My apricot tree is in bloom—a beautiful burst of pinkish white flowers. Apricot flowers appear before the leaves (which are appearing in bud form), presenting a glorious flash of color with nothing to dull the display. First nothing but grey sticks, and then, suddenly, technicolor. It’s a wonderful harbinger when so much else warns of dreary pointlessness. Our artificial world is not so fruitful.
My classes are going well. My students repeatedly win awards, both on campus and in the community, honored by the Provost, the college President, the Writing Committee, the town Mayor and a host of agency heads. The badly needed redesign of the Composition Program is ½ my ideas (I’m on a nine person committee), and the journals my students have created are the “poster child” for our new 200-level writing initiative. But my Peer Review Committee denied my promotion, noting that the criteria specifies an emphasis on successful teaching (although the Personnel Committee had no problem at all). Huh?
The woman I anticipated sharing the rest of my life with not only didn’t show up, but disappeared, and when I finally called just to inquire as to why, informed me she felt “abandoned” (although she did seem glad to hear from me). The irony that I can never reach her by phone (she turns it off) or even leave a message, that she didn’t answer my email, that she no longer uses her Yahoo IM, and yet makes no effort to contact me appears lost on her (other than apparently sending me a letter, when we already know that mail across the Canada/U.S. border has become a joke during the Bush administration). She loves me, she keeps saying. To quote one of my friends, “I’ll believe it when she shows up.” And now? She has another reason for a delay. My friend’s point is well taken.
My government is insane. The economy no longer works well. The elective wars in Afghanistan and Iraq aren’t conforming to the administration’s fantasies. Looming but solvable problems with Social Security, Medicare/Medicaid, Unemployment, Global Warming, Rising Energy Costs, Rising Food Costs, Insufficient Health Care—all are lost to jockeying for short term political gain, and the only consistent push seems to be for cutting taxes, as if no taxes would magically solve all this.
I was finally able to get some sleep, and after rising, I took my dog to Stoney Pond for a longish run. She quickly found some deer parts—the forequarters of the front feet, fur still attached. Poachers, probably. We run on, and when deep into the woods, her demeanor alerts me to the presence of wildlife—but clearly not prey. We run on, and her nose and ears track the changing direction. Finally I hear it—once, then twice. Certainly not a dog (and without an owner out here). Coyote, I suspect. We run on. Then I see it—or at least a swish of tail for a moment. My dog, a few seconds later, sharply turns her head once she catches the scent. We run on, repeating the pattern a few times.
Then I see, directly in my path, neatly laid out, a feather from a red-tailed hawk. I pick it up. My Native American friends (who associate me with a red-tailed hawk totem) would say I was given a gift from the deer (I let my dog take the bone home), the coyote, and the red-tailed hawk. Once, in my younger mystical days, I’d have thought so too. It’s a wonderful, and probably healthy belief, one of reverence to things greater than ourselves. It’s spring, though, and I run virtually every day. The odds of our coming across such things are high, and when we do, it’s just nature playing itself out—just as we all are living the course of our lives.
But I took the feather home, accepting the gift, real or imagined. And for all else that happens, my apricot tree is in bloom.
Writer
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Friday, April 25, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Frog Song
Long days. Too much everything. At the end of this day, despite the late hour and approaching darkness, I call my dog and head to Stoney Pond, not for the run I missed, but for a long walk. The trouble with troubles is that the mind races, preventing solution—or at least working against one.
We start the walk—a calm, peaceful night, the scent of moisture in the air, the weather warm before an approaching cold front. My dog races about, sometimes straining the 26’ retractable leash, sniffing about, sometimes digging furiously until I call her.
I’m thinking about the hour I wasted before we left. My college has embraced something called “Strengths Quest” as a tool for students and faculty. I was handed my access code a few months ago. Although I rolled my eyes at the presentation two months ago, I finally decided to log on.
Good grief. Who are these clowns?
Two unseen geese take off honking, warning the others of our approach.
Two of my “five strengths” aren’t even words—“Ideation” and “Intellection” [I swear—I’m serious—that’s their taxonomy]. Two others (and notice these labels aren’t even parallel) simply repeated my answers to the ridiculous questions: “Strategic” and “Learner”. The fifth took what I said and bizarrely exaggerated on no evidence: “Maximizer.” The off-shoot of all this is that I like to take time to think and plan, that I’m good at absorbing information and readily seek it as needed, and that I build on my strengths rather than obsess about weaknesses. [Well, duh, yeah---]
Then consider the hundreds of areas the brain-trusts who designed this atrocity simply ignored. Arggh. This is scholarship? No wonder colleges can’t achieve demonstrable results (except in artificial areas measured by arbitrary vehicles such as this nonsense).
An eerie sound dominates the walk, like a cicada invasion (but it’s too early for insects), or more like a science fiction film. Actually, it’s frogs, peepers, so many that the sound just meshes together into a spooky, constant barrage, an effect amplified by the evening quiet and the rapidly darkening sky. A little further along the path, another sound slips underneath, more frogs, but croakers this time. I know what will happen, and it does. As we approach a side pond, home to the croakers, the sound abruptly stops, almost as suddenly as throwing off a switch. Amazing. The peepers continue.
Across the water, somebody’s in the campground. A radio plays rock music. Lights shine.
I think about the book I’m reading, a book I first read several years ago, Hesse’s “The Glass Bead Game.” I’m teaching it in my sophomore literature class. Now, of course, I see several things I missed the first time I read it, including the themes of his other novels and the playful irony of the work. It speaks to me as much now as it did then—no doubt in large part because Hesse and I share an interest in music and Eastern philosophy (though the book involves much more than just that). I’ve always remembered this passage, one I accidentally turned directly to when flipping pages:
“This landscape of clouds and sky. At first glance you might think that the depths are there where it is darkest; but then you realize that the darkness and softness are only the clouds and that the depths of the universe begin only at the fringes and fjords of this mountain range of clouds—solemn and supreme symbols of clarity and orderliness. The depths and the mysteries of the universe lie not where the clouds and blackness are; the depths are to be found in the spaces of clarity and serenity.”
We come around the “corner” of Stoney Pond, leaving the woods to walk along the water, approaching the campground. The music has softened considerably. People (three?) walk about with flashlights. Another goose honks, flying across the water.
The peepers are loud now. We walk to the shore. Abruptly, eerily, the peepers suddenly just stop. Silence. No music. No wind. No birds. No sound at all.
The sky is cloudy—cold front approaching. In the darkness, I look for a place to cross the watershed to the road by the campground. Eventually, I realize this will simply mean I have to get my feet wet. I go for what rocks I can see, none of them dry, but better than wading into rushing water over my ankles. I slosh through the mud on the other side, slipping at times. At least I’m wearing think wool socks.
A small fire and a Coleman lantern light the campsite, one now devoid of sound and visible people. My dog and I walk by, silently.
The night is warm. Peaceful. I used to get away to the mountains for a day at a time, and always found it gradually cleared my thinking. Why did I stop? Busy schedule, I guess—and since I moved to the country, I don’t feel the same need to “get away” that I did in the city, even in the well-wooded residential area. Maybe I should anyway. Dunno. Not that easy.
When I reach the car, I’m not done walking. I walk past along the road for a bit, intending to double back. As the road climbs, though, the character of the forest and the air changes, more dry, lighter but also “desolate” in a relative sense. I turn back and drive home.
Writer
We start the walk—a calm, peaceful night, the scent of moisture in the air, the weather warm before an approaching cold front. My dog races about, sometimes straining the 26’ retractable leash, sniffing about, sometimes digging furiously until I call her.
I’m thinking about the hour I wasted before we left. My college has embraced something called “Strengths Quest” as a tool for students and faculty. I was handed my access code a few months ago. Although I rolled my eyes at the presentation two months ago, I finally decided to log on.
Good grief. Who are these clowns?
Two unseen geese take off honking, warning the others of our approach.
Two of my “five strengths” aren’t even words—“Ideation” and “Intellection” [I swear—I’m serious—that’s their taxonomy]. Two others (and notice these labels aren’t even parallel) simply repeated my answers to the ridiculous questions: “Strategic” and “Learner”. The fifth took what I said and bizarrely exaggerated on no evidence: “Maximizer.” The off-shoot of all this is that I like to take time to think and plan, that I’m good at absorbing information and readily seek it as needed, and that I build on my strengths rather than obsess about weaknesses. [Well, duh, yeah---]
Then consider the hundreds of areas the brain-trusts who designed this atrocity simply ignored. Arggh. This is scholarship? No wonder colleges can’t achieve demonstrable results (except in artificial areas measured by arbitrary vehicles such as this nonsense).
An eerie sound dominates the walk, like a cicada invasion (but it’s too early for insects), or more like a science fiction film. Actually, it’s frogs, peepers, so many that the sound just meshes together into a spooky, constant barrage, an effect amplified by the evening quiet and the rapidly darkening sky. A little further along the path, another sound slips underneath, more frogs, but croakers this time. I know what will happen, and it does. As we approach a side pond, home to the croakers, the sound abruptly stops, almost as suddenly as throwing off a switch. Amazing. The peepers continue.
