saw him as a renegade, a free spirit, a person living without structure. Actually, he was very disciplined. He worked for money to live and money to move on to the next adventure. He played hard, studied books, and studied people. He was blessed with the ability and desire to keep learning and growing throughout his long life. He's proof that you don't require a paper of approval from a university to succeed if you are sufficiently talented, and lucky.
For most of us, though, it's easier to work within the system, making it work for us, to get what we want. What all of us want is to have our basic needs met first, like food and shelter. That takes money, but it's amazing how little of it, if we choose to live simply. Next we want freedom and love, an interesting contradiction that takes at least the effort required for money. And when those needs are met, most of us crave purpose.
It's tough when you are young to consider your immortality. But growing up requires you to do just that. Some day you'll wake up dead, and you will have made a difference in the world, or not. I hope you will leave the world a better place for those that follow. I hope you will add to the big ol' pile of human knowledge and understanding. It's up to you. It's a choice. It starts now.

Exposed

2009-11-15T04:58:00.000-08:00

I am not joking, she was naked. I don't joke about nude women, you know my situation.

The bumper was pushed into the body just enough to make it worth a claim, and she ran into me! I heard the tire slide shoosh on the ice, and that sick thoonk of deforming plastic, and I knew I'd be late for work again and my insurance rates were going up. I thought she must have seen the scowl on my face as I got out of the car, because she had rolled down the window and was holding a hand toward toward me in the classic crossing guard STOP position. She yelled, "Wait, Please!"

I stopped. She was frantic, tearing at the passenger seat with her free hand, still holding me at a distance with her palm hung out in the frigid air.

"Oh fiddlesticks, I. don't have time for this'" I muttered and walked a few steps toward her before the possibility of her digging for a pistol stopped me again just paces from her windshield.

She was having no success ripping the cover from the seat, and she hadn't noticed my approach. She mumbled a gentle curse, and sat up. She saw me, and I saw her. Our faces expanded together into silent screams. She ripped her arms across her chest, and I mumbled a little curse of my own. It seemed a long time, but surely just a moment, we stayed frozen that way.

She composed herself before I could. "Um... I'm not wearing any clothes."

"Yes," was all I could manage.

"Do you have a blanket, or something..."

I woke from my trance and started thinking again. I crunched back to my car, glancing down at the licence plate, repeating it to register in my muddled mind. If this was an escape ploy and she took off, I'd need more for the police than "Find a crazy woman with perfect auburn hair, fresh makeup, and an ample chest responding to the crisp morning!" They'd probably throw me in jail.

There was nothing in the car to use for a cover. I did look. I wasn't even wearing a jacket, just a flannel shirt. So I took off my shirt and walked back to the scene of the accident. Averting my head, I handed it through the window. I heard a shuffle, then she thanked me.

"I'll want it back," I laughed, but the cold was already biting at me.

She had a sheepish little smirk. "I really am sorry. Haven't had a chance to mount the studded tires, you know."

"Okay." Oh yeah. The accident. I'd almost forgotten. "We should probably pull into the parking lot there and swap information."

She nodded and drove into the lot while I repeated her tag number one more time. I followed, and we parked in front of the coffee shop I'd left just minutes before. My glove box had my insurance info and a pack of post-its, but no pen. My cell phone had 2 missed calls. That would be my buddy at work, telling me to get my rear in there before my supervisor missed me.

"Do you have a pencil?" I asked, waving my post-its.

"Sure! Right here in my p..." She reached for the purse that wasn't there, stopped, then turned back, slowly shaking her head.

I thought for a minute, then remembered the coffee shop waitress with the embroidered name tag. Amy. She'd been my surly waitress and snippy cashier, resentful that I hadn't tipped after she'd left my cup empty, then responded with sarcasm when I refilled it myself from the waitress station. But she had a pen. I extended my "wait-a-minute" finger to the naked lady, and went into the cafe.

I've been through those doors a thousand times, and I'd never noticed that little No shirt, No shoes, No service notice. Honesty in advertising should require them to add that service is not guaranteed, however, even to those in tuxedos. Shirtless through the doors I went, and there stood a glib Amy, one hand on her hip and one hand in the same traffic cop stop the naked lady had used.

For all the customers to hear, she read the sign in a sing-songy twang, then pointed to the door.

"No wait, I don't need service. I just need to borrow a ..."

"I saaaaiid...," she interrupted, "Noooo shirt..,"

I walked out. Then I remembered my oil rag. Perfect. Wrapped around the jack stand in my car was a filthy torn t-shirt I'd long ago tossed into the cleaning bin, and eventually stuffed in the car to quiet rattles and wipe the dipstick when I checked the fluids. I put the god-awful rag on, winked at the naked lady, strolled right past Amy (wiping the smugness off her) and went straight to the cashier desk. I'd remembered using a pen there. I hadn't remembered it being on a chain.

Amy walked over. "Do you have a pen?", I asked. She just nodded at the chained pen.

"What kind of waitress doesn't carry a pen?" She just looked at me.

"Alrighty then." I tried to remove the pen from the chain, but the damn thing wouldn't release.

"How do you get this blasted thing off?", I said to myself.

"S'bove my pay grade!", Amy said as she wheeled and walked away.

Then there was a knock on the glass. The naked lady had evidently seen my dilemma, dug in her car, and found a pen. She was standing in the full length window in my shirt waving the pen and knocking. Every face in the place was glued to the action. If I hadn't been too much of a gentleman to notice, I'd seen she had long shapely goosebumped legs that, as my father used to say, went aaalllll the way down to the ground. When I didn't respond right away, she came through the door. All the chatter and silverware clanking stopped.

"I found one!" was all she said.

I caught Amy checking the woman's feet. The woman had evidently watched the shirt&shoes exchange, then donned a pair of ice grippers found when searching for a pen. They weren't exactly shoes, just friction strips that strap over normal footwear, but evidently they were shoe-ish enough to pass muster with Amy.

I couldn't help but think ' this woman has no winter tires or underpants, but she's got a shirt (borrowed) and shoes. (after a fashion)

I don't know why we got a table (booth, actually), but it was warmer inside, so we swapped info and got a cup of coffee from Amy to justify the use of the table. When she sat the shirt hiked up a bit and she politely spread a napkin and put it in her lap. An eight year old still got cuffed by his mother for leaning to gain a better vantage.

"I guess I ought to explain," she started, flipping her hands.

"Gotta admit, I'm curious," I said.

"I was just going to check the mail. No wait, let me go back. I was getting dressed, I had my face done, my hair done, and my underwear on. I had laid out my favorite blue power dress because I've got a meeting today with the board. I set everything on the counter last night and I didn't realise my cat had slept on them until I started to put the dress on. There was white hair everywhere."

A pair of prim ladies stopped at the table on their way out of the shop. "I have never needed coffee THAT bad!", one of them said. "Here, dear", she offered, "I always carry an extra pair.", and she put a little bundle in the naked lady's hand. After they'd left, the naked lady opened the packet, and laughed at the tiniest thong either of us had ever seen. She discreetly slipped them on, commenting on beggars being choosers, then continuing with her story. The eight year old was piqued again, and his mom tweaked his ear and changed places with him, probably because she wanted nearly as badly to see what was going on.

"I put all my clothes in the dryer to fluff the hair off them. I keep one of those tape hair removers in my car, so I went into the garage to find it, but while I was there, I saw the list I'd made the day before, and got distracted."

A great big guy in old work clothes slowed down as he walked past our table. I glared at him, but she just smiled and went on about her clothes; or lack thereof.

"On the list was 'deposit paycheck'. I was really worried about my paycheck. It always shows up on Thursday, even though it's dated Friday and the bank won't cash it until then. But it wasn't in the box. That's the first time. I've been meaning to get direct deposit, but I still don't trust them, you know? And I still like the feel of it, in my hand."

The big guy was back, and he was carrying what looked like a pile of black canvas. "Ma'am? This here's just a set of bibs. They won't fit, but they'll get you by 'til you find your pants. My name's in 'em. I'm just down the road."

"Bless you!", she said. He absolutely glowed as he cuffed my shoulder and strode away.

"So! I'm in the car, worried about my check, and I'm late. The sun's not up yet, I have tinted side windows, and the mailbox is just two houses away! I fire it up and go for it!"

She's sliding the coveralls on, now, and the little boy sitting backwards in his seat is heartbroken. She doubles the cuff twice, but a satisfied sigh says they'll do.

"I get to the mailbox and my neighbor, Ernie, is just coming off the bike trail. He sees me and waves, then starts going through his mail. He can't see into the car, but I'm not stopping. I flip a youie, and wait for him to leave. I forgot, though, that now the box is now on the wrong side of the vehicle, and I never went after the mail without clothes on, so now I have to drive completely around the neighborhood to get back to where I can get at the box. My neighborhood is steep, and I wasn't aware it snowed. The first time I slipped, I thought I'd better give up on the mail and take the gentler hill back to the house. So now I'm in traffic. And I'm hiding. And I hit you. And I'm so totally embarrassed."

I followed her home. The car did fine. She returned my shirt. I smelled like used oil for a week. I wish I could tell you we got together, had twelve kids, and lived happily ever after, but I didn't see her again. I got written up for missing work, the deductible was higher than the damages to my car, and my rates went up anyway.

I see the big North Slope worker once in a while. He got his bibs back the same day. Said she was a really sweet lady. He introduced me to his friend as his hero; the only guy he's ever known with naked women chasing him down the public thoroughfares.

Death of a Woman

2009-11-11T23:58:00.000-08:00

You can knock off the good cop bad cop grilling routine. If you'll shut up and listen, I'll tell you my story, then you can decide if I need arresting, or what.

I've had a carry permit for six months, not because I see myself as a superhero or some sort of right to arms ideologue, but just because I thought it would be a cool thing to do, and because I believed a few people would back away from violent crimes if enough of us are packing. Looking back, if I'd known what a pain in the ass it is, the classes, giving up private data and biometrics for FBI files, the cost, the liability; I'd have run from the idea. But I didn't. So there I was, sitting in the lecture hall, bored to death listening to the whiny foreign grad student monotoning the same stuff I'd read online, my little Beretta (a lady's gun, ironically) tucked in the shoulder holster, when a crazy looking bald dude ran in waving his own pistol and screaming his head off.

I don't flinch much anymore. Maybe my fight 'n flight sensors have died, or perhaps I've just learned that you panic in the wrong direction often as not, but I didn't budge. I do remember the rest of the class all sucked in their breath; all together, you could hear it. If my brain had clicked right then, I might have been able to stop the whole thing, but it'd be my luck that I'd shoot some squirt gun prankster. I started gathering it in. Say what you want about when and how you think you'd act, but until you've got some wired asshole waving a cannon in you're face, don't presume. What? Yeah, it was a 45. Looked like a cannon from my angle.

A wide eyed kid next to me tried to sneak a pic with his cell phone but the gunner saw him and ran growling over. He raised his gun like he'd hit him with the butt, and a bunch of folks screamed. But he grabbed the phone instead and smashed it. That's when he noticed me. I probably stood out, older than the rest and wearing a blazer.

He said, "Do nothing stupid. I will kill you." He was standing over the kid, but he was looking straight into my eyes. I believed him.

When the gunman backed away, I checked on the kid. He was in a trance, frozen, staring at the crushed phone on the carpet.

What did he look like? Jesus. Where do they find you guys. Come on. You know what he looks like. Come to think of it, he looked like Jesus. A bald Jesus with the back half of a mullet. No, I didn't recognise his accent. Could have been any guy, El Paso to Montreal, I don't know.

Anyway, he made everybody stand up and moved all the women over near the side exit, and roared at them to sit down. He was watching me again. I might have been able to draw my weapon in the shuffle, but there would have been folks between us, and I never saw an opening. Even if I could have got the jump, I don't think I'd have fired at that point. I'd have just told him to drop his firearm. I still didn't know the situation.

Some of the women were cowering, and some were glaring. The men just sat helplessly, staring at the floor like kids in class, afraid they might have to answer a question.

Then a tear rolled down his face, and he spoke to the women, emphasizing his points by wagging the barrel, moving it from face to face.

"Look what you have done." He raised his arms. I might have been able take him then, with his vision blurred, but I wanted to know what this was about.

"My Serena left me. She took my babies. And it's YOUR fault!" He screamed the last part, then refocused.

Aw for cryin' out loud, I thought. All of this 'cause his girlfriend left him? "Dude," I wanted to tell him, "get over it. You're blowing your life up over a woman. That's the way it goes today. You're just a sperm donor and a walking wallet." But I didn't say anything.

"Feminists!" He almost spit the word. "You are hate mongers! You are destroyers of civil society!"

So that's where we're going, I thought. I've got to admit, I've had similar thoughts. Women's rights started with voting, grew into the workplace, and changed dramatically with access to contraception. Equal opportunity was the goal. It has morphed, at least in its more radical form, into a movement bent on destroying half of our population in order to achieve a sick balance of power that demeans us all. None of these women were alive of course, in the twenties, or the sixties, when the real and necessary gains for women were made. The female rights bus has left the station, in my opinion, but women's studies programs at many a college are popular and profitable, so they won't go away soon. But waving a gun in these women's face won't change any of that.

"Serena took a vow. All she wanted was to be loved and to raise a family. She had that. But now, no. She wants to 'experience' other men. She wants to have more money and time. She dresses my daughter like a whore. She 'understands' why the teachers in my son's school ignore him! And I can't negotiate these things!"

Wow. Welcome to the real world, dude. Did you not watch 'Sex and the City'? Size matters. Every woman wants Mr. Big. Big dick, big portfolio, big jerk, but that's unimportant. Your little girl is just modeling today's successful woman, and your boy will get little from today's public schools. Look at the test scores. As to compromise in a relationship, geez, what fundamentalist country have you been hiding in?

"She has a lawyer. Thirty percent of what she takes from us will go to the lawyer. I will get the kids occasionally if I can afford to travel to them! Child support will keep me from doing that."

There are women who make a living marrying dolts and breaking them. I knew a case where she didn't get the house, but took the fixtures. In our state, child welfare folks will garnish your wages for twenty seven percent of your pre tax income for two kids. Forget ever owning anything or getting to see your children. Prenups dull the romance, but what's the value of romance today? God. I'm actually listening to this... terrorist.

"I can't earn enough money to make her happy. Five times I've been passed by for promotions by women less qualified."

Yup, The legendary glass ceiling has been shattered. Only three percent of CEOs nationwide are women, but fifty two percent of upper and middle management jobs are now filled by females. Considering the different career choices females make, it's hard to argue the equal pay for equal work take. I asked one of my coworkers why so many women seemed to carry a chip on their shoulder where men were concerned. She told me the chip had been put there back when she took a position in a traditionally male industry. I suggested that thirty years was a long time to carry a grudge against half the people she'd meet. You've got to be careful, though. Women are a protected category in the workplace. She can tell all the dirty degrading jokes she chooses in whatever company, but I'd be fired. I'm wondering though, what does this guy expect to gain by complaining here?

"Serena watches talk show television for women and sitcoms where men are all idiots. She goes to a women-only club. She gives money we need to politicians, breast cancer research, and women's support groups. She says 'You Go Girl!' for every woman's success and scowls at every man in the news."

Sounds to me like this guy's wife is addicted. He's slowed down now. More sad than angry. Maybe he'll just say his bit and leave. Some of the women are sobbing; more from fear, I suspect, than anything he is saying. One woman with very short hair starts to speak, but he cuts her off.

"Are you gay? Maybe you are, born that way. But most people who say they are, aren't. They play at being gay because it's fashionable. You recruit them into your lifestyle. You gain numbers and power. You deprive their future partners of their soul mate."

Uh oh. He's winding up, again. Pacing now.

"Serena disrespects me. All I have ever done is love her. But she treats me like a date rapist or a child molester. I can't horseplay with the neighbor kids because some might get the wrong idea. I cannot tease the cashier at the store because I could appear to be letch. I can't have spontaneous sex or share a romantic moment with my own wife. She acts like I am using, taking advantage of her. Our children are her children. My input is unwelcome. I am a man, but if I act like one, she ridicules me. I get angry, but she knows I could never harm her. I have no leverage. No power. She has emasculated me."

He swings the gun our way. "Go, all of you over there. Get out!"

Several of the younger students bolt to the top of the lecture hall and out the doors. The rest of us file slowly up the aisle. The kid who lost his phone looks sadly back at it, gathers his backpack and study materials, and follows up the stairs.

What? What do you think I was thinking? I had actually listened to this guy's speech, and I was LEAVING. I was justifying my inaction, telling myself I hadn't managed a clear opportunity, that the police would handle the hostage situation better than I could, that I'm abandoning those poor women, that chivalry is dead in me, that I'm a coward, that I'm still unbelievingly walking away for my own safety...

"And that," he said as I reached the top step, "is the saddest part of what YOU have created. I'm not alone. Look at them. They are sheep. They used to be conquerors and guardians. Fathers, heroes. Look at them now."

Yeah. That stopped me. I thought, "You bastard. When the SWAT team blows through that door, I hope they take you out!" And I kept walking.

I'd barely made it through the door, I could see flashing lights silently approaching in the distance, and there were screams, followed by two thuds, then several more. I think I screamed myself. It felt like the adrenaline exploded in my head. I ran back into the building, pistol drawn. I dove halfway down the steps, pulled up behind the mixer table and took aim. He was just firing into the group of terrified women, the deafening shots and echoes dulling the groans and screeches from the huddled students. I fired twice, changed position, then fired twice more. He didn't stop except to slap another magazine into his pistol, which thundered again and again compared to the hand clap of my little gun. I thought he might be wearing a vest, so I shot him in the leg, and he stumbled. He looked over at me, and without raising his gun, mouthed "Thank you!" I put my last round into his neck, and he collapsed. Then I noticed the seeps where he bled from my first ineffectual shots. I went to help the victims. I remember there was so much blood. I remember the deceased had a N.O.W t-shirt. I remember one lady shot through the arm told me she was pregnant, and she didn't want to lose her baby. I remember suddenly being surrounded by cops and medical personnel. It happened so fast, and I'm remembering more, and I don't want to...

Still pretty drafty fiction.

For Joey

2009-10-26T07:56:00.001-07:00

I'm mourning this dog more than any of the people I've lost in the past ten years. Earlier today the grief leaked out, my body making sounds I didn't know it could. It doesn't help there's no shoulder near to cry on, or that night shift makes emotions tougher to control. Perhaps weeping is weakness, but I'm just now realizing the weight of the role he played in this simplified life I've made, and the hole that's left, and I am weak, and so I weep. When you shut out the world, and you lose one of the few treasures you do embrace, it hurts.

Then there's the guilt; That I wasn't there when he needed me in his last moments, that I was distracted from our time together in recent days, that I may have missed something grave that was fixable or might have eased his stoic pain. But that's my MO. I haven't intentionally hurt any of those I love, but through selfish distraction or inaction, I've hurt them all; damaged them even. Joey loved me anyway.

Yeah, I know. He's a dog. And he had a pretty good life. A full life. We've been watching his muzzle start to gray and his powerful stride become less fluid. He nearly made a golden age and I should be thankful we didn't have to watch him suffer through a long decline. I felt he still had a few years left, though. That's the devil's deal you accept with a puppy. You won't grow old together. But I wasn't ready. A few more shifts and I had plans for him. We'd spend three weeks catching up after our summer was stolen from us. I owed him. We did everything together. He loved our time.

I didn't even choose him, nor would I have. Pit Bulls are a liability, or so I thought. We believed he might have some boxer blood, with long pasterns and a tall elegant frame. When people asked, we called him a Staffordshire, which is just an American pit bull. Terriers are bred to fight, and Joey was true to his instinct. We worked against it, but if another dog challenged him, he could be fierce. However, he was gentle and careful with kids, our cat, and even the little rat terrier that drove him to distraction. He was tireless in coaxing a tossed frisbee. He selected a smooth rock every outing, bringing it back to his garden at home. He sometimes carried them lengthwise like a cigar, or vertically stretching his jaws open, drool dripping from his goofy stone-loving face. He loved rocks.

When Vik found him, the poor family she visited was desperate to rid themselves of the litter. "They're beagles, medium sized!", they said. She knew better. We laughed about our medium sized beagle as our bond grew. He muscled up to seventy pounds. Most puppies are cute, and he was extraordinary. I'd trained a number of dogs, and was interested in Vikki. So I offered to take him on, not really knowing what to expect. The toughest dog I'd worked with was a St Bernard who stubbornly reverted as soon as his owner took the reins, and I didn't know bulldogs, or Vikki. But he was so eager, so full of life, so quick to learn and so anxious to please, there were no problems. He mastered basic obedience in days, and picked up hand signals as quickly as any lab or shepherd I've known. Vikki became my life partner, and Joey became my dog. He adored Vik, but he was my dog. He house trained himself, using the existing cat door. When he got too large for the door (which didn't take long), he'd still poke his head through to watch and bark at the world passing the little farm. I snuck up on him once and goosed his haunches. He yelped with startled embarrassment, then lurched his head back in. That was the first time I saw his wry smile. Those who think dogs can't smile didn't know Joey. He usually got the joke. His face was was so expressive. He loved to smile.

He still used the cat door as a window, but watched for ambushers. He grew until his head was too large for the opening, and one day when he became excited about a passing rattly cattle trailer (his favorite), he forced his head through anyway. He skulked into our room wearing the door he'd ripped from the wall, and we could only laugh and replace the door with a larger model. When I gave my old car to my teen aged daughter, I spent some time and money on it, including a paint job. Joey didn't jump on cars normally, but, seeing my daughter, he used the door for a banked turn and deeply scratched the still soft paint. We said he saved her the effort of avoiding the first damage, and she laughed about his "autograph". He knew that car and could hear it a mile away, trembling with joy at the promise of the affection it brought. He loved that car.

