New Boys and New Rules
Fishing poles shouldn’t be allowed in the living room. I admit it. There are places for such things, but there are also times when a living room transforms into a staging area. And that’s what ours was last night. The first camping/fishing expedition with the Stevens’ boys is about to be under way, and we were in the living room … umm … we were in the staging area watching Transformers and gearing up for the next few days with our sons.
Yep. We’re adopting finally. After 12 years of marriage, Ellen and I have found our sons, or they have found us. Elijah and Enoch (10 and 9) have been with us 2 weeks, and after 6 months of doing the foster thing, we can adopt them. So this summer is all about relationship building.
What’s better than camping? To endure rainy, cold, bear-crawly woods together is our method, and building relationship is our goal. And last night we used the living room to gear up for fishing. The boys were bouncing off the walls. Grandpa Yadon was giving knife sharpening lessons. I was putting new line on old reels. And in the midst of it all I had to make some impromptu rules. Here are a few:
Rule #1: No sharpening pocket knives while wearing fishing waders. We’d hate to dull the knife while cutting strips out of our new waders … or legs.
This is what I fear would happen during our "pretending to stab the bad person who really deserved it" fiasco.
Rule #2: Fishing poles are to be pointed downward when inside. How often does someone have to make a rule like this? It seems that our ceiling fan creates a magnetic draw to fishing poles, and the boys couldn’t stop it because “it just happened.”
Rule #3: Knives are tools, not toys. They are are sharp and not to be thrown at someone, to someone, or pretending to stab someone … even if the pretend person really deserved it.
Rule #4: What’s mine is yours … technically. These lures here are yours to “oversee”, while I “oversee” these over here. This pole is the one I use, and these flimsy ones are the ones you use.
Rule #5: Hooks are tools, not toys. They are sharp and not to be thrown at someone, to someone, or pretending to stab someone … even if the pretend person really deserved it.
Rule #6: ”Because I say so” is a valid reason for obedience. I knew this one was coming, and I sounded just like my mom when it so easily rolled off my tongue for the first time. I now understand.
Bears in Anchorage: What to do with big, wild life?
For those who live in the Last Frontier, we like it wild. But as the population of Alaska grows, so does our clash with the wild. Bears have become an increasing problem in Anchorage, and with recent attacks and encounters, people are wondering what we ought to do. As we encroach on big, wild life, different options of handling the issue have arisen.
An Anchorage gun dealer informs bear-wary buyers, “Wherever there is dirt, it is bear territory, and the concrete areas probably have bears too.” For many people, killing unwanted bears is a solid solution. After unprovoked “city bears” attack joggers and bicyclists last year, and when bears were struck by cars in our business district, it makes sense to lean towards capital punishment of potential problem-makers. The issue then becomes determining which bears are or are not potential problems. With tempting trash cans and pets around, who can blame a hungry bear? And who can blame a dad for wearing a .44 when riding bikes with his kids?
Another way of handling the issue is to be proactive. While schools and neighborhoods have informed people about bear activity and how to respond to potential threats, the city of Anchorage has recently hired a wildlife specialist to deal with problem bears. This first-time position with the city was created in response to the series of attacks last summer; the goal of the wildlife specialist is to prevent all inappropriate relationships between wildlife and humans. We will see how effective this solution turns out.
One less popular way of dealing with the bear situation is cohabiting with bears peacefully. Strange as it sounds, it has been done … sort of. Charles Vandergaw has has lived with wild grizzly and black bears at his cabin just North of Anchorage for 20 years, offering them cookies and dog food in exchange for friendship.
Vandergaw became a sensation this April when he was featured in Animal Planet’s “Stranger among Bears”. For 51 days a filmographer lived at the isolated cabin with him, documenting his spectacular life with bears. Each episode shows Vandergaw hand-feeding wild bears, petting them, and lazing around with them in the sun, touching hand to paw. Wherever Vandergaw walked with his blue bucket of food, a dozen bears followed.
Many Alaskans hear this and immediately think of Timothy Treadwell, the Californian bar-tender who spent 14 summers living among bears in Katmai, but was finally eaten by the bears he thought befriended him. Vandergaw says he is not remotely similar to Treadwell, “I’ve tried hard not to invade the bear’s space,” he says. “They are coming in here and entering my space.” He does admit that by feeding the bears he has created something unnatural, but he says he is obsessed with touching the bears. “I’ve created a fairyland here. This is not the real world … they’re comfortable with other humans here.”
