Chopping Wood, Carrying Water

I awoke in my St. Paul bed this morning for the first time in a while, having spent Tuesday through Saturday nights at the cabin with "the boys."

It took more stretching than normal just to achieve a somewhat teetering verticality. The deuce I dropped was more of a 2.75, a testament to far greater than normal consumptive activity over a period of days. As I biked to work on yet another gray, cool, misty day it was clear that I was carrying an extra spare tire. My legs felt fine, probably because my biking muscles hadn't been used much in the last week. But the Hemmingway (3 pounds) Short Story had cut my wind a bit.

And I felt great. Because I knew that the extra pounds and the slight physical ravages of overeating and being slightly "overserved" with beer, wine and even a cigar or two will wear off quickly. But the effect on my spirit of those spirited days in the woods will wear off only slowly, if at all.



It's quite a blessing to be regularly surrounded by such close friends. Kate calls us (affectionately) the "frat boys." And technically that is true. There is a common bond there, and the "frat" is clearly some small part of that. But the nine of us are anything but the homogenous and insular group that the phrase "frat boys" suggests to my ear. In fact, much of the strength of this group lies in its ability to disagree on issues while respecting one another. To enjoy the process. We have as much trouble resolving questions as any other group. But we have no trouble laughing or seeing the humor in things. And I think we listen to one another more than is obvious at the time.



I'm sure that is the reason that I was so taken with Rachel Remen's statement, "After all these years I have begun to wonder if the secret of living well is not in having all the answers but in pursuing unanswerable questions in good company." For at our best that is what we do. True, we can make both U.S. energy policy and the rules of "two paulina bocce ball" into unanswerable questions. That too is some of the fun, at least for me.

Maybe it's that our times together are as close as I get to living in the moment. This is in no sense a reunion - reliving past glories, real and imagined. Nor is it a group focused on the future (though I do dream of someday regaining the coveted maroon jacket which I imagine is even now being ameliorated with a tasteful "Bag Daddy" over the lapel, and part of me is always looking forward to our next get together). It's a gathering of friends. Growing in those friendships. In the present. As the Buddhists and everyone in the daily sauna would say, "chopping wood, carrying water."

Harbingers

I was raised to view the return of the robin as emblematic of the beginning of spring. You know, "When the rob-rob-robin comes bob-bob-bobbin' along." It just doesn't work any more. Even in Minnesota, the robin is a year-round resident. Their numbers are fewer in the winter, but there are robins in the Twin Cities in January.

I suppose the swallows probably still do return to San Juan Capistrano on March 19th. But that's in California. Here in Minnesota, March 19th can hardly be called the beginning of spring. So I've awarded harbinger status to the red-winged blackbird, which I've seen daily for the last couple of weeks. They aren't around in the winter. They live on bugs for the most part, so they don't come to Minnesota until we are producing the insect populations for which we are sometimes disparaged. Hence, they are my designated harbinger of spring.

I did NOT select the red-winged blackbird because I am against an equitable division of labor in a family unit. Though the RWB could clearly stand for that proposition. Other than its "manly duties", the male RWB does little except (1) stake out a territory; (2) fly around its boundaries; and (3) defend the territory from intruders like crows, hawks and eagles. Keep your eyes open and you will see a male RWB doing just that sometime this summer. The females do everything else in raising the family (please, Kate, no vitriolic letters to the blog). Nest building? Female job. Hatching the kids? Female job. Feeding the kids? Female job. Anything not listed in the short list of male "jobs"? Female job.

And the males are much better looking than the females. Many people think the female is a big sparrow. They don't even get credit for being a RWB. I guess that is a male job too. Still, I like their call. I love to watch them at the cabin. Though I am NOT A SEXIST, they are a favorite bird of mine. And now, officially, my harbinger of spring.


