The Magic Comes to an End

Summer
It turns me upside down
Summer, summer, summer
It's like a merry-go-round.
--The Cars, "Magic"

This is always a bittersweet time of year for me. Tomorrow is the first official day that teachers are to report for duty. Students will not arrive until next Tuesday, and I have actually been doing some form of "work" or another since last Tuesday, but tomorrow it is official.

On one hand, I am, as I am every year, excited to get back to teaching. I am eager to get to know my new classes and eager to meet all the challenges that a school year brings (some more than others, of course). I am also looking forward to some new challenges, as this year marks my first as yearbook adviser and I have been asked to mentor a new teacher. Every school year seems to bring something new: a new standardized test, a new policy, a new appraisal process, a new administrator, a new class to teach...so much new.

But, as I look ahead upon the challenges that await, I also look back on the freedom that I will lose, again, for nine months. No more sleeping until seven or eight (or later, if I wanted to). No more travel (not much, anyway). No more choosing to do anything without thinking of the five AM wake up on the other end, or the stack of papers to grade, or the lesson to tweak.

In the long run, that's okay. After all, it is a luxury few people have, an eight week layoff with pay. So, I am sad to see it go, but appreciative that I had it.

I didn't really do much professional work this summer, which is fine by me, but that is a rarity. Almost always, I have a workshop or a class to attend, or I read something directly related to my field (besides journals). This year, I did nothing like that. In some way, as an English teacher, every book I read is some small form of professional development, but my choices this summer were selfish. Nothing I might teach as a whole class novel (but plenty I would recommend as personal reading).

So, this summer, perhaps more than any summer since Monkey and I went to Italy, has been a treasure and a joy. It didn't go exactly as I wanted it. My peppers and tomatoes are still lagging behind; I didn't fish as much as I might have liked; I didn't write enough. However, except for the tomatoes, I can say that about every summer.

I'll miss you, my good friend, Summer. I have enjoyed every sweat bead and sun burn, every glass of iced tea and cold beer, every tomato cheese sandwich. I enjoyed crabbing with my nephews and helping them master the techniques of boogie boarding. I enjoyed getting obliterated by post-storm waves in the cool surf of the Atlantic. I enjoyed hiking the Rockies and going toe-to-toe with belligerent rodents. I enjoyed a few lazy days reading with Monkey. I enjoyed the occasional ice cream cone. I enjoyed sporadically interrupted fireworks and a trip to Fenway Park on the fourth of July. I enjoyed it all.

Until Saturday night, but, Summer, I will forgive you a ferocious thunderstorm that breaks my trees and cuts off my power for twenty four hours every now and again. Especially since I also enjoyed a ferocious looking light show after the storm.

Now, it's time to get serious (but not too serious) and get to work. Bring it!

Unexpected Visitors (Another in an Irregular Series of Very Long Stories), Part Four: Fairly Aggressive Ground Squirrels, or It Goes in the Bear Can

As these things sometimes happen, yesterday’s debacle of the “lighter” backpack was not to occur today or tomorrow, since we were planning an overnighter, and I was encumbered with far more than just an extra jacket or two. We had purchased a new pack, with a much larger capacity, allowing me to carry tents, sleeping bags, food, and other gear, along with my normal “bare necessities.”

Our destination on today’s hike was Fern Lake, another beautiful destination that required a good deal of “vertical” hiking. The trail was only about three or four miles, so we didn’t head out until mid-day, but that gave us plenty of time to take an unhurried hike and set up camp before any weather might hit.

You might recall our last overnight hike involved a two-stage ascent of Longs Peak, and that the weather overnight at our campsite was pretty horrendous. We spent the bulk of that night huddled in our tents, listening to thunder crash all around us, as rain pelted our fabric roofs without cease. We hoped for better weather this time, and even expected it, since our campsite this year was still well below the timberline and, thus, less exposed to the mercurial thunderstorms of the alpine region.

Regardless of the weather, this year’s hike included a guaranteed new experience: we had to carry a bear can. A bear can, you might think, is a can full of bear. After all, a beer can is a can full of beer. You would be mistaken. A bear can is a container that is theoretically bear-proof, into which backcountry hikers place their food. The bear can is then placed in the woods, far from camp. The can is supposed to contain the smell of the food, keeping the bears from being attracted to it; however, if a bear does smell the food, the can will a) lure it away from camp and b) prevent it from eating your food (but not from a) carrying off your food or b) throwing your food off the nearest cliff or c) coming to look for the joker who put the food in a bear-proof can). I volunteered to carry the bear can, since, you know, I love bears.

We left from the dusty Fern Lake trail head and, for the first two miles or so, enjoyed a pretty easy walk along Big Thompson River. Then, at a trail junction by a place known as The Pool, the trail inclines steeply, gaining over 500 feet in about three-quarters of a mile. With about thirty pounds on one’s back, such a climb can be a sweaty, leg-wearying affair; however, this slog leads to Fern Falls, where the mist cools you and the falling water wows you. We paused here, taking a snack break and temporarily removing our burden.

