1. I spent many hours cleaning up the shed. Late in the afternoon, I am sitting quietly, admiring the fruits of my labor, when the empty Sigg bottle suddenly topples down from its place on the shelf. Puzzled and curious, I pick it up to return it, and see that it was knocked off the narrow ledge by that large electrical cable that is draped in through the window...the cable that at this moment is slowly moving up onto the ledge above the window opening...wait a second...
2. I clear the new spring growth from the lower end of the trail with a brush cutter attachment on the strimmer. I spend twenty-five, thirty minutes slowly walking the trail, occasionally shooting sparks when I accidentally let the blade strike the bare rocks. As I return down the trail to where I began, I note the fawn curled up in a tiny little bundle, a mere foot or so off the trail I just cleared. I had no idea it was there.
3. Birds make many sounds, and among those sounds, alarm is unmistakable once you have heard it. As we worked in the warm sun one afternoon, I began to take note of the shrill and persistent cries of alarm in the background.
I walk over to where a pair of wrens flit back and forth agitatedly from the mouth of a growtube. A growtube is a translucent plastic tube about the length and diameter of a man's arm, used to protect newly planted saplings from extreme weather, dehydration and browsing animals. In this particular instance, the growtube was protecting an apple tree sapling.
Cautiously, I looked down into the growtube, and saw what I expected to see: the back end of a black snake, coiled downward, face into a pine-needle bird's nest. The nest still held several nearly-fledged wren chicks; one chick was already fully in the snake's mouth.
I pondered the circumstances for a few milliseconds/an entire lifetime. We created an artificial situation by placing the growtubes; the wrens, in their foolishness, exacerbated the situation by building a secure, sheltered, warm cozy nest—in the very bottom of a slick-sided tube their babies could never, ever, hope to fly out of .
I did the only thing I could do: I slowly pulled the tube upwards; the snake flopped out awkwardly, and chaos ensued. The wren parents fluttered about screaming ferociously; the snake writhed about in confusion, and two fledglings fluttered away from the now-exposed nest.
I picked up the snake and figured things were about fair at this point, with the snake having had a decent meal at the expense of the foolish wrens—but at least it was not a total loss for the wrens. I carried the writhing snake off to the edge of the nearby woods, and gave him a gentle (but firm) toss.
The snake landed in the pine needles, regained his composure, and slithered off with great dispatch into the deep cover of the woods. Delighted at my little role in this passion play, I returned to what I had been doing in the garden.
Within a few short moments, the wren wruckus wresumed. I walked back over to the scene, and sure enough, the black snake had returned; by the time I get there, it has already grabbed the sole remaining chick, one that for whatever reason, was less mobile than its siblings. This time, I grab him and walk him further away, to the very edge of the clearing. I toss him into the underbrush, and this time, I watch him carefully to ascertain his motives. To my satisfaction, he heads directly into the undergrowth, away from the wren nest.
For a moment.
Then he slowly begins a right turn.
For the next few minutes, the snake gradually heads back towards the wren nest. Anytime he senses my presence, he diverts slightly; but the net result is always back towards the nest. Within ten minutes or so, he has found his way back, in an arc of about fifty feet or so. When he arrives, the chicks are gone; he spends several minutes nosing the remnants of the nest apart, meticulously searching for some trace. Once convinced there is nothing left in the nest, he begins to track the scent left by the fleeing fledglings.
The young birds are capable of some semblance of flight, but are not truly ready to be on their own; they can get airborne for a few feet at a time, but fly with the grace of frogs, more bumping along than actually flying. Their parents are valiant—but somewhat hapless—coaches in this respect. But their ferocity in the face of this menace cannot be disputed. They light within six inches of the monster, squawking and feignting to distract him from their offspring, flying off just as he strikes. At one point, a wren screams at the snake from a fence rail just above it; the snake began to rise up and rear back; and at the very last instance as the snake struck, the wren flew off, out of range.
But the snake has now attained the fledgling's trace in earnest—he follows their course relentlessly and mercilessly through tufts of grass, weeds, and across the wide gravel drive, into the cemetery.
At this point, we take pity on both the vulnerable fledglings and their agitated parents. Mary finds one of the chicks hiding in a thick clump of grass, and as she tries to pick it up, it flops awkwardly onto her shoe.
She walks it to the edge of the woods where it might be safe (having not left a trail for the snake to follow) and releases it into the good graces of its parents, who shepherd it along a safe distance into the forest.
Mary's action was correct; by picking up the chick and moving it, the trail has been interrupted and the snake has nothing to follow.
Or so we thought.
Mary stands in the driveway, as we both watch the snake consider its next move. Slowly, deliberately, the snake begins moving—directly towards where Mary stands. Tongue flicking, it moves this way and that, tasting the warm air for a hint of baby bird. It continues towards Mary, weaving back and forth in consideration. To our—shock? horror? amazement? the snake crawls directly—DIRECTLY!—to the very spot on Mary's shoe where the chick lighted so briefly. It samples the air at that spot with its tongue, seeking so desperately that morsel of chick. It reconnoiters, and for a moment rears back to look up at Mary, not sure if this is an unbelievable windfall or its worst nightmare. We both are horrified for an instant, expecting the snake to begin crawling up Mary's leg...
At last, discretion seems to be the better part of valor, even for snakes, and it begins to head off. We decide this represents the end of the wren event, and if there will be an epilogue, we do not want a part in it. As far as I recall, we did not hear any further calls of alarm that evening.
4.)The boulder wall was in need of remodeling; we knew when we first constructed it that it was a prototype, and was subject to later revision. As we rolled one large rock onto its back ,we both simultaneously made the same comment:
"THAT'S a copperhead!"
A beautiful, unmistakable creature; elegant in color, markings worthy of a moorish palace, and the distinctive head shape that is burned into the DNA of any higher animal. This particular individual was not as long as my arm, and moved with an admirable quickness that few snakes display. Copperheads are equipped with a hemolytic poison, based on a protein common to many animals, that destroys cells and causes sure death in smaller animals and terrific pain in larger ones. Unfortunately, this individual decided to move from where it had been quietly and comfortably resting (under one rock) to under the bigger rock where we planned to work next. So for the remainder of afternoon, we worked...delicately...to say the least.
And this evening, when we went out to survey the boulder wall...there he was.
5.) A fawn almost ran me over this morning as I left for work. I didn't even have the chance to get that metallic taste in my mouth; it was very matter-of-fact, over in half a second, done and gone. So there you have it.
6.) Addendum: Late this afternoon, torrential downpours amid ferocious lightning and thunder; the greyhound is beside herself with nerves. The porch gutter is clogged with pine needles, and I get a ladder to help reach the downspout to unclog it.
