Went for a bike ride with the ladies today. Brisk, but well played by all. A few pictures for you, which may be embiggened with a single click.
My ear worm from the ride (had the Bluetooth headphones on for nearly all 30 miles): Mr. Petty, King’s Highway. Enjoy.
Sally leads Happy Wife ’round the bend.
Otis (Oh-Tee) selfie.
Token Buddha moment.
I complained on Keebler’s web site that a box of crackers I had purchased was mostly schnibbles. A company spokesperson replied to thank me for sharing my concern about product quality, and said I should expect a coupon in the mail redeemable for ONE box of a Keebler product of my choice. Sure enough the coupon arrived Friday. What is a parvenu to do? Should I redeem it for another box of Town House Italian Herb schnibbles crackers, or maybe a tube of Pringles? Possibly a box of Cheese-Its (Happy Wife’s Achilles Heel)? I just now Googled: Tips For Handling Sudden Wealth.
Speaking of sudden wealth — you may recall that each year in Alaska since 1916 a contest is held to see who can guess the correct day/hour/minute when the ice will go out on the Tanana River. $2.50/guess. Last year I came within four days. Big whoop, right. Well, this year, Happy Wife ran her super secret Bayesian Inverse Factor Analysis algorithm (in Unsupervised mode) to make her guesses (8). 12 minutes! That’s right, the ice officially broke up on April 24th at 2:25 pm (AKST). One of eight of Happy Wife’s guesses: April 24th, 2:37 pm (AKST). This year’s jackpot is $330,330. That’s a lot of Keebler crackers, but I doubt we’ll be notified we won, or even that we’ll be sharing the pot with other close guessers, which is commonly what happens. (Happy Wife over my shoulder just now: “Who’s this We, Kemosabe?” I reply, “Why, dear, surely if your ticket won you would…” Husband is met by Steely gaze.).
At $2.50 a crack, assuming all proceeds go to the jackpot (doubtful given the costs of running the contest), that’s ~132 thousand tickets purchased. Surely one or more of those represents a guess closer than 12 minutes. But we she can hope.
How is it precisely determined when the ice goes out? As you might imagine for an Alaskan contest, it’s kinda kludge:
In 1947, reporter Georg Myers described it this way:
“Here is how the Rube Goldberg-like apparatus works. When the ice goes out, the tripod begins to move downstream. It pulls on the rope and raises the bucket of rocks. When it has moved 100 feet downstream, the official distance, then the pin is pulled out of the gadget holding up the meat cleaver; the cleaver drops, cutting the rope holding the rocks, tripping the clock and recording the time.”
So we press on with the few pennies we have, the sky is clear and the days are once again long, hopeful we’ll win the jackpot next year. In the meantime, would you look at this, my breakfast has arrived, lovingly prepared and titled, Springtime On A Plate (a seasoned, poached egg, grilled asparagus, oven-crisped prosciutto and a toasted English muffin).
I would like to live in a community where Wisdom of the Elders is valued by up-and-comers. What more flattering, and satisfying, experience might an Elder imagine than being asked: Share with me what you’ve learned the past three decades.
Rather than valuing Elder Wisdom, it seems to me there are too many instances today where it is disregarded entirely, even sneered at, as if it were an affliction and not a virtue. I was of that attitude many years ago. Actually, it wasn’t so much I sneered at Elder Wisdom as I had become contemptuous of Authority. I was deeply resentful of individuals who thought they deserved respect simply because of their Office.
Indeed, if asked, this would be a bit of Wisdom I’d pass on to posterity, Withhold respect for any person until they’ve earned it.
If you ask me the worst disrespect for Elder Wisdom is the kind packaged with condescension. Nothing worse than some Boy full up on his own self-appraisal telling you, You got It wrong Old Man. Oh, is that so? Well, here, have a slice of Humble Pie, Boy: I was writing code for an A/D controller on a DEC PDP-11 when you were still messing your drawers.
You see, once upon a time there was an old fish. Each and every summer the old fish would join the other fish at the mouth of the river, and when the tide swung hard he’d start upstream along with them, but only so far as the rush of water would propel him. When the tail force of the tide equaled the head force of the river, the old fish sought refuge inside an eddy of a cut bank, while the others fought their way upstream. There he’d wait for the next pulse of fish to come by on the next tide. When they did, he’d dart from the cut bank and pull in behind them, swimming in their draft until he could no longer hold their pace. Then he would stop and hold up in another pool of lazy water to regain his strength. On and on this went for weeks, until, eventually, the river lost its force, began to meander and become shallower. Here, after commingling their seed among the stones of the river bed, the other fish began to transmogrify into frightful forms, both in color and shape.