While I'm at it, I should make the same suggestion that my friend Tom Hampson made to me many years ago. Bird watching is a great hobby. You can do it anywhere. And a great way to start is to make it a habit to try to identify every bird you see. Once you do it for a while it becomes second nature. Ogden Nash wrote, "You can get the heebie jeebies, separating Chickadees from Phoebes." But really, he was wrong. With just a little bit of effort it becomes easy to identify the common birds. You start to recognize how they fly. Where you see them. What shape their wings are. So when you see an uncommon bird (at least if you are as big a nerd as I am) it's kind of exciting. I could hardly wait to get back to my bird book when we saw this Stellar Jay in Bryce Canyon.


I don't keep a "life list" in a numerical sense. But I love seeing a new bird. The chance to bore my family and friends with this information is just a bonus. I encourage you to become a birder. You can decide on your own about the "bore your friends and family" part. I've lost touch with my birdwatching friend Tom. But I think of him often. Especially when I see a new bird.

And just a note to honor if I can two friends, Phil and Richard. Men in their early 70's, both of whom we lost to cancer this week. Two wonderful men. Very different. Phil was a favorite client. Always with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. A good businessman who kept things in perspective and was a joy to be around. Richard had more of a Peter Pan personality. In some ways he never "grew up" (and I mean that as a compliment). But physically, boy did he grow up. A holiday party with Richard and his sons and their friends was the one time in my life where I had the chance to stand in a conversational circle and look up at everyone else's chins. And I will be eternally grateful to Richard. For he is the reason that Kate moved to Minnesota in the first place. Two very nice men. They'll be missed.

Still Achin' After All These Days

I'm sitting here enjoying my coffee on a Saturday morning. Back from three fun days in Omaha with 140 other Scoular employees. And I realize that my legs ache. And not from standing too long at Scoular social gatherings. I'm still aching from the curling orientation that Kate and I did on Tuesday night.

In spite of the fact that I've been biking to work throughout the winter, that I just returned from a hiking trip in Zion and that I stretch regularly, my legs still ache from the rigors of an hour of curling four days ago. It turns out that the delivery of a curling stone is a fairly unusual position for me. Not that my form really resembled the woman in the photo. But that is the move Kate and I were trying to make. Trust me - it's not a natural posture.

Though I'm aching a bit, the curling was really fun. "Barnie" - our instructor (no, not that "Barny") - taught us the basic moves. We even got to play a two-end game. Won by our squad 1-0 on the strength of a shot of mine that scored. I'm sure it only scored due to Kate's skill as a sweeper. I was already a convert to curling, but now my curling Jones is even stronger. I'll try to break in to the ranks of regular curlers next year. By then my legs should feel fine again.

Life Finds A Way

I've spent this Good Friday raking leaves off the gardens. Those of you in more Southern climes probably did that months ago. It's something I really like doing. It is really knd of amazing when you think of it that life finds a way to regenerate after a long winter. Ours wasn't particularly cold, but still a Minnesota winter is not exactly life sustaining. Yet the perennials poke their way through the ground and grow in the way the climate allows. Though we help the process by covering the gardens with leaves, it's nothing that might not happen naturally.



And this idea of life finding a way regardless of the odds struck me often on our trip to Zion. These trees growing out of the side of a wall of rock amazed me. How can they survive in such a tough climate growing out of the side of a rock? Yet they not only survive, they flourish.



And the flowers find a way to bloom as the snow melts, before the high temperatures begin to average over 100 degrees.



They are prettier to me because of the seemingly inhospitable conditions they grow in.



Spring, you have to love it.

Time Marches!

Today, as we leave Zion National Park, is Peter’s 18th birthday. And I can’t think of a better place to celebrate the passage of time than Zion. Every mountainside layer of sandstone, every pile of fallen boulders, every peak reminds you that time is a major component of this place. I remember Morgan Freeman in The Shawshank Redemption saying that geology is the study of pressure and time. And this is a place where that really comes alive.



Of course, Peter’s 18 years – or Kate’s 54 or my 53 – are just the blink of an eye. But not completely so. In 1965 there was a major change in a mountain called the Sentinel that changed the canyon. Not completely, but materially. And 40 years later it’s really easy to see the effects.

Still, Zion has a humbling quality. Yesterday we hiked to a place called Observation Point. A hike of four miles each way that took us from the canyon floor to about as high as any point in the canyon. In a sense, from where the Virgin River is now to the place or time where the River started to create this amazing canyon.



