Close up of today's monarch wing
Photo by A. Graf
Monday, September 25, 2006
The Miracle Worker
To follow up on the last post, my father's friend Chris agreed to try and recover my lost photos using a wonderful little SanDisk program called RescuePro. He put my memory card into his reader, ran it through this program and got every photo back that I had deleted, except for three that were clipped in half. How wonderful is that?! I was so excited and am so thankful to Chris for his time and effort in retrieving my losses.
I went home, reprocessed all the images and made a new CD for the Dog Fair folks. Chris also helped me in the past by printing some photos on his large format printer when I had a last minute art show to prepare for. It's good to have a few of these "miracle workers" in your life when times get tough. Anyway, a happy ending this time.
I went home, reprocessed all the images and made a new CD for the Dog Fair folks. Chris also helped me in the past by printing some photos on his large format printer when I had a last minute art show to prepare for. It's good to have a few of these "miracle workers" in your life when times get tough. Anyway, a happy ending this time.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
U E
I spent two-and-a-half hours at the Enderis Park Dog Fair this past Saturday, photographing the event at the request of my friend, Georgianna, one of the event planners. It was an enjoyable day, being introduced to various breeds of dogs and their owners, watching the animals run, jump, sniff, make paw-print art and bob for hot dogs. The weather was warmish and sunny and I nearly filled my 512mb memory card by the end of the afternoon.
I came home and downloaded everything, worked another two to three hours in Photoshop, tweaking the lighting, cropping, burning, dodging and tossing out rejects. I then burned everything to a CD, made myself a copy, and dropped the finished project off at Georgianna’s house. I was rather proud of myself for having gotten it all done in one day, and was also very happy with a good number of the shots – that beautiful white husky head shot showing one brown eye and one blue, the profile of a handsome blue heeler hound and those stinking adorable black schnoodle puppies that were for sale.
She gratefully accepted the disk and called later to thank me. She then asked about the other photos. “What other photos?” I replied.
“Well, you said you had over 100, but there’s only 47 on the disk.”
“Oh, no. I’ll have to check my hard drive and I”ll get back to you.”
Gone. All but 47 shots. Oh, the sick, sinking feeling in my stomach. I sat at my desk and thought it over. I realized my mistake. I usually download into a folder called “Recent Downloads” and then after working up each photo, I save them into their proper folder, whether Door County, Havenwoods, Rusty Junk, Our Family, etc. Then I go back to the organizer and delete all those that I have worked up. This time I had created a new folder at the time of download and entitled it “Enderis Park Dog Fair.” I downloaded directly into that folder and worked them all up in that same folder. Since they were not my photos, per se, I did not rename most of them, but left them in whatever numbered name the computer had given them. The ones in which I recognized people or animals personally, I renamed – 47 of them. When I edit and rename a file, I close it and then delete the original, especially when it’s not my work that I am going to print. When I am all done, I leave the editor window, return to the organizer and delete all the recently downloaded files because they are now saved into a new folder someplace else on the hard drive. What I did differently this time was that I didn’t rename most of the files, and I didn’t move them to a folder other than the one I had directly downloaded to. I didn’t think about this scenario when I returned to the organizer at the end of my editing session and deleted all the recently downloaded “originals,” which were, of course, the same files I had just worked up. I had also chosen to delete the originals from the memory card after downloading, so they weren't even in the camera any more. Oh, what a sick, sick feeling.
I had to call Georgianna back and tell her the awful news. I went back online and googled, “How to recover deleted files.” I downloaded some software from PC Tools called File Recover, installed it and ran it immediately, pushing aside all the fears of being totally hacked by some nasty virus or identity theft subprogram. It ran through my entire C drive and scanned for deleted files. The program kept at it for hours. I couldn’t stay awake long enough, but woke around 2:45 am to find it had finally finished. There were over 30,000 files found from the last five years since I got this computer. I sorted through and narrowed my selections down to only those of September 16, 2006 and only those of jpeg format. I pushed the restore button and was given a warning message: “Files may only be restored using a registered version of this program. Click here to purchase online.” What choice did I have? I went online and paid $29.95 for a one year subscription to the program. I pushed the restore button again and it quickly did the job. Unfortunately, all those jpegs were from my daughter’s disk that I had downloaded and burned onto a CD for her the same day. Only five were listed as having come out of the Enderis Park Dog Fair folder, and these showed only a pattern of green lines, totally unrecognizable as photos. Where did my work go? What a sick, sick feeling. I could cry. I cried. And it was truly all my fault. Complete user error. I feel I should be walking around with big red letters on my chest, Hester Prynne style: U E. What a stupid thing to do.
I came home and downloaded everything, worked another two to three hours in Photoshop, tweaking the lighting, cropping, burning, dodging and tossing out rejects. I then burned everything to a CD, made myself a copy, and dropped the finished project off at Georgianna’s house. I was rather proud of myself for having gotten it all done in one day, and was also very happy with a good number of the shots – that beautiful white husky head shot showing one brown eye and one blue, the profile of a handsome blue heeler hound and those stinking adorable black schnoodle puppies that were for sale.
She gratefully accepted the disk and called later to thank me. She then asked about the other photos. “What other photos?” I replied.
“Well, you said you had over 100, but there’s only 47 on the disk.”
“Oh, no. I’ll have to check my hard drive and I”ll get back to you.”
Gone. All but 47 shots. Oh, the sick, sinking feeling in my stomach. I sat at my desk and thought it over. I realized my mistake. I usually download into a folder called “Recent Downloads” and then after working up each photo, I save them into their proper folder, whether Door County, Havenwoods, Rusty Junk, Our Family, etc. Then I go back to the organizer and delete all those that I have worked up. This time I had created a new folder at the time of download and entitled it “Enderis Park Dog Fair.” I downloaded directly into that folder and worked them all up in that same folder. Since they were not my photos, per se, I did not rename most of them, but left them in whatever numbered name the computer had given them. The ones in which I recognized people or animals personally, I renamed – 47 of them. When I edit and rename a file, I close it and then delete the original, especially when it’s not my work that I am going to print. When I am all done, I leave the editor window, return to the organizer and delete all the recently downloaded files because they are now saved into a new folder someplace else on the hard drive. What I did differently this time was that I didn’t rename most of the files, and I didn’t move them to a folder other than the one I had directly downloaded to. I didn’t think about this scenario when I returned to the organizer at the end of my editing session and deleted all the recently downloaded “originals,” which were, of course, the same files I had just worked up. I had also chosen to delete the originals from the memory card after downloading, so they weren't even in the camera any more. Oh, what a sick, sick feeling.