As I climb the ladder, I place my hand on the roof to steady myself—directly onto the head of a very peeved black snake. The snake pauses a brief moment to glare at me, then ever so gently, curls about and crawls majestically up the roof and back into the steamy sunshine.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Dinner, June 2nd:
A salad of romaine lettuce with radishes, fresh from the garden.
Steamed radish greens with fresh green onion, sauteed in olive oil; both fresh from the garden.
Steamed green peas, fresh from the garden, served with homemade butter.
Grits casserole, incorporating fresh cheese, fresh eggs and raw milk.
Homebrewed beer.
Doesn't get any better than that.
Steamed radish greens with fresh green onion, sauteed in olive oil; both fresh from the garden.
Steamed green peas, fresh from the garden, served with homemade butter.
Grits casserole, incorporating fresh cheese, fresh eggs and raw milk.
Homebrewed beer.
Doesn't get any better than that.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Aw crap...
Friday afternoon, a hot, hazy late May day, I left work and walked out to where Beast was parked. As I went, I searched through the dozens of pockets in my pants and jacket for Beast's key.
As I walked across the parking lot, I was relieved to see the key and it's distinctive fob clearly in the ignition switch. I fastened the tankbag, flipped the kill switch to the run position, and pushed the starter--to no avail.
You'll note that in the sequence above I do not mention 'turned the key to the on position.' Apparently, the moron who rode my motorcycle to the bank over lunch somehow neglected to turn it to 'off ' upon his return--perhaps just shutting the engine off by putting the sidestand down.
The good news was that Beast sat in the upper parking lot at the top of a significant hill, with approximately 400' of elevation drop below her. So, after a few moments pondering, I pushed her out of the parking lot and onto the roadway, put her into third gear, and began the long roll down.
For about 100 yards, Beast built up momentum, then I released the clutch. That was followed by aother 100 yards of unenthusiastic "chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff." This lasted long enough for me to realize that (1) with a dead battery, the fuel pump and fuel injectors don't run (2) with a dead battery, the power-assist to the brakes also doesn't work and (3) that if I didn't get it stopped NOW it was going to be a long evening of pushing 500+ pounds of bulky bike up a very steep hill.
Crap. Crap crap crap. Crappity crap. I was sweating profusely in my gear; the afternoon sun was beating down mercilessly, heat was radiating furiously from the asphalt, and the parking space I managed to land Beast in was in the only completely shadeless section of the roadway. Sweltering in the afternoon sun, I also recalled that a critical fuse had blown some weeks ago, and in order to remedy the fix I found myself in, I would have to replace the fuse. That meant removing the seat and half the bodywork. Crap. Crap crap crap. Crappity crap.
Here's the rub: Bumpstarting Campaigner, an old airhead, was a snap, and I became an expert in the practice the first winter I rode her; it was a necessity with the combination of the kind of riding I did, her puny stock battery and the anemic alternator. In a pinch, Campaigner could be jump started fairly simply using regular automobile jumper cables.
Beast is another matter altogether. Beast's battery is buried deep beneath the gas tank, requiring removal of both body panels and freeing up the tank in order to access it. The accessory socket will handle enough current to power a heated jacket (outbound) or to charge the battery (inbound) but won't handle the current necessary to start the bike, precluding a simple cigarette-lighter-socket-to-accessory-outlet jump. The various and sundry electronic systems are too sensitive to attempt something as vulgar as a traditional jump start. (Subsequent model years offered a "jump-start-point' accessory--a well-insulated terminal hidden beneath the starter motor cover and connected directly to the starter motor positive terminal; a few screws uncovered this access point, which then could be used to jump start bikes using standard jumper cables and any convenient frame ground point.)
I puzzed and I puzzed till my puzzler was sore. The only option technically available to me was to recharge the battery--through the accessory outlet--for several hours--using the mandated BMW trickle charger. Which was 25 miles away, in the shed.
Did I mention crap? Crap crap crap. Crappity crap? At this very moment, my knight-in-shining-armor is working in the garden sans cellphone, out of earshot of the house, expecting me to show up any minute in order to feed the dogs the dinner they have been waiting so patiently for. It could be quite a while before she notices it's late, the dogs are still hungry, and I haven't fed them yet. Crap crap crap. Crappity crap. I leave a message on the house phone; I leave a message on her cellphone. And I settle in for what could potentially be a very long wait.
Shortly and miraculously, my cell rings. It is Mary, and I slowly and thickly review my predicament. I hate, almost more than anything, asking for help in situations like this. But there is no other solution available. I explain what she needs to bring, where (I think) to find it, and hope for the best.
Did I mention that this, of all evenings, is the last theatrical production of the school year, and the campus is JAMMED with parents and students and faculty and well-wishers and hangers-on of all stripe, and I feel very conspicuous and awkward, sitting by my disassembled crippled motorcycle in full view of various and sundry? I smile politely to all as they pass, and try to not look particularly eager to engage in conversation.
In a very short time, Mary appears.
We connect the charger to Beast's belly button, and begin stringing many extention cords covertly up to the nearest trailer where I prop the door ajar and plug in. Now we wait, watching the blinking colored light on the charger, waiting for any significant change.
We talk, and wander about, trying at all times to keep one eye on the bike and another on the propped-open door of the trailer, wary of mischievous idlers. The warm evening is pleasant, made more so by the agreeable company, and time passes enjoyable. After an hour or so, a test indicates Beast has not drunk deeply enough yet; it will still be some time before she is refreshed.
We are hungry now, and somewhat bored. The meager leftovers I found inside have not sated us, and I hop in the car on a mission, leaving Mary behind to stand guard over out odd little arrangement.
The local quickie mart offers few enough comestibles, but we cut to the chase: A bag of chips, and cold white wine in a screw-top bottle. The wine is quickly decanted into a convenient nalgene bottle in order to be less conspicuous; but the bottle is awkward and contributes a certain undesirable funk to the otherwise agreeable drink. Once the nalgene is drained, we opt to consume the wine in the great American style—concealed within that great equalizer, the brown paper bag. It feels absolutely wicked to sit here with Mary, watching the beautiful sunset across the piedmont, drinking wine from a paper bag in the heart of campus, in blatant violation of every possible rule and standard of ethical conduct. "Vino et Sapienta" and all that, right?
In time, Beast is fully refreshed; not wanting to press my luck, I opt to bump start her with the hill I have left. Fifty, seventy-five, one hundred feet of roll, and I release the clutch; she fires right up and I take a victory lap across the new bridge, up the new road, and back to where Mary stands waiting. We pack up the charger and cords, lock the trailer, and head for home after our impromptu picnic.