Not as death defying a hike as Angel’s Landing. But to me a very satisfying one. Part of the hike through Echo Canyon was just beautiful. The view from the top was breathtaking (if a little cool).



In honor of Peter’s birthday and to honor the stratification of Zion Canyon, Peter and I each brunched on a Down Under Burger at Oscar’s in Springdale. A half-pound burger, with layers of egg, garlic, lettuce, tomatoes, guacamole and onions, barely surrounded by a whole-wheat bun.



Quite a fitting sendoff from Zion. I can think of few places that are more amazing.

Now it’s on to Vegas.

Postcard from the Edge

Las Vegas is the polar opposite of Zion, and the three of us like the Zion pole much more than the Vegas pole. And I know, what happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas. Still, I would note a few facts.

I am now officially too old for roller coasters, especially the one at the New York, New York casino. If you see me about to get on a roller coaster, please stop me.



The Blue Man Group is very cool. An amazing experience. While the three of us may not be "Vegas People" - we all loved the Blue Men. In fact, they are so cool that Peter joined the band.



Casinos are easier to walk into than out of. We were sucked into the Caesar's Palace Casino, Swirling Vortex and Time Warp last night and barely made it back to the street.

Las Vegas people watching is tremendous - especially as the day moves on into the night.

A good cup of coffee is very hard to find in Las Vegas. I find this a truly amazing fact. This seems like a place where a great morning coffee is essential. I long for the Mean Bean (Springdale, Utah) or Dunn Brothers or Caribou. We did find one Starbucks, but the length of the line showed that many others are also in search of a fine cup of seed.



Penn and Teller are also cool (in a non-Vegas act sort of way - as Penn is quick to note). We can only assume that Teller agrees.



And if you want a great place to eat - try Olives at the Bellagio. Just a wonderful sendoff from Las Vegas.



Now it's back to our nice Minnesota reality. I don't need regular doses of Las Vegas. But Zion, that is a worthwhile destination. To say the least.

Gambling – Utah Style

Sunday morning, Kate, Peter and I flew to Las Vegas. It was one of those “O Dark Thirty” flights. We were at the airport by 5:30 a.m. (this hard on the hills of “springing forward” for daylight savings time). So we arrived in Las Vegas by mid-morning. Did we head straight to a casino for some high stakes gambling? No way. There was no need. We were on our way to Utah!

You may not think of Utah as a bastion of gambling. I didn’t either. Straight-laced people who don’t go for gambling or that sort of thing. Lunch in St. George was a drawing to an inside straight. A town that looked like it was all built in the last 10 years. Franchises everywhere. But we found a good place – the Bear Paw Cafe if I remember right. And had a great lunch. Then it was on to Zion National Park for some hiking.

An incredibly beautiful place is Zion. It was late afternoon by the time we arrived, but we still made it to the park for an early evening hike to the Emerald Pools that was really nice. Then we found a really fun dinner place – compete with a Polygamy Porter (why have just one? Take a six pack home to the wives). It was looking like a Royal Flush. Then my right eye started bothering me. I decided to wash my contact. A losing gamble, as it turned out. All we can figure is that someone with lots of hot sauce on his hand had used the sink before me. I washed my hands, turned off the faucet, reinserted the contact and immediately felt an amazing amount of pain. Hot poker in the eye. And the worst part of it was my eye slammed shut and I couldn’t get the contact out. I returned to our hotel room and extracted the contact but my eye watered all night and didn’t stop hurting. Nose running. Eye burning. I was shocked when Kate and Peter accused me of snoring until I remembered the eye event.

Monday we had an amazing hike up Angel’s Landing in Zion – a strenuous hike that begins with a few thousand feet uphill and then arrives at a narrow stretch with a big dropoff on either side and chains to help climbers. At that point, Kate decided quite rationally to rest on a rock. Peter and I crossed the shoulder and came to the final climb, across a ledge and then rapidly up to the top of Angel’s Landing. Peter was all systems go, but it seemed like too much of a gamble for me. Not due to the climb up so much as concern about the climb back down. So I sat and watched Peter climb on from a place that was magnificent itself. The spine you see in the background of this photo is the Angel’s Landing hike.



