Ever since I can remember there was music in my home. We had a piano in the living room where our family would gather to sing while my father or sister played. We also had a record player with recordings of classical, show tunes, and pop music. Dad taught us harmony at an early age. When I went off to kindergarten there was a weekly music workshop (we played xylophones, learned elementary keyboard concepts, participated in sing-alongs and toyed joyfully with all manner of noisemakers - wood blocks, triangles, and that most magical of all musical trinkets, the kazoo. I've been afflicted with the music bug ever since. As a matter of fact, music has become a focal point of my existence, offering solace in times of turmoil, release in times of tension and a grounding sense of self in times when I've desperately needed an anchor. It has sustained me like nothing else, and though it's been many years since those xylophone-clinking days in kindergarten, I can't imagine how my life might have been without this early exposure to the magic of melody, harmony and rhythm.
Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be tone deaf! Your children will thank you for giving them the chance to explore their musicality. And the main reason is...well, it's fun! Few joys in life can compare to the thrill of creating music and the satisfaction of performing it for that most important of all audiences - oneself.
I still remember the first time I played as part of an ensemble - the chills that ascended my spine in response to the awesome power of many instruments playing in unison. It totaled something far greater than its components. The experience resonates with me today as much as it did then. It gave me a sense of something greater than myself and instilled a respect for the power of music which I carry with me to this day.
Music constitutes a source of understanding in a world of discord and mistrust, transcending all barriers imposed by the diversity of backgrounds, religions and languages. If music can take us beyond our personal cares and concerns, maybe it can also transcend the political turmoil that separates human beings.
Lofty ideals aside, there's also a body of scientific evidence that children exposed to music at an early age reap many rewards in later life. There is a strong correlation between the study of music and the development of skills needed to become successful in life: self-discipline, patience, coordination, memorization and concentration.
Even if your child doesn't show signs of musical talent, exposure to music can affect improvements in intellectual functioning that will help him or her excel in academic pursuits. Studies support the notion that exposure to or involvement in musical activities can improve student achievement in reading, writing, math and science. High school students who participate in arts education courses get better grades and score higher on SATs than those who don't. What better investment can you make in your child's future?
It's been established that learning a foreign language is easier for children than adults. In this context, music may be considered a language and the same principle of aptitude applies. It's also been shown that all children possess innate musical ability; some two-month-old infants can match the pitch, melody and dynamic nuances of songs their parents sing, and at four months, some infants can mimic rhythmic patterns as well.
Learning begins at home. Our government downplays the importance of a musical education. In response to budget limitations in public schools, arts programs are typically among the first "frills" to be axed. But even without access to proper instruction, there is still value in basic musical experimentation. If parents can't afford lessons, they should at least buy an inexpensive keyboard, or sing regularly with their kids and involve them in musical activities.
The best reason to involve your kids in music is obvious. Few avocations can provide such fulfillment over an entire lifetime than the personal expression that's afforded by making music. And as one's appreciation for the arts is enhanced, so is the richness of one's life.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Myakka River
I confess to being an adrenaline junkie. I try to be good but had a serious relapse during our stay in Florida last winter. Canoeing the Myakka river turned out to be the thrill of a lifetime.
The boat launch on the river was busy so we decided to find a different spot to put in. Since we wanted to avoid other canoeists we drove a couple miles downriver then dragged the canoe down an embankment. We had the river to ourselves here and it wasn't long before we floated into an area rife with alligators. Some were skittish, some were bold, most were huge and intimidating.
The Myakka River State Park brochure warns canoists to stay away from the banks when coming around bends in the river. Alligators basking on the shore may attack in self-defense if you surprise them. And they've been known to attack small boats, particularly canoes. It's believed that alligators looking up from underwater may see a canoe and think it's another alligator. So they may attack the boat as a territorial defense.
The Myakka doesn't have much current so we drifted lazily while I photographed gators sunning on the banks. At one point while rounding a bend our canoe drifted within 10 feet of a giant basking pair. We were concerned about the proximity and didn't want to alarm them with any sudden paddling movements. So I did what any adrenaline addicted photographer would do; switched the camera to "video" and recorded this close encounter. Because of the potential danger, my hands were shaking and I couldn't hold the camera still. Nonetheless, I uploaded one of the clips to show the encounter.
See it here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tedQCdWyuog
An alligator that is surprised or alarmed by your approach may think that it's in danger. They become aggressive when they feel threatened. And those that don't show fear of humans are the ones you really have to watch out for since they are the most likely to attack. They can produce short bursts of speed on land that can take you by surprise if you're too close. And we were.
Larger alligators can be the greatest threats because they're big enough to size you up as a potential meal. A full-grown alligator that is between 8 and 11 feet can weigh up to 1,000 pounds. But even though these behemoths can be threats to humans, they're still wary of us. They'd prefer to avoid interactions with people altogether.
They may attack because they're hungry, but that's not the usual reason. The main reason an alligator attacks a human is to protect its territory. An adult male is especially territorial during mating season. And a female with her young may attack if she feels there's a threat to her offspring.
There were 13 fatal alligator attacks in Florida between 2001 and 2007 as well as 88 serious injuries. (Wikipedia)
Chris was a real trooper during this episode and may even have enjoyed the thrill as much as I did. Well, maybe not.
We came home drained but happy. Dang, what an adventure!
The boat launch on the river was busy so we decided to find a different spot to put in. Since we wanted to avoid other canoeists we drove a couple miles downriver then dragged the canoe down an embankment. We had the river to ourselves here and it wasn't long before we floated into an area rife with alligators. Some were skittish, some were bold, most were huge and intimidating.
The Myakka River State Park brochure warns canoists to stay away from the banks when coming around bends in the river. Alligators basking on the shore may attack in self-defense if you surprise them. And they've been known to attack small boats, particularly canoes. It's believed that alligators looking up from underwater may see a canoe and think it's another alligator. So they may attack the boat as a territorial defense.
The Myakka doesn't have much current so we drifted lazily while I photographed gators sunning on the banks. At one point while rounding a bend our canoe drifted within 10 feet of a giant basking pair. We were concerned about the proximity and didn't want to alarm them with any sudden paddling movements. So I did what any adrenaline addicted photographer would do; switched the camera to "video" and recorded this close encounter. Because of the potential danger, my hands were shaking and I couldn't hold the camera still. Nonetheless, I uploaded one of the clips to show the encounter.
See it here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tedQCdWyuog
An alligator that is surprised or alarmed by your approach may think that it's in danger. They become aggressive when they feel threatened. And those that don't show fear of humans are the ones you really have to watch out for since they are the most likely to attack. They can produce short bursts of speed on land that can take you by surprise if you're too close. And we were.
Larger alligators can be the greatest threats because they're big enough to size you up as a potential meal. A full-grown alligator that is between 8 and 11 feet can weigh up to 1,000 pounds. But even though these behemoths can be threats to humans, they're still wary of us. They'd prefer to avoid interactions with people altogether.
They may attack because they're hungry, but that's not the usual reason. The main reason an alligator attacks a human is to protect its territory. An adult male is especially territorial during mating season. And a female with her young may attack if she feels there's a threat to her offspring.
There were 13 fatal alligator attacks in Florida between 2001 and 2007 as well as 88 serious injuries. (Wikipedia)
Chris was a real trooper during this episode and may even have enjoyed the thrill as much as I did. Well, maybe not.
We came home drained but happy. Dang, what an adventure!
Monday, August 18, 2014
Shooting Steel
IHMSA stands for International Handgun Metallic Silhouette Association. We shoot steel targets at long distances with handguns. In this game you're allowed one shot on each target and you must knock it off its pedestal to score the point. If you merely ring the target or turn it you get no point, it must fall. The biggest targets (Rams) weigh 55 pounds so it takes a wallop of terminal energy to topple them. And that means the shooter must contend with rather harsh recoil. Training oneself to ignore the recoil is unnatural and that's one of the reasons a perfect score is so difficult to achieve. But it sure is fun!
Shooters are allowed to have a spotter with them who watches where the shots land and advises the shooter on corrections to make. Chris spots for me and I for her.
In the big bore event, targets are set at 50 meters (or yards, depending on the range), 100M, 150M, and 200M. The chickens are at 50, pigs at 100, turkeys at 150 and rams at 200 meters. There are ten targets (silhouettes) of each animal for a total of forty.
At the fire command you have two minutes to shoot the first five targets. Then there's a 30 second break before stage 2 where you shoot the second bank of five targets. You shoot from left to right, one shot per target. Before you move to the next group of "animals" you must adjust your sights to account for bullet drop at the increased distance.
I started shooting silhouette in 1995 and my first score was a dismal 8X40 while shooting from a prone position, placing me in C class. That was demoralizing! I've long since changed my free-style position to one called Creedmore where you lie on your back with your knees locked together, feet spread, and the gun rested along the side of your leg. The gun must not touch the ground or have any artificial support.
Over the years I've advanced from C to B to A to AA and about five years ago I broke into AAA class. To be in AAA class you have to hit at least a 37X40 twice within a season. I've managed to hit a few 39s in the last few years but the perfect 40 had eluded me until this past Sunday in Alma, Michigan.
On the chickens my trigger was breaking well with nothing scary or too close to the edge. On pigs I did have one shot go wild, the bullet hit a pig along the back-line and bounced into the berm about 3 feet back but the target fell. All the other shots were solid hits.
On to the turkeys. These are the hardest to hit! And this is where I start to get nervous and usually screw things up! My wiggle was larger than the target so I shifted my brain into autopilot, holding light trigger pressure until the gun went off, seemingly on its own. One shot broke with the crosshairs 2 inches over the back but the hit was on target. I think my subconscious moved the gun while the bullet was still traveling down the bore to correct the shot. We got through the turkeys clean. Whew! A fellow shooter asked how I was doing. I told him this was the first time I was ever clean through the turkeys. Wow, if ever there was a statement that could jinx me, that would be it.
We moved to the 200 meter rams. 'Slow, steady, breathe, make every shot count, take your time, wait for it to happen, you can do this.' Each target in the first bank fell one at a time with solid hits. Not all were near the center but each had at least a couple of inches of meat around them. This is the point in an entry when things get very intense and I'm most likely to screw up. My heart rate went up and I started to shake. I settled in for the second bank of rams. The first 3 animals fell with seemingly little effort. There was a lot of deliberate breathing and self-assurance. When #3 went down I did that terrible thing where I remembered I was about to beat my best score ever. 'Not now! Concentrate, you can do this.' The crosshairs came up on #4, wiggled around a bit then BANG and down goes #4. Chris calmly said, "Last one, Bud, plenty of time, make it count." The crosshairs wandered around the ram and BANG, the gun went off. I had my doubts until I saw the target change from black to gray as it started to fall backward. Whoo-hoo! Got it! Now all I had to do was keep breathing long enough to set the gun down. Chris was already jumping up and down by the time I put the gun in the cradle. I stood and gave her a huge "Thank you!" hug. She did an awesome job keeping me straight, focused, and calm (enough). Wow, did that just really happen?
Maybe my planets were correctly aligned and the gods were smiling on me. But...in order to get an international rating I'll have to shoot ANOTHER 40 within a year so I have until this time next year to qualify for international class. The pressure's on!
Up until now my biggest shooting accomplishment was taking second place in a five state district championship. I got a nice trophy for that. See picture.
Sometimes the bear eats you, sometimes you eat the bear.
To be honest...I think I just got lucky.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Cha!
We were babysitting our grandson, Ian, on a rainy day. Since we were stuck indoors, we spent the day playing on his bedroom floor. While building a castle with blocks we heard a sharp crack of thunder overhead. Ian looked up with concern on his face and said, "Cha!"
I said, "That's thunder! You'll sometimes hear it when it's raining." He nodded his head and placed another block on the castle. A few minutes later there was another rumble. He pointed up and again said, "Cha!" You see, he was just learning to talk and sometimes had a hard time expressing himself with words.