It was dark when we finally arrived home, but safe to say, the weekend improved from there on out.
As I walked across the parking lot, I was relieved to see the key and it's distinctive fob clearly in the ignition switch. I fastened the tankbag, flipped the kill switch to the run position, and pushed the starter--to no avail.
You'll note that in the sequence above I do not mention 'turned the key to the on position.' Apparently, the moron who rode my motorcycle to the bank over lunch somehow neglected to turn it to 'off ' upon his return--perhaps just shutting the engine off by putting the sidestand down.
The good news was that Beast sat in the upper parking lot at the top of a significant hill, with approximately 400' of elevation drop below her. So, after a few moments pondering, I pushed her out of the parking lot and onto the roadway, put her into third gear, and began the long roll down.
For about 100 yards, Beast built up momentum, then I released the clutch. That was followed by aother 100 yards of unenthusiastic "chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff." This lasted long enough for me to realize that (1) with a dead battery, the fuel pump and fuel injectors don't run (2) with a dead battery, the power-assist to the brakes also doesn't work and (3) that if I didn't get it stopped NOW it was going to be a long evening of pushing 500+ pounds of bulky bike up a very steep hill.
Crap. Crap crap crap. Crappity crap. I was sweating profusely in my gear; the afternoon sun was beating down mercilessly, heat was radiating furiously from the asphalt, and the parking space I managed to land Beast in was in the only completely shadeless section of the roadway. Sweltering in the afternoon sun, I also recalled that a critical fuse had blown some weeks ago, and in order to remedy the fix I found myself in, I would have to replace the fuse. That meant removing the seat and half the bodywork. Crap. Crap crap crap. Crappity crap.
Here's the rub: Bumpstarting Campaigner, an old airhead, was a snap, and I became an expert in the practice the first winter I rode her; it was a necessity with the combination of the kind of riding I did, her puny stock battery and the anemic alternator. In a pinch, Campaigner could be jump started fairly simply using regular automobile jumper cables.
Beast is another matter altogether. Beast's battery is buried deep beneath the gas tank, requiring removal of both body panels and freeing up the tank in order to access it. The accessory socket will handle enough current to power a heated jacket (outbound) or to charge the battery (inbound) but won't handle the current necessary to start the bike, precluding a simple cigarette-lighter-socket-to-accessory-outlet jump. The various and sundry electronic systems are too sensitive to attempt something as vulgar as a traditional jump start. (Subsequent model years offered a "jump-start-point' accessory--a well-insulated terminal hidden beneath the starter motor cover and connected directly to the starter motor positive terminal; a few screws uncovered this access point, which then could be used to jump start bikes using standard jumper cables and any convenient frame ground point.)
I puzzed and I puzzed till my puzzler was sore. The only option technically available to me was to recharge the battery--through the accessory outlet--for several hours--using the mandated BMW trickle charger. Which was 25 miles away, in the shed.
Did I mention crap? Crap crap crap. Crappity crap? At this very moment, my knight-in-shining-armor is working in the garden sans cellphone, out of earshot of the house, expecting me to show up any minute in order to feed the dogs the dinner they have been waiting so patiently for. It could be quite a while before she notices it's late, the dogs are still hungry, and I haven't fed them yet. Crap crap crap. Crappity crap. I leave a message on the house phone; I leave a message on her cellphone. And I settle in for what could potentially be a very long wait.
Shortly and miraculously, my cell rings. It is Mary, and I slowly and thickly review my predicament. I hate, almost more than anything, asking for help in situations like this. But there is no other solution available. I explain what she needs to bring, where (I think) to find it, and hope for the best.
Did I mention that this, of all evenings, is the last theatrical production of the school year, and the campus is JAMMED with parents and students and faculty and well-wishers and hangers-on of all stripe, and I feel very conspicuous and awkward, sitting by my disassembled crippled motorcycle in full view of various and sundry? I smile politely to all as they pass, and try to not look particularly eager to engage in conversation.
In a very short time, Mary appears.
We connect the charger to Beast's belly button, and begin stringing many extention cords covertly up to the nearest trailer where I prop the door ajar and plug in. Now we wait, watching the blinking colored light on the charger, waiting for any significant change.
We talk, and wander about, trying at all times to keep one eye on the bike and another on the propped-open door of the trailer, wary of mischievous idlers. The warm evening is pleasant, made more so by the agreeable company, and time passes enjoyable. After an hour or so, a test indicates Beast has not drunk deeply enough yet; it will still be some time before she is refreshed.
We are hungry now, and somewhat bored. The meager leftovers I found inside have not sated us, and I hop in the car on a mission, leaving Mary behind to stand guard over out odd little arrangement.
The local quickie mart offers few enough comestibles, but we cut to the chase: A bag of chips, and cold white wine in a screw-top bottle. The wine is quickly decanted into a convenient nalgene bottle in order to be less conspicuous; but the bottle is awkward and contributes a certain undesirable funk to the otherwise agreeable drink. Once the nalgene is drained, we opt to consume the wine in the great American style—concealed within that great equalizer, the brown paper bag. It feels absolutely wicked to sit here with Mary, watching the beautiful sunset across the piedmont, drinking wine from a paper bag in the heart of campus, in blatant violation of every possible rule and standard of ethical conduct. "Vino et Sapienta" and all that, right?
In time, Beast is fully refreshed; not wanting to press my luck, I opt to bump start her with the hill I have left. Fifty, seventy-five, one hundred feet of roll, and I release the clutch; she fires right up and I take a victory lap across the new bridge, up the new road, and back to where Mary stands waiting. We pack up the charger and cords, lock the trailer, and head for home after our impromptu picnic.
It was dark when we finally arrived home, but safe to say, the weekend improved from there on out.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
While we're on the subject of perfect songs...
"White Bird," by It's A Beautiful Day. Why aren't there more rock songs with violins?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Samuel Barber (1910-1981) Adagio for Strings: "Semplice e bella*"
A little off topic.
The first time I remember ever hearing Barber's Adagio for Strings was when it was played at the National Cathedral during the memorial service following the attacks of September 11th, 2001.
I probably had heard it before, certainly while watching Platoon once or twice, but it had never registered with me—I just took it as part of the soundtrack. But in those rarefied surreal days, it became the music of the times—sorrowful, elegiac, mourning, poignant, aching, touching, forgiving—the distilled essence of tragedy and human frailty.
I must have listened to it five hundred times in the months following September 11th, over and over again—during that weird awful period when time stood still, each cloudless blue day melding into the next, the days and nights only marked by the transit of fighter jets far overhead.
Adagio lost its visceral connection with that time for me through the years; but I still listen to it from time to time, and am always struck by its utter...perfection.
