Dogs can’t do geometry

Please imagine the following:

Two dogs intent on catching the rabbit if Dad (me) would just get his lard butt over here and open the door.

Rabbit, unconcerned, munching greens over behind the dog run.

Rabbit warren – and safety from dogs - is under the shed.

Dogs are closer to the shed than is the rabbit.

In geometric terms, we’re talking more or less about an isosceles triangle. The long hypotenuse side is   the path the rabbit needs to run in order to find safety under the shed. The dogs merely have to shoot down one of the short legs – preferably the one leading directly from the back door to the shed – at a speed more or less matching that of the rabbit to beat it to the shed.

You know what’s going to happen, right?

Hand on door…ready…go! (Crashing and much cussing from Dad as two dogs try to go through the door before it’s sufficiently open to allow them to pass through.)

Dogs run to where rabbit’s starting position was, except…

Rabbit, being no fool, heard the clamor and made a streak down the hypotenuse for the safety of the warren under the shed.

Dogs then run down the long leg, now far behind the rabbit, and end up looking stupid trying to stick dog-sized snouts down rabbit-sized hole.

Rabbit family cracks up laughing as youngest rabbit son paints another dog silhouette on the warren wall.

Dogs slink to the back door, refusing to look Dad in the eye.

Annexation

So, it seems that the city that totally surrounds this little (4,000 souls in 1,200 houses) county pocket is finally about to annex us. People in this area have been alternately fighting off or begging for annexation since I was about ten.

There have been innumerable arguments put forth on both sides but generally, they’ve run something like this:

·         Pro-annexation: We have city addresses and use city services and the city is prestigious and could raise our property values.

·         Anti-annexation: The city has a history of scooping up pockets like us to consolidate their property tax base, then using land use regulations to maintain areas like this simply as buffers to keep the riff-raff away from the city’s uber-wealthy core.

Truth is, they’re both partly right. Annexation would initially lower our property taxes which would then increase apace with property values. And the city does indeed have a dismal record in terms of using “merely middle class” areas like ours as buffers for the wealthy people who live on top of hills or closer to the water.

Ten years ago I would have joined the fray on the ‘no’ side but today, I’m a lukewarm ‘yes.’ The bottom line for me is that the city currently provides all our services, including fantastic fire protection and arguably the top public school district in the country (all five high schools made Newsweek’s Top 100, based on AP testing).  They bought our water district years ago and the library system – which is fantastic, doncha know – is county-wide, so our access wouldn’t change.

The one thing that would change immediately is that our first responder police protection would move from county to city. And the county sheriff’s department is really stretched, making response times for unincorporated pockets such as ours so long that the city already responds to most of our calls under the mutual assistance plan.

My question of the day – what is the question? I mean, it’s a fait accomplis in just about every way. Why is this a bone of contention? Since the outcome is certain, why in the world are we still arguing?

I know most of you don’t give a whit about our micro-political climate up here. That’s okay. I hope.

Parents untethered

I’m cooking about 10 pounds of bacon for the Senior Breakfast tomorrow morning. It’s a sly way of getting the celebrating seniors out of bed and off to the graduation rehearsal in time. I’ve always hated making bacon because of the spatters and after-smell. This time, I don’t mind so much. It’s kind of a labor of love, doncha know.

About this time tomorrow night, we’ll be watching Daughter Two give her valedictory speech and shortly after that, I’ll be helping put her and her buds on buses for the secret overnight party.

We got a taste of things to come this evening when Daughter Two left dinner early to head to work, leaving Mary and me to figure out what to do with ourselves the rest of the evening (other than cooking bacon, of course). Mary’s folding and sorting all the clothes that she’s going to encourage the daughters to give away. I’m stretching out the bacon gig.

Of course, we’re also assembling the supplies we’ll need for the grad party at Bjorn and Susan’s on Sunday. After that, sans doubt, we’ll find fewer and fewer daughter-centered activities to fill our time, and eventually there will come a point at which we’re faced with the fact that we have to live our own lives.

Hm-m-m…

Parcheesi, anyone?