I told him the noise is called thunder and added that it's created by lightning in the sky. The lightning is caused by an electric discharge between water drops in the clouds. The electrical buildup on each drop is very small but the huge number of water drops creates a large electrical difference between different portions of the cloud. Then a reaction happens to balance the electrical build-up, either within the cloud or between the cloud and the ground. When lightning moves through the air it increases the temperature of the air. The air then cools rapidly. This rapid expansion and contraction of the air gives off the sound wave that we hear as thunder. Think of a balloon popping. There is a sudden release of noise due to the rapid expansion of air.
He gave me a dismissive look as though I was crazy and placed another block on the castle. Chris rolled her eyes at my explanation before adding another block to the structure.
When the third rumble of thunder came. Ian looked squarely at me and with determined emphasis declared, "Cha!" Chris and I shrugged as we put the last block on top of our castle. Ian summarily knocked the whole thing down and said, "Again!"
Driving home that night we saw a bright streak of lightning in the sky up ahead. We glanced at each other and with resignation said, "Cha!"
I said, "That's thunder! You'll sometimes hear it when it's raining." He nodded his head and placed another block on the castle. A few minutes later there was another rumble. He pointed up and again said, "Cha!" You see, he was just learning to talk and sometimes had a hard time expressing himself with words.
I told him the noise is called thunder and added that it's created by lightning in the sky. The lightning is caused by an electric discharge between water drops in the clouds. The electrical buildup on each drop is very small but the huge number of water drops creates a large electrical difference between different portions of the cloud. Then a reaction happens to balance the electrical build-up, either within the cloud or between the cloud and the ground. When lightning moves through the air it increases the temperature of the air. The air then cools rapidly. This rapid expansion and contraction of the air gives off the sound wave that we hear as thunder. Think of a balloon popping. There is a sudden release of noise due to the rapid expansion of air.
He gave me a dismissive look as though I was crazy and placed another block on the castle. Chris rolled her eyes at my explanation before adding another block to the structure.
When the third rumble of thunder came. Ian looked squarely at me and with determined emphasis declared, "Cha!" Chris and I shrugged as we put the last block on top of our castle. Ian summarily knocked the whole thing down and said, "Again!"
Driving home that night we saw a bright streak of lightning in the sky up ahead. We glanced at each other and with resignation said, "Cha!"
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Poked a Hole
It happened so quickly that I'm not really sure what went wrong. My radio controlled plane went squirrely all of a sudden while over my neighbor's house. I try not to fly over peoples houses but there I was. When the plane disappeared behind their barn I heard a loud THUNK and knew that couldn't be good. My heart sank when I found my Mini Funtana embedded in the side of their house like an arrow.
In panic, I dragged an extension ladder from their barn, climbed onto the first-level roof and clamored up to pull the remains out of their second-level siding. I peered into the hole and saw furniture. My god, I had penetrated their house.
They heard the clatter up there and stuck their heads out the door to see if it was Santa Claus. "No, it's me! I can explain!"
You see, the sheathing under their vinyl siding is foam board and the drywall in their upstairs bedroom had been cut away because of a project he was working on.
Lucky for me, my neighbors are good-natured folks and took this quite well. In utter mortification, I spent a couple hours patching things up, then promised to re-side that area in the spring.
The humiliation nearly killed me. I'll never fly over someones house again and it's unlikely I'll ever live this down.
We brought brownies over the next night as a token of my contrition and they kept saying "It's no big deal". Well, it was a big deal to me so I grounded myself for a few days until I could figure out what had happened.
After playing it over in my mind, I decided it was plain old pilot error. I was using a 300 watt motor on a pound and a half plane flying full throttle with the control surfaces maxed out. That's a two-to-one power to weight ratio and yes, I was hot-dogging when things went funny. I instinctively pulled up to get away from the house. But the thing is, the plane was inverted at that moment so up meant down and you know the rest.
They are great neighbors. My acreage is wooded but theirs is open so in the summer they let me mow a landing strip in their big field. They say they enjoy watching me fly from their back windows or porch. Sometimes in winter I shovel a landing strip on my frozen pond but they complained they can't see the planes from there. I'll bet they're rethinking that now.
In panic, I dragged an extension ladder from their barn, climbed onto the first-level roof and clamored up to pull the remains out of their second-level siding. I peered into the hole and saw furniture. My god, I had penetrated their house.
They heard the clatter up there and stuck their heads out the door to see if it was Santa Claus. "No, it's me! I can explain!"
You see, the sheathing under their vinyl siding is foam board and the drywall in their upstairs bedroom had been cut away because of a project he was working on.
Lucky for me, my neighbors are good-natured folks and took this quite well. In utter mortification, I spent a couple hours patching things up, then promised to re-side that area in the spring.
The humiliation nearly killed me. I'll never fly over someones house again and it's unlikely I'll ever live this down.
We brought brownies over the next night as a token of my contrition and they kept saying "It's no big deal". Well, it was a big deal to me so I grounded myself for a few days until I could figure out what had happened.
After playing it over in my mind, I decided it was plain old pilot error. I was using a 300 watt motor on a pound and a half plane flying full throttle with the control surfaces maxed out. That's a two-to-one power to weight ratio and yes, I was hot-dogging when things went funny. I instinctively pulled up to get away from the house. But the thing is, the plane was inverted at that moment so up meant down and you know the rest.
They are great neighbors. My acreage is wooded but theirs is open so in the summer they let me mow a landing strip in their big field. They say they enjoy watching me fly from their back windows or porch. Sometimes in winter I shovel a landing strip on my frozen pond but they complained they can't see the planes from there. I'll bet they're rethinking that now.
Monday, July 28, 2014
About the Cat
We spent two months in Florida last winter at a nice cottage in the woods outside of Arcadia. When we arrived the owners showed us around to make certain we were comfortable with our new accommodations.
Before they left, they said we may see a stray cat who'd been hanging around the property lately.
The next day our little friend showed up and she followed us around as we explored the grounds.
She's obviously fending for herself because she eats everything she catches. House cats hunt for sport, this one hunts for food. And she spends all of her time here. You'd think if she had a home nearby she would spend at least some of her time there.
Also, part of her ear is missing so we assume she's had a scuffle with a foe at some point. But she's no feral. This is a domesticated cat who has had to learn the hard ways of the wild. And I don't know what to do about it.
When we go outside she's waiting on the door step. If we've been gone all day she shows up within minutes of our return. And we don't feed her so that's not why she sticks around. She must enjoy our company and we are flattered by it. Quite frankly she's very likable. She's loyal to us and seems genuinely interested in everything we have to say.
One night I took the binoculars out to stargaze and she was there in the dark. My neck got sore from looking up so I laid back in the grass to glass the sky. She gently crept onto my belly, curled up and began to purr. This intimacy broke my heart since I had so little to give in return. Sure, I stroked her with reassurance and maybe that's all she wanted.
I didn't want to disrupt her contentment so I stayed there much longer than intended. But eventually I had to go in and felt like a cad for leaving her alone in the dark. I know she was disappointed.
She's scrawny and should be fed but if you feed a cat, you own a cat and we're just not ready for that.
She was waiting on our doorstep again this morning. I don't know what to do.
We went to meet our neighbors on the other side of the jungle today and asked if they wanted a cat. No, they have three cats, three dogs, a herd of goats, many chickens, etc. I guess that would explain why our girl doesn't hang around over there.
The neighbor asked if it had the tip of it's ear cut off. Yes! "Oh, it must be a stray from the TNR program". More specifically; trap, neuter, vaccinate, eartip, and return feral cats. It's a local organization that does just that.
The neighbor said it's probably not a good idea to feed it because its survival depends on its hunting skills.
I find it hard to believe that a feral cat could be so friendly. A friendly feral? More likely an over-zealous TNR new-hire.
Once home, Chris and I built a fire under the starry sky and enjoyed a concert of crickets and tree frogs. Kitty curled up in Chris' lap for a peaceful slumber. She'd make a wonderful pet.
Her diet consists mainly of frogs, lizards, and insects. I saw her eat an entire bullfrog over the course of two days. A house-cat wouldn't do that. Ironically, she seems happy and well adjusted for one who is leading such a tough life.
I've been terribly conflicted about what to do about this. We really can't bring her home with us to Michigan. Cats don't travel well and besides, as much as we love this one, we don't want that responsibility right now. We don't even have houseplants, for god's sake. Maybe if we weren't able to travel it would be different. And yes, we'd love a cat just like this someday, but not now.
I fed her table scraps yesterday and she ate voraciously. Poor thing.
This morning I went out to sit with her as usual but she wasn't there. After a brief search, we packed up for a canoe trip. When we got back tonight she still wasn't there so I went out to call for her every half hour or so. The anxiety and guilt was killing me.
We'll go to town for groceries tomorrow. I'll get cat food just in case she does come back.
Kitty is back after a two day absence! Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been!?
I felt a mixture of emotions upon seeing her - both elation and disappointment. Elated that she was safe but disappointed that she hadn't found a new life and secure family. So I'm back to my quandary.
I fed her half cup of dry cat food and she ate like a pirate.
Our neighbor suggested we put an ad in the local paper so we did:
Extremely affectionate young female cat. Short hair, white/tan. Neutered. Great disposition! Free to good home.
We have good/bad news about Kitty. We got a call today. And a very nice young couple came by tonight to meet her. They have four children and live nearby.
Their cat is very old and hasn't many days remaining. They said our ad spoke to them.
As they drove off with her we wanted to cry but it was for the best. We knew that.
Every night before bed I'd been sitting with her on the porch. I don't know what I'll do tonight. Maybe just pretend she's there with me.
We were deeply disappointed that she wasn't waiting on the porch for us in the morning. Even though we knew it was unlikely, there was some hope she might find her way back to us.
I told the adopters that if there were any "issues" whatsoever to please just bring her back. But after meeting her they said, "There won't be any issues".
It was a fitful night as I agonized over whether we had made a terrible mistake.
We went to the beach today. I worried the whole time they might call so I was anxious to get back home.
But there was no call.
A little rain fell.
I still call for her when I step into the yard at night. Still look into the shadows for some hint of movement, waiting to change my tone from the voice you use when summoning someone, to the less plaintive and much more preferable one you use to welcome them back home.
Before they left, they said we may see a stray cat who'd been hanging around the property lately.
The next day our little friend showed up and she followed us around as we explored the grounds.
She's obviously fending for herself because she eats everything she catches. House cats hunt for sport, this one hunts for food. And she spends all of her time here. You'd think if she had a home nearby she would spend at least some of her time there.
Also, part of her ear is missing so we assume she's had a scuffle with a foe at some point. But she's no feral. This is a domesticated cat who has had to learn the hard ways of the wild. And I don't know what to do about it.
When we go outside she's waiting on the door step. If we've been gone all day she shows up within minutes of our return. And we don't feed her so that's not why she sticks around. She must enjoy our company and we are flattered by it. Quite frankly she's very likable. She's loyal to us and seems genuinely interested in everything we have to say.
One night I took the binoculars out to stargaze and she was there in the dark. My neck got sore from looking up so I laid back in the grass to glass the sky. She gently crept onto my belly, curled up and began to purr. This intimacy broke my heart since I had so little to give in return. Sure, I stroked her with reassurance and maybe that's all she wanted.
I didn't want to disrupt her contentment so I stayed there much longer than intended. But eventually I had to go in and felt like a cad for leaving her alone in the dark. I know she was disappointed.
She's scrawny and should be fed but if you feed a cat, you own a cat and we're just not ready for that.
She was waiting on our doorstep again this morning. I don't know what to do.
We went to meet our neighbors on the other side of the jungle today and asked if they wanted a cat. No, they have three cats, three dogs, a herd of goats, many chickens, etc. I guess that would explain why our girl doesn't hang around over there.
The neighbor asked if it had the tip of it's ear cut off. Yes! "Oh, it must be a stray from the TNR program". More specifically; trap, neuter, vaccinate, eartip, and return feral cats. It's a local organization that does just that.
The neighbor said it's probably not a good idea to feed it because its survival depends on its hunting skills.
I find it hard to believe that a feral cat could be so friendly. A friendly feral? More likely an over-zealous TNR new-hire.