Back on the trail, it is another mile and a quarter and another 800 feet in elevation. Just when I thought I might have to call a halt, the trail levels off, and the last fifteen minutes of the trail treated me gently. We came to a ranger’s station, which was not manned at the time, and, on the other side, the calmly beautiful Fern Lake appeared. Our campsite was on the other side of the lake.

Crossing the outlet of the lake on a small timber bridge, we could see the poetic form and motion of mountain trout swimming in the current. The water was so clear and the fish so attractively colorful, I thought for a moment I could just reach out and grab one of those piscine treats, but I soon realized that leaning out over the bridge with all that weight would signal a cold wake up to my system—not to mention that those trout are fast and slippery fish-types. Across the bridge and to the campsite we walked.

We set up our tents and took some beef jerky and trail mix down to the lake for a little afternoon snack. Sitting on a large tree fall, gazing out at the few fly fishermen making their last casts of the day, we noticed a ground squirrel come from behind us to survey not only us, but the delectables we had with us. He jumped right and left, forward and back, trying to get as close as he dared, but we shooed him and tried to be as gently belligerent as we could. After several minutes in which we felt that Mr. G Squirrel was overstepping our comfort zone, I playfully stood up and approached him, placing my feet and raising my hands in a Jack Johnson (not the “Banana Pancakes” guy), nineteenth century-style boxing pose. We all fell out when the squirrel appeared to raise his own little mitts and waved them at me in response before he bolted for the safety of his burrow under a nearby stump. Of course, this amusement would not last long, as we were soon visited by other rodents with designs on our goodies.

We unpacked our food, preparing for dinner and packing into the bear can, but, as we continued to develop our campsite, the clouds rolled in and it began to rain. We retreated to our tents, hoping that the storms would be short-lived. They were. About twenty minutes later, the skies cleared. Monkey and I looked out our tent screen and saw a ground squirrel approach our bagged nuts and jerky. Neither of us had shoes on, and, as I groped for footwear, Monkey thought it would be wise to frighten the invader.

“Chippy!”

She screamed from the tent, hoping that the ground squirrel would not notice that she thought she was yelling at a chipmunk of great size. He froze for a second and then crept closer to his quarry.

By now, I was coming out of the tent. I was just in time, too. The squirrel had reached the piled provisions and had his mitts around a bag of trail mix, I saw the bag slide an inch down the log on which it sat just as I reached it, stomping to ward off the camp pilferer. He dropped his booty and headed for shelter. After that incident, we were more concerned with ground squirrels than bears, and we made a concerted effort to always keep everything clamped down in the bear can.

Everyone else joined me outside our tents, and we boiled up some water for hot soup to enjoy along with various other “cold” foods. I had brought along a pre-packed slice of Spam, and my only regret was that I only brought one. It was an exquisite camp hors d’ouvre.

After dinner, we took another walk around the lake, spied many more trout (next year, we’re fishing!), and returned to camp to wind down and eventually settle in. The mosquitoes soon became too much for every one but me (I don’t know why they don’t seem that interested in me sometimes), and I sat on a stump and watched the sun set. Just before I retired, myself, on a final check around camp, I saw what I thought was a domestic cat creeping through the underbrush behind our tents. On close inspection, it turned out to be a snowshoe hare, its brown fur and white boots giving me a distinctly cat-like initial impression. I watched it hop and feed for a few minutes, until it got almost too dark to see. I had never seen a snowshoe hare in the wild. It was no moose, and it was no bear (thank goodness), but for me, it was a highlight of the trip. So, satisfied, I settled in for some fitful sleep in the strangely silent mountain forest. Monkey tossed and turned beside me, and we waited patiently for a new day and a new adventure.

Unexpected Visitors (Another in an Irregular Series of Very Long Stories), Part Three: The Mountain Doesn’t Care About You

When she's on her best behavior

Don't be tempted by her favors

Never turn your back on mother earth.

--"Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth," Neko Case

After the previous day’s hike to the glorious Lake of Glass, I made a disastrous miscalculation that had a detrimental effect on our mid-week hike. I normally take even the shortest ramble with essential gear that might be needed in an emergency. The minimum amount of gear I usually hike with includes: matches, compass, map, fishing line and hook, multi-tool, rain coat, fleece jacket, water, food, and some small piece of rubberized material that could be used for shelter. It is usually a heavier pack than most would carry, but I like to be prepared for at least a chance to survive should the worst occur. Most survivalists suggest you carry more than this, but, to me, this is the bare minimum. Unfortunately, after two great hikes with balmy temperatures and few clouds, let alone rain, I decided to lighten my load and leave my fleece at the cabin.

The lighter pack was a welcome change. Every pound makes a difference when you are carrying it on your back, and today’s hike to the summit of Flattop Mountain featured more altitude gain that our previous hikes. We left early from the Bear Lake trail head, avoiding the cramped shuttle bus this time, and the start of our hike was morning cool. However, from the start, we were on the ascent, and the lighter pack put a little spring in my step.

After about a mile and a half of “upping” through predominantly aspen forest, our first stop was a gorgeous overlook that provided a bird’s eye view of Dream Lake. From this vantage point, we could also look along Glacier Gorge where we had hiked yesterday. The river’s white water, bursting with runoff from the surrounding heights, looked like a line of snow through the middle of the valley.