Across the water, somebody’s in the campground. A radio plays rock music. Lights shine.
I think about the book I’m reading, a book I first read several years ago, Hesse’s “The Glass Bead Game.” I’m teaching it in my sophomore literature class. Now, of course, I see several things I missed the first time I read it, including the themes of his other novels and the playful irony of the work. It speaks to me as much now as it did then—no doubt in large part because Hesse and I share an interest in music and Eastern philosophy (though the book involves much more than just that). I’ve always remembered this passage, one I accidentally turned directly to when flipping pages:
“This landscape of clouds and sky. At first glance you might think that the depths are there where it is darkest; but then you realize that the darkness and softness are only the clouds and that the depths of the universe begin only at the fringes and fjords of this mountain range of clouds—solemn and supreme symbols of clarity and orderliness. The depths and the mysteries of the universe lie not where the clouds and blackness are; the depths are to be found in the spaces of clarity and serenity.”
We come around the “corner” of Stoney Pond, leaving the woods to walk along the water, approaching the campground. The music has softened considerably. People (three?) walk about with flashlights. Another goose honks, flying across the water.
The peepers are loud now. We walk to the shore. Abruptly, eerily, the peepers suddenly just stop. Silence. No music. No wind. No birds. No sound at all.
The sky is cloudy—cold front approaching. In the darkness, I look for a place to cross the watershed to the road by the campground. Eventually, I realize this will simply mean I have to get my feet wet. I go for what rocks I can see, none of them dry, but better than wading into rushing water over my ankles. I slosh through the mud on the other side, slipping at times. At least I’m wearing think wool socks.
A small fire and a Coleman lantern light the campsite, one now devoid of sound and visible people. My dog and I walk by, silently.
The night is warm. Peaceful. I used to get away to the mountains for a day at a time, and always found it gradually cleared my thinking. Why did I stop? Busy schedule, I guess—and since I moved to the country, I don’t feel the same need to “get away” that I did in the city, even in the well-wooded residential area. Maybe I should anyway. Dunno. Not that easy.
When I reach the car, I’m not done walking. I walk past along the road for a bit, intending to double back. As the road climbs, though, the character of the forest and the air changes, more dry, lighter but also “desolate” in a relative sense. I turn back and drive home.
Writer
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Finally, Skiing!
Well, I finally got to ski again.
Last night, as I was walking my dog, my first thought was “Hmmm….looks like almost enough to ski on,” followed by, “Great…and tomorrow’s the first day of deer season.”
Nonetheless, after considering the snowfall around my home this morning, I decided to go for it. I loaded up the skis, poles and boots, called my dog, and off we went to the wildlife preserve (to avoid hunters).
Not great skiing by any means—3-6 inches, but wet, heavy, just clumping up. Still, I was hungry enough for skiing that I didn’t care, so on I trudged.
Yes, trudged. Although I run in the off-season, getting back to skiing always abruptly reminds me that skiing using a different set of muscles. At least I got to give them a bit of a work-out. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, I’m sure.
Something wanted badly that isn’t going well, but worth still pursuing. Has a familiar ring.
Writer
Last night, as I was walking my dog, my first thought was “Hmmm….looks like almost enough to ski on,” followed by, “Great…and tomorrow’s the first day of deer season.”
Nonetheless, after considering the snowfall around my home this morning, I decided to go for it. I loaded up the skis, poles and boots, called my dog, and off we went to the wildlife preserve (to avoid hunters).
Not great skiing by any means—3-6 inches, but wet, heavy, just clumping up. Still, I was hungry enough for skiing that I didn’t care, so on I trudged.
Yes, trudged. Although I run in the off-season, getting back to skiing always abruptly reminds me that skiing using a different set of muscles. At least I got to give them a bit of a work-out. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, I’m sure.
Something wanted badly that isn’t going well, but worth still pursuing. Has a familiar ring.
Writer
Monday, October 1, 2007
Yell--it ensures you won't communicate
Yelling--the ever so effective conflict resolution. Where do people get this idea?
Remember all those times your boss yelled? Did it work? Or just until the boss left the room? What happened to productivity? Turnover? Profitability? Employee theft?
So why do people get the idea that yelling themselves effectively addresses anything?
I can think of only one answer--without any valid points to present, or without the patience to present them, yelling is expedient. It replaces the unwanted conversation.
Granted, I can think of appropriate times when speedy communication takes precedence over discussion. I can imagine a shop teacher, for example, yelling, "Put that nail gun down NOW!" But usually, it's the opposite of communication.
Even yelling at a dog isn't effective--the dog just learns (and quickly) to avoid you (and don't confuse this with shooing it away), making up its own rules and changing strategy.
Perhaps this just reflects my personality, but over the years I've had relationships end this way. She screams at me over the phone. I don't do yelling. I hangup. She's furious or sorry, but my passion has chilled. I like peace and cooperation.
This, of course, has always been my problem. I like to work somewhat independently, but as part of a team. Unfortunately, I live in a world where the thinking seems hardwired toward "every man for himself." Counterproductive, since we spend so much of our time competing instead of accomplishing, but things are what they are. So I usually work alone.
I'm no saint. I've lost my patience and yelled at times--and always regreted it later, as I achieved nothing by it. When I do, people freeze--partly because as a classically trained wind musician, I have quite a bit of lung power and vocal projection, and partly because I'm normally soft spoken, so the yell is a shock. And people just learned to avoid me, cooperation over.
Writer
Remember all those times your boss yelled? Did it work? Or just until the boss left the room? What happened to productivity? Turnover? Profitability? Employee theft?
So why do people get the idea that yelling themselves effectively addresses anything?
I can think of only one answer--without any valid points to present, or without the patience to present them, yelling is expedient. It replaces the unwanted conversation.
Granted, I can think of appropriate times when speedy communication takes precedence over discussion. I can imagine a shop teacher, for example, yelling, "Put that nail gun down NOW!" But usually, it's the opposite of communication.
Even yelling at a dog isn't effective--the dog just learns (and quickly) to avoid you (and don't confuse this with shooing it away), making up its own rules and changing strategy.
Perhaps this just reflects my personality, but over the years I've had relationships end this way. She screams at me over the phone. I don't do yelling. I hangup. She's furious or sorry, but my passion has chilled. I like peace and cooperation.
This, of course, has always been my problem. I like to work somewhat independently, but as part of a team. Unfortunately, I live in a world where the thinking seems hardwired toward "every man for himself." Counterproductive, since we spend so much of our time competing instead of accomplishing, but things are what they are. So I usually work alone.
I'm no saint. I've lost my patience and yelled at times--and always regreted it later, as I achieved nothing by it. When I do, people freeze--partly because as a classically trained wind musician, I have quite a bit of lung power and vocal projection, and partly because I'm normally soft spoken, so the yell is a shock. And people just learned to avoid me, cooperation over.
Writer
Monday, September 24, 2007
Summer Saturday with Snow Blower
Dad came over Saturday, the last weekend of summer, to help with my snow blower. My snow blower. I can’t afford such luxuries. When he sold his house to move in with his new wife, he parceled out multiple unneeded belongings. I live in the country with a long driveway, so I ended up with the snow blower. For free. I’m grateful.
Not as useful a device as would seem, though. It’s heavy, and my driveway faces an incline to the road. Even with the tires driving, getting this machine up to the road (I don’t even try to park at the bottom of the drive during winter) is quite a task. Just shoveling is often easier. However, at the end of last winter, snow fell and fell and fell, a few feet each day. Time for the snow blower—but it wouldn’t start, even after heroic efforts.
This is too great a waste of expensive machinery, so when my niece and nephew cancelled a “grandfather” project over schoolwork concerns, Dad suggested coming out to my place to help.
I accepted. Not lightly. Dad takes over. This would mean all day Saturday. He’s retired. I’m buried in career issues. Still, I can’t fix it, he might be able to fix it (he’s much more of a mechanic than I), and it needs fixing. He’s trying to balance out the grandfatherly attention my siblings’ families receive, but nonetheless, admittedly, damn nice of him.
Dad considers this a mission. Early in the morning, he calls—needs the make, model, engine number and so forth. He’s on his way to purchase spark plug, new oil, and garnish whatever information he can at the shops along the way. I find the information, and go run my own errands.
Early afternoon, he’s here. I’m ready—snow blower outside, cord ready for electronic start. I don’t do any of the usual things I’d do for such a favor—food and drink ready, for example—because I know he’ll disregard all of them. He’ll disregard everything. For example, when he asks if I have a certain size screw on hand, I offer to run to the store. No. We make do. I don’t know why. He always does this—along with recommending later that I go get that size screw.
Early on, I get stung by a wasp. First damn time all year. I’m pissed. Right in the back of the neck. Can’t see it, of course. But Dad’s here. If I can find tweezers. I have them. Can’t find them. We go to the store—he wants to talk to the snow blower repair guy anyway. We have just enough time before they close. He ends up with carburetor cleaner. I end up with “After Bite.” When I finally get tweezers, I’m too swollen to find the stinger. I’m pissed. I hold my tongue.