Some people cut a bulldogs ears, presumably to make better fighters of them. Sad. Joeys ears were like ermine, and he would sit or lay next to my chair while I typed or relaxed. He'd gently move his head under my palm, and I would unconsciously start to rub his ears. If I were distracted and accidentally pinched him, he would yerp like he'd been hit. But then he'd run his muzzle back under my wrist and look up with those huge soft brown eyes, and I'd know I was forgiven. He loved his ear rubs.

I don't know if Joey hated or enjoyed my harmonica playing. Before I played a note, just lifting it to my lips, he would start to sing. I should have filmed the times he matched the rhythm, or howled the saddest blues when the musical mood was right. It was more than coincidence; there was music in him. He loved to sing.

My mother came to visit and she wasn't well. I was concerned she might fall on the stairs, so I trained Joey to stay out from underfoot when she was on them. He shadowed her everywhere for the first few weeks of her visit. She'd climb fourteen steps, reach the top, and Joey would scramble up behind her. She'd forget why she'd come up the stairs and go back down. Joey would let her touch the bottom step and then tumble after. She laughs that he would "raise those ears and turn his head sideways as if to ask 'What the heck?'" When she felt better, she would walk the stairs to "improve her wind." And Joey improved his wind as well. She claims the stairs and Joey's good humor saved her life. He loved a good game, and he loved house guests.

While many folks would shy from attributing human-like qualities and feelings to any dog, I wish more people would demonstrate some of the behaviors this dog did. When his people were angry with each other, he'd pick up a frisbee and work his way between them. When we were down, he'd be sad with us, hugs and long faces all around. He had a joyous dance, a quizzical curious look when he played, a menacing tug of war growl and a gloating grin when he won (always wiggling back to give you another chance). He was a subtle manipulator, turning his back to the dinner table but just far enough away to avoid trouble while he drooled. If he was tossed a treat, he seldom missed a catch, but he always allowed the little dog to snatch any drops, knowing he'd get his share. He wasn't supposed to get on our bed, but we weren't consistent, so he'd sometimes wait until we started breathing deeper, then slowly transfer his weight one leg at a time onto the bed. If he were caught, he'd give you an "Oh hi, you're awake!" smile and try to curl up there anyway. Guests invariably slept with Joey at their feet; you couldn't resist him. When he welcomed visitors, he'd run up to them and place his head just below their knees; his version of a hug. When he sensed concern, he'd put himself between us and danger, real or perceived. I never doubted he'd die to protect us. When he met strangers, he let them know they were on his turf with a big voice and a serious posture, but once you cleared them, he started charming them, and he won almost everyone over. Our neighbor had been attacked by a dog as a child, and was terrified of Joey. I saw him go up to her one day and, beyond arm's length, lower his ears and sit, dropping his head in a submissive bow. She managed to take one careful step and pat him, just once. He knew. Her husband came into the yard and within minutes he and Joey were rolling in the grass. He was sensitive, generous, and affectionate. He loved people.

I did get caught over-pondering the depths of his imagination once. The desert sunset was stunning, and Joey was calmly sitting on the huge patio, gazing at the twisted black thorn tree silhouetted against a red ball on a brilliant orange horizon. I wondered if it were possible that a dog would notice a glorious sunset, or even think it beautiful. He certainly seemed focused on it. But as the sun sank, I noticed movement in the tree, and made out the shape of a distressed cat, stranded on a prickly branch, unable to move without getting stabbed or falling into the jaws of an attentive bulldog. That cat was always hunting birds near our feeders, and Joey had taken real dislike to it. I took Joey inside, and he sat in the window, watching the cat daintily picking a path down, shaking sore paws every time they were pricked. Joey didn't bark, but slowly wagged his tail. I thought again that perhaps he did value aesthetics, and the sight of that cat slinking painfully away was beautiful to him. He was loving it.

We'll be telling Joey stories the rest of our lives. I'm missing him hard, just now, but spilling here has helped replace some of the self pity with gratitude. I take comfort in the knowledge that Joey knew he was cared for. And I'm grateful we had the opportunity to be blessedly embraced by the complete devoted unquestioning love a great dog can give. If there is any truth to dogs resembling their human companions, then I am honored.

Good bye, my true friend. Thank you. It was a privilege to have known you.

Thirst and Howl

2009-10-20T12:16:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd post a flyer about the keg and karaoke theme party I doubt I'll host on day three of next Month. I'm calling it " The Thirst and Howl the Third" party. We'll serve Maryann snaps. (Everyone liked her best) Fat guys singing sailor songs, skinny guys in silly hats, girls wearing coconut shells, and prizes for anyone who can sing the entire "Minnow" theme. It's sure to be the best time that ever wasn't, and I'll tell you why. Or not.

Floyd The Coward

2009-10-06T14:51:00.000-07:00

Foolhardy, that's what it was. We were stopped at the light on Old Lake Road behind a whiny piped pickup full of side-hatted teenagers when a wadded Lota-Burger bag flew from the truck window. Floyd muttered from my passenger seat. He threw his door open, strode to the opposite lane, gathered the grease stained paper, and tossed it back into the truck bed. A skinhead with a cholo t-shirt and a wispy mustache growled out the rear window as Floyd ambled back toward our car.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing, OLD MAN?"

Floyd wheeled. "I'm returning trash to the garbage who threw it in my street." He glared.

Before the teen could respond, the light changed and the truck took off, spraying gravel. The kid in the window lost his balance and lurched back into the truck, causing his buddies to guffaw as they sped off, middle fingers flying.

The drivers behind honked while Floyd was painfully slow making his way back into the car. When I'd picked him up that afternoon, I'd noticed he had a hitch in his walk, and a look in his eye that was unlike any I'd ever seen there. He'd looked fearful, terrified even, and I'd never known Floyd be scared of much. But now he had Floyd's version of a Clint Eastwood swagger, and I was wishing he'd liven it up a bit. Ours was the only other car to make it through the intersection, and I wondered if I should be more wary of what waited in front of us or what followed behind.

"Valid question", I said.

"What?"

"Exactly what the hell do you think you're doing? That was suicide! Kids today carry guns! It's not like when we were their age. Next time you want to call out a gang for littering, make sure it's YOUR car they find to destroy later, and maybe consult me about having your back." I paused dramatically. "I... have a LIFE!"

"Do you?"

I had to ponder that one. How could he ask? Of course I had a life. I had a set career path, an IRA, a girlfriend of a couple of years, a nice car and newer house. Compared with Floyd, I had plenty to lose! It was Floyd who'd made a mess of his life. He'd had several great jobs, but left them just about the time he verged on successful because he'd found something more exciting. He'd married his high school sweetheart and was booted only to grieve over his kids every day after. He once told me "I gave her everything she wanted, including getting out of her life when she asked me to." Child support had kept him pretty well broke, and his ex made visiting the kids so painful he just quit going. Lately, I noticed he was thinner and looked his age for the first time in the decades I'd known him. I was the closest of the few friends he had, and, for the moment, I was rethinking that.

When I didn't answer, he asked "Would you..? Have had my back?"

"Well yeah, I guess. It's not like you gave me a choice!"

"You guess. Wow. How underwhelming."

What did he expect? At eighteen we were sure we were bulletproof, and I'd have been silly enough to fight in the street over nothing, but I'd learned a few things he obviously hadn't. Was this the "huge favor" he'd called to ask for? To battle some midlife crisis? I was scared it might become a crisis of the end-of-life variety, and I wasn't ready to stand by him there. He'd griped about an insurance policy clause, and I'd convinced myself he probably just needed some cash, but decided to draw the line at a grand. At the very least, perhaps I could talk him out of whatever hare-brained scheme he was cooking.

I continued, "So, you were thinking I'd jump at the opportunity?" I mocked him. " Like, hell yeah! Let's kick some punk ass? Hooyah!"

"Something like that." He looked away, dejected.

I couldn't stop. "There were four young guys in that truck. They'd have killed us."

He didn't speak. I took a hard look. He seemed really down, overreacting a bit, I thought. His face was long and gaunt. His skin was milky and his eyes glazed. It hit me that he had not taken very good care of himself. In fact, in the conversation we'd been having before the road was trashed, he'd made a reference to a recent hospital visit, and now I wondered who or what insane act had put him there. I thought of my own fitness fetish and how I'd managed to stave off any serious illness. I remember inviting Floyd to the club once, but he said life is too short to run circles. If he had run a few circuits, maybe he wouldn't look so very tired now.

"So," I changed the subject, deciding to quit worrying about Floyd's question and get it over with. "What was it you needed? Whatever it is, you've got it. I owe you big time for that birthday shopping thing, oh, but I'm not available Sunday. I promised Kim..."

"Ah hell, never mind," he interrupted, but just then the little truck came into sight in the Dairy Queen parking lot. I managed to swerve into the treed drive behind the cemetery just in time, before we were sighted, but I could hear the thumping of their stereo as we drove away. I smiled over at Floyd as we escaped unscathed, and he was slowly shaking his head, resigned. He pointed to his sister's place as we drove by, so I swung around and dropped him off.

I never saw Floyd again. When I learned he'd been shot, I thought immediately of the kids in the truck. I called a guy I know on the police force and told him what I knew. He thanked me and said he'd look into it, but sounded less than enthusiastic. The newspaper said Floyd had been found on Old Lake road by his brother-in-law, Jake, who always seemed to me a smart and decent guy. He (Jake) had driven past the camp that morning on his way fishing, recognizing Floyd's old jeep. (I didn't know he fished.) He stopped that afternoon and found what was left of Floyd, thankfully before some innocent or family member showed up. The cops didn't find a weapon, and estimated the body had been there since the night before. They asked Jake a few questions, but I haven't heard any more about it, so I suppose it's a cold case now. At the funeral, Floyd's sister told me that the doctors had taken a good portion of what money Floyd had, but what was left, plus the insurance, had really helped his kids. And that was his entire legacy, except for some memories that haunt me.

Occasionally, an opportunity to make an honorable difference comes into our lives, sometimes involving risk. We may have to set our fear aside to even see the chance. I miss Floyd. I'm sure I could have helped, but deep in my brain I was too tied up to let myself know he was asking.

Resurrected fiction for the writing contest at Scribbit.com.

Birdsong

2009-06-17T19:17:00.000-07:00

I'm working on the mower in the front yard. It's not going well. High in the spruce trees, a bird is chittering his spring mating call. In the distance, a competing male answers him. They go at it for a good thirty minutes before I decide it's time for a talk. I scan the trees until his silouette is in focus against the mountain.

Dude. She's not even hearing you.

No answer, but no song, either. He's listening.

Right now she's partying with some biker scumbird,exploring the limits of her wildness while you twitter here in my tree.

He hops down a branch, leans forward.

Oh, don't worry, He'll dump her at some point and she'll rebound toward someone more traditional; someone sweeter and committed, like you. It won't be your song that attracts her then, though. It'll be your timing and location. Have a nesting site or two picked out, and show her you're willing to work.

He puffed his chest a bit.

That's as good as it'll get, though.

He cocked his head.

Once her eggs are fertile, you become a tool; an accessory. You're dropped in the pecking order. Your value is the worms you dig. And when the chicks fly, the relationship is over.

The tree was silent.

Sorry, Dude.

Then the bird in the distance called. No response from our end.

Now hold on. I'm not saying quitting is an option. You sing because that's what you are. Your responsibility is to build the boldest and brightest song; a song that will attract a mate, but also a song that will define a legacy, a song that will represent your species, a song that will give your kind a better chance to survive. I know that's a lot to ask. I know this is a tiny piece of a large forest, and your contribution seems miniscule, but trust me on this; your effort matters! It does. So sing. Boldly and brightly.

He did.

Food for Thought

2009-06-13T22:34:00.000-07:00

My wife had nightmares after pizza. Something someone over at Moose Tooth Pizzeria put in the sauce worked its way into her inner consciousness and woke all the best monsters. I'd listen for a while when she spoke in her sleep to see if she'd divulge anything useful, but usually about the third scream I'd kinda lose interest and poke her and tell her to pipe down. We're not together any more, but I still honor our tradition of Friday night pizza, though it's not near as fun. But it got me to thinking, the pizza nightmares did, of how different foods affect our minds and our behaviors. So I asked around, and by golly it's amazing how many folks I know that have some food or another that changes them.

Buck doesn't drink tequila any more because it made him think he was Superman and he found out when someone sets out to conquer evil when they're NOT Superman evil hurts them a lot, so he quit. I know tequila isn't really a food, but Buck pretty much lives on hard liquor and ball park cuisine, so that's all he could come up with.

Ernie overheard his new girlfriend tell her other friend that mushrooms make her amorous. Ernie became a quick study on everything fungus. He bought books and started cooking with all the exotic Japanese shrooms. He quit fishing and started hiking in search of wild Morels. He borrowed some manure from Langleys and farmed mushrooms in his crawlspace. His girlfriend's therapist said he had some kind of addiction and she should shed herself of him. His new girlfriend likes horses.

Ted said Nutter Butter cookies always put some stupid song in his head that sticks there for days and he can't get rid of it. Sometimes he doesn't even have to eat a cookie, just look at the picture on the package. "Damndest annoying thing", he says.

Ice cream came up in my research a bunch of times. Everybody at the poker table agreed that the headaches are the worst and it hurts too much to think when your having them. But different flavors seemed to affect some of the guys differently. Flash, when eating pistachio, always designs little golf courses on the scoops with his spoon. 'Mo never hums unless he is eating his homemade peach cream, walking around mmming with his mouth full and that squeaky voice of his and you have shut him up. Walt says ice cream is for kids and won't have any until you tell him to go ahead and have some, then fills a whole bowl and scarfs it quick. Then he gets real animated and tells you everything even if you don't want to hear it, but falls asleep in his chair after an hour or so. We all told him he ought to check his sugar, but he says rocky road always gets him and he works nights besides.

Tim has a sad story about broccoli. He actually likes broccoli, but had to pretend to hate it when he was growing up, because all of his brothers and sisters did. His mom made quite a fuss over him to get him to eat his broccoli, and now that she's gone, he can't eat broccoli without thinking of her and all that attention he got. Jake likes broccoli too, but gets so uncomfortable over what it does to his system that he won't eat it if he's going to be around anybody. Truth be known, just about everything Jake eats is going to make anyone around him uncomfortable later, but broccoli is the one thing he just won't get near.

Almost everyone tells of being sent out in the night by their pregnant wives for strange foods. We figure it's one of natures mysteries, that there are women who are so tuned to the nutritional needs of whats growing in them that they will miss a development window if they don't get an ingredient in pickling spice or Clamato RIGHT NOW. Of course, we also believe there are women who just enjoy the thought of their poor sap making his fortieth trip this week to the Tastee Freeze for soft serve.

Claude gets misty every time he hears the word gruyere, as in cheese. He was sitting in Simon and Sieforts, looking out over the inlet eating $20 fried cheese with the girl he planned to marry when she let him know they were breaking up because he wasn't romantic enough. Ernie told him he thought the cheese S&S serves is actually brie, but Claude has gruyere and that girl tied together in his brain and when he gets all soap-boxy about something stupid like literature or music we work "gruyere" into the conversation and his switch gets flipped.

Cliff got a green Budweiser when he was a kid. He says looking at a label or seeing a clydesdale on TV still makes him just a little green himself. Cliff's wife heard that red wine, blueberries, and garlic make you healthy, and she's gone a little overboard with all three. She perks up and gets happy about their healthy future whenever she has some, so Cliff makes sure the house is always stocked with a box of each.

It turns out we have a scientist of sorts in the gang; the new guy, Kansas. We call him Kansas though his name is Rollie. Seems the kind thing to do even though he's never been to Kansas. Rollie has been exploring the corners of his brain box combining all kinds of foods with Ambien, the sleep drug. Ever since the judge let him off for sleep-driving his volkswagon into the DMV with his head through the wrong hole of his pajamas, claiming his sister needed to be pulled out of the fire even though there was no fire and he's an only child, Ambien has become his drug of choice.
That's a pretty ringing endorsement, because Kansas has been "expanding his horizons" since the late sixties. He claims the sleep drug is a kind of accelerant for the thoughts and moods produced by certain foods, and he's been documenting (when he's able) what he eats and what goes on after. Kansas thinks he has found a subject of study which will fill the rest of his days with purpose and leave his mark on mankind. Ernie thinks those days are short numbered and the only mark left by Kansas will be the dent in the DMV building, but the results Kansas shared are interesting, so I'll offer a sample and take my chances with any future copyright infringement.
Kansas says the best food for concentration is tuna salad. You can see it in his writing after an "experiment", he says. He probably wouldn't have wrecked the volkswagon if he'd just downed a deli-pint before he went to sleep, he says.
Fast food burgers have some mystery chemical (he's going to find) that takes your "full" signal away. One night he ran a test, and ate seven quarter pounders without his body telling him to quit. He thinks the chemical may be related to another he experienced back when you were allowed to grow your own, that would allow you to eat cardboard and crave more.
Mexican food makes Kansas "virile". He held his clenched fist at arms length with his other hand over his elbow when he told us this. Not just any Mexican food though, just the kind with real hot Hatch chile, sharp cheese, and charred refried beans. The thought of a virile Kansas is more of a Taco Bell kind of experience to the rest of us, so we didn't let him get into any depth on the subject, but there you are.
German food makes him sleepy. "Combined with Ambien, how could you tell?" was my first thought, but Kansas insisted that after controlled dosages and multiple trials, sausages, potato salad, beer, and bread make him listless and dull.
Kansas made some comment about food from Great Britain, but I don't remember it. I do remember we had a discussion afterward trying to define what English food actually is, but no one could think of any, besides Guinness, of course.
Breakfast foods actually ARE the most important meal of the day according to Kansas, even when consumed at midnight. A "train wreck" scramble from Leroy's all night cafe may look like a predigested hash of floor leavings, but Kansas claims the eggs in particular provide 8-10 hrs of staying power to conduct science and write all night.
All but the organic wines make him crazy. Most sandwich meats do the same thing. Evidently, sulfates, sulfites, nitrates, and nitrites combined with Ambien are the makings of psychopaths and radio talk show hosts according to Kansas. Cliff wanted to hear more (He has quite an assortment of Slim Jims - the factory burned and they may be collectible) but Kansas was convinced we were not capable of dealing with such ugly realities, and he moved on.
Chinese almost always spun him into depression. It only lasted for a few hours, but consistently darkened his mood. If he ever gets too happy, he says, Mongolian beef will snap him out of it.
Kansas went on quite a rave concerning Italian food. He suspects anise or oregano, but marinara makes him reflective, romantic, and deeper thinking. According to Kansas, if we spent more time with fresh pasta, heavily spiced sausage, ricotta, and organic chianti, the world would be a better place. Can't argue with him there.

Offered with an apology to Scribbit (http://scribbit.blogspot.com/) even though it's fishing season.

What They Hear

2009-04-03T14:30:00.000-07:00

I love you. You can't be hungry again. Rock-a-bye.

Winnie the Pooh goes on the front, unless he's on the inside.

Childproof. Terrible twos.

You are what you eat, my little potting soil.

INSIDE VOICE!

I hear you lying with eyes in the back of my head.

This hurts me more and it's best for you.

Pick up your dirty socks and clean your plate.

Did you want to burn the house down?

Express yourself appropriately.

I'm not the one who wanted a hound.

Words we don't use in THIS house.

You can be anything you choose, but...

Structured play. Age appropriate.

To protect AND empower you in the REAL world.

Safe sports. Adventure games.

Gifted and practice makes perfect.

I spoke with your teacher.

How many times do I have to tell you?

You are NOT other kids who have a cell phone.

Texting? You're three feet apart!

Imagine, dream, and create on schedule.

Show me again how to use the parental control.

What I meant when I said WATCH your sister...

Born in a barn with starving children,

where money trees grow on junk food.

Trust you, and check your email.

It's NOT all about grades.

Make the right decisions.

With whom? Have a good time, check in, and be home by...

Follow your dreams, and make a living wage.

And when did you plan to bring her by to introduce us?

Wrap you, free you, and why haven't you called?
I love you. I'm proud of you. I miss you.

I did the best I could.

For moms at http://scribbit.blogspot.com/

Hail Hunks of Halibut

2009-04-03T13:50:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, The bar and grill at the Millenium Hotel served a halibut sandwich that no desert rat (like me) could fathom. Fresh sourdough toasted to crispy buttered perfection, a grilled halibut fillet with a just-touched-the-grill crust and flaky textured full flavored fish that must have just jumped off the boat. Microbrew and seaplanes out the window only added to the experience. I've been back a few times, but it wasn't the same. Chewy or mushy fish is such a disappointment.

Then last night we chanced into the Noisy Goose Cafe in Palmer at the right time. I overheard the waitress and chef discussing patrons raving about the halibut. Vik ordered it with the usual sharing agreement. Breaded and fried is not my favorite fish technique, but I'm here to tell you, done right, good fish is not insulted by hot oil. My patty melt was decent for a patty melt, but fork wounds in my wrist mark my efforts to extract a small portion of halibut fingerlings. They were more like toe-lings short and chunky, flaky and filled with flavor, breaded with a crisp and ever so subtly spiced crust... extremis. Toe-lings doesn't sound so good, they were more like earlings, or thumblings, perhaps. Anyway, they were dang good, and I'm drooling like a bulldog over bacon just remembering them.