We continued on, climbing higher still, until, at about 11000 feet, we reached the timberline, where trees became shorter and sparser. Soon, we passed out of the trees. Above, the skies began to darken, and the wind whipped along the ridge. Behind us, I watched as the moist air rose up the windward side of a peak and began forming a cloud on the leeward side. It was an amazing sight, but it made me a bit nervous about the weather.

After a few switchbacks, we came to another overlook, which provided perilous views of Emerald Lake, which seemed to be directly below us. I imagined that, were one inclined, a person could leap from the overlook and do a perfect swan dive into the lake’s dark waters. Of course, that perfect swan dive would be the last dive of that person’s life, but it would be a wild last ride.

Needless to say, there was no diving from our party. But, the wind was picking up in intensity, and the temperature felt like it was dropping quickly. I pulled on my rain jacket, hoping it would act as a sort of wind breaker, but it only provided momentary relief.

We plodded on, through the alpine tundra, reaching heights of about 12000 feet. At one point in the trail, there was a sign, informing hikers of weather dangers above the treeline (lightning and white outs in all seasons). The eye-catching bold print at the top of the sign: “THE MOUNTAIN DOESN’T CARE ABOUT YOU.” No kidding, I thought, blowing on my frigid fingers. The mountain-side view was awe-inspiring, and, as I kept a watchful eye for a possible ptarmigan (an alpine bird) I enjoyed a few peeks at the ever-present, ever-squeaky pikas that frequent the rocks at this altitude. But, boy, was I getting cold.

We continued along the rocky trail, and could see, over at least one more ridge, the summit (which is more like a really flat plain (i.e., the mountain’s name, I guess). As I walked along, I noticed a young girl, maybe 14, huddled in a little rock cave at the side of the trail.

“You okay,” I asked her.

“Yeah. I’m just waiting for my dad. He’s really slow.”

“Okay. Stay warm.”

Which was exactly what I was trying to do.

As we rounded one more bend in the trail, and I saw how much farther we had to go, I had to surrender. I knew now (I had seen it in print) that the mountain did not care about me. I also knew that I had made the worst possible decision by not bringing the proper gear. After consulting with the rest of the party, we decided to chalk this one up to Flattop, and try to tackle the old man on another day.

On the way back, the young girl was still huddled in the cave, looking less than comfortable. I noticed that she only had one glove. I decided to give her some advice. Yes, me, the bone head who didn’t bring a jacket, but still. I suggested that she get up and start walking back toward her dad, since sitting on the side of a mountain in the freezing wind was probably not going to keep her warm. She took my advice, and, after she’d walked about thirty yards, her dad came around the bend. So, its not like I saved a life or anything.

We headed back down the trail, desperate to get back below the timber line and out of the wind. Once we did, it took a while to get the blood moving, but we eventually warmed up. I was pretty angry at myself for being unprepared. Were we disappointed that we hadn’t reached the summit? Absolutely. Were we glad we’d followed the old cliché of discretion being the better part of valor? I was.

Cashed Checks and Imperfect Balances

Should we talk about the weather?

Should we talk about the government?

--REM, “Pop Song 89”

The sweltering of the plains has begun in earnest for the summer. Saturday was steamy hot--which did not preclude us from several beverages out on some friends’ deck; yesterday was slightly more brutal (except we are not sure just how brutal, since, according to the paper this morning, an equipment malfunction made it impossible to read the temperature and humidity…they couldn’t run to the nearest bank to read the sign out front?)—which did not preclude us from mowing the lawn and doing a bit of yard work in the AM; today portends to be more of the same. I planned on a fishing excursion to a nearby lake this morning, but the forecast, along with the fact that I stayed up late watching the rebroadcast of the US Women’s World Cup rousing victory over Brazil, convinced me to stay in this morning. I plan on taking the fishing trip tomorrow. The weather will most likely remain, but I will have had a bit more sleep.

In other news, I have been thinking lately about the current difficulties that we are in as a nation, specifically, that slippery eel that is the economy, which is sluggish to say the least. Here in Nebraska, we have been pretty lucky compared to many other places, but things are still far from perfect. The mayor proposed last week a hike in property taxes and wheel taxes, in order to raise revenue for roadwork and other operating costs. That still apparently will not save the jobs of some city workers.

I don’t mind paying a bit more to keep things running smoothly, to have parks and street lights, paved roads and a fire department. It is worth the extra fifty bucks a year (or so) it will cost us to maintain those services that I find important for my quality of life. And that money is collected and used by the city that I live in. Every day I can see my taxes being necessary when there is a pot-holed road, a broken water main, a darkened street lamp, or an overgrown park field.

On the federal level, however, things are a bit more complicated. I don’t see the money I send to Washington being directly spent…except on things like war, war, and war. Oh, right, we did give all those banks and car companies all that money…and we gave all those folks cash for their push-pull-drag-or-drive clunkers, so I know that money was well spent. But, it appears that the Feds are in a tougher spot than my town is. The deficit rises; revenues are stagnant. Current natural disasters will cost billions; expensive military actions are still being waged on multiple fronts. The promised jobs created by the wealthy are not materializing; some corporations are not paying any taxes. And Congress and the president can’t seem to see eye to eye on any solution.