He’s absorbed with the snow blower, sounding like he’s talking to me, but really not. “I’m going to go cut some grass while you do this, OK?” I ask. “Go ahead,” he nods, barely noticing.
I cut grass. After a bit, I hear snow blower over the sound of the lawn mower. Dad’s still engaged. I keep mowing for a while. Eventually, I cut the engine and mosey over.
“Well, we’ve got it running,” Dad notes, “but it’s running hot. That bolt just shot out of the exhaust.” I look—a six inch lies in a black line on the grass. “It was glowing,” Dad adds. I notice my normally gregarious dog has moved from her favorite spot near where Dad is working to the opposite end of my yard. Smart dog.
I leave Dad to puzzle it out, and return to mowing. Eventually, I hear the snow blower start again. I keep mowing. Again, eventually, I mosey over. Oil everywhere. Still runs hot. Dad is stymied. “Soon as it starts,” he notes, “when you turn the choke, it just runs fast!” I look. “What if you don’t turn the choke all the way to the left?” I ask. Dad considers. He tries it. The machine runs roughly, but without glowing parts threatening to blow up the engine.
I ask if he can change the oil while he’s at it, knowing he’ll actually welcome this. He asks if I have a pan to catch the oil. I find one. He changes the oil, and spends a long time spraying every moving part with WD-40, whipping and cleaning everything possible, leaving everything in as good a shape as possible.
That’s Dad.
Writer
Not as useful a device as would seem, though. It’s heavy, and my driveway faces an incline to the road. Even with the tires driving, getting this machine up to the road (I don’t even try to park at the bottom of the drive during winter) is quite a task. Just shoveling is often easier. However, at the end of last winter, snow fell and fell and fell, a few feet each day. Time for the snow blower—but it wouldn’t start, even after heroic efforts.
This is too great a waste of expensive machinery, so when my niece and nephew cancelled a “grandfather” project over schoolwork concerns, Dad suggested coming out to my place to help.
I accepted. Not lightly. Dad takes over. This would mean all day Saturday. He’s retired. I’m buried in career issues. Still, I can’t fix it, he might be able to fix it (he’s much more of a mechanic than I), and it needs fixing. He’s trying to balance out the grandfatherly attention my siblings’ families receive, but nonetheless, admittedly, damn nice of him.
Dad considers this a mission. Early in the morning, he calls—needs the make, model, engine number and so forth. He’s on his way to purchase spark plug, new oil, and garnish whatever information he can at the shops along the way. I find the information, and go run my own errands.
Early afternoon, he’s here. I’m ready—snow blower outside, cord ready for electronic start. I don’t do any of the usual things I’d do for such a favor—food and drink ready, for example—because I know he’ll disregard all of them. He’ll disregard everything. For example, when he asks if I have a certain size screw on hand, I offer to run to the store. No. We make do. I don’t know why. He always does this—along with recommending later that I go get that size screw.
Early on, I get stung by a wasp. First damn time all year. I’m pissed. Right in the back of the neck. Can’t see it, of course. But Dad’s here. If I can find tweezers. I have them. Can’t find them. We go to the store—he wants to talk to the snow blower repair guy anyway. We have just enough time before they close. He ends up with carburetor cleaner. I end up with “After Bite.” When I finally get tweezers, I’m too swollen to find the stinger. I’m pissed. I hold my tongue.
He’s absorbed with the snow blower, sounding like he’s talking to me, but really not. “I’m going to go cut some grass while you do this, OK?” I ask. “Go ahead,” he nods, barely noticing.
I cut grass. After a bit, I hear snow blower over the sound of the lawn mower. Dad’s still engaged. I keep mowing for a while. Eventually, I cut the engine and mosey over.
“Well, we’ve got it running,” Dad notes, “but it’s running hot. That bolt just shot out of the exhaust.” I look—a six inch lies in a black line on the grass. “It was glowing,” Dad adds. I notice my normally gregarious dog has moved from her favorite spot near where Dad is working to the opposite end of my yard. Smart dog.
I leave Dad to puzzle it out, and return to mowing. Eventually, I hear the snow blower start again. I keep mowing. Again, eventually, I mosey over. Oil everywhere. Still runs hot. Dad is stymied. “Soon as it starts,” he notes, “when you turn the choke, it just runs fast!” I look. “What if you don’t turn the choke all the way to the left?” I ask. Dad considers. He tries it. The machine runs roughly, but without glowing parts threatening to blow up the engine.
I ask if he can change the oil while he’s at it, knowing he’ll actually welcome this. He asks if I have a pan to catch the oil. I find one. He changes the oil, and spends a long time spraying every moving part with WD-40, whipping and cleaning everything possible, leaving everything in as good a shape as possible.
That’s Dad.
Writer
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Shanti and the Kayaks
I start with a stop at the corner store for something for dinner, vainly hoping for something in the produce line, settling for an onion, a pepper, and a bunch of celery. Pretty much their vegetable inventory. No fruit. I add a bunch of carrots for my neighbor’s horse. And a six-pack.
Two twenty-somethings walk in, chuckling. “Never seen a dog driving a car before,” they laugh. “Oh, that’s his,” the woman behind the counter notes, nodding toward me. “Always does that,” she adds, referring to my dog Shanti, a white husky mix, who moves to the driver’s seat and patiently scans the scene for my return with each stop.
On the way to the state land at Stoney Pond she whines. I’m exhausted, but she’s bored. While I’ve been working my bizarre schedule all day, home now only as dusk approaches, she’s been stretched out under evergreen trees, watching birds, barking at an early morning hot-air balloon flight, rested and ready to go.
The weather has turned cooler too. I love September—I used to always schedule my vacations somewhere in the middle of the month. I had little competition for the dates, and it’s a perfect time to backpack in the Adirondack High Peaks—not too hot (the cool weather an asset when climbing), few bugs, no summer crowds on the trails, lean-tos readily available, and only early bear hunting season to circumvent. But alas, since becoming a college professor in 1990, Septembers are spent frantically fielding all the fruckus administration and circumstances channel my way. Hence my fatigue. But the cool weather also energizes my dog even more than her light daily itinerary.
Further, a week or so back she somehow slightly injured her foot, limping for a few days. “Give her these antibiotics, three times a day,” the vet instructed. He knows my hectic schedule, and added, “If some days she only gets two, that’s fine. Just continue it for two weeks. Also, here’s some Rimadyl—twice a day.” My last dog, a shepherd mix, lived almost sixteen years, so I know Rimadyl well—a powerful non-steroidal, anti-inflammatory pain killer. I shook my head. Shanti already is a mountain of energy stuffed into 50 lbs. of fur. Now she’ll feel no pain.
We start our walk—it’s usually a run, but I can feel myself getting sick—pain in my chest, the first signs of the bronchitis that twice has taken me out for a week in the past few years. Emboldened by the lack of people relative to August, deer wander across the path, and Shanti takes off like a jet, slamming around in her harness when she abruptly reaches the end of her 26’ retractable leash. She looks at me, then spins around and tries it again. And again. And again. “Shanti!” I finally intervene, my lungs aching from the effort. Damn. I’m definitely getting sick. I later contemplate those leftover antibiotics—500 mg. Cephalex. Keflex, I know from my pharmacy tech days. Usually prescribed every six hours, but for 7-10 days. I can think of several reasons not to flirt with a short course. I eventually give in to temptation, spreading eight doses over three days, hoping my immune system and some rest can pick it up from there.
The deer now gone, Shanti turns to sticks. She’s not fond of “fetch,” but she love to jump for sticks. I hold them out at shoulder height, and she jumps two and a half times her height to grab them. She plays hard, and I remember to hold the stick lightly, or she’ll sharply wrench my wrist or elbow yet again. [Even other dogs don’t like to play with her, since she’s just too rough.] The stick game, though, eventually tires her, at least a bit.
We round the corner of the pond (a small lake, really) and find three kayaks full of loudly laughing, joking people. Shanti goes ballistic, lunging and lunging to run out and do just-what-exactly-I-can’t-even-begin-to-imagine. As much as I love these daily outings, I’m relived when we’re back at the car.
I haven’t been kayaking all summer—just too much work. I love doing it, and even take Shanti with me—she sits right in front, anxiously watching the geese, ducks and beavers. I did think about going, although transporting the kayak is now a challenge; I used to put my short kayak atop my Toyota Echo’s roof with some hard foam designed for the purpose and a complicated system to tie it with rope to the frame. My new Yaris, however, has an antenna right in the middle of the roof (by the hatchback). Perhaps I can get it in the back with the seats down. Wonder how far it would stick out. And where would Shanti sit?
Then again, there’s always my girl’s Taurus. And where she’ll sit. And whether it can handle two kayaks. And the irony of transportation for transportation.
I had my first kayak lesson twenty feet offshore at Stoney Pond, capsizing and swimming back to shore. I’m an excellent canoeist, capable of a speedy pace in any size canoe, capable of righting a canoe in the middle of a lake and getting back in (a skill I had to learn in Scouts). I accidentally impressed my coworkers years ago at a summer gathering when my shepherd mix took off after me when I borrowed a canoe. With motor boats racing about, she wasn’t safe in the water (she was an excellent swimmer—we used to swim long distances together), so I pulled a wet, 90 lb. dog into the canoe, keeping us level and above water. Kayaking was a little different.
