- 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."
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Friday Foodie Forum
- 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.
- 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.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Golf Conundrum
- 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.
- 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.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Sleepless Rambling
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Grandma, What a Big Thirst You Have!
- Sisters in Southeast Alaska, getting into mischief. One of those towns where nearly everyone has a name ending in 'sen', Peterssen, Andersen, Gundersen... descendants of the Nordic pipeline. A village that has an interest in everyone's personal business, tolerates their quirks, helps out when they can. Sibling girls, condemned by their mother to daily visits to the home of the town alcoholic, Mary Bersvendsen. "That's what neighbors do", she tells them.
- So, every day, after school in the usual rain, they slog to Mary's house, check her health and do small errands. They know Mary's story, how she couldn't have children, how she lost her husband in a fishing accident, how she cried non-stop until she started drinking, and how she became one of those drunks that puts the second six-pack in the freezer to cool while she drinks the first, and never freezes a can.
- The girls understood that Mary couldn't cope, but wondered why THEY were assigned to do the coping for her. Every day they cleaned a different kind of mess, fluffed her pillows, threw out the empties. But God knew THEY (the girls) weren't getting anything from the experience (much less getting paid), except for poor old Mary telling them how sweet they were for stopping in, and then sending them on their way as if she had invited them and suddenly had something she needed to do or live for.
- Years went by and Mary deteriorated. The town kept her house livable and spoke in whisper-tsks whenever the Bersvendsen name was mentioned. The girls reached the age where hormones and boredom cloud decisions, and they concocted a way Mary might do them a return favor. The boys their age were obsessed with MAN things, like boats, and chainsaws, and ...beer. Not that they had actual access to many of those things, but the girl who could offer a taste would be popular indeed.
- The girls knew that Mary seldom took nutrition except from a can, and that her kitchen had long since been relegated to storage. They also knew how she kept a tab with the Bottle Stop liquor store and the town cabbie, who delivered a new supply every few days. Occasionally though, she had some other random need, and one of the Olsen clan would bring their car and take Mary the three blocks to the town store, where people would fuss over her, ask about her health, wish her well, and shake their heads after she'd left.
- The timing was never right for several weeks while the girls perfected their scheme, but on a dismal morning just two weeks before school was out, the Olsen Ford crackled off the gravel driveway with Mary preening her reflection in the window, and the girls launched the plan they'd concocted. The youngest put on one of Mary's nightgowns, donned one of Mary's knitted night caps and jumped into the smelly rumpled old bed. The elder partner in crime spun the dial on the phone and handed the receiver beneath the covers to her sister. What came out of the girl's mouth was a gravelly mix of Julia Child and Little Richard.
- "Hello Mr. Anderssen? Could you pick me up some beer, Honey?", much the same way they'd heard Mary ask many times before. But Andy threw them a curve, "Sure, Mary, but I'll be a few minutes. I've got a real fare. That guy from the Fishing Commission and you know he won't want to go out of HIS way. Are you okay? You don't sound so good."
- "Sure, Sure. Um, I just ate a red hot", she croaked.
- Silence. Then, "So okay, Mary. See you in a little while. Bye." Dial tone.
- The older girl ripped the phone out of her sister's hands. "What the heck was that?", she yelled.
- "What!?"
- "That was the worst imitation of Mary ever!", even though she'd never heard an imitation of Mary.
- "You can do better? It's not like we practiced or anything!", even though she had practiced all week.
- "And what was that "Mr. Anderssen crap? Mary would never call him Mister!", though actually Mary was from a different generation, who often addressed people more formally.
- "It sounded less pretend than 'Hey Mac', which is prob'ly what YOU'd have said. Which, by the way, why DIDN'T you say it?" though actually she had been thrilled with the prospect of acting as Mary.
- "RED HOTS? RED HOTS?? Where did THAT come from?", even though she knew they had shared a tiny box of cinnamon drops that morning.
- "I COULDN'T THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE!!", she screamed. And that was true.
- The argument stopped when the crackly road announced the arrival of a car, and the girls looked out. It was Andy, the cabby, with the state official in the front seat, tippling a brown paper wrapped bottle, then handing it back to Andy for a swig. Evidently, the liquor store had not been out of the way after all. The girls dove back into their roles, the eldest pretending to wash the dishes she'd dirtied for appearances, and the younger pulling the stained quilt over her head. And then, with Andy balancing a case of beer waiter-like on his hand as he came up the walk, the girls tensed at the sound of another car pulling onto the road. It had to be, and was, the Olsens with Mary in tow. Andy waved with his free hand, thinking nothing of seeing the woman who had, just minutes before, called from her red hot sick bed.
- The girls panicked. The twice clean dishes clanked into the sink, the gown flew generally toward the closet, and two flying forms, one in a pink nightcap, flew down the rear walk where Mary, having noticed the cab blocking the front drive had asked to be driven around back, where she opened the gate just as two forms blurred past.
- "Hello dears!" she said to girls running at her.
- "I've got it! Just got one bag today." she offered to the girls zinging past.
- "You go on now. See you next time!", she finished when the girls were already well down the street.
- Then Mary went into her house, opened one beer from the case on the end table, put a six pack in the freezer, and settled into a strangely warm but comforting bed, daydreaming about how nice it was to live in a place where neighbors cared enough to take her shopping, deliver sustenance, and send their wonderful children to check up on her.