I had to call Georgianna back and tell her the awful news. I went back online and googled, “How to recover deleted files.” I downloaded some software from PC Tools called File Recover, installed it and ran it immediately, pushing aside all the fears of being totally hacked by some nasty virus or identity theft subprogram. It ran through my entire C drive and scanned for deleted files. The program kept at it for hours. I couldn’t stay awake long enough, but woke around 2:45 am to find it had finally finished. There were over 30,000 files found from the last five years since I got this computer. I sorted through and narrowed my selections down to only those of September 16, 2006 and only those of jpeg format. I pushed the restore button and was given a warning message: “Files may only be restored using a registered version of this program. Click here to purchase online.” What choice did I have? I went online and paid $29.95 for a one year subscription to the program. I pushed the restore button again and it quickly did the job. Unfortunately, all those jpegs were from my daughter’s disk that I had downloaded and burned onto a CD for her the same day. Only five were listed as having come out of the Enderis Park Dog Fair folder, and these showed only a pattern of green lines, totally unrecognizable as photos. Where did my work go? What a sick, sick feeling. I could cry. I cried. And it was truly all my fault. Complete user error. I feel I should be walking around with big red letters on my chest, Hester Prynne style: U E. What a stupid thing to do.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Hobbit
My youngest child came home today smelling of urine. I had him change clothes and wash up, after which he returned and sat down beside me.
"Why did you wet your pants?" I asked, thinking there may have been a good reason.
"I don't know," he replied. "It's a hobby."
"A hobby!?" I said.
"Yeah. A bad hobby."
"You mean a habit?" I asked.
"Um, what's a hobby?" he replied.
"Something you do for fun in your spare time," I explained.
"Oh. It's a habit. A bad habit."
"Why did you wet your pants?" I asked, thinking there may have been a good reason.
"I don't know," he replied. "It's a hobby."
"A hobby!?" I said.
"Yeah. A bad hobby."
"You mean a habit?" I asked.
"Um, what's a hobby?" he replied.
"Something you do for fun in your spare time," I explained.
"Oh. It's a habit. A bad habit."
You Never Know What You'll Find
I have recently found a new hobby in geocaching (see my stats over to the right). Geocaching is a world-wide activity where someone hides, or caches, something (usually a container to hold a small log book, a pencil and some small trinkets) somewhere. When they are done placing their cache, they use a global positioning device to note their exact latitude and longitude coordinates and these numbers become a big hint as to where the cache is hidden. The cacher then logs his cache onto the geocaching website where other cachers can take down the coordinates and any other cryptic (or not so cryptic) clues given to try to find the treasure.
It is fun, not just to find the container or trade for a small prize or two, but you very often end up hiking in places you might never have visited. The few caches I've sought out in my own home town have already taken me to some very interesting and beautiful spots. Once you find the cache, you log your find onto the website and watch your cache numbers climb.
My dad and I did a cache a couple weeks ago and found something very interesting - not in the cache, but growing next to it. I took a photograph of part of it, before destroying the rest of it. (Not by burning it - shame on you!) And no, I will never tell which cache. Try it yourself and see what you find.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Bug Man Triumphs Over Satan's Minions
The Yellow Jacket vanquisher, seen here just after drenching the nest with liquid poison and just before administering the chaser of deadly vapors. Thank you, Mike. And thanks for donning the bee suit after I mentioned there would be free publicity.
Cheeeeese, Gilbert!
My youngest son has recently developed a habit of saying, "Jeeeez!" in an annoyed tone whenever something bothers him. In the car yesterday I told him that I did not like it when he used that word as it was rather close to the name of our lord Jesus.
"You can say something else, like bananas, for example."
"Are bananas the opposite of cheese?" he asked.
"You can say something else, like bananas, for example."
"Are bananas the opposite of cheese?" he asked.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Rainbow This Afternoon 9-5-06
I took two photos of this rainbow and stitched them together in Photoshop Elements. It's not quite a perfect merge, but shows the entire bow over the cemetery near our house this afternoon. You can even faintly see the ends of a second bow, showing more clearly on the right.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Comet Appears Out of Nowhere
I asked my teenage daughter to scour the bathroom sinks yesterday. Today after school she asked if she could have Lizzy over. I told her to wait until Dad came home as he was very tired and it would depend on his mood. He came home an hour later indeed very tired. My daughter then went a step further and asked if I could drive over and get Lizzy. I asked her if she had scoured the sinks. She said she had spent 15 minutes scrubbing the downstairs sink. I flipped on the light in there and looked at the sink. While I know I am trying to emphasize my daughter's complete and utter lack of cleaning expertise, with my next remark I will cast a certain shadow over my own housekeeping standards as well. The sink was filthy.
A few minutes later as we were about to sit down to dinner, this lovely woman/child daughter of ours got upset about being told that she had to actually use scouring cleanser and a sponge when she scoured a sink, so she took said cleanser and threw it across the kitchen, casting a nasty-smelling plume of Comet into the air and all over the floor. She stomped off to her room while we all gathered our plates and went outside to eat standing up in the wet yard. My youngest whimpered because he thought he was going to breathe in the noxious dust and die of lung poisoning. It was a jolly time. Lizzy isn't coming over today.
A few minutes later as we were about to sit down to dinner, this lovely woman/child daughter of ours got upset about being told that she had to actually use scouring cleanser and a sponge when she scoured a sink, so she took said cleanser and threw it across the kitchen, casting a nasty-smelling plume of Comet into the air and all over the floor. She stomped off to her room while we all gathered our plates and went outside to eat standing up in the wet yard. My youngest whimpered because he thought he was going to breathe in the noxious dust and die of lung poisoning. It was a jolly time. Lizzy isn't coming over today.
