I Can't Sit Idly By While Things Like This Go On

In honor of last Thursday’s discovery of a new species of monkey in central Africa, Paste magazine ran a “List of the Day” on “The 15 Best Monkeys in Pop Culture.” I consider myself a bit of an expert on monkeys of a certain kind, so I found myself highly interested in this particular list. Needless to say, perhaps, being a difficult-to-please critic of all things primate, I was not impressed.  Even given Paste’s disclaimer that they were “using the term ‘monkey’ loosely—and frankly, incorrectly,” this mishmash of gorillas, apes, chimps, cartoons, video games, and Clint Eastwood is practically unforgivable.

The list starts out strongly enough, with Chim Chim of Speed Racer fame, claiming the number fifteen spot.  But, almost instantaneously, the critical reader asks, “What is the criteria, here?”  Is this merely a non-ranked list of “monkeys” that the author can remember (or remember hearing about)? Or was there some sort of criteria-referenced ranking done by the boys and girls at the office?  It is perplexing—perhaps even disturbing—to consider the apparent lack of obvious criteria as we move through this list.

To wit, number fourteen is the bone-throwing pre-hominid of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  Over Chim Chim?  Really?  I mean, if we are assessing the occupants of this list on their dramatic impact or symbolic significance, then, yes, Moon-Watcher beats Chim Chim, hauntingly-human-like-hands down.  However, if that were the criteria, Arthur C. Clarke’s cheeky little hairball would be much higher than fourteen. (Not to mention that Chim Chim would have to break the top ten…not really.)

Grape Ape occupies the thirteenth slot.  I can live with that, if it wasn’t so high.  Thirteen?  I don't get it.  It seems kind of arbitrary, really. Here, for me, is our number fifteen. Our big purple pal, who used cars for roller skates and tagged along with his friend Beagly Beagly, didn’t have a ton of staying power, social import, or symbolic significance.  One might even ask what Grapey is even doing on this list, but there he is.  And, as large as he is, there he will stay.

As we make our way into the top ten, however, my problems really begin, for there sits the finest secret agent chimp the world has ever seen.  Lancelot Link was the star of probably the most affecting and entertaining show that television will ever create.  A concoction of voiced-over chimpanzees acting out ridiculous espionage-based buffoonery and loosely connected musical numbers, Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp was a watershed event in my development—not that that is part of the criteria…at least I don’t think it is.  It certainly had, not simply for me, but for the world at large, a significant cultural impact. For that reason alone, Lancelot Link should occupy one of the top spots on this list.

Then, let’s look at number nine.  It is that video primate who made a mark on the eighties that was even deeper than the mark Lancey left on the seventies: Donkey Kong.  Who but this barrel rolling, girlfriend stealing, ladder-climbing villain, who made millions one quarter at a time, has been a more socially significant simian?  Who among us did not spent an inordinate amount of our young life in front of a video game at the corner pizza joint trying to get past that one level?  Or, for the younger among you, who has not spent time racing with that powerful DK spin off character, Mario. The effect of the Donkey Kong franchise is still being felt today, thirty years later.  What could be more significant than that? But, again, does significance have anything to do with this?  I suppose not.

After all, as we move deeper into the top ten, we find Clyde, the completely irrelevant orangutan of Every Which Way But Loose. I don’t get this one at all. Rumor has it that, since Clint’s chair monologue, Clyde has shunned his old pal.  That may be the best career move the old ape has ever made.    

Finally, I have two further concerns with this list.  First, and perhaps most troubling, Curious George is number five.  That’s right: NUMBER FIVE! WTF? He was a good little monkey and always very curious; he is an icon who has entertained generations of children.  And he gets beat out by the cast of Planet of the Apes? I mean: are you freaking kidding me?

But, to make matters worse, Marcel, Ross’ capuchin monkey from Friends, holds the number two slot.  All I can say is….  All I can say is…. I don’t know what to say.  This over-sexed little squirrel is ranked higher than Curious George?  I’m sorry, what? When was the last time anybody went to FAO Schwartz and paid an exorbitant amount for an over sized stuffed Marcel? The answer is never! 

