You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
I’d finished my laps. Was getting ready to exit the building when I glanced at the literature rack. There it was:
I’m retired, like most of the people I swim with.
Still, this matter of pride kicked in.
I have more than enough to do as it is. So I’m telling myself.
As I said at the time …
Guess one of the advantages of living in a rental unit is that the smell of fresh-cut grass is provided by the maintenance crew – allowing me a little more time for reading, writing, and screwing around.
I see it’s time to make some more coffee. Care for a mug? Catch you later!
No, not all politicians are like that. Let’s get that clear. I’m tired of that line of defense from people who vote for the kind of people we wind up with in Dennis Hastert.
The fact is we’ve had virtuous people – and still do – who devote their lives to public service rather than private gain. Frequently, at a high personal price – and often as the targets of vicious character smears, which too often attack the innocent family as well. And, to be candid, these principled individuals can be found on both sides of the political aisle.
Still, after decades of hearing the Republican Party portray itself as upholding “family values” and other high Godly virtues, here we go again. For that matter, of hearing the party that’s pressed vigorously to defeat monogamy among gays – you know, the “marriage issue” – now shown in more light.
Yes, I’m referring to Dennis Hastert of Illinois, being indicted on diverting millions from his banking accounts in transactions calculated would avoid money-laundering scrutiny. That, in itself, is a very serious charge for someone who’s supposed to be keeping the system clean and accountable. Think of shady accounting or the ways secrecy feeds into lies.
As disturbing for me is the fact that a former high-school wrestling coach could have that kind of money sitting around. As for making it in real estate investments, let me point you to Plunkett of Tammany Hall, a classic of American politics, where George W. Plunkett offers his definition of “honest graft” as buying land you know is going to be quickly repurchased at a much higher price for a public project. The strategy made him very wealthy. You might also say it was crooked. And, essentially, it traded on secrecy.
Of course, in the Hastert case, the plot thickens with the allegations of homosexual pedophilia involving a former high school student.
Remember, Hastert became Speaker of the House in the debacle of thrice-married, twice-divorced Newt Gingrich. Family values?
Remember, Hastert became Speaker of the House of Representatives in part because Gingrich’s intended successor, Rep. Robert L. Livingston, had to step aside amid revelations of extramarital affairs. Oops!
And Hastert’s been outspoken in his opposition to what? Those other folks … never, of course, what he might be doing in private.
The charges and allegations against him retain the caveat that they remain to be proven in court.
Still, we could construct of a long list of false public voices contrasted to private realities in recent American history. (Bloggers in other parts of the world can add their own, for our edification.)
For me, the biggest scandal is the falsehood of pontificating self-righteousness. Yes, that’s what angers me the most. We’re back to secrecy, of course. And the ways it’s been used to intensify partisanship in public decision-making, rather than admit diversity and wisdom to the process.
And to think, this man was second in line to the presidency. Right after the vice president.
Now that’s scary!
We’re not alone, I know, when it comes to unusual weather patterns.
In fact, I’m getting the feeling that the computerized models the forecasters rely on just don’t fit the changing realities. (One site I checked a couple of days ago had a projected high for the day of 71 F and a current reading of 76. In fact, the highs several days running before that, while we were waiting for an uncommon heat wave to break, were up to 20 degrees above expectations. Whew! ) Through much of the critical gardening season in May, our actual lows were often nearly 10 degrees below the forecast – a potentially costly error. And then there was one night a week or so ago when meteorologists changed the immediate outlook to 100 percent chance of rain overnight … and we got nada.
April, as it turned out, was slow motion – about three weeks behind our usual gardening routine. And then May, making up for the delays, allowed us to get more in the ground than usual.
The downside was that we didn’t get our usual rainfall. Officially, the month delivered a tenth of an inch. The seedlings and transplants had to be watered in a period where we’re usually concerned about root-rot and drowning. A month, typically, when I can’t keep the lawnmower wheels from sinking in the side of the yard we affectionately call the Swamp.
As I mowed the grass the other morning, I kept noticing how parched the ground is. This time of year?
Through all of this, we’re tallying up the effects of our long, nasty winter – the one that had snow cover for all but three of the coldest weeks in January. Dogwoods took a big hit, as did limbs of rhododendron and azalea. We’re missing a number of perennials, including the sage in the herb garden and salvia along the driveway.
So now it’s raining. What’s expected to be three days and more than two inches of precipitation. Welcome, welcome rain – even if it would have been much better doled out rather than dumped on us.
Oh, the joys of gardening …
Somehow I avoided most of the usual traffic tie-ups and wound up with some extra time to kill in the Boston area on what turned out to be the first afternoon with real spring in the air. Given the time to kill, I headed off, camera in hand, for a walk along the Charles River.
At one point, I looked down along the riverbank and saw a limb draped out into the water. Five turtles were sunning on it in a wonderful composition. The camera was in focus and I needed one more step before I aimed and clicked. Just as I did, they slipped one by one into the water.
Maybe next time.
On the way back, I came up on a couple, hand in hand, as they strolled along the pathway. Another great shot, this time of street fashion. They were in matching all black, except for his shorts, which were black with great swirls of yellow and orange. I should have taken a shot but wanted to respect their privacy.
Now I’m wishing I’d gone ahead anyway.
Two nights before, as I was heading off to a committee meeting, I saw the perfect shot of the tower on City Hall, its gold-leaf dome and golden weathervane brightly lighted by the setting sun against a slate-gray background. Unfortunately, I wasn’t carrying my camera.
That has me thinking how many great photos turn out to be like those turtles, just slipping out of sight.
Maybe it provides all the more respect for the good photos we have.