And here is where our wonderfully balanced form of government is perhaps making things worse when it should be making things better. For, while the Senate has a Democrat majority, which (one would think) would cooperate with a president from its own party, the House is GOP-controlled. And, do you think that maybe the House majority might feel that they have an interest in keeping the economy in the tank until 2012? Wouldn't that be better for their party?

Am I a conspiracy theorist? No. Do I understand politics? Yes, I do. In that respect—the “I understand the gamesmanship of the political arena” respect—I completely understand why the House might be doing what I think it’s doing. But, I don’t like it. But, I am not going to start lobbing “evil Republican” bombs around. I am not going to point some naïve finger and say, “Hey, you red state bozos, quit holding this country hostage and fix the problem.” Nope. I am not going to do that. Because I know a few things: I know that the situation we find ourselves in is the end result of many years of (and both parties’) myopia, avarice, and lack of wisdom. I know that, were the situation reversed, the Dems would do the same thing ( not as effectively…probably more like ineffectively). I know that, most likely, even if the two sides come to a compromise, it will be, like most compromises, well, compromised, and any policy they agree upon will sound great in the paper, but will generally be toothless, useless, and maybe even more detrimental than helpful.

That does not mean I am not fired up at yet another example of party politics taking precedence over the common good. But, what do we do? We do what we always do. We pay our taxes, we try to keep calm, we carry on, we pick cucumbers, we keep the lawn trimmed, we open a beverage, we fill up the kiddie pool, and we hope that the weather breaks soon.

So it goes….

A Very Long Story of Personal Accomplishment (In One Installment)

Monkey and I have always been fond of a quote from Hank Aaron, one of my all-time favorite baseball players. Now, the circumstances of the conversation in which this quote was uttered escape me, but we heard of it in the midst of Barry Bonds' tainted pursuit of Aaron's all-time home run record. As Bonds crept up on Aaron's number, Monkey and I heard of Aaron responding perhaps to questions about the significance of his accomplishment with a simple and direct (and somewhat boastful) line: "The fact is, I hit 755 home runs, and nobody else did."

The perambulations of history notwithstanding, in my heart, I still recognize Hank Aaron as the paragon of home run hitters. Drug-aided or not, what Bonds did was an awesome spectacle. It was amazing and fun to watch, but Hank Aaron's accomplishment seems more real, more legitimate, and, so, I still have him atop my personal list. But, I don't want this to be about baseball (I want it to be about relativism), so, enough about Bonds.

Let's talk about accomplishment. For, in the midst of a summer in which I feel like I have, with little intention, challenged myself emotionally, I managed this week to challenge myself, with slightly more intention, physically and mentally. Forgive me, as I write of this, if I continually pause to make excuses. I will resist the urge. But, I can't seem to keep the seeping "modesty" at bay.

For, in the grand scheme, what happened this week was nothing like hitting 755 home runs when nobody else did. It's more like hitting 100 home runs. Not everybody did it, but enough did to make it not that big a deal. On the other hand, hitting 100 home runs is a pretty awesome thing.

Whatever. Enough metaphor.

We returned this weekend from a long-awaited trip to Estes Park, CO. As we usually do when we are in Colorado, we spent most days in Rocky Mountain National Park, hiking and eating pb & j sandwiches. On this particular trip, we planned to take a two-day hike to the top of Longs Peak, the highest point in the park (14,259 feet), and one of 54 "fourteeners" (14000 foot peaks) in Colorado's Rocky Mountains. The fact that this peak is one of 54 of similar height; along with the fact that it is about the sixty-first highest peak in North America; added to the point that, at 14,259, Longs is about half the size of Everest; and lashed to the approximated statistic that about 200 people summit the peak each summer week is what makes the accomplishment of reaching Longs' summit seem quotidian. However, the fact that deaths occur annually on the mountain, that certain stretches leave one's heart in one's mouth along the hike, and that just as many "climbers" turn back before reaching the peak makes a successful climb seem something of a feather in one's cap.

Whatever. Enough qualification.

On Wednesday morning, we left from the Longs Peak Trail Head, hoping to make our way to our camp site at the Boulderfield before the afternoon rains came. We had hiked this stretch of the park before. Two years ago, we had started from this point in the very early hours, in order to make it to Chasm Lake by sunrise. That magical hike ranks as one of our all-time favorites. The discovery, in the faintest of early morning light, that we were hiking through a large herd of foraging elk, is not the only reason we hold that hike up so high.

This time, it was a far more civilized 9 am as we left. One other remarkable difference included the need for Monkey and I (and our companions, The Twin City Ambassadors, as well) to carry much heavier packs than we usually did. After all, we were camping, not just hiking, so, instead of food, water, and a warm shirt, we needed to carry tents, sleeping bags, and additional important supplies.