Samuel Barber, who bore a resemblance to my father at a similar age, composed Adagio in his twenties, and created one of the few pieces of classical music of the twentieth century to have a lasting legacy.
I don't have the musical vocabulary to describe this accurately, but about 3/4 of the way through, there is a moment where something is expressed in music that I cannot find words for—forgiveness, reconciliation, grace, longing, release; some sorrow or mournfulness expressed earlier is resolved into pure bliss. Without fail, it brings tears to my eyes.
I have heard it said that Adagio is our national song of mourning; it was played for President Kennedy's funeral. I do not know if this is true. I do know that to my mind, it is a perfect piece of music.
By the way: Samuel Barber was a good Irishman, and longtime companion of Gian Carlo Menotti.
*Arturo Toscanini, 1938: "Simple and beautiful."
The first time I remember ever hearing Barber's Adagio for Strings was when it was played at the National Cathedral during the memorial service following the attacks of September 11th, 2001.
I probably had heard it before, certainly while watching Platoon once or twice, but it had never registered with me—I just took it as part of the soundtrack. But in those rarefied surreal days, it became the music of the times—sorrowful, elegiac, mourning, poignant, aching, touching, forgiving—the distilled essence of tragedy and human frailty.
I must have listened to it five hundred times in the months following September 11th, over and over again—during that weird awful period when time stood still, each cloudless blue day melding into the next, the days and nights only marked by the transit of fighter jets far overhead.
Adagio lost its visceral connection with that time for me through the years; but I still listen to it from time to time, and am always struck by its utter...perfection.
Samuel Barber, who bore a resemblance to my father at a similar age, composed Adagio in his twenties, and created one of the few pieces of classical music of the twentieth century to have a lasting legacy.
I don't have the musical vocabulary to describe this accurately, but about 3/4 of the way through, there is a moment where something is expressed in music that I cannot find words for—forgiveness, reconciliation, grace, longing, release; some sorrow or mournfulness expressed earlier is resolved into pure bliss. Without fail, it brings tears to my eyes.
I have heard it said that Adagio is our national song of mourning; it was played for President Kennedy's funeral. I do not know if this is true. I do know that to my mind, it is a perfect piece of music.
By the way: Samuel Barber was a good Irishman, and longtime companion of Gian Carlo Menotti.
*Arturo Toscanini, 1938: "Simple and beautiful."
Friday, April 10, 2009
Today's Luncheon Special
We start off with 3.63 gallons of fresh 92 octane, followed with 18.3 miles of twisting two-laned perfection surrounded by early budding grey forests, alternating sections of white and black three-board fences surrounding lush pastures and paddocks, and unexpected splashes of blooming daffodils, redbud and sprouting skunk cabbage.
Next, peanut-butter and strawberry jam, served with plastic cutlery on pita bread atop a tuft of lush green grass against a sun-warmed dry-set fieldstone wall, beneath a clear blue sky sprinkled with fluffy white clouds and garnished with thin line of distant mountains.
For dessert, another 4.2 miles of two-lane bliss passing through endless flat pastures stretching as far as the eye can see, sprinkled generously with long-horned cattle.
Next, peanut-butter and strawberry jam, served with plastic cutlery on pita bread atop a tuft of lush green grass against a sun-warmed dry-set fieldstone wall, beneath a clear blue sky sprinkled with fluffy white clouds and garnished with thin line of distant mountains.
For dessert, another 4.2 miles of two-lane bliss passing through endless flat pastures stretching as far as the eye can see, sprinkled generously with long-horned cattle.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Succinct:
"The word 'experienced' often refers to someone who's gotten away with doing the wrong thing more frequently than you have."
--Laurence Gonzales, "Deep Survival"
Thursday, January 01, 2009
A Brief Refresher for Those of You Who Haven't Been Paying Attention:
Rule #1: You are invisible.
Rule #2: Everyone is out to kill you. Personally.
Rule #3: The worst possible thing will happen in the worst possible place at the worst possible time. Be ready.
Addendum #1: It is your fault.
Rule #2: Everyone is out to kill you. Personally.
Rule #3: The worst possible thing will happen in the worst possible place at the worst possible time. Be ready.
Addendum #1: It is your fault.
Your Attention Please:
The traditional New-Year's Day ride has been cancelled due to a lack of interest in going riding (alone) when it's twenty degrees outside and it's nice and warm inside by the woodstove, and three big goofy dogs keep wandering past in search of adventures and there's a big pot of black-eyed peas simmering in the kitchen and soon there will be cornbread in the oven and there's a big pot of coffee and a bunch of wonderful, groggy, bleary-eyed people stumbling around trying to make sense from their hazy recollections of last night.
Go ride your own ride.
That is all.
Go ride your own ride.
That is all.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Well duhhhh!
Excuse me. It's a six-pound splitting maul, not an eight-pound splitting maul. What was I thinking? After all, it's (½M*V2). And you sure can't do that with an eight-pound maul, can you?
Holiday Spirits
Yesterday, in a fit of industry, Mary and I bottled two of the last three batches of this year's cider. One was a full-batch blend, and the other was a half-batch of Arkansas Black varietal. Both hold great promise, and I find the idea of varietal ciders increasingly appealing after years of pressing grab-bag blends. We did not fine either batch, accepting a certain amount of haze in exchange for the fuller flavor the extra tannins provide.
They are nestled all snug in their bottles, waiting to make a grand entrance with the new year, if all goes well. I'm looking forward to their debuts.
To top things off, in the evening we set to work on a full batch of welsh ginger beer, a modified version of this summer's hit, "Rat Shandy."
White and brown sugar, a little extra lemon peel and juice; peel, raisins and fresh ginger all chewed up to bits in the food processor (so the raisins don't end up looking like those hideous bloated, swollen ticks--which they tend to do when left whole) and powdered ginger added for good measure.
At one point, the dry ingredients looked like a good basis for a baked holiday confection; some flour and shortening (instead of boiling water) might have taken it in a spectacularly different direction. But this morning I pitched the yeast and so it's on the way to being a fantastic and potent libation for a certain celebration we will be having in about six weeks.
Yum. Can't wait. Slainte!
They are nestled all snug in their bottles, waiting to make a grand entrance with the new year, if all goes well. I'm looking forward to their debuts.
To top things off, in the evening we set to work on a full batch of welsh ginger beer, a modified version of this summer's hit, "Rat Shandy."
White and brown sugar, a little extra lemon peel and juice; peel, raisins and fresh ginger all chewed up to bits in the food processor (so the raisins don't end up looking like those hideous bloated, swollen ticks--which they tend to do when left whole) and powdered ginger added for good measure.