Bear biologists believe he is sitting on a time bomb (or feeding one), and his actions are not safe for the bears or for other humans. They feel he has habituated the bears, so that people equal food. If the food is not present, though, the bears may leave, rummage, or attack. Despite the professional input, Vandergaw still believes bears and human can cohabit peacefully. This he says while carrying his blue bucket of peace offerings.
By feeding the bears on a consistent basis he intends to prove they are not as threatening as people believe. And after 20 years, he has made some believers. But skeptics want to know if he’s ever been attacked by his “friends”. Vandergaw said, “I’ve been slapped. I’ve been knocked unconscious. I’ve been T-boned by large bears and had a hard time getting up … in no way any of those was an all-out attack.” Even during the Animal Planet filming, both he and the filmographer were bitten. The very bear he believed had made the most progress bit through his hand, jerked him off his feet, and slammed him to the ground. He took himself to the hospital to be stitched and treated. Just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so the definition of “attack” is in the eye of the victim.
Biologists disagree with Vandergaw’s theories. By habituating wild bears with human food, he can pretend wild animals are his pets, but when the food runs dry, the friendship is over. State troopers also disagree with Vandergaw’s methods and have charged him with 20 misdemeanor counts of illegally feeding bears. This proves that it’s never good to do illegal activities under your real name on national television.
Though the opinions vary as to how Alaskans and legislation ought to deal with the increasing bear encounters and attacks, it is safe to guess that Vandergaw’s idea of peaceful cohabitation with dangerous wildlife is not going to win out. What would be next? Mosquito whispering?
Smells like …. like …
In the middle of teaching today, I smelled cookies. I inhaled to continue blabbing on and it was there, even stronger. The growing aroma of cookies in the oven … being cooked at that very moment. Usually, a class of teenagers would comment about any change in the atmosphere or with someone’s complexion or anything really, and yet no one said a thing.
So I interrupted whatever vitally important thing I was saying. “Do you guys smell cookies?”
And without missing his opportunity, the witty mouth of the class responded, “Oh, sorry. That was me.”
I wish I could have given him extra credit for such a timely and sarcastic response.
No one likes you
Obviously this is not our Ladybug ... though their agility levels are similar.
On Sunday, when we were getting things ready at our church, Ladybug was buzzing around humming one of the songs we had been singing in the car. It wasn’t long, and she was outright singing it with her 7 year old vibrato and doing little dance moves that are part football player, part ballet dancer. When she was humming, I recognized the song. The chorus of the song is “There is no one like you”.
Ladybug’s song, “No one likes you!”
And she closes her eyes and sings it with all her heart as she twirls and raises her hands.
Zoo York Roaches
Today in my high school economics class, I had them creating advertisements. They started by comparing different ads they’ve seen, and then moved toward creating new advertisement for products right then, on the spot. Of advertisements that really spiked the conversation, this one ranked top of the list. I’m almost jealous that I didn’t think of it first.
Just when I thought it was safe…
Friday: I rode around the neighborhood a little. Some ice was still on the road, but most of it gone. The highways were mostly dry and clean.
Maybe God is calling me to warmer locations?
Saturday: We drove to Willow to see Miles and Deb and the girls at the cabin. The skies were clear, the air was a warm 25 degrees, the roads were almost ready.
Sunday: 8 inches of snow. I went down town to The Spring Motorcycle Show at the Eagen Center. It had a funny vibe to it. Everyone was mopey and really put-off by the snow. I was too, except all the stickers I got from the booths sort of pumped me up a little. I’m AMAZED at how easily I am pacified.
Today: I had planned on riding the Post-Winter Celebration Ride down the Turnagain Arm; complete with flags, banners and fireworks. But instead, I’ll go to the grocery store.
I am not AMAZING!?
When you constantly hear a certain exclamation, it becomes moot after a while. And that word around our house is AMAZING! When it is said, there is always an exclamation point afterward, but I’m beginning to catch on to something that I think has had me bamboozled for 11 years. For over a decade, I’d been led to believe I was indeed an AMAZING! man, husband, super hero, etc. But with the entrance of a 6 year old into our lives via foster parenting, I am learning a lot about myself.