Bloggus Interruptus

I did indeed make my last ever school lunch today, followed by a couple hours in the office, then volunteering at various graduation-related events. I'll pick up again manana.

A tradition of fine dining

Tomorrow morning I will get up, feed the dogs, start the coffee and then, for the last time ever set about making a school lunch for my daughter.  I’ve thought about this perhaps eight times today so I figure either I exorcise it by blogging or let it wake me up in the middle of the night.

I’ve thought a lot about passages of late but it never occurred to me that the last lunch-packing session would be such a rite for me.  I’ll make her half a ham and cheese sandwich on wheat with mayo and put it in a zip lock bag. I’ll lay it out with a piece of fruit, a paper towel folded four ways and perhaps fill her water bottle, if she hasn’t already done so herself. Not fancy, but it’s what she wants.

I wonder how many lunches I’ve made over the years?  I wouldn’t know how to start counting.  Let’s see… there were the three or four years in a row that Daughter One – and therefore Daughter Two, as well – demanded peanut butter and jelly.  It got to the point I couldn’t stand the smell of the stuff, and I truly like peanut butter and jelly.  But again, it was what they wanted.

I used to stop and get the girls those coconut-covered sno-ball things on the way from day care to home. It would keep them quiet long enough to get us safely home. I know, not a great thing to feed young minds but they turned out okay, so what?

Mary and Daughter Two used to have a Tuesday / Thursday night tradition of getting a quick bite between the time DT got out of choir rehearsal and the end of Daughter One’s rehearsal. It was too far to drive home in between rehearsals and one can only listen to the same songs rehearsed so many times.

For a long time, Daughter One would eat anything, so long as it came out of a Spaghetti-Ohs can. I didn’t like that stuff when I opened the first can and I liked it even less while opening can number whatever.

I’m tempted to make her a special lunch tomorrow but that would that mean today had been the REAL last day of the traditional school lunch, which absent a time machine would mean it had gone by unmarked and unnoticed. In order to be the last ever of something, it has to be that thing. Which means tomorrow’s lunch needs to be a school lunch like other school lunches. Not fancy, just half a sandwich and some sides.

And besides, it’s what she wants.

Buddies

On a flight into Idaho Falls a recently, I noticed a guy with a Navy veteran insignia on his hat. I thanked him for his service and asked what was bringing him to IF. Turns out he’s retired Navy and lives there. I’ll save you the early backs and forths.

We eventually determined that he and I had both been Navy nukes during overlapping years, although he went on to make it a career while I eventually had a change of heart and got out. We’d also served on the same ship, although in different divisions (think work centers organized by technical specialty), and again, at the same time. We worked for some of the same officers and shared some of the same memories, although not of each other. Heck, there were 1400 guys on the Long Beach at the time, and you tended to associated with the guys with whom you worked.

We were both aboard when she splashed a MiG and had the little set to with the patrol boat. We both recalled the time we went dead in the water due to an engineering drill gone bad and the insanity of standing Shore Patrol in Olongapo. Then came the day I was called from giving blood to be flown back to the States for discharge. I went on to where I am now and he continued in the Navy.

We’d been chatting about ten minutes when the guy sitting between us says one word, “Targets.”  The guy was a tuber nuke at the same time the other two of us were riding skimmers.  His one-word descriptor of us referred to the insistence among the Silent Service that there are only two types of ships in the world – submarines and targets. Even though he may be right, I could never bring myself to spend my life on a ship designed to sink. I’ll stick with skimmers, thank you very much!

The three of us talked on as the plane climbed out, reliving memories that were mutually recognizable if not perfectly shared. The young guy sitting cat-cornered from me listened raptly while the woman next to him look bored. We eventually wound down and put our noses into our individual reading matter, but I really enjoyed that few minutes of comraderie.

I read a bit by my friend Michael Young the other day that recalled coming back from overseas and the feeling of disconnection with the World. I didn’t have his experiences (thank goodness) and he didn’t have mine. Even the three of us on that plane didn’t share exactly parallel experiences. But we shared enough to allow each other the differences and celebrate the commonalities.

I haven’t sorted out what all this means to me, and I’m not sure I will. But Michael and those two guys on the plane are buddies whether or not we’re all destined to be friends. Buddy is a term that only a vet really understands and the ones like Michael understand best.