Balance. Sit low and straight. Soon you can even race about the lake with a dog in your kayak with you. Balance. Something my work life and, apparently, health could use. Maybe I should kayak more often. Maybe I should spend more time under evergreens myself. Maybe Shanti should drive.
Writer
Two twenty-somethings walk in, chuckling. “Never seen a dog driving a car before,” they laugh. “Oh, that’s his,” the woman behind the counter notes, nodding toward me. “Always does that,” she adds, referring to my dog Shanti, a white husky mix, who moves to the driver’s seat and patiently scans the scene for my return with each stop.
On the way to the state land at Stoney Pond she whines. I’m exhausted, but she’s bored. While I’ve been working my bizarre schedule all day, home now only as dusk approaches, she’s been stretched out under evergreen trees, watching birds, barking at an early morning hot-air balloon flight, rested and ready to go.
The weather has turned cooler too. I love September—I used to always schedule my vacations somewhere in the middle of the month. I had little competition for the dates, and it’s a perfect time to backpack in the Adirondack High Peaks—not too hot (the cool weather an asset when climbing), few bugs, no summer crowds on the trails, lean-tos readily available, and only early bear hunting season to circumvent. But alas, since becoming a college professor in 1990, Septembers are spent frantically fielding all the fruckus administration and circumstances channel my way. Hence my fatigue. But the cool weather also energizes my dog even more than her light daily itinerary.
Further, a week or so back she somehow slightly injured her foot, limping for a few days. “Give her these antibiotics, three times a day,” the vet instructed. He knows my hectic schedule, and added, “If some days she only gets two, that’s fine. Just continue it for two weeks. Also, here’s some Rimadyl—twice a day.” My last dog, a shepherd mix, lived almost sixteen years, so I know Rimadyl well—a powerful non-steroidal, anti-inflammatory pain killer. I shook my head. Shanti already is a mountain of energy stuffed into 50 lbs. of fur. Now she’ll feel no pain.
We start our walk—it’s usually a run, but I can feel myself getting sick—pain in my chest, the first signs of the bronchitis that twice has taken me out for a week in the past few years. Emboldened by the lack of people relative to August, deer wander across the path, and Shanti takes off like a jet, slamming around in her harness when she abruptly reaches the end of her 26’ retractable leash. She looks at me, then spins around and tries it again. And again. And again. “Shanti!” I finally intervene, my lungs aching from the effort. Damn. I’m definitely getting sick. I later contemplate those leftover antibiotics—500 mg. Cephalex. Keflex, I know from my pharmacy tech days. Usually prescribed every six hours, but for 7-10 days. I can think of several reasons not to flirt with a short course. I eventually give in to temptation, spreading eight doses over three days, hoping my immune system and some rest can pick it up from there.
The deer now gone, Shanti turns to sticks. She’s not fond of “fetch,” but she love to jump for sticks. I hold them out at shoulder height, and she jumps two and a half times her height to grab them. She plays hard, and I remember to hold the stick lightly, or she’ll sharply wrench my wrist or elbow yet again. [Even other dogs don’t like to play with her, since she’s just too rough.] The stick game, though, eventually tires her, at least a bit.
We round the corner of the pond (a small lake, really) and find three kayaks full of loudly laughing, joking people. Shanti goes ballistic, lunging and lunging to run out and do just-what-exactly-I-can’t-even-begin-to-imagine. As much as I love these daily outings, I’m relived when we’re back at the car.
I haven’t been kayaking all summer—just too much work. I love doing it, and even take Shanti with me—she sits right in front, anxiously watching the geese, ducks and beavers. I did think about going, although transporting the kayak is now a challenge; I used to put my short kayak atop my Toyota Echo’s roof with some hard foam designed for the purpose and a complicated system to tie it with rope to the frame. My new Yaris, however, has an antenna right in the middle of the roof (by the hatchback). Perhaps I can get it in the back with the seats down. Wonder how far it would stick out. And where would Shanti sit?
Then again, there’s always my girl’s Taurus. And where she’ll sit. And whether it can handle two kayaks. And the irony of transportation for transportation.
I had my first kayak lesson twenty feet offshore at Stoney Pond, capsizing and swimming back to shore. I’m an excellent canoeist, capable of a speedy pace in any size canoe, capable of righting a canoe in the middle of a lake and getting back in (a skill I had to learn in Scouts). I accidentally impressed my coworkers years ago at a summer gathering when my shepherd mix took off after me when I borrowed a canoe. With motor boats racing about, she wasn’t safe in the water (she was an excellent swimmer—we used to swim long distances together), so I pulled a wet, 90 lb. dog into the canoe, keeping us level and above water. Kayaking was a little different.
Balance. Sit low and straight. Soon you can even race about the lake with a dog in your kayak with you. Balance. Something my work life and, apparently, health could use. Maybe I should kayak more often. Maybe I should spend more time under evergreens myself. Maybe Shanti should drive.
Writer
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Two Doors Down
A few mornings ago, my husky mix, Shanti, broke her lead while I was at work and went for a run around my country neighborhood. When I returned home at 11:30 a.m. that morning and saw the broken lead (she has the sweep of the yard and several trees with 60’ of lead), I immediately rushed inside to see if anyone had called. Indeed, yes—a new neighbor who lived just two doors down.
“I have your dog,” she began, “A white dog? She was running all over the place. Anyway, I’ve got her tied up next to the barn, but I’m going out of town around noon, and I don’t want to leave her tied up, so I don’t know what to do if I don’t hear from you. I guess I’ll call the dog warden.”
I hurriedly called the number she left. “I’m sorry,” said the computer generated voice, “but this party isn’t accepting calls from private numbers.” I can never remember the code to fix that, so I just jumped in the car and rushed over there (about 600 feet).
No car. No dog. No answer at the door—although HER dog came rushing to bark at the door, and a cat snaked its way around the porch.
Back home, I called the dog pound, euphemistically called “Wanderer’s Rest,” 20 minutes away. They weren’t open—open at noon. I left a message. I waited, anxiously. I called back at noon. Busy. I called again. Busy. Around 12:30, I finally got a human, and poured into my story, looking for my dog.
“Yes, she’s here,” I heard—and then a flurry of questions to make sure she’s REALLY my dog. I answered the questions, explained again, and pointed out, “She’s wearing an ID tag with my name, address, and phone, a rabies tag with the vet’s name and number, and a tag identifying her chip number—she’s got an ID chip,” I add, just remembering.
“Well, we scanned her twice,” explained the voice, adding blithely, “Maybe we’re not doing it right.” Yeah. Maybe.
“We just need proof of her rabies vaccination, license, and a fee for her boarding.” Huh?
“OK, just call the vet (I had the number) and the town clerk and they can verify that.” Oh no. They needed documents. I protested.
“The vet can fax the certificate,” mandated the voice. “Fine,” I answered, “But I’m not sure about the town clerk—she’s only there a few hours each week.”
“Well,” came the reply, “We’ll hold Shanti here until you can get that.” I struggled to control my temper and got their fax number.
Fortunately, the town clerk DID have hours starting at 1:00 (although she was 15 minutes late that afternoon, and then had 15 minutes worth of trouble logging into her software for the dog licensing information).
The meeting at Wanderer’s Rest was terse. The woman at the desk pulled out my paperwork—complete with name, address, phone, all completed by the dog warden, noting “Time of seizure—9:15. Chasing livestock. Unlicensed. Violation of leash law.”
So much for noon. Chasing livestock? They have one horse, and it wasn’t there, presumably boarded while they’re out of town. She was licensed. She was also trailing 18’ of vinyl coated airline cable lead. Official lies.
But we live TWO DOORS DOWN. Why not simply take her back and tie her up? It’s obvious where she got loose via the broken cable, she has trees for shade, she has water—what’s the problem? I’ve certainly done this for neighbor’s dogs—and even for the one neighbor who refuses to control his dog, a chocolate lab, I just taught the dog myself to sit, stay, etc. I could have called the dog warden several times, but why punish the dog? What would that prove?
Shanti had a cream colored stain on her snout. “Oh, we give all new dogs worming medicine,” volunteered the shelter worker, noticing my examination. They had also removed her collar and had to go fetch it. She wasn’t the same dog for a day and a half.
So let’s review. Everyone knew where the dog lived. Everyone knew she had been loose unintentionally. Everyone knew who owned her. Everyone knew she had a current rabies vaccine (in New York State, rabies tags change shape and color every year). Yet, the dog warden drove to my neighbor’s house, drove 20 minutes to the shelter, filled out paperwork, drove back. The shelter workers “processed” her, including administering unnecessary medication (remember, they had my vet’s number on her tags, and anyone at the vet’s office could readily identify this dog). Then there’s the wasted time expected of my vet, the town clerk—not to mention the work time I lost.
All over a dog everyone knew lived 600 feet away.
Writer
“I have your dog,” she began, “A white dog? She was running all over the place. Anyway, I’ve got her tied up next to the barn, but I’m going out of town around noon, and I don’t want to leave her tied up, so I don’t know what to do if I don’t hear from you. I guess I’ll call the dog warden.”