It's amazing how much Spring reveals. Our dog has an amazing ability to poop more than she consumes.
Follow my thought process on how this word that used to have a certain meaning of WOW! has now become more like mmm! Not like “Chocolate is good! … Mmmm!” But more like “Oh, that’s nice dear. Now I’m tired of smiling at you with my eyebrows raised, so I am going to look away now.”
Here are a few examples of how AMAZING! has been used lately to slowly dash my self esteem:
- “Mom, Mom, Mom, I have Egyptian makeup on. Aren’t my eyelids blue?” “That’s Amazing! Now wash that off before your social worker gets here.”
- “Thank you so much. You are AMAZING!” This said after someone has finally picked up their boots from the doorway.
- “Okay, I’ll start putting the lid down. Geez!” “Thank you so much. You are AMAZING!”
- “Mom, Mom, Mom, pretend I’m a ballerina dancer who loves dogs and wants to teach dogs to ballereen!” ”You are AMAZING! Now put Abbey down and finish your dinner.”
- When the social worker arrived one sunny summer day, a 6 year old appeared in the doorway as the greeting party. With hand extended, ready for shaking, she said, “I picked up 2 bucketfuls of poop all by myself!” ”Isn’t she AMAZING!? Please, come on in. The sink is this way, and the soap is on the counter next to the bucket. Aren’t you a little early today?”
Everything’s amazing; nobody’s happy
I miss the unsolicited input from old people I know. Sometimes it’s that rough advice you weren’t looking for that helps you bolster your framework, through which you can really deal with your life.
Being fairly new in Alaska, I’ve not had the opportunity … or taken the opportunity to get to know people outside my age group (+/- 10 years). And I crave input from people my parents would call “sir” or “ma’am”. On the outside, the elderly may just seem like cranky, crochety geezers who smell funny. But slow down and really listen. Some of them have gone kooky from dealing with life; but even that’s a lesson. The sane ones, when they give their input, have wisdom to pour out. It’s not likely you’re going through anything they didn’t go through. Life isn’t so bad. Like Garrison Keillor says, “It could be worse.”
When I saw this clip, it made me think of how one-dimensional I/we have become. He was my old geezer today. His words reminded me that all the things we have and want that are supposed to help us … well … sometimes they ends up making us … punks.
Pat McManus on “Sequences”
Pat McManus has written the funny stories at the back of Outdoor Life magazine for years. One of my favorites is called “Sequences”. In it, he analyzes the chain of events that have to take place for some things to happen. This he labeled “sequences”.
He grew up on a farm and understands that you never just go out and do the work you intended. Ha! First you determine the lengthy sequence of events that must take place just to begin the work, then once you realize the preparatory activites will take so long you will never even get to the job … so you go fishing instead.
He tells a story about his stepdad who always fell prey to the sequences hiding behind every tackle box and guilty pleasure. As they were loading the gear to go fishing, he noticed the fence in the pasture was down. A 20 minute job, he thought. Twenty minutes and they could go fishing. A simple fix.
But he first needed to go over to the Haversteaders and borrow their wire stretcher. But before he could do that he had to go the the Malloys and get his post hold digger that they borrowed, and it was on the way to the Haversteaders. Just then, he realized he was out of fence staples, so after he went to the Malloys to get the post hole digger, he would then go to Jergen’s hardware store for staples, and then go on to the Haversteaders to borrow their wire stretcher.
But just as he was about to head to the Malloys, he remembered that he promised Sam Jergens (at the hardware store) he’d haul him a load of hay bales the next time he came into town. To do that, he’d have to take the truck … which meant he’d first have to go over to LaRoy’s and get the leaky tire that he had taken last week to Laroy to fix. The story just dwindles into an afternoon of … well … sequences.
I, too, have had this pleasure of being acquainted with sequences. And I, too, keep coming to the same conclusion … just go fishing. Unless Ellen is somehow involved in the string of sequences.
Dingalingaling
In the garage today, working on the bike and listening to odd radio stations, I heard a song that made me stop wrenching and just stare at the radio with wide eyes and giggle.
Okay … some background:
Chuck Berry is rock and roll. According to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, no one individual invented rock and roll, but they hold that “Chuck Berry comes the closest of any single figure to being the one who put all the essential pieces together.” John Lennon said: “If you tried to give rock and roll another name, you might call it ‘Chuck Berry’.”