In high school, and a few years after, a group of my friends and I were semi-regular Appalachian Trail hikers. We'd drive up to western Maryland, park the car on the side of some small road, strap on some heavily laden external frame packs, and wander off into the woods. That was a long time ago, and my body has lost the custom of walking up the side of a mountain with an extra forty pounds strapped on. Needless to say, I had a few moments of doubt toward the end of our six mile hike in, as my legs quivered with exhaustion over each elevated step.

As often happens, just as I was about to despair, our campsite came into view. A few rocky walls indicated the tent sites at the Boulderfield, which is perched on a plateau just below the approach to the Keyhole, the point at which the more harrowing part of the climb began. Monkey and I set up our tent and awaited the arrival of the other half of our party. They soon arrived, and our camp was complete. Just in time for the almost-daily afternoon storms to arrive.

And arrive they did.
During that first bout of storms, we had heavy rain, we had small hail, we had ripping wind, we had very nearby lightning strikes. Honestly, a thunderstorm on a mountain is nothing to mess with. When it happens, if you are lucky enough to have a campsite, just get in your tent, stay on the ground and ride it out. Which is what we did. Unfortunately, the high winds and hail converged to alter the configuration of the rain fly on our tent. It began to sag on one side, and water began to run down the side of the tent and in between our ground tarp and the floor of our tent. We were getting damp. And there was nothing I could do about it, as the lightning was blasting the summits of Storm Peak and Mount Lady Washington on either side of the Boulderfield. I could do nothing until the rain stopped. Which it eventually did.
After an hour or so, the storms passed, the sky cleared a bit, and we emerged from our tents. We shored up our rain fly, dried our tent floor as much as possible (not much), and heated some water for a bit of a warm dinner. We wandered about the rocks for a while, just to stretch our legs, and wondered at the beauty of the surroundings in the low evening sunlight. The passing thunderstorm had lowered the temperature considerably, and, while I wore my shorts, I donned a fleece jacket and a wool hat. After some post-dinner socializing, we snuggled back into our tents. It was 8pm, and we intended to climb a mountain at 6 the next morning.

Sleep did not come easy, as the hard ground, the damp tent, and the return of wind and rain (which the tent withstood admirably, this time), kept gnawing at my comfort level. Monkey and I dozed fitfully, and as the sun brightened the sky, we emerged, poorly treated by the night.

We donned our day packs (which contained only water and some energy bars) over our rain gear (it was a cloudy morning), and headed off to the Keyhole. One of the Ambassadors stayed at the campsite, never intending to make the summit. The three of us picked our way over large boulders, up to the craggy break in the rock. Once on the other side of the Keyhole, the view down into Glacier Gorge was spectacular. For the first time, we really got a sense of where we were (on the side of a mountain). A few pictures at this spot and we were off along the ledge that traversed the back side of the mountain. Along this section, Monkey got pretty tight. Eventually, she said she didn't want to go on. We left her to return to camp and continued.

We skirted along the side of the mountain and made it to a long climb up a scree field. This was arduous, but not too difficult. However, at the top of the scree, just as you are about to saddle the mountain and make one last upward climb, a large rock blocks your way. As far as I could tell, there were two ways to attack this rock. On the right, the way my companion went, a thin ledge leads away from the rock, switches back, and leaves you to scramble along for about ten feet before you reach a place of relative safety. I tried that, hugging close to the face of the cliff; however, I didn't feel any comfortable hand holds, and withdrew after about a minute of static contemplation (i.e., standing still, doing nothing, deciding whether to retreat or become petrified). The second way, was a straight vertical climb of only ten feet or so, with apparent places for hands and feet, which, at sea level, would seem like nothing. But, with a ten thousand foot drop at your back, you can get a little wiggy. Wiggy or not, up I went, and with nary a slip, made it to the top.

An even more intense climb awaited in the Homestretch, but, for a moment, I allowed myself to bask in the awe of the view into the rising sun from this side of the mountain. Below, Peacock Pool, our campsite, and even the flat lands beyond were awash in the sun (it was about 8:30, by now). It was beautiful, but, as I looked out, I was seized with another bout of fear. I sat on a rock and almost said to Mr. Ambassador, "That's it. I'm done." The last rock had really shaken me, and further evidence of the heights I had reached were assaulting my sense of self-preservation.

"How much farther," I asked.

"About a quarter-mile."

Well, hell, I thought, I am too close now. And on we went.

The Homestretch is quite an end to the ascent. It seems pretty steep, and there are points were you feel like the only thing keeping you from certain death are your thin fingers clutching a crack in a rock and a tentative toe shoved in a crevice. I thought to myself, in alternate moments, "You idiot, what the hell are you doing up here?" and "Holy crap, this is the most awesome thing I have ever done!"

And, just as I came to the realization that the latter is what I should be telling myself, I crawled up one last rock and stood on the large, flat surface of this mountain's peak. Below spanned the world, as far as I could see. Around me a couple dozen like-minded people milled around in the stiff, cold wind. I realized I had just done something I never thought I would do.

It's not the highest mountain in the world. It's not a record-breaking accomplishment. I didn't hit 755 home runs when nobody else did. But I did something that before (and even during) I wasn't sure I could do. I doubted and overcame. And it felt rewarding and amazing, something to be proud of.

Of course, now, I had to get down.