I hurriedly called the number she left. “I’m sorry,” said the computer generated voice, “but this party isn’t accepting calls from private numbers.” I can never remember the code to fix that, so I just jumped in the car and rushed over there (about 600 feet).
No car. No dog. No answer at the door—although HER dog came rushing to bark at the door, and a cat snaked its way around the porch.
Back home, I called the dog pound, euphemistically called “Wanderer’s Rest,” 20 minutes away. They weren’t open—open at noon. I left a message. I waited, anxiously. I called back at noon. Busy. I called again. Busy. Around 12:30, I finally got a human, and poured into my story, looking for my dog.
“Yes, she’s here,” I heard—and then a flurry of questions to make sure she’s REALLY my dog. I answered the questions, explained again, and pointed out, “She’s wearing an ID tag with my name, address, and phone, a rabies tag with the vet’s name and number, and a tag identifying her chip number—she’s got an ID chip,” I add, just remembering.
“Well, we scanned her twice,” explained the voice, adding blithely, “Maybe we’re not doing it right.” Yeah. Maybe.
“We just need proof of her rabies vaccination, license, and a fee for her boarding.” Huh?
“OK, just call the vet (I had the number) and the town clerk and they can verify that.” Oh no. They needed documents. I protested.
“The vet can fax the certificate,” mandated the voice. “Fine,” I answered, “But I’m not sure about the town clerk—she’s only there a few hours each week.”
“Well,” came the reply, “We’ll hold Shanti here until you can get that.” I struggled to control my temper and got their fax number.
Fortunately, the town clerk DID have hours starting at 1:00 (although she was 15 minutes late that afternoon, and then had 15 minutes worth of trouble logging into her software for the dog licensing information).
The meeting at Wanderer’s Rest was terse. The woman at the desk pulled out my paperwork—complete with name, address, phone, all completed by the dog warden, noting “Time of seizure—9:15. Chasing livestock. Unlicensed. Violation of leash law.”
So much for noon. Chasing livestock? They have one horse, and it wasn’t there, presumably boarded while they’re out of town. She was licensed. She was also trailing 18’ of vinyl coated airline cable lead. Official lies.
But we live TWO DOORS DOWN. Why not simply take her back and tie her up? It’s obvious where she got loose via the broken cable, she has trees for shade, she has water—what’s the problem? I’ve certainly done this for neighbor’s dogs—and even for the one neighbor who refuses to control his dog, a chocolate lab, I just taught the dog myself to sit, stay, etc. I could have called the dog warden several times, but why punish the dog? What would that prove?
Shanti had a cream colored stain on her snout. “Oh, we give all new dogs worming medicine,” volunteered the shelter worker, noticing my examination. They had also removed her collar and had to go fetch it. She wasn’t the same dog for a day and a half.
So let’s review. Everyone knew where the dog lived. Everyone knew she had been loose unintentionally. Everyone knew who owned her. Everyone knew she had a current rabies vaccine (in New York State, rabies tags change shape and color every year). Yet, the dog warden drove to my neighbor’s house, drove 20 minutes to the shelter, filled out paperwork, drove back. The shelter workers “processed” her, including administering unnecessary medication (remember, they had my vet’s number on her tags, and anyone at the vet’s office could readily identify this dog). Then there’s the wasted time expected of my vet, the town clerk—not to mention the work time I lost.
All over a dog everyone knew lived 600 feet away.
Writer
Friday, July 6, 2007
Wolf, Pig, Pup, and Woodchuck
The local paper couldn’t help but catch my eye with a large color photo splashed across the front page—it seemed exactly my dog, a white husky mix, chewing on a cell phone.
But this was an Artic Wolf at the zoo. A toddler had thrown Mom’s cell phone into the wolf exhibit. Zoo officials retrieved the remnants of the phone. “I was just worried the wolf would be hurt by the small parts,” reported Mom. The headline? “Call of the Wild.”
Not everyone is so concerned, even when owning the animals in question. On my way to the trails to walk my dog, I frequently have to stop for a pet pig in the road, the woman who owns it leisurely strolling out to retrieve it after a bit. Matter of time before one of the cars that speed along this road in the summer hit it—not to mention someone else’s geese just a quarter of a mile later, again, always in the road. People on another street made a nice sign for their ducks, “Please excuse us,” but again, people speeding along are going to take them out eventually. I remember a young employee at the local store who confided one day that she had unwittingly run down a neighbor’s chickens. “Why don’t you just slow down?” I asked. She just looked at me.
Animals in the road are hardly a surprise here. Deer, beaver, quail, turkeys, rabbits and more are a daily occurrence. A few weeks ago, I even saw four coyote pups. Cutest thing—they paused at the side of the road, the lead pup with one paw raised; as I slowed, it reconsidered and turned into the field, followed by its siblings. A few days ago, I could see road kill ahead as I approached the same spot, although it turned out to be a raccoon (raccoons don’t flee—they just stand there contemplating what’s happening).
I’m not naïve—deer and rabbits invade my garden and orchard, for example. Raccoons sometimes carry rabies, although that hardly means every raccoon is rapid. Coyotes rarely get rabies, the vet tells me (my dog strayed into coyote territory as a pup and got chased home), but people do have reason to otherwise view them with concern, as they can be bold and invade suburban neighborhoods. I live in the country, so coyotes are to be expected. I lost an outdoor cat once—it was always waiting in the driveway when I got home. But one day it wasn’t. Could be coyotes. She did roam—I once saw her and picked her up on my way home, two miles from the house. Could also have been a car. Could also have been the cruel teens in the next town caught nailing cats to crucifixes for kicks, or dousing them with gasoline and setting them on fire. Maybe she was found and kept.
On my way home today, a pickup truck quite deliberately swerved into the other lane in a smooth curve for no reason other than to kill the woodchuck sitting there.
Writer
But this was an Artic Wolf at the zoo. A toddler had thrown Mom’s cell phone into the wolf exhibit. Zoo officials retrieved the remnants of the phone. “I was just worried the wolf would be hurt by the small parts,” reported Mom. The headline? “Call of the Wild.”
Not everyone is so concerned, even when owning the animals in question. On my way to the trails to walk my dog, I frequently have to stop for a pet pig in the road, the woman who owns it leisurely strolling out to retrieve it after a bit. Matter of time before one of the cars that speed along this road in the summer hit it—not to mention someone else’s geese just a quarter of a mile later, again, always in the road. People on another street made a nice sign for their ducks, “Please excuse us,” but again, people speeding along are going to take them out eventually. I remember a young employee at the local store who confided one day that she had unwittingly run down a neighbor’s chickens. “Why don’t you just slow down?” I asked. She just looked at me.
Animals in the road are hardly a surprise here. Deer, beaver, quail, turkeys, rabbits and more are a daily occurrence. A few weeks ago, I even saw four coyote pups. Cutest thing—they paused at the side of the road, the lead pup with one paw raised; as I slowed, it reconsidered and turned into the field, followed by its siblings. A few days ago, I could see road kill ahead as I approached the same spot, although it turned out to be a raccoon (raccoons don’t flee—they just stand there contemplating what’s happening).
I’m not naïve—deer and rabbits invade my garden and orchard, for example. Raccoons sometimes carry rabies, although that hardly means every raccoon is rapid. Coyotes rarely get rabies, the vet tells me (my dog strayed into coyote territory as a pup and got chased home), but people do have reason to otherwise view them with concern, as they can be bold and invade suburban neighborhoods. I live in the country, so coyotes are to be expected. I lost an outdoor cat once—it was always waiting in the driveway when I got home. But one day it wasn’t. Could be coyotes. She did roam—I once saw her and picked her up on my way home, two miles from the house. Could also have been a car. Could also have been the cruel teens in the next town caught nailing cats to crucifixes for kicks, or dousing them with gasoline and setting them on fire. Maybe she was found and kept.
On my way home today, a pickup truck quite deliberately swerved into the other lane in a smooth curve for no reason other than to kill the woodchuck sitting there.
Writer
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
“I am a Lineman for the Kitty…”
My dog saw it first—a cat sitting on top of the utility pole just outside my home. The cat sat calmly atop the pole, while my dog jumped up periodically in enthusiasm, if to no avail. I called off said dog and tried to coax down the cat, a grey, short-haired cat I’d never seen before—also to no avail.
I can, at least, see WHY the cat climbed the pole. This was the traditional post of a red-winged blackbird, a clear and welcome target. Every morning I’d walk out to his incessant “Chit! Chit! Chit!” call. Over time, I realized that he was the look-out (and what better place?), warning that I was in the vicinity, even tracking me as I worked about the place. One day, as I got too close to a nest 100 feet away, this guy smoothly but swiftly glided down just two feet over the nest, let out a single, soft, musical note—and the female took off immediately. Beautiful teamwork. Once I realized that, I fretted for a nest another year when the male disappeared, fate unknown. Sure enough—a week later the nest had been overturned, no sign of its former contents.