In retrospect, a very poor choice. I could rationalize that I wanted Peter to have the pleasure of going beyond where his father could go, but that would be simple rationalization. Gamblers should know when to roll them, and I folded them. After Peter returned safely with memories that will last forever, we climbed a couple of miles on the West Rim which was also amazing (and we were the only 3 up there – somewhat of a change from the popular Angel’s Landing hike). Lots more truly amazing sights there as well, and then the long climb back down to our hotel.



It was time for beer and wine – which can’t be purchased at anyplace other than Utah licensed stores. And that’s when the gambling really began. Because the first Monday in the month, according to the person behind the counter, is when the Beehive State rolls the dice and adjusts the wine prices. The young woman before us had drawn a losing hand – a $5 bottle that had magically transformed itself into a $9 bottle overnight. It was our turn to play “slot wine buying.” The DeLoach chardonnay must have been last month’s bargain. It shot from $10 to $15. But our Kenwood Zin (Lodi) made only a small move – from $9 to $10. Our Clos du Bois Pinot stayed the course at $12. And then we hit 7’s across the board as our Renwood Creek Pinot Noir went from $14 to a stunning $5.95! Kate went back for another bottle, taking the young woman with her. We left feeling like lottery winners.

Which, with the beauty of the day and the beauty of the place and the joy of being together, are.



Hoodoo We Think We Are?

On Tuesday the forecast was for less nice weather. So we decided to head to Bryce Canyon to see the hoodoos for which the area was justifiably famous. Bryce is at a higher elevation – and like true Minnesotans, we thought that it would be preferable walking in the snow than the rain.



In fact, the weather cooperated just fine. Peter, not so much. Complaining – well, perhaps not complaining but at least strongly noting – the poor night’s sleep due to snoring blamed primarily on Kate(!), Peter opted to remain in the car and sleep while Kate and I hiked for a couple of hours. To me at least, Zion is magnificent and breathtaking, whereas Bryce has a sort of fairyland quality. It’s kind of otherworldly, in the best sense of the word. Kate and I enjoyed the slide down to the bottom of the canyon and the “stroll” once we got there.



Kilroy joined us, since Peter didn’t. Peter did make a couple of quick forays from the car to the viewing platforms in the rain.



And he was pleasant all along – which is all you can ask of a high school senior. And we didn’t bug him too much to do this or that. Which is all you can ask of the parents of a high school senior.



This morning (Wednesday) it is raining “cats and dogs” (do they call it raining “mule deer and wild turkeys” here? – those are the only animals we have seen here), as I am pinned down in a nice coffee shop called the Mean Bean listening to the patter of the twentysomething local folks enjoying one another’s company. They are having a long discussion of mattresses. We are really not all that different.

Kate and Peter are probably pinned down in bed in the hotel room. I could use the modern technology of the cell phone to call them – but waking them in this weather might be a mistake. When I came in I could see the sunrise on the mountains for thirty seconds or so. Then darker and darker clouds obscured that view. I can now see the mountains again. Soon I’ll start declaring this the “quitting shower” as my mom has done for many years. But I think it’s all good. Today we plan on walking along the river. It should be wild after this rain.

Springdale has internet access only in the library from the hours of 10 – 6. Today should be the first day that we will be in the town during those hours. So I’ll post this and check my email. Kate just walked in with foggy glasses and a very wet raincoat. Cheers!



Hey, while I was sitting here getting this posted, the skies have turned blue. We're off!

Gator Boy

My favorite player in this year's NCAA tourney has been Joakim Noah. Not so much because of his play, which has been magnificent. Because of what he has said.

In an interview session with dozens of reporters before the Minneapolis regional, Noah was quoted as saying, "If we worried about all the stuff you guys worry about, our heads would explode." Which makes, more succintly than I was able to, the point I was trying to make in my note about the differing approaches of 20 year olds and 50 year olds in "Thelma and Louise 2" a bit further down the page.