Once home, Chris and I built a fire under the starry sky and enjoyed a concert of crickets and tree frogs. Kitty curled up in Chris' lap for a peaceful slumber. She'd make a wonderful pet.
Her diet consists mainly of frogs, lizards, and insects. I saw her eat an entire bullfrog over the course of two days. A house-cat wouldn't do that. Ironically, she seems happy and well adjusted for one who is leading such a tough life.
I've been terribly conflicted about what to do about this. We really can't bring her home with us to Michigan. Cats don't travel well and besides, as much as we love this one, we don't want that responsibility right now. We don't even have houseplants, for god's sake. Maybe if we weren't able to travel it would be different. And yes, we'd love a cat just like this someday, but not now.
I fed her table scraps yesterday and she ate voraciously. Poor thing.
This morning I went out to sit with her as usual but she wasn't there. After a brief search, we packed up for a canoe trip. When we got back tonight she still wasn't there so I went out to call for her every half hour or so. The anxiety and guilt was killing me.
We'll go to town for groceries tomorrow. I'll get cat food just in case she does come back.
Kitty is back after a two day absence! Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been!?
I felt a mixture of emotions upon seeing her - both elation and disappointment. Elated that she was safe but disappointed that she hadn't found a new life and secure family. So I'm back to my quandary.
I fed her half cup of dry cat food and she ate like a pirate.
Our neighbor suggested we put an ad in the local paper so we did:
Extremely affectionate young female cat. Short hair, white/tan. Neutered. Great disposition! Free to good home.
We have good/bad news about Kitty. We got a call today. And a very nice young couple came by tonight to meet her. They have four children and live nearby.
Their cat is very old and hasn't many days remaining. They said our ad spoke to them.
As they drove off with her we wanted to cry but it was for the best. We knew that.
Every night before bed I'd been sitting with her on the porch. I don't know what I'll do tonight. Maybe just pretend she's there with me.
We were deeply disappointed that she wasn't waiting on the porch for us in the morning. Even though we knew it was unlikely, there was some hope she might find her way back to us.
I told the adopters that if there were any "issues" whatsoever to please just bring her back. But after meeting her they said, "There won't be any issues".
It was a fitful night as I agonized over whether we had made a terrible mistake.
We went to the beach today. I worried the whole time they might call so I was anxious to get back home.
But there was no call.
A little rain fell.
I still call for her when I step into the yard at night. Still look into the shadows for some hint of movement, waiting to change my tone from the voice you use when summoning someone, to the less plaintive and much more preferable one you use to welcome them back home.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Bermuda Triangle/Black Box
If I would slow down and think things through, my good/bad luck ratio might improve. A case in point:
I'd been enjoying aerial photography with my radio control planes and decided to buy and modify a decent camera (Nikon Coolpix 5600) for dedicated AP use.
Being the impulsive type, I wanted to try it out immediately even though it was far too windy for a stable video flight. I figured it wouldn't matter if the maiden video looked like a roller coaster ride. It's just an experiment after all. So I mounted the camera and rushed out to the field.
Because the grass was longer than usual, the prop caught and the plane nosed over pretty hard. With the camera still running I ran to the plane and threw it like a spear. Well, I hadn't noticed that the nose-over had cocked the wing askew and when I opened the throttle, the plane hooked left and nosed in hard enough to bend the aluminum tube fuselage. I ran to it, turned off the camera and tried bending the fuse back into place. To get better leverage, I put the plane on it's back and pushed down on it. CRACK! The rudder fractured where it joins the fuse. But it was still attached - a little wobbly perhaps, but attached. I was getting anxious but thought, "It'll be fine". So I straightened the wing, turned on the camera and sent her back up.
The wind was quite stiff which can be tricky if your plane is only capable of flying, lets say 10 mph and the wind is at 15. Problems can arise.
The wind tugged the plane away from me until it was about 200 yards out over the woods and I began to struggle. The only way to counter the pull was to dive into the wind again and again to pick up speed. This maneuver puts a lot of stress on the airframe especially with the added weight of a camera.
Then the vertical stabilizer folded and a death spiral began. No amount of control input would break the descent.
When it disappeared on the horizon, I took keen note of landmarks and hoped for an easy find. I knew there could be some dicey tree climbing involved but surely I'd find it...or so I thought.
After 3 hours of 90 degree mosquito hell, I broke off the search. I searched again the next day, and the next. I'm still searching, but with less hope each time.
The tree canopy out there is thick but c'mon, it's a bright red plane! You know what I think? I think it found the Bermuda Triangle. And I'd love to see the video.
I'd been enjoying aerial photography with my radio control planes and decided to buy and modify a decent camera (Nikon Coolpix 5600) for dedicated AP use.
Being the impulsive type, I wanted to try it out immediately even though it was far too windy for a stable video flight. I figured it wouldn't matter if the maiden video looked like a roller coaster ride. It's just an experiment after all. So I mounted the camera and rushed out to the field.
Because the grass was longer than usual, the prop caught and the plane nosed over pretty hard. With the camera still running I ran to the plane and threw it like a spear. Well, I hadn't noticed that the nose-over had cocked the wing askew and when I opened the throttle, the plane hooked left and nosed in hard enough to bend the aluminum tube fuselage. I ran to it, turned off the camera and tried bending the fuse back into place. To get better leverage, I put the plane on it's back and pushed down on it. CRACK! The rudder fractured where it joins the fuse. But it was still attached - a little wobbly perhaps, but attached. I was getting anxious but thought, "It'll be fine". So I straightened the wing, turned on the camera and sent her back up.
The wind was quite stiff which can be tricky if your plane is only capable of flying, lets say 10 mph and the wind is at 15. Problems can arise.
The wind tugged the plane away from me until it was about 200 yards out over the woods and I began to struggle. The only way to counter the pull was to dive into the wind again and again to pick up speed. This maneuver puts a lot of stress on the airframe especially with the added weight of a camera.
Then the vertical stabilizer folded and a death spiral began. No amount of control input would break the descent.
When it disappeared on the horizon, I took keen note of landmarks and hoped for an easy find. I knew there could be some dicey tree climbing involved but surely I'd find it...or so I thought.
After 3 hours of 90 degree mosquito hell, I broke off the search. I searched again the next day, and the next. I'm still searching, but with less hope each time.
The tree canopy out there is thick but c'mon, it's a bright red plane! You know what I think? I think it found the Bermuda Triangle. And I'd love to see the video.
Black Box
I was working on the roof when I saw Chris returning from trail maintenance in the woods. She waved to me from the yard and yelled that she had found a piece of my plane. My hopes soared since my good camera was on board when the plane disappeared 3 weeks ago.
We hurried back and sure enough, the tail section was lying under a stand of tall trees. I had searched this area many times but the canopy is so thick that very little light gets through to the floor.
Then we spotted the wreckage. Oh, man! It was way up there. These are mature hardwoods and the plane was cradled in the top of an 80 foot sugar maple whose lowest branch was about 50 feet up. Trees grow like that in crowded conditions. Cutting the tree down was out of the question so I cut some 2x4's into 4 inch sections and began the tedious task of nailing foot/hand-holds as I advanced up the trunk. Once I was able to reach branches the climb was easy but I ran out of sturdy limbs about ten feet from my goal. So I rolled the dice and put my faith where it shouldn't be, clamping my thighs around the thin main while small branches snapped under my feet. The tree-top bent under my weight as I shinnied the last few feet to my plane. The wind swayed me but the adrenaline dump was exhilarating, especially once I had the plane in my hand. Chris doesn't like heights and got queasy watching me sway.
I had brought a spool of twine up with me to tie to the plane and lower it down through gaps between branches. The camera and other equipment looked pretty good despite being held to the sky for three weeks.
The first thing I did when we got back to the house was put new batteries in the camera and hit the playback button. Ha, it was all there! A "black box", if you will, with a complete account of the launch, the climb, the buffeting, the transition from neighborhood to forest, and then...the tailspin. The horizon raced around and around with occasional quick glimpses of the approaching canopy below. Then there was an explosion of leaves and branches as the plane came to rest. A leaf then covered the lens like the curtain at movie's end.
Here is the last minute of video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6T15DmdyUIw
All of the electronics tested fine except the lithium power pack which was discharged beyond recovery. But the story is a happy one, really. Most of the electronics were reusable and the plane was rebuildable. My luck had shifted back to good again.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Yellow Jackets
Yellow jackets are a type of paper wasp—they build structures out of a paper made by adding saliva to chewed-up plant fibers. One species nests above ground in basket-ball sized nests you sometimes see in trees or under eaves, and the other species nests below ground.
Through the spring and summer, the colony grows. For the species that nest underground, their homes usually begin in abandoned rodent burrows that are further excavated as the nest grows and during this time, mid to late summer, the workers get defensive. They’re focused on protecting the queen within.
Yellow jackets at your picnic table are unlikely to sting unless they’re physically threatened. Their aggressive behavior is reserved for defending the nest. If the nest is disturbed you may find yourself in a load of trouble as their level of tolerance changes.
I was gathering firewood near the campsite on my property outside Grayling. While lifting a log, I exposed a nest of ground-dwelling yellow jackets and found myself in a flurry of angry wasps hell-bent on doing me harm. At the first few stings I broke into a run but they matched my pace and the stings continued. I may have set a new record for the fifty yard dash before they finally broke off their pursuit. By then I'd taken dozens of hits.
I have no history of sting allergies but with multiple stings, all bets were off. I soon found the venom burden causing me serious illness and debated whether to seek treatment in town (seven miles away) but decided to just wait and see. That may have been a mistake. I began having difficulty breathing, with stomach pain and nausea so severe I knew I shouldn't drive. So I opened a beer and awaited my fate. My heart was racing and my head was pounding. Dizziness and sweating followed. I crawled into my sleeping bag hoping to ward off the chills but couldn't stop shaking. Then it dawned on me that I may be dying and I regretted not leaving a note - even something simple like, "Yellow jackets!".
And that was the last thing I remembered.
When I regained consciousness, the sun was high and the tent was like an oven. I was covered with one-inch welts and drenched in sweat. My watch said it was almost noon -- obviously the next day. When I poked my head out of the tent and gasped for air, I saw trees, birds, and acres of blue sky. I was alive! My god, such a glorious feeling! Though feeling like I'd been in a fistfight, I crawled out of the tent and struggled to my feet to do a brief celebratory dance.
A wary glance toward their nest showed things were back to normal for the yellow jackets. The workers were going about their business; serving their queen. So I went about my business, well away from their domain. It's better that way.
Through the spring and summer, the colony grows. For the species that nest underground, their homes usually begin in abandoned rodent burrows that are further excavated as the nest grows and during this time, mid to late summer, the workers get defensive. They’re focused on protecting the queen within.
Yellow jackets at your picnic table are unlikely to sting unless they’re physically threatened. Their aggressive behavior is reserved for defending the nest. If the nest is disturbed you may find yourself in a load of trouble as their level of tolerance changes.
I was gathering firewood near the campsite on my property outside Grayling. While lifting a log, I exposed a nest of ground-dwelling yellow jackets and found myself in a flurry of angry wasps hell-bent on doing me harm. At the first few stings I broke into a run but they matched my pace and the stings continued. I may have set a new record for the fifty yard dash before they finally broke off their pursuit. By then I'd taken dozens of hits.
I have no history of sting allergies but with multiple stings, all bets were off. I soon found the venom burden causing me serious illness and debated whether to seek treatment in town (seven miles away) but decided to just wait and see. That may have been a mistake. I began having difficulty breathing, with stomach pain and nausea so severe I knew I shouldn't drive. So I opened a beer and awaited my fate. My heart was racing and my head was pounding. Dizziness and sweating followed. I crawled into my sleeping bag hoping to ward off the chills but couldn't stop shaking. Then it dawned on me that I may be dying and I regretted not leaving a note - even something simple like, "Yellow jackets!".
And that was the last thing I remembered.
When I regained consciousness, the sun was high and the tent was like an oven. I was covered with one-inch welts and drenched in sweat. My watch said it was almost noon -- obviously the next day. When I poked my head out of the tent and gasped for air, I saw trees, birds, and acres of blue sky. I was alive! My god, such a glorious feeling! Though feeling like I'd been in a fistfight, I crawled out of the tent and struggled to my feet to do a brief celebratory dance.