At one point, the dry ingredients looked like a good basis for a baked holiday confection; some flour and shortening (instead of boiling water) might have taken it in a spectacularly different direction. But this morning I pitched the yeast and so it's on the way to being a fantastic and potent libation for a certain celebration we will be having in about six weeks.
Yum. Can't wait. Slainte!
Saturday, December 13, 2008
A good day
I decided to get out early this morning and get some chores done while it was still cold. Remembering back to how I used to do it in the old days, I layered up plenty and left it to my bare hands to keep things in equilibrium.
By the time I stepped outside, it had warmed up to 22° and the early morning sun was driving the frost off the grass. I tinkered a bit with the chainsaw, checking the tension on the blade and topping off the tanks, and got down to business by bucking a pile of miscellaneous logs we had stacked near the house.
This year I have been experimenting with bucking felled trees into four-foot sections and letting those season in place. When I need stove wood, two quick cuts give me three perfect lengths of ready-to-burn wood. It seems to work pretty well as far as I can tell--at least today it did.
Once that little pile was bucked, split and stacked, I started on the mass of fungus-encrusted oak my brother and I hauled up from alongside the lane last weekend. Some bucking, a whole lot of splitting, and then some more bucking. All in all, by late afternoon I had bucked, split, moved and stacked about 3/10 cord of mostly hardwood--about 38 cubic feet or so.
The split wood fascinates me. The texture of freshly split oak often looks like white meat of a chicken, and today, it smelled richly of wintergreen. Often split oak smells unbelievable fruity, like ripe peaches or oranges--so strongly you want to taste it just to see how that can be. Other times it smells, well, oaky--the rich smell associated with chardonnay. It's the smell of chardonnay without the grapes.
A bunch of what I split today was well-aged cedar. It's beautiful in its own way. When you cut it, it send showers of bright pink confetti all over the place; the color can be so vivid as to defy belief. The interplay of colors on the split face of a chunk of cedar is fantastic, and what it so often calls to mind above all else is the unnaturally fluorescent shade of port-wine cheese. Again, the resemblance is so uncanny one is tempted to taste it just to see...
It seems to make perfect sense to me to describe these pieces of wood in terms of foods; it is a reasonable simile. This wood, in a short while, will be taken into the house. It will warm us and sustain us, cheer us and bring us together, give us energy and help us through the bright days and the cold dark nights. We will consume it as surely as we consume our meals, though not internally. But as food is to sustaining our bodies and spirits, so these pieces of cord wood are to sustaining and nourishing our hearth and home.
For all my troubles, I am very stiff and sore. My back hurts. By shoulders and elbows ache from hefting the 8-lb splitting maul again and again, crashing it down on log after log, reaching, lifting, twisting, throwing, bending, stacking the countless sticks of firewood.
Maybe I'll find a glass of nice, oaky chardonnay. I think it's time to go sit by the fire.
By the time I stepped outside, it had warmed up to 22° and the early morning sun was driving the frost off the grass. I tinkered a bit with the chainsaw, checking the tension on the blade and topping off the tanks, and got down to business by bucking a pile of miscellaneous logs we had stacked near the house.
This year I have been experimenting with bucking felled trees into four-foot sections and letting those season in place. When I need stove wood, two quick cuts give me three perfect lengths of ready-to-burn wood. It seems to work pretty well as far as I can tell--at least today it did.
Once that little pile was bucked, split and stacked, I started on the mass of fungus-encrusted oak my brother and I hauled up from alongside the lane last weekend. Some bucking, a whole lot of splitting, and then some more bucking. All in all, by late afternoon I had bucked, split, moved and stacked about 3/10 cord of mostly hardwood--about 38 cubic feet or so.
The split wood fascinates me. The texture of freshly split oak often looks like white meat of a chicken, and today, it smelled richly of wintergreen. Often split oak smells unbelievable fruity, like ripe peaches or oranges--so strongly you want to taste it just to see how that can be. Other times it smells, well, oaky--the rich smell associated with chardonnay. It's the smell of chardonnay without the grapes.
A bunch of what I split today was well-aged cedar. It's beautiful in its own way. When you cut it, it send showers of bright pink confetti all over the place; the color can be so vivid as to defy belief. The interplay of colors on the split face of a chunk of cedar is fantastic, and what it so often calls to mind above all else is the unnaturally fluorescent shade of port-wine cheese. Again, the resemblance is so uncanny one is tempted to taste it just to see...
It seems to make perfect sense to me to describe these pieces of wood in terms of foods; it is a reasonable simile. This wood, in a short while, will be taken into the house. It will warm us and sustain us, cheer us and bring us together, give us energy and help us through the bright days and the cold dark nights. We will consume it as surely as we consume our meals, though not internally. But as food is to sustaining our bodies and spirits, so these pieces of cord wood are to sustaining and nourishing our hearth and home.
For all my troubles, I am very stiff and sore. My back hurts. By shoulders and elbows ache from hefting the 8-lb splitting maul again and again, crashing it down on log after log, reaching, lifting, twisting, throwing, bending, stacking the countless sticks of firewood.
Maybe I'll find a glass of nice, oaky chardonnay. I think it's time to go sit by the fire.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Snow!
We had some pretty raw weather yesterday. Harsh, cold and blustery, it rained hard most of the day, a lot of it fairly sideways, and it never got more than a few degrees above freezing. The roof leaked like a sieve as it usually does when tested like that, but all in all, the woodstove did a valiant job in keeping the house cozy in the evening.
We basked in the warmth of each other's company, did our various tasks, and enjoyed a glass or two of red wine. All night long, the rain came and went in waves, washing over the house and tapping away at the skylights.
Then this morning, I saw snow on the mountains!
Now, our mountains are very, very old. Nowhere do we have anything that even approaches having a 'treeline' as you might find out west or up north; all our gentle mountains have wooded summits. And our snow, when we get it, tends to be very feeble. So saying we have 'snow on the mountains' may create a false impression of alpinity.
But when there is snow on our mountains, it is very special. Their background, normally a dull canvas of grey-brown, becomes a luminous light grey; their countless sloping ridgelines stand out against this background, the brush-like fur of trees standing in silhouette. They become sketches of themselves, limned out in tiny little cross-hatched lines, delicate but defined. Subtle, sublime, brooding in their grand repose.
There is hardly another time when they are so beautiful.
We basked in the warmth of each other's company, did our various tasks, and enjoyed a glass or two of red wine. All night long, the rain came and went in waves, washing over the house and tapping away at the skylights.
Then this morning, I saw snow on the mountains!
Now, our mountains are very, very old. Nowhere do we have anything that even approaches having a 'treeline' as you might find out west or up north; all our gentle mountains have wooded summits. And our snow, when we get it, tends to be very feeble. So saying we have 'snow on the mountains' may create a false impression of alpinity.