Getting Out of the Sweltering City

In Baltimore, a little way up Harford Road, you'll find Clifton Park. It's on the east side of the road, and stretches all the way over to Belair Road. There's a public golf course, and, nearby, you'll find what used to be called Lake Clifton High School. Clifton Park, if I am not mistaken, used to be the country estate of Johns Hopkins, the man who now has his name on a prestigious university and hospital, and is a well-known patriarch of Charm City. As I understood it, Clifton Park was where the Hopkinses used to retire during the hottest of the summer months, to escape the unpleasantness of the sweltering city. I always found this odd, since Clifton Park really isn't that far away from what would have been the city limits back in Johns' day, but, when you think about it, an August day in Baltimore in the 19th century was probably pretty heinous. Not in the muggy quality (which it certainly possessed), but in the funkiness. I can only imagine that the garbage, the water, the ships, the sailors, all were pretty offensive. So, being hot and sweaty in the middle of a giant park was clearly a respite from the hot and sweaty and stenchy (What? "Stenchy" is not a word?) conditions immediately surrounding a harbor town.

So, in that great tradition (not the philanthropic one, in which I make millions and then found a university, an orphanage, a hospital, and art museum, etc., etc.) Monkey and I are off to escape the dog days on the Plains, the mid-nineties, the high dew points. Our destination is the cool and mountainous Eastern Slope. Colorado, here we come!

We hope to return with a plethora of stories to shock and amaze (or at least entertain), and a multitude of images to share. We hope the weather is better than last year, that our hikes are dryer, and that our spirit remains undaunted by any set backs. We'll communicate with you again when we return. Westward, ho!

True/False Before the Madness

Monkey and I met Uncle Joe for sushi last night. It was awesome. Not only was hanging with the biggest dog lover in Missouri (if not the world) a great joy, but the sushi at Osaka was top notch. It made all of the rushing around yesterday in order to get out of town by 4pm worth it. Once again, comoprozac and RAD are being kind enough to put us up for the weekend.

It's pretty busy around (The District). T/F volunteers are ubiquitous, and there seems to be an anticipatory buzz in the air. Also in the air is a bit of warmth that I have not experienced since before December. It is nice to be in a place that doesn't have six inches of snow and ice on the ground, a place where the sun actually seems to warm the air.

In a few hours, we will be meeting up with some old friends for a beverage, before making our way to Monkey's favorite Indian restaurant. After that, we have the opening night film, and another after that. Then, it's really on!

I am looking forward to it.

Where The %^$# Did That Come From?

Weirdness here in the Plains, yesterday. About 9am or so, we started getting some snow. A few hours later, the snow shower was over, and we had about two inches or less on the ground. And then, the wind really kicked up, blowing in gusts of 40 mph or more. The Interstate was closed due to white out conditions, and multi-car wrecks of up to thirty cars occurred on highways all over the state. Last I heard, over the last twenty-four hours, a least a half dozen people were killed or seriously injured in accidents, or mishaps immediately following accidents. One poor soul was struck by a vehicle while walking away from his own rollover accident. Total mayhem.

It's really a bizarre occurrence, an unexpected pocket of blizzard-like weather after a small amount of snow fall. But it is a grim reminder to respect the weather. Not that we need any more reminders, after hurricanes, tsunamis, tornadoes, etc., but sometimes, we don't take this kind of weather seriously. Most of us probably think that being really affected by a blizzard (beside running out of milk and bread and toilet paper) is soooo 19th century. But it's not.

Reading Sign

Woke this morning to new snowfall. Nothing like recent big storms in other parts of our nation, but still another in a long stretch of frozen water torture. On the drive home this morning, the temperature was reported as seven degrees. Old Man Winter and Mother Nature have certainly teamed up to put the screws to a large portion of the land since December. Folks around these parts (as I have told you before) are desperately looking for a change in the weather.

Well, it's not coming any time soon. Those are the facts. The calendar says we have to make it through February and March (the whole thing, around here). That's a long row to hoe, yo. But, there is hope.

As I listened to the monotonous forecast of windchill advisory and chance of snow and ten below and all that Cold Miser-type crap, I looked up into the pale blue of the dimming Nebraska sky. There, in three separate squadrons, flew chevrons of Canada geese, heading in a roughly northwesterly direction. A first sign that a change is gonna come. It will just be a long time coming.

Fingers Too Cold to Type Too Much

I will spare you an extended homage to the groundhog. It has been done before, and I don't want to be too predictable. Today, after all, is merely the spectacular end of a long and difficult year for whistle pigs everywhere, a year in which they are mostly disregarded, or hunted and killed, with no real in between. On this day, they are paid tense attention to, with many celebrating, and some berating them. But, on this one day, all their feelings of inadequacy or peril are put away, and they are free to remind us that winter will end, regardless of how much ice or snow we may have endured (or will have to endure).

And that, my friends, is all I have to say about that.

Post-a-licious January Continues!

Yet another post, making January the busiest month of the year, so far!

Today was somehow an awesome day. The portended freezing rain never materialized, due to the lack of freezing temps (funny how that happens). As a result, I didn't have to scrape my windows for the first time in at least four weeks (except for those days when I didn't have to scrape my window because I didn't have to go anywhere...to be honest, I have had quite a few of those the last several weeks).