Special Needs

2009-03-20T21:34:00.000-07:00

At Carl's Jr in Eagle River, I met a young man named Joey. I'd guess he's sixteen, and might weigh all of a hundred pounds. He told me that he had cleaned the table where I sat waiting for my take out. He used degreaser, in a spray bottle, and all of the tables on my side of the restaurant were no longer sticky. For some reason they HAD been sticky, but he had used degreaser, and people could now sit at clean tables. I told him he was doing a good job, and he agreed. (He was. He worked the entire time we spoke.) I asked him how long he had worked at the restaurant. He told me he has four paychecks in the bank. He wants to go to college after joining the military. First he has to graduate, and that's hard. He's good at math, but that's all he's good at. I told him we need people who are good at math. He told me he hopes we still need people like him when he gets out of the military. I told him we would always need people who work hard, and are good at math. The girl who brought my order explained that Joey has special needs. "Don't we all," I told her. She thought I didn't understand. He seemed pretty together to me.

Happy Birthday, Mother!

2009-03-20T12:22:00.000-07:00

- My mother is eighty seven-today. She's okay with that. She never hid her age, grateful (she says) for waking to see another day. She's never been asked (she says) for the secret to her longevity, but understands that day is coming; the day people around her come to the conclusion she is old. Then, perhaps, she'll realize it herself. Until then, age is irrelevant, unless of course it works in her favor.
- My mom line dances. Not surprisingly, she's the oldest in her class. Not surprisingly, she's never chosen to graduate from the slower newbie class. "Well! I'm not fifty anymore!", she explains.
- When she tires, she sits. When she sits, several others usually drop out, as well. When someone whines about their aches, the savvy instructor usually asks "Lorene? How old are you again?" She puffs out her chest and tells them, and the complaining stops, for a while.
- Mom made a new friend recently. When Mom was asked to remind the class of her age, a spry lady of only eighty one replied "That makes me sick!!" The room broke up. When the instructor restored order and the music started, Mom took her place at the back of the line, and the "new" student fell in behind her. The dance was fresh and Mom messed up the steps and broke from the line, but being the experienced remedial line dancer she is, kept dancing to the side of the room and sat down. The new student, of course, stayed attached and plopped into the chair beside her.
- "What", the instructor asked, "Tired already?"
- "Oh no!" the new lady answered. "It's just, at our age, we don't like being told what to do!"
- The instructor had to restart the music, and the senior van takes Mom and her friend to lunch on Tuesdays.

My Favorite Dessert

2009-03-20T02:46:00.000-07:00

Dutch apple pie. Tart Granny Smiths. Crispy nutty pastry with crystal sugar and grains of crushed cinnamon, just enough. Lacey frosting drawn with almond and lemon. One perfectly formed scoop of the richest speckled vanilla ice cream. (Blue Bunny, I asked.) A thick bubble glass mug of straight Kenyan plantation coffee, strong and smooth. The sparkling smile of a Cajun waitress with bottomless azure ocean eyes. Just Desserts in Las Cruces after midnight. A burgundy horizon in the summer desert when the breeze ruffles the mint striped umbrellas and wafts a hint of the Mesilla lilacs onto the flagstone patio. Flickering ocotillo silhouettes in torchlight. The crust of an active day in the heat, the challenge of another. Close friends, banter, laughter, love. The realization that it doesn't get better. Life is like that. Dessert first.

Pre-burp

2009-03-16T02:29:00.000-07:00

- Mt. Redoubt preburped.
- You know the feeling. You're a little bloated, pretty sure that relief is on the way. You burp just a little, a hiccup really, not obvious to others, just enough to warn of the impending ripper and to leave a bad taste in your mouth.
- The volcano south of Anchorage left a bit of flavor last night. Just some ash and steam, enough to wake the geo-nerds and raise a few eyebrows. Aviators weren't redirected. Nobody has their masks at the ready. The watchers did raise the watch status back to orange, though, and we're all aware that the preburp is just a warning.
- I've been distracted by a dog race and running a pipeline, but perhaps it's time to start checking in on the plume tracks, seismicity graphs, and web cams of the volcano again. It may be feeling ignored...
-
- Just a quick update on the Iditarod dog that was lost in the wilderness. He's not wolf food after all, but back in the arms of a very relieved lady musher who survived a harrowing race cut short when her equipment fell apart. Lost dogs happen, and the Iditarod Air Force (volunteers) have a very good record finding them. Happy endings. Gotta love em.

How Low Can You Go?

2009-03-12T15:57:00.000-07:00

- Except for that victim thing, I'm all for creative crime. You can't help but admire the level of risk taking, the gravitas, the occasional genius of some of these criminals. And if you believe you could never be desperate or hungry enough to turn to crime - I bet you could - let's hope we never find out.
- D.B. Cooper lives! But not here. In our state capital this week, thugs threatened and grabbed cash from... girl scouts. Not kidding. Cute cookie sellers. OK, I realize the cash is there, some of those little samoa hawkers are cut-throat business women working for a huge multinational corporation, security is usually sparse, and the idea would not have occurred to people thinking in the box, but...
- There's no road out of Juneau. Somehow, screeching away in your getaway car only to stop at the dock awaiting the ferry; let's just say some of the magic is gone. Also, Juneau is a small town. Somebody will know you, and in a town filled with politicians wishing to distract the populace from legislative crimes of their own, you'll be pillioned in public display. Also, it's Alaska, so you'd better check that nobody at the table is displaying a marksmanship merit badge before you pull a weapon. Kids here can draw and hit a rolling thin mint at forty paces.
- I'm working the night shift and I'm picturing two balding pot-bellied detectives on a sting operation, dressed as girl scouts, the disgusted Walmart greeter looking on....
-
- Pillion doesn't mean anything near what it sounds like it should. It's not even a verb! Time to change that.

More Iditarod

2009-03-10T21:01:00.000-07:00

Tonight the TV news reported the death of an Iditarod dog, calling him by name and assuring that an investigation is forthcoming. Interesting. They barely mentioned the musher's name. Most of the mushers and handlers (based on my observations) would mourn the loss of their dog like family. I checked this guy's race schedule, and he's rested more than almost any other team. Vets check the dogs throughout the race. Mushers drop injured and weakened dogs off at the checkpoints, where they are flown back to Anchorage to be cared for at the correctional facility near here until they can be picked up by owners after the race. Rest in peace, Viktor. I suspect you passed doing what you loved. If we could all...

Iditarod Dogs

2009-03-08T21:23:00.000-07:00

I watched the Iditarod start in Willow. I focused on the dogs.
-One black and tan wheel dog seemed thrilled to be on camera, until the talking heads said "You are only as fast as your slowest dog." As if he he understood, he snubbed the camera with a closed-eye-nose-high turn of his head, miffed.
- Some dogs sat patiently waiting for the start of the race, staring at the trail, conserving energy. Others strained at their harness, all their weight tensed against bulging haunches, cowed by the crowd, flitting eyes and pasted ears praying for the brake to release and the team to take them out the chute onto the trail. There were goof balls with grins and floppy tongues; criers and singers, bouncers and spinners, bashful brutes and divas who practically princess waved to their audience four deep.
- Each team had a character of it's own; some dashing out of the gate, others deliberate, some in efficient formation, others in chaos. As the trail deteriorated, many of the lead dogs veered from the chewed track and instinctively chose unbroken footing, the rest of the team snapping to the new course and the sled popping out of the ruts onto fresher snow.
- The dogs looked fit and happy. Perhaps, in a thousand miles, I might see where folks might raise the flag of abuse, but here, with the cameras rolling and the mushers fresh, the dogs and masters were respectful and even affectionate. The outfits brimmed with hi-tech gear and high senses of purpose. Insiders, bon-voyaging their families (mushers AND dogs) with hugs, kisses, prayers and tears, watched with chapel reverence as all sixty seven started without incident on what is predicted to be the most difficult trial in years.
- Here's to the great Alaskan race. May we all emerge stronger and richer for the experience.

"U Sweet!"

2009-03-03T21:49:00.000-08:00

- Before my father passed, I was fortunate to travel with him across the country to buy an antique car. The trip was pure joy. Dad lived it up, swapping geezer stories at every rest stop and flirting with waitresses in ten states. We were Route 66 freedom flyers, a greyhair and a whitehair, wishing it would never end. At a rib joint in Jackson, Tennessee, a freckled young lady pandered for a better tip and asked about the car. Dad kept her from her tables for a full five minutes, regaling her with a Model T romance story that drew horselaughs from everyone within earshot. The girl patted him on the shoulder and smirked as she wheeled back to work. She flashed an amazing smile when she carefully placed the check near Dad. He looked at the ticket, and sat up. "I think she likes me" he said, and handed me the paper. "U SWEET" was in frilly print under the scribbled order, and a cute dimpled smiley face was drawn to the side. Dad positively glowed. He left a hefty tip, and insisted the tab was his. He presented his prize to the cashier, who read off the items as she entered them into the buzzy register, "Two rib specials, ggiwhizzhit, onion rings, ggiwhizzhit, pie, ggiwhizzhit, two tea, one UNsweetened..."
- I waited for a full thirty minutes, watching Dad sulk in the car with his arms crossed, before I thanked him for dinner. "Oh, Shut Up!" was all he said.

Another offering to Scribbit's monthly writing contest. Check it out at http://scribbit.blogspot.com/. I can't believe I didn't win LAST month! I wrote more words than ANYone!

My Volcano - Up Close and Personal

2009-02-22T19:50:00.000-08:00

"Don't taunt Mother Nature!"

Like most of the girls I dated in high school, Mt. Redoubt is a bit of a tease. About the time things get steamy, whoof, nothing but ice. I've been watching the web site, oohoohing every time there's a wiggle on the seismometer, ogling the online pictures, reading all the updates... nuthin. I'm beginning to think the volcano is just not into me.
- In case you forgot, it's been a bit dark lately (see previous posts), so we haven't been studying the horizons much. But tonight, the sunset was kickin' and I was warming the flivver when, backlit by the southern red glow, Redoubt showed in all it's glory. We've been here a year and because of trees, dark, and the odd angle of our house, I didn't know we can see BOTH of the volcanos close to Anchorage. Who needs a stinking web site? If I move Yani's cage and look out her window, I can actually see the steam plume 100 miles away! Cool.
- We were looking at the latest fly by pictures and the new little holes in the ice on the side of the mountain. What's tough to fathom is the scale of things here. Those "little" holes are 300 meters wide, well over three football fields, big enough to drop our city block into with room to spare. So, it's no surprise, really, that we can see a 10000 foot mountain from a hundred miles away.
- Home Depot is now selling "Volcano kits" with generators, candles, plastic sheeting, etc. Wal Mart has masks by the checkout counters. I'm thinking the whole volcano thing is a ruse, part of the economic stimulus distortion, getting us to spend our money. Yup. That's all it is.

A Nation of Cowards

2009-02-21T05:09:00.000-08:00

We live in a society ruled by sound bites. I'm guilty. I caught the Eric Holder headline, that we are "essentially a nation of cowards" when it comes to discussing race, and I thought, wow; somebody other than Bill Cosby wants to openly discuss racial divides in America. Yeehaw. Then folks were discussing his 'segregated weekends' comments, and I reacted with "Yes, That's true!" Then the next snippet was out there; that Holder believes black history does not get equal priority treatment in American education. And I'm getting fired up.
-So, trained by recent election "editing", I read the full text (really!) and, considering his target audience, thought it fairly benign. But it's good the militants and wingnuts are war dancing. The louder fringes sometimes distract some of us "cowards" to discuss a bit, too.
As to Holder's speech, a few thoughts:
- The racial divide in the workplace still exists, Eric, and won't disappear as long as unidirectional "correctness" rules apply. I work in a diverse workplace, and the LAST thing ANY of us wants is another black/gay/feminist/aged activist that shuts down free conversation because of the eggshell threat of their being offended on behalf of their "cause." Interestingly, the issue-sensitive folks seem to have fewer qualms about offending others. Has it gotten better? Well, yes, if you look at company responses to laws against exclusion or harassment of "protected" categories. My point, I guess, is that it's time to eliminate the "protected" provision, and just insist on multi-mutual respect.
- Eric wants black history taught. OK, I'm with him, to a point. It probably plays a more important role than Irish history in the development of our country. But he says it's not getting "equal priority" in history education. Equal to what? The writing of the constitution? The civil or world wars? Exactly how much of the current history curriculum SHOULD be canceled to make room for more black history? (Yes it's already being taught) Doesn't Native American history play at least an equal role? Wouldn't Hispanics relate better to southwest flavored American history?
- If you want more black history education, teach the whole truth. If you must vilify Thomas Jefferson for having slaves and concubines (which has NOTHING to do with his historic accomplishments), discuss openly that MR. King plagiarized his thesis, and terror and riots were instrumental in the not-so-civil rights changes. Discuss OJ, discuss mayor Berry, and discuss Rev. Wright. Write texts that present the not-so-correct side of black history, as well as the positive contributions of people of race. Won't happen (yet), because cowards exist of every color.
- Mr. Holder thinks the workplace is civil (see above), but the country spends it's weekends segregated. That folks tend to gravitate to folks most like themselves is no major surprise to me, but I don't see any lack of interest in black culture exhibited by white folks. In fact, one could argue that the cultural melting pot has taken on a distinctly dark hue. I'm not sure what actions or laws Mr. Holder would suggest to get more people sharing backyard BBQ, but the fact that he is in a position to make the speech that stirred the sleepy populace speaks volumes to me about racial acceptance and tolerance, and the "future" he describes where "everyone is truly valued."
- Asides-
- Watch the video of Barack walking into the window at the White House, thinking it was a door. It was funny, along the lines of Gerald Ford clumsy, something any of us could easily do. Until SNL can do a skit based on THAT, allowing the president to laugh at himself with us, they are blatantly pandering to the politics of racial "correctness" that I had hoped Mr. Holder was wanting us to discuss. (or is it just respect for the office of the prez? Right.)
- Who at the New York Post thought the chimp cartoon was funny? I believe the message was that we have fostered a wild and out of control congress and administration that has turned dangerously against us by writing the stimulus bill. Um, whether or not that's what you believe, there is nothing funny about the hell folks are going through due to the economy, and nothing entertaining about the woman in critical condition, mauled by a "pet". PLUS, why in Obama's name would you give Sharpton and Cronies Inc. fodder for their hate machine? Wait, look who we're talking about here. The Post can't edit spelling, for Palin's sake.
- I've decided to follow a friendly writer's advice about truth. "Write as if your parents are dead." Sorry, Mom.

Lars

2009-02-20T17:53:00.000-08:00

My daughter is dedicating a big portion of her life to 'thee-ah-tah'. Her special someone is heavy into film. They recommended the movie Lars and the Real Girl. We don't experience many cinematic events, but I gotta tell ya, it's been a while since I was so charmed. Vik went through an entire box of blub rags. Perhaps we were just in the mood for it, maybe the premise, tone, and optimism in the film were just something I can wrap myself around, or possibly it's a wonderful little production, but anyway this untrained eye loved it. Watch it and tell me what you think.

Black of the Night

2009-02-18T01:37:00.000-08:00

My favorite cartoon line is from Peanuts' Snoopy, starting to write his novel... "The night was dark. They usually are."
- Mount Redoubt watchers at the Alaska Volcano Observatory are still pretty excited by all the attention they are getting; you can see it in the fluffy language on their site, including "The webcams are dark for the night." I checked. Sure enough.

-http://www.avo.alaska.edu/

The Avocado Ranch

2009-02-16T23:09:00.000-08:00

A coworker brought fresh avocados from what he called his parent's "Avocado Ranch" in California. We teased that 'ranch' usually implies livestock, "Git along little avocados!" but he answered well. The property had been a ranch before it was a farm, and the family would refer to it as such, whether or not we dissed it.
Okey-dokey. I don't care, but I'm glad they caught them, 'cause the little buggers were so good.

Shake Shake Shake

2009-02-13T19:26:00.000-08:00

Usually after he's just been brushed, a quiver will start in the bulldog's nose, he'll tense, and a rapid shake will travel slowly through his body, from his floppy soft ears to the neck skin hardly attached, to his muscled front shoulders, along the stretched length of his back and down his tail until just the white tip is twitching. Then he relaxes with that Oh-So-Good goofy crosseyed look that makes me jealous as I chase individual hairs through the air with the vaccuum.

The Power

2009-02-09T14:00:00.000-08:00

We were Sunday drivers. The tide brought pack ice into the Turnagain Arm. miles of surface ice moving faster than you can run. God's slurpee. Trees with branches on one side only, hula dancers pointing away from the wind. Moose Flats flat, but mooseless. Man walking on Portage Lake, black speck against spectrum of whites. Moody blue mists in icy canyons. Men in the air, held to the icefall with nylon and aluminum. Waah-waah, tracks in the snow. Headlights and kids in round colorful layers. The eagles are back. The redpolls are singing. A rock stands out on the cliff miles away, no haze. NO HAZE. The fat magpie will converse for go-mart popcorn. Our own dogs will converse whether or not we want them to. Kids float on skates across pools in the marsh. A model plane tumbles in the sky like ravens playing, and the controller is out of sight, but you can see his talent.