Rain
It's one of those lovely August days: blessedly cool, thunder echoing softly behind the sound of rain, the last week and a half until school starts up. Most of the kids are off on their various adventures, except the youngest who has spent many strenuously long minutes recalling in great detail the funniest parts of his favorite movies for me. I try to laugh along, but since I haven't seen Chicken Little, I don't really get the true picture.
I am baking brownies for a friend's birthday, playing around on the computer, occasionally getting up to throw in more laundry, pick up toys, or file a few more of the bills that have been piling up on the kitchen table. I keep coming back up here to the computer, a sure sign of boredom.
I got an e-mail from the company that is sending me the handheld GPS I just bought. They have shipped my newest toy and included a UPS link so I can follow the progress of my package from Montana to Wisconsin. It struck me as funny that I could track my GPS as it traveled across the country without me. What an odd and wonderful age we inhabit.
I am baking brownies for a friend's birthday, playing around on the computer, occasionally getting up to throw in more laundry, pick up toys, or file a few more of the bills that have been piling up on the kitchen table. I keep coming back up here to the computer, a sure sign of boredom.
I got an e-mail from the company that is sending me the handheld GPS I just bought. They have shipped my newest toy and included a UPS link so I can follow the progress of my package from Montana to Wisconsin. It struck me as funny that I could track my GPS as it traveled across the country without me. What an odd and wonderful age we inhabit.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Monday, August 14, 2006
YJ Update 2
I just said goodbye to Mike from The Bug Man & Queen Bee, Inc. I was compelled to call in an exterminator after being stung again this afternoon on my way out the back gate. They got me in my right shin this time. Dean ran in the house and got me the ice pack to wrap around my leg and I continued on to the grocery store, where I had been headed. Once in the grocery store, with the ice pack still wrapped over the wound, I flagged down the manager and explained that I needed Benedryl NOW. She walked me over to the Health and Beauty aisle and allowed me to open some medication right there and take a swig. I thanked her and then went on to buy veggies, eggs and milk.
Dean stayed home and called the above mentioned company who in turn showed up a few hours later. Lexie, our schnauzer, ran out to greet the visitor and was immediately stung. She started biting at her paw, shaking her little head and sort of running in circles. I quickly dispatched her to the house for ice treatment.
Mike was genial and willingly posed in his "bee suit" as he shot a high powered spray of Talstar One directly at, around and under the nest site. He followed this with a chaser of Ficam dust, a very fine powder that clings all over the nest area and is taken in by any yellowjackets that try to reenter or even leave the nest, sort of tracking them down and killing those that survive or who return to the nest after the spray.
Mike told me before he drove off that this was one of the most aggressive colonies he had seen this year. This was, of course, after seeing them go after my dog and getting one small sting himself before donning the bee suit. I feel totally exonerated in my numerous attempts to destroy a community of some of God's smallest creatures.
Dean stayed home and called the above mentioned company who in turn showed up a few hours later. Lexie, our schnauzer, ran out to greet the visitor and was immediately stung. She started biting at her paw, shaking her little head and sort of running in circles. I quickly dispatched her to the house for ice treatment.
Mike was genial and willingly posed in his "bee suit" as he shot a high powered spray of Talstar One directly at, around and under the nest site. He followed this with a chaser of Ficam dust, a very fine powder that clings all over the nest area and is taken in by any yellowjackets that try to reenter or even leave the nest, sort of tracking them down and killing those that survive or who return to the nest after the spray.
Mike told me before he drove off that this was one of the most aggressive colonies he had seen this year. This was, of course, after seeing them go after my dog and getting one small sting himself before donning the bee suit. I feel totally exonerated in my numerous attempts to destroy a community of some of God's smallest creatures.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
YJ Update
We have sprayed the yellowjackets' nest four times now. They appear unaffected. You have to go out after dusk and hit 'em when they are settled down for the night. Last night, I admit at my suggestion, my husband stuffed the holes in the compost bin and the gaping hole at the end of our landscape log next to the bin with Great Stuff* after shooting in more poison, hoping to seal them inside to die. They were out as usual this morning, obviously entering and leaving their hideout through other, more clandestine means.
The icing on the foolhardy cake was witnessed this morning as my not to be defeated husband took our garden hose and aimed it at the nest - in broad daylight! I watched from the upstairs window, aghast, as he sent streams of cold water onto the compost bin and surrounding area, occasionally jumping back, jogging left and right and flipping the spray up and down, side to side as individual insects obviously zipped by. He looked like Luke Skywalker battling an invisible enemy. It was quite a scene. Now everything I've heard and read intimates that this is not a good idea. I went to find the first aid kit, but he returned to the house a minute later, unscathed. Lucky man.
(*Great Stuff comes in a can and is used to plug up holes in your foundation or whatever you need plugged up. It is commonly used to seal cracks in a house to make it weathertight. You spray the yellowish foam into the space and it immediately expands, usually bulging out of the space, and then hardens later. You return then and scrape off the excess stuff.)
The icing on the foolhardy cake was witnessed this morning as my not to be defeated husband took our garden hose and aimed it at the nest - in broad daylight! I watched from the upstairs window, aghast, as he sent streams of cold water onto the compost bin and surrounding area, occasionally jumping back, jogging left and right and flipping the spray up and down, side to side as individual insects obviously zipped by. He looked like Luke Skywalker battling an invisible enemy. It was quite a scene. Now everything I've heard and read intimates that this is not a good idea. I went to find the first aid kit, but he returned to the house a minute later, unscathed. Lucky man.
(*Great Stuff comes in a can and is used to plug up holes in your foundation or whatever you need plugged up. It is commonly used to seal cracks in a house to make it weathertight. You spray the yellowish foam into the space and it immediately expands, usually bulging out of the space, and then hardens later. You return then and scrape off the excess stuff.)