- Andy fluttered his fingertips at the girls on his way to the airport. "D.U.I.", the eldest mouthed while beaming her friendliest smile back at him.
- So, every day, after school in the usual rain, they slog to Mary's house, check her health and do small errands. They know Mary's story, how she couldn't have children, how she lost her husband in a fishing accident, how she cried non-stop until she started drinking, and how she became one of those drunks that puts the second six-pack in the freezer to cool while she drinks the first, and never freezes a can.
- The girls understood that Mary couldn't cope, but wondered why THEY were assigned to do the coping for her. Every day they cleaned a different kind of mess, fluffed her pillows, threw out the empties. But God knew THEY (the girls) weren't getting anything from the experience (much less getting paid), except for poor old Mary telling them how sweet they were for stopping in, and then sending them on their way as if she had invited them and suddenly had something she needed to do or live for.
- Years went by and Mary deteriorated. The town kept her house livable and spoke in whisper-tsks whenever the Bersvendsen name was mentioned. The girls reached the age where hormones and boredom cloud decisions, and they concocted a way Mary might do them a return favor. The boys their age were obsessed with MAN things, like boats, and chainsaws, and ...beer. Not that they had actual access to many of those things, but the girl who could offer a taste would be popular indeed.
- The girls knew that Mary seldom took nutrition except from a can, and that her kitchen had long since been relegated to storage. They also knew how she kept a tab with the Bottle Stop liquor store and the town cabbie, who delivered a new supply every few days. Occasionally though, she had some other random need, and one of the Olsen clan would bring their car and take Mary the three blocks to the town store, where people would fuss over her, ask about her health, wish her well, and shake their heads after she'd left.
- The timing was never right for several weeks while the girls perfected their scheme, but on a dismal morning just two weeks before school was out, the Olsen Ford crackled off the gravel driveway with Mary preening her reflection in the window, and the girls launched the plan they'd concocted. The youngest put on one of Mary's nightgowns, donned one of Mary's knitted night caps and jumped into the smelly rumpled old bed. The elder partner in crime spun the dial on the phone and handed the receiver beneath the covers to her sister. What came out of the girl's mouth was a gravelly mix of Julia Child and Little Richard.
- "Hello Mr. Anderssen? Could you pick me up some beer, Honey?", much the same way they'd heard Mary ask many times before. But Andy threw them a curve, "Sure, Mary, but I'll be a few minutes. I've got a real fare. That guy from the Fishing Commission and you know he won't want to go out of HIS way. Are you okay? You don't sound so good."
- "Sure, Sure. Um, I just ate a red hot", she croaked.
- Silence. Then, "So okay, Mary. See you in a little while. Bye." Dial tone.
- The older girl ripped the phone out of her sister's hands. "What the heck was that?", she yelled.
- "What!?"
- "That was the worst imitation of Mary ever!", even though she'd never heard an imitation of Mary.
- "You can do better? It's not like we practiced or anything!", even though she had practiced all week.
- "And what was that "Mr. Anderssen crap? Mary would never call him Mister!", though actually Mary was from a different generation, who often addressed people more formally.
- "It sounded less pretend than 'Hey Mac', which is prob'ly what YOU'd have said. Which, by the way, why DIDN'T you say it?" though actually she had been thrilled with the prospect of acting as Mary.
- "RED HOTS? RED HOTS?? Where did THAT come from?", even though she knew they had shared a tiny box of cinnamon drops that morning.
- "I COULDN'T THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE!!", she screamed. And that was true.
- The argument stopped when the crackly road announced the arrival of a car, and the girls looked out. It was Andy, the cabby, with the state official in the front seat, tippling a brown paper wrapped bottle, then handing it back to Andy for a swig. Evidently, the liquor store had not been out of the way after all. The girls dove back into their roles, the eldest pretending to wash the dishes she'd dirtied for appearances, and the younger pulling the stained quilt over her head. And then, with Andy balancing a case of beer waiter-like on his hand as he came up the walk, the girls tensed at the sound of another car pulling onto the road. It had to be, and was, the Olsens with Mary in tow. Andy waved with his free hand, thinking nothing of seeing the woman who had, just minutes before, called from her red hot sick bed.
- The girls panicked. The twice clean dishes clanked into the sink, the gown flew generally toward the closet, and two flying forms, one in a pink nightcap, flew down the rear walk where Mary, having noticed the cab blocking the front drive had asked to be driven around back, where she opened the gate just as two forms blurred past.
- "Hello dears!" she said to girls running at her.
- "I've got it! Just got one bag today." she offered to the girls zinging past.
- "You go on now. See you next time!", she finished when the girls were already well down the street.
- Then Mary went into her house, opened one beer from the case on the end table, put a six pack in the freezer, and settled into a strangely warm but comforting bed, daydreaming about how nice it was to live in a place where neighbors cared enough to take her shopping, deliver sustenance, and send their wonderful children to check up on her.
- Andy fluttered his fingertips at the girls on his way to the airport. "D.U.I.", the eldest mouthed while beaming her friendliest smile back at him.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Low-Word
- 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!"
- 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!"
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Fireworks - A Requiem
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.
- 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.
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