Model #1

2009-02-08T10:48:00.000-08:00

There are children, raised well by the village, that are expected to return the favor as adults, elevating by action or reputation the quality of life in the place that formed them. "Peanuts" Mendosa was not one of those children. That he lived to adulthood at all was viewed as a miracle by those that knew him, and in Model, Colorado, pop. 32 in 1931, everybody knew him. He was blessed or cursed, depending on one's point of view, by an intense curiosity for all things mechanical. He was always tearing something apart to see it's workings. Unfortunately, his talent for reassembly was lacking, to understate it.
- Peanuts wore pin-striped grease-stiffened bib overalls and an engineer's cap like the men he idolized in the roundhouse in Pueblo. In the summer he wore no undershirt and the denim didn't cover the welts his Penitente grandfather's quirt raised whenever a tool disappeared, or a vital part was left out after one of Peanuts' forays into whatever machinery was available. Even simple workings broke when Peanuts touched them, but he knew what he loved, and tinkered anyway. Occasionally the trains would stop in Model to take on water, and Peanuts would stare entranced by the hulking, snorting locomotive, studying it's parts like a glutton at a Thanksgiving feast. His dream was to work in the AT&SF roundhouse, and despite the reputation he developed, according to the ironies of God and the railroad, he eventually did just that.
- To call Model a whistle-stop town would be giving it too much credit. The train seldom whistled or stopped, but chukka-chukked straight through, the engineer waving while the brakeman hooked the mail bag. But without the rail the town would not have existed. All of the houses were within thirty feet of the tracks, the only nice one belonging to the section foreman, George, who shared it with his wife and seven children, five beautiful daughters between two boys, Eldon the eldest (moved away and starting his own family) and Glen, the baby no longer a baby at ten.
-George shared thirty years with the railroad and with his wife, proud of both. He was a prim, formal, by-the-book father and manager who lived his life according to company procedures (most of the time), and a firm schedule according to the precisely wound Hamilton pocket watch that had cost him six months salary. In his time as foreman, there had never been an incident or accident on his forty-two mile section of track, and he intended to keep it that way. He was a company man and a family man in an era when the company WAS family, so he was aware of the tragedy in the fireman's life, and why the crewman's eyes would water when he watched Glen and Peanuts from the passing train, the boys trying to look manly by puffing their skinny chests and tucking a thumb into their coveralls, but waving frantically with their free hand, eyes dancing with excitement.
- The fireman had also had two boys. Polio disabled the second child, making him dependent on the doting attention of his protective older brother and the parents who cherished them. The fireman had bought the brothers a bicycle, and built a special rack across the rear wheel so the youngest could be lifted onto it to ride behind. They explored together for an entire summer, until one horrible day just before school was to start. The fireman's boys took a handcar off the spur near their home, strapped the bike and the frail child to the deck, and cranked their way to adventure. They had done this many times, without permission of course, aware of risk but careful to take their forays after the daily train (often with their father aboard) had passed and the tracks were presumed empty. The older boy was thrilled to see the glow in his brother's cheeks as they pumped the handles together, letting him believe he was giving an equal share. They had just left the spur when a contract freight heavily loaded with drilling pipe appeared in the distance. The boys struggled to stop the car and work it back to the switch. The engineer spotted them and locked the locomotive, steel screeching and sparks showering, the handcar barely moving, the boys eyes wide with terror, and the train still sliding toward them. The wheels on the locomotive were turning backwards, the handcar just yards from the switch when the engineer screamed at the boys to jump, and with the frail youth wrapped in his older brother's arms, they did. The cowcatcher was still moving just fast enough to flip the handcar off the track onto the pad where the boys had landed, launching the bicycle into the brush undamaged. The crew (less the fireman father who missed this train) rushed to pull the children from beneath the wreckage. The younger boy began to breathe when he was freed from the weight of both the handcar and his sibling, whose neck was crushed.
- In Trinidad, the newspaper mercifully covered the story with only a short obituary. But a crotchety judge, thinking well ahead of his time, suggested that the parents should be held liable for neglecting to monitor their children, and should reimburse the company for the loss of the handcar. The railroad president sent the judge a letter absolving the family of any debt, and suggested the judge would better serve the community by handling the family as he would wish to be treated should he befall a similar tragedy. It was a railroad town, elections were forthcoming, and no charges were filed. News of the terrible event raced through the company, and his coworkers did what they could for the fireman knowing his grief could easily be their own.
- So George understood and looked the other way if a huge chunk occasionally "fell" from the coal car a convenient distance from town where the Model boys were sure to locate it and be celebrated by their families for the find. He noticed that the trains stopped more often and the boys would come from the water tower looking guiltily happy with a sugar lump in their cheeks. And it was no surprise when the fireman told him of the pain his wife and son were enduring, staring at the unused bike leaning on their porch. George would not accept the bike as a gift, but insisted on paying what others would have considered an extravagant price, for which the fireman could only grasp his offered hand and walk away, biting his quivering lip.
- When George asked Glen if he might be interested in a bicycle, all he got for a response was a dropped jaw, so he asked again. This time, Glen squeaked out a "Yes, sir." and George laid out a set of chores and projects that Glen would have to take on to prove himself worthy of owning a bicycle. Minutes later, Peanuts received the news, and early the next morning was waiting on the porch to assist with Glen's new duties. Several weeks later the train stopped again, and the the grinning crew handed the bicycle down to George, who passed it without fanfare to Glen, and by proxy, Peanuts.
- The initial experience with Model's first bike was painful. Glen was sized wrong for the bike, and his sisters team of critics giggled and clucked with every crash. Nobody in town had ever ridden a bicycle, and nobody offered to help. Peanuts wasn't interested in trying to ride before the crowd, but suggested that perhaps there was something wrong with the bike itself, that maybe a few adjustments would help. Glen's pride and body were beaten at the end of the day, and the last thing he heard before falling asleep was his sister Maudie, "Well... Eldon would surely be riding it by now."
- The next morning, Glen met Peanuts on the porch at dawn, and they began raking the animal pens together. George walked out of the house, bit a chunk from his tobacco plug, and leaned against the corral fence. "You two are doing a good job," he said. "I appreciate it."
- George knew of Glen's discouragement with the bicycle. He had watched Glen struggle for the last year to grow his personality and independence in spite of the hovering and control that often stymies the youngest in large families. George watched a moment more, then added, "Come straight home from school today. There's a new gandydancer on the extra gang I want you to meet. From back East. Says he knows all about bicycles. 'Teach you easy as you please', he says. I know you'd figure it out on your own, but winter's coming." He winked, invited Peanuts to stay for breakfast, and strolled to the house. That afternoon, the newest member of George's crew taught Glen and Peanuts how to balance and work on a bicycle. That evening, he fixed Mendosa's Ford. That night, he met and impressed Glen's sister Vivian, to whom he would eventually be married.
- Glen and Peanuts rode the bike to school. They begged to run errands if the errand could involve the bike. They rode when the rains turned to snow, when the snow packed to glaze ice, and when the blizzards drifted over the phone lines by the road. People laughed at the sight of Peanuts riding on the rack with his legs crossed, a spoke wrench dangling from his pocket. They joked about the boys sleeping with the bike and being mechanically linked. They noticed when the boys rode without hands, and backwards, and sidesaddle, and airplaned prone. They told George that he had gotten his money's worth several times over. But it was also clear that the bike was suffering from extreme use and the effects of Peanut's maintenance. The tires were patched and cracking. Nothing was left of the seat and petals but strips of polished steel. The wheels were out of round, the steering had an intermittent shake, several spokes were bent or broken, and rust was creeping from every seam. But the boys kept riding, until a sunny day in February when the temperature feigned spring, and a plan was in place for a ride of fourteen miles to the high school in town. There they hoped to catch a ride home with Peanuts' "crazy" uncle in his truck. (There were two uncles, one was known as crazy, the other was actually insane, but more important to the boys, both owned trucks.) They had just started from school when they jumped a new frost heave, landed the bike heavily, and the frame broke with a crack like a gunshot, startling the teacher and dumping the boys in the gravel. They pushed the bike home, Peanuts trying to lift Glen's spirits by assuring him they could fix it; Glen knowing better. One by one, all the girls shook their heads and clucked their last rites at the dismal prospects for the crippled bicycle. Even George put his hand on his son's shoulder and said he was sorry. When Glen woke from a fitful night's sleep, he didn't remember at first that the bike had broken. He readied himself for school, routinely grabbed the handlebar at the gate, and jumped onto the saddle, urging it forward as he looked around for Peanuts, only to kalump twenty feet to a post at the base of the water tower. Embarrassed, he jumped off and abandoned the bike where it stopped, wanting to cry. He finished his chores, dragged himself to the Mendosa house, and accepted a ride with Peanuts and his crazy uncle.
- When they returned from school, the bicycle was gone. They searched half-heartedly for a while, then asked around. George said he hadn't seen it. The neighbors hadn't either. "Hobos," Ruth, the sister closest to Glen offered. "I bet the Hobos got it." It was true that more transients were riding the trains, but they had stolen nothing before.
- "Just as well." Glen moped.
- In the weeks that followed the disappearance of the bike, Peanuts found trouble. If Glen had been involved, he hadn't been implicated, and he was glad of it. The blade sprung out of a bowsaw Peanuts had tightened and it stuck in his grandfather's glove. The drain plug leaked after Peanuts changed the oil in the old thumper sawmill engine, almost burning it up. He "borrowed" the hay truck by strapping blocks on the pedals and building up the seat with feed sacks. When the steering wheel he was looking through wrenched itself from his grip, the feed sacks rolled and he fell under the dash catching the throttle, which caused the truck to lurch into the bar ditch with caliche deeper than the axles. He tried to extricate the truck (and himself) by putting the vehicle into gear unmanned, then stuffing hay under the turning wheels. After wasting four bales of pricey Timothy hay, it actually worked, the truck crawling from the hole barely missing a scrambling Peanuts, who scooted into the cab and almost got the truck stopped before it lugged across the road and directly into the deeper opposite ditch.
-With travel restrictions, an increased workload, and nursing soreness in his nether regions, Peanuts was "unavailable" and Glen hadn't seen him for days when the train made an unexpected stop. George was for some odd reason at home, not out on the line, and went out to meet the crew. He greeted an acquaintance; a mechanical lead heading the regional crew out of Pueblo. After they'd caught up, the man told George he'd like to speak with Glen, aware that he was standing just a few feet away. George nodded and spoke loud enough for even the engineer to hear over the gas escaping the locomotive. "Glen, I've known Frank here a long time and he's as good as they come. He says he's got business with you, so I want you to step up and talk to him man to man. I want you to listen to what he's got to say and be honest with how you answer, no matter what it is you've done." He winked over his shoulder. "I'll be right over there if you need me." Then he stepped aside, smirking.
- "Mister, I think I owe you an apology," the mechanic started while Glen approached. "An' I hope you can forgive me. A few weeks back I was out here troubleshootin' a pressure gage on this here same engine, an' I looked out an' saw your bicycle, just sittin' there all broken and used up. An' I took her. I didn't ask, I just took her. Before you say anything, let me explain. I tinker with stuff. That's what I do. Sometimes the want to get my hands on a machine outruns my common sense."
- Peanuts had appeared, and he nodded his full understanding.
- "That's how come I stole your bike. I spend my day jus' tryin' ta keep these old engines rollin' when most of 'em shoulda been scrap before you was born. The more you work on em, the more they matter to you, and the more you kinda take it personal when they break. I could tell from lookin' at her that someone had felt the same way about that old bike, and well, I had to get my hands on her."
-Glen just stared, so the man continued. "Well, I brought her back to you."
- The brakeman stepped off the caboose with a bike, Glen's bike, but different. All of the men were gleaming as they handed it over, watching as Glen examined the neat welds where the cracks had been. "You fixed it" he whispered as he ran his hands over the new tires, the chromed wheels, and the flat black frame painted just like the locomotive boilers. He curled his fingers around the new red rubber grips and polished the formed leather seat with his elbow. The steering and wheels had solid new bearings, and the chain glistened with fresh oil. Printed along the crossbar in fine gold script, was 'MODEL #1'.
- George asked Glen if there wasn't something he needed to say to his friend.
- "You fixed it," was all he could produce. "Thank you."
- "You bet. But it wasn't just me. There's a machine shop full of boys that worked on her, and a bunch that wanted to." Then, turning to the crew (except the fireman who had disappeared into the cab), "I guess we better quit lollygaggin' and make some time before some old section foreman reports us." He wrinkled his nose at George, and pulled himself onto the running board as the old locomotive hissed to life.
- In every way, the bike was better than new. It was all Glen could do to keep the newly liberated Peanuts from stripping it down to see how the miracle had been accomplished. By summer, they lived on two wheels again.
-If you ever raised boys, or were one, or are one, you understand that boys are hard wired to test limits. They try the people around them, make science of nature, and stress with emphasis any machinery they control. Glen and Peanuts spent their eleventh summer chasing horizons, and pushing the capabilities of the bicycle. Glen had grown five full inches since Model#1 had first appeared, and while his bibs stopped well above his ankles, the bike seat had to be raised in the frame, which now fit him perfectly. Vivian's boyfriend, the one who taught them to ride, came by many times that summer, to "check their progress" he said. He told the boys they were fine riders, and described bicycle races near Pittsburgh (or as he called it, The Big Smoke) that drew hundreds of entries, cyclists flying on winding roads through the hills. The boys were rapt listeners and vivid imaginers. Vivian would send them away and they would ride laps between the houses, Peanuts navigating around imaginary competitors, waving to the courting couple on the porch each time around. That race run and won, they searched for other challenges. They exhausted new creative ways to pose while riding. They mastered cargo lashing and bicycle camping. They proved that one could outrun a bully, but not a train, a car, a horse, or even the Mendosa's fat shepherd dog when riding two up.
- They wanted, of course, to go faster. But they were restricted by terrain. Model is flat. The only means to gain speed was to pedal harder, although they did tie a clothesline to Peanuts' crazy uncle's truck and let him pull them through the Trinity Church parking lot in Hoehne until the rope clipped a few iris heads and knocked over the grey statue of St. Francis, causing the priest to emerge from the rectory wagging his finger as they raced off, the crazier uncle cackling from the cab.
- Glen and Peanuts decided that what they needed, to research how fast the bicycle could go, was a hill. The hill everyone talked about was Raton Pass, the grade so long and difficult for the rail line that a helper engine was added near Trinidad. A steep gravel road was supposedly maintained across the cut all summer. Neither of the boys had ever been to Raton pass, but it sounded ideal. They began to brainstorm. There was the train through Trinidad they could probably board. They could disembark when it stopped to release the helper somewhere near the summit. Then, it would be a simple matter to aim the bike downhill, ride hard back to Trinidad and hustle home before they'd be missed at supper and in hot water. They began the gathering of details, maps, and secreted information that every mission requires.
- The plan solidified when the boys met the watermelon man. The Mendosa family had branches that worked nearby farms and they gathered every year at the watermelon festival in Rocky Ford, returning with stories of mountains of watermelon, roasted corn and pit barbecue, crowds drunk on melon wine, grand balls, brawls, and dancing in the streets. Glen just had to go, and when George received head-bobbing assurances from Peanuts (and his family) that they'd keep Glen out of trouble, he gave the boys a whole dollar in change and told them to have a good time. Because the crazy uncle's truck was already packed with colorful festival goers, Peanuts and Glen lifted themselves and the bicycle into the craziest uncle's pickup bed, and they bounced off to Rocky Ford, where the celebration lived up to it's billing. The boys gorged on free melon from ice filled stock tanks, following the local example of cutting out the seedless hearts and tossing the "waste" on the rind trailer. They watched a boxing match and a horse race. The parade started, with mainly farm tractors pulling decorated trailers with pretty girls seated on hay bales waving to the crowd. The boys rode their bike alongside, performing every trick they had practiced, and drew some appreciative whistles and applause when Peanuts rode standing on his head, a feat made easy by the smooth big-city pavement on Main street. The parade traveled three full blocks, to a little plaza with a bandstand where the crowd gathered and prizes were handed out by a little round faced man with mottled skin and a felt hat. The pretty girls waved some more when they accepted their ribbons, and the crowd all gawked, clapped, and smiled. Then the watermelon man waved Glen and Peanuts over. "We didn't get an entry form for these two, but they put on a real good show! Peanuts Mendosa and his friend from down in Model! What do you think, folks?" and the gathering celebrated them. Then he handed the boys their prize; a watermelon. The crowd laughed, looked at them expectantly, but when nothing happened, they dispersed to the next event. The boys were polite but disappointed, the heaviness in their stomachs suggesting much time would pass before the return of an interest in watermelon. The red ribbon parade girl whispered to them as she sashayed by, "Look inside the melon." Glen pulled out his penknife and split the rind. Sure enough, a new crisp bill was folded in wax paper concealed in the heart of the fruit. Glen noticed the watermelon man was still watching them, and went over to thank him. Peanuts was busy, trying to solve the hidden-melon-dollar mystery. The man smiled widely and said "You earned it. Maybe some day I'll stop off in Model, meet your families, see if they might do some business. I deliver in Trinidad every other Wednesday." Glen's eyebrows raised, and while Peanuts was discovering the tiny slit filled with wax and the remnants of an almost invisibly thin wire that pulled the dollar into the melon, Glen learned that it was possible to get a ride in an empty watermelon truck from the base of Raton Pass to Model, if a man had a dollar.
- On their return from Rocky Ford, the boys studied the AT&SF Fare and Fee Schedule. South bound freights passed through Model mid-morning, expected to arrive at Raton Pass just before noon. That left only six hours to complete their circuit and hustle back to the dinner table in Model. They blocked the calendar, and circled the three every-other-Wednesdays left before school started. Glen wrote a note to the watermelon man hoping to arrange a ride on the second date circled. Delivered by Mendosa mail, the return note took two days, and said the watermelon man would be "honored" to transport them, and the boys spent the next days training for their adventure, Glen building his twiggy biceps lifting river rocks, and Peanuts randomly wrenching on things, including the bicycle.
- As the day of their trip approached, both boys were wondering if they'd actually follow through with it, scared to suggest to the other they might not. But they continued planning to the last day, deciding they needed a surer way to catch the train, preferably at a place where the crew was more likely to actually stop, and where they could more easily sneak the bike onto a boxcar out of sight of traitorous sister-eyes. So they went to the crazier of the uncles and asked if they could ride with him to town on his way to work on Wednesday, and he 'yupped.'
- Then Peanuts, who had almost never spoken to his uncle, blurted out a question, "Tio? Have you ever been scared?, Of anything?" His uncle cocked his head, pinched his lips against his teeth, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Yes," he said, "But the best things I remember in all my life were things that scared me before I did them." Then he gave them a look like he knew what they were up to. "Am I right? Yes?" he asked as he softly punched Peanuts on the shoulder. "Yes!" the boys agreed as they threw their fists at the air.
- The boys could not have picked a better every-other-Wednesday. The weather was spectacular, one of those sharp late summer Colorado mornings when you can see every tree on the Spanish Peaks forty miles away. Peanuts was trying hard to act nonchalant, putting a makeshift tool kit together from his Grandfather's collection, just in case. His mother breezed in, and said her "little man looks like he has a job to do today." She went into the kitchen to put two lunches together with beans, cheese and pork chile wrapped in tortillas, Glen's favorite. Peanuts grabbed the sacks from his mother and banged the old screen door as he ran out, only to find Glen leaning on the bike looking sheepish, his mother standing behind, hands on hips, a neatly creased lunch bag in each hand. The women laughed together in the street, and five pairs of suspicious eyes watched from the windows of Glen's house as the boys rode away on their 'secret' bicycle adventure, four meals, a canteen, and a tool kit corded to the rack behind Peanuts.
- They waited for only a few minutes at the turnoff for Peanuts' uncle, when they heard the truck door slam and watched the roostertail behind the roar heading their way. The boys laid the barbed wire gate to the side and the uncle drove through. He nodded, tossed the bike in the bed, untied one of the lunches and hopped back behind the wheel while the boys struggled to get the cedar post looped to close the gate. He looked angry for a second when the boys didn't get in, then rapped himself on the head and opened the passenger door from the inside because it hadn't had an outside handle for years.
- Peanut's uncle had already wolfed "his" lunch when they reached the main road by the tracks and turned... the wrong way. He didn't slow, even when the boys bounced on the seat and yelled, trying to get him to understand the importance of their getting on the train. "You said", he laughed, "that you wanted a ride to town when I went to work. Last week I worked in Trinidad. This week I work in La Junta. I'll drop you off there." The boys explained in a panic, both talking at the same time, that they would miss the train if they went to La Junta, and he just laughed harder. Finally he drawled, "OK, I'll get you on the dang train!", and he ruffed Peanuts' hair with his knuckles, still driving at an insane rate ourunning the huge dust cloud that chased them. The boys sat silent and still, believing their dream ride had probably ended before it really began.
- At Tyrone, halfway to La Junta, the train was already stopped and the crew was standing by the road, talking with local residents. Tyrone was no larger than Model, and there were no trees or brush near the tracks to hide them if they tried to sneak aboard. Once again, their plans in disarray, the boys were ready to give up. But the Uncle whipped his truck onto the pad next to the only cattle car with an open door. In full view of the watching train crew, he roughly threw the bicycle through the opening, and then, one after the other, tossed the boys in the same way. He turned to the staring brakeman, shot him a quick salute, and got back in his truck to blast north without even waving goodbye. The brakeman had oddly just nodded and returned to his business. When the train began to move, the brakeman checked the couplings between the cars, walking right past the closed side of their car without even a greeting.
- For the first time, Peanuts and Glen wished the train would move more quickly through Model. It was a strange feeling to rattle past their own homes, both mothers hanging wash, only Glen's sister Ruth watching and waving at the train. Glen stepped away from the door, thinking that the train crew would probably expose them to his father anyway, but at least he could deny Ruth that opportunity.
- As the train gathered momentum, the boys sat in the doorway and swung their legs off the deck. For a while they said nothing, just watching the terrain get less familiar. Just past Hoene, they saw in the distance the old two ton truck owned by the watermelon man, creeping south with the little dark round melons mounded higher than the sideboards. Glen puffed out his cheeks and bellowed in his best watermelon man voice, "Purty good Show! Whatcha think, Folks!" Then Peanuts elbowed Glen in the ribs, cocked his own head sideways, crossed his eyes, and drawled, "Ah'll get you awn the dang traaaiiin!" Glen smiled, giggled, and then feeling like a tightly wound spring was being released in his gut, let heavy laughter roar out of him. Peanuts was laughing so hard he couldn't get air. They began to slow down, feeling the sorenesss in the diaphragm that a good horselaugh always brings, when they heard someone behind them.
- "Shut the hell up!" a sandpaper voice scolded from the back of the car. Then there were a series of weak coughs as a pile of debris, boxes and straw in the corner began to move. The man that emerged was very thin. His skin had a yellow pall. His wrinkled boots were unlaced, and his elbows poked through ragged holes in his leather jacket. Eyes lined with oozy red tissue stared from a mop of long dull hair. The boys cringed at the sight of him, and that seemed to perturb him further.
- "How long do I have to put up with this caterwaulin'?" he croaked, rocking toward them. The boys were too scared to answer, so he asked again. "How far are you going?" Then louder, "How long do you expect to stay in my accomodation?"
- The train was entering ladder track for the Trinidad yard, and Glen was looking at the bike, wondering if he could pull it out the door before the apparition got to them. But Peanuts had other ideas. Pulling a little monkey wrench from his back pocket, he clenched it threateningly, and screamed "RATON PASS!"
-That seemed to stop and quiet the man. "Oh," said the scarecrow, his posture crumbling. "That's not far." and he slumped against the opposite wall, sliding to his seat on the floor, still staring at the surprised boys, the fire in his eyes gone to glaze. The train stopped, the man was silent, and Peanuts, still brandishing his wrench, looked questioningly at Glen, who just shrugged.
- The helper engine coupled to the train with a jolt, and jarred the man into a coughing fit, which enlivened him. He pulled a nasty cloth from his pocket and wiped his mouth. Glen noticed his flannel shirt had spatters of blood on the open collar. The train started moving, and the man started asking questions, like "Why would you be getting off at the pass?", "Does anyone know where you are?", and "How much did your daddy pay for that fine bicycle?'' He listened to their honest answers carefully, rolling his eyes into his head after each one like he was recording them in a notebook in the back of his brain. The boys watched the inspiring landscape change with the elevation, thrilled with the glory of what passed outside the door, still leery of what they shared inside it.
- When the summit was nearing, the man sucked in a volume of alpine air, hacked just once, and proceeded to tell the boys all the things that were wrong about their plan. First, he explained that the train went UNDER the highest part of the mountain rather than over it, through a long tunnel with the steeper grade on the New Mexico side. "If it's a joyride you want, THAT'd be a doozy", the man squeaked. Also, "The road here don't follow the tracks, if you didn't notice. Unless you be ridin' that bicycle on the irons, you gotta get over that hill!", and he pointed to a rock wall across the canyon, impassible. It hadn't registered to Glen or Peanuts, distracted by the scenery and the threatening conversation, that the good road along the tracks had disappeared quite some time ago. There were game trails, and an occasional access pad, but nothing that would take a bicycle home. They were crestfallen. "You can't even get a ride back!", the ghoul continued, enjoying their misery. "Train don't run 'til morning." He chuckled. "So what's it gonna be, babies? You gonna spend the night on the Pass? Gets pretty cold. Maybe you'll call your mamas and cry and they'll get you a place in Raton... or maybe you'll just stay here in the car with me", and he showed his grimy teeth.
- The train was nearly stopped and the boys were pulling the bike backwards toward the door when the hobo, still grinning, gathered his legs and rose toward them, grabbing the bike by the rear wheel. The boys dropped the bike and turned to run, but were blocked by the brakeman who was standing in the doorway, staring beyond them into the darkness of the car.
- "Hello, Cinderbox. Didn't know YOU was riding with us today. I heard you greased the tracks." - The Hobo grimaced. "No, Jack. We're all of us west bound, even you. But I aint pulled the pin yet."
- "Well I suppose that's good." the brakeman glared as he pulled the bike out and nodded the boys down. "And how long do we get to enjoy your company?"
- The Hobo squinted and scratched his chin. "These boys here is plannin' to ride that bike off the pass. I'm thinkin' that would be somethin'. If you got no further use of me," That caused the brakeman to smile, but the hobo went on, "I'll just gather my bindle." Glens eyes pleaded.
- "No, Cinderbox," the brakeman pulled something metallic from his pocket, "I think you'll ride on a bit." He slid the heavy door closed and slapped the padlock in place. They could see the shadow inside slink to the floor, and they heard a series of choking rattles. "He's sick." the brakeman explained as he went back to checking the couplings and rods. "Real sick."
- The brakeman completed his inspection, Glen puppydogging behind him. The helper engine had backed onto the drag line, and men were looking at a wheel, Peanuts bent over for a closer look just like one of the crew. The brakeman started to put the bicycle on the spare engine, but Glen protested, explaining their arrangement with the watermelon man.
- The brakeman stood silent for a moment, looking directly into Glen's eyes. Behind him, the dusty fireman was watching. "He's George's boy. From Model." The brakeman nodded, satisfied. "Here's the way," he said. "There's a trail takes off by the tunnel and goes over the hill to meet you up with the main road. It's a devil, though. You push your bike over, and you push your bike down the other side. Understand? Then you ride the main road into Stokerville and meet your friend. I hope he's better company than who you rode up with."
- The men shook the boys hands and wished them luck, then swung onto the train as it inched toward the tunnel at the head of the canyon. At the last moment, Peanuts stripped a lunch sack from the bike and slipped it through the slats of the locked cattle car. The boys pushed the bike nearly to the tunnel before the helper engine followed, the engineer tossing a two-fingered wave as he disappeared into the darkness, and they were alone.
- The engineer had been right. The trail out of the canyon was grueling. Built for the heavy equipment that bored the tunnel, it hadn't been used much since. Every time the boys thought they were near the top, a false summit appeared, and they had to bump the bike across more rocks, and around more switchbacks. Swapping between pushing on the handlebars and the rear rack, their thighs were aching and their spirits subdued when they ran out of hill.
- When their breathing slowed, the boys scanned the scenery so beautiful it didn't look real. The mountains around them stretched above treeline and had rivulets of ice still streaking their slopes. The aspen, spruce and fir forests flowed rolling green to the horizons, and closer, scrub oak and pine lined the old trail that wound down to where a tiny road crew worked setting rip-rap by the main highway, which itself led to a gathering of toy-like rusty roofed houses in the far distant haze of the rocky canyon.
- The boys ate their lunches and finished the last of the water in their canteen. Glen balled his hand at arms length and counted the number of fists between the sun and the horizon. He guessed they had taken at least a couple of hours to climb out of the canyon. Walking the downhill slope would take nearly as long. So, against the the brakeman's advice, they decided to do what they had come to do, and ride. They lashed the canteen and the tool bag extra tight. They pushed the bike to the edge of the drop into the canyon, and waited.
- There is a segment of time, different for everybody, when facing a possible life-changing experience, that we all wait. Some are blanked by fear, some feeling the need to double-check their preparation, and some concentrating on savoring the moment, capturing a snapshot in their mind of the time just before the event. Glen was savoring, but also hearing a voice in his head that said, "Don't wreck my bike!" Glen's wait was just a few seconds, and when it ended, the energy bursting from him, his muscles tensed for the final push, Peanuts stopped him. "Whoa. Look at the chain."
- The train ride and the long push had loosened the rear wheel, causing the chain to sag a full inch below where it normally rode. Peanuts opened the tool kit, proud that he had planned for a situation just such as this, took a screwdriver and wrench from the bag, and took every bit of slack out of the chain, cranking hard with his newly trained muscles to ensure the nut wouldn't slip. He slid the tools into his back pocket, remembered the story his grandfather told him about the man that lost his kidney, moved the screwdriver into his front pocket, and established himself back on the rack. Glen checked to see that Peanuts was ready, twisted one foot into the ground and one into a pedal, and pushed.
- The ride was bumpy, but controlled at first. They leaned around the first cutback, braking before the turn and pedaling through it, like Vivian's boyfriend had taught them. As they gathered speed, they braked more and pedaled less, until they were on the brakes full time, sliding around the curves, getting more wobbly every time they clipped a stone or slid into a rut. They were fast, impossibly fast, Glens face steely, his eyes locked on the road ahead, and Peanuts shifting his weight into the turns, occasionally testing the stutter of his voice as the road chattered. Several times they drifted toward huge boulders by the road, and twice they glided only inches from the precipice. Three mule deer startled when the boys hurtled by, one jumping right into the path the boys had just blasted across, Peanuts looking back laughing. The bike itself was magnificent, responding to Glen's touch like it was predicting each maneuver. The grade lessened, and the boys were yelping and yeehawing, sure that they had survived the worst the road had to offer.
- But when they reached a short flat and Glen tried again to pedal, the overtaut chain slipped from the sprocket and stalled next to the furiously spinning wheel. Glen felt the crank spin free and realized he had no brakes. The road tightened against the mountain into a twisting descent which hadn't been visible from the top. A sudden drop ended in the tightest horseshoe they had yet seen, bordered by a cliff with no bottom. They popped in and out of the little curves gathering momentum for the last dip before the impossibly sharp turn, and it became clear they could not possibly negotiate it. Peanuts was dragging his feet without effect, and Glen steered to the loose shoulder dirt to slow them, but it was no use. Peanuts pulled the screwdriver from his pocket and was about to jam his hand down next to the wheel to dislodge the chain, when Glen decided to lay the bike down to avoid going over the cliff. He torqued the handlebars and threw his weight against the rear wheel. The bike skidded on it's side for an instant then caught a pedal and flipped sideways, angling straight downslope and catapulting Peanuts through the air into the road. Glen last glimpsed his friend lying flat in the gravel, the yellow handle of the screwdriver visible near his chest.
The bike was upright, but shooting so steeply through the brush that Glen felt like he was falling, rather than riding. The bike burst out of the slashing branches into the open and hit hard on the edge of the ditch bordering the returned road, ripping one grip from his hand and sliding him off the seat onto the crossbar. He flew directly across the road onto a steep grassy descent littered with rocks which he picked through, the road visible again below. The rock he could not avoid launched the bike high into the air, where he seemed to float, aware for the the first time that his arm hurt, his eyes were tearing up, and a sharp pain was growing between his legs. He landed with the rear wheel on a another steep mound of clay, slamming the front end down and almost tossing him over the handlebars. The steering started to wobble, then developed a deep sway which he managed to control well enough to steer back onto the roadway, where he regained the seat and pedals. He became aware of voices in the distance, shouting and whistling their encouragement. He glided through a long sweeping turn onto the main road, which was not quite as steep, but smoother and just as fast. The road crew was urging him on when he shot past, and he doubted they would hear when he yelled "MY FRIEND! NO BRAKES!".
- A thousand feet past the road work there was a dip, and Glen saw that if he did not stop there, it would be a very long time before he could. The road was freshly graded, straight and smooth, and the bike was tracking it's length like a thoroughbred. He began scanning the sides of the road, looking for the softest place to bail into, when the bike decided for him. The loose chain bound on the rear wheel and locked up. Once again, Glen was sailing, this time with the bike cartwheeling after him. He tumbled once, flipped past the culvert in the dip, and stuck in a slimey bog next to the road. The bike jangled past, finally coming to rest with it's warped front wheel slowly spinning. Glen was sitting up in the mud, deciding which body part hurt most when a state vehicle pulled up and a tall man with fancy boots and a long face ambled out. He looked at Glen, pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket, and drew deeply. "Damn, son." he said. "I'd pay to see that again!"
- Before long, a heavy dump truck drew alongside with Peanuts, who, outside of some rashiness on his shoulder, seemed no worse for the experience. The rest of the crew, their work day done, gathered their tools and the bicycle, and sat on the rocks drinking like the sons of immigrant hard rock miners they were, raving at what they'd just seen. They talked about Peanuts like he was a ghost, shaking their heads at his having landed just a few feet from the deadly shelf, how the screwdriver was punched through the buckle of his coveralls, and how they found him semiconscious, struggling to breathe, the "wind punched clear out of him", which may have kept him from rolling around, possibly over the edge. "Honestly!" Peanuts told a hurting Glen, "I was about to try to jump that chain back onto the track and it felt like someone wrapped me up and jerked me straight off that bike."
- The watermelon man was worried when the boys were late. He was much more worried when he saw the war-torn shape they were in. When he delivered them to Model, he made sure the parents understood his limited role in the disaster, collected his dollar, and rumbled back to Rocky Ford. George heard about the ride, of course, but he chose not to discuss it with Glen, even though his wife thought they should. "He'll be responsible soon enough," he told her. "They made quite a memory, and I sure wish I could have been there." His wife grumbled, "I'm sure glad I wasn't."
- The bike was never the same. It saw some limited use after the cast was removed from Glen's arm, but Peanuts was never able to get the wheel entirely round or the frame "tweaked" enough to make them comfortable riding it. There were other bikes later in Model, but none like the legend that was the first, left as a rusting monument in the dilapidated tool barn long after the railroad people moved on.