Michael, thank you for your service, buddy!

My Limerick

Plickety, slickety slack

Rickety, tickety tack
A fridget da friz
O gridget ba diz
Lickety, mickety mack.

Motivational Speakers

My drive to work today…Yes, yes, I drove the truck, okay?  Anyway, as I was saying, during my drive to work today…Oh, for Gawd’s sake, alright already!  I drove and I really should have taken the bus! Are you happy? I wasn’t green today and I wasted money as well as gas. In my defense, had I taken da bus, I wouldn’t have had the problem with traffic because I would have been in da bus lane which was unaffected by the streams of chowderheads heading down to the Seattle Center for the cavalcade of motivational speakers. In which case, I’d have had no idea whatever what to write about this evening, so just get over it and play along, okay?

Now, I don’t have anything against motivational speakers, so long as I don’t have to listen to them or deal with the insane crowds of lemmings heading in their direction beforehand like metal filings to a magnet.  On the other hand, I don’t really mind watching the dazed, glow-eyed zombies stumbling away from the venue afterward so long as none of them gets in my way, or oozes slime or chomps the head off a random bystander.

I’ve nothing against Colin Powell or Rudi Giuliani; I even read Powell’s book. But cramming myself into an arena with thousands of other people for the thrill of swiveling my head between watching his ant-sized body on the stage or his circus-sized bust up on the Jumbo-tron – I don’t think so! And who on earth would pay to see that Forbes guy speak? The guy’s as boring as a used toothpick! I’m sure Laura Bush is nice but there are lots of nice people around and I don’t think I need advice from the spouse of a failed President, thanks all the same.

Why do people need to pay someone else to convince them to get off their butts and do something useful? Is it really going to be transformative to watch a retired football player talk about “leading a team to victory” or a former news reader hold forth on how to take charge of your career? (By the way, the secret answer is: get a job as a network news reader so you’ll have hirelings to do everything but wipe your booboo and an unlimited supply of drooling sycophants to congratulate you for being you. Oh and a hair stylist, gotta have a hair stylist.)

 Don’t get me wrong – I watch Survivor, so I’m hardly in a position to flack folks for their choice of entertainment. But couldn’t they keep it in the privacy of their own homes, and stay the heck off the streets when I’m trying to get to work? Especially when I get up too late to catch the bus? Hm-m-m?

List De Bucket

Okay, I watched the movie and I have to say my goals might not be Hollywood material. Still, with Daughter Two going off to college, I'll lose my regular kayak partner, as well as my connection to volleyball officiating, volunteering for robotics and theatre – you know the drill.

 So, it’s time to think about filling time. Oops, what an unexciting way to think of it, huh?

Seriously, I have been pouring some serious brain juice into the whole idea of what I intend to accomplish / see / enjoy / contribute before I kack. And it turns out, there’s actually a lot I’d like to get to while I’m here. (By the bye, there’s a GREAT Phil Ochs song called While I’m Here that everyone with an ounce of caring should have memorized, but that’s just my opinion.)

I know this needs a lot of editing and I’m sure items will be added to and edited from the list as I go along. But for the moment, here’s the list, in no particular order.

Before I become fish food, I will:

1.       Visit every state in the union, at ground level - airport connections don’t count;

2.       See my daughters comfortably settled into their adult lives, at least the early chapters;

3.       Publish a serious work of fiction;

4.       Kayak the B.C. islands and inlets;

5.       Get my guitar chops back;

6.       Learn at least one ballroom dance so I can dance with Mary at our 50^th anniversary – I’ll be 83, so probably not a tango;

7.       Learn no more than one ballroom dance, because I sincerely hate dancing and probably still will when I’m  83;

8.       Take a serious driving tour with my brother;

9.       Hike to the top of Mt. Si and Half Dome;

10.   Finish fixing up this house, sell it and down-size;

11.   Ride the trans-Canada Railroad;

12.   Drive from here to Fairbanks;

13.   Visit Southeast Alaska – Juneau, Ketchikan, etc.;

14.   Finish my letters to my daughters;

15.   Communicate effectively with a dog on the first try;

16.   Have every piece of paper in our house in the place where it belongs, and no excess paper anywhere in the house, and everything else put away, and the house clutter cleared out, all at the same time;

