Author name: Rod

Oh, what fun we’re having Up here. Up, because for some reason North has been designated Up and South is not Up. South is down there, and references to it are often associated with a measure of snootiness, as if the people down there, South of us, are in some way beneath those of us Up here, in the north woods.

We left Minneapolis and drove to Wausau, WI where we dropped the rental and hooked up with my brother who’d driven up from Madison. We drove the remainder of the way with him to Up here. Up here being Lake Buckatabon, ~15 miles north of Eagle River, WI. First things first. We stopped at the Pick ‘n Save — which was half right — to purchase certain victuals and other sundries of consumption that a forward-thinking phone call to those already assembled at the resort indicated we were still in need of. Ice, drink mix, Lipton Ice tea (diet plz), swimming goggles for the nephew, and, I thought, why not:

Remove bladder of green juice from the bucket, open and decant back into bucket, add 750 mL of tequila (750 being a guideline not a hard ‘n fast rule) and chill. Whata country!

I’d forgotten how violent the thunderstorms Up here can be. These weatherly events are virtually unknown in Anchorage so it was kinda fun. On nights one and two the sky became a contorted fist of blue and purple, lightening and thunder could be seen/heard in the distance. We could almost literally feel the storm approach us, the air got heavy and if one could say you can smell rain, well, we smelled the rain a comin’. By the time we went to bed it was right over us, the first strike of lightening lit up our dark bedroom and like children we counted, one thousand one, one thousand two… and then that incomparable crack of thunder shook the land and everything grounded to it. It felt like it was a mere ten feet above our cabin.

By morning the storm has passed and the day is halcyon once again. We fish from the pontoon boat but so far nothing more than sunfish and a few small largemouth bass have been raised from the deep. (Which is bigger: a small largemouth or a large smallmouth?). In any case, insufficient fishage to merit a visit to the “Liar’s Shack”, that small shed on the property where fish of exaggerated proportion are quickly eviscerated before the truth can be independently established.

Happy Wife captured in what may have been an act of ambiguous direction giving to the helmsman:

And so it is we swim in the shallows, kayak to the far reaches of the lake, relax and reminisce, each of us enjoying the day in their preferred way. And when the mood strikes us there’s always BigBucket, chillin’ in the fridge.

For those of you who’ve read my latest short story, I’d be pleased to hear any thoughts and comments you have. Use the “Contact” link on the side bar. Same thing if you’d like to request a copy to read. Don’t be shy — I want reader’s comments, need them really. To those of you who have already read it and commented, thank you.

The comments I’ve gotten so far indicate I need to shorten the story and tighten up the middle portion because it meanders a bit, and thus I risk losing the reader’s attention. Other comments have been variably helpful and not. The story has been rejected at three literary magazines so far, but I would have been surprised, frankly, had any one of them accepted the story for publication in its current form. Which is not to say I sent them a first pass, unedited version; I didn’t. That would have been a mistake, and a waste of my time. What I was really hoping for was to receive some feedback with the rejections, but nothing so far. These were high brow literary magazines and I think my chances of getting this story published in any one of them, even a greatly improved version, is probably pretty low. So my current plan is to further revise the story, to incorporate changes that address the criticisms I’ve gotten so far, at least those I agree with, and re-submit to literary magazines who’ve indicated a special interest in publishing new writers. There is one in particular I came across in the Novel and Short Story Writer’s Market (2011) that prefers stories about the workplace, which, for those of you who’ve read my story, I’m sure you’ll agree mine is.

Synopsis: “Something Truly Egregious” is a kind of coming of professional age story with a tragicomic end.

C’mon, whatya have to lose!

A parting shot from June:

Our friend Mark and I stopped at the top of the Bee trails where we went mountain biking Sunday. A perfectly fine spot for his two Airedales to roll in the dirt. It’s an activity to look forward to if you’re a dog, a good roll in the dirt. The dog who embeds the finest particles of dirt into the deepest hollows of his fur wins! Still no rain as of yesterday, however, as I write finally it has started. July is ordinarily the month we enjoy our nicest summer weather, although June will be a tough lead to follow this year.

It’s back to work today for all the ladies who enjoyed the weekend at our beach house. According to Happy Wife she saw no less than three bikinis Sunday morning hanging on the shower curtain rod, left there to drip dry. Evidence of potentially irresponsible behavior having occurred in the hot tub in the wee hours of the morning, prompting me once again to make my case for electronic surveillance … “N0.”