Yet, this misguided, undefined list is out there, proudly displayed.  And, occupying the top spot, high above the mean streets of New York City, 1939, is the king of the beasts, the eighth wonder of the world, King Kong.  Disclaimer or not, couldn’t the number one spot at least be occupied by an actual monkey?  I give up.

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 The Last: Fairly Treacherous Snow

As evening drew to a close the night before, the batteries died in the camera, so, while others were able to snap pics with their new-fangled iPhones, I was left with nothing to offer in the way of visual accoutrement.

We arose later than I anticipated from our tents along Fern Lake, but, after breakfast and discussion, Laura decided to stay at the campsite, while Mike, Monkey and I trekked the three-quarters of a mile or so up to Odessa Lake. More altitude gain on this hike, but, with a base camp, we were able to walk unencumbered. It was a nice change of pace.

As we made our way, we continued to look back for satisfying views of Fern Lake below. We neared Odessa Lake and passed an older gentleman on his way back down. We hailed him. His report: "There's some fairly treacherous snow up ahead."

Inside, we all laughed. It seemed that at every turn someone was warning us of snow. Not only did it seem ridiculous in late July, but each report turned out to sound worse than it actually was. And this case was no different.

Arriving at the lake, we did have to cross a wide stream on a snow bank under cut by rushing water. It was a large patch of snow, maybe a couple hundred yards, maybe less, but it was solid and only as slippery as any snow one might encounter. So, we conquered that little obstacle and came upon another poster-worthy alpine lake. And more trout (definitely fishing next year). And a couple of better behaved ground squirrel.

We walked around the lake for a little while, then turned and made our way back to camp. We packed up, not forgetting to fetch our food out of the woods, and slung our burdens back up. Of course, most of this hike would be down hill, so a little easier to haul. We made it back to the car in good time and drove back to the brown cabin, where we all had well-deserved showers and porch front cocktails.

And another unexpected visitor: an elderly woman, out for an evening stroll, who promptly invited herself up to the porch to converse with us. After Laura fetched her a chair, she stayed for a lengthy spell. Honestly, not my favorite part of the trip, but she was harmless, and she told a few interesting stories. After she left, we ate, then turned in, trying not to think that tomorrow was the end of our trip.

Of course, Monkey was kind of looking forward to a visit to Chic-fil-a in Loveland on the drive back, so, there was a slight silver lining, I guess.

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 One: Fairly Aggressive Birds

You may have noticed that I haven’t posted in a while. As I write this, it is Sunday, July 24. Depending on whether or not I can cadge some connectivity in the next several days, this may not be posted until next Monday or Tuesday. But, I have not forsaken you.

On Saturday last, Monkey and I headed west on our now-annual pilgrimage to the Rockies. Our first full day (Sunday) was spent in Boulder. Monkey was meeting some friends she knew in the area, and The Ambassadors and I wandered around the Pearl District, shopping, having lunch, and being called “home dwellers” by one of the myriad homeless ragamuffins that sometimes makes me think that Boulder is the slightly older, American version of Oliver Twist. The highlight of the trip to Boulder, for me, was my now-annual visit to the Boulder Bookstore. I picked up a copy of The Inner Life of Numbers, Oryx and Crake, Chasing the White Dog, and a couple of other titles that caught my eye. Monkey might think I have a compulsion when it comes to buying books from independent bookstores…she’s right.

But not only did we visit with friends while in Colorado, but we were visited frequently, and unexpectedly, on several occasions.

Our first hike of the week was a reprise of a hike that we were forced to abandon two years ago due to inclement weather. If you recall, a hike to Finch Lake was curtailed by persistent rain and hail that drenched us to the bone. This year’s hike was much drier.

After a breakfast of Meadow Mountain eggs and sausage, we trucked up to the Allenspark Trailhead, where we started our nine mile round trip to Finch. Over all, the hike is not terribly interesting. There are a few moments along a ridge, where the once burned-over forest is open enough to provide some pretty views of neighboring peaks, but the hike saves its treasure until the end, really.