You would think that I might be in a grumpy sort of mood, since the anticipated freezing rain might have led to an inclement weather day, had it happened. You would be wrong. Oh, sure, a little voice in my head (one of the gremlins?) was hoping, as I turned off the alarm, that when I checked the school website the red banner would indicate that we could go back to bed. But that was a little voice, barely perceptible, really.

After all, today was the start of third term. Why wouldn't I be eager to start a new schedule, with new classes? Why wouldn't I be eager to meet all my new charges? Well, I kind of was...but you know how I feel about meeting new people, so my attitude was a little tempered that way. At any rate, tempered attitude, or not, I was pretty excited to get a new start going. And I really didn't want to start this term immediately up against the same eight ball we'd ended the last one on. We've had enough weather-related closings.

Already, we are extending two weeks worth of school days in February an additional 36 minutes to make up for one last day. Is that the stupidest thing I have ever heard? Well, it's not the stupidest, but...it doesn't matter. We have a legal obligation to be holding on to our kiddos for a requisite number of days. Even if those days are elapsed one minute at a time, legally, we are covered. But, we're not lawyers, you say? We're teachers? Right, but I don't think one teacher had a hand in making that decision, but...that's right...I digress.

So, without turning this into a blow by blow recount of my day, things just went really well. It's still early, so take this with a grain of salt, but my kiddos seem pretty cool. A few handfuls, as always, but they seem pretty solid. Of course, we shall see, right? It has only been one day. But, it was a good day. Maybe the best I have had in a while. That's nothing to take lightly.

Oh, whatever shall tomorrow bring?

Walking the Dog

It is one of the little joys in life, walking the dog on a Monday at noon. It's one of those things one doesn't get to do often (admittedly I get to do it more often than most, especially in the summer months, but I digress). So, as Ripken and I trotted through the fog-beshrouded neighborhood, tenuously picking our way through icy patches and climbing the vestiges of snow mountains left by plows and shovels, we both had a jauntiness in our stride, the click of heels and toe nails making a rhythmic celebration on the cement and frozen melt.

And just like that, it's a good day, again.

Only Eight More Weeks to Go!

Winter is really wearing on me, right now. After a three week period in December/January that dumped a couple of feet of snow and some bone-chilling temps, things have been dry (but gray), and warmer (like 35). So, that leaves us with slushy roads, monstrous potholes, and massive piles of dirty snow. It's not pretty, anymore.

I know that winter happens every year, and that each time I welcome the season. I like a little winter in my year. This one is just grinding me down a bit more than some others have. It's not just the cold--I've done the cold before, and I think I held it together. It's not just the snow--I've done that, too, with no obvious effect on my psyche. The combination of it all, this time around, just seems to be getting to me.

Is it that I am getting grumpier in my middle age? Is it that other world wide events are influencing my state of mind? Sure, but, each day, when I look out the window, I want to see change. All I see is dirty ice.

A Hot Frozen Mess

So, it's ten below here, colder than yesterday, and the third day that our school district has canceled classes due to the most recent weather unpleasantness. For those keeping score, this is the second three day stretch this school year. For you mathematically challenged readers, that is six inclement weather days, which is one more than our calendar can absorb. As well, finals are supposed to begin next week.

This creates several problems, the most pressing of which is the finals issue. A decision is expected to be made by noon today concerning what the end of the semester schedule will be. Will we simply conduct next week as if this week never happened? Will we push back the end of the semester one full week? And, if we do that, will we still take MLK, Jr. Day off, or no? I am guessing no, but anyway.... I suppose that we will just go with what we have, spend three days next week cramming in a few things, and have exams on Thursday and Friday. After all, there are a host of other contingencies affected by a change in schedule that are even more boring than what I am already talking about, so moving the calendar seems like a CF waiting to happen.

The other big hairy deal is the extension of the school year. Will we add days at the end? Most likely. But, we could also extend a few school days, or add in a Saturday class meeting or two. It really doesn't matter what they do, honestly. It's kind of stupid, really. It's just a legal issue: students have to be in class for so many days/hours per school year. Hell, let's add one minute to each class, and, in half a school year, we'll have made up for that extra day. Does that mean students have received one extra day of instruction? Of course not. Does that really matter? Well, no, not really. Okay, maybe I am being a little bit cynical, here. Maybe. A little bit.

Whatever the district does to resolve our issues, everything is kind of hosed. Sure, we'll get done what needs to get done. We'll have our finals. Our kids will get their grades. It will all work out. But boy is this causing some serious stress around here.

And, we still have at least eight more weeks of potentially bad weather to make it through. Wow!

Weather Related Closings

So, here I sit in my comfortable sun room chair, at 9:44 am, tapping away on my laptop, instead of preparing for second block. Why, you might ask? Because we have been granted our fourth snow day of the school year, due to forecasts of day long snow, heavy winds, and ridiculously low temperatures. The highs for the next two days are at or near 0 (yes, that's right: HIGHS). As we hitch and start our way toward the end of the semester, these snow days become somewhat of a hindrance to smooth operations, but I'll take them. The only problem is, with so much of winter yet to go, one more day off puts us at the limit. After that, we have to make up the missed time somehow. That usually means extending the school year. And those days are hard ones to get through for everybody.