But when there is snow on our mountains, it is very special. Their background, normally a dull canvas of grey-brown, becomes a luminous light grey; their countless sloping ridgelines stand out against this background, the brush-like fur of trees standing in silhouette. They become sketches of themselves, limned out in tiny little cross-hatched lines, delicate but defined. Subtle, sublime, brooding in their grand repose.
There is hardly another time when they are so beautiful.
"...He moves in darkness as it seems to me..."
I didn't spend any significant time outside the suburbs until I was a young teenager. When I was exposed to real fields for the first time (unlike, say, the fields in a battlefield park) I wasn't quite sure what to make of them.
When you grow up in quasi-urban areas, a fence pretty much serves one purpose: to divide this from that. Fences represent boundaries of possession and ownership, of rightfulness and trespass. You are on your side; they are on their side, and never the twain shall mingle, much less meet.
But fences also serve the function of constraining things, and as a suburban kid it took me a long time to realize that out in the country, fences and boundaries were not synonymous. There were boundaries that were not marked by fences; there were fences that did not represent boundaries, only constraints. And sure enough, there were fences that also happened to be boundaries.
I can still remember the first frisson of delight in crossing a fence into a boundless field, realizing at that instant I was not the thing to be constrained. The world became a much larger, grander place in that moment.
When you grow up in quasi-urban areas, a fence pretty much serves one purpose: to divide this from that. Fences represent boundaries of possession and ownership, of rightfulness and trespass. You are on your side; they are on their side, and never the twain shall mingle, much less meet.
But fences also serve the function of constraining things, and as a suburban kid it took me a long time to realize that out in the country, fences and boundaries were not synonymous. There were boundaries that were not marked by fences; there were fences that did not represent boundaries, only constraints. And sure enough, there were fences that also happened to be boundaries.
I can still remember the first frisson of delight in crossing a fence into a boundless field, realizing at that instant I was not the thing to be constrained. The world became a much larger, grander place in that moment.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
An attenuated world
The other morning around sunrise I walked out of the house into a bitingly cold, still world. It was silent but for my boots creaking on the paving stones, and it was a few moments before my eyes adjusted to seeing the world around me.
I say that my eyes adjusted, but the truth is, my mind had a very hard time parsing what I was looking at. I stood in a world of attenuated color, one so unsaturated that contrast failed and distinctions among objects were dramatically diminished.
The sun was up, and it was not cloudy. It was not the crisp and harsh glazing of ice. It was not foggy—I could see clearly to the far horizon, and every detail stood out from foreground to the distance.
As far as I could see, everything—every last surface and object—was coated with frost. Trees and earth, walls and roofs, grass and stone, everything touched with the same even-handed and egalitarian coating that was just enough to seem like a wash applied to the world. All was evenly muted, reduced to gray scale, toned down a few points.
As I left through the cathedral of the lowlands, the effect was spectacular and eerie. The world around me was luminous and ghostly, light where it is usually dark, yet grey where it is usually bold. The world was filtered for just these few moments. The rising sun promptly reset the palette with a gentle brush, driving off the ephemeral frost in instants, and drawing the underlying color to the fore once again.
If that instant before the sun shone had a sound, it would be one long note, played on a cello.
I say that my eyes adjusted, but the truth is, my mind had a very hard time parsing what I was looking at. I stood in a world of attenuated color, one so unsaturated that contrast failed and distinctions among objects were dramatically diminished.
The sun was up, and it was not cloudy. It was not the crisp and harsh glazing of ice. It was not foggy—I could see clearly to the far horizon, and every detail stood out from foreground to the distance.
As far as I could see, everything—every last surface and object—was coated with frost. Trees and earth, walls and roofs, grass and stone, everything touched with the same even-handed and egalitarian coating that was just enough to seem like a wash applied to the world. All was evenly muted, reduced to gray scale, toned down a few points.
As I left through the cathedral of the lowlands, the effect was spectacular and eerie. The world around me was luminous and ghostly, light where it is usually dark, yet grey where it is usually bold. The world was filtered for just these few moments. The rising sun promptly reset the palette with a gentle brush, driving off the ephemeral frost in instants, and drawing the underlying color to the fore once again.
If that instant before the sun shone had a sound, it would be one long note, played on a cello.
Wheat, chaff
It just occurred to me that it's been at least two weeks—maybe more—since I've encountered any other motorcyclists on the road.
Now, to be charitable, I just may not be taking a representative sample. I hit the road around 7:45, get to work around 8:15, and do the reverse around 4:30 or 5:00. Half my trip is on a four-lane divided highway that traverses a small town on its way towards the exurbs and a major city. The other half is also a four-lane divided highway, one that is the main crossover route between two interstates. You'd think those would be pretty likely places to look.
After all, these are the main east-west, north-south inbound-outbound arteries serving a big chunk of the countryside around these parts. But if I recall correctly, the last fellow traveller I spotted was bundled up and hunkered down, riding his R1200 Adventure like nobody's business and he was late to Tierra Del Fuego to meet a buddy for lunch.
But that was two fridays ago, at least. And the two locals parked outside the neighborhood cafe on that brief spring-like interregnum don't count. Those silly looking tarted-up hogs hadn't had time to warm their oil before it was time to stretch, take a pee and get sumpin' t'eat.
I like it this way. Cold makes the impurities separate out; the chaff goes away. I have the road to myself.
Now, to be charitable, I just may not be taking a representative sample. I hit the road around 7:45, get to work around 8:15, and do the reverse around 4:30 or 5:00. Half my trip is on a four-lane divided highway that traverses a small town on its way towards the exurbs and a major city. The other half is also a four-lane divided highway, one that is the main crossover route between two interstates. You'd think those would be pretty likely places to look.
After all, these are the main east-west, north-south inbound-outbound arteries serving a big chunk of the countryside around these parts. But if I recall correctly, the last fellow traveller I spotted was bundled up and hunkered down, riding his R1200 Adventure like nobody's business and he was late to Tierra Del Fuego to meet a buddy for lunch.
But that was two fridays ago, at least. And the two locals parked outside the neighborhood cafe on that brief spring-like interregnum don't count. Those silly looking tarted-up hogs hadn't had time to warm their oil before it was time to stretch, take a pee and get sumpin' t'eat.
I like it this way. Cold makes the impurities separate out; the chaff goes away. I have the road to myself.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Renewal
My son is a motorcycle mechanic, which when you own two motorcycles, is almost as good as having a heart surgeon in the family (unless of course you have heart problems, in which case it's probably not that useful.)