17.   Get down to one car between us;

18.   Calve off one-third of my present body weight, preferably from the blubberier areas;

19.   Know for sure that the people I love know how much I love them;

20.   (To be determined);

Nest-making

So, tonight Daughter Two is going to make her decision as to which residences to prioritize in the freshman campus housing scramble. There are choices involving type of building, size of room, tradeoffs in amenities such as a lounge or a larger bathroom, number of roommates or suitemates, walking distance to the academic buildings, theme vs non-theme, pet-friendly or not...

It was much easier for me when I first moved out of my parents’ house. When one joins the Navy, the choices of residence become somewhat restricted. In the barracks during training, the choice was basically how close you wanted to be to the head. Trust me when I confide that on Saturday nights when you have the duty and just four hours to sleep before you have to report in, you want to be as far from the head as possible.

Aboard ship, you want to be in a cul-de-sac if you can. On the Long Beach, I racked in the ‘Dirty Dozen,’ which was twelve of the mid-level watch leaders, mostly second- class petty officers, in the farthest corner of the Upper B&M Berthing, as distant from noisy ladders and steamy shower stalls as one could get, and with no through traffic. We valued our sleep and John Denver  and Association tapes and wanted to be as far as possible from the younger guys (yeah, I was all of twenty, so what?) who liked their music metallic and loud. Willy D had a really nice TEAC reel-to-reel and a good set of speakers, and we saved it for times when the noisiest youngsters were out of the compartment. We wanted to actually listen to our music. Refined tastes, doncha know.

I used to assign myself to the mid-watch, midnight to 0400 and then the forenoon watch, 0800 to noon.  People thought I was crazy – as the keeper of the Watch, Quarter and Station Bill for the seventy guys in B Division, I could have assigned myself to any watch rotation I wanted.  Most guys in my position would have taken a 4-on, 8-off set with one of the 8-offs being at night. But not me.

The thing is, I loved midwatch. I’d get a mid-rats snack at 2300, then stand my watch in the propulsion plant, getting off at 0400. I’d catch a quick shower (after four hours in a steam plant, one takes on a glow, so to speak) and head up to the mess decks for an early breakfast. Full and clean, I’d hit the rail in time to watch the sun rise out of the depths, then head down to my rack to read or to the cranny behind the blast screen for the #2 Terrier missile  launcher to play guitar and sing some songs without kibitzers. 0730 would see me back in the plant “getting the picture” for my forenoon watch.

I’d usually do my work maintaining equipment or teach onboard firefighting for a couple of hours after watch, then hit my rack for uninterrupted sleep until time to start the cycle over again. It was my underway routine, into which I settled comfortably over time. I got to the point that I could roll over and sit up abruptly just as the Messenger Of The Watch was about to shake me awake, scaring the bejeesus out of more than one Fireman Apprentice.

After all these years, although I’ve forgotten most of the faces and names, my personal routine remains etched in my mind. It was a routine that I defined for myself for the first time in my life. Other than being on time for watch and keeping up with my work, my schedule was my own and I made it just that – my own.

I never had the university experience. Neither did Mary. Daughter One is a senior at university but close enough to home to lean on us occasionally (and us on her, if we’re honest). Each year, she’s changed from dorm to apartment to house and each year, she’s had to re-set her routine so that it served her, rather than the other way around.

But Daughter Two will be across the country and will not have the option of coming home to decompress some weekends. As was the case for me aboard ship, she’ll have to define and settle into a living routine that works for her on the long haul. She may struggle at first, but it will come. By the time she’s there a month, the university will have become her new ‘here.’  Our home will become one of many ‘theres.’

And I suppose that’s the way it should be.  

Time Marches On

Daughter Two is up in her bedroom addressing high school graduation announcements and choosing which dorms she wants to request for college.  Wasn’t it just this afternoon that she was decorating the kitchen wall with marinara sauce from her perch in the high chair?