Another's Shoes

2009-02-08T10:19:00.000-08:00

My great-aunt, a school principal, was fuming about city contract negotiations with firefighters. "All they do is sit around playing cards, waiting for something to happen!", she said. "Put them to work during the rest of the day!". I tried to explain firefighting as a profession, with much more going on during the day than she imagined, but one couldn't deny that the city was paying for men to work out, and quite often, to sleep. I hit home, however, when I suggested that taxpayers would be better served if teachers (and administrators) were put to "real" work when school is out, perhaps gaining a better perspective on what goes on in the less theoretical world. I'm fully aware of the extra work and training required of teachers having been around them all my life, but she needed perspective. "Well", she conceded, "I guess, I'll keep training their offspring if they keep answering 911."

Chinese Food Memory

2009-02-07T23:33:00.000-08:00

Back in the day, the best chinese restaurant in town burned. I was on the nozzle when we attacked the kitchen blaze. When the lights came on, the floor and counter were moving with little critters on the run. A bucket of unrefrigerated shrimp stunk in the corner, and the grease trap was bubbling the most disgusting sludge you can imagine. It was years before I darkened another door of an asian food joint. Tonight we shadowed Panda, the best I've found. I don't like the name; a poor mass market chain shares it. I don't like the building; it's a recycled Dunkin Donuts with little effort to remodel. The parking lot is crumbling. I don't like the atmosphere or lighting; the booths are torn and the tapestries are faded, but clean. The service is everything you would ask from a family run restaurant that wants your business. They smile, they welcome and thank, they monitor without hovering, they cater any menu item to your preference, answer any question, and act genuinely pleased if you seem to enjoy your visit. The food is art, and the volume outrageously large for a modest price. They proudly display their awards, and Grandma waves from a sideroom as she snaps snow peas. I loved it. If the place catches on fire, I'm walking the other way. I don't want to know.

Random Incorrectness

2009-02-06T11:03:00.000-08:00

Suddenly those in power LIKE the phrase "Lead, follow, or get out of the way!". Unless, of course, folks choose to "lead" in a different direction, follow the path they believe in, or sit on the fence of indecision while letting things play out a bit. Advice to those tearing their hair out over bipartisanship:

1) No more smugness, gloating, or Bush slamming. The election is over. Let history judge past administrations. (2) EARN cooperation with the power of your argument appealing to what is best for the nation. Don't expect to win everybody over. Stop bickering. Let's move on. (3) Keep an open mind to quality input from the 'other' side. There are bright people of every political ilk. Remember that barely half of the folks who voted were on the winning side, and we are a sound bite away from changing that "mandate". (4) Let's assume that EVERYBODY who voted has the country's best interest at heart. The reality is Democrats are in power, and have the opportunity to try a new philosophy. If things improve, hearts and minds will be won. If not, look for a NEW bandwagon.

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An article in the daily waste of a tree stated that, because of the economy, sexy underwear sales have declined in favor of more comfortable, sensible items. Of course, there are some of us who make white jockey briefs look sexy as hell... (ahem)

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Mount Redoubt watchers have overloaded the servers at the Alaska Volcano Observatory. The mountain keeps teasing, rumbling a bit, fuming a bit, then backing off. The volcano watchers seem to be enjoying the attention, jazzing up the language on the site and picking up the pace of the updates. I'm disappointed in the state. We put a tripod on the ice and folks collectively pay millions to bet on when it moves. Here's a perfectly good "imminent" eruption, and no lottery. There are no t-shirts with Redoubt saying "Kiss My Ash", or mocking the ubiquitous AlaskanGrown symbol with "Alaska Blow" marking a silhouette of the mountain. There are no comparisons to the eruptions of Sarah Palin. One of my coworkers suggested that he gets so many concerned calls from relatives outside that he plans to change the message on his answering machine to "No... we're NOT alright... Send money."
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The Cloudy Crown Revisited

2009-01-28T06:06:00.000-08:00

The champion rules again. I asked an innocuous question and she answered with a boomingly belched "OOYAAAYYUSS!!!". Then she made crowd noises and raised her flexed arms above her head, celebrating all the way down the stairs. "Yup", I said, "That's why they pay admission."
I'm off to work. Guess I'll forgo the goodbye kiss.

Where A'm a Gonna Go, When de Volcano Blows

2009-01-27T18:12:00.000-08:00

Mount Redoubt has grumbly in it's tumbly. It gets gas on a regular basis, about every twenty years. It's been about twenty years. Redoubt is about a hundred miles south on the other side of Cook Inlet. It's closer to Anchorage, where I work. It's MUCH closer to Kenai, where I play. Nobody is too worried about lava flows. Very few are worried about floods from ice melt on the mountain sweeping through the Drift River Valley. What folks DO worry about is ash. Ash can drop airplanes from the sky. Ash can build up deep enough to collapse roofs and shut down traffic. Gritty ash can destroy rotating equipment and irritate the lungs of living critters. The critter I live with has asthma, and I went to the local stores to get a respirator. The newsfolk suggested we have water, generator, food for three days, air filters for our cars, and masks for our faces, just in case. The masks were sold out, but the clerk told me they would have plenty later in the day. He said the owners were here in '89 and '90, when the volcanos last blew. They swore they'd be prepared the next time, and they are. This afternoon, cases of valved masks were available. I bought a ten-pack for the same price as three individuals. I can use them for woodworking, if the mountain behaves. I bought some water. I checked the batteries and candle supply. I suspect that even if we get a poof, and the ash drifts our way, it will a minimum amount and the effects will be short term, but like the owners of the hardware store, we'll be ready. That's a pretty good feeling. Who thought we'd ever find a Jimmy Buffet song relevant in our lives.

Read that label!

2009-01-26T13:36:00.000-08:00

Sugar-free chocolate graham crackers. Tasty guiltless journeys to our childhoods. But wait! The label (in tiny print) admits to 19g of carbs per each serving of three cookies. Hardly diet food. But it gets better! After about twenty cookies (They are little, and I was DISTRACTED!), I caught the tiny note at the bottom of the label. 'EXCESSIVE CONSUMPTION MAY HAVE A LAXATIVE EFFECT.' Uh oh. Sure enough.
Now, I've never been a great farter, more like my oldest daughter, known for her "booplessness." I've never been big on bathroom humor, either, but kudos to Cable-Larry for doing it well. However, I've found the secret weapon. An important part of doing anything well is having the right equipment, and if entered in the next Blazing Saddles competition, I'm pretty sure of at least dishonorable mention.
My dog has a new respect for me, but skulks into a different room. The wood stove burns with unprecedented verve. The remaining cookies have disappeared not ever to reappear, I suspect. The night was unsettled to say the least, and I was concerned when the neighbor's light came on after a particularly boisterous session. My partner is a saint. I promise to never put her through another experience like that again, unless her mother comes to visit...

Nice Girls

2009-01-24T10:57:00.000-08:00

The company training catalogue includes a course called "Nice Girls Don't Get the Corner Office". The course is for women (only) who wish to climb the corporate ladder. Much sighing and eye-rolling. If I were young, fearless, and competing for jobs with these women, I'd sign up just to learn what the competition were up to. And I'd litigate my right to attend if necessary! Or not. I've probably never had a corner office because I will always believe that managers, male or female, who understand and tend to their business but remain concerned about their coworkers (nice) will always get ahead. As a favorite little person used to say to me, "You silly, silly man!"

I Don't Want a 'Black' President

2009-01-21T19:36:00.000-08:00

-I saw that look come over my coworkers. Reverend Lowery had just finished the inauguration benediction with his dream of the day "when white will embrace what's right." One person asked if he really said it. Not since OJ was acquitted by a "jury of his peers" had I seen a racial divide like the one that silenced that room.
-Until that point, the discussion had been light, and a bit hopeful, in spite of the fact that while the media world was celebrating, the stock market was demonstrating their faith in the new administration by tanking. I didn't hear one person say anything to diminish the moment by criticizing the new Prez or the process even though many there probably didn't vote for him. Other than one woman who sang a gloating "good-riddance song" to the outgoing president she saw as scum, there was no meanness or negativity.
-I'm guessing the minorities in the lobby became uncomfortable after the speech, because they didn't stay long. Soon after, the discussion I feared began. "Perhaps it's time for BLACK to embrace what's right.", one older fellow got right to the point. That started an avalanche of tirade against everything from the United Negro College Fund to Al Sharpton. Some of the perceived slights to society I'd never heard, and some were poignant.
-Someone wondered if any black folks considered how blacks came across in the Hurricane Katrina aftermath. Instead of the community rallying to rebuild on their own, the image that sticks with many is the chant for help from the stadium while cops and criminals alike plundered the flooding city. Hundreds of thousands left, and there is growing resentment from the neighboring cities that took them in, while FEMA was targeted for a slow response, and ineffective city and state governments emerged relatively unscathed.
-Another story concerned how all of us remember the "victim" felon Rodney King, the recipient of a beating by some burned out cops, but nobody remembers the name of the innocent truck driver pulled from his truck and bricked to death by race rioters.
-Affirmative action: Hiring preference, scholarships and quotas were deemed unconstitutional, ineffective, expensive, and ultimately, just wrong.
-Yesterday, M. L. King day was celebrated. While the man should be recognized for his contribution, there are other cultural icons that are just as significant to other groups. The man suggests that people start a "cultural heritage holiday", and equally fund an "Irish Studies" program at the university instead.
-Another is disputing, Cosby-like, that blacks are considerably more represented statistically in prisons, gangs, fatherless and teen families, drug addiction, welfare rolls, and even mortgage foreclosures because they are victims. NPR (supposedly) aired an article with a guest describing loan officers "targeting" blacks with adjustable rate loans as if they are more easily influenced to make uninformed decisions.
-Cultural sensitivity to the use of "hate" words by whites, but not other races, was brought up. Racial hate crimes, by law, can ONLY be inflicted by whites in America against other races, not the reverse. A sportscaster was crucified for verbalizing the truth that slaves were bred (more than a century ago) for strength and brains. Instead of choosing to see the factual comment as a verification of superiority in athletics (and by implication, OTHER competition), black leaders chose to focus on the farm animal aspect, and exploded with indignation. Of course, Imus resurfaced. If he had only added "In comparison with Tennessee" (a more conservatively dressed, groomed, and coached team), his "nappy headed hoes" attempt at being hip wouldn't have become another dance party for the Jacksons and Stringers of the world.
-Oprah as victim even came into the discussion. She supposedly lost a portion of the viewer share when she endorsed Obama, purportedly due to racism. Nobody mentioned that the other viable candidate was a woman (day-time TV, Hello?) or that some very strong competition entered the talk show arena during that time frame. The Oprah phenomena in itself demonstrates the opportunity available today for blacks.
-Now, as racist as some of you may choose to believe this sounds, it didn't feel that way. No one was name calling or offering to pitch in on a ferry to Africa. There was no hating on black individuals, and no racial discussion at all of the man, Obama. There is true hope, even among this group, that the country will be successful under the leadership of this man. There is also some sadness that the good reverend's handlers were allowed to offer such divisive comments while the new administration is pleading for united support.
-Now don't get me wrong. I'm fully aware that the election of a multiracial president is a civil rights milestone. I'm not naive enough, however, to believe this event will salve the pain and guilt of the last two hundred years or erase the hate that still exists in some of every race (in equal numbers, imo).
-This president is definitely up against it. He's got enough to tackle without having to deal with people being obstructionist because he's black, or having to waste resources pandering to civil rights activist group's demands. There's a checkered history of black political leaders, from Colin Powell to Marion Berry. The new president doesn't need those comparisons. He will inevitably be described as out of touch with the "real" black experience while being simultaneously condemned for his deemed excessive civil rights support. Black artists and celebrities will expect more inclusion to the D.C. social scene, and appointments to office will be filtered through a racial screen.
-Thus far, this president has only managed to get elected. (No mean feat!) By that standard, G.W. is accomplished by comparison. Much of what G.W. is being reviled for was out of his control, but such is the legacy of the man standing watch when disasters occur. Could he have been a better leader? I certainly think so, but history will tell more of the tale. Unlike so many, I don't have any God-like aspirations for President Obama. I do believe he has handled himself with grace and polish thus far. His appointments have been surprisingly balanced. He is moving quickly on the easy fruit of Guantanamo. So far, after such a very short time, he is a president I can be proud of.
-And that's what I want. A leader. A statesman. A public servant who makes decisions based on what the ENTIRE country needs, not any minority group or PAC. Someone who respects the office (listening Bill?) and the constitution, and all of the citizens who need him. I need someone who can make decisions with the knowledge he will be accountable for them and criticized for them, and open to that criticism without the expectation he will be protected from it because of his race, his political party, or his "mandate". I want a PRESIDENT, not a black president, or a liberal president, or an ivy-league president, or any other-special-interest-adjective-you-wish-to-apply president. And I want him to emerge from his term(s) without anyone feeling it's necessary to focus on his "blackness" to celebrate our successes.
I dream of the day when the Sharptons and Jacksons of the world will be irrelevant, when century old crimes (and thirty-year-old reverse discrimination) will be relegated to history, when affirmative action programs, OJ trials, hate crimes, and the use of nigger/cracker labels will draw equal disdain. The point is that whites HAVE increasingly embraced what is right over the last fifty years. Yesterday's event culminated that process, and for an administration preaching unity, it was probably a mistake to poke sticks at anyone. I'm excited for the change, and truly hope the nation prospers because of it. But no amens from me for the sermon. Until the pendulum swings to the center, "preachers" don't preach hate, and equality isn't governed, then the resentment will fester. I also think it's past time for gloating, thumping the last Prez, and celebrating the election results. We have plenty of work to do without giving ANY group an excuse to stand on the sidelines or obstruct. Some will do so anyway, but let's not help them recruit.
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-Update: Ok, I wasn't aware that the "poem" wasn't original. That changes the intent a bit, from taunting more to just celebration. I was around for the sixties, but my diverse schoolmates and I were oblivious to racial hatred. Lucky us.
- Update to the update: It seems I've stirred some emotion with this post. Somebody feels I am incapable of understanding my position of privilege in our society. The point of the post was to look forward with a purposeful unity, and I shouldn't bite the "privilege" bait, but the box is opened, and my view is as valid whether you wish to hear it or not. First, I've never been a slave. Neither have any of you. I HAVE been made to feel uncomfortable in public places of business because of my race, and choose to not visit those establishments again. I'm in a unique position to watch the workings of large corporations, and my observation is that females, people of color, and folks with non-traditional sexual orientation have at LEAST as much opportunity compared with WASP males. Don't believe it? I SEE it every day. At least in my corner of the world, concerning the great civil rights causes of the sixties, that bus has left the station. Activists still beating the drum provided for them by previous generations are just making background noise, but I suppose there a few loose ends to tie, and I'm all for passionate involvement. However, if you look with a skeptical eye, you'll find a lot more hate being generated from the activist sites, churches, and the civil rights organizations than from what has become a VERY tolerant American culture. (I'm excluding 1000th% fringes here) I understand that gay marriage and abortion are tipping point issues, but while very important to a few, there are LARGE problems in America that NEED to be dealt with NOW.