But my favorite was his response to a sportswriter who asked him to compare his Florida team to Michigan's Fab Five. He replied simply, "The Gator Boys are hot, so no comparisons." This guy plays in the moment, and seems from his answers, to live that way too. So on Saturday, when the game tips off, I'll probably be rooting for George Mason. Whatever the moment demands. I hope he understands, and I think he just might.

Alone In A Crowd

Friday was an unusual evening for me. As a confirmed college basketball junkie, I am always interested in basketball this time of year. A Scoular friend was in Minneapolis Friday to meet with a group of lawyers (which did not include me it being Friday - one of my many days of rest). He had called his Wells Fargo contact in Omaha about the possibility of tickets and, amazingly, had rounded up two tickets in Wells Fargo's corporate suite for the Villanova/BC and Florida/Georgetown games - one of which I was offered. The plan was that I would meet Roger and my friend Joan at the Little Wagon, a "watering hole" near the Metrodome at about 4 p.m.

I arrived at The Wagon at 4 to find it filling up. But I nabbed the last table, saved a couple of seats for Joan and Roger and sat as the bar filled up. And up. And up. A hour and two beers later and still no Joan or Roger. It was a standing room only crowd, with me holding up three seats for friends who were actually listening to lawyers drone on about profit sharing plans. Finally Joan and Roger made their way through the crowd with time for a quick beer and then it was Roger and me making our way to the game.

I suppose in most circumstaces I'm as good at corporate small talk as the next guy. But at sports events in corporate suites I've always been the weird guy actually watching the game. Roger said he was the same way. So we resolved to be polite but not be embarrassed to actually watch the game. Roger was cheering for Nova. I was supporting BC.

Imagine our surprise when we arrived to find Suite 129B empty. By some weird circumstance we were the only two people in the suite. Very odd in a dome loaded with 26,00 basketball fans. The 'Nova / BC game was lots of fun. Ugly basketball, but very compelling nonetheless. Nova won on a last second goaltending call (which we could check on replay the two televisions in our suite). Roger had a 10:30 flight back to Omaha, so he took the train to the airport after the first game. So for the Florida / Georgetown game I was alone in the suite.

As I watched the second game alone with my scotch, with the teeming masses cheering outside, I felt a bit like the famous recluse Howard Hughes. Good thing my camera has a self-timer.

Prognostication

It's that time of year again. The time when people across the U.S. try to emulate Nostradomus - divining the fortunes of sixty four NCAA basketball teams. Over the years I've developed several of these bets. Lots of lunches on the line. But really it's all about bragging rights. The Thursday and Friday rounds just completed are one of my favorite times of the year.

But for me, the Masters, the grandaddy bet of them all, is the draft style bet I do with Harry. If anything, Harry is more analytical than I. We've been doing this draft for a long time. We're about even over the years (and if that's my impression you know that Harry must be ahead). This year we held our draft on Tuesday with a couple of drafts of Surly beer. Harry, as always, pondered heavily on each pick.

I've been watching those poker shows on TV. So this year I cleverly used sunglasses to hide my churning emotions.

On second thought, maybe not so cleverly. After two rounds, we're knotted 16 to 16. It's anyone's ballgame. The fun continues today.

Thelma and Louise 2

I drove Kate and Madeline to the airport this morning as they make their way to New York City over Madeline's spring break. Last year, Las Vegas. This year the Big Apple. Kate just called and they are on the plane. Adventure awaits!

Kate and Madeline's trip preparation and a bike ride I took yesterday with Peter got me thinking about one of the differences between people at 20 and at 50. As always happens when I ride bikes with Peter, I was slowing him down. He nicely waited for me for the first 7 or 8 miles, having told me that at some point he would ride on a bit faster and meet me at home. Before he increased his speed I asked him if he had a key to the house. He didn't. And it wouldn't have occured to him to think about a key until he got back to the house. Madeline packed for her New York trip this morning. Kate has been planning what to pack and where to go for weeks.

All of the thinking and planning we do as adults has a real benefit. Less chaos. Fewer surprises. And a real downside. Less chaos. Fewer surprises. Less openness to the present moment as we anticipate the moments to come.