Friday, August 11, 2006
Flip Flops
Glacier Sandals - Women's - '06 CloseoutPrice: $34.93
* Compare At: $69.00 You Save: 49% (REI sale)
Would you ever pay $69.00, or even $34.93 on sale for a pair of flip flops? Does anyone else remember when you could walk over to the nearest Ben Franklin variety store and buy a pair of rubber thongs for 99 cents? I saw a pair of Stuart Weitzman flip flops for $200 at Boston Store earlier in the season. This is beyond me.
Further Yellowjacket News
My father called a number of days ago to tell me he had also been stung by a yellowjacket while trying to turn his compost pile. The colony had taken up residence in the bottom of one of his metal cans of old leaves, used every so often as a dry layer between more wet layers of kitchen scraps. This was our situation as well - a nest in our compost pile.
Today, three or four days later, my dad had to go to the doctor and get an injection of antihistamine and some prednisone because of this same sting. I'm having a hard time removing the visual of the German army under Hitler out of my mind.
Today, three or four days later, my dad had to go to the doctor and get an injection of antihistamine and some prednisone because of this same sting. I'm having a hard time removing the visual of the German army under Hitler out of my mind.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Speaking of stinging insects, I photographed these bullet ants at the Milwaukee Public Museum. I found the following information in an Internet report by Randy C. Morgan, Associate Curator of Entomology, Insectarium, Cincinnati Zoo and Botanical Garden: "Paraponera clavata is best known for its giant size and unusually severe sting. Workers are 18-25 mm. (up to 1 in.) long and look like stout, reddish-black, wingless wasps. Their stings are the most painful and debilitating known for any insect (Schmidt 1986, 1990)." Ouch.
Photo by A. Graf
Monday, August 07, 2006
Paravespula germanica, German Yellowjacket - found dead this morning in my yard. Take a look at that stinger! The one that got me left his stinger behind, but this is probably his brother or sister, cousin or in-law. In any case, he/she won't be bothering anyone. Let this be a warning to the rest of the colony!
Photo by A. Graf
Retraction
It appears I have provided some inaccurate information regarding the stinging habits of yellowjackets. They can and will, if provoked, sting multiple times, and they don't die after doing it. Rats.
The good news is they do die after a nighttime dousing of Wasp-B-Gone.
The good news is they do die after a nighttime dousing of Wasp-B-Gone.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Backyard Nature Update
I was ready to log on here and rhapsodize about the wonders of the natural world, the monarchs that we raised from eggs and recently watched fly away as adults across our yard, the swallowtail we found as a young caterpillar on our queen anne's lace that also flew off a day later, the latest fat monarch caterpillar that somehow escaped his enclosure on our picnic table and was found days later in chrysallis form attached to the underside of our patio umbrella . . . but just before I could take time out from these wonderful creatures, just after mowing the lawn and weeding the vegetable beds, just after greeting neighborhood children at the back gate, I swung my arm back and *POW*! I got stung by something very nasty. The natural shine immediately faded from that backyard apple, so to speak. My right index finger came alive with pain like fireworks. The stinger was still in there and I frantically pulled it straight out, thinking this would help. It didn't. I had to leave the children at the gate and run inside to shove my hand under cold running water. This didn't help much either, but I forced myself to lather soap over the tiny wound, following this with a few squirts of Bactine and some spray stuff that is supposed to deaden the pain of bug bites and stings. I dug up the last two teaspoons of Benedryl liquid in the house and drank it. That stuff is yucky tasting, I might add. I now feel more sorry for my children, upon whom I have foisted the stuff in the past.
All this helped some, but wrapping the finger in a flexible ice pack worked the best. It was still hurting 20 minutes later, but not as badly. It was also red, hot and rather itchy. I am glad it was me and not one of the kids. They honestly would have been screaming. Turns out the bugger was a yellow jacket. They have a nice little colony in the bottom of one of our compost bins, right by the back gate. My husband went out and bought some poison at the hardware store to deal with them, but we have to wait until tonight, after the sun goes down and all the little minions are back in their beds before we drop the bomb on them.
The last time I was stung by anything was in the summer of 1998 in Rapid City, South Dakota. It happened out of the blue (like what the heck did I ever do to these guys in the first place???) and it hurt like hell. I had never felt anything like that before. I tried ice and painkillers, but a couple hours later it still hurt so bad that my dad drove me over to the hospital clinic. The doctor there told me that yellow jackets contain their own special bacteria that can be easily transferred to you when they sting. I was given an antibiotic and more painkillers. The finger swelled up like a little polish sausage, became red, hot and itchy, and it throbbed whenever it was below the level of my heart. Driving through the Black Hills for the rest of the vacation, I kept my finger up in the air, dangling my hand from the coat hook above the back window of the car. Two days later when the swelling went down, the skin around the area peeled off.
After googling proper treatment for insect stings, I learned that I should not pull the stinger out if it is left in my skin. Use the flat side of a credit card or a butter knife to scrape it out. Pulling can make more of the toxin get into the wound. My bad. They did recommend 20-30 minutes of immediate ice, which I luckily did do. I seem to have gotten off more easily this time around, but I would recommend that anyone leave those little demons alone. The only consolation is they die after stinging you. Eat black death, you tempermental ingrate! I give you a nice place to live, I feed you, I purport to like anything with six legs, and then you go and and abuse your biggest supporter, and for no good reason!
Okay, I'm done. Centipedes still frighten me and I no longer see any reason to like yellow jackets, but I will try to focus on the gajillions of other creepy crawlie species that continue to fascinate.
All this helped some, but wrapping the finger in a flexible ice pack worked the best. It was still hurting 20 minutes later, but not as badly. It was also red, hot and rather itchy. I am glad it was me and not one of the kids. They honestly would have been screaming. Turns out the bugger was a yellow jacket. They have a nice little colony in the bottom of one of our compost bins, right by the back gate. My husband went out and bought some poison at the hardware store to deal with them, but we have to wait until tonight, after the sun goes down and all the little minions are back in their beds before we drop the bomb on them.