Paxson on Thursdays

2009-01-18T17:19:00.000-08:00

-From Paxson: I was coming home early, so I called kinda kiddin' and said "Kick Sancho out, I'm coming home early!", and SHE said "What Sancho? It's not Thursday!". So I said, "Well pretend it's Thursday, turn out the lights and I'll be right there." SHE said, "Nope. I'm in the mood Thursdays. YOU don't know women."
-I couldn't argue there, so I turned to my work boss and said "I want Thursdays off!" and she said "Nope. Everybody wants special days like Thursdays, and you don't rate. Perhaps you should look at the org chart!", so I glanced at all the orgs and, sure enough, all the happy people were at the top, probably because they get Thursdays. There was no Sancho on the list, so I guess he gets Thursdays and all the other days too.
-Then my work boss noticed that I was looking at orgs like she said I should, and that I had my jacket on. She said if I couldn't find better ways to waste the company's money, then she could, and then just before she went home early, she did. Now I have to work late every night this week. I called home and told HER to call Sancho and tell him I'd be home late on Thursday, and SHE said, "Okay."
-But THIS Thursday, I'm not gonna call. I'm gonna leave early, right after my work boss, and get hold of this Sancho that I didn't even know existed 'til today, and ask him how to get off that org chart and how to understand women.

Lighten Up

2009-01-12T13:44:00.000-08:00

The sun hits the house directly on MLK day for the first time in over a month. Even the animals seem to be ready to celebrate, loitering in the windows near the houseplants with their leaves peeking southward. Vik is back from the lower forty-eight with her contageous busy energy. The thermometer is thirty degrees happier. The kids on the block are back outdoors sharing mischief. A chain of cross country skiers used the bike trail yesterday. We're on the cusp of a new presidential administration, for whom I'm hopeful, if only to involve more people in the debate over where we should be going. It's been a dark time, and I haven't responded very well, "letting it ride" when action would have improved my mood and my finances. But it's a time to be inspired, 4 minutes more light every day. Things will be growing soon. Okay, not THAT soon, but soon! Blessed be the light!!

Call in the dogs

2009-01-12T03:46:00.000-08:00

It's 2:44 in the morning because the red-eyed monster says so, and Jeff Hanna sings to me from the deepest recesses of the memory that forgets to take the grocery list I wrote because I can't remember the six items on it. From thirty years ago, "Piss on the fire, call in the dogs, and head it on back (wait) to Bowlegs." Damn you, whiny Jeff Hanna. Now I have to get out of bed 'cause I drank some wine earlier, and guess what, funny coincidence, the fire's out, too. Ol' Jeffs still in there, bangin' around that place in my head that doesn't even exist when the real world is chewing up my diminished synapse power. Down the stairs to stoke the wood stove,and I almost slip when a floppy sock rolls.
"Why am I wearing socks?", I wonder as I robotically select the perfect logs for the embers that remain, then catch myself being OCD, put the logs back, and throw the most IMperfect ones in, just to spite the part of me I don't like. It dawns on me, after thirty years, that the singer in my brain has both of the names of the kids in my sister's family; Jeff and Hannah, and why hadn't that ever occurred to me before? The stove would eventually burn on it's own but I shoot it some air and watch the fire curl up into the reburner where little blue holes form in the flames, and I'm transfixed.
Normally, at this point I'd curl up on the grunge couch and let Bowlegs drift back into oblivion. But there's a dog where he's not allowed, stretched on his back along the sofa's length, one twitching paw in the air, probably dreaming of some rabbit from his youth. And I start thinking of my own youth, my face twelve inches from the inferno I've created, and eye-to-eye with the reflection of the person I've become.
An image is revived of a longhair long ago, actually relieving himself on the campfire while singing the words, "Sometimes things don't work out, But that's the way that life is, son." Me from the past, consoling me now. "All those little mi-iseries, will keep you on the run." I'll say. All the big dreams. All the people I loved, really loved, and hurt, and can't seem to stop hurting. The payments and the workload and the pride and the doubt that keep me from sleeping in this bed I've made.
I remember thinking, when cranky campers told me to "Shut the **** up!" at this same hour so long ago, that NObody in this world was happy, except me. I felt kinda sorry for them, so uptight and worried about what they had to get up and DO in the morning. "There's just no use tryin', to be what you are not. Keep runnin' on that treadmill you'll get tired a lot..." So I promised myself that I'd never work an assembly line, that I'd never wear a tie or be tied down, that I'd always value life's special moments with family and nature, and that I'd savor my freedom, never letting institutions or routine rule me.
I'm awake. I'm sober. Jeff is fading. The alarm clock is nagging. I've learned there are many versions of assembly lines, and I'm headed for one in a few hours. I still don't like neckties and can't tie one properly without a little research, but they aren't the symbol of oppression I thought they were. Most folks still aren't happy, but some are better off tied to something or someone of their choosing. I've compromised a bit on institutions and routine, allowing their pervasiveness and impossibility to deny. And I treasure those moments in the happy zone, but oddly can't seem to actively pursue more of them. "Lot's o' people in this world, just tryin' to make a buck", describes me pretty well. I'm thousands of miles from home, and family, and the land I was raised on, without the time or energy to explore and enjoy this new adventure.
There's hope, I guess, that someday I'll demolish the complex structure of guilt and duty I built, and "Put out the fire, call in the dogs, and head it on back to Bowlegs." Until then, thanks for the reminder, Jeff. Now, shut the **** up.
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Apologies in case I mangled the real lyrics, but it's a ponderance how I remembered them at all.

The Finisher

2009-01-06T14:48:00.000-08:00

It was the cruelest thing I'd ever heard said. My sister was teen angst-ing and lashed at our mother. "Do you remember when it happened, the exact moment you gave up your dreams? Was it a choice to throw away your goals and ideals.., or were you oblivious and just let them slip away?", she screamed.
-My mother looked like she'd been hit with a baseball bat. Stunned, she started to speak, then quit folding laundry and left the room. When she returned, it was obvious she'd been crying. She lifted the car keys from the hook by the door.
-"Are you OK?", I whimpered. She managed a half smile, looked directly at my sister, and said firmly, "I love you." Then she left.
-I bickered with my smug sister while my mother was gone. I folded the remaining laundry, ineptly trying to duplicate my mother's tri-fold technique. My sister was distracted, though, wondering (I think) if her hurtful victory in the battle might change the war.
-To understand the impact of my sister's remark one would need some insight into my mother's personality. She is a finisher. She was given a set of guidelines to live by early on, and she's spent every minute since completing the promise of the life she feels fortunate to have been born into.
-My mother has photographs of her infant self and her parents traveling by wagon to their remote homestead. They built a half dugout, and eked an existence from a hard sage-choked land. She learned that every creature needed a purpose to flourish and those without didn't survive. The family was determined not just to get by, but to prosper. She was a serious child, with a stubborn streak and a dry, subtle wit.
-Rare for the twenties, my mother was raised in an extended family that believed women not only deserved an education, but had a duty to self and country requiring it. She had three degreed aunts, teachers all, who saw her potential and insisted upon taking her in to see to her education. She'd had a poor start, and the school she attended stretched her abilities, but she was doggedly set on succeeding, and she did. She worked in the school for tuition, and worked in her aunts homes for board. As she put it, "I missed the depression. I was too busy to notice."
-When an uncle asked if my mother had considered college, she was surprised. "I'd never considered NOT going!"
-She worked cleaning fraternity houses, operating telephone switchboards, and babysitting, to get through college. There was never enough money, and one aunt seemed to sense when things were lean, sending enough food or cash to get by. She was inspired by her professors, who convinced her that she would make a difference in the world, and encouraged her to dream large. She had helped fellow students who had been too privileged to learn coping skills, and she had seen the hardships that her own family had endured in their simple home, so she chose a double major in education and home economics, hoping to teach young adults to organize and enjoy their personal lives with the new technology that would allow them to do so.
-Then she met my father. He had worked for the railroad before the war, had a car, and made her laugh. Roommates married roommates in a double wedding in the home of the Dean of Women. For the sixty years of their marriage, a family joke is my mother's seeming lack of romance in her marriage. "He had a job, didn't drink, was crazy about me. It was during the war. Of course I married him."
-After the service, Dad went back to work for the railroad, and Mom landed her dream job. The high school in the town where they lived managed to burn the building housing their home economics program. She was hired to teach with whatever she could scrounge and operate from the borrowed back rooms of a church near the school. She made the most of her college connections, landing twenty new Singer sewing machines donated by the manufacturer. They cooked in the church kitchen using industrial equipment and set up a mock home kitchen in a separate room. They scoured and polished the chapel with the newest (donated) cleaning materials. Most of the girls sewed their own prom dresses. The students shared their new knowledge of health and personal finance at home, and parents also began to use the school as a resource. The phoenix program was getting recognition, but my mother (by all accounts) was still too busy to notice.
-The next year, when the school board landed a fat sum to design and build a new home economics lab, they approached my mother for input. Realizing she was no architect, she once again called on her college. The civil engineering department jumped at the opportunity.
The home economics department loaned a faculty member for an entire semester. Singer donated more machines. Local appliance dealers, who had seen the benefit from the program already, offered deep discounts for school equipment. Food and laundering products came from across the country. Attendance was booming, and a good friend of Mom's joined the staff. My father was proud and excited, as well. Their little house became a gathering place, and while they reveled in the sense of community, they sometimes lamented their loss of privacy.
-When the new building gleamed, the two new teachers embarked on a different project; the development of a set of recipes that worked, with adjustments for altitude and locally available products. The list grew to over two hundred recipes, with housewives and restaurateurs alike giving input. Some of the difficult recipes took dozens of experiments to perfect, but there was no shortage of willing students to show up after school to help test them. The first Betty Crocker cookbook contained many of those original recipes, and never acknowledged the source. Typically, my mother said that the recipes had never been for sale, and if the book allowed more people use of them, then that was a wonderful thing.
-Not everything in their lives was perfect, however. In five years, my mother had four miscarriages. One child was born much too premature, but lived for several days. Doctors suggested that she have her tubes tied, but my father was reluctant to give up if her health was not too much at risk. My mother wanted badly to give him a child, so, as usual, she endured, until when she finally had my sister, she could not take the babe into her arms. She was certain the child would die and could not bear the attachment for days. But my sister was born with a steely will, and would not be denied.
-When mother's youngest brother was having difficulty in school, my parents took him in. When her sister went into a clinic for TB, my mother went after her children. When my father's nephew was out of control, my father put him to work away from the city, and he reformed. There was no debate, to hear my father tell it. "That's what families do, she said. So we did it."
-There was sacrifice involved though. My father, having buried his own child, became very attached to his little nephews after caring for them over long periods of their childhoods. When their mother was judged able by those who had no business judging, the children were taken from my parents for the third time and sent to be with their own mother who, as it turns out, was not aware and nowhere near ready. My father, traumatized by the children's broken hearts, waited until they had left the house, then tearfully asked my mother to "never put us through this again!" One poor little guy had run back into the house to say goodbye to the dog, overheard the end of the conversation, and spent the rest of his childhood believing that his cherished uncle didn't want or care for him.
-Family was also responsible for the next big change of direction in my mother's life. Her parents were in trouble. Her mother was sick, and her father's trading post was about to fail. She was convinced that the business was viable, and her mother needed rest more than medicine, so they left their stable careers with retirements, and they went into partnership with her parents. The infusion of cash and labor immediately made the trading post profitable. The Navajos trusted the new management, and Dad's railroad connections hired hundreds of men for the traveling labor pools, creating a new economy curious about the health and home knowledge that Mom was eager to share.
-They lost another child while at the trading post. Carried full term, the baby died after two months and was buried a short distance from the trading post. They suffered another blow when my grandfather, jealous of my father's success, emptied the business coffers and bought cattle from his brother in Mexico. Another dream buried, my parents left the trading post, choosing to move into the city where better schools might be available for my sister and me.
-My father sold on the road. My mother stayed home until I was in school, then started substitute teaching. She developed a system allowing teachers to better communicate their lesson plans to subs. Unlike most teachers, she loved it. She said it gave her a chance to connect with a diversity of kids.
-When it became clear that my sister and I would benefit from private schools, there was no hesitation to change course again. My mother started working nights for more money at the Job Corps, a program for underprivileged young adults offering basic skills training to help integrate them into the work force. She was a residential aide and counselor to girls, many of whom came from horrific backgrounds. She believed in the goals of the program, but was saddened at the budget constraints and mismanagement that strangled it. Our home became a safe haven where many Job Corps kids spent a peaceful night. Mom regrets the time she missed with her own teen children, but feels she made a difference in a number of young lives, and wishes she might have influenced more.
-That was the era when my sister made her cutting comment. That was the time during which I was unaware of the sacrifices my parents were making so that my sister and I could have our unencumbered dreams.
-My mother called recently, and I asked if she remembered the day she'd cried and where she'd gone and what she'd thought. Yes, she remembered. She had just driven the old Mercury around the block, not wanting to waste fuel on a sulk. She told me that she was angry, at first. After all, she had achieved every milestone she set for herself in her childhood. She made it through girls school, college, married and loved a wonderful man, and had two smart independent kids. True, she had worked hard for noble causes without measurable goals only to be redirected time after time by more important priorities, seemingly unable to bring them to completion (if that were even possible). Then she tried to remember the other youthful dreams, the goals my sister was sure had slipped away, and she couldn't! There weren't any! She had never pondered writing a list of the deeds she'd wish to complete. She'd only hoped to make her own way and help others do the same, and she'd done that! She had never considered that her life would be any more grandiose or accomplished than it had been. The early milestones were just merit badges marking the enabling of this very life she'd chosen to lead. She was living her dream, had never abandoned it in spite of the hardships and setbacks, and she intended to finish the same way she started, doing what she could for as long as she was able. If my sister imagined a better life for herself, set more defined goals, and pursued them, then as a parent she could ask no more.
-I remember my mom came home and refused to argue further with my sister, who still had plenty of fight. She had smiled and refolded the laundry I'd messed up. My sister apologized later, and actually grew out of her hormonal rage into a fairly civil human being.
-I asked Mom if she ever grew tired of nurturing, beating her lonely fifty-year-old son to the first call on Christmas day when people at home were waiting on her to start holiday dinner.
-"Now that", she said, "is a job that's never finished!"

Submitted to the second anniversary edition writing contest (Congrats!) at 'Scribbit' - http://scribbit.blogspot.com/

Canute

2008-12-21T22:08:00.000-08:00

A friend told of his son (called by his middle name Alex), raised in Alaska, schooled in California, and currently working and socializing in Vegas. The young man called his father on his cell from a bar and said there was a "very pretty" young lady there who had something to say. A tipsy voice practically boomed into the phone and asked if he had really chosen to name his son 'Canute'.
"Well, it was his mother's idea, but I went along with it, I guess. Why?", he asked.
"Thanks a lot", she replied. "So far you've cost me like a hundred bucks! I heard your son bragging up Alaska, and I've never met anybody like even from Canada, and I didn't believe a word he was saying. So, I decided, like, to push his buttons."
"Uh oh", my friend said.
"I'll say", she continued. "'So.., I suppose your name is Kanute or Baldo?' I ask him. And your son gets this smirky-like grin and says 'Well, actually...' But I'm not havin' any of it. I'd heard someone call him Alex and I told him, like, 'Listen; Prove to me you are from Alaska and your name is Canute and I'll buy you guys drinks the rest of the night. Otherwise, player, YOU buy for MY table!' So, he pulls out his DRIVERS license!! Gawd, man! What were you THINKING?"
When my friend quit laughing, he suggested to the girl that it's a good thing Alex hadn't called and asked HIS advice on the matter, because he'd have suggested the bet be raised to something more interesting.
"Very funny" she came back. "But what makes you think he'd listen to you... YOU named him Canute!", and she handed the phone back to Alex at the noisy joined tables.
"I like her", my friend told his son. "That one you can bring home to meet us."
"Maybe we ought to let her chill a bit first," Alex said. "The way she feels now, she'd probably fly all the way up there just to kick your backside!"

Taking Wing

2008-12-21T02:22:00.000-08:00

Halfway into town this evening, at least twenty ravens playing in the thermals over the generating plant. The natives love steam baths.
Tomorrow is the darkest day. One more day of planning.

Winter Games

2008-12-19T14:16:00.000-08:00

"Use the light!", I tell myself. If you have outdoor errands in winter Alaska, It's best to plan if you want to avoid providing your own lumens. So I bundled, and went out with the dog, who has his own errands to attend to. His business seems to go much better if I can toss the frisbee a few times so he can lunge through eighteen inches of snow, snap the disc from the air, and charge back to ask if he can do it again... and again. After several throws, you can see it wash over him, his business. He gently sets the frisbee in the snow, then walks stiffly to his private place behind the spruce, and after a while emerges all waggly to bounce back to his frisbee. There have been times I wished he could throw the frisbee for me when my business was bound, but alas, he has no thumbs.
This day, we had a bit of snow, and I don't know where the frisbee is. He'll have to find it himself, because while he has no thumbs, his nose is terrific, and much closer to the ground than mine. He understands this and forgives my weaknesses as I forgive his, and starts the sweep search immediately. I'm not outside but a few seconds when I'm distracted by a gravelly screech from the wildlife tree. The day we moved into this house a LARGE bull moose was chewing on the scraggly willow that hangs over the woodpile just outside our dining room window. Since then, every squirrel, chickadee, and grosbeak that drops by, stops first at the 'wildlife' tree to scan, then funnels into the feeders or the garden. Today it was the Stellar Jays demanding a peanut. The jays in Valdez would eat from our hand, but these jays-of-the-hood aren't as talented at training humans. Now I know that somewhere in this house is a peanut stash for just such an occasion, but it is too well hidden for me. Joey's nose is busy, and I'm not letting the jays in to find it themselves. Yes, I looked in the bird seed drawer, but that would be the logical answer, which seldom works here. I did find some stale cashews (WHO buys cashews for wild birds??), tasted a couple, spit them out, and put a few on the splitting block while I renewed the peanut hunt inside. I finally picked a handful of peanuts out of our parrot's tin and started for the door.
I stopped though, because I didn't want to interrupt what was transpiring outside. The dog had found the frisbee (of course), and was carrying it folded like a snow packed taco . He was alert, body tensed, ears as perked as a flop-eared dog can get them, watching the jay. The jay was squawking, twostepping among the cashews, tossing his mohawk like a trash talking athlete. The cat was pressed to the window, chattering at the jay. The dog dropped his ears, turned his head away for an instant, glared out of the corner of his eye, and SPRUNG! The bird let him bound a couple of times and then effortlessly fluttered the six feet to a fence post. The dog snarled his most menacing snarl and shook his frisbee violently at the bird. The cat stood on his hind legs and pawed the window. "Ol' Stellar" just sat there, watching. When the dog seemed satisfied that his threat was communicated, he pranced away, watching over his shoulder. He didn't get far when the jay popped back onto stump and cocked his head. The dog froze. He turned slowly toward his mocker, and gently set the toy down. "Uh oh", I thought. This time his ears were flat, and he was focused, inching toward the deck and the better traction it provided for his lunge. The cat had settled with his paws tucked, black-eyed and still.
My dog is not a hunting dog, and I've never seen him do it before, but he pointed! Perfectly still in the classic pose, his paw lifted and tail straight, he waited until the jay turned sideways. Then the dog shot like lightning across the deck. He was much closer this time to getting a mouthful of blue feathers, but the bird on the fence was nonplussed. This time the dog hovered over the cashews and let one short indignant snort.
He turned away, took two nonchalant steps away from the stump, then wheeled back around as the bird was floating his direction. It was like a crocodile snap of jaws. The bird had almost lighted when the dog spun, but changed direction and narrowly averted a drooly death. This time, the bird flew well up the tree branch, and was visibly ruffled.
"Thats it!!", I yelled, even though I was the only English speaker present, "Game over!" I opened the door and called the dog, thinking how badly I'd feel if the bird got chomped or, worse, the dog took a beak in the eye and I earned a big vet bill. The cat, of course, wanted a turn and tried to sneak out the door, but his dash was blocked by my boot.
I would expect, like you probably do, that that would be the end of the story; but what happened next still has me wondering at the thinking capacity of critters. That bird flew down to the window in the closed slider where the dog had just entered, just inches from the glass, looking right past the panicky helpless cat like he didn't exist. I don't know if he was watching me watching him waiting for peanuts, or he was looking for the dog who was off on a different adventure, like searching for the bottom of the food bowl. What I do know is he stayed there until the cat let out a painful yowl and I opened the door again to serve up the second hand parrot peanuts. I placed them lightly on a foot of fluffy snow on the woodpile to see how he coped. He had no problem, settling into the powder like a duck on water, floating with his entire wings and body, plucking the peanuts and stashing them around the yard until they were all gone, then sqawking off into the forest by the river. I sat listening to him in the distance, then I wrote about it, and now it's dark and I've got to rig up a light if I'm to accomplish anything at all.