We arrived at Finch Lake just in time to enjoy a traditional PB and J lunch by the rocky and grassy shore. The air danced with freshly hatched mayflies, the water teemed with water striders and diving bugs. I sat on a boulder and gazed into the shallows of the lake, on each side of me, The Ambassadors enjoyed their sandwiches. In the periphery of my vision, I saw a flash. Behind me, Monkey let out a muffled, “Ah!” and jumped up from her perch. I turned around to see a gray flash flutter up into the trees.

“What happened,” an Ambassador asked.

“That bird just tried to take my apple!”

A gray jay had swooped from its perch and tried to pilfer Monkey’s lunchtime desert. And so, we had the first of several unexpected visitors. Lucky for Monkey, she was unscathed by the sortie, but she was clearly shaken, and no wonder, since the gray jay was still waiting in the trees above her to make another attack. However, after a few minutes, the bird began moving off, leaving Monkey to finish her apple in relative peace.

After twenty tense minutes, in which Monkey ate her apple with one eye on the trees, we hitched our packs back up and headed down to the trail head. The sky stayed dry. We made it back to the trail head in good time, headed back to the Brown Cabin, and began discussions to decide our next day’s hike.

(Posted from the Wicomico County Public Library. Odds of another post before Sunday: slim.)

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.

Like Getting Married All Over Again

I have written about three versions of what went down this weekend, when the Long Haulers came to visit. Nothing captures what really went down. So, I have decided that, rather than twist in the scrivening wind a fourth time, I will simply give you a bullet pointed version of the weekend.

--Meeting Melissa and Tom on Friday at Bread and Cup was great fun. They seemed really interesting and interested. It was easy and enjoyable to talk to them. I was actually excited about Saturday after meeting them on Friday. (Honestly, I was not super excited before then...it was more like a sort of low-level dread.)

--Saturday morning was one of those "What the %^$# did I get myself into?" mornings. The ease that I felt after Friday had dissipated in the night, and I began to feel a bit nervous again.

--Tom and Melissa had some camera issues on Saturday morning. They arrived later than expected, and while Tom set up in the living room, Monkey and Melissa walked about the house, while Melissa filmed the tour. Then, Monkey and I went out back and did some "everyday stuff," like playing ball with the mutts and reading the paper, for the sake of getting some "couple doing everyday stuff" footage. I picked a tomato. After a little while, that feeling of comfort and well-being returned and the nerves went away.

--The "interview" was great. It went kind of long (multiple hours), but it was awesome to talk with Monkey about us. Something we don't really do that much. We even learned some stuff from years ago that we didn't know about each other...how cool is that?

--The dogs were awesome. Parker bumped the cameras a couple of times, and he may have put a paw on the computer keyboard a few times (I don't think to any detrimental effect), but, for the most part, they just sacked out for the day.

--After the interview, we sat in the dining room and had a beer and just talked about stuff (Truly, even when I lecture all day (which I rarely do) I don't think I talk as much as I talked on Saturday.). Monkey suggested we all go out for dinner again. Tom and Melissa were up for it. We met at Yia Yia's for pizza.

--Dinner Saturday night was great, too.

--Overall, an experience that I didn't really expect to be great turned out to be 100 times more than that. First, it was an extreme pleasure to meet and hang out with two great people. But, even more so, it was so wonderful to spend almost a whole day just focusing on my marriage with Monkey. It occurs to me that talking about our marriage this past Saturday was, in a way, as beautiful and awesome as getting married on that Saturday almost a dozen years ago.

Thanks, Melissa and Tom for both opportunities.

Thank You, China, For Your Explosive Technology

I never grew up with the fireworks tradition. Yes, we'd have a Fourth of July cook out every year. We'd swim and eat hot dogs and potato salad. Sometimes, we'd go to a parade. Sometimes, we'd make our way to Fullerton for some professional displays of glowing metal and gun powder flares. A couple of years, someone would even procure some bottle rockets or fire crackers and light a few off in the backyard. Where Monkey and I come from, however, fireworks are verboten. There are no stands, no tents, no sales. You buy sparklers at the grocery store, if you want, but you are not buying, or legally lighting anything else, in the Old Line State. As a result, July 4 is a holiday that troubles me. Certain aspects of it, at least. I expect, here in the corn belt, where they celebrate America's independence with an orgy of flaring paper tubes and exploding sticks, that someone will either be seriously injured, or that someone will set a car or house on fire. Don't mistake me, I am all for celebrating our nation's independence from the "bad king" (as a friend of ours' four year-old once put it), but I had a few moments of fear and loathing last night, once the rain stopped and the sun went down.