A Great Day

Kate's birthday was yesterday, and we really let loose! We went to the Home and Garden Show. Bought a duster and three spatulas! Came home and had a steak (in honor of Kate's birthday we had a Kobe beef) along with a very nice bottle of pinot noir. Put a pretty good dent in a second bottle as well. Watched a documentary called Stomp in High Definition. Got a good night's sleep. The thing was, it was a great time. Doesn't sound like much. But we had lots of laughs.

Then today things got even better. We were going to drive Kate's Jeep to the Jeep dealer to pay them to investigate a loud "thunk" sound that had arisen out of nowhere. We had taken the Jeep to our trusted mechanic Mike Glasgow - who couldn't find the source. So he suggested we take it to a Jeep dealer and see if they could figure it out. I could just smell the money going down a pipe. The thing was, as we were driving to the Jeep dealer, the "thunk" sound went away. We were so happy we went and bought another case of the pinot noir.

And as we were taking Greta on a walk on the University of Minnesota golf course, we had a delightful birding moment. Greta started pointing as we were walking near a wooded area and as we came up to where Greta was we were ten feet from a great horned owl, sitting on the ground next to a tree.



The owl puffed up his feathers to look ominous - big and scary. Greta quickly became uninterested, as she always does when she decides something is unlikely to be edible. And Kate and I had a few minutes alone with this magnificent bird. What a treat! As we walked on we became concerned that we were only half a mile from the Raptor Center, where injured raptors are often nursed back to health. We thought that this guy might be injured and released just a little to soon into "the wild." But by the time we made it back a half hour later, the owl had flown away. More good news. I should have told him where the crows hang out at night (see below).

It's amazing how it can be little things like the absence of "thunks" and the presence of owls that turn a good day into an excellent one.

Good Energy and Random Thoughts

Four times a year I make my way to my oncologist's office for a checkup and a preventative drug treatment. You would think that an oncologist's office would be one of the most depressing places around. And you would be wrong.

I've given lots of thought to why this is. Certainly there is no one simple reason. At least not one I can articulate.

The staff is great. That's part of the atmosphere. But only a small part of it. I think it's mostly that there is a really powerful sense of shared humanity between and among the patients. Empathy, certainly. But more than that. Maybe it's the shared knowledge of what a valuable gift life is. A cancer diagnosis makes it very easy to remember the joy in things that might otherwise be taken for granted. Or the feeling you just naturally have for others who are dealing with similar things. For whatever reason, it's a surprising place.

As I was driving back from Iowa yesterday, I was listening to a Colin Hay song in which he was considering the question if you could go back to an earlier part of your life, would you? His answer was no - or maybe to when he was seventeen.

I took his question in the sense of "going back for a visit", not "going back and starting over." I don't have many regrets, and don't want a "do over." But what times would you like to "refresh your memory" of? Perhaps oddly, the two times of my life that popped into my head as the two I am most interested in visiting were my undergraduate college years and the couple of months after I was diagnosed with cancer. The college years were great fun, at least if you overlook my pitiful dating career. But intuitively I would think the time when I was diagnosed with cancer would be the absolute last time anyone would want to revisit. But I promised myself then that I would never waste another day or hour of my life. It's a promise I've tried hard to keep. But I'm far from a total success in that endeavor. A reminder of that would be a good thing.

I also think the reason for my interest is that those are the two times of life where I was growing the most (it's also two times in my life when I was relatively thin, but I don't think that has anything to do with my interest).

Anyway, those were the strange thoughts that were popping into my head while driving through rural Iowa.

PS - There are lots of days I'd love to revisit. Our wedding day (but who would want to relive the weeks leading up to that?). The birth of our kids (but who would want to relive the sleep-deprived periods after those two wonderful events?).

Murder Murder?

A follow up to the Murder on the Mississippi - this morning on my ride to work there was a dead crow on the road. Was this the result of a murder in the murder? I saw no sign of fowl play (or owl play for that matter). There was definitely a murder in those trees last night. But were there two?