I had the distinct pleasure of assisting him to a very slight degree while he performed annual services on both Beast and the rockster, which still doesn't have a name. I tend to refer to it in my mind as "El Otro" and for now that's a good enough handle. It's better than "Rustor," the name the weird logo on the tank seems to suggest.
In any case, I mostly stood around in the cold, trying to stay out of the way and occasionally passing tools when they were requested. Eventually I worked my way up to performing routine minor tasks, though always under his watchful eye. We talked about matters great and small, as we always seem to do when around bikes, and we both recalled instances from the past where our roles were somewhat altered; me recalling perhaps our first mutual motorcycle wrenching encounter, which is documented in photos of him holding a 10/12 box wrench and peering thoughtfully between the spokes of Campaigner's rear wheel—which is taller than he.
He recalls hearing me swear for the first time (and at great length, apparently) and I assure him he must be mistaken. This afternoon that began in bracing cold with a biting and omnipresent wind fades away in a gently graying twilight, calm, mild and tempered with the low sun shining through a bank of thickening clouds.
I guess it is every parent's greatest wish to watch their child accomplish something society values, they enjoy and they are good at. It was endearing and fascinating at the same time to watch Phil work with grace, confidence and competence, recalling the child peering through the spokes. He excels at something I can barely comprehend and have never more than dabbled in with mixed results for my efforts.
The finished product supports my impression. I was eager to test Beast out on Monday, but had to wait another day to see the difference. When you ignore routine service and maintenance over a long time, you tend to not notice the cumulative decline. But Beast fired up with a vengeance despite the bitter cold, ran ferociously and handled like a champ; I had clearly forgotten over the years how aggressive a ride it is. Beast's original tautness and response were back, and it felt...polished again.
Nice job. Well done.
I had the distinct pleasure of assisting him to a very slight degree while he performed annual services on both Beast and the rockster, which still doesn't have a name. I tend to refer to it in my mind as "El Otro" and for now that's a good enough handle. It's better than "Rustor," the name the weird logo on the tank seems to suggest.
In any case, I mostly stood around in the cold, trying to stay out of the way and occasionally passing tools when they were requested. Eventually I worked my way up to performing routine minor tasks, though always under his watchful eye. We talked about matters great and small, as we always seem to do when around bikes, and we both recalled instances from the past where our roles were somewhat altered; me recalling perhaps our first mutual motorcycle wrenching encounter, which is documented in photos of him holding a 10/12 box wrench and peering thoughtfully between the spokes of Campaigner's rear wheel—which is taller than he.
He recalls hearing me swear for the first time (and at great length, apparently) and I assure him he must be mistaken. This afternoon that began in bracing cold with a biting and omnipresent wind fades away in a gently graying twilight, calm, mild and tempered with the low sun shining through a bank of thickening clouds.
I guess it is every parent's greatest wish to watch their child accomplish something society values, they enjoy and they are good at. It was endearing and fascinating at the same time to watch Phil work with grace, confidence and competence, recalling the child peering through the spokes. He excels at something I can barely comprehend and have never more than dabbled in with mixed results for my efforts.
The finished product supports my impression. I was eager to test Beast out on Monday, but had to wait another day to see the difference. When you ignore routine service and maintenance over a long time, you tend to not notice the cumulative decline. But Beast fired up with a vengeance despite the bitter cold, ran ferociously and handled like a champ; I had clearly forgotten over the years how aggressive a ride it is. Beast's original tautness and response were back, and it felt...polished again.
Nice job. Well done.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Isolation, Solitude, Solace
I spend most of my waking hours alone. My job is a solitary one, both in the essential nature of the work, in my approach to it, and mostly because I am a "sole practitioner" in a small organization. In places where I have worked before, the nature of the job was more collaborative, with many people working in parallel. I am accustomed to having a strong and talented group to work with, sharing each other's strengths and covering for each other's weaknesses.
But now I find myself working alone, literally behind a locked door, in a windowless and timeless underground space flooded floor-to-ceiling and corner-to-corner with incessant white noise and shadowless white light.
I no longer have the collaborative cohort I grew to depend on, and though I have many interactions with people throughout the day, for the most part the interactions are transitory and shallow. In the end I remain a solitary worker behind both a barrier of physical substance and a more substantial gulf of communication and the absence of understanding.
I transit this place of isolation on Beast. When I come and go, again, I am alone in that uniquely peculiar aloneness of the motorcyclist—without the insular shell of a car and all its womb-like connotations. I travel alone, but clamped to the outside of my vehicle and exposed to the world in all its varied harshnesses.
But when I ride, it is different; I am not isolated—I am simply alone.
This is solitude, the quiet of being in one's own space and time, absent the droning harshness that fills your ears even when no voices are speaking to you. I ride, and there is white noise, but of a different timbre. It is the wind around me, and I am holding a conversation with it—sometimes we argue, sometimes we agree. But so far, I have always had the last word and have always won any arguments.
From time to time, I listen to music while I ride. Music cheers me, fires me up, helps the miles pass more freely and I fancy at times it makes me a better, more focused, more artful rider. Other times, I cherish a quiet ride and wear earplugs to attenuate the roaring wind. The solitude of the helmet is an interesting world to inhabit; it is pleasant if you are good company and the mood is sunny and bright; yet I know myself to be pretty poor company when my thoughts are bleak and dark. These moody thoughts stew inside the helmet, making the ride is less enjoyable and the riding poorer for the distraction.
Fortunately, more often than not I find solace in that quiet place, where I flow through time and space with the dulcet voice of the wind for background music. A resting, a restoration, a calming that both prepares me for the day to come and offers relief from the day past.
Isolation, solitude, solace. Not the same things at all.
But now I find myself working alone, literally behind a locked door, in a windowless and timeless underground space flooded floor-to-ceiling and corner-to-corner with incessant white noise and shadowless white light.
I no longer have the collaborative cohort I grew to depend on, and though I have many interactions with people throughout the day, for the most part the interactions are transitory and shallow. In the end I remain a solitary worker behind both a barrier of physical substance and a more substantial gulf of communication and the absence of understanding.
I transit this place of isolation on Beast. When I come and go, again, I am alone in that uniquely peculiar aloneness of the motorcyclist—without the insular shell of a car and all its womb-like connotations. I travel alone, but clamped to the outside of my vehicle and exposed to the world in all its varied harshnesses.
But when I ride, it is different; I am not isolated—I am simply alone.
This is solitude, the quiet of being in one's own space and time, absent the droning harshness that fills your ears even when no voices are speaking to you. I ride, and there is white noise, but of a different timbre. It is the wind around me, and I am holding a conversation with it—sometimes we argue, sometimes we agree. But so far, I have always had the last word and have always won any arguments.