One of Chuck Berry’s most popular songs (even young people know it because of Michael J. Fox in Back To The Future) is “Johnny B. Good”. A Rolling Stone article quoted Joe Perry of Aerosmith as saying about this song in particular, “If you want to play rock & roll, you have to start here.”
But “Johnny B Good” never made it to number 1. A funny thing happened. In and out of jail, on and off the charts, Chuck Berry didn’t have a number 1 hit until 1972 … 24 years after his first album. And in a wierd twist of irony, one of the greatest songwriters of the rock and roll era achieved his only number 1 hit with a sophomoric schoolyard sing-a-long called “My Ding-A-Ling.” It became Berry’s best-selling single ever.
If I were Chuck Berry, I would lie awake at night thinking, “I worked my butt off all my life to change the face of music, and I’m most known for this? “
Motorcycle repair = Zen?
I started with a simple project … heated grips. How hard could it be, right? I stripped the old grips, bought the warmers and some electrical doo dads to complete the afternoon job. Then, well, since I’m working on it, I might as well add a 12 volt power outlet for GPS, air compressor, hair dryer, laptop, etc. And if I was going to run the wiring for that, I might as well rig up aux lights on the front too, and maybe an espresso maker.
I’m afraid curb feelers will be next and my Dad will have a go at me for jabbing him all these years about one little afternoon project leading into rebuilding the whole thing.
On the positive side, there’s nothing like working on something with no pressing time limit. I can’t ride until mid April, so I enjoy it as it is right now. Isn’t that the Zen of the thing?
What began as installing hotgrips ... now this.
Memories of a hearse driver
Several of us sat around at the McMahons tonight and talked about death … and then we told about strange things that happen around death and funerals and everything in between. Like weird customs or rituals. And there are a bunch of them.
Ever hear of kids kissing the corpse in the coffin? It scarred and scared one of the guys telling stories tonight.
Ever hear of schiva? Sitting, waiting, silently with those grieving. Beautiful, but I’ve never seen it or been a part of it. Done a sorta-schiva for a friend whose wife left him, and he was grieving. I sat with him and a lot of the time we just sat. I suppose it’s similar.
My favorite story to tell about funerals was when I had a job driving hearse in St. Louis for a funeral home. My first solo drive was to a ceremony/burial at the big fancy military cemetery. Somehow they rousted 3 VFW guys off their porches long enough to put what looked like old Boy Scout uniforms on them, give them each a gun, and some directions about firing in unison. When we arrived, these 3 stooges were saluting the casket as I directed the pall bearers to their duty. After placing the casket on the stand, and a few fumbles of the 3 VFW stooges, those attending the funeral stood back to watch the 21 gun salute.
It wasn’t quite a salute, but sounded more like a New Year’s Eve firework show. There was no rhyme or rhythm or consistency. Just shooting. After re-tucking their shirts in underneath their overgrown bellies, 2 stooges stood guard as one of them pressed play on the tape player by his guncase and Wal-Mart bag. Taps played through the tinny speakers. Crickets even stopped to listen.
As a minister in training, I wanted to see the eulogist in action. What does a minister say about someone he didn’t know? I learned that they just speak in vague terms of goodness and responding to the call of action, and duty. A lot of mention about duty and responsibility. But more than duty, was the constant droning of the scriptures. I love the bible, but this guy was killing all of us with it. It was slow death for the whole congregation, until the wasp visited us.
The eulogist was prattling on through 1 Corinthians 15, “And this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.” And then, he paused for a theatrical effect I suppose (note to self) and he raised a fist and shook it at the ceiling of the tent we were under, “O death, where is thy sting?” Which was a little melodramatic for this sullen crowd … and then it happened.
From underneath the casket came the loudest wasp you could ever imagine. It sounded like a bomber plane carrying vibrating death on it’s wings. He zoomed everyone on the front row, then took off directly for the eulogist. He awkwardly jumped and flitted around the podium, losing all composure, swatting at this killer wasp with his bible, all the while trying not to fall into the oversized hole they dug for the casket.
And it was then that I noticed the greatest feat of all. He continued reading the scripture and the eulogy as if nothing uncommon were happening to him right at that very moment. As his voice carried bravely on with the funeral, his mortal body was dealing with imminent death. ”Oh … grave!” he was out of breath a little, “where is thy … thy victory?”