It has been mentioned here before that our oldest dog, Ripken, is a bit on the skittish side when it comes to noise. A rattle of pots in the cupboard will send him bolting for the living room, head down and tail between his legs. It makes it easy to distract him if he ever does anything wrong. All I have to do is raise my voice, and he immediately stops doing anything. This is only a problem when I am correcting Parker, the puppy, since Ripken is then the one who immediately goes into "submissive" mode. If only Parker were as quick to get the message, but he'll learn.

As a result of this skittishness, Ripken hates hates hates the 4th of July. For him, it's three days of scary noises which cause him to hold all bodily functions until the coast is clear. It can't be healthy. He's been this way since as long as Monkey and I remember, and neither of us can think of what might have caused this personality trait in our handsome old boy.

Yesterday, the actual Fourth, was of course, expected to be the pinnacle of bangs and booms, of high pitched rocket whine and foundation-shaking shell bursts. We held out hope, however, that it wouldn't be too bad. The previous two days had been acceptable, as far as the volume and density of explosives-related noise in the general vicinity. On top of that, it was raining heavily from the early AM hours, and the forecast was for unrelenting rain and storms all day. Surely, that would put a damper on the fireworks, we thought. Ripken would be able to spend a wet, but anxiety-free holiday for once.

Unfortunately, around four in the afternoon, the rain broke, and by seven PM, the sun was out. Like roaches in the dark, the pyros filled the streets almost the minute the last raindrop fell. As a result, our after-dinner walk was curtailed, as nearly every corner in our little neighborhood was stationed by an army of children and adults with that wild red-eyed look they get when shit is blowing up.

Truth be told, Money and I had an invitation to a party, so we snuck out for a few hours. We left the stereo playing for Ripken (he spends the loudest parts of the fourth in our relatively sound-proof basement), and could tell by Parker's behavior to this point that his time in the crate would have no detrimental effect upon him...he is, to this point, fearless to a point of stupidity.

At the party, as the sun began to set, boxes and bags, crates and truck beds full of fireworks appeared. In the cul de sac on which our party was being held, a seeming free-for-all of children and "supervising" adults were firing off every kind of air- and ground-based entertainment explosive that could be bought, smuggled, or finagled from the various tents and stands around town. Who was I to complain? Part of the tradition of the holiday is the lighting off of fireworks, and IT IS LEGAL in our town to shoot fireworks on July 3 and 4, until midnight. If it's legal, then okay.

But, honestly, it's still annoying. Especially when Monkey and I arrived home at 9:30 to find our entire street engulfed in gun smoke, and populated with cars and people there to watch the fireworks at the country club down the street and to explode the rest of their soon-to-be-illegal stash. The video above is from the street right outside the Monkey House. It doesn't capture the scene as it truly was. The sounds in the background, while difficult to hear throughout the video, were constant and everywhere. The pall of smoke, visible in the streetlight's glow, was more prevalent, in truth.

The funny thing that dawned on me this morning: all of this mayhem (welcome to the war zone, it seemed) is legal (albeit for two days) just outside my front door, but I have to keep my chickens fifty feet away from your house? My chickens are not going to explode and set your roof on fire, are they?

Our First Ride

I took another lengthy ride last week, from our house, out east about 45 blocks, then north for several miles, then further east on the out of town extension of the trail that I had ridden earlier in the week when I was finding my way to my new school. I rode back home on the same trail I rode back on earlier in the week, too. The round trip was about twenty-six miles, I think, as I basically did a loop around town, with a little out and back spur through the eastern country side. But that was not the best ride I took last week.