Okay then.

Friday we’re traveling to the north-woods of Wisconsin — land o’ cheese — for a week of fun with the family. On the itinerary: crappie fishing, card cheating, pontoon boating, sun burning, exaggerating, deer fly swatting, over eating, and other activities of leisure consistent with moderate to excessive libation. Don’t worry, I promise to wear my PFD at all times while on the water. Hard to imagine falling off a pontoon boat, though. What an invention (supposedly by a Minnesotan): Take a slab of steel the size of an average backyard patio, strap it to rows of barrels welded end-to-end, slap an outboard motor on one end, top load it with Weber grills, boom boxes, coolers filled with cold drinks and tubular meats, an extended family of eight, and away you go!

Okay, yes, I am now beginning to see how falling into the water may in fact be possible, if not also desirable.

A perfectly good end to a perfectly good day on a perfectly good patio outside a perfectly good watering hole with a perfectly Happy Wife and a not so perfect boo boo knee.

This time my knee. That one right there:

Happy Wife diagnosed it as an effusion. Underlying cause could be any number of things, but the most likely in my case was over use. The more serious condition of prepatellar bursitis is also known as rug cutter’s knee. Installing (faux) wood floors one weekend followed by molding and bead board on subsequent weekends? — just sayin’. But, it’s nothing ice, Ibuprofen, wifely pampering, and a Sapphire martini or three can’t solve.

Got an early morning report from the beach house that all is going well down there. Happy Wife and her boss made it to bed just after midnight, after dinner, drinking, billiards, and finally a dip in the hot tub. The rest of the girls stayed in Seward, closed the bars, and wandered back after 2 am, commenced giggling and hot tubbing, and were evidently still asleep come 7:30 am, one half hour before they were due at the pier to depart on the kayak trip. Oh boy.

Our heads were in the clouds on summer solstice:

BIGGER.

That’s the saddle on the Artic Valley hike, just before you begin the final climb to Rendezvous summit, which we declined to do this time. Not clouds really, more like a morning haze trapped in the valley that had yet to burn off. For weeks now we’ve had very little cloud cover and no rain to speak of, and if you believe the forecast there’s no end in sight. And blessedly, no mosquitoes up this high. This will be a summer to remember that’s for sure.

We hiked up with our friend Willem and the dogs.

BIGGER.

If you click the BIGGER link you’ll be able to make out the abandon radar installation on Mt. Gordon Lyon, and just below it (out of sight) an old Nike missile base. It was active during the cold war, intended to shoot down Soviet bombers if they dared attack US. You used to be able hike right up to it and look around, but since 9/11 I think there’s a fence around it. I joked with Willem and Happy wife, wondering how long it would take us to get noticed up there, sitting around with sketch pads dressed in Turbans and Happy Wife in the Hijab. Not even a muted chuckle did this raise.

Okay then…

Happy Wife is hosting an office party of sorts at our beach house this weekend. Women only. Kayaking, hiking, and bar hopping are among the activities planned. Every one of the women in her office is very professional, for sure, yet several are young twenty-somethings, and so I thought as a responsible homeowner with concerns around safety and liability, especially in the hot tub area, I might install a little webcam monitor, you know, only to make sure that after having maybe a little too much to drink, with inhibitions (and tops) lowered, nobody engages in any unsafe behaviors.

When I suggested this to Happy Wife, however, I’m afraid it went over like a fart in church.

Googled “Beyond Biblical”, looking for a word to capture the scope of the mosquito plague in Anchorage this year, and now you should see the pop-up ads that appear in my browser. It can be fun messing with the head of an algorithm. Feed it a string like: “Virgin Mary in Christian Louboutin Red Soled Heels”. The possibilities are endless!

Speaking of heels and mosquitos — Happy Wife dressed for work this morning and left the house early to hurry over to the Fred Meyer store where they were just unloading boxes full of stuff to kill and repel mosquitos, the shelves having been denuded of these products weeks ago. She scored. Came home with a bagful of coils and at least one large can of some stuff with a picture of a mosquito on it and the word KILL plastered about in no less than three places.

Directions: Shake well before using. Hmm, that’s curious. But if you know me, you know I’m a stickler for following instructions (snigger), so I held the can in one hand and did my best to tremble. Why this is required I don’t understand.