A wary glance toward their nest showed things were back to normal for the yellow jackets. The workers were going about their business; serving their queen. So I went about my business, well away from their domain. It's better that way.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Busted
I developed a love for handguns in the late seventies and started a
collection that was destined to grow. I'll admit I became obsessed -
reading all of the gun literature I could find, haunting gun shops and
shooting almost daily. I'd swoon at the scent of gunpowder, the
bright muzzle flash, the stout recoil and, of course, the craftsmanship of the hardware itself -- a marriage of fine-figured wood to metal,
beautifully polished and fitted.
It was fortunate I lived at the edge of a vast woodland on the outskirts of Rochester with a trail leading from my house up into the wooded hills. Nearly every night I'd hike about a half mile into the woods to set up my targets in an area with an earthen berm for safe backstop. This nightly ritual improved my shooting skills considerably and I shoot competitively to this day.
It was a warm night when I last went up with my gear in a backpack; guns, ammo, earmuffs, shooting glasses, targets, and beers.
At the time I was dating a girl who would eventually become my wife and lifetime companion. Things were getting serious between us so we had arranged for me to meet her parents the very next evening. But this night didn't go as I'd planned.
After about an hour of shooting, the light began to fade so I packed up to head back while there was enough light to see the trail. I kept my Smith model 41 tucked in my belt.
There was a startling commotion as I turned to leave and out of the dim woods stumbled four sheriff's deputies screaming, "Police! Put your hands in the air!" I immediately wet my pants for the first time since childhood and whimpered, "Look what you made me do!".
These guys were covered in sweat and blood from the thick tangle of underbrush and brambles. Also, they were under full mosquito assault since they hadn't the forethought to apply mozzie repellent. It's fair to say they were in a foul mood.
I said, "Guys, I have a gun in my waist-band. I'm going to set it on the ground." As I lowered my hand toward my belt two of them were on me in a wink. One yanked my arm up behind my back while the other kicked my feet out from under me and pinned me to the ground with his knees. But they were careful to avoid my sodden crotch.
Once the dust had settled, I underwent intensive interrogation and managed to muster more politeness than I'm normally capable of. It happens that one of the deputies heard gunshots while patrolling the dirt road below and suspected possible poaching or other such malfeasance so he called for back-up.
I showed them my shooting "range", and did my best to convince them my activities were innocuous. At some point I showed them a center-clustered target and one of the cops said, "Not bad." That's when the tension eased and they started to lighten up.
My infractions turned out to be fairly minor. It's illegal to discharge firearms within city limits but I was actually only about twenty steps inside the boundary. And the guns in my backpack could have been considered "concealed" (a no-no) but they were unloaded and I had the proper registrations with me.
Once the encounter was defused, I guided them to the path so their trip down the hill would be much easier than the one up. By now it was dark and their flashlights served well.
As we were making our way back I said, "I'm glad you guys didn't arrest me. I'm supposed to meet my girlfriend's parents tomorrow night." One of them said, "Try not to wet your pants."
It was fortunate I lived at the edge of a vast woodland on the outskirts of Rochester with a trail leading from my house up into the wooded hills. Nearly every night I'd hike about a half mile into the woods to set up my targets in an area with an earthen berm for safe backstop. This nightly ritual improved my shooting skills considerably and I shoot competitively to this day.
It was a warm night when I last went up with my gear in a backpack; guns, ammo, earmuffs, shooting glasses, targets, and beers.
At the time I was dating a girl who would eventually become my wife and lifetime companion. Things were getting serious between us so we had arranged for me to meet her parents the very next evening. But this night didn't go as I'd planned.
After about an hour of shooting, the light began to fade so I packed up to head back while there was enough light to see the trail. I kept my Smith model 41 tucked in my belt.
There was a startling commotion as I turned to leave and out of the dim woods stumbled four sheriff's deputies screaming, "Police! Put your hands in the air!" I immediately wet my pants for the first time since childhood and whimpered, "Look what you made me do!".
These guys were covered in sweat and blood from the thick tangle of underbrush and brambles. Also, they were under full mosquito assault since they hadn't the forethought to apply mozzie repellent. It's fair to say they were in a foul mood.
I said, "Guys, I have a gun in my waist-band. I'm going to set it on the ground." As I lowered my hand toward my belt two of them were on me in a wink. One yanked my arm up behind my back while the other kicked my feet out from under me and pinned me to the ground with his knees. But they were careful to avoid my sodden crotch.
Once the dust had settled, I underwent intensive interrogation and managed to muster more politeness than I'm normally capable of. It happens that one of the deputies heard gunshots while patrolling the dirt road below and suspected possible poaching or other such malfeasance so he called for back-up.
I showed them my shooting "range", and did my best to convince them my activities were innocuous. At some point I showed them a center-clustered target and one of the cops said, "Not bad." That's when the tension eased and they started to lighten up.
My infractions turned out to be fairly minor. It's illegal to discharge firearms within city limits but I was actually only about twenty steps inside the boundary. And the guns in my backpack could have been considered "concealed" (a no-no) but they were unloaded and I had the proper registrations with me.
Once the encounter was defused, I guided them to the path so their trip down the hill would be much easier than the one up. By now it was dark and their flashlights served well.
As we were making our way back I said, "I'm glad you guys didn't arrest me. I'm supposed to meet my girlfriend's parents tomorrow night." One of them said, "Try not to wet your pants."
Friday, July 4, 2014
Fireflies
Every night before getting ready for bed I walk out to my yard to check the stars and to just feel the night.
Tonight is the 4th of July and fireflies sparkle like a field of diamonds before me - specks of living light twinkling in the dark. In the distance I hear the rumble of a fireworks display and think, "What a waste of gunpowder and sky." The dazzling exhibition in my yard rivals any fireworks I've seen and I feel privileged to witness this spectacle in private.
But this presentation isn't for my entertainment. There's a lot more going on here than many of us realize. This display is of lust and death.
These remarkable green and yellow flashing lights have always had a hypnotic effect on me. As a child I was fascinated by fireflies and would capture them in jars to serve as a bedroom nightlight. But the same pulsing glow that attracts youngsters often leads male fireflies to their deaths.
In warm-weather months, especially where open meadows and forests coexist, the adult male fireflies of most species set out on nuptial flights in the evening hours. The females, meanwhile, await their mates in the foliage, blinking seductively. The task for each male is to find an unmated female.
It’s critical that the female be unmated because in many firefly species the females change through internal chemistry into man-eaters once they've successfully mated. Thereafter, they use their blinks to attract meals, not males. Some females even imitate the blinking patterns of other species in an effort to attract as many unsuspecting males as possible. Femme Fatales!
It’s a fly-eat-fly world out there.
Tonight is the 4th of July and fireflies sparkle like a field of diamonds before me - specks of living light twinkling in the dark. In the distance I hear the rumble of a fireworks display and think, "What a waste of gunpowder and sky." The dazzling exhibition in my yard rivals any fireworks I've seen and I feel privileged to witness this spectacle in private.
But this presentation isn't for my entertainment. There's a lot more going on here than many of us realize. This display is of lust and death.
These remarkable green and yellow flashing lights have always had a hypnotic effect on me. As a child I was fascinated by fireflies and would capture them in jars to serve as a bedroom nightlight. But the same pulsing glow that attracts youngsters often leads male fireflies to their deaths.
In warm-weather months, especially where open meadows and forests coexist, the adult male fireflies of most species set out on nuptial flights in the evening hours. The females, meanwhile, await their mates in the foliage, blinking seductively. The task for each male is to find an unmated female.
It’s critical that the female be unmated because in many firefly species the females change through internal chemistry into man-eaters once they've successfully mated. Thereafter, they use their blinks to attract meals, not males. Some females even imitate the blinking patterns of other species in an effort to attract as many unsuspecting males as possible. Femme Fatales!
It’s a fly-eat-fly world out there.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Canada Geese
The Canada goose pair arrived at our pond in mid March -- right on schedule. The same pair has been coming home to us for many years and we know it's them because they come running when I stand on the back porch and shake the corn bucket (Pavlov's bell). Their memory is clearly much better than my own. Welcome back!
We don't worry about goose nuisance because our pair viciously defends the pond as their nesting territory and ferociously drive away any would-be interlopers.
The goslings are born in early May and we watch as they get bigger every day. By mid summer the parents begin their molt and can no longer fly so the family moves into a more secluded area. And that's the last we see of them until the babies have grown.
By late summer all of the family is able to fly and they commute daily to the local cornfield to feed and bond with the greater flocks. This is called "staging" and they likely negotiate their migration plans.
Before we know it the winds blow chilly and we look up to see V-shaped formations high over head.
Next March I'll again stand on the back porch and shake the bucket.
Just Geese
There came a distant honking,
an old familiar cry;
A V-like chain appearing
from out the northern sky.
I spoke of how it thrilled me,
the wonder of it all.
"It's really nothing," said my comrade,
"geese migrate every fall."
I saw that old gray gander,
his eyes alert and keen;
A bold and dauntless leader,
the monarch of the scene.
I saw those far-flung waters,
the Gulf of Mexico;
The mighty frozen northland,
its leagues of swirling snow.
The springtime and the autumn
spread out before me there;
The years of life rolled by me,
from youth to silver hair.
I saw how it all happens,
the hope and the peace,
And yet my friend beside me
just saw a flock of geese.
-Stillman J. Elwood
We don't worry about goose nuisance because our pair viciously defends the pond as their nesting territory and ferociously drive away any would-be interlopers.
The goslings are born in early May and we watch as they get bigger every day. By mid summer the parents begin their molt and can no longer fly so the family moves into a more secluded area. And that's the last we see of them until the babies have grown.
By late summer all of the family is able to fly and they commute daily to the local cornfield to feed and bond with the greater flocks. This is called "staging" and they likely negotiate their migration plans.
Before we know it the winds blow chilly and we look up to see V-shaped formations high over head.
Next March I'll again stand on the back porch and shake the bucket.
Just Geese
There came a distant honking,
an old familiar cry;
A V-like chain appearing
from out the northern sky.
I spoke of how it thrilled me,
the wonder of it all.
"It's really nothing," said my comrade,
"geese migrate every fall."
I saw that old gray gander,
his eyes alert and keen;
A bold and dauntless leader,
the monarch of the scene.
I saw those far-flung waters,
the Gulf of Mexico;
The mighty frozen northland,
its leagues of swirling snow.
The springtime and the autumn
spread out before me there;
The years of life rolled by me,
from youth to silver hair.
I saw how it all happens,
the hope and the peace,
And yet my friend beside me
just saw a flock of geese.
-Stillman J. Elwood
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Loner
I don't "fit" in social settings and I'm okay with that. It's not personal - I don't dislike people. I'm just not comfortable in social situations.
But I do often feel guilt for not living up to peoples' expectations, or for not showing more interest in being with family (or friends). I love my family and friends but rarely feel a need for proximity.
Since childhood, I've been drawn to the outdoors, especially remote wilderness areas. Some of my fondest memories are of sitting alone, perfectly still, absorbing the sweet solitude of seclusion. I had many hiding places. My strongest propensity has always been "getting away". When I read books they are usually about living a simple life in the wild. My favorite magazines are Mother Earth News, Backwoods Home, and other back-to-the-land type periodicals. When I was in my twenties, my contemporaries were planning their careers. I was planning my eventual escape.
I'd often go on travel excursions by myself. Some may find it odd but that was what I wanted/needed...to get away. I understand why the river runs to a place somewhere far away.
Fortunately for me, I eventually found a partner who shares this proclivity for solitude and we've been happily together ever since. Maybe no man is an island, but with a loving and like-minded spouse, nearly all of your emotional needs can be met with little reliance on society.
Oddly, after having been retired from the post office for a year, I thought I might be missing the work-place social interactions so I took a part-time job in order to get a small dose of that old grind. But I found myself avoiding my co-workers and made it clear to my bosses that I prefer to work alone.