Murder on the Mississippi

My bike ride to and from work takes me along the Mississippi River near the University of Minnesota. This winter, each night as I've been riding home at or near dark there have been thousands and thousands of crows congregating in the trees on either side of the bike path. A murder of crows, as they are called (not quite as complimentary as a creche or huddle or parcel of penguins, or an ostentation of peacocks, or a convocation of eagles; but on a par with a scold of jays. So it goes. I like crows. They're smart and adaptable. I guess they haven't become as popular as warblers, though).

I've been wondering why there are so many at night, and basically none in the morning. So I decided to try to see what the experts think is going on. It turns out there are lots of theories. The Hotel Theory: The crows are simply congregating in the most favorable spot (protected from predators and the elements), and they don't mind doing it with a bunch of other birds. Like in a crowded hotel: every crow has the same needs being met at the same place, but no one is really interacting with anyone else.

The Wagon Train: The crows get some protection from predators by being in a large group, safety in numbers. Crows are most afraid of large owls, and sleeping with a bunch of other crows could afford some protection for an individual crow.

The Information Center: Groups form to get information about profitable foraging areas. The idea is that an individual that did poorly foraging for itself on one day can watch for other individuals coming in to the roost that look fat and happy, that obviously found some rich source of food. Then the hungry individual can either backtrack the happy ones' flight paths, or follow them out first thing in the morning to the good food source.

Apparently these roosts are moving to the cities for a couple of reasons. Cities are warmer. And there are fewer owls in the city. So those are the explanations for my winter friends.

Relativity

I read this poem this morning, and it really made me smile. Maybe it will do the same for you. It is reprinted without any permission whatsoever, but you see this is just a bundle of cyber light anyway, and who owns that? I know, I should have asked.

"Explaining Relativity to the Cat" by Jennifer Gresham

Imagine, if you will, three mice.
Contrary to what you have
heard, they are not blind
but are in a spaceship
traveling near the speed of light.
This makes them unavailable
for your supper, yes.

So these mice, traveling near
the speed of light, appear
quite fat, though there is
no cheese aboard. This is
simply a distortion of mass,
because the mass of a mouse
is nothing more than a bundle
of light, and vice versa. I see
how this might imply mice
are in the light fixtures,
undoubtedly a problem, so
let me try again.

If two people attempted
to feed you simultaneously,
no doubt a good situation,
but you were on a train
traveling near the speed
of light, the food would
appear unappetizing, falling
to the plate in slow motion,
an extended glob of protein
that never smelled good,
if you ask me, train or no.
The affinity of the food
for the plate, what we call
gravity, is really just
a stretch in the fabric
of a space-time continuum,
what happens when you
have sat in a seat too long,
perhaps on this very train.

Oh kitty, I know how you hate
to travel and the journey must
have made you tired. Come now,
lick your coat one more time
and let us make haste
from this strange city
of light and fantastic dream.

Crass Consumerism

Maybe it was the "nesting." Lately I've been cleaning out closets. Organizing. Departing from my normal sloblike behavior. Kate may have even said, "Boy you aren't being very manly. Are you pregnant?"

I needed to come back with a strong and manly statement of my Cro Magnon tendancies. And what better statement than the purchase of a bigass TV? As you can see, it's a very big television. My rationale? It's Olympic viewing. And of course it won't be long until the Tour de France begins again. I've promised myself not to stop reading books. And I've read one whole book in the last day. It's called "Sony SXRD Projection TV Operating Instructions." Good reading.

Happy Birthday Madeline!

Yes, it's true. Madeline is now 21 years old! Happy Birthday!



We've raised her well. She's already experienced Carol Shelton's Wild Thing Zinfandel (slightly before her 21st birthday). Have a great day, Madeline!!!!!

Baker or Cook?

Kate and I (well really Kate) recently recieved a recipe from our friend Kathy Seymour, complete with lots ideas of how the recipe might be improved. Kathy describes herself as a cook, but not a baker. From Kathy's point of view at least, baking requires following the recipe. Something she doesn't enjoy. Cooking allows more freedom of movement. Kathy is a great cook (and probably an excellent baker when she chooses to be one).