Daughter One is moving out of her apartment preparatory to a performance tour in Europe, after which she’ll head off to work at Disney for the summer. Surely, it was no more than three days ago that I studied for my accounting series sitting in the hallway outside her bedroom so she wouldn’t worry about the monsters outside her window.

I’m not feeling very profound at the moment. I’m just missing the little girls that used to live in our house. Of course, I love and respect the women who’ve replaced them.  I can’t wait to peek around the next corner of their futures. But at the same time, can’t it all just slow down, just a little?

Uh-oh!

Try as I might, I've yet to notice the absence of anyone holy.

I'm beginning to wonder if perchance the Rapture did indeed come off, but NONE of us made it. Anyone recall what's supposed to happen next? Something about horsemen, isn't it?

My List of Lists

I just realized I haven’t compiled a list in awhile. I like lists. Lists are how I keep my life organized. In fact, every time I sort through a drawer, I find old lists – things to do, things to get, places to go.

Of course, it’s a rare occurrence when I actually cross the last item off a list. But that’s okay, it’s all about the list itself.

So, herewith, my latest list of the lists I’d like to make:

·         People who make me laugh, even when they’re not trying

·         People I would love to see run for office just for the entertainment value because I would never vote for any of them

·         A dozen places I want to kayak

·         Or hike

·         Or just visit

·         Movies I’d like to see

·         Food I could eat at every sitting

·         Food I won’t eat even under pain of death, starting with broccoli

·         Six reasons not to visit Antarctica

·         Languages I don’t speak fluently

·         Colors / patterns one should not wear if one is shaped like me

·         Jokes that are still funny after all these years

·         8 places one should never scratch, even if one re-e-e-eally needs to

·         3,268 politicians who annoy me, rank ordered

·         Injuries that make me cringe

·         Favorite fair foods

·         Ways to torture my daughters’ dates

·         Other ways to piss off my daughters

·         Projects I’ll get around to, sometime

·         Bones I’ve never broken

·         25 uses for mustard that have nothing to do with eating

·         Words I always read wrong and then feel foolish when I go to look them up

·         Odin’s 10 dumbest doggie expressions

·         The first three things I want to do after the nest goes empty

·         Topics I should write about

First Jobs

Daughter Two got hired for her first real job today. Oh, she’s worked in a zillion volunteer slots, but this one pays money. And it’s a big deal for her.

I remember my first real job. I mean, I had several paper routes and mowed lawns and swept hair for the local barber who by the bye, is the father of my current barbers, brother and sister.  But my first real job at fifteen was as a busboy in a restaurant. I went there after school and bussed tables in the coffee shop and then waited around until two in the morning so I could clean up the hors d’ouvre trays and steam table in the bar after the alcohol was all sealed up.

Between high school and waiting to go into the Navy and about the first year post-Navy while I made my first attempt at college, I worked in a lot of non-career positions: slinging burgers, hooking (not the kind you just thought), running a silk-screen machine and a donkey press, driving a forklift, driving an ambulance before ambulance drivers had to actually know anything more sophisticated than scoop-and-run.  I’ve sung for my supper, performed for weddings and put glue into bottles. I even printed the bottles and tubes for naughty sexual lubricants. Now, that was a high point.

I don’t recall all that much about many of the filler jobs I’ve had, but I do recall the faces of the people I worked with on that first one. Lonnie the sous chef taught me to make good stock pot. Barbara the aging waitress showed me the ropes and made sure I didn’t get shorted on my share of the tips. The owner, a big guy with the huge nose and florid face of a regular drinker was an unapproachable presence, constantly talking soto voce with the prissy sommelier, a slimy guy with way too much hair grease who I suspected was shtumping the main dining room hostess.

I remember the pride I took in clearing, cleaning and setting up a table efficiently so my waitresses would have a good turn rate and thus make more money. Making my own shakes for my dinner break and being treated to Lonnie’s special concoction of the day. I remember the times I had to fill in at scullery and wondering how any human being could cycle pots and dishes and silverware from dirty to clean fast enough to avoid a wall of mess forming on the breakdown table.