What could the old fish do but swim among the carnage. He tried to caution the new fish arriving each day but to no avail. They ignored his warnings, disregarded his concerns, pushed passed him like zombie fish hastening their doom. Eventually, new fish stopped arriving, and like all the other years the old fish gave up and swam slowly downstream, back to the ocean.
One year, when the old fish had made it back to the ocean, he came upon a young fish who was late to move up the river. Surely, the old fish thought, he could persuade a single fish to avoid the fate that awaited him, if only he would listen to the wisdom of the old fish. Instead, the young fish became belligerent and challenged the old fish to a fight, which the old fish lost. His remains washed up on the beach. To this day there has never been another old fish like him.
If it sucks we keep it. If it doesn’t suck we take it back.
Evidently the Bissell Multi-Cyclone with Hepa Filter Boost (!) we’ve made do with the past six years is no longer capable of upsucking so much as a single pubic hair.
We have central vacuuming in our house, at least the house was plumbed for such, but Happy Wife has never been keen on fully implementing it.
“Let’s donate the Bissell to the less fortunate,” I humbly offered.
“No!” I was sternly reproved. As if I were a rich man knocking at Heaven’s door.
Value Village, I was told in no uncertain terms, strictly forbids vacuum cleaner donations. “Why, what if the innards of the cleaner are crawling with bed bugs, hmm?”
I admit I hadn’t considered such a thing. It’s a good thing there are people in this world who do.
Into the garbage it goes, I guess. Goodness knows we don’t want to be a propagators of Bed Buggage.
We went whale watching last weekend with Kenai Fjords Tours.
At about 20 seconds you’ll hear me utter a faux concern as we approach the spires, that the Captain (~50 secs) is not at the helm.
Everywhere we went we watched and watched and watched for whales. Nada. And then, shortly after the captain fearlessly guided the boat between the spires, we spotted a gray whale. It lazily surfaced and showed us a fluke, and then just as quickly disappeared again into the leviathan darkness. And we waited. And waited. And waited some more for it to resurface. The captain mentioned,”like watching paint dry.”
Minutes later someone shouted, “There it is!” Why yes, sure enough, even I could see the remnant disturbance on the water, a thousand or more feet away. By the time iPhones were deployed it was once again gone.
Paint Dried. We moved on.
Near Chival Island we paused to watch another gray. Equally elusive. Totally undaunted by our presence.
Again we moved on. This time to deeper water chasing the hope heard over the radio by another boat that they had spotted Orcas!
Whatya know.
Okay, fine, you’re right, I agree — but what a day on the water we had! We also saw harbor seals aplenty, Dahl porpoises (mini Orcas), a lazy otter, and sea lions (aka Orca food).
Friends have begun showing up in email lately, “We’re coming to Alaska this summer, you gonna be around?!”
Yes, I assure them, we will be around, we are here for you. We are always here for you.
May I even suggest that losing a dog is like losing a limb.
No, some might say, that would devalue the experience of those who have actually lost a limb.
And I would say that might devalue our experience of actually losing a dog.
What both victims of loss have in common, I’m sure, is the wish that the loss could be undone.
…
Just wanted to reassure you we are still here. Futilely wishing we could unring a bell.
I suppose that for so many people for whom a dog is merely a furry little head to pat once or twice a day, but otherwise to be left in the backyard on a leash for hours on end, or inside some cage much of the day, freed only briefly when it suits its Master’s needs, then excessive emoting over the loss of a dog must seem…I don’t know, pathological.
If you think that then fine, please recommend us a treatment. I would try it. Because what we’re feeling is no good.
I don’t mean to devalue other peoples’ experiences with their dogs or their personal feelings of loss.
I only know how much time and devotion we — myself, yes, but especially Happy Wife via Harry — invested in our dogs. Was it extraordinary? Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.
We’re not seeking anyone’s praise or merit badge — being our dogs companions the past 12+ years was its own reward.
I only mention it to emphasize just how much of our time we’ve spent in the company of dogs. Hell, I once estimated conservatively that I walked/biked over 6000 miles with Rufus. A great deal of that was with Rufus and Lucy, and then more with just Lucy after Rufus died, and then a little more with just Harry.
In all that time they become part of you. Kind of like a leg, or an arm, an inseparable part of who you are.