Anyway, the feline pole sitter remained, and eventually I called my vet’s office for advice. They had no ideas other than the ones I’d already tried, and suggested a wildlife nuisance expert. I called. He listened patiently. “OK, look,” he started, in a very nice voice, “I don’t mean this harshly. I have four cats myself.” I listened. “You just don’t find cat skeletons in trees. We get calls like this all the time. Chances are, we’d climb one side of the pole, and the cat would run down the other. When it’s hungry, it will finally come down. It got up there; it can find it’s way down—probably when things quiet down.” Reluctantly, I had to agree. I’d just wait.
My dog certainly wasn’t helping, spending the bulk of her time guarding the pole, intently watching the aerialist intruder (“and I want you more than need you…”). The cat certainly had things to do, other than occasionally changing from sitting to lying atop its perch. After all, my cats LOVE watching birds from their vantage point inside my windows, so just imagine from the top of the utility pole! And not just red-winged blackbirds—robins, sparrows, finches, and much more so frequent that vicinity that every morning at 5 a.m. brings a cacophony so raucous that sleeping in can, at best, mean rolling over and going back to sleep, even over the purr of the air conditioner and fan. A cat’s dream (“I hear you singing on the wires…”). Indoors, I’ve seen cats sit for several hours, calmly waiting out a mouse. Or perhaps the cat was just practicing Zen, but “Zen for Cats” is essentially meant to be funny, and I find cats don’t really get humor. Additionally, as one cartoon depicted with a cat sleeping on a poor reader’s open newspaper, “cats don’t read, and they don’t want you to read either.”
I called my dog, and she happily bounded in to dinner, her shift over, oblivious that we didn’t have a night shift. She curled up at my feet as I worked. I looked out the window. Cat. When I finally went to bed, late that night, I looked out—dark shape atop the utility pole. So it continued, me anxious, dog watching, cat unmoved (“I know I need a small vacation…”). At least it didn’t look like rain. I started to feel the strain.
On the morning of the third day, I looked out, and the cat was gone. I rushed outside for evidence of what happened, but found nothing. No sign of egress, descension, ascension, recinsion, or any other kind of cension. No tracks, no fur, no claw marks, no carcass, no skeleton, no nothing.
I guess you just need to know…
…which cats are linemen…
Dunno. But I’m still on the line. Another overload.
Writer
I can, at least, see WHY the cat climbed the pole. This was the traditional post of a red-winged blackbird, a clear and welcome target. Every morning I’d walk out to his incessant “Chit! Chit! Chit!” call. Over time, I realized that he was the look-out (and what better place?), warning that I was in the vicinity, even tracking me as I worked about the place. One day, as I got too close to a nest 100 feet away, this guy smoothly but swiftly glided down just two feet over the nest, let out a single, soft, musical note—and the female took off immediately. Beautiful teamwork. Once I realized that, I fretted for a nest another year when the male disappeared, fate unknown. Sure enough—a week later the nest had been overturned, no sign of its former contents.
Anyway, the feline pole sitter remained, and eventually I called my vet’s office for advice. They had no ideas other than the ones I’d already tried, and suggested a wildlife nuisance expert. I called. He listened patiently. “OK, look,” he started, in a very nice voice, “I don’t mean this harshly. I have four cats myself.” I listened. “You just don’t find cat skeletons in trees. We get calls like this all the time. Chances are, we’d climb one side of the pole, and the cat would run down the other. When it’s hungry, it will finally come down. It got up there; it can find it’s way down—probably when things quiet down.” Reluctantly, I had to agree. I’d just wait.
My dog certainly wasn’t helping, spending the bulk of her time guarding the pole, intently watching the aerialist intruder (“and I want you more than need you…”). The cat certainly had things to do, other than occasionally changing from sitting to lying atop its perch. After all, my cats LOVE watching birds from their vantage point inside my windows, so just imagine from the top of the utility pole! And not just red-winged blackbirds—robins, sparrows, finches, and much more so frequent that vicinity that every morning at 5 a.m. brings a cacophony so raucous that sleeping in can, at best, mean rolling over and going back to sleep, even over the purr of the air conditioner and fan. A cat’s dream (“I hear you singing on the wires…”). Indoors, I’ve seen cats sit for several hours, calmly waiting out a mouse. Or perhaps the cat was just practicing Zen, but “Zen for Cats” is essentially meant to be funny, and I find cats don’t really get humor. Additionally, as one cartoon depicted with a cat sleeping on a poor reader’s open newspaper, “cats don’t read, and they don’t want you to read either.”
I called my dog, and she happily bounded in to dinner, her shift over, oblivious that we didn’t have a night shift. She curled up at my feet as I worked. I looked out the window. Cat. When I finally went to bed, late that night, I looked out—dark shape atop the utility pole. So it continued, me anxious, dog watching, cat unmoved (“I know I need a small vacation…”). At least it didn’t look like rain. I started to feel the strain.
On the morning of the third day, I looked out, and the cat was gone. I rushed outside for evidence of what happened, but found nothing. No sign of egress, descension, ascension, recinsion, or any other kind of cension. No tracks, no fur, no claw marks, no carcass, no skeleton, no nothing.
I guess you just need to know…
…which cats are linemen…
Dunno. But I’m still on the line. Another overload.
Writer
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Why I Hate Sports
I didn’t have an older brother, and my dad was working while going to night school, so I never really learned how to play catch or whatever else young boys supposedly learn about sports. Consequently, when I entered school, my male classmates did the only thing sensible to another child—they ridiculed me, making sure I’d be alienated.
Gym class was worse. First, I had to change in front of other boys, then spend an hour wearing shorts. They made fun of my knees (nothing wrong with them, but I didn’t know that). The “class” consisted of little more than playing Dodge Ball, or, more properly named, Slam Anyone You Can as Hard as You Can, and the more timid the target, the better. Gee—I didn’t prosper (someone should adjust the rules to allow points for the force of the tag). Sometimes we had to climb ropes—no instruction, just a drill sergeant gym teacher screaming while students helplessly swing. Other times, we practiced on spring boards or on the horse—the purpose still escapes me.
In fifth grade, when my dad was transferred, I got to enjoy going to a new school where no one knew me. What fun. Talk about bully target! I was regularly attacked on the mile long walk home by either Claus or Robelard. I spent a lot of time on my back while someone sat on me. Even my friend Mike seemed to enjoy this pastime. I didn’t. I DID learn a lot about squirming, but I wanted as much distance from these tormentors as possible.
Looking for something more fun, I pestered my parents for a bike. Our old home had been far out in the country on a highway, but now we lived in a suburb! My parents relented—although my mother wouldn’t let my sisters or me ride in the street until we could prove we had enough control to ride around the yard without wavering handlebars. What a fascist.
I rode everywhere—for hours and hours. I rode to Mike’s house. I rode to explore the surrounding countryside. I rode across town to the village library—I loved to read. A few years later, after pestering my parents again for private music lessons (which I later learned were secretly subsidized by my grandmother), I rode to the next town for music lessons. When my Boy Scout troop proposed a 50 mile bicycle trip, my fellow scout Terry and I practiced by taking several such trips (or at least as close to them as our understanding of the maps allowed).
My parents loved to camp. Every vacation, and several weekends, we headed for forest campgrounds, where I learned to climb trees—sometimes climbing 60-80 feet (I fell once, hitting several branches on the way down—getting the wind knocked out of you is wicked awesome scary, especially when you don’t understand what’s happening). “Why don’t you shinny up the trees?” asked the fascist, noticing my choice of trees with low hanging limbs. Well! I wasn’t going to let HER win! I practiced and practiced on my many long walks on forest trails, and in time, I could climb any tree strong enough to support my weight—and quickly, too. Take that, Mom!
I took another look at that gym rope. It DID look like fun, just not with the drill sergeant “helping.” I snuck into the gym from time to time to practice—no spotter. Before long, I could reach the top! The next time we did this in class, my gym teacher just looked at me in disbelief. [OK, I misplaced the fascist label.]
Sixth grade featured the class going outside from time to time to play softball. I, of course, was always chosen last, and stuck far in the outfield, I was mainly bored. One day, a batter hit a foul far to the right of first base. Well, someone had to retrieve the ball, so I headed over and caught it. My team mates went wild, rushed over, and carried me back to school—I had just, unwittingly, won us the game. A few months later, when Robelard was terrorizing me over recess, suddenly he was pulled off me—a dozen of my classmates, who had watched this all year, decided enough was enough, sharing their insights with Robelard. The bullying stopped.
In Junior High School (another new school), I briefly flirted with joining the wrestling team. One of my favorite teachers, Mr. Neufang, was the coach, our school excelled in wrestling, I liked what little I had learned about it in Gym, and I also learned something about the sport—when a new bully targeted me, the new kid who couldn’t throw an effective punch, I rushed in close and pinned the stunned attacker to the ground. A nice change—but ill fated. The school nurse/doctor had to approve us before we could join a sports term, and thus, they discovered I had a heart murmur. Before I could continue, I would need to see my own doctor and get written permission. Scared the hell out of me.