I recall the night I came home at 3:00am after cleaning the bar setup and was pulled over by a cop who decided I fit the description of the child molester / murderer they were looking for and how warm the pavement was under my scraped cheek after he decided he didn’t like my answer to his first question. I felt bad and certainly less cheeky when I found out why they’d stopped me and even today, whenever I pass Harwood Road, I wonder about that little girl.

My first real job. It wasn’t anything special; in fact I suppose it was menial. But it meant I was part of the world, known to someone other than my family and friends and my biology teacher. It meant I was part of the world.

Daughter Two will be selling shoes and I suppose that’s not so exalted, either. But it’s a real, honest-to-George job and she’s thrilled and we’re proud of her.

I don’t guess she’ll be expected to scrub pots. But then, I didn’t have to handle people’s feet.

An Old Friend Is Coming Home

I checked on my guitar today. She’s been in the guitar hospital for six weeks, having some middle-age work done. You know, pick guard, re-set her neck, new frets / bridge / nut (Is nut replacement an option for…never mind…).  Sean, the luthier tells me she’s out of danger and in recovery and I can’t wait to bring her home.

I’ve had a number of guitars over the years: Louise the FG-180 that I bought from my bro-in-law and kept with me through the Navy, the gorgeous – and riotously expensive - classical that my ‘buddy’ Ed took off with back in 1979, the 12-string that sounded so-o-o sweet when finger-picked, a couple of others that I picked up and put down over the years. But this guitar is my guitar.

This gitfiddle has been with me since 1976. Thirty-five years now. Through singing for my supper first with Vala and then with Bill and then solo. Through times when I felt loved and times when I didn’t. She’s the one I was picking when T.J. taught me bluegrass rhythm and the one I used to play at the old folks’ homes with Mike. And I had her in hand when Mark Harville taught me to play Classical Gas.

She’s accompanied me singing folk, a little cool jazz, some 12-bar blues, a lot of country rock and even show tunes. She’s helped me make friends with Tom Paxton, Mimi Farina, Pete Seeger, Janice Ian, Bob Dylan, Gordon Lightfoot, the Dillards, Judy Collins, PP&M, Harry Chapin, and perhaps most of all, myself. She’s been with me singing Disney and Yiddish folk songs and Happy Birthday to You.

Without this guitar I never could have sung the hundreds of church services, including many for which I wrote original songs. We’ve been together at too many weddings too count – including my sister’s and my own – and at two funerals.  By now, I believe she could play Wedding Song or Since You’ve Asked by herself. And for three months once, we co-habited a 1973 Toyota.

Speaking of original songs, this guitar has seen the noodling and searching that resulted in almost all the songs I’ve written - most of which I lost years ago when a freshly ex-girlfriend decided to treat herself to a bonfire, using my notebooks as kindling.

She was with me the time that I swear my Aunt Suzy’s spirit helped me write a song for a wedding mass in the last possible twenty minutes and the time Vala and I went through dozens of spur-of-the-moment wildly inappropriate verses of Lazy Bones, neither willing to be the first to give up. Yes, yes, Vala won, what of it?

I haven’t played my guitar as much as I should have while Mary and I raised our daughters, and not really at all since I smashed my hand a few years ago. It turns out that breaking the head off a metacarpal and dislocating all the major knuckles in one hand does not enhance one’s fingering chops.  She sat patiently in her case in the corner of the office and occasionally I’d take her out and force my creaky digits through a few rounds. But it was never very satisfying for either of us.

Then while I was giving one of my daughters a lesson recently, I realized the pick guard was pulling up and knew it was time to make a decision. Fix her or sell her. We could use the money from a sale – this is an original Martin D-18, after all – and I was feeling that I needed to take one for the family finances.

Mary made the decision. For my birthday, she told me to take my beloved friend to a really good luthier and have her given some TLC. I didn’t take much convincing. And now, it’s almost time to bring her home and I have to say I can’t stop thinking about the big moment.

There won’t be any fireworks and this is not going to be a Chet Atkins moment. I’m not that great a player. Truth be told, I’m not nearly the player she deserves. But I can’t wait to get reacquainted. After all, she’s my guitar.