Outside I went, coffee in one hand and murder in the other, into the gauntlet of mosquitos, clouds of them grating against the glass on the door like zombies in Dawn of Dead trying in vain to get inside. Under the deck, around the fence, and over the shrubberies I sprayed, a white foamy dust twinkled in the still morning air: “I love the smell of Pyrethroids in the morning.”

Minutes later, all was quiet.

Better living through chemistry they say. Microwave radiation, I’ll remind you, is less effective in this fight.

The call eventually came at about 4:45 pm yesterday. Give him the day to squirm.

Over the phone came the neutral voice of my physician’s nurse: “Hello, is this Rod?”

Instantly you fix on the tone of voice, analyze its pitch: happy or dour, pleased or disappointed, light ‘n breezy or coldly factual.

Eventually I reply, “Yes, this is Rod.”

She started in with a considerable preamble that I’m certain was relevant though I can’t recall a word of it. It’s like what they say about what an expectant dog hears, keywords, the rest is noise: “blah blah blah RUFUS blah blah blah TREAT blah blah blah…”

Likewise, I heard: “blah blah blah ROD blah blah blah GOOD NEWS blah blah…”

My tail begins to wag.

I ask her to repeat it, I didn’t hear the detail. Of course, she says, I understand. There is cheer in her tone. The mist in my mesentery had evidently cleared, nothing but an early morning haze that had burned off once the sun rose. You do not have an occult metastasis; in fact, she continued, improvement in your nodes was observed compared to the previous scan, so no need for any additional follow-up, we’re treating the original finding as an incidental discovery.

Tail wagging faster. Time passes.

“Rod, are you there, do you have any more questions for me?”

Finally, I manage, “Uh, no, that’s… excellent, thank you.

She invites me to enjoy the rest of my day, we hang up.

Hopefully, today I find out if I might have lymphoma. I’m not hopeful I have it, only that I’ll hear.

I had a cat scan yesterday on the recommendation of a radiologist who had diagnosed me as having a “misty mesentery”, an incidental finding based on a cat scan I had late last year when I threw a kidney stone. The pain associated with that episode was roughly equivalent to what Carol Burnett said childbirth felt like: “Imagine pulling your lower lip over the top of your forehead.” Some fun.

My scientific side went directly to the relevant literature. I was reassured to find one study that concluded: incidental findings of lymph node inflammation on CT scan < 10 mm, with no other lymphadenopathy detected, were associated with a benign course. If I recall correctly, while my nodes registered as “misty” they were in the 6-8 mm range. Benign. Like that word. A lot.

My non-scientific side dismissed the diagnosis as an acute finding, associated with what must have been considerable commotion in my lower bowel related to the nearby stress in my kidney.

Regardless, the finding motivated the recommendation I have a follow-up CT scan in six months. Yesterday.

Happy Wife is demonstrably concerned. I can’t blame her — if this were her I’d collapse into a worrisome mass, doing nothing all day but taking up space until I heard she was in the clear. I’m more sanguine about it, and isn’t this always the case, concern for ourselves is less than that of those who love us?

Just called my primary care physician who I asked to receive the report, which I expect is complete by now.

The line was busy.

First things first.

Thank you, Dad. A lot.

I’m quite sure at the time he was telling a good friend what a lady killer I’d grow up to be. He’d have been right about that. A point of pride for him, I’m sure, holding me up there like a trophy, yet lest we forget the wonder of recombination and crossover I’ll remind you that that’s half my mom you’re looking at. But that’s another day. So Dad, today (yesterday really), this one’s for you.

Hot hot hot. I don’t know what’s happening but the temperature in Anchorage today will be well above 83. Someone said 90. It’s not at all unusual for interior Alaska to experience 90s, Fairbanks for instance, but Anchorage? I don’t think so. Weirder still is I seem to have gotten the crud, the kind of infection and symptoms you’d expect in Winter. Congestion, stuffy head, weakness, etc.. Like I said, weird.

Consequently, during my time of weakness wimpiness, Happy Wife has once again risen to the challenge of unfinished chores, seen here sporting a retro bandana watering the raised beds:

BIGGER.

Was my Dad right or what?!

With 20 hours of daylight, bluesky, and 70s+, we’ll be entering our zucchinis in the annual big vegetable contest at our state fair. Assuming one will fit on the roof of the car.

 

Our fair city viewed from the coastal trail on another stupendous day.

BIGGER.

It was snowing a month ago.

Phonecast says 80 by Monday.