My family doctor, a wonderful man who let kids feed lollypops to his very fat dog, was not concerned. My heart murmur was congenital, not a news bulletin—and, as he explained, could very well heal (it did). “You’re not going to have a career in professional football,” he jokingly explained, “Or run up mountains” (he was wrong about that one), “But you’re fine, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t join the wrestling team.” Weeks had passed, however, and I was frustrated. “I’ve decided not to make the commitment,” I explained to him as I quit the team. “OK,” he accepted, “But you do know that you’ll have to make a commitment to whatever you decide to pursue?”
I nodded. I don’t know if he believed me, but I did understand (hey, how many people remember the name of their seventh grade teacher?). Another favorite teacher in eighth grade, Mr. Wiltze, coached the track team, and I considered it, but I had just had enough.
I still rode my bike everywhere. I rode to the next town just to have an awkward conversation with Lisa, who I thought of as my girlfriend. I met the Woodruff twins on my travels, two very gregarious boys who welcomed me into their almost non-stop basketball game—and given their popularity, other participants just learned to live with my poor skills.
High School changed things. I decided I wanted to be a professional musician, I needed lessons from professional symphony musicians, and my parents (thanks, Grandma!) eventually acquiesced. “I’d like to do this piece for NYSSMA (a state music competition),” I told my teacher, indicating the Mozart flute concerto in D. “Well, to do that,” my teacher explained, trying to discourage the choice, “you’ll need to practice 3-4 hours a day.” I missed the discouragement. I had chosen my commitment, and much to the amazement of teacher and parents alike, I practiced 3-4 hours a day.
This is not a light thing. The strain on fingers alone is extreme (when I move a finger even slightly, you can see the tendons ripple up my arm). The breath control involved in mastering wind instruments (I added bassoon to hedge my bets) at a professional level is extreme—I got up at 5 a.m. each day to run five miles before breakfast (the average person at rest breathes 12-16 times a minute—I breathe 2-3 times). I didn’t have time for sports—although a musician girl friend got me into tennis and ice skating.
I continued with Boy Scouts, enjoying the down time, just having fun. I learned to swim quite well, started mile long swims, and took lifesaving lessons from an instructor who would practically drown any student giving her the slightest opening (I’m not exaggerating). I learned to canoe quite well, including how to right a capsized canoe in the middle of a lake while fully clothed. (This proved fun when, at a camp party as an adult, I took off like a rocket in a canoe across the lake. My shepherd mix, concerned she might be left behind, took off after me. As motor boats were racing about the lake, this was dangerous, so I pulled my 90 lb. dog into the canoe without capsizing it. People were impressed. I was drenched.)
College offered me my only fun taste of sports. My housemates organized a weekly baseball game, and I tagged along. Much to my surprise, though, I wasn’t stuck in the outfield, and I wasn’t buried in the lineup. My teammates took a close look at available skills. “OK, he can’t hit far—but he always gets a hit,” they noticed, so they had me bat first. First! That’s because they also noticed I could run. So, I hit the ball, the infield jogged over for an easy out, turned to throw—and found I was already comfortably settled on first base, unpacking, ordering room service. They shook their heads. From there, they had to constantly watch me, the lead runner, as our stronger hitters batted me in. We scored a lot of runs.
The field was equally fun, for once. I wasn’t stuck in the outfield—I could catch, but I still threw like a girl, so unless I caught the hit, I wasn’t much use. Well—where do you put a guy who can’t throw but can always catch (as long as you didn’t Dodge Ball me)? I became our First Baseman. We won a lot of games.
That, though, was the last of my interest in sports. Today, I just have little time. When I can free a day or two, I go hiking in the mountains. Every day, depending on the weather, to exercise my dog and to keep in shape, I either run or cross-country ski for an hour or two along forest trails with my dog. Sometimes I’ll take off for a day in my kayak. But I just don’t have time for sports.
Writer
Gym class was worse. First, I had to change in front of other boys, then spend an hour wearing shorts. They made fun of my knees (nothing wrong with them, but I didn’t know that). The “class” consisted of little more than playing Dodge Ball, or, more properly named, Slam Anyone You Can as Hard as You Can, and the more timid the target, the better. Gee—I didn’t prosper (someone should adjust the rules to allow points for the force of the tag). Sometimes we had to climb ropes—no instruction, just a drill sergeant gym teacher screaming while students helplessly swing. Other times, we practiced on spring boards or on the horse—the purpose still escapes me.
In fifth grade, when my dad was transferred, I got to enjoy going to a new school where no one knew me. What fun. Talk about bully target! I was regularly attacked on the mile long walk home by either Claus or Robelard. I spent a lot of time on my back while someone sat on me. Even my friend Mike seemed to enjoy this pastime. I didn’t. I DID learn a lot about squirming, but I wanted as much distance from these tormentors as possible.
Looking for something more fun, I pestered my parents for a bike. Our old home had been far out in the country on a highway, but now we lived in a suburb! My parents relented—although my mother wouldn’t let my sisters or me ride in the street until we could prove we had enough control to ride around the yard without wavering handlebars. What a fascist.
I rode everywhere—for hours and hours. I rode to Mike’s house. I rode to explore the surrounding countryside. I rode across town to the village library—I loved to read. A few years later, after pestering my parents again for private music lessons (which I later learned were secretly subsidized by my grandmother), I rode to the next town for music lessons. When my Boy Scout troop proposed a 50 mile bicycle trip, my fellow scout Terry and I practiced by taking several such trips (or at least as close to them as our understanding of the maps allowed).
My parents loved to camp. Every vacation, and several weekends, we headed for forest campgrounds, where I learned to climb trees—sometimes climbing 60-80 feet (I fell once, hitting several branches on the way down—getting the wind knocked out of you is wicked awesome scary, especially when you don’t understand what’s happening). “Why don’t you shinny up the trees?” asked the fascist, noticing my choice of trees with low hanging limbs. Well! I wasn’t going to let HER win! I practiced and practiced on my many long walks on forest trails, and in time, I could climb any tree strong enough to support my weight—and quickly, too. Take that, Mom!
I took another look at that gym rope. It DID look like fun, just not with the drill sergeant “helping.” I snuck into the gym from time to time to practice—no spotter. Before long, I could reach the top! The next time we did this in class, my gym teacher just looked at me in disbelief. [OK, I misplaced the fascist label.]
Sixth grade featured the class going outside from time to time to play softball. I, of course, was always chosen last, and stuck far in the outfield, I was mainly bored. One day, a batter hit a foul far to the right of first base. Well, someone had to retrieve the ball, so I headed over and caught it. My team mates went wild, rushed over, and carried me back to school—I had just, unwittingly, won us the game. A few months later, when Robelard was terrorizing me over recess, suddenly he was pulled off me—a dozen of my classmates, who had watched this all year, decided enough was enough, sharing their insights with Robelard. The bullying stopped.
In Junior High School (another new school), I briefly flirted with joining the wrestling team. One of my favorite teachers, Mr. Neufang, was the coach, our school excelled in wrestling, I liked what little I had learned about it in Gym, and I also learned something about the sport—when a new bully targeted me, the new kid who couldn’t throw an effective punch, I rushed in close and pinned the stunned attacker to the ground. A nice change—but ill fated. The school nurse/doctor had to approve us before we could join a sports term, and thus, they discovered I had a heart murmur. Before I could continue, I would need to see my own doctor and get written permission. Scared the hell out of me.
My family doctor, a wonderful man who let kids feed lollypops to his very fat dog, was not concerned. My heart murmur was congenital, not a news bulletin—and, as he explained, could very well heal (it did). “You’re not going to have a career in professional football,” he jokingly explained, “Or run up mountains” (he was wrong about that one), “But you’re fine, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t join the wrestling team.” Weeks had passed, however, and I was frustrated. “I’ve decided not to make the commitment,” I explained to him as I quit the team. “OK,” he accepted, “But you do know that you’ll have to make a commitment to whatever you decide to pursue?”
I nodded. I don’t know if he believed me, but I did understand (hey, how many people remember the name of their seventh grade teacher?). Another favorite teacher in eighth grade, Mr. Wiltze, coached the track team, and I considered it, but I had just had enough.
I still rode my bike everywhere. I rode to the next town just to have an awkward conversation with Lisa, who I thought of as my girlfriend. I met the Woodruff twins on my travels, two very gregarious boys who welcomed me into their almost non-stop basketball game—and given their popularity, other participants just learned to live with my poor skills.
High School changed things. I decided I wanted to be a professional musician, I needed lessons from professional symphony musicians, and my parents (thanks, Grandma!) eventually acquiesced. “I’d like to do this piece for NYSSMA (a state music competition),” I told my teacher, indicating the Mozart flute concerto in D. “Well, to do that,” my teacher explained, trying to discourage the choice, “you’ll need to practice 3-4 hours a day.” I missed the discouragement. I had chosen my commitment, and much to the amazement of teacher and parents alike, I practiced 3-4 hours a day.
This is not a light thing. The strain on fingers alone is extreme (when I move a finger even slightly, you can see the tendons ripple up my arm). The breath control involved in mastering wind instruments (I added bassoon to hedge my bets) at a professional level is extreme—I got up at 5 a.m. each day to run five miles before breakfast (the average person at rest breathes 12-16 times a minute—I breathe 2-3 times). I didn’t have time for sports—although a musician girl friend got me into tennis and ice skating.