Once Chris retired, I felt free to drop out of the rat-race. And it's as good as I'd hoped it would be. Better!
So...a little socialization goes a long way with me. I'm not inclined toward idle chit-chat and sometimes can barely withstand it. The holidays are awful because they almost "force" people together. Maybe that's why I dread that time of year.
Am I a screwball? You bet! But I feel fairly self-actualized and quite peaceful within myself. I just wish I didn't have to let friends and family down by being so "distant". That's where the guilt comes in. And that's why the holidays can be hard for me. But you know what? The holidays are quickly over -- they run up, push me down, and run off laughing. I get back up, dust myself off and resume my life of quiet contentment.
I'm very grateful for friends and family. It's good to know I can rely on them when needed. But I'm not compelled to social interaction. And it's not personal! It only seems that way.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Lance Dickerson
Lance Dickerson grew up in Clawson, Michigan, a small town about ten miles north of Detroit. I first met him in 7th grade band at Clawson Junior High where we both were in the percussion section. We quickly became fast friends.
Lance's dad, Bob, was a professional drummer who played the classy nightclubs in Detroit. He also was in the studio band for the Soupy Sales night show (anybody remember that?).
Lance's parents got divorced during our junior year of high school and he moved to Livonia with his mother. Shortly after that he joined a band called the Heavy Metal Kids featuring Glenn Frey on vocals and guitar. Glenn grew up in Royal Oak just a few miles from us. Lance moved into the "band" house in Royal Oak so we were all able to hang out together.
Eventually, the band broke up and Glen moved to Californial where he teamed up with J.D. Souther and eventually founded the Eagles with Don Henley.
Lance ended up with Commander Cody (Ann Arbor) for several years before moving out west to play with Charlie Musselwhite. He also did stints with many big names including Mark Hummel, Maria Muldaur, David Bromberg, Mitch Woods, Gene Vincent, Link Wray, and many acts I wasn't familiar with. I would catch his act whenever a tour brought him back to the Detroit area so we could catch up with each other.
He died in 2003 of carbon monoxide poisoning. His wife called and apparently, he had been depressed for some time. I wasn't aware of that. Yeah, I always knew his good nature had an undercurrent of melancholy but I just saw it as another endearing component of his charm. I guess that shows how little we actually know about someone sometimes. I get a little sick when I wonder if I could have said or done something to make a difference. I didn't stay in touch as much as I should have. He was a very important part of my life and I hope he knew that. To this day it makes me sad to know that he was hurting so much. It's heartbreaking, really.
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When we were in junior high Lance's dad took us down to Wayne State University for a drum clinic taught by Joe Morello, Dave Brubeck's drummer. There was a segment on unconventional time signatures. Joe started us out on Take Five (5/4 time), then to Unsquare Dance (7/4 time) and then on to Blue Rondo A La Turk (9/8 time). It was quite an eye-opener.
After the clinic, one of our drum section pals surreptitiously unscrewed a wing-nut from Joe's cymbal stand for a souvenir. Lance said he thought it was a dirty trick and Dave said, "Are you kidding? These things only cost a dime!" I said something like "for the want of a nail..." and he said "Joe's got a bucket of these in his kit."
We idolized Joe Morello and I have to admit that the wing-nut was priceless to us. We took turns keeping it for a few years. I wonder what ever happened to that thing.
Lance's dad, Bob, was a professional drummer who played the classy nightclubs in Detroit. He also was in the studio band for the Soupy Sales night show (anybody remember that?).
Lance's parents got divorced during our junior year of high school and he moved to Livonia with his mother. Shortly after that he joined a band called the Heavy Metal Kids featuring Glenn Frey on vocals and guitar. Glenn grew up in Royal Oak just a few miles from us. Lance moved into the "band" house in Royal Oak so we were all able to hang out together.
Eventually, the band broke up and Glen moved to Californial where he teamed up with J.D. Souther and eventually founded the Eagles with Don Henley.
Lance ended up with Commander Cody (Ann Arbor) for several years before moving out west to play with Charlie Musselwhite. He also did stints with many big names including Mark Hummel, Maria Muldaur, David Bromberg, Mitch Woods, Gene Vincent, Link Wray, and many acts I wasn't familiar with. I would catch his act whenever a tour brought him back to the Detroit area so we could catch up with each other.
He died in 2003 of carbon monoxide poisoning. His wife called and apparently, he had been depressed for some time. I wasn't aware of that. Yeah, I always knew his good nature had an undercurrent of melancholy but I just saw it as another endearing component of his charm. I guess that shows how little we actually know about someone sometimes. I get a little sick when I wonder if I could have said or done something to make a difference. I didn't stay in touch as much as I should have. He was a very important part of my life and I hope he knew that. To this day it makes me sad to know that he was hurting so much. It's heartbreaking, really.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When we were in junior high Lance's dad took us down to Wayne State University for a drum clinic taught by Joe Morello, Dave Brubeck's drummer. There was a segment on unconventional time signatures. Joe started us out on Take Five (5/4 time), then to Unsquare Dance (7/4 time) and then on to Blue Rondo A La Turk (9/8 time). It was quite an eye-opener.
After the clinic, one of our drum section pals surreptitiously unscrewed a wing-nut from Joe's cymbal stand for a souvenir. Lance said he thought it was a dirty trick and Dave said, "Are you kidding? These things only cost a dime!" I said something like "for the want of a nail..." and he said "Joe's got a bucket of these in his kit."
We idolized Joe Morello and I have to admit that the wing-nut was priceless to us. We took turns keeping it for a few years. I wonder what ever happened to that thing.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Blueberries
Chris and I spent a week camping up near Grayling in August. We stayed in the Kneff Lake National Forest campground about 10 miles east of town. It's a very quiet and remote area. Kneff is a small sand-bottomed lake with no boat launch so it sees very little use - perfect for snorkeling. There wasn't much to see on the sandy bottom but I caught a glint of movement in my periphery and looked back to see about 50 bluegills following me. Guess I was an anomaly in their normally quiet world.
Later, we followed a trail behind our campsite and discovered a field of wild blueberries that seemed to go on forever. We ate our way up the hill until our hands were sticky and lips painted blue. We gathered blueberries by the bucketful and gorged ourselves for several days. What a jackpot!
Late at night the stars were so thick there were hardly any spaces between them - a blanket, if you will, as thick where the forest met the sky as it was overhead and bright enough to cast shadows. We were amazed at the amount of space junk up there - lonely ships plying a vast ocean of stars. When the moon did eventually rise the night grew bright as a typical overcast day.
And it was calm. The smoke from our fire wafted slowly upward and I remembered that Grandpa Beeler used to build newspaper balloons (or parachutes) to send skyward on a campfire's heat column. We tried all manner of configurations but couldn't get it right. Fun trying, though.
Then it got cold. The temperature dipped into the low 40's one night which is almost unheard of for August. And that led us to discover that our camper furnace didn't work. A revolting development, for sure. Sunrise brought welcome warmth but it was a long, cold night.
The next evening the wind came up, alive and jostling the pines. The wind became their common voice but each pine had a distinct tongue. I looked up at the silhouettes and saw these trees holding hands with the wind. With wavelike bowings and risings, they seemed to pass the wind from one to another. It was a revelation for me.
Yeah, this was a peaceful time and place. If I could bottle the contentment we experienced and spread it around the world, we'd be living in a much happier place.
Later, we followed a trail behind our campsite and discovered a field of wild blueberries that seemed to go on forever. We ate our way up the hill until our hands were sticky and lips painted blue. We gathered blueberries by the bucketful and gorged ourselves for several days. What a jackpot!
Late at night the stars were so thick there were hardly any spaces between them - a blanket, if you will, as thick where the forest met the sky as it was overhead and bright enough to cast shadows. We were amazed at the amount of space junk up there - lonely ships plying a vast ocean of stars. When the moon did eventually rise the night grew bright as a typical overcast day.
And it was calm. The smoke from our fire wafted slowly upward and I remembered that Grandpa Beeler used to build newspaper balloons (or parachutes) to send skyward on a campfire's heat column. We tried all manner of configurations but couldn't get it right. Fun trying, though.
Then it got cold. The temperature dipped into the low 40's one night which is almost unheard of for August. And that led us to discover that our camper furnace didn't work. A revolting development, for sure. Sunrise brought welcome warmth but it was a long, cold night.
The next evening the wind came up, alive and jostling the pines. The wind became their common voice but each pine had a distinct tongue. I looked up at the silhouettes and saw these trees holding hands with the wind. With wavelike bowings and risings, they seemed to pass the wind from one to another. It was a revelation for me.
Yeah, this was a peaceful time and place. If I could bottle the contentment we experienced and spread it around the world, we'd be living in a much happier place.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Possum Skull
I found a dead opossum in my yard last spring and thought I'd like to have his skull for my animal skull collection. I know, I know....but when I saw such a collection at a nature center I knew I had to have my own.
Actually, I collect a lot of natural artifacts from the wild; feathers, fossils, nests, shells, etc. These objets d'art are my personal Smithsonian.
I took the possum back into the woods and laid him among the rocks to let nature do its work. A day later, he had been cached by some animal - covered over with sticks and leaves. I worried he might get dragged off but didn't check on him for a few weeks because he didn't smell very good.
When I checked in July, most of the beetle work had been done. A month later the skull was pretty clean so I brought it to the house and soaked it in a bucket of bleach water overnight then let it dry in the sun all the next day.
The mandible had separated from the skull since the connective tissues were gone. But I wanted to display his fearsome teeth so I decided to glue the mandible halves (left and right sides) together and then glue it to the skull. After studying it for a while to make sure things were lined up correctly, I held the jaw in place while wicking in some thin CA (fast-setting super glue). I held the whole affair together for a couple of minutes to be certain the glue had cured and when I went to set it down...well, it wouldn't leave my hand. Unbeknown to me, some of the glue had soaked through to two of my fingers. After struggling for several minutes, it became obvious that this was a serious matter. I managed to open a bottle of acetone from the work bench and anointed the affected area with no effect. My struggling began peeling the skin from my fingers so I panicked and ran upstairs with the possum skull stuck in my hand and told Chris I was in trouble.
"Alas, poor Yorick!", she cried. Clearly she didn't appreciate the gravity of my situation. I gave her a stern look and she sighed, "Okay, lets try soaking it in hot water."
After five or ten minutes, it was still firmly attached to my hand. I looked up in alarm. Stoically, she tried to stifle her amusement but failed. I muttered, "It's really not that funny." She bravely straightened her face and said, "Hello, emergency? My husband has glued his hand to an opossum head".
"Oh...Hi, Mrs. Beeler. We haven't heard from you in a while. He's done what now?"
After much kneading, twisting, and peeling of skin, the skull began to soften and release. Once I was free, an incredible sense of relief washed over me, easing the anguish and pain. Gluing your hand to a possum skull rarely turns out well.
I took the skull outside and set it on a stump. Maybe I'll work on it some other time. Right now I don't even want to look at it.
It looks formidable. All those teeth!
Actually, I collect a lot of natural artifacts from the wild; feathers, fossils, nests, shells, etc. These objets d'art are my personal Smithsonian.
I took the possum back into the woods and laid him among the rocks to let nature do its work. A day later, he had been cached by some animal - covered over with sticks and leaves. I worried he might get dragged off but didn't check on him for a few weeks because he didn't smell very good.
When I checked in July, most of the beetle work had been done. A month later the skull was pretty clean so I brought it to the house and soaked it in a bucket of bleach water overnight then let it dry in the sun all the next day.
The mandible had separated from the skull since the connective tissues were gone. But I wanted to display his fearsome teeth so I decided to glue the mandible halves (left and right sides) together and then glue it to the skull. After studying it for a while to make sure things were lined up correctly, I held the jaw in place while wicking in some thin CA (fast-setting super glue). I held the whole affair together for a couple of minutes to be certain the glue had cured and when I went to set it down...well, it wouldn't leave my hand. Unbeknown to me, some of the glue had soaked through to two of my fingers. After struggling for several minutes, it became obvious that this was a serious matter. I managed to open a bottle of acetone from the work bench and anointed the affected area with no effect. My struggling began peeling the skin from my fingers so I panicked and ran upstairs with the possum skull stuck in my hand and told Chris I was in trouble.