The last time I was stung by anything was in the summer of 1998 in Rapid City, South Dakota. It happened out of the blue (like what the heck did I ever do to these guys in the first place???) and it hurt like hell. I had never felt anything like that before. I tried ice and painkillers, but a couple hours later it still hurt so bad that my dad drove me over to the hospital clinic. The doctor there told me that yellow jackets contain their own special bacteria that can be easily transferred to you when they sting. I was given an antibiotic and more painkillers. The finger swelled up like a little polish sausage, became red, hot and itchy, and it throbbed whenever it was below the level of my heart. Driving through the Black Hills for the rest of the vacation, I kept my finger up in the air, dangling my hand from the coat hook above the back window of the car. Two days later when the swelling went down, the skin around the area peeled off.
After googling proper treatment for insect stings, I learned that I should not pull the stinger out if it is left in my skin. Use the flat side of a credit card or a butter knife to scrape it out. Pulling can make more of the toxin get into the wound. My bad. They did recommend 20-30 minutes of immediate ice, which I luckily did do. I seem to have gotten off more easily this time around, but I would recommend that anyone leave those little demons alone. The only consolation is they die after stinging you. Eat black death, you tempermental ingrate! I give you a nice place to live, I feed you, I purport to like anything with six legs, and then you go and and abuse your biggest supporter, and for no good reason!
Okay, I'm done. Centipedes still frighten me and I no longer see any reason to like yellow jackets, but I will try to focus on the gajillions of other creepy crawlie species that continue to fascinate.
Monday, July 31, 2006
I'm waiting to see if I'll hear back from WhatsThatBug.com as to what this specifically is, but you have to be rather amazed at what's crawling around outside when you really take a close look. This was found on our tent while camping last week at Governor Dodge. One of the worst camping experiences of my life, I have to add. The kids wouldn't pose for me so I turned to the bugs. They were much more compliant and, of course, ubiquitous.
photo by A. Graf
Friday, July 28, 2006
Friday, July 21, 2006
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Friday, July 07, 2006
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Rain, Rain, Go Away
We left Maine this morning in the rain and it continued to rain all the way to Bangor. Then it cleared up for the rest of the day. We crossed into New Hampshire and then Vermont. At Lake Champlain we took a one-hour ferry ride across to New York. Now I type by the window in our hotel room under Whiteface Mountain in the Adirondacks. The 1980 Winter Olympics were held on this mountain and hosted right up the street in Lake Placid. It's gorgeous.
I have energy for nothing more than a hot shower and bed.
I have energy for nothing more than a hot shower and bed.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
The Dawn of Civilization
I woke around 2:30 this morning to use the facilities, and stepping out onto our deck I saw the sky full of stars. This could only mean one thing - no fog! I woke Dean and we scribbled a note to our sleeping children before heading out to Cadillac Mountain to view the sunrise as it first strikes North America. I got lots of nice photos and we were back home before the children even knew we were gone (5:30am). Later in the day we treated ourselves to another ride through Acadia National Park, seeing it through a totally new lens, sans fog.
I did fall into the Atlantic Ocean today, just slipping on some wet rocks but landing rather hard on my left hip, leg and arm. Thankfully my camera was in my right hand and my extra lens was in my right pocket, so they were unharmed. I am bruised. I was also very wet, but we stopped for lunch at a nice restaurant where I hurried into the ladies' room to use their electric hand dryer on my shorts.
This will probably be my last post from Maine as we head towards Lake Placid tomorrow morning. What a week it's been, folks. I still have remnants of the hives, but the glands down my neck seem to be recovering. The bruises will be gone soon and my socks might even dry out before tomorrow. I have taken over 1000 photographs so far, and I'm sure that my memories of our adventures in Maine will only grow fonder with the passing of time.
I did fall into the Atlantic Ocean today, just slipping on some wet rocks but landing rather hard on my left hip, leg and arm. Thankfully my camera was in my right hand and my extra lens was in my right pocket, so they were unharmed. I am bruised. I was also very wet, but we stopped for lunch at a nice restaurant where I hurried into the ladies' room to use their electric hand dryer on my shorts.
This will probably be my last post from Maine as we head towards Lake Placid tomorrow morning. What a week it's been, folks. I still have remnants of the hives, but the glands down my neck seem to be recovering. The bruises will be gone soon and my socks might even dry out before tomorrow. I have taken over 1000 photographs so far, and I'm sure that my memories of our adventures in Maine will only grow fonder with the passing of time.
Friday, June 30, 2006
What Rhymes with MAINE . . .
It's not pain, stain or drain, though I can make associations with each of these words quickly enough. I'll give you a hint. It's a form of precipitation. You got it! And so do we. It began raining last night and I awoke to a magnificent thunderstorm. I thought the pines were going to come crashing down on the cabin. It was still raining steadily when I awoke at 5:00am and again still at 8:30am. It finally let up around 10:00am, so I went out with my camera, a couple lenses and my tripod to photograph the swollen brook now loudly charging down behind the cabin.
Now I have to mention another small difficulty associated with life here in Maine. It rhymes with Mojito, but isn't as fun. You got it! And so do we. And apparently the species are different enough here that when they bite us Midwesterners, our bodies aren't used to their specific coastal juices and our immune systems react a bit overzealously. I was bitten on the back right side of my neck a few days ago. Yesterday I noticed a swollen lump in my neck, about an inch from a large bite. It seemed like a gland or lymph node or something, and it hurt. After my shower this morning, I discovered it was swollen even larger, and upon further inspection, I discovered another node, pea-sized, in my collarbone area. I try to tell myself that it's probably that large mosquito bite back there so close to a subcutaneous white blood cell defense center, but I have also been known to have a hypochondriacal bent. I begin to worry.
I am palpating my neck every few minutes. This isn't helping and the swelling is going up, if anything. I make Dean feel it. He says it's nothing. But then again, he thought the death of three of my Helichtotrichon sempervirens was nothing. Sempervirens, my eyeball - that was a disaster.
I find a phone book and call the local medical center here in town. The receptionist listens to my problem and tries to find a nurse. She can't locate one, but promises to have one call me back as she takes down my name and number. I put some Afterbite on my little wounds and sit down to treat myself to a bowl of Captain Crunch peanut butter cereal, which I bought the day before as a special vacation treat. I am still nervous so I eat another bowl. And another. There's no more Captain Crunch peanut butter cereal left when the kids start to wander in, searching for food. "Awwwww. Who ate all the good cereal?" Sorry.