My favorite ride of the week (and maybe forever), was a forty minute pedal through the neighborhood with Monkey. She just bought her first bike, and this was our first ride together. Not only was she on her first bike, but she was basically on her first bike ride! She just learned how to ride last summer, and is now confident enough to have bought a bike and to take it out for a spin. A courageous act, for sure.

But, it was so much fun to just tool around, with no particular place to go, with my favorite riding companion in the whole world. Hooray, Monkey!

Sitting Still

In 2006, Monkey and I spent part of June in Maine. In 2007, Monkey and I spent part of June moving from CoMO to Lincoln. In 2008, Monkey and I spent part of Jun in Italy. Last year, Monkey and I spent part of June in OCMD. This year, we aren't going anywhere.

For the most, we are staying put this month due to our new puppy. We will be heading to Colorado at the end of July, but, right now, we think he's a little too young to be left in the care of someone else (especially if he'd be around strange dogs). This is, after all, his formative period, and we wanted to be here to form him, of course.

It's fine by me to be keeping close to home. I find plenty on the old homestead to keep me busy, including reading (of which I have done too little, so far). Add to that that World Cup eating up anywhere from an hour to six of any given day, I am perfectly content to be here.

In a way, however, I am traveling. After three years teaching at my school, my position was cut due to budget tightening. As a result, I spent several weeks this past semester interviewing with other schools in the district who, due to transfers, resignations, retirements, etc., had openings. Lucky for me, a high school position was available, and I was offered it. So, I am moving to a new school next year. I am still in the LPS district, so I keep all of my seniority and such, but I still had to pack everything up and store it here until I can get into my new location.

It is frustrating to lose a position for such arbitrary reasons, but I feel fortunate that I didn't get laid off and left to fend for a new job in a completely new district. That would have really been tough. I am, to some extent, looking forward to the excitement of a new school and new classes.

Yet, staying in one job for a while wouldn't have been bad, either. That seems to be something I haven't done for a long time. And, now that I think about it, the last time I was in the same job for a long time (ten plus years), I kind of grew to hate it.

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

A Long Night

Ripken was pretty sore yesterday after returning from the vet. His surgery consisted of the removal of six tumors (all of the fatty, benign variety). Some were located in such a position that he could not lie down with any comfort for most of the night. He was given the recommended dosage of baby aspirin, and he did lie down for an hour from 8 to 9 and from 11 to 12, but for the rest of the night, he stood. He was clearly tired, and he would apparently nod off, only to wake when he started to lose his balance. He leaned on me for a while, but that was uncomfortable and unproductive, since I couldn't keep his back legs from buckling, no matter what I did. Monkey was up most of the night, trying to comfort the dog and cajole him into a prostrate position, but, it was not effective. He was just in too much pain.

Finally, at about 4:30 am, he was probably so tired that he dealt with the hurt. Down he went, and he stayed asleep until about 8 this morning. He's been down for most of the day, except for an hour or two just after lunch. He's had his dose of aspirin for the day, and he doesn't get another until 8 tonight. I hope he makes it until then.

It has only been a little over twenty-four hours since his surgery, so his discomfort is to be expected. He is clearly better today than he was yesterday, and I expect he will be better still tomorrow.

I just hope we can all get some sleep tonight.

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!

Resisting The Urge

All we have is now.
--The Flaming Lips, "All We Have Is Now"

As the year draws to a close, it is natural that we wish to look back, to gauge the year just past to see what was good and what was not, to see how we progressed as we made our way down the road of life. This year, we might feel even more tempted to look back and measure the decade that is drawing to a close (depending on whom you talk to). Honestly, I am pretty blown away by the fact that it was a decade ago that Monkey and I spent our first New Year's Eve in Missouri, wondering if the world would end at the stroke of midnight and prove us wrong for not building a survival shelter, taking our meager savings out of the bank, buying a generator, and stocking up on canned goods, bottled water, and kerosene. I hadn't even thought about it, really, until comoprozac started running his list of the best albums of the Aughts. A lot has changed in ten years, most of which, I don't really need to get into.