"Alas, poor Yorick!", she cried. Clearly she didn't appreciate the gravity of my situation. I gave her a stern look and she sighed, "Okay, lets try soaking it in hot water."
After five or ten minutes, it was still firmly attached to my hand. I looked up in alarm. Stoically, she tried to stifle her amusement but failed. I muttered, "It's really not that funny." She bravely straightened her face and said, "Hello, emergency? My husband has glued his hand to an opossum head".
"Oh...Hi, Mrs. Beeler. We haven't heard from you in a while. He's done what now?"
After much kneading, twisting, and peeling of skin, the skull began to soften and release. Once I was free, an incredible sense of relief washed over me, easing the anguish and pain. Gluing your hand to a possum skull rarely turns out well.
I took the skull outside and set it on a stump. Maybe I'll work on it some other time. Right now I don't even want to look at it.
It looks formidable. All those teeth!
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
In Our Woods
We've spent many hundreds, no, thousands of hours in our woods. During this time we've learned to identify each tree, which contain denning cavities, who occupies them, and when. We monitor owls' nests and keep records of the comings and goings of myriad wildlife in our journal.
We've improved deer trails by clearing fallen debris and those trails have become our foot paths. The deer keep the paths maintained through their browsing and constant passage.
We have a lot of affection for our trees. If a fallen tree pins down lesser trees, we work to free them so that they may continue to flourish. They are like our children. Moreover, we are their children.
The carpet of wildflowers in spring heralds a joyful rebirth from the cold, naked winter. We've learned the flowers names and habits. And always, we're careful not to disturb them.
In autumn we collect hickory nuts from under the shagbarks, leaving half for the squirrels to cache and plant.
There is a large boulder with a sloping side that serves as an ideal backrest. We'll sometimes sit quietly with our backs to the rock until the woods come alive with activity. Moonlit nights become a haunting, nocturnal symphony. It's the greatest show on earth, eerie and surreal.
When we bought this property and discovered it backed up to hundreds of acres of woodland we felt as if we'd won the lottery. It had always been our fantasy to live in a remote woodland so we feel giddy with fat fortune.
Our woods bring us solace, wonder, and a sense of renewal. We feel rich beyond imagination.
We've improved deer trails by clearing fallen debris and those trails have become our foot paths. The deer keep the paths maintained through their browsing and constant passage.
We have a lot of affection for our trees. If a fallen tree pins down lesser trees, we work to free them so that they may continue to flourish. They are like our children. Moreover, we are their children.
The carpet of wildflowers in spring heralds a joyful rebirth from the cold, naked winter. We've learned the flowers names and habits. And always, we're careful not to disturb them.
In autumn we collect hickory nuts from under the shagbarks, leaving half for the squirrels to cache and plant.
There is a large boulder with a sloping side that serves as an ideal backrest. We'll sometimes sit quietly with our backs to the rock until the woods come alive with activity. Moonlit nights become a haunting, nocturnal symphony. It's the greatest show on earth, eerie and surreal.
When we bought this property and discovered it backed up to hundreds of acres of woodland we felt as if we'd won the lottery. It had always been our fantasy to live in a remote woodland so we feel giddy with fat fortune.
Our woods bring us solace, wonder, and a sense of renewal. We feel rich beyond imagination.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Fighting Fire
I'm really not one for heroics. I've never beat up the bad guy or saved the girl but I did once save Oakland county from... well, from me.
I was on a day trip to do some nature photography in early spring. It was a beautiful day but quite windy. I found a nice spot on top of a hill and sat on a log to enjoy my sandwich and a beer. I love campfires so I gathered a few dead tree limbs and kindled a small fire. Shortly thereafter, a stab of wind kicked at the fire and sent some sparks into the tinder-dry grasses. I jumped to my feet to stomp on it but before I could, fire was racing down the hill.
My stomping had little effect so I yanked off my beloved denim jacket and started swatting. I was gaining some control on the sides but the wind kept pushing the fire farther down the hill so I knew I'd have to meet it head on rather than working the flanks.
The wind was from the north and all of Oakland county lie to the south.
Though in a complete panic with adrenalin flowing like a river, I could envision the lead story; Conflagration burns from Sunday through Tuesday, leaving hundreds homeless and destroying twenty square miles of forest land in northern Oakland county. The fire, which was thought to have been created by a mishap involving a cow and a lamp turned out to have been caused by the reckless behavior of a careless idiot. He is tentatively identified as Bud Beeler of Oxford.
I stood my ground in the path of the inferno and flailed with the jacket at roughly two hundred beats per minute. In the throes of incredible fury, I began gaining the upper hand and pushed past my exhaustion into a mechanical frenzy.
And then it was over. I collapsed to my hands and knees among the char and wept briefly before vomiting.
After a delirious period of shaking I felt stable enough to get to my feet and walk wearily back to my car. Twisting the rear view mirror down to get a look at my red, blistered face, I didn't recognize myself. I used to have a moustache and eyebrows. The front of my scalp was a hard mat of melted hair.
It was several days before I stopped coughing up soot and just as long for the ache of my depleted muscles to ease.
I'm less trusting of fire now. When I build a campfire, I use more caution. And I like to have a denim jacket handy... just in case.
I was on a day trip to do some nature photography in early spring. It was a beautiful day but quite windy. I found a nice spot on top of a hill and sat on a log to enjoy my sandwich and a beer. I love campfires so I gathered a few dead tree limbs and kindled a small fire. Shortly thereafter, a stab of wind kicked at the fire and sent some sparks into the tinder-dry grasses. I jumped to my feet to stomp on it but before I could, fire was racing down the hill.
My stomping had little effect so I yanked off my beloved denim jacket and started swatting. I was gaining some control on the sides but the wind kept pushing the fire farther down the hill so I knew I'd have to meet it head on rather than working the flanks.
The wind was from the north and all of Oakland county lie to the south.
Though in a complete panic with adrenalin flowing like a river, I could envision the lead story; Conflagration burns from Sunday through Tuesday, leaving hundreds homeless and destroying twenty square miles of forest land in northern Oakland county. The fire, which was thought to have been created by a mishap involving a cow and a lamp turned out to have been caused by the reckless behavior of a careless idiot. He is tentatively identified as Bud Beeler of Oxford.
I stood my ground in the path of the inferno and flailed with the jacket at roughly two hundred beats per minute. In the throes of incredible fury, I began gaining the upper hand and pushed past my exhaustion into a mechanical frenzy.
And then it was over. I collapsed to my hands and knees among the char and wept briefly before vomiting.
After a delirious period of shaking I felt stable enough to get to my feet and walk wearily back to my car. Twisting the rear view mirror down to get a look at my red, blistered face, I didn't recognize myself. I used to have a moustache and eyebrows. The front of my scalp was a hard mat of melted hair.
It was several days before I stopped coughing up soot and just as long for the ache of my depleted muscles to ease.
I'm less trusting of fire now. When I build a campfire, I use more caution. And I like to have a denim jacket handy... just in case.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Moth and Flame
We were sitting at the campfire when a May beetle (June bug) lumbered into the fire light. After circling the fire's perimeter a few times his flight path became more and more elliptical until he flew right through the heat column. The blast of heat knocked him to the ground about 4 or 5 feet away. Since he didn't move for a couple of minutes we assumed he was dead. But then we heard buzzing and once again he was airborne. This next sortie was even more awkward and he seemed barely able to remain aloft.
Again he flew through the fire but this time he was badly burned and crumpled to the ground about a foot from the fire pit's edge.
After lying on his back several minutes he slowly righted himself and used his last bit of life to laboriously approach the fire pit. With slow determination he crested the field-stone barrier and tumbled down into the coals.
I've never understood the moth and flame phenomenon. I thought insects were "programmed" to survive. Apparently the propensity for light/heat is so strong that it supersedes the survival instinct.
Why?
This compulsion must serve some purpose but I sure don't know what it is. I think it's very, very odd.
Again he flew through the fire but this time he was badly burned and crumpled to the ground about a foot from the fire pit's edge.
After lying on his back several minutes he slowly righted himself and used his last bit of life to laboriously approach the fire pit. With slow determination he crested the field-stone barrier and tumbled down into the coals.
I've never understood the moth and flame phenomenon. I thought insects were "programmed" to survive. Apparently the propensity for light/heat is so strong that it supersedes the survival instinct.
Why?
This compulsion must serve some purpose but I sure don't know what it is. I think it's very, very odd.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Firewood In
Summer ran past in the blink of an eye. Was I not paying attention?
Sometimes I feel like I'm on a brake-less train gaining speed down a steep grade and I dread what's at the bottom of the hill. I wish there was a way to slow things down and make summer last.
But here we are again. So we get the firewood in, chimney swept, storm windows up and settle in for another long, cold winter. Our property borders a vast woodland so fuel is readily at hand.
We cut, split, and store wood year round and try to stay at least a season or two ahead in our supply. Typically, we go through about a dozen face cords during the winter.
The downstairs fireplace has an efficient insert that completely heats the basement so that's where we spend most of our time during these cold, dark hours. The heat rolls along the ceiling until it finds the stairwell and billows on up. The thermostat is at the top of the stairs where it feels the heat and prevents the furnace from kicking on. We keep the thermostat set at 50 degrees because there are things we'd rather spend our money on than fuel oil. Even so, after we've gone to bed and the embers have grown dim, the furnace will kick on two or three times during the night.
We use an electric blanket on the bed and take space heaters into the bathroom for showers or to have at our feet during meals. Our electric bill goes up about $50 a month during winter but that's nothing compared to what the fuel oil would cost.
The emerald ash borer has decimated our ash trees so an ample supply of fuel is assured for the next several years. This helps in that I don't have to go so deeply into the woods to harvest.
It broke my heart to see the ashes failing but that's natural selection at work. Once the ashes are all dead, I suppose the borer will die, too. And then maybe the ashes will make a comeback. More likely though, some other tree species will succeed in their place. So it goes.
Being a native of Michigan, I've learned to welcome winter like an old friend. But like most visitors it eventually wears its welcome out. A short stay would be fine but...five months?
Alas, we slouch along, well past the days of looking out in wonder at freshly fallen snow. Skiing? Sledding? Been there, done that. The thrill is gone. Sure, by Christmas the days start getting longer, but who needs longer days like this?
Now the urge is to hunker down, pull the afghan to our chins and dream of places warm.
Ah, but spring will come. It's an immutable law of nature. Slowly there will be more green than white, more blue than gray, more energy than lethargy. We'll be renewed! And maybe this year we'll savor it even more, with a joy that those poor folks stuck in warm climates just can't appreciate.
Sometimes I feel like I'm on a brake-less train gaining speed down a steep grade and I dread what's at the bottom of the hill. I wish there was a way to slow things down and make summer last.
But here we are again. So we get the firewood in, chimney swept, storm windows up and settle in for another long, cold winter. Our property borders a vast woodland so fuel is readily at hand.
We cut, split, and store wood year round and try to stay at least a season or two ahead in our supply. Typically, we go through about a dozen face cords during the winter.
The downstairs fireplace has an efficient insert that completely heats the basement so that's where we spend most of our time during these cold, dark hours. The heat rolls along the ceiling until it finds the stairwell and billows on up. The thermostat is at the top of the stairs where it feels the heat and prevents the furnace from kicking on. We keep the thermostat set at 50 degrees because there are things we'd rather spend our money on than fuel oil. Even so, after we've gone to bed and the embers have grown dim, the furnace will kick on two or three times during the night.
We use an electric blanket on the bed and take space heaters into the bathroom for showers or to have at our feet during meals. Our electric bill goes up about $50 a month during winter but that's nothing compared to what the fuel oil would cost.
The emerald ash borer has decimated our ash trees so an ample supply of fuel is assured for the next several years. This helps in that I don't have to go so deeply into the woods to harvest.
It broke my heart to see the ashes failing but that's natural selection at work. Once the ashes are all dead, I suppose the borer will die, too. And then maybe the ashes will make a comeback. More likely though, some other tree species will succeed in their place. So it goes.
