Lawrence Obi Wants You

Which Nigerian spammer are You?

Found some more silliness by randomly floating in the Internet ether. This one struck me as funny, since, at work, I get at least two of these emails a week (from the Nigerian spammers, that is, fishing for a mark). I imagine it is wrong to assume that they are Nigerian. I mean, they claim to be in the email, but they could easily be Canadian, Australian, Tahitian, Paraguayan, from anywhere. How on earth I wound up on this spam list, I'll never know, since I don't do a lot of random website visiting at work (hey, I am all business when it's business time...well, mostly...when anyone's looking...usually...well, anyway). I think Lawrence Obi is an attractive pseudonym. I still like Pedro, that will never change, but, now I have Lawrence Obi in my back pocket, you know, if I ever need it.

You know, the one thing about this fishing scheme that really is a cause for concren for me is how will I know when someone who is completely unrelated to me dies and leaves behind tens of millions of dollars, and someone else who is completely unrelated to me, who is a bank manager thousands of miles away, across an ocean and the equator, on another continent, tracks me down to offer me a portion of the money, since he has nowhere else to turn for help in dispersing the money, how will I know when this is legitimate, now? I am assuming that all of these offers are a scam, but what about that one time when it actually is true? I'll never know.

Well, I am going to stop worrying about that and go buy my fifty dollars in Power Ball tickets for the week.

Prelude to an Epilogue

One has to wonder what it's all about. Each day goes by. Each life goes on. Decisions are made: the blue shirt over the yellow, the expressway over the boulevard, the salad over the sandwich, the semicolon over the period; a million little choices are made throughout each day. What does it add up to, when (if?) it's added up? Is there a value system that weighs one choice over another? Is the decision to have coffee over tea with breakfast of the same value as the decision to return the wallet with the money still in it?

At first blush, the answer, of course, is no. Whether to leave the money in the wallet or not is a form of ethical dilemma. There is no ethical or moral element to the choice of beverage, is there? There could be. Where and how is the coffee or tea grown? Who has toiled (or even suffered) to prepare the means of your morning cup?


And here is where my reverie takes me. This steaming cup of brown liquid, this coffee (that, at this point in my life, is no decision at all), comes to me from five thousand miles away. In the planting, growing, harvesting, roasting, packaging, shipping of this coffee, in the swirl of life around this commodity, someone had an idea that made them stop what he/she was doing for a moment. Someone had a memory that made her smile. Someone recalled something that made him frown. Someone had a bad day. Someone had a good day. Someone whistled. Someone sang. Someone made a mistake. Someone made a discovery. Someone had a phone call. Someone worked distracted by something that was happening at home. Someone flirted with a coworker, a stranger. Someone ate. The sun shone. It rained.

What am I getting at? So much of our time is spent taking things for granted, not realizing the story of how things come to us, not keeping in mind that a billion or more other worlds are being lived in beyond our own. I guess, today, I'm deciding not to ignore these things.

The Other Side of the River

I spent yesterday driving along the southern/western bank of the Big Muddy (that's the Missouri River, folks), visiting several National Wildlife Refuge's and Conservation Areas.

My first stop was Overton Bottoms North Unit, which is part of the Big Muddy National Fish and Wildlife Refuge. Overton Bottoms is a large area of flood plain that was purchased from farmers after the disastrous flooding of 1993. It is currently being "managed" in a manner that helps to promote a healthier river system. Having undeveloped flood plains helps to alleviate downriver flooding and avails native fish and other wildlife natural places too spawn or breed. Pallid sturgeon and interior least terns are only two endangered species that need a more natural Missouri River system in order to maintain viable populations. Anyway, the bottoms were flat, hot, and brimming with birds (and turtles). Two lark sparrows were the highlight of the stop for me.

From there, it was south on MO 179 to Marion Bottoms Conservation Area. This was another floodplain, located, in a southward bend of the east flowing river, near the confluence of Moniteau Creek. The floodplain, with its rich, black bottomland soil, is thick with stands of willow trees and cottonwoods. Typical Missouri River riparian habitat. A dirt field road meanders through the conservation area, squeezing through the willows, and it is covered in many spots (and closed) during periods of high water. It has been relatively dry this spring, so most of the road was easily passable, but one section was pretty muddy (and bottomland mud is some sticky, slippery mud, let me tell you); the Penguin, not equipped with legitimate mudding tires, did a little slipping and sliding, but made it through. Not knowing the road ahead, I decided to turn it around. I was not looking forward to getting stuck (even with the four wheel drive, the clearance on the Penguin is not that high). We (the vehicle and I) made it back easily. We didn't see much through the thick stands of willows, but the highlight of this spot was certainly the Baltimore oriole glimpsed in one of the few clearings.