As a matter of fact, I am not going to get into any of it. I am going to try to resist the urge to look back. I am going to try to resist the desire to measure my progress. Instead, I am just going to be happy to be where I am, and try to keep my focus on the road ahead...or maybe just the road under my feet. After all, the future is impossible to see.

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!

Puppy Concerns

I really can't explain it, but, just as Monkey and I headed to bed for a long winter's nap, we got the news that school was canceled again, today. I know that three days off is going to play heck with the end of the term (especially since this is an already too-short eight week term), but, like I have said before, we'll just have to deal with that. The residential streets are still pretty hard to navigate, and the temperature at 9AM was still only two above zero, so I can see why they might have erred on the side of caution. I am still surprised.

Today, I am taking the opportunity to get the puppy dog a vet appointment. He seems generally okay, but he has lately been hacking a lot, like he has some bad chest congestion. Monkey, a concerned parent, as always, is worried, so, I am taking him to see his doctor this afternoon. Maybe she'll tell us to "put some 'Tussin on it," in the immortal medical advice of Chris Rock.

Other than that, since I have already had two days to catch up, I have little to do, really. I suppose I'll do some reading. Boy, it's been tough to be me this week.

It's Wednesday. It's Not Dark. It's Not Snowing.

The blizzard has passed. The driveway is cleared. The walks are cleared. The cars are dug out. The sun is shining, making it abundantly bright and clear what makes us love snow, even when we are humping our three thousandth shovelful onto a pile as tall as our head.

The dog has carved out a thin path from the backdoor to an acceptable post, but the depth of the snow has made him reticent to explore more. Monkey and I have taken this extra time off to get some holiday-type chores accomplished. We hope to venture out later today to pick up the TV we paid for on Saturday.

We will most likely be back to normal tomorrow, but, with winter break coming at the end of next week, I must selfishly say that I have truly loved having these two days to get my head right. I hope that we can finish the next ten days stronger, more focused, and more pleasantly than things were shaping up after the Thanksgiving weekend.

Bring it on!

It's Tuesday. It's Dark. It's Snowing.

Snow day is drawing to a close. Spent the day reading, sitting by the fire, shoveling the drive way--you know, those sorts of snow day things. Monkey and I are currently watching AWAY WE GO (Monkey has taken a snack break). No word on tomorrow, but I expect we'll be back to school tomorrow.

*****NEWS FLASH*****

Monkey just checked the LPS website, and they just posted that we have NO SCHOOL tomorrow! This is unbelievable. Awesome. Troublesome when we finally do get back to school, but we shall let that simmer until Thursday.

And now, back to the video.

It' s Sunday. It's Dark. It's Snowing.

December arrived determined to wipe away any memories of a balmy November. Global warming is not on any one's mind today, here in Cornopolis. It's pretty chilly out there, and the snow has been falling slowly since about ten this morning. The next couple days could bring us six inches or so, all told. It probably won't close schools tomorrow or Tuesday, but it might be enough to make Parent Teacher conferences pretty poorly attended tomorrow night. You know how much I love PT conferences, eh?

It has been a pretty good weekend. The Florida-Alabama game was enjoyable. It wasn't a great game, but I was pulling for the Crimson Tide. I don't know why, but I have always liked Alabama, even as a tyke. And, equally inexplicably, I have never been a fan of the Gators. But, now that I think about it, that's probably Steve Spurrier's fault. Anyway, the Big 12 Championship game WAS exciting (unless you like offense), and unexpectedly competitive. Monkey asked me before the game if I thought it was going to be ugly. I told her I thought it would be, but I didn't mean ugly in the way it turned out.

In addition, the Steelers lost to the Raiders today. I feel a twinge of guilt, getting joy from others misery (see Florida, as well), but, when it comes to the Steelers, I know that their fans get as much satisfaction out of watching the Ravens flounder as we get out of their losses. But, in a less spiteful vein, Pittsburgh's loss (which is kind of inconceivable...as well as their loss two weeks ago to KC) opens up one more door, ever so slightly, for Baltimore to make it into the playoffs. Of course, the Ravens need to win on Monday night, and they need to keep winning, and they need Jacksonville to slip up at some point, but, with Pittsburgh's loss, they have an opportunity to move closer to the wild card.