Being a native of Michigan, I've learned to welcome winter like an old friend. But like most visitors it eventually wears its welcome out. A short stay would be fine but...five months?
Alas, we slouch along, well past the days of looking out in wonder at freshly fallen snow. Skiing? Sledding? Been there, done that. The thrill is gone. Sure, by Christmas the days start getting longer, but who needs longer days like this?
Now the urge is to hunker down, pull the afghan to our chins and dream of places warm.
Ah, but spring will come. It's an immutable law of nature. Slowly there will be more green than white, more blue than gray, more energy than lethargy. We'll be renewed! And maybe this year we'll savor it even more, with a joy that those poor folks stuck in warm climates just can't appreciate.
Ice Storm
Hallelujah!
After five days of living in the stone age our power is finally back on. This may sound like a cliche but after nearly a week off-grid you come to realize how good we modern folks have it compared to our not-so-distant ancestors. Actually, our lineage diverged from that of other apes six to eight million years ago. And that's a long time to live without electricity!
The ice storm took down many of our favorite trees and all of our favorite power lines. A mere quarter inch of ice adds about 500 pounds to a wire stretched between two typical Edison poles. We were hit with almost a full inch of crystal clear so the trees and power lines had little chance. The landscape is a surreal combination of beauty and utter devastation. Nature can have a savage hand.
Within minutes of the outage our neighborhood was humming with power generators but alas, we don't own one. Ya see, we've only had three lengthy outages in the last ten years so it's hard for us to justify the expense of a tool so seldom used. Well, we're starting to rethink that now.
When the power first went out we were settling in to watch a borrowed library video -- a typical cozy night in our comfortable lives. It was disappointing when the power quit but once we got out the camping gear and oil lamps it became kinda fun. It was warm enough near the fire so we slept on the floor in front of the hearth. But after a couple of days the fun was fading and without water our toilets were redolent of sewage. So we packed buckets with snow and set them by the fire to melt. Then we poured water into the toilet tanks for to flush.
On the third day (Christmas) we treated ourselves with showers down at Mom's house. A luxury, that!
The next night our power came back on and we started dancing and singing. But in less than a minute it was gone again. Jubilation turned to despair - another cold, dark night ahead. Grumble, grumble, grumble...
When it came back on 24 hours later we tried not to get excited and braced ourselves for more disappointment. After an hour passed we were pretty confident that the ordeal was over. But we didn't turn on the TV since we weren't quite ready to resume our old way of life. We were able to spend the night in our own bed with an electric blanket and got our first shiver-less sleep in nearly a week.
It's funny. As this normalcy returns to our lives there comes with it a tinge of guilt over our complacency. We really are becoming soft. But this test almost proves we have the mettle to meet the next challenge. And that feels pretty good.
I wrote this on the library computer because we have no phone or Internet yet but you know what?
I kind of like it.
After five days of living in the stone age our power is finally back on. This may sound like a cliche but after nearly a week off-grid you come to realize how good we modern folks have it compared to our not-so-distant ancestors. Actually, our lineage diverged from that of other apes six to eight million years ago. And that's a long time to live without electricity!
The ice storm took down many of our favorite trees and all of our favorite power lines. A mere quarter inch of ice adds about 500 pounds to a wire stretched between two typical Edison poles. We were hit with almost a full inch of crystal clear so the trees and power lines had little chance. The landscape is a surreal combination of beauty and utter devastation. Nature can have a savage hand.
Within minutes of the outage our neighborhood was humming with power generators but alas, we don't own one. Ya see, we've only had three lengthy outages in the last ten years so it's hard for us to justify the expense of a tool so seldom used. Well, we're starting to rethink that now.
When the power first went out we were settling in to watch a borrowed library video -- a typical cozy night in our comfortable lives. It was disappointing when the power quit but once we got out the camping gear and oil lamps it became kinda fun. It was warm enough near the fire so we slept on the floor in front of the hearth. But after a couple of days the fun was fading and without water our toilets were redolent of sewage. So we packed buckets with snow and set them by the fire to melt. Then we poured water into the toilet tanks for to flush.
On the third day (Christmas) we treated ourselves with showers down at Mom's house. A luxury, that!
The next night our power came back on and we started dancing and singing. But in less than a minute it was gone again. Jubilation turned to despair - another cold, dark night ahead. Grumble, grumble, grumble...
When it came back on 24 hours later we tried not to get excited and braced ourselves for more disappointment. After an hour passed we were pretty confident that the ordeal was over. But we didn't turn on the TV since we weren't quite ready to resume our old way of life. We were able to spend the night in our own bed with an electric blanket and got our first shiver-less sleep in nearly a week.
It's funny. As this normalcy returns to our lives there comes with it a tinge of guilt over our complacency. We really are becoming soft. But this test almost proves we have the mettle to meet the next challenge. And that feels pretty good.
I wrote this on the library computer because we have no phone or Internet yet but you know what?
I kind of like it.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Hag Fest
Back in the 80's a friend/co-worker hosted a yearly "hag-fest" at his forty acre farm out near Leonard. It started out as a fairly small event every October but grew through the years into a gathering of about a hundred people with a burn pile the size of a small house. Everyone was encouraged to bring wood for the fire but Jim, the host, had been gathering wood all summer for the event.
At the top of the pile emerged a pole with the "hag" tied to it. And there were about a dozen small campfires around the property where people would gather in small groups during the evening. At midnight the main fire would be lit and become a massive, furious fireball so hot and bright that people had to stand back about a hundred feet to watch.
I remember getting creeped out once when a fellow standing behind me said, "Damn, I wish it was a real hag up there."
Eventually things began to get out-of-hand and we were getting visits from the county sheriff. So we had to put an end to this October tradition. Pity. I have many fond memories of the event.
Misspent youth? Hell, no! These were heady times and I'd go back to do it all again if I could. I've heard it said that youth is wasted on the young but I don't think we wasted a moment.
At the top of the pile emerged a pole with the "hag" tied to it. And there were about a dozen small campfires around the property where people would gather in small groups during the evening. At midnight the main fire would be lit and become a massive, furious fireball so hot and bright that people had to stand back about a hundred feet to watch.
I remember getting creeped out once when a fellow standing behind me said, "Damn, I wish it was a real hag up there."
Eventually things began to get out-of-hand and we were getting visits from the county sheriff. So we had to put an end to this October tradition. Pity. I have many fond memories of the event.
Misspent youth? Hell, no! These were heady times and I'd go back to do it all again if I could. I've heard it said that youth is wasted on the young but I don't think we wasted a moment.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Evil Tree
I got the rest of that wicked tree down today. I've been eyeing it warily for weeks now. It had shaken my confidence much like the time I was broadsided at an intersection. For several years I got the willies whenever driving through there. That intersection doesn't scare me anymore, but this tree still does.
Normally, when I fell a tree, I drop it where I want it - like calling eight ball in the side pocket. But this one fooled me and I'm still not sure how. The mishap seemed to defy physics, really.
Since the tree was close to the barn I thought it best to limb it out before the final felling. I was at the top of an extension ladder cutting a large limb that should have fallen away from the tree and barn. But when I completed the cut, the branch bore straight down like a pile-driver, taking me with it. I briefly caught a glimpse of the ground rushing up and thought, 'This is gonna be bad'. Unlike a cat, I twisted my body in order to land on my back but my hip took the brunt of the impact and my head took the secondary. Once I was able to open my eyes, I saw blue and green and Chris, standing above me who said, "Don't move!". So of course I moved my arms and legs and was relieved to find them working.
I said, "Chris, I'm fine. I just want to lie here for a little while".
"You're not fine. There's a big puddle of blood under your head."
Once she was sure I would remain conscious, she ran to the house and got a towel for to hold against the wound.
I told the emergency doctor I thought the cut might be from the chainsaw but he said it was an impact laceration which happens when the energy of an impact needs to escape and opens the skin to release pressure, like when you drop a melon on the ground. It splits.
He used a staple gun to close up the wound, x-rayed my neck and hip, and cat-scanned my brain. He poked around my abdomen checking for internal injuries and finally let me go home. I was amazed to have so little pain that night but by the next day, the chickens were home to roost.
One of the side effects of concussion is excessive sleeping. They told Chris to wake me every two hours, which she did for almost two days. I'm still sleeping a lot more than normal but things are healing quite nicely. They say that accumulated head injuries take a toll on brain function. I've had more than my share and that would explain a lot.
I now shudder to think of how things might have gone and chalk up my good fortune to fools' luck.
And now for my next trick...
El Budro, honorary Wallenda!
Normally, when I fell a tree, I drop it where I want it - like calling eight ball in the side pocket. But this one fooled me and I'm still not sure how. The mishap seemed to defy physics, really.
Since the tree was close to the barn I thought it best to limb it out before the final felling. I was at the top of an extension ladder cutting a large limb that should have fallen away from the tree and barn. But when I completed the cut, the branch bore straight down like a pile-driver, taking me with it. I briefly caught a glimpse of the ground rushing up and thought, 'This is gonna be bad'. Unlike a cat, I twisted my body in order to land on my back but my hip took the brunt of the impact and my head took the secondary. Once I was able to open my eyes, I saw blue and green and Chris, standing above me who said, "Don't move!". So of course I moved my arms and legs and was relieved to find them working.
I said, "Chris, I'm fine. I just want to lie here for a little while".
"You're not fine. There's a big puddle of blood under your head."
Once she was sure I would remain conscious, she ran to the house and got a towel for to hold against the wound.
I told the emergency doctor I thought the cut might be from the chainsaw but he said it was an impact laceration which happens when the energy of an impact needs to escape and opens the skin to release pressure, like when you drop a melon on the ground. It splits.
He used a staple gun to close up the wound, x-rayed my neck and hip, and cat-scanned my brain. He poked around my abdomen checking for internal injuries and finally let me go home. I was amazed to have so little pain that night but by the next day, the chickens were home to roost.
One of the side effects of concussion is excessive sleeping. They told Chris to wake me every two hours, which she did for almost two days. I'm still sleeping a lot more than normal but things are healing quite nicely. They say that accumulated head injuries take a toll on brain function. I've had more than my share and that would explain a lot.
I now shudder to think of how things might have gone and chalk up my good fortune to fools' luck.
And now for my next trick...
El Budro, honorary Wallenda!
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Natural Drama
Because I live in a rural area with a pond right outside our windows we see a lot of natural drama. Sometimes it's more drama than I care to witness.
One time I was walking in the yard and came across a garden snake attempting to swallow a frog. He had completely engulfed the frog's leg and I could tell there was no way he was gonna be able to swallow the rest of that frog. Yes, snakes can unhinge their jaws but he had already done that in order to manage the leg. The frog had run out of fight and seemed resigned to his situation. Since a snake cannot unswallow a frog, we had a "situation".
I went to the house to summon Chris (not sure why) and as we approached the scene, a red-tailed hawk swooped down, picked them both up and flew off. That resolved the situation.
Another time, I heard constant splashing on the other side of the pond so I went to investigate. I found a female mallard furiously beating her wings against the water trying to get airborne but she seemed to be caught on something. I knew there was some old fence wire through there so I thought she may have become entangled in it. I went back to the house for some wire-cutters in the hope of freeing her. I waded out to the duck and as I reached for her a huge snapping turtle rose to the surface with a firm grip on her leg. I broke off a dead piece of snag and whacked the turtle's back. At that moment the duck flew off...minus her leg. Then the turtle turned toward me. Chris urged me to return to shore and I needed little persuasion.
The duck alit awkwardly on a log near the far shore and sat there for several hours before finally rolling off into the water. It was sad for me.
There was no sign of her the next day. I'm certain she became food for either the turtle or some other opportunist. Her cycle was completed.
Life is hard for them...for all of us. I know I shouldn't anthropomorphize. It needs to be that way.
One time I was walking in the yard and came across a garden snake attempting to swallow a frog. He had completely engulfed the frog's leg and I could tell there was no way he was gonna be able to swallow the rest of that frog. Yes, snakes can unhinge their jaws but he had already done that in order to manage the leg. The frog had run out of fight and seemed resigned to his situation. Since a snake cannot unswallow a frog, we had a "situation".