New! New! New!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Things that are different this morning:

--dog is much better

--everything is one day older

--I am now a person who has seen AVATAR (in 2D)

--we are dangerously low on pie and cookies (the holidays must be coming to a close)

--Mizzou is embarrassed after dismantling by Navy

--about a million other things

Things that are the same this morning:

--it's snowing here (just flurries)

--the Ravens can still make the playoffs

--I am STILL only 40

--Monkey is still my favorite

--about a million other things

Snowshine Sun, Dog Soreness, and Raven Disgust

The last Monday of the old year has been a memorable one, for sure. First, it has finally stopped snowing here, and we are almost finished digging out (as a municipality). One side of our street has been plowed, and we expect the other side to be done sometime before spring. Our own walkways and driveways have been cleared and re-cleared over the course of the last four days or so. I am pretty sure the entire neighborhood is about tired of shoveling, snow blowing, vehicle pushing, etc. As a bonus, today, the sun came out for the first time in about forever.

Secondly, Ripken had another operation to remove some tumors from his torso. He had a similar operation last year at this time. None of the tumors were on his head, but he had one right on his sternum, so he is having a hard time finding a comfortable position to lay in. He is looking pretty miserable, six hours after his operation, but, after he keeps some food down and has a baby aspirin, he should be feeling better.

In an irrelevant vein, compared to the dog's recovery, I suffered the frustration and helpless disgust that is watching your NFL team basically outplay their rivals AGAIN, yet still lose due to boneheaded penalties and a lack of execution. Most likely, the Ravens will beat the Raiders on Sunday and make the playoffs, but, if they keep playing like they have (and nothing indicates that they won't), a loss wouldn't surprise me, but a deep run in the playoffs would.

Finally, we made a pretty tasty potato soup for lunch today, and we still have about ten pounds of gifted potatoes to get through!

The White Christmas and All That

So, yesterday we got the ice. The streets were passable, but the trees and shrubs and other such vertical and semi-vertical stuff all got a nice sheen of frozen beauty to click clack in the wind with. Today comes the snow, which some reports say we should get 10 inches of by Friday night. I hope all the Kris Kringle's and Jessica Kringle's, all the reindeer, and all the elves take special care when making their way through the winter wonderland of the Midwest this evening.

I know that back in the east, the left overs from the past weekend are enough to guarantee a white Yuletide, as well. Why it matters, I am not sure. I think it's Charles Dickens's fault.

Or maybe Charles Schultz's.

Regardless of who might be responsible, I hope your holiday is whatever you want it to be!

Twofer

Out on the road today, I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac
--Don Henley, "The Boys of Summer"

(I apologize if my opening lyric today causes anyone shock or illness.)

I know I JUST said, "Don't look back," but, upon a request from a fellow Blogoshpherian, I compiled a short list of the top ten albums of the year. If you are at all interested, you may access it here.

Plans for today include a short visit to Wilber, the Czech capital of Nebraska, to see if they have any kielbasa. Which reminds me that Chicago State actually has a dude on their team named Joseph Kielbasa. Monkey and I figured that if Chicago State had been playing Mizzou, the Antlers would have had an inappropriate field day with that one.

Also on the docket: possible visit to used book store, work party, watching the weather (a potential storm may scrub Tuesday's KC trip). Ah, the holiday season.

Looking Forward

There are a few things we have to look forward to this holiday season.

First, Monkey has been on her special (and very annoying) no iodide diet to prepare for her latest scan to check her thyroid. She has been eating roasted vegetables and oatmeal since the day after Thanksgiving. She is very excited to be able to eat whatever she wants. That begins tomorrow afternoon.

Also on tomorrow afternoon, winter break starts. I look forward to two weeks off, and having only a few things to grade during the break. It will be good not having a lot over my head while I enjoy the festivities.

A third big event planned for Friday is the earlier than usual removal of the beard. I started it early this year, and it is clear that Monkey is quite tired of it. I, as usual, am growing ambivalent about it. I enjoy it sometimes, I am bored with it at others. The beauty of it is, if I want to grow it back, I don't have to do anything. Literally.

This weekend, the Ambassadors are heading into town for the holiday. They will be staying at the Monkey House. We all get along really well, so Monkey and I are really looking forward to their arrival. It will be fun, for sure.

Monkey and I are also looking forward to heading down to KC next week to enjoy the decorations and eat at Lydia's again. We tried to go to KC two years ago for the same reason, but the weather and the roads were so bad, we turned around about halfway there and scurried on home. This year, we hope for better weather.

New Year's Eve will most likely maintain its low key traditional tone. We have no plans, and we are not searching for any, really. An old boss used to call New Year's Eve "Amateur Night," referring to the increased number of intoxicated driver's. He was only half joking. I try to stay off the roads on December 31/January 1.

So, one more day of work, and all this will begin. Kicked off with one last 2009 Happy Hour. Happy Friday, everyone!