Soon the phone rings and I jump up to answer it. The nurse listens to my complaint and assures me that my body is just trying to fight off this invasion caused by the mosquitoes. She asks where we're from, and when I say Wisconsin, she says that the bugs out here are probably different enough that our bodies are trying harder to get rid of this new variant of poison. "Give it about three days, and it should begin to go away on its own."
I am reassured, so this is when I head outside with the camera equipment. I wear my jacket with the collar turned up and the zipper zipped to the tippy top. I march through a lot of underbrush to get to the brook and then end up following the water all the way down into town, where it empties out into a pond full of reeds and frogs behind the town fire station. I roll up my jeans a bit and wade into the pond to gain access to a large rock. I climb up to get a better shot at some lovely water grass, then I wade back to shore and take the road through town to our place.
While walking, I start to feel a stinging sensation in my left thigh. I don't see anything stuck to my jeans, but I pick up my pace so I can get home faster. There's a huge, steep hill to ascend just before our driveway and I am beginning to sweat, but I don't dare take my jacket off for fear of more taquitoes. When I get home, I rip off my jeans and find hives sprinkled across my leg. What the heck? What did I do? I had my pants on the entire time I was out there. I go hunt down the Afterbite again and begin dabbing away. This helps. A few minutes later and a couple pop up on my other leg. There are none down where I rolled up my jeans to wade.
The sun came out for a couple minutes today, in a rather halfhearted way, but it quickly dodged back behind the clouds and the fog settled comfortably in its place. We went beachcombing and out to lunch, which is about when I started to notice the Captain Crunch effect. Does anyone out there know what I'm talking about? The Captain Crunch effect happens to folks who don't normally eat little, hard, round balls of sugary cereal for breakfast. A few hours later you notice that your tongue and the roof of your mouth are inexplicably sore. You ponder this fact for a while and then realize it was caused by the pleasing sensation of eating those hard pellets, mashing them against the tender insides of your gums and palate. It's 8:30 at night and my tongue still hurts.
So, swollen glands, hives, CC effect, and still no clear sky. Ah, vacation.
Now I have to mention another small difficulty associated with life here in Maine. It rhymes with Mojito, but isn't as fun. You got it! And so do we. And apparently the species are different enough here that when they bite us Midwesterners, our bodies aren't used to their specific coastal juices and our immune systems react a bit overzealously. I was bitten on the back right side of my neck a few days ago. Yesterday I noticed a swollen lump in my neck, about an inch from a large bite. It seemed like a gland or lymph node or something, and it hurt. After my shower this morning, I discovered it was swollen even larger, and upon further inspection, I discovered another node, pea-sized, in my collarbone area. I try to tell myself that it's probably that large mosquito bite back there so close to a subcutaneous white blood cell defense center, but I have also been known to have a hypochondriacal bent. I begin to worry.
I am palpating my neck every few minutes. This isn't helping and the swelling is going up, if anything. I make Dean feel it. He says it's nothing. But then again, he thought the death of three of my Helichtotrichon sempervirens was nothing. Sempervirens, my eyeball - that was a disaster.
I find a phone book and call the local medical center here in town. The receptionist listens to my problem and tries to find a nurse. She can't locate one, but promises to have one call me back as she takes down my name and number. I put some Afterbite on my little wounds and sit down to treat myself to a bowl of Captain Crunch peanut butter cereal, which I bought the day before as a special vacation treat. I am still nervous so I eat another bowl. And another. There's no more Captain Crunch peanut butter cereal left when the kids start to wander in, searching for food. "Awwwww. Who ate all the good cereal?" Sorry.
Soon the phone rings and I jump up to answer it. The nurse listens to my complaint and assures me that my body is just trying to fight off this invasion caused by the mosquitoes. She asks where we're from, and when I say Wisconsin, she says that the bugs out here are probably different enough that our bodies are trying harder to get rid of this new variant of poison. "Give it about three days, and it should begin to go away on its own."
I am reassured, so this is when I head outside with the camera equipment. I wear my jacket with the collar turned up and the zipper zipped to the tippy top. I march through a lot of underbrush to get to the brook and then end up following the water all the way down into town, where it empties out into a pond full of reeds and frogs behind the town fire station. I roll up my jeans a bit and wade into the pond to gain access to a large rock. I climb up to get a better shot at some lovely water grass, then I wade back to shore and take the road through town to our place.
While walking, I start to feel a stinging sensation in my left thigh. I don't see anything stuck to my jeans, but I pick up my pace so I can get home faster. There's a huge, steep hill to ascend just before our driveway and I am beginning to sweat, but I don't dare take my jacket off for fear of more taquitoes. When I get home, I rip off my jeans and find hives sprinkled across my leg. What the heck? What did I do? I had my pants on the entire time I was out there. I go hunt down the Afterbite again and begin dabbing away. This helps. A few minutes later and a couple pop up on my other leg. There are none down where I rolled up my jeans to wade.
The sun came out for a couple minutes today, in a rather halfhearted way, but it quickly dodged back behind the clouds and the fog settled comfortably in its place. We went beachcombing and out to lunch, which is about when I started to notice the Captain Crunch effect. Does anyone out there know what I'm talking about? The Captain Crunch effect happens to folks who don't normally eat little, hard, round balls of sugary cereal for breakfast. A few hours later you notice that your tongue and the roof of your mouth are inexplicably sore. You ponder this fact for a while and then realize it was caused by the pleasing sensation of eating those hard pellets, mashing them against the tender insides of your gums and palate. It's 8:30 at night and my tongue still hurts.
So, swollen glands, hives, CC effect, and still no clear sky. Ah, vacation.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Soggy Little Cat Feet . . .