I swung back north from there, looking for Plowboy Bend Conservation Area. I found it at the end of County Road Y, on the other side of the railroad crossing, after waiting for a train full of empty livestock cars to pass by. Plowboy Bend was basically just a lot of cornfields. I couldn't find a map anywhere (except on the posted signs (and one that I should have printed out before hand at the MO Dept. of Conservation website, but who knew?)), and I couldn't find any access to the levees or trails (but, obviously, it's there). It was really not much to look at from the access road: flat land with corn, white gravel raods intersecting under a hot, bright midday sun, a couple of turkey vultures wheeling on the thermals above. I think a return visit might reveal much more, especially if I can find the trails that lead down to the river, itself. I hung a right and headed back to Y, and, from there, home. Highlight of this stop, while technically occuring on the other side of the area's borders, was a male orchard oriole in an oak tree.

Back home, Joby, who was in town (from Lexington, KY) to defend his dissertation, called to say he had successfully defended. I met him for a couple of celebratory beverages. A little evening softball (Deadliners 10, High Flyers 5), and Monkey, Osculator, Timmy Ocean, and I met up with Joby again at the team clubhouse. It was good to see my old poker buddy again. He has a job lined up in Terre Haute, working as a staff psychologist at a Federal prison. It's work that he likes, but I don't know if I could do it. Congratulations, Dr. Joby!

The End of a Very Long Story

Day Eight

As we rode out of Bar Harbor, beginning the four and a half hour trip to the Manchester airport, we paused under still cloudy skies for two photos. A few shots of the cove near the Cove Farm Inn was our first photo op. A little ways down the road, an odd (yet to open for the season) miniature golf course featured Joliet Jake and Elwood Blues. I found that worth a shot.

The weather cleared as we drove west, and the sun was shining bright as we pulled into Manchester, NH. A quick flight to BWI, a short layover there (called Mom to say hello), a longer flight to St. Louis, and the usual two hour drive home, and it was 11:00 pm. Where did the day go?

And that about wraps it up. Next blog entry: almost real time!

Scouting the Territory (A Very Long Story, Part Eight)

Day Seven

The rain hunkered down over the coast of Maine on Saturday and would not budge. Monkey and I had been discussing with MuffinMan, our host, the possibilities of finding some property on which we could build (or on which something was already built), that would serve as a sort of summer house for us. Since we had been to Maine in 98, we have entertained the possibility of buying land/a house Down East. The market is full of property, and it seems that, depending on where you look, buyers are relatively scarce. We saw some real bargains while we were there. MuffinMan suggested that we look at the area near Machias, which is northeast of Bar Harbor. We decided that the weather made it a perfect day to do just that.

We scouted the territory and saw that MuffinMan was right. This area, truly Down East, was beautiful, sparsely populated, and far less developed than the more often visited Midland area (Bar Harbor, Rockland, Rockport, and such). We think this might be the place. Of course, first we have to move to Lincoln and buy a primary residence there, but, it is never to early to start on your homework!

We also visited a few spots along the way. First, we stopped in Columbia Falls to see the Ruggles house, a National Historic House originally built in 1815. The Ruggles House has a flying staircase. We didn't know what a flying staircase was, so we stopped to see it. Do you know what a flying staircase is? If you don't, go to the Ruggles House, they'll tell you. But they won't let you take any pictures of it. They will, however, let you use the staff restroom and make you pay five dollars when they are done giving you the tour. Even if you don't want the tour, you just want to ask what a flying staircase is and use the bathroom. Next, we stopped at West Quoddy Head Lighthouse, the easternmost point in the US. We also stopped for lunch at the Atlantic House, a little luncheonette in the town of Lubec, just this side of the bridge to Campobello Island. A sign in Lubec proclaimed that FDR and Eleanor Roosevelt once walked the streets of Lubec, talking to the residents. If they did, I hope they held their noses. It smelled a bit fishy, the day we visited. After Lubec, we headed to Prescott (I think), to find the Reversing Falls, a place where the tide runs in and out with such force (we were near the southern part of the world-famous Bay of Fundy) that the water churns and swirls and splashes, and it's supposed to be spectacular. We didn't find it to be spectacular. As a matter of fact, for a while, we didn't think we were going to find it at all. We had to stop at a gas station and ask for directions (and use the bathroom--it happens when you ride around all day in a car, drinking coffee), and we finally found it. Alas, it was near the slack of the low tide, so, it just wasn't much to look at. I mean it was pretty, water features always are, to me, but it was just, sort of, regular-water-feature-looking. Except for the big broken tree. That was cool.

We headed back to Bar Harbor, and, to be honest, all the driving was catching up to me. I started to feel like shit. We decided to have a traditional lobster dinner, so I rallied as Monkey drove to Union River for dinner. Along the way, we spied this sign for a soon-to-be hot dog stand. We were devastated. I mean lobster is great, but we could have had hot dogs. On a picnic table. Damn. We ate copious amounts of cruelly prepared crustaceans and mollusks, but the hot dogs kept invading our thoughts and our conversation. The lobster dinner was spectacular. Ethically, it was a two; gastronomically, it was a nine. The hot dogs, though, they could have been a ten.

The end, however, was near. Tomorrow, we headed home. Each of us sat at our table, beyond sated by the bounty of the sea, watching the rain-swollen Union River dash under the US 1 bridge. Each of us thinking the same thing. Why couldn't we have been here in time for the hot dogs?