Thirty-five years ago today, we were buried in volcanic ash erupting from a summit 85 miles away. For days afterward, everything was buried in gray. Until then, it had been my Garden of Eden.
Physical exercise has never been high on my list of activities – at least until I discovered hatha yoga a year after I graduated from college. From the time of required elementary-school gym classes, or phys ed as they became known in high school, I found the experience largely tedious – there were always better things to do. And calisthenics were simply mind-numbing. As for that lap around the track? The teacher who told a student it was good for a broken leg – true story, I was there – convinced me the male authority figure we were dealing with was an idiot. Or just insane. Yes, I did enjoy hiking and bicycling but they fell outside the sphere of “exercise.” Ditto for the contradancing.
The major exception was my first winter after college as I swam regularly at the local university indoor pool – a privilege that came through my roommate’s girlfriend, who happened to be the chief lifeguard. This was just before taking up yoga, come to think of it. (The school wised up later and started charging “outsiders.”)
And then? Well, I tried several times to get a regular routine going, but nothing ever took hold. And then when I retired from the office and changed medical plans, my new doctor began encouraging … maybe not running the way he does, but something cardio-vascular. Oh, my.
Tick-tock to last Christmas, when my beloved elder stepdaughter gave me a yearlong pass to our city’s indoor pool. Meant having to go through some hoops, of course – the whole matter of scheduling, locker rooms, gear. (I’ve always had to use nose plugs – my sinuses are horrible – so where do you find a new pair in January?)
Let me say, the first month was embarrassing – three laps just three times a week. And then Doc insisted it be daily, or in my case, five times a week. What happened to the two dozen lengths or more I used to do without pausing? These days, I could barely breathe.
Three months later, it’s up to nine laps – a quarter of a mile – but I do have to pause every length or two to catch my breath. But it’s getting easier, generating less resistance. I’m still not getting much sensation of flying, something I used to appreciate, but it’s coming. Or even a feeling of being one with the water.
But, hate to admit this, I miss the feeling on the days I can’t go – the weekend, mostly, when the available hours don’t match mine.
And then there are the casual conversations with fellow swimmers. Nice to know I’m not alone after all. As for the embarrassment? Ah! Not anymore. We just keep plugging along. Or I just say I’m trying to keep my physician happy. Not that it matters.
My fondness for asparagus arises in the years I lived in an orchard in the Yakima Valley, where, thanks to an earlier agricultural disaster, asparagus seeds had gotten into the irrigation water and spread everywhere. The green sprouts were often touted as “Local ’Grass.” As a consequence, we had about a month when we could take our knives and, being careful to avoid areas of pesticide use, return with a basket of stalks for lunch or dinner. I learned to glut out in season, realizing it would be another year before we’d indulge again.
Now that we have our own asparagus bed and repeat the ritual, albeit on a smaller scale, we’ve also come to regard the damage asparagus beetles inflict as well as the miracle appearance of lady bugs to the rescue. That, in itself, has convinced us of the value of organic farming.
As for Shiva, he’s the horny Hindu god of creation and destruction, and he wields a wicked blade.
My garden is equal parts solace and frustration.
Glancing out the dining room window this morning, I realized there was something my wife should see. So it was something like, “Hey, Honey, you need to take a look.”
There was no snow in our yard. None. Nada. The last of it had melted overnight.
Even by New England standards, this has been an exhausting winter. Usually, it’s either below-normal cold or above-average snowy. Not both, not like this one. I don’t remember this many single-digit and subzero nights, and here on the seacoast, our year’s total snowfall came to more than nine feet. Boston, as you may know, had the most in its weather history, beginning somewhere in the 1880s, I think.
And then there were all the Sundays when church services were cancelled — it was just too dangerous to get out on the slick roads. Well, I’m told we did have a few people show up on cross country skis to sit in silent worship.
New Englanders are usually a hardy lot and simply suck up to the weather. But for the past month, there’s been grumbling. Lots of it. This endless oppression really dampens the spirit. Do I want to write? Nah. Read, nah, except that I have read some powerful novels lately. I am finally swimming laps indoors, but that’s a big effort that leaves me ready to do … nah. As for the indoor house projects? Where’s the energy?
On top of it, this has been a winter of funerals for us. A few parents of high school students. Others my age or older — cancer, pneumonia, Parkinson’s, a brain infection. It’s not our usual experience.
I’ll have to check, but my memory suspects we had snow in November and I know there was more in early December, which unfortunately melted off by Christmas. But the pattern returned in January and just kept coming. Just as we thought we were seeing light at the end of the tunnel, three fresh inches hit us Wednesday and Thursday, which means snow’s fallen here in six straight months. And you thought winter was three?
As a matter of clarity, let’s remember the greenhouse warning was not “global warming” per se but “climatic instability,” which we’re seeing in aces. Many of our snowfalls had me wishing the precipitation was instead piling up in the Cascade Range of the Pacific Northwest, where it’s needed to sustain the orchards as irrigation water all summer. Those folks have solid reason to worry.
Here, spring’s coming late, contrary to some of the photos I’ve been posting — the one’s showing what would be happening in a normal year. The ones I scheduled based on past calendars.
Still, the warmth is returning. The sound of lusty birds greets the dawn, along with Harley-Davidsons through the day and early evening.
Two afternoons now have been warm enough to sit in the loft of the barn and curl up with a martini and a Paris Review — and look up through the open hay door to view a parade of dogs walking people past the end of our driveway.
At the moment, it’s mid-morning gray and drizzle — a reminder of Puget Sound, for me — with temperatures in the 60s. Good opportunity to run to the beach to collect seaweed for mulching the garden.
Now that’s a true sign of spring.
Jnana's Red Barn 