From time to time, I listen to music while I ride. Music cheers me, fires me up, helps the miles pass more freely and I fancy at times it makes me a better, more focused, more artful rider. Other times, I cherish a quiet ride and wear earplugs to attenuate the roaring wind. The solitude of the helmet is an interesting world to inhabit; it is pleasant if you are good company and the mood is sunny and bright; yet I know myself to be pretty poor company when my thoughts are bleak and dark. These moody thoughts stew inside the helmet, making the ride is less enjoyable and the riding poorer for the distraction.
Fortunately, more often than not I find solace in that quiet place, where I flow through time and space with the dulcet voice of the wind for background music. A resting, a restoration, a calming that both prepares me for the day to come and offers relief from the day past.
Isolation, solitude, solace. Not the same things at all.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
"Winter, slumbering in the open air, wears on his smiling face a dream of spring...I couldn't imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter."
It occurred to me today this winter I will accumulate more time and miles riding over longer distances at higher speeds in colder weather than I have ever done in my twenty-five plus years of riding. That'll be fifty miles a day, five or so days a week, almost all of it at (...or above...) highway speeds.
My commute is just about twenty-five highway miles, with a brief transit of a small town in the middle; that translates into about 35 minutes on the road. This morning, the temperature at home was 20° f., making the wind chill while riding about -7° f. Thirty-five uninterrupted minutes of that kind of exposure is just about plenty; knowing there's a warm place at the end helps quite a bit. Generally speaking, as long as you can block the wind, it's okay; but you feel the gaps you missed—like around the visor—where wind cuts through like jets of icy fire into your skin.
I think it's safe to say this ride wouldn't be practical or possible without assistance. My Gerbing electric jacket, umbilicalized into Beast's innards, does the heavy lifting; Beast's heated grips do their part. There's simply no amount of insulation that can keep you warm under those conditions—you must have something providing a source of supplemental heat or you'll find yourself making poor decisions from hypothermia-induced stupidity in no time.
It's amazing what a difference heated clothing makes; so much energy goes from the bike into keeping me happy that I can actually notice a drop in my gas mileage from the heavy electrical draw. But it's worth it, as I am still able to use the 45 mpg bike instead of the 12-mpg truck.
So twenty degrees is the benchmark so far this season; I can't quite remember what it was in the winter of 2006-2007 (as far as riding season; I do recall it got below zero for a morning or two...I'll even concede that riding is out of the question at that point, at least for this old man.)
But as long as the roads stay clear and dry, Beast and I will make a go of it, I think.
My commute is just about twenty-five highway miles, with a brief transit of a small town in the middle; that translates into about 35 minutes on the road. This morning, the temperature at home was 20° f., making the wind chill while riding about -7° f. Thirty-five uninterrupted minutes of that kind of exposure is just about plenty; knowing there's a warm place at the end helps quite a bit. Generally speaking, as long as you can block the wind, it's okay; but you feel the gaps you missed—like around the visor—where wind cuts through like jets of icy fire into your skin.
I think it's safe to say this ride wouldn't be practical or possible without assistance. My Gerbing electric jacket, umbilicalized into Beast's innards, does the heavy lifting; Beast's heated grips do their part. There's simply no amount of insulation that can keep you warm under those conditions—you must have something providing a source of supplemental heat or you'll find yourself making poor decisions from hypothermia-induced stupidity in no time.
It's amazing what a difference heated clothing makes; so much energy goes from the bike into keeping me happy that I can actually notice a drop in my gas mileage from the heavy electrical draw. But it's worth it, as I am still able to use the 45 mpg bike instead of the 12-mpg truck.
So twenty degrees is the benchmark so far this season; I can't quite remember what it was in the winter of 2006-2007 (as far as riding season; I do recall it got below zero for a morning or two...I'll even concede that riding is out of the question at that point, at least for this old man.)
But as long as the roads stay clear and dry, Beast and I will make a go of it, I think.
A Few Odd Things I’ve Done that I’m Proud Of And Tend To Forget:
· In fifth grade, I stood on the playground at realized that ‘color’ was a property of surfaces, and had something to do with how photons interacted with electrons.
· At Goddard College in Plainfield, Vermont, I taught a woman how to split wood with a maul. Her male housemates had laughed at her when she tried to split wood with an ax and couldn’t. Rather than teach her the right way, they mocked her and belittled her. Once she learned to use the right tool, she became a ferocious wood splitter and put her shamed housemates in their places.
· Also at Goddard, I stood up to a rather menacing fabulist and freeloader who was imposing on our hospitality and got him to leave.
· I took (and failed) the MSF Instructor course. Upon arrival Sunday evening in a distant city, I learned one of the requirements to graduate was to teach a novice class the next weekend—and find the students for it. In an unfamiliar town. Where I knew no one. With no time or resources. So Wednesday at lunch I went to a library, borrowed a sheet of paper and typed up a press release announcing the course. I then dropped it off to the local newspaper and got back just in time for class. The instructor later took me aside and told me their answering machine had been full with calls for the weekend class and they had never had such a response before.
· My branch of a small company won the competition for most profitable office among eight. The winning manager received a not-insignificant portion of the month’s profits. I accepted half and split the rest among my staff of five.
· I played a practical joke on a dear friend by neatly pasting the label from a can of crushed pineapple onto a can of collard greens. I knew he always punched holes in his cans of pineapple to drink the juice before opening the top. The result was predictable, and exactly what I hoped for.
· At Goddard College in Plainfield, Vermont, I taught a woman how to split wood with a maul. Her male housemates had laughed at her when she tried to split wood with an ax and couldn’t. Rather than teach her the right way, they mocked her and belittled her. Once she learned to use the right tool, she became a ferocious wood splitter and put her shamed housemates in their places.
· Also at Goddard, I stood up to a rather menacing fabulist and freeloader who was imposing on our hospitality and got him to leave.
· I took (and failed) the MSF Instructor course. Upon arrival Sunday evening in a distant city, I learned one of the requirements to graduate was to teach a novice class the next weekend—and find the students for it. In an unfamiliar town. Where I knew no one. With no time or resources. So Wednesday at lunch I went to a library, borrowed a sheet of paper and typed up a press release announcing the course. I then dropped it off to the local newspaper and got back just in time for class. The instructor later took me aside and told me their answering machine had been full with calls for the weekend class and they had never had such a response before.
· My branch of a small company won the competition for most profitable office among eight. The winning manager received a not-insignificant portion of the month’s profits. I accepted half and split the rest among my staff of five.
· I played a practical joke on a dear friend by neatly pasting the label from a can of crushed pineapple onto a can of collard greens. I knew he always punched holes in his cans of pineapple to drink the juice before opening the top. The result was predictable, and exactly what I hoped for.
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