I went to the house to summon Chris (not sure why) and as we approached the scene, a red-tailed hawk swooped down, picked them both up and flew off. That resolved the situation.
Another time, I heard constant splashing on the other side of the pond so I went to investigate. I found a female mallard furiously beating her wings against the water trying to get airborne but she seemed to be caught on something. I knew there was some old fence wire through there so I thought she may have become entangled in it. I went back to the house for some wire-cutters in the hope of freeing her. I waded out to the duck and as I reached for her a huge snapping turtle rose to the surface with a firm grip on her leg. I broke off a dead piece of snag and whacked the turtle's back. At that moment the duck flew off...minus her leg. Then the turtle turned toward me. Chris urged me to return to shore and I needed little persuasion.
The duck alit awkwardly on a log near the far shore and sat there for several hours before finally rolling off into the water. It was sad for me.
There was no sign of her the next day. I'm certain she became food for either the turtle or some other opportunist. Her cycle was completed.
Life is hard for them...for all of us. I know I shouldn't anthropomorphize. It needs to be that way.
Destroyed on Maiden
I came by the nickname Ribcracker in the early days of my aero-modeling hobby. We built the frames of our aircraft with thin strips of balsa called stringers, and longerons, also called "ribs".
While learning to fly, many of my planes met grim fates returning to earth at high rates of speed, sometimes leaving a smoldering crater in terra firma. Thus came the name Ribcracker.
In one such incident I had spent the dark hours of winter meticulously crafting a Stevens Aeromodel Cap 232. I took my time and made sure everything was perfect. All told, I put close to a hundred hours into the build.
The wind was calm the night I tightened the last screw so I walked into the field and gently set my precious creation down on the grass strip, took a deep breath and advanced the throttle. The plane rolled out about 10 feet and nosed over. So I would have to hand-launch it. I threw it skyward and cracked open the throttle. The high motor torque caused the plane to hook toward the tree line about 20 feet to my left and I had to make a split second decision whether to kill the throttle or try to clear the trees. I made the wrong choice. Wham! Debris rained down from the trees like confetti.
I'd say the plane was airborne maybe two seconds. One hundred hours of work. Two seconds. I never even got a chance to get a picture of this beauty.
That is the downside of this hobby. Your hopes and expectations well up with such anticipation that you can barely catch your breath. And then comes the elation - or the agony.
To deal with the shock I made myself numb and spent a fitful night in bed.
The next day I began a new build. And once again I felt the hopes and expectations welling up.
While learning to fly, many of my planes met grim fates returning to earth at high rates of speed, sometimes leaving a smoldering crater in terra firma. Thus came the name Ribcracker.
In one such incident I had spent the dark hours of winter meticulously crafting a Stevens Aeromodel Cap 232. I took my time and made sure everything was perfect. All told, I put close to a hundred hours into the build.
The wind was calm the night I tightened the last screw so I walked into the field and gently set my precious creation down on the grass strip, took a deep breath and advanced the throttle. The plane rolled out about 10 feet and nosed over. So I would have to hand-launch it. I threw it skyward and cracked open the throttle. The high motor torque caused the plane to hook toward the tree line about 20 feet to my left and I had to make a split second decision whether to kill the throttle or try to clear the trees. I made the wrong choice. Wham! Debris rained down from the trees like confetti.
I'd say the plane was airborne maybe two seconds. One hundred hours of work. Two seconds. I never even got a chance to get a picture of this beauty.
That is the downside of this hobby. Your hopes and expectations well up with such anticipation that you can barely catch your breath. And then comes the elation - or the agony.
To deal with the shock I made myself numb and spent a fitful night in bed.
The next day I began a new build. And once again I felt the hopes and expectations welling up.
Young Ian McNabb
I guess I never expected to be a grandfather so I never imagined what it might be like. But now it's sinking in and I'm very excited. I can hardly wait until Ian is old enough to come along with me and I've been dreaming of the things we might do together. He might learn things from me. And maybe me from him.
I'll admit that Ian has a boatload of toys and some are from us but I don't intend to have a colorful plastic menagerie at our house. I'd like his experience here to be more like mine was in my youth. His primary toys around here will be rocks and sticks. Hey, we turned out okay, didn't we? Well, didn't we?
We'll walk in the woods and learn to identify insects, trees, birds, and butterflies. We'll bring binoculars, both he and me.
We'll build campfires. I'll let him light the fire and poke it with a stick.
We'll build birdhouses and keep track of who moves in.
We'll ride bikes to far places just to see what we can see.
We'll drink from the hose.
We'll shoot .22's at cans and stumps once he's learned the rules of firearms safety.
We'll sing Beatles songs and play harmonicas.
We'll go on picnics, set out a blanket, bring a Frisbee.
We'll have a secret handshake.
We'll fly radio-controlled planes and once they're three-mistakes high, I'll hand him the controls to try his hand.
We'll go snorkeling in local lakes to see the bass and bluegills. And we'll make gigantic ice cream sundaes. Big ones, yeah!
We'll sneak around in the woods at night with flashlights.
We'll build and launch model rockets. He'll run, trying to catch them as they parachute back to earth.
We'll catch frogs and snakes, identify them with our field guides and put them back where we found them, wishing them a pleasant day.
We'll look at the moon with our telescope and learn the names of the constellations.
We'll build a tree house where he can go to be alone if he wants. I'll make sure he's not bored.
Maybe we'll just lie on our backs and stare at the clouds, making up stories about the shapes we see.
The possibilities do seem endless. Yeah, it will be quite an adventure. I see great things ahead. Well, actually...I dread the day he asks to borrow my car.
He's a great kid, really. He lights up like the 4th of July when he sees us. And he's a mugger who loves to smile. He'll smile at you until you smile back and once you do, he beams.
We babysit once a week while George and Emmy are working so we've been able to establish a tight bond.
A couple days ago he was acting sleepy so I put him in his crib thingy. But he wanted none of that so I sat him in my lap and read to him until he was asleep. I gently laid him in the crib and tip-toed out of the room. Chris took a nap on the couch while I checked my email on the laptop. After a while I heard some whimpering from his room that became downright sobbing. When I got to him he looked terrified. It may have been an "abandonment" thing or maybe a bad dream. I picked him up and told him everything was alright and that I would never leave him. He clung to me like wisteria to a post. I sat in the rocker with his arms tightly around my neck. His sobbing subsided and contentment slowly returned to his face. Within minutes he was back asleep. But this time I didn't put him in the crib. I was happy. And for the first time in my life I felt like a real father/grandfather. I never thought I possessed that instinct. But maybe I do after all.
Today is his first birthday and there's gonna be a party!
Sure hope I'm around for his 21st.
I'll admit that Ian has a boatload of toys and some are from us but I don't intend to have a colorful plastic menagerie at our house. I'd like his experience here to be more like mine was in my youth. His primary toys around here will be rocks and sticks. Hey, we turned out okay, didn't we? Well, didn't we?
We'll walk in the woods and learn to identify insects, trees, birds, and butterflies. We'll bring binoculars, both he and me.
We'll build campfires. I'll let him light the fire and poke it with a stick.
We'll build birdhouses and keep track of who moves in.
We'll ride bikes to far places just to see what we can see.
We'll drink from the hose.
We'll shoot .22's at cans and stumps once he's learned the rules of firearms safety.
We'll sing Beatles songs and play harmonicas.
We'll go on picnics, set out a blanket, bring a Frisbee.
We'll have a secret handshake.
We'll fly radio-controlled planes and once they're three-mistakes high, I'll hand him the controls to try his hand.
We'll go snorkeling in local lakes to see the bass and bluegills. And we'll make gigantic ice cream sundaes. Big ones, yeah!
We'll sneak around in the woods at night with flashlights.
We'll build and launch model rockets. He'll run, trying to catch them as they parachute back to earth.
We'll catch frogs and snakes, identify them with our field guides and put them back where we found them, wishing them a pleasant day.
We'll look at the moon with our telescope and learn the names of the constellations.
We'll build a tree house where he can go to be alone if he wants. I'll make sure he's not bored.
Maybe we'll just lie on our backs and stare at the clouds, making up stories about the shapes we see.
The possibilities do seem endless. Yeah, it will be quite an adventure. I see great things ahead. Well, actually...I dread the day he asks to borrow my car.
He's a great kid, really. He lights up like the 4th of July when he sees us. And he's a mugger who loves to smile. He'll smile at you until you smile back and once you do, he beams.
We babysit once a week while George and Emmy are working so we've been able to establish a tight bond.
A couple days ago he was acting sleepy so I put him in his crib thingy. But he wanted none of that so I sat him in my lap and read to him until he was asleep. I gently laid him in the crib and tip-toed out of the room. Chris took a nap on the couch while I checked my email on the laptop. After a while I heard some whimpering from his room that became downright sobbing. When I got to him he looked terrified. It may have been an "abandonment" thing or maybe a bad dream. I picked him up and told him everything was alright and that I would never leave him. He clung to me like wisteria to a post. I sat in the rocker with his arms tightly around my neck. His sobbing subsided and contentment slowly returned to his face. Within minutes he was back asleep. But this time I didn't put him in the crib. I was happy. And for the first time in my life I felt like a real father/grandfather. I never thought I possessed that instinct. But maybe I do after all.
Today is his first birthday and there's gonna be a party!
Sure hope I'm around for his 21st.
Rubber Lizard
Just before Christmas, Chris and I went to the Always Christmas store over in Canterbury Village to buy a "baby's first Christmas" ornament for our young grandson. This place is huge! They even have an area dedicated to Halloween with creepy ornaments like skulls, spiders and such. On the floor under one of the displays was a rubber lizard so I picked it up to return it to the shelf. I couldn't believe how real it looked and felt - soft and gooshie - so I had a closer look. Yep, it was alive - a handsome 6 to 7 inch spotted salamander.
Salamanders can't regulate their body temperatures internally and are quickly killed by extreme cold or dryness so putting him out in the snow wasn't an option. They normally over-winter by remaining buried in the soil or beneath logs and leaf litter but it was obviously too late for that. I rummaged in a trash bin and found a disposable coffee cup with a lid, put him in there and added a small amount of water from a drinking fountain since his skin seemed dry.
We thought we'd take him to a nature center up in Dryden (about ten miles north) since they have terrariums. But then we remembered an elementary school nearby that had a small nature center so we took a chance and tried the door. Open! The naturalist seemed glad to see us. We showed her our find and she looked dismayed as she said, "Let's see how cold he is." She held her finger to his skin and said, "He's okay!" with a big grin. Turns out they had recently "lost" a salamander and were glad to have a replacement.
We felt pretty good on the way home. Yeah, it's only a salamander - millions are born so that a few might survive. He may be insignificant in the grand scheme but finding him a home was significant to us and probably to him, too. It made me think of this old quote:
Teaching a child not to step on a caterpillar is as valuable to the child as it is to the caterpillar. -Bradley Miller
Salamanders can't regulate their body temperatures internally and are quickly killed by extreme cold or dryness so putting him out in the snow wasn't an option. They normally over-winter by remaining buried in the soil or beneath logs and leaf litter but it was obviously too late for that. I rummaged in a trash bin and found a disposable coffee cup with a lid, put him in there and added a small amount of water from a drinking fountain since his skin seemed dry.
We thought we'd take him to a nature center up in Dryden (about ten miles north) since they have terrariums. But then we remembered an elementary school nearby that had a small nature center so we took a chance and tried the door. Open! The naturalist seemed glad to see us. We showed her our find and she looked dismayed as she said, "Let's see how cold he is." She held her finger to his skin and said, "He's okay!" with a big grin. Turns out they had recently "lost" a salamander and were glad to have a replacement.
We felt pretty good on the way home. Yeah, it's only a salamander - millions are born so that a few might survive. He may be insignificant in the grand scheme but finding him a home was significant to us and probably to him, too. It made me think of this old quote:
Teaching a child not to step on a caterpillar is as valuable to the child as it is to the caterpillar. -Bradley Miller
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