My experience certainly would confirm Kathy's analysis. I've cooked lots of fine meals. I rarely follow the recipe carefully, viewing it as a guideline, not a formula. Although I've had some success as a cook, I don't recall ever having any real success as a baker. My first serious foray into the world of baking was an attempt to bake a chocolate cake for Kate - long, long ago before we were even dating. I apparently confused my "S" ingredients. My beautiful looking layer cake was awful. This is what happens when you either switch the amounts of salt and sugar or perhaps confuse the teaspoon of salt with a tablespoon. We called it the "Great Salt Cake." So it's safe to say, I'm a cook, not a baker. Though Kate is far superior to me as both a cook and a baker, dispositionally she's a baker, not a cook. I've travelled all over the Twin Cities on Kate's behalf looking for odd ingredients I'd never heard of because they were "what the recipe called for."

This of course got me thinking more broadly. It seems to me that most of us are predisposed to be either a baker or a cook. A rule follower or a rule ignorer. As I think of my friends and people I know well, I think I can almost immediately classify each of them. Certainly in my parenting life I can. I've spent lots of energy trying to convince my lovely daughter (the baker) that it's o.k. to break the rules once in a while.

I've spent lots more parenting energy trying to convince my son (the cook) that sometimes it's important to follow the rules. To do what is asked of you by a teacher not because it makes any particular sense, just because that's how you are measured. To turn in your assignments on time. Or at all.

As an aside, I would suggest that all "cooks" think their parents are "bakers" at heart. Parents of "cooks" are charged with showing the value of following the rules - whether or not it's their nature to do so. My parents (two bakers if I am right) had three cooks as children. Though as children my sister and I were each probably more rule followers than either of us are now (half-baked?). Maybe it wasn't too tough on my parents. There are cook/baker generalizations on a country by country basis that one can make. Germany, a nation of bakers. France and Italy, two nations of cooks. I always thought Russia was a country of bakers. Until I went there. Definitely cooks predominate.

So where does the wisdom lie? Is it better to be a cook or a baker? I think the answer is no. The wisdom is in knowing when to be a baker and when to be a cook. When you are doing your taxes, be a baker. Never be a baker if you are trying to play jazz. Be a baker if you are painting a wall, a cook if you are painting a painting.

The 19th of the Dahlia Lama's "Instructions for Life" is "approach love and cooking with reckless abandon." I guess he's saying be a cook when you're cookin'.

I can say from my web design experience that it is not a good idea to approach web code with reckless abandon. But when you're writing web content a little reckless abandon is in order.

To bring this full circle, I think Kathy finds the wise approach. Plays with the recipe. But writes down what she did that worked so she can start "cooking" the next time from where she left off.

Fabulous Fondue Finale

New Year's Eve festivities frequently feature a fantastic fondue fete (fillet and fish) with friends and family featuring fun, frivolity, foolishness, facts and falsehoods, few faux pas, fervent feasting on fancy food and fruit, faultless fermented firewater, finery without foppery or frippery, foreswearing further football. At least for us.

OK, enough with the f's. The aftereffects of the "firewater", though not overwhelming at all, still are not without some effect. A fine flow is hard to achieve with alliteration. Here's a few fotos (past and present).

Many years at the cabin.







Or worrying about Y2K:





We look tense don't we? Or not worrying about anything.





You will note the presence of wine in many of these photos.



Last night was a special wine night. One of the things Harry and I have done is buy a nice bottle of wine from the birth year of each of our children to be consumed in conjunction with their 21st birthday. Madeline turns 21 in three weeks, and she was in attendance last night. Harry must really like Madeline (or wine). Because last night he pulled out "Madeline's" 1985 vintages of Chateau de Latour, Lynch Bages (which rated the wine of the year by The Wine Spectator), Caymus Special Select, and Chateau Montelena. Which made the swill we brought seem pretty paltry.

Though I'm primarily a California wine drinker, it's fun to try French reds now and then. To me they have an almost leathery smell. They seem "layered" - if that makes sense. Wonderful wines, though probably too subtle for me to enjoy as fully as they deserve. And as an added bonus - Madeline didn't like them all that much. More for the wheezers!

Another in a long line of special evenings among friends.