My apologies to Carl Sandburg. It's a foggy, overcast day here in Maine, and what started out as charming, New England fishing village coastal romantic atmospheric haze is quickly dissolving (oh, how I wish) into plain old crappy weather. The first day you kept saying to yourself, "Oh, isn't this beautiful? The mists are just like you always dream they are going to be in Maine." By the fifth day your shower towel still hasn't dried out, your Birkenkstocks are damp (though you've never worn them outside) and even the dollar bills they hand you back at the local market are moist. I am praying for just one clear, dry day. I think the locals are as well, but they don't hold out much hope. A Maine calendar I saw advertised today had these days noted in July: 2 - Winter finally ends; 3 - Spring begins; 4 - Summer is here!; 5 - Fall begins and ends; 6 - Winter resumes. I think they're serious.
It is still a pretty place and my second lobster dinner was as good or better than the first. We've taken to beachcombing, where we can get free souvenirs just by looking down. I look up, too, occasionally to see if the fog has cleared enough to photograph a quaint grouping of fishing boats. Then I look down again and take more photos of rocks. The rocks are rather nice. Sam has taken to hunting down beach glass. I did have to explain to him that if the labels are still attached to them, they are considered litter. He's getting the idea.
I found a lovely photo essay book of the Maine coastline today here in town. It was a paperback and the corners were a bit wrinkled, I supposed because it was on display and had been thumbed through by tourists like myself. I asked the store owner if he had another copy and he went back and dug one up for me. I thanked him and explained that the first one looked like it had been a bit too admired. "It's the weather, actually," he said. "Hard to keep any paper products from curling."
I get the idea.
It is still a pretty place and my second lobster dinner was as good or better than the first. We've taken to beachcombing, where we can get free souvenirs just by looking down. I look up, too, occasionally to see if the fog has cleared enough to photograph a quaint grouping of fishing boats. Then I look down again and take more photos of rocks. The rocks are rather nice. Sam has taken to hunting down beach glass. I did have to explain to him that if the labels are still attached to them, they are considered litter. He's getting the idea.
I found a lovely photo essay book of the Maine coastline today here in town. It was a paperback and the corners were a bit wrinkled, I supposed because it was on display and had been thumbed through by tourists like myself. I asked the store owner if he had another copy and he went back and dug one up for me. I thanked him and explained that the first one looked like it had been a bit too admired. "It's the weather, actually," he said. "Hard to keep any paper products from curling."
I get the idea.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
State of Maine
I am posting from the beautiful coast of Maine, among the mossy forests, lichen encrusted rocks and ocean vistas. And yes, I ate a lobster yesterday, fresh from the sea. And yes, I took a photo of it before I ate it. I even said hello to it before I ate it. Then I ate it with butter. And yes, it was delicious.
Other than the lobster traps and bouys hanging from houses as decoration, the word lobster advertised outside nearly every restaurant, and all things nautical in general, there are a couple things that seem peculiar to this part of the planet. Maybe it's because there is an abundance of them, but folks tend to use rocks as part of their decor, as part of their personal landscape. There are large boulders marking boundaries, corners of property, and mailboxes. Large rocks often line roads to keep traffic where it should be and one large rock near our cottage warns cars not to try to drive up that little road past our driveway. They are in the gift shops with holes bored into them for candles or bud vases. They are painted with animals or placed artistically in gardens where the lupine can crawl around and over them. All the doors in our log cabin have rocks near them as door stoppers and nearly every path, lane, trail and walk is lined with this local commodity.
The door stoppers lead me to the doors. Almost every building in this shipping village has what I would call a flimsy, wooden screen door with those simple metal handles on both sides. They do not latch, and due to the moist atmosphere of the island, they often no longer fit the frames in which they are set. They simply slam shut on squeaky springs, which is usually good enough to wedge the most warped into place. In our cottage, the front door has to be lifted up to fit, as does the back door. The bathroom door, which, along with the three bedroom doors all open onto the back deck area instead of into the main living area, has to be pushed downward to open. These doors are on the gift shops and houses and most of the restaurants. There are inner wooden doors as well that lock, but rarely do you see an actual aluminum or vinyl screen door. The sound of a slamming wooden screen door does bring me back to a simpler time, a summertime somewhere on vacation in my youth. The screen door I grew up with, and which is still on my parents' house, is metal and not much more functional than these Maine doors, though it does latch. It slams good and loud, too, which can still drive my mother nuts.
Rest assured there will be lots of photos to post when we return.
Other than the lobster traps and bouys hanging from houses as decoration, the word lobster advertised outside nearly every restaurant, and all things nautical in general, there are a couple things that seem peculiar to this part of the planet. Maybe it's because there is an abundance of them, but folks tend to use rocks as part of their decor, as part of their personal landscape. There are large boulders marking boundaries, corners of property, and mailboxes. Large rocks often line roads to keep traffic where it should be and one large rock near our cottage warns cars not to try to drive up that little road past our driveway. They are in the gift shops with holes bored into them for candles or bud vases. They are painted with animals or placed artistically in gardens where the lupine can crawl around and over them. All the doors in our log cabin have rocks near them as door stoppers and nearly every path, lane, trail and walk is lined with this local commodity.
The door stoppers lead me to the doors. Almost every building in this shipping village has what I would call a flimsy, wooden screen door with those simple metal handles on both sides. They do not latch, and due to the moist atmosphere of the island, they often no longer fit the frames in which they are set. They simply slam shut on squeaky springs, which is usually good enough to wedge the most warped into place. In our cottage, the front door has to be lifted up to fit, as does the back door. The bathroom door, which, along with the three bedroom doors all open onto the back deck area instead of into the main living area, has to be pushed downward to open. These doors are on the gift shops and houses and most of the restaurants. There are inner wooden doors as well that lock, but rarely do you see an actual aluminum or vinyl screen door. The sound of a slamming wooden screen door does bring me back to a simpler time, a summertime somewhere on vacation in my youth. The screen door I grew up with, and which is still on my parents' house, is metal and not much more functional than these Maine doors, though it does latch. It slams good and loud, too, which can still drive my mother nuts.