Noticing The Missing

Okay, so now that the big day is come and  gone, I’ve been noticing who’s missing and therefore, one presumes, among the Raptured. I thought I’d post a list against which you all could compare your lists and thereby determine who took the Ride of the Righteous.

The problem is, I haven’t noticed not noticing anyone yet.

I’ll keep noticing.  

The Remainders

I really didn’t think there was any point to blogging again, since we were all going to be sucked up bodily by the Great Hoover in the Sky. I mean, what’s the point of such contemplations if we’re all going to have The Answer so soon?  I figured I’d just wait until we could all meet for coffee in the Great Beyond.

Imagine my surprise at waking up this morning! Displaying amazing force of character I held my upset in check, since it was entirely possible that there’d been a simple misunderstanding as to exact timing – after all, which time zone is in effect at the Pearly Gates?

Now, though, as more and more time zones move past the appropriate date, I can only assume that one of two things is true:  either a) humankind is more screwed up than I’d surmised and very few people were taken for the Holy Ride, or b) the Rapture never happened. And since all the signs were in place according to the ancient prophesies, I have to go with Option A.

Since it now appears that most of us failed to make the grade, an examination of our lives in order, don’t you think? I mean, we need to clean up our acts so that we’re ready in case Gawd decides to accommodate a second sitting. There’s no sinners like reformed sinners I always say, right?

Yeah, that’ll happen! We got where we are by living the lives we’ve chosen to live and I say we should wallow  in our own spiritual stinkiness.

So, Dear Reader – and please don’t feel that I’m casting any aspersions here – I wonder if I might prevail upon you to join me in a bit of introspection. I mean, we’re friends, right? So as friends, let’s form a self-help group, what?  We could call it Rapture Remainders.

What do you think?

We could have all sorts of fun together in our failure association. Just think of all the activities we could organize:

·         Sinner Sock Hops

·         Dinners For the Damned

·         Loser Lotteries

·         New Years for the Naughty

I think our first get-together should center on repentance revocation. I mean, since our last-minute so-sorrys obviously failed to yield forgiveness, why should we maintain the façade of regretting the way we’ve lived our lives? I suggest we all get together and share with each other the bad things we’ve done to be excluded from the Nice List. I mean, if we’re going to burn anyway, we may as well have some fun first. And I really look forward to sharing; I’d hate to miss out on any forms of fun I haven’t yet thought of.  

If each of us makes a list of our sins and we pass them around, we can all try the best of the worst while we’re still here! Here, I’ll start:

·         I have friends who are (dare I say it?) homosexual, Black, Asian, and Hispanic – although not all at the same time, necessarily.

·         I occasionally cuss – ‘occasionally’ meaning basically if I’m awake and breathing.

·         I’ve made rude jokes about the Religious Right.

·         I had Congress With Women before I was married.

·         I’ve voted for non-Republicans.

I don’t drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes or dance nude in public. But for those things I HAVE done that I couldn’t square with scripture, I am heartily sorry…sort of.  

So, rather than sit around steaming in our collective rejectability, let’s start a club, shall we? The membership won’t be very exclusive, but perhaps that’s not such a bad thing, after all.

Please, share your worst transgressions! Don’t be shy. After all, what’re they going to do, cast you out of Paradise?

Nyah-ah-ah!

There’s Kayaking and Then There’s Kayaking

It seems like no matter how good you get at something, there’s always someone else who’s enough better to be in a position to point and laugh. I’m getting to where I’m not bothered by this essential truth.

Take kayaking. I’ve been chortling at my bro-in-laws for years about the punkiness of what they refer to as kayaking. Apparently, they feel that sitting on a flat plastic sled without so much as a wayward ripple on waters that average 80 degrees qualifies as kayaking. One of them even has little duck-flipper propellers - the cheek!

I’m reading a book on kayaking adventures, one of many that line my home shelves. This one is about coastal paddling north of Vancouver, B.C.  Admittedly, some of the kayaking venues described in the book would scare the bejeesus out of yours truly. Such as when they’re talking about the great sights and then nonchalantly drop the news that “while paddling most of the inlet is relaxing, several kayakers get torn to shreds each year in the narrows.”  Or my favorite, “usually placid, a south wind can turn this bay into a churning mix master from hell.”