I continued with Boy Scouts, enjoying the down time, just having fun. I learned to swim quite well, started mile long swims, and took lifesaving lessons from an instructor who would practically drown any student giving her the slightest opening (I’m not exaggerating). I learned to canoe quite well, including how to right a capsized canoe in the middle of a lake while fully clothed. (This proved fun when, at a camp party as an adult, I took off like a rocket in a canoe across the lake. My shepherd mix, concerned she might be left behind, took off after me. As motor boats were racing about the lake, this was dangerous, so I pulled my 90 lb. dog into the canoe without capsizing it. People were impressed. I was drenched.)
College offered me my only fun taste of sports. My housemates organized a weekly baseball game, and I tagged along. Much to my surprise, though, I wasn’t stuck in the outfield, and I wasn’t buried in the lineup. My teammates took a close look at available skills. “OK, he can’t hit far—but he always gets a hit,” they noticed, so they had me bat first. First! That’s because they also noticed I could run. So, I hit the ball, the infield jogged over for an easy out, turned to throw—and found I was already comfortably settled on first base, unpacking, ordering room service. They shook their heads. From there, they had to constantly watch me, the lead runner, as our stronger hitters batted me in. We scored a lot of runs.
The field was equally fun, for once. I wasn’t stuck in the outfield—I could catch, but I still threw like a girl, so unless I caught the hit, I wasn’t much use. Well—where do you put a guy who can’t throw but can always catch (as long as you didn’t Dodge Ball me)? I became our First Baseman. We won a lot of games.
That, though, was the last of my interest in sports. Today, I just have little time. When I can free a day or two, I go hiking in the mountains. Every day, depending on the weather, to exercise my dog and to keep in shape, I either run or cross-country ski for an hour or two along forest trails with my dog. Sometimes I’ll take off for a day in my kayak. But I just don’t have time for sports.
Writer
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
The Rewards of Rain
Everyday I take my dog down to the trails around Stony Pond for an hour or so, where I run or ski, depending on the weather. Much of the time we’re left to the geese, ducks and beavers, but now that the weather has turned sunny and warm, people regularly camp there, enjoying the peace and beauty of nature by building large fires, blaring radios and drinking lots of beer—often leaving the bottles and cans littered behind them the next morning, the remains of the fires still smoldering.
A family goes fishing, and crowds around the battery-powered TV they’ve brought, watching sitcoms. We pass a young woman on horseback, talking on her cell phone. Getting away from just some of it all, apparently.
During deer season, hunters park their campers here, choosing to hunt by walking the well-worn foot paths around the pond, waiting for the deer to give themselves up, rather than traveling into the woods where the deer live, coming out at night by the hundreds to graze in the fields. It’s just easier, I guess, near the comfort of the camper.
Leaving the comfort of the noise, the truck cabins, the telecommunications and the sunny weather has its rewards. One rainy spring morning, for instance, my dog found a fawn hiding just around a tree trunk (we apparently surprised the doe)—just about 18” long. When I investigated, the fawn bellowed (damn, those things have lungs!) and wobbled to its feet—it could just barely stand—and bellowed again. It was the cutest little creature—head far too large for its body, legs far too skinny—the usual “I’m small now but I’ll soon grow big” syndrome we recognize in puppies of large breeds. I quickly led my dog away, leaving the youngster to the unseen doe, but those few precious moments remain a happy memory.
Before I moved to the country, I regularly escaped on weekends to the Adirondacks, especially to hike in the High Peaks region—Giant, Marcy, Wright Peak, and other mountains in the Lake Placid/Keene Valley area. One Saturday, desperately needing to get away and clear my head, I decided to ignore the rainy weather and climb Algonquin Peak, the second highest point in New York State and doable within a day (the drive there and the climb). Of course, climbing in a drizzle means walking in a dense, gray fog, and today was no exception. I saw none of the spectacular views—I could barely see twenty feet ahead, just following the trail (and my dog) as trees continually emerged from the mist. This became a real problem when I reached the tree line, nervously trusting my dog’s nose to find the trail, now just rock, trees gone, using the occasional cairns as confirmation rather than guides as intended. I started to worry about finding the trail down again, when the fog started to clear a bit. As I climbed higher, I saw why, and scrambled to the summit—we had climbed above the clouds, and were now standing in bright sunshine on an island of rock surrounded by a fluffy white carpet stretching across the sky in every direction. It remains to this day perhaps the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
Not that I’m recommending climbing the High Peaks alone in the rain—on another occasion, an excursion up Mt. Colden, I got turned around in the fog and wandered about for a few scary hours before finding the proper trail again. I forced myself to stop and change into fresh, dry polypropylene underwear and wool clothing. Freshly dressed, warm and dry, I started shivering nonstop—I had been in the initial phase of hypothermia, the first sign of which is poor judgment. (Ironically, I had stopped to change only to ensure that doing so would be a habit in case I ever did get hypothermia. “Ah,” I noted to myself, “THAT’S why I have that ‘make it a habit’ rule.”) I hurried down the mountain to a lean-to, built a fire, laid out my thermal pad and sleeping bag, and prepared a warm dinner. Crisis averted, but lesson learned—almost the very hard way.
Back home, away from the spectacular views and the dangers of the mountains, rain can certainly be a nuisance, turning the clay soil into a soggy, muddy mess for days at a time, making dry feet impossible unless I keep a pair of socks and shoes in the car. In the spring, I don't even try for clean clothes, as a single splash will muddy my pants. But at the same time, relaxing in a lawn chair, watching the birds dart through the tree branches, taking in the fresh scent, listening to the sound of rain on my shed’s aluminum roof, catching up on some reading–this is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Not counting when my wet, muddy dog rushes into my lap.
Writer
A family goes fishing, and crowds around the battery-powered TV they’ve brought, watching sitcoms. We pass a young woman on horseback, talking on her cell phone. Getting away from just some of it all, apparently.
During deer season, hunters park their campers here, choosing to hunt by walking the well-worn foot paths around the pond, waiting for the deer to give themselves up, rather than traveling into the woods where the deer live, coming out at night by the hundreds to graze in the fields. It’s just easier, I guess, near the comfort of the camper.
Leaving the comfort of the noise, the truck cabins, the telecommunications and the sunny weather has its rewards. One rainy spring morning, for instance, my dog found a fawn hiding just around a tree trunk (we apparently surprised the doe)—just about 18” long. When I investigated, the fawn bellowed (damn, those things have lungs!) and wobbled to its feet—it could just barely stand—and bellowed again. It was the cutest little creature—head far too large for its body, legs far too skinny—the usual “I’m small now but I’ll soon grow big” syndrome we recognize in puppies of large breeds. I quickly led my dog away, leaving the youngster to the unseen doe, but those few precious moments remain a happy memory.
Before I moved to the country, I regularly escaped on weekends to the Adirondacks, especially to hike in the High Peaks region—Giant, Marcy, Wright Peak, and other mountains in the Lake Placid/Keene Valley area. One Saturday, desperately needing to get away and clear my head, I decided to ignore the rainy weather and climb Algonquin Peak, the second highest point in New York State and doable within a day (the drive there and the climb). Of course, climbing in a drizzle means walking in a dense, gray fog, and today was no exception. I saw none of the spectacular views—I could barely see twenty feet ahead, just following the trail (and my dog) as trees continually emerged from the mist. This became a real problem when I reached the tree line, nervously trusting my dog’s nose to find the trail, now just rock, trees gone, using the occasional cairns as confirmation rather than guides as intended. I started to worry about finding the trail down again, when the fog started to clear a bit. As I climbed higher, I saw why, and scrambled to the summit—we had climbed above the clouds, and were now standing in bright sunshine on an island of rock surrounded by a fluffy white carpet stretching across the sky in every direction. It remains to this day perhaps the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
Not that I’m recommending climbing the High Peaks alone in the rain—on another occasion, an excursion up Mt. Colden, I got turned around in the fog and wandered about for a few scary hours before finding the proper trail again. I forced myself to stop and change into fresh, dry polypropylene underwear and wool clothing. Freshly dressed, warm and dry, I started shivering nonstop—I had been in the initial phase of hypothermia, the first sign of which is poor judgment. (Ironically, I had stopped to change only to ensure that doing so would be a habit in case I ever did get hypothermia. “Ah,” I noted to myself, “THAT’S why I have that ‘make it a habit’ rule.”) I hurried down the mountain to a lean-to, built a fire, laid out my thermal pad and sleeping bag, and prepared a warm dinner. Crisis averted, but lesson learned—almost the very hard way.
Back home, away from the spectacular views and the dangers of the mountains, rain can certainly be a nuisance, turning the clay soil into a soggy, muddy mess for days at a time, making dry feet impossible unless I keep a pair of socks and shoes in the car. In the spring, I don't even try for clean clothes, as a single splash will muddy my pants. But at the same time, relaxing in a lawn chair, watching the birds dart through the tree branches, taking in the fresh scent, listening to the sound of rain on my shed’s aluminum roof, catching up on some reading–this is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Not counting when my wet, muddy dog rushes into my lap.
Writer
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