Rest assured there will be lots of photos to post when we return.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Most Recent Incident (or MRI for short)
I used to type magnetic resonance imaging technology patents for a lawyer from GE Medical Systems. I never understood the complex mathematical formulas and scientific explanations in the materials I was preparing, but the more civilian descriptions of what these machines are capable of has always been of interest. Today, years later, I got to take my first ride into that loud, cylindrical chamber to experience an MRI from the consumer end.
I actually had two of them: one of my left hip and one of my lumbar spine area, in an effort to determine the cause of the aches in this hip and the often accompanying nerve pain that has been plaguing my left leg for the past eleven months. An x-ray was inconclusive last fall, and a three-month hiatus from the gym seemed to improve things, but a few weeks back into a fraction of my former workout regime and the pain returned. I put off this next test for months, but finally made the call to my doctor, who surprisingly got me in for the procedure the very next day at what I thought was the local defunct hospital, St. Mikes. Turns out their radiology department is still in operation while they await complete takeover by the Wheaton Franciscans.
I was questioned by two different attendants before the test to make sure there were no possible metallic fragments lodged anywhere in my body. “Do you have any surgically implanted plates, screws, rods, shunts or a pacemaker? Have you ever been a metal worker? Have you ever had a tattoo?” No one asked if I had applied aluminum-laced deodorant that morning so I assumed that my armpits wouldn’t rip off my body or burst into flames. I left off my wedding ring and my watch, and even removed the earrings that have become a constant companion since my ultra short haircut last week.
There really wasn’t much to the test, other than lying still for about 20 or so minutes. I was given earplugs as the noises emitted by the magnetic monster were rather deafening. I lay on a narrow table that was raised up to the height of the tube, and then slowly advanced inside it, under the large white GE logo, so that my hip was at about the middle of its length. I took the advice of a nurse friend and began to breath evenly and think about being on the beach somewhere beautiful in a comfy chaise lounger. This was working wonderfully until Laurie Anderson showed up and began a sound check on the sand next to me. She then seemed to start a concert set, but after a minute or so her Moog stalled out on the same note, over and over. You never can tell with electronic musicians, so I simply waited to hear if this was part of the piece or not. Then her amps began to experience obvious feedback problems and I wondered where her audio tech gurus must have wandered off to. How embarrassing. But she didn’t seem to mind and plugged away, changing the frequency every now and then for creative effect.
The concert stopped suddenly, so much so that the silence caused a physical charge to run through my body. My mind wandered back to the sound of beach waves softly breaking on the shore.
Then the Irish step dancers showed up.
Now everyone knows you can’t rightly perform Irish step dancing on the sand, so the troupe set about building an enormous stage on the other side of my chair. They used about two dozen DeWalt D51845 20 Degree Full Round Head Framing Nail Guns and apparently an entire Lowe’s warehouse of ammunition before stopping just as abruptly as the Laurie Anderson concert. The sudden silence slammed into my body once again.
This alternation between Ms. Anderson and the Irish stage builders continued for the next 15 or 20 minutes. Every so often the table would more forward or backward slightly, and then it was over. The noises stopped for longer than usual and I heard the attendant push the door to the room open as he reentered. I hadn’t even known he had left. The table was scrolled out of the tube and lowered and I hopped off while he repositioned the padded sensor thingeys and replaced the white sheet. I lay down in the other direction this time for the lumber scan and was rolled in head first, nearly all the way to the other open end of the machine, though not quite. I guess I’m not really claustrophobic because none of this bothered me.
We began the same scenario again – more beeps, raps and banging as the concert set up, followed by the same electronic set and dancing construction crew and soon it was all over. Between this and the upper G.I. I endured earlier this spring, I have certainly increased my diagnostic medical repertoire to the point that visions of all my hypochondriacal future screenings don’t hold quite as much horror as they once did.
I actually had two of them: one of my left hip and one of my lumbar spine area, in an effort to determine the cause of the aches in this hip and the often accompanying nerve pain that has been plaguing my left leg for the past eleven months. An x-ray was inconclusive last fall, and a three-month hiatus from the gym seemed to improve things, but a few weeks back into a fraction of my former workout regime and the pain returned. I put off this next test for months, but finally made the call to my doctor, who surprisingly got me in for the procedure the very next day at what I thought was the local defunct hospital, St. Mikes. Turns out their radiology department is still in operation while they await complete takeover by the Wheaton Franciscans.
I was questioned by two different attendants before the test to make sure there were no possible metallic fragments lodged anywhere in my body. “Do you have any surgically implanted plates, screws, rods, shunts or a pacemaker? Have you ever been a metal worker? Have you ever had a tattoo?” No one asked if I had applied aluminum-laced deodorant that morning so I assumed that my armpits wouldn’t rip off my body or burst into flames. I left off my wedding ring and my watch, and even removed the earrings that have become a constant companion since my ultra short haircut last week.
There really wasn’t much to the test, other than lying still for about 20 or so minutes. I was given earplugs as the noises emitted by the magnetic monster were rather deafening. I lay on a narrow table that was raised up to the height of the tube, and then slowly advanced inside it, under the large white GE logo, so that my hip was at about the middle of its length. I took the advice of a nurse friend and began to breath evenly and think about being on the beach somewhere beautiful in a comfy chaise lounger. This was working wonderfully until Laurie Anderson showed up and began a sound check on the sand next to me. She then seemed to start a concert set, but after a minute or so her Moog stalled out on the same note, over and over. You never can tell with electronic musicians, so I simply waited to hear if this was part of the piece or not. Then her amps began to experience obvious feedback problems and I wondered where her audio tech gurus must have wandered off to. How embarrassing. But she didn’t seem to mind and plugged away, changing the frequency every now and then for creative effect.
The concert stopped suddenly, so much so that the silence caused a physical charge to run through my body. My mind wandered back to the sound of beach waves softly breaking on the shore.
Then the Irish step dancers showed up.
Now everyone knows you can’t rightly perform Irish step dancing on the sand, so the troupe set about building an enormous stage on the other side of my chair. They used about two dozen DeWalt D51845 20 Degree Full Round Head Framing Nail Guns and apparently an entire Lowe’s warehouse of ammunition before stopping just as abruptly as the Laurie Anderson concert. The sudden silence slammed into my body once again