So, I’m thinking the woman who wrote this part of the book would probably point and laugh at what I call kayaking. And that’s okay. Because while I’m not bothered by cold water (we wear wet suits), rain (that’s what stupid looking hats are for), light chop or reasonable wakes, I draw the line at what might be termed gonzo paddling. You probably won’t find me crossing the English Channel any time soon.

Ditto, as to Class V rapids.  I know, looks like fun.  It also looks like a good way to separate body from soul. Daughter Two wants to take whitewater lessons.  Guess I can’t stop her… Plus, she’s a better paddler than her old man. It’s a sure bet  I won’t be taking that trip with her any time soon.

I’ll probably continue to smirk at the bro-in-laws just as the woman who wrote that book might tsk at me. And that’s okay all around. We each find our comfort level at which we can be fearless on the water, enjoying the sights and sounds of sites and Sounds.  It’s all good.

But really – sit-on-tops? (Smirk!)

River’s Up

The city of Idaho Falls, Idaho is aptly named for the beautiful step-down falls it surrounds. So the other day, when I found myself with an extra hour before heading back to the airport, I went down to the river walk to stroll along and enjoy the view.  I’m so glad I did.

This stretch of the Snake River holds a special place in my heart. I was stationed here for Navy training all those years ago; it was a hard winter. I used to love watching the water flow through and around and over and even under while the ice formed a cracked crust over a crazy quilt filling of boulders. That was a tough time in my life, as I went through my first breakup, followed closely by the particularly bloody suicide of a friend in front of me. And all this against the background of some fairly difficult academics and a weird, rotating shift schedule.

Being back here after all these years brought the memories flooding back. It was poignant and a little strange. I sat on a park bench not fifteen feet from the flood-stage Snake and it tumbled by, just as it has done for every second of every day of each of the (is it thirty-eight?) years since I’d last been this close to the great river. I’m humbled by this river and yet, it feels somehow like home.

The last time I sat here I was going through tough times and it was calming to listen to the moving water. People leave you alone here, probably in tacit recognition of its status as a communal private place.

It’s the same today. People walk past and nod or smile but don’t interrupt. We all draw something from the river. Or maybe, understanding that we’ve all come here for the same sort of reassurance, we draw something from each other without the need for spoken language.

Real Class

I frequently find myself disconcerted by some of the differences between kids now and kids back when I fit that description. They don’t finish sentences, they text while you’re talking to them, they believe Wikipedia is a legitimate source…you know the rant.

Fortunately for my peace of mind and the future of the human race, I occasionally see signs that the youngsters are more socially adept than I might have thought. I saw an example last night or actually, photos and film of an example. Daughter Two was asked to prom by a young guy with real class.

He knew of course that Daughter Two had been a leader of her robotics team and that she’s off to MIT in the fall to study engineering. So he made five cardboard robots, each of which held up a sign that collectively asked her to the prom. The guy himself was holding the last sign – “ME” – and a bouquet of flowers.

The really cool part was that he set all this up in the lobby of the performing arts complex and stood there waiting for Daughter Two to come out of rehearsal and see the proposal. Which of course meant that in addition to the several friends who helped him set up and who stood by to make the photographic record, he had to bear the looks of everyone who walked by and of course, the entire cast of Pippin, with no guarantee that things would go his way.

It took real class. In my day, you asked the girl over the telephone after weeks of indecision, skulking on the upstairs phone so no one else could hear in case the girl for any of a thousand reasons that played through your mind as you listened to the rings and wondered if it was still too late to just hang up but didn’t because you couldn’t decide if you were more afraid of her picking up as you hung up and knowing somehow it was you or  of her actually answering or even worse, one of her parents answering and asking what this is regarding but then she’s there on the phone and you croak out a facsimile of the Big Question, and then can’t remember the rest of the call after she says yes.

I would NEVER have asked a girl the Big Question in person, much less in front of people, much less with cameras rolling.

So, hats off to Cody and all the other guys with more cojones than moi. There’s hope for the future.