Okay, no more sports talk.

Except to say that I jammed my finger playing b-ball this afternoon (not in the snow, in the church gym), and now I can't get my wedding ring on. Monkey is distraught, but I am wearing it on my right hand, and hoping the swelling subsides sooner, rather than later.

Okay, no more sports talk.

Except to say that the local ESPN radio station pulled my favorite talk show off the air this week. It was a show called THE SPREAD, and it featured former Husker All American Jason Peter. I liked the show for several reasons. One, it was on during my drive home (when I drove), so it became part of my routine. Two, Peter, a former defensive tackle who played a few seasons with the Carolina Panthers, was an unpolished, but thoroughly entertaining radio personality. And, three, Peter, a New Jersey native, had one of those East Coast accents (and attitudes) that used to make me a little homesick. Why the show was canceled, no one knows, but one day they were on the air, and the next day, they were gone. That happens in radio a lot.

Okay, no more sports talk.

Saturday, Monkey and I bought a new TV. But, they didn't have it in stock, so we have to pick it up Tuesday. I was thoroughly bummed, since we were going slightly larger, slightly more 16:9 aspect ratio, slightly more 1080p, and slightly more 120Hz. In sum, we were moving into the 21st century of TV receivers. I was thinking we would bring our shiny new LCD TV home on Saturday, hook it up, watch the Big 12 Championship, and then, on Monday, we could dig on the Ravens' Monday night appearance in all of their bright and shining (in black and purple) glory. Unfortunately, that ain't gonna happen. I got over it, but Monkey will tell you, I was one grumpy dude at the grocery store. At least I can watch the Army-Navy game (Go Navy!) on Saturday on the new tube.

I know, that non-sports item was awfully sporty. And, I haven't said a word about NCAA basketball.

Tires, Fowl, and Taxidermy

As I am on Fall break, it was a better idea for me to take the Civic in for new tires than for Monkey to do it. After all, when I checked my calendar, today yawned with a galactic emptiness. When Monkey checked her calendar, she had an eye doctor's appointment (and some other stuff). Of course, that all changed when a co-worker invited me out to lunch with a crew. Mind you, this was no ordinary lunch, either, we were all bound for Unadilla (home of Unadilla Bill), for a chicken dinner at The Bar. I would meet my lunch mates at a local restaurant parking lot, from which we would make the not-too-long drive out to the east.

So, I drove up to the tire place to have four new tires (that Monkey had already ordered and paid for) put on the car. Lo and behold (I am still not completely clear on directions and locations around here) the tire place is right next to the restaurant where I was to meet up with everybody. I figured I could just roll the car from one little parking lot to the restaurant's big parking lot with little fanfare and be off when the time came. I dropped off the car and walked over to a coffee shop/bakery for a croissant, some coffee, and an hour of reading.

Two pages into my reading material, Monkey called me. The tire place had ordered the wrong tires. I'd have to come back some other time. I finished my coffee, marked my page, and picked up the car.

In hindsight, I could have stayed in the coffee shop for a half hour and then went to get the car. Then, I could have simply rolled over to the restaurant. But I didn't do that. I drove home, sat around for twenty minutes, and then drove back out to the restaurant. Stupid and wasteful, I know.

At the parking lot, I piled in with five other teachers and we rolled over to Unadilla (pop. 350ish). The Bar (the actual name of the bar where we had the chicken) was hopping for lunch. And we were by far the youngest patrons on this bright and breezy Tuesday. And the food was good and cheap. Where else are you going to get three pieces of chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, lemonade, lemon meringue pie (not awesome) and a cup of coffee for $8.50? That's right, some other small town in Nebraska. But, today, we got it in Unadilla.

And, in a touching (for me) extra to the day's journey, as I paid my tab at the cash register, I saw, above me on a shelf of honor, the preserved carcass of Unadilla Bill, the most famous groundhog in all of Nebraska. It was a beautiful moment, I must say.








Photo from The Omaha World Herald, accessed at http://www.flickr.com/photos/25702639@N02/2417277608