A Different Heat

2008-12-18T15:28:00.000-08:00

Blessed are we
that the PFD
bought a different kind of heat.
The check we'd float
To the wood stove folk
Would warm our old cold feet.

The set-up fee
We'd NOW agree
Would have been a bargain;
For the how-to note
And the "guide" they wrote
Was foreign techie jargon.

But once installed,
The clan all called.
We stood there just admiring.
'Til soon the view
Most tiresome grew,
No fuelwood for the firing.

A mission launched,
The bold and paunched,
Four trucks, one saw, and beer.
When daylight waned
No swill remained
But one green cord came here.

Now Box-mart sells
A log that smells
Of wax, and multi colored!
Quick-stores
Offer two logs for
Five bucks to heat-starved dullards.

With winter nigh
We called the guy
On craigslist hawking wood.
No extra fee
For delivery,
And charged twice what he should.

Splitting down
To quarter rounds,
Each night my axe gets action.
We learned the art
Of the lumber cart
Our grippers strapped for traction.

The carpet's marked
With litter bark
Our walls are ashy gray.
We clean the grate
And tolerate
The noisy fan all day.

But, as we settle
Near warm metal
Comfy flicker in the glass,
We'll belabor
To our neighbors
How much we've saved on gas!

Christmas Giving

2008-12-11T11:03:00.000-08:00

I suggested to the clerk that our gifts to extended family should be tax deductible. It's charity, after all. He almost fell off his platform. The lady behind us scowled. The lady behind HER knows me, and will let me off with a night on the couch. I'm giving myself a Christmas present; a more comfortable couch.

Why do some retailers insist upon putting their cashiers on an elevated platform? The number of clumsy falls must be worth the extra security, or the heady superior sense of worth, or the intimidation of children factor. If I were elevation challenged like a certain sister-in-law we won't discuss here because we "don't want to hurt her feelings" (like she doesn't realize she's short as a praying seven year old), I'd pay in coins and launch them onto the tall counter at the clerk. But then, the clerk we had last night would probably smile, tell her he understands, and start picking up coins. Gawd this seasons drags on.

It was a candy factory that stirred my Christmas feelings last night. The setting is festive, the smells enticing, the sample plate bountiful (at least when I got there. I caught one girl retracting toffee) , and the staff was joking around. From the kitchen: "More moose nuggets, needs crunch!" And from the candy counter: "We need help! Aisle three!" (There are no aisles.) A swarm of "help" pushed past the hollerer, and two helpers left, feigning disappointment. The shipping clerk bobbed her tinkly hat in time with the music and told me I could not ship V with the candy because "That would be illegal, and probably wrong, as well.", winkwink. Then she mumbled, "and it wouldn't be the first time." The cashout clerk was patient and friendly, (and slow), and honest enough to give the tourist restaurant across the street a less-than-glowing review. Actually, he didn't say anything, just kind of stared at the question, so that nothing NEEDED saying. If I had plans to run a business, I'd like to know this store's management model. Even in the wild tourist season, the service side of this store is courteous and genuinely friendly. On the quality side, well let me tell you... There exists a thing called a pumpkin spice truffle that I would do terrible things to get. I asked the counter girl who was responsible for my addiction, and she told me how the "back room" had circulated samples for feedback. "The white chocolate was too sweet for the filling", per the consensus. "The milk chocolate was going to sell very well. And the dark? Let's just say the entire staff was walking around with their cheeks pooched out and the sample batch didn't last the morning." I'm considering changing jobs. Perhaps I'll start a pipeline for chocolate...

La Migra

2008-12-04T05:52:00.000-08:00

West of Deming, immigration officer Marcus Trujillo asked an illegal for ID. "En de desert, chu don' rememver your nem! AMERICA!", was his answer. They both smirked, laughed out loud together, and touched fists. They chatted in spanish as the migrant was cuffed, processed and bussed to Juarez, where he would reschedule his trip.

Drifting Off

2008-12-03T20:41:00.000-08:00

Falling asleep. That is what freezing to death feels like according to the experts who evidently tell the tale from the other side. I doubt it. The times I’ve been cold enough to believe I could die, the shivers turned to racking shakes. Granules form under swollen skin like finely crushed glass in a balloon. Frozen clothes resist movement. You notice the oomf you need to just scrape the snotcicles from the ruff of your parka. Your stiff Sorels hurt. The breeze hurts. Your mind hurts from knowing you created your own condition. My hands still remember, and hurt again when they get chilled. I don’t recommend it; a cold death.
But then! You fall through the door and peel all the layers into the drip pan, bare feet burning on the stone floor that always feels so cool to the first touch of morning. Stoke the fire with the dense logs, the Christmas logs you saved, the logs that will burn for nearly the full eight hours the stove salesman said it would. You fluff the old military mummy bag too close to the heat. You hurry, because you can feel it folding around you; the dead cold sleep. You choose a dog, the right dog, the dog that squints from embarrassment and gratitude at being allowed near the fire. Do not choose a person, even one who believes what they read about the correct way to nakedly warm a frigid body, because they will fidget, and squeal, and be purse-lipped offended when you find your coma. A dog is better. The dog won’t move unless the bag or the dog catches fire.
The sleep after freezing is unlike any other. There is little chance you'll put lotion on your chapped face and hands or swill a warm drink before the gravel-eyes and the aftershock shivers will overcome you. With an oversized head and a one eyed exchange of glances with the dog, you die. You don't dream, your mind can't spare the effort. You will drool on the guest pillow you slid from the couch. Passersby will pause to watch for chest movement. The weak winter sun will peek through the window and scan your prone length without registering a twitch. The sleep after freezing provides one of those rare times when mind, body, and nature combine in one of lifes' fullest possible experiences, the complete sleep. Wakefullness brings a little regret, but also a feeling of rebirth.
Like the Ghostbuster character who was forced to choose the form of his own destruction (marshmallowman), we think too much about death. But my choice is clearly not among those who think hypothermia an easy way to go. I'd rather sleep myself to death.

Older Ramblings

2008-11-27T17:06:00.000-08:00

Monday, August 11, 2008
Beluga
The little jeep did just fine on a trip to Hope, thank you. Hope is fascinating. I'll go back there when exploration is an option. But we had another experience that left me with adrenaline residue. A pod of beluga whales was cruising into Turnagain Arm with the tide, and we got to watch them for a good twenty minutes. Scratch white whale off the list.
Posted by Thornyissue at 4:27 PM 2 comments
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Alaska Cockroaches
Several old time Alaskans deny that cockroaches exist here. We were a bit taken aback when we visited an iconic restaurant in Anchorage and noticed a mini hotel (few vacancies) under the table. The university doesn't deny the bugs exist, even distributing an extermination guide, but most locals can't get behind the facts. Do they know what a roach looks like? Are they a recent addition? Do they just not care about any critter not represented on the hunting proclamation? If you ignore them, will they just bug off? The first time I visited Alaska, eons ago, we partied in a place we called Rat View, where the drunk owner fired a 357 round at a rat in the smoky crowded basement of his home. I've yet to hear of any rat infestation, though, or reports of cockroaches for that matter. Maybe the industrial-sized mosquitoes carried them off. I'll get back to you with the results of the investigation...
Posted by Thornyissue at 7:45 PM 0 comments
Friday, August 8, 2008
The Auction
He went to a service at nearly every church in town while he lived there. He didn't find what HE was looking for, but met lots of folks who'd seemed to. At First Baptist, the preacher asked that everyone gather at the fellowship hall following the service, where the youth group would be conducting a cake auction to help fund their way to camp. He didn't need cake, but the fellowship was something he did need, so he attended. About twenty cakes sat on the folding table. He looked over the gathering of families glowing over the cakes. He guessed the prospective number of bidders at slightly more than a dozen. The auction progressed about as he expected, with proud parents and grandparents rewarding their little bakers by taking home the cakes most likely baked by the parents themselves. One young man bid the entire four dollars in his pocket to impress a girl of twelve who owned a pineapple upside down looking concoction, only to have her glowering father get the cake for five. The suitor seemed disappointed at first, then relieved. The girl had noticed, though.- One finely dressed older lady started with twenty dollars for her granddaughter's very beautiful double tiered white cake. She was exasperated when others caused her to bid up a couple of times, but she took it home for twenty six.- The fellowship numbers were waning as the last few cakes went for just a couple of dollars, until one last cake remained, baked by a girl of about seven with thick glasses and a Hawaiian floral dress several sizes too large.-He had played a game with himself, trying to match child and cake, but there was no question which was hers, because she hovered over it, turning and adjusting to show it to advantage. He heard her bubbling to anyone who would listen about her accomplishment and the work involved. She had used her aunt's kitchen and she had borrowed a couple of ingredients from the neighbor, but she and her aunt had followed Betty Crocker to the letter, making the icing and coloring it themselves. She had left the kitchen clean (except for one little green spot she couldn't get off the rug), she had put toothpicks in to hold the saran wrap cover, had almost tipped the cake over in the church bus on the way over, and after arriving, had disassembled the covering and added fourteen candy stars from the church kitchen cabinet. He tried to choose which woman at the gathering might be the aunt, but, as it turned out, she wasn't among the congregation.-The cake itself was a simple, large sheet cake with runny icing. It had the look of a watercolor painting with all the colors of the palette run together into a purple-black gooey mess. Some slashes had been cut into the top, and fourteen bright white stars were pressed deeply in. The girl seemed sad as the last cake before hers was a pity purchase from a family who already had a cake, and paid a dollar for an unwanted second. He'd received a few looks as the crowd waned and the auction continued with few adults left cakeless. The announcement of the last cake was greeted with weak applause. The preacher sighed, and asked for bids, and the little girl looked up at HIM, adjusted her glasses, and barely spoke. "Don't you like cake?"- "Damn", he thought.- "Of course I do!", he whispered. "I was waiting for THIS one."- "FIVE DOLLARS!, he boomed, loud enough for those still milling outside to hear.- The little girl was dumbstruck. The preacher smiled. There were no competing bids.- He turned to the little girl, stooped down, and asked "What flavor do you suppose it is?"- "Devil's food", she beamed. The preacher shook his head.- "Eight dollars" the man shouted. "But I won't go any higher." Heads were poking back into the door. "How about the icing?" he asked, "what flavor is that?"- "It's mostly sugar and stuff, but I ate some with my finger, and it's really GOOOD", she giggled.- "Twelve dollars! One for every star on this beautiful cake!"- "FOURTEEN!" she almost screamed. The preacher put his elbows on the podium, his chin on his hands. The room was filling with buzz of the curious.- "FIFTEEN!" he countered. "I'm getting this cake if it takes every penny I've got." The girl spun a full circle, and just looked at him, her hands on her hips and eyes sparkling. The preacher just waited for things to play out.- He pulled out a twenty dollar bill and snapped it. He glared at the little girl and challenged, "Do you have twenty dollars?". She shook her head. "That's it then! I win! Twenty dollars!", and he did a little celebration jig as he pointed to the preacher, who tapped the podium with his hammer and smirked. "Sold. Twenty Dollars!" said the preacher, to a small applause.- "I have a problem, though.", he told the little girl as he handed her the note. "I can't take the cake on my motorcycle. Could we eat it here?"- "That I can arrange", came a female voice from the kitchen. Soon several cakes were sliced; and served with ice cream, plates, flimsy silverware, folding chairs, and fellowship.- "You're silly", was all the little girl offered as she served him a big wedge of devils food with TWO stale candy stars and a huge scoop of double vanilla with cherries.
Posted by Thornyissue at 2:44 AM 1 comments
Labels: children, church
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Bunkies
I was a firefighter in the wayback. A new female firefighter was sent to a substation where our shift consisted of stable married guys. She was single and attractive, and I suppose the administration thought there would be fewer problems in the sub than the main station, though both had shared bathrooms and sleeping facilities. We lost touch after we both left the department, but I was glad to hear she met and married another old aquaintance of mine. (small town) I ran across them while shopping and was thrilled to see them both, and they seemed happy as well. But they were BOTH surprised that I knew their spouse. "You know HIM?", he asked. "Well yes!", she responded. "We slept together for three years!"
Posted by Thornyissue at 9:58 PM 0 comments
Labels: firefighting, humor
The Barista
The owner of the "Blue House" restaurant hired my niece. That was a risk. It turns out it was also a gift. At thirteen, (to steal a line from Ron White), that girl had a lot of quit in her. However, it seems she has found a niche. (Her last visit was wonderful as well.) She's on time at 6 a.m. (Whaa?) She's reportly working hard and smiling through her whole day. She's learned the coffee side quickly, and is getting in on the pastry bakery and decorating end. Her boss says she finds work when business is slow, and is a joy to be around; to the point she asked if school AND work might be possible. She's going for it. She's got more than pocket cash. And from what I hear several handed, she's got a plan. Yea!Her boss was concerned the other day when a young man came in, possibly a little old to be interested, and was awfully familiar with my niece. He put his elbows on the counter while he waited for his latte, and they smiled a lot together. It appeared she might even have delayed one of their regular customers so she might spend a bit more time. Then, just before passing the drink across the the counter, she did something that shocked the owner and the lady next in line. She took a sip of his drink, leaving a lipstick smudge on the sippy-top of his cup. They both laughed, then he paid and left, without tipping a cent.- The restaurant owner, a protective motherish sort, pretty sure my niece didn't USUALLY sample customer's drinks, spent the rest of the day hinting, trying to wrangle some info on the guy in her life. Finally, she tried the direct approach, teasing that a health inspector might have an issue with her smudging a customer's cup. She had also noticed, she said, that he was a lousy tipper.- My niece had a good laugh before she told her boss that the good looking young man is not her type... he is her brother home from college... and he IS in fact a lousy tipper.- It is unbelievable how quickly the babies we knew become the adults we couldn't have predicted. May their journeys be blessed.
Posted by Thornyissue at 10:57 AM 1 comments
Labels: coffee, teenager
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
5, 2008
Place Names
There's an oft quoted story about the naming of Chicken, Alaska. "They couldn't spell Ptarmigan" the tale goes. Valdez was named for a Spanish explorer, but lost it's latin pronunciation in a barfight, the winner claiming the naming. Another version suggests the Spanish-American war played a role, the townsfolk wishing to distance themselves from all things Spanish, as if there was confusion. I'd love to hear the stories behind Red Head, Cape Suckling, or Nichole's Knob. There are obvious names; Round Top, Burnt Mountain, Woodchopper, Coldfoot. Moose Creek appears thirty two times in the atlas. Twelvemile is actually closer to Twentytwo mile than Seventeenmile but still nearly fifty miles away as the raven flies. Old Grouchtop has no "New Grouchtop" counterpart. A sign near the famous Turtle Club (no turtles in AK) reads "First Left Road" from one direction, and "Last Right Road" from the other. Bullfrog Island (no bullfrogs in AK) divides the mighty Yukon River, which starts just a few miles from the ocean but circles over a thousand to get back there. Yukon must mean "Confused River" in Athabaskan. Did you hear of the man who bicycled the Yukon... with no roads (of course)... in winter (makes sense)... in 1900? True story. He did it on a big wheel. Took three months. His name was Max Hirshberg, and there is no place named after him. No Name Creek could use his moniker, or we could just pick any of a thousand peaks and creeks in places not popular or trafficked enough to be named. There's a little moraine just up the river from our house that I'm pretty sure doesn't have a name... I dub thee Max. And your twin across the river? Min.
Posted by Thornyissue at 10:35 PM 0 comments

Beyond Combat Fishing
- As I commute over the tall Ship Creek bridge at 05:00 most mornings, the view in both stream directions is pretty amazing. Ship creek flows right past the center of a large, modern city. A rail yard, a harbor, lots of touristy hotels and parks, and even a dog sled expo line its shores. But the real draw to Ship Creek is the fishing. The salmon runs were reestablished decades ago when a hatchery was built, and the returns are consistently plentiful. If the fish can run the gauntlet of hundreds of thrashing humans, they spawn in relative peace in clearer riffles upstream, where a military reservation and protected lands hold sway. I say "relative peace" because the real subsistance hunters (bears) fish there.- For the life of me, I can't understand what enjoyment folks get from flinging chrome pixies into milky water from slippery tidal shores while standing ten feet apart along a stream five paces across. I imagine many get hurt, more become annoyed, and very few actually hook into the fish of their dreams. Something draws them, though, and I've been wondering what it is.- There is the possibility that some of the anglers along Ship Creek are attempting to put food on their table. Bless them. It's getting harder to survive, so fuel and grocery prices could make combat fishing more alluring.- There are "sportsmen" who enjoy sharing memories more than making them. They enjoy company and lots of it. The more listeners available for their "war" stories, the happier they are. Good on them, too.- There are the tourists, who have seen the guide brochures with huge Kings and crystal waters, and like the prospective gold rushers, oil gushers, and dog mushers before them, were drawn to the idea rather than the reality of the place. Don't get me wrong, there is great fishing here. But you cannot step off the cruise ship, rod in hand, walk to the nearest rivulet, and land a 50lb salmon... except at Ship creek, where there is a price to be paid. I wonder how many men (predominantly) stubbornly insist on fishing while their families shop and dine a few minutes away, just to have "fished" in Alaska. I wonder how many folks drive hard on the Alcan past all those pretty lakes and trout streams, push to make their reservation dates at an Anchorage hotel, arrive too exhausted to arrange a side trip to fish, and end up on Ship Creek. I feel sad when I see what seems to me an increasingly predatory tour industry bent on wringing the last dollar from their "guests".- Surely there are fishermen, locals possibly, who may only have a few hours, possibly needing a fishing "fix", who zip down to Ship creek in spite of the crowd. I understand. I returned to a restaurant (highly recommended) three times because I just couldn't believe my bad experiences were the norm.- But you won't see me on Ship Creek. Bush Alaskans (rural, not republican) have a phrase for Anchorage, "A decent city, and only half an hour in any direction from Alaska!" I'm certainly not bushy, but I work here, and it took me forty minutes last night just to reach the city limits, a trip of four miles. I'll travel the half hour plus to find some solitude to fish and explore. But any of YOU who might enjoy combat fishing, I know just the place!-- Minutes from my house in Eagle River, a young man had a throwdown with a brown bear this morning and did pretty well. (They both lived!) Perhaps my next 'Why people do stuff' essay will cover hiking and biking along salmon streams at night.
Posted by Thornyissue at 12:15 PM 0 comments
Labels: fishing
Friday, August 1, 2008
Moose Vision
The motorcycle was still warming up as I crossed the Eagle River bridge and the little Toyota hybrid ahead slowed to a stop. The big moose in the road startled and scrambled for footing, and then ambled into the brush, but not before I got a good look from 50 yards or so away. A quick line of sight showed the belly of the beast was taller than the highest point of the bike. They are seriously large animals. More people die hitting moose and insulting moose calves than die at the hands of bears, but bears get all the press, perhaps because they eat what they kill. It occurred to me that if I ever round a bend into a herd of moose, I might just duck and accelerate... or not.
Posted by Thornyissue at 2:34 PM 0 comments
Labels: moose, motorcycles
More Geezerage
A co-codger at work was diagnosed with diabetes, and will have to radically alter his diet. "I used to tell people that if I ever get to the stage I can't eat or live the way I choose, shoot me", he says. "Now I'm kinda hopin' nobody was listening." I told him that most who might have heard are long dead, and the others don't remember. He's safe unless he keeps reminding folks...
Posted by Thornyissue at 1:44 PM 0 comments
Shadow of the Volcano
This land is new. I live where continents bump hips. Earthquake faults and rumbling mountains are a stones throw away if you have a good arm. The volcanos have very good arms and occasionally launch debris into the lithostratomegasphere (way-up). Part of my work routine is to check the daily seismic and volcanic reports from the folks we pay to watch such things. They are concerned for ash clouds that can drop airplanes, earthquakes that change surveys, and tsunamis that cleanse and refresh large coastal areas. Also of concern are avalanches, rockfalls, and flooding, since the terrain is more vertical than most. Folks closer to hurricanes and tornados wonder why anyone would want to live or work in Alaska. I can only offer that of the places I've experienced, there is a freshness here. It seems every day that some exciting change is happening. The scenery, politics, industry, technology, and the very ground you walk on; it's all in transition. As a young adult I made the conscious decision that I would focus on the stable things in life, a fixed career and a tight and connected family in a place where I knew all the smells and trails. I was broken when it didn't work out. But it made me realize that while I still may not be a mover and shaker, I now want to be where the moving and shaking is going on, if only as an enthusiastic spectator. There are some amazing projects developing here, with two huge pipelines and a tunnel under the Bering Straight among them. At work, I get to play every day with some of the largest toys ever built by man. There was a big quake in 2002 that would have created some real problems for a populated area. Two volcanos in the Aleutians have indigestion right now, and the three napping near Anchorage act up about every twenty years. Wildlife uses the highways, the glacial streams won't make their beds, hanging cornices wait for any loud excuse to cut loose, and we don't even want to discuss extreme cold. If you're into fear, you can drum up plenty in Alaska. But if you are looking for opportunity, I can't imagine a better place. The economy is growing, and folks who will work are at a premium. When I don't have to show up at work any more, I think I'd like to be the guy who sits on the island with the lava gods, a paid volcano watcher. I'd be providing a valuable service to mankind, surrounded by overwhelming beauty, and in the case of a disconcerting event, I'd like to think I would be more help than hindrance. Or on the day when nature claimed me, folks who cared could claim I'd died with a purpose in a beautiful setting. But in the real world, I'll probably drift south with the person I drift with, we'll live vicariously through energetic others, and I'll fondly remember our time in the shadow of the volcano.- While I'm watching volcanos, I'll try to remember to fish occasionally...
Posted by Thornyissue at 9:42 AM 1 comments
Labels: Alaska
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Matched Ears
She's got a bad ear from years on a rock and roll stage back in the day. I'm slightly deaf on one side from working on fire engines, motors and compressors. If you know us well, you can tell when we're getting along because we'll be walking with our good ears toward each other. On those other days, well, I'm just happy we're still walking together.
Posted by Thornyissue at 4:00 PM 2 comments
Cast Iron On My Mind
We keep a deep cast iron skillet high in the cabinet over the stove. Occasionally we cook in it, because nothing lends proper flavor like a heavy old seasoned iron pan. In our house, though, it does double duty. When my tongue outruns my brain, and I utter something that causes her eyes to narrow and her lips to purse, she reminds me that she has a cast iron skillet and knows where I sleep. It hasn't happened yet, but I'm sure the day will come when I have to get the pan down for her and take the lumps I deserve.
Posted by Thornyissue at 3:41 PM 1 comments
Three Things
Over three items, and I need a list. I used to be able to remember ten digit phone numbers, plan four chess moves ahead, and hit all the updated passwords on the first try. I'm ready to leave for the store, and I'm wondering if I should get the silly frog shaped post-it pad, even though so far I'm wasting fuel for only three items. I seldom make it out the door without at least one "Oh yeah! While you're there..." I slip on my boots, wait... rattle the keys..wait, creak open the screen, wait, crank the garage door.... and sure enough, she pops out. "Hey, could you get some sticky notes?"- It's creepy how your mind changes. Last night I wrote a fun little piece arguing with myself about practicality and whimsy. In another decade I could have left it there, and enjoyed it for what it was, moving on to some other project. But no, the mind I have now wasn't satisfied, and had to throw in some extra imagery and a little color. As the night and the rewrites went on, the cute, funny little paragraph morphed into something bigger, moodier and more serious. In other words, I ruined it. The original idea was lost several times and fatigue writing is never good. So, I've another remnant for the truth pile; Understand that when you get older, you can't focus like you did. If you start something, keep it short and to the point you began with. Finish. Then call it finished. And never try to carry more than three things in your head. Make a list.
Build a Fire
- It makes no sense to build a fire this evening. This winter we'll need the fuel. Sure, it's a little damp and chilly out but the house is reasonably warm, and Vik's already cozy in a bed crowded with animals I'll have to discharge when I join her. It's late, but still light enough to see the trees wiggling off the raindrops. I should have accomplished more today, but my moods were like the weather, and I dragged my moods around like stones, making everything difficult. A fire may delay my rest, but will surely help shed the weight of the day.- I've built a thousand fires, and this one I'll build the same easy way, with a little different result. Each fire has it's own character, no matter how routinely you start them. I still get that sense of creating a fleeting piece of art , but it's late, and my romantic side is dominating the practical.- I always rub the door with a damp towel dipped in ash before laying in the fire. If you open the view every time, you'll save some serious elbow grease later. If the ash has built up, I remove all but about a fluffy half inch, and spread it evenly across the stove floor. I think of the ash like sourdough starter, and have forgotten the very good reason for leaving a bit that I read in some manual long lost.- Next I place two sticks of kindling angled from the back corners of the stove to the middle front and locate a gap of two fingers or so. Then I place two quarter rounds and set one nearly along the back wall across the kindling with the rough side to the middle of the fire. The other log I place with the rounded edge toward the glass, framing the flame that will soon rise behind it. I prepare the firebox slowly, savoring the almost clinical process almost as much as the fire.- Now if survival skills in the wild were on display, one would force a single match and dry grass with tented brush, but tonight is about comfort and aesthetics, not just quick heat, so I take a handful of preserved identity (paper) from the shredder and tickle it into the space between the logs. I apply kindlings on the paper pile, mound some piecework above that, some more kindling, and space a crown of two exposed half round. Massage the spacings of the smaller bits to assure air flow so the sensitive tender will start when touched by the rising flame.- MY single match is butane and easily struck. I move a starter stick into the gap at the fire's front, tongue the flame along it's length until fully lit, then insert it deep past the quarter round under the shred pile. Now it's a matter of adjusting the slide and watching the flame spread.- It creaks as it heats, and the waves of flame roll across the ceiling of the stove, sometimes bursting into the starved voids. Here is where fire is most beautiful, with it's color and personality fully displayed, building and leaping like it won't be contained, settling into a flickering rhythm, and waiting until the switch softly ticks and the fan comes on like the stove releasing it's held breath.- I draw the bar controlling the air, and settle into the gentle glow. The animals have migrated to the warmth, and I'm tempted to go slip under Vik's quilt again.- It makes no sense to make coffee, now. I'd be up all night.
Posted by Thornyissue at 12:01 AM 1 comments
Labels: writing
Sunday, July 27, 2008
A Bathroom in Gangland
I don't usually share my experiences in tiled rooms, so I hope you realize what a privileged and trusting relationship we have here, you and I. ---The BOSS dragged me along to the city diner where I just couldn't say no to the blue plate mushroom omelet which always demands an early exit which is usually no problem but today SHE needed jeans (which takes hours) and the easy place to shop on a Sunday was gangland (that's what they call the Northway Mall) so even though I don't know Senator Craig foot-tap lingo it became imperative that I visit the public loo which was empty.., whew.--What happened next was important to me at the time, but I'll spare you the details. Almost all of the details. Upon fait accompli, I hiked and adjusted and buckled, then pushed the chrome "victory" lever. A roar unlike any appliance I'd ever heard shook the room. It sounded painful, a low loud gutteral AAACCCKKK!! that slowly changed to a higher pitched scream RREEEKKK!! which must have lasted twenty seconds. I stood open mouthed (bad practice) as the roar faded, then it began to flow again with a ssshhhh sound as if it were scolding itself for making such a ruckus. When done, a moment of shocked silence, then there was a distinct little giggle from the women's side of the paper thin graffiti'd walls. Nonplussed (I was raised in the Candid Camera days, and don't pluss easily), I hustled back to the search for the holy grail (perfect butt covers) which was ongoing with two pair purchased that were close, but not exactly what "we" were looking for.-- Thought #1: Would the mall build noises into their toilets to discourage use, much the way fast food restaurants flash bright colors and lights to hurry customers on their way?-- Thought #2: Did Candid Camera PAY the folks who peed themselves on national TV when Alan Funt in a gorilla suit jumped from the mailbox?-- Thought #3: I ENJOY gangland. The most interesting things and people are happening there. From teen angst to toilets, I've yet to leave without a story. Someday I'll tell you about the day I asked for directions and had four sets of simultaneous but dissimilar answerers drawing and pointing...-- Dear writing critic: Run-on sentences are just another style to play with. Quit beating me up (OW!) with rules.
Posted by Thornyissue at 3:58 PM 2 comments
Labels: bathroom, humor
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Word "Fixes"
What a strange language we've developed. I think a lot of the word "fixes" (pre-fixes and suf-fixes) are confusing and unnecessary. If a word needs fixing, lets come up with a word that stands alone and means the same thing. For example, the verb 'befriend' could drop the "be" fix and hold it's own just fine. What's wrong with one person friending another? But, if you traditionalists insist on keeping befriend, then at least standardize the "be' fix. To be-friend is to bring near, to be-devil is confuse by possession or join into one, and to be-head is to head in a different direction entirely!! I'll be fuddled why fuddle needs any clarification. But I won't 'grudge anyone who'd brate me for 'lieving as I do. Change is difficult, even when it's the right thing, or just 'cause. -------- A little silliness soothes the soul, and nobody reads this crap anyway.
Posted by Thornyissue at 1:43 AM 2 comments
Constantine
An early campaign against the Picts proved Constantine's talent for military strategy. The man charged with designing defenses for one community was confident in the ability of the water currents surrounding their embattlements to thwart any attack from the Romans. Constantine's army waited until the night of an annual Pict celebration, diverted the river, and marched under the walls for a bloodless victory. When the town woke from their stupor, they'd been conquered. You have to wonder what happened that day, to the fellow who'd built the fort. At the very least, he was "demoated".
Posted by Thornyissue at 12:27 AM 0 comments
Labels: puns
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Golf
Golf used to be important to me. I had a library, I had a "home" course, I had carefully chosen and fitted equipment, and a low handicap. Golf is a thinking man's game, but requires some coordination, as well. A perfectionist will die a slow death playing golf, because it's not a game of perfect. Precision and routine are important, as are control of one's emotions and muscles. You can overthink a golf swing, and you can neglect it's development. A golf swing, in certain circles, defines it's owner. Something changed in my life, and golf became such a low priority that my clubs gathered dust and deposits for five years. I miss it. I watch an occasional tournament on TV, but ignore it otherwise.Last week a coworker came pleading. He could find nobody to fill the last spot in a company sponsored scramble tournament at one of the nicer courses in Alaska. He was aware many years and pounds had been gained since I'd been a player, but he really needed that last spot filled from within the company. I told him that if no other possibility presented itself, I'd play. And I played.I went out to the driving range three days ago, and was surprised that my body still remembered a golf swing of sorts. I was less flexible, of course, and hit plenty of bad shots from a mat, but was generally confident that I could make my way around the course, aware that the scramble format would save my arse. In a scramble, your bad shots don't count, and your team mates can cover each other's screwups. It's not really golf, but I'm no longer a real player of the game.Two days ago, I took my life partner out to the rainy practice range and showed off. I hit plenty of drivers, and put a smooth swing on quite a few short shots, even drawing a "Nice Swing!" from a pro giving a lesson down the line. I hit some putts, chipped a little, and decided that I might even contribute a bit when my team attacked the course. She has no knowledge of the game, and therefore was duly impressed. I whined a bit at the muscle aches yesterday, and she smiled that knowing smile she has, half sympathy, and half "You dumbass..."Now here's the way I had it pictured. I would be the "old guy' that every good scramble team requires. I would pull out my magic five wood on every tee and float the ball into a playable position in the short grass. The "studs" could then try to crush the ball 300 yards, trying to win those longest drive prizes, usually providing (among the three of them) a playable ball much closer to the green than my pitiful offering. I would play an approach to the middle of the green, again allowing the guys who play every day to attack the impossible pins and heroically stick one of their three shots close enough for easy birdie putts, allowing me to provide the read or even nail a putt or two. I was confident in my plan. My five wood and my Ping sand wedge felt pretty darn good. My putting touch was iffy, but the direction was great. With four of us hitting approach shots, the need for chipping and a real pitch shot shouldn't come into play. The tournament director knew that I don't play, and would surely place me as a "D" player on one of the better teams. I went to sleep with some real hope of my name on the trophy, maybe a little sandbagger guilt, but nothing I couldn't get over.You probably figured things didn't play out quite like I thought. Yup. Turns out the team already HAD an old guy. A REAL old guy. A sixty four year old who hit his driver about 210 yards right down the middle every time. He had a short game, too. But wait, it gets better. The other two guys were old guys, as well. Not much older than me, but with developed games and developed paunches, and well into their third beers. We all had gray hair, knew our way around a golf course, knew what we wanted from our shots, and more often than not, couldn't quite execute them.Golf clubs have changed in the ten years since I bought mine. My driver is a "mid-sized" from a good manufacturer, but has no resemblance to the huge square boxes swung by every player I saw on the course today. Evidently, size matters. I had hoped to leave mine in the bag, because not having used them, the long irons and driver were a bit daunting. But use them I did. I was the "crusher", the guy we depended on to get the extra distance from the back tees that would allow us easier approach shots. I hit the driver on nearly every hole. About one in three worked out. When they didn't, one of my companions would put a reasonable drive out past the old guy, but we hit a good number of long approach shots that left us with longer putts than we should have had to deal with. Our putting, though, was decent, not great, and we managed to make it through the day without a bogie. My magic five wood never came out of the bag. I flipped one little sand wedge pitch over a ridge in the green, but never used it for a full approach shot. I hit a couple of medium length putts based on the read from our old guy, and we used more of my shots in the first nine holes than I thought possible. Then the other players took over and we started to score. We birdied five of the last nine holes and still didn't win, but finished respectably. As my team mates warmed up, though, my game fell apart. On the fifteenth, what should have been expected, happened. The muscles I hadn't used in years, but had abused for the last hours, locked up. I had been swinging hard, too hard, asking too much from a brittle frame and unlimber joints. I knew on my backswing that the shot was doomed. Of course a crowd was gathered and there was no shortage of hecklers when I topped the shot and it dribbled past the ladies tee (thank God) and sputtered just short of the sign announcing the shortest drive of the day. I hurriedly scribbled my name and skulked up to where my partners had placed a perfect middle length drive. I couldn't get loosened up and didn't hit another good shot all day, but my partners picked up the slack and seemed to understand.Lessons learned: What you learn in life can stay with you, but what you don't use, you'll begin to lose. Muscle memory fades like other memories, and muscle power fades with brain power. Best laid plans often aren't. I still love golf. There is no feeling like a crisp golf shot. Once you've felt, seen, and heard it, you're hooked, whether you pursue it actively, or only once every five years. And now my dilemma: My prize for the shortest drive of the day? A new King Cobra driver with a huge head worth $350, exchangable at the pro shop for anything of equal value. I could get some nice apparel or an umbrella, rain gear that would work for the motorcycle.... Or, as soon as this soreness wears off, I could take this monster out to the range and see what it's capable of. Hmmm.
Posted by Thornyissue at 9:34 PM 1 comments
Labels: golf
Snow?
Aw, fer cryin' out loud! The peaks had snow this morning. The pass we drove over last week is snowed in, and the river valley here was dense fog. I know. It's Alaska, What did I expect? Not snow late in July. But the sun DID come out today. Now I know why the natives worshipped it. Now I know why so many elderly sit in front of the weather station all day. Now I know why Alaskans (in general) have more important summer things to do than lawn care or golf.
Posted by Thornyissue at 9:18 PM 0 comments
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Landmark Spot
There is a featureless road in New Mexico that leads to the old gas plant where I used to work. A big dog, sadly abandoned or lost, wandered onto the highway and died. For whatever reason, neither high speed commuters nor coyotes bothered to remove the furry pile from the road, but it melted instead, from a furry lump into a black and white pancake, and finally a greasy darkness on the pavement. People began to refer to locations on the road in reference to where the dog had died. "I saw a big rattler on the road about three miles this side of Spot!" I'm sure people still use that reference, and I'm sure many have no knowledge of the sacrifice made to create it. And I'm sure one day a paramedic will be toned out to an accident with directions to a location nearby, and wonder "What the hell?"
Posted by Thornyissue at 6:06 AM 2 comments
Thornyissue
A little joy on the journey.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
An Alaskan Solution
The cheechako (newcomer) gal from outside (lower 48) couldn't stand it when their old horse coughed and leaned against the cabin. She let him in. Her partner came home from his stint on the slope and found a bloated, stinking 1200 pound carcass near the wood stove. He packed their bags, turned off the heat, went to Hawaii for a few days, returned and fired up the chain saw...
Posted by Thornyissue at 5:29 AM 0 comments
Labels: Alaska, humor
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Hatcher Pass
We had to drive a bit, but we found some sunshine. We drove up to Eklutna Lake, and it was glorious. Toward Anchorage the clouds were't burning off, so we headed north, and soaked in the rays as we crossed the rocky road across Hatcher Pass. Crags, flowers, wildlife, tumbling streams, crystal lakes, tundra hummocks, beaver ponds replete with beaver, and sun... glorious sun. You see, we've been two weeks with barely a glimpse of Sol. Sure it's still light well into the night, but the with the clouds never burning off, it's been a gloomy light. Winter here is long enough, without burning the wood stove all summer, too. Barely 60 deg, it hasn't felt like summer, even an Alaska summer. The paper said we should all chill out (ha), that the temps haven't been that much below average, but the fact they wrote the article speaks to the fact folks are grumbly. SO, our day trip was special. Of course, most of them are, here.
Posted by Thornyissue at 8:22 PM 0 comments
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Woodpecker Ghost
The lens is adjusted, the camera placed next to the door. The bird/cat feeder is baited. The redpolls are scrappily feeding, the chickadees and nuthatches fill the trees. Daily, we get a visit from the Downey woodpeckers. The female and the little ones are wary, but not nearly as shy as the big male with his red fez. I'll get you, my pretty.... aahhahahaha!
Posted by Thornyissue at 5:31 PM 0 comments
Outhouse Races
We went to the Bear Paw festival yesterday. The carnival was fun. (We stood outside the vomit zone.) The street performers were talented. (mostly) The gardens that weren't beaten down were gorgeous. The fire dept ladder truck sprinkled the street with few shower takers. (60deg) The food vendors were out of food (mostly) and the grease smelled well used. The motorcyle show left melted rubber all over the road, and the pumpkin carriage horse is ready for a new gig. The cutest kid turned into a monster when they took her off the pony ride, and the melodrama was too cheesy for even a melodrama. (tough to do) Worst of all, we were late for the outhouse races. S**t! Obviously, we missed the festival at it's energy high, but it was fascinating to watch it wind down, all the tired smiles and smeared facepaint, dragging feet and heartburn. Next time, we'll go watch as the parade lines up, the tents are erected, the funnel cakes are doughy, and the fire truck is being polished. Then we'll go home to avoid the bulk of the crowd and probably miss the outhouse races again. S**t!
Posted by Thornyissue at 3:23 PM 0 comments
Zits to be proud of.
A pompous coworker on his skills vs another; "He's not a pimple on my ass!"I couldn't help but remember a couple of really impressive zits on my sitting place....
Posted by Thornyissue at 3:17 PM 0 comments
Motorcycling
I ride the Queen of England. She's a Triumph Trophy, and I love her. She's not loud enough, fast enough, or slinky enough to associate with the Power Rangers. She's not loud enough, chromed enough, or accessorized enough to hang with a gang. She's a little top heavy, and a little outdated. She's got some size, and some power, and plenty of character. She's paid for. She's comfortable. She's dependable. And she's unique. For four months of the year we are inseparable, the Queen and I. The Queen satisfies my need for speed and provides the best platform I've found to enjoy the most incredible country yet seen from a road. I've never been much of a formation rider, so she suits my style. They say she'll do 140mph, but I'll never know. Once in a while we'll touch a peg, but mostly we commute or putter every side road, stopping for pictures or gathering stories. When we find ourselves in the company of other riders, the Queen always seems welcome, often drawing wistful tales of the old Triumph the geezer should never have sold. When we're alone, she seems to settle in for a long ride just above the speed limit, and has enough kid left in her to really enjoy the twisties, just like me.
Posted by Thornyissue at 1:59 PM 0 comments
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Sunspots
We made fun of the comm tech when he blamed sunspots for intermittent radio failures. Sunspot became the euphemism for any problem you couldn't explain logically or fix. Then, sure enough, NOAA came out with a sunspot monitoring system to predict satellite problems. Damn. Another perfectly good paradigm blasted. Happens all the time. Truth as we know it gets a twist. It's best to foster a bit of doubt for even the truths you hold most dear are subject to change, and it's less painful if you are open to the possibility. My dogs believe in sunspots of a different sort. They travel the sun's path across the carpet to soak up the heat. The rat terrier prefers not to share, but doesn't consume enough area to keep the big dog out. He is polite, but just as fond of the sun. The furnace and the fireplace rate, but when the sunspot is available it's prime real estate. I've told them about global warming, insisting that the science is solid, and suggesting they find ways be careful and to conserve, but I suspect neither has much confidence in their ability to make much difference, preferring to deal with the effects as they occur and celebrating the possible benefits.
Posted by Thornyissue at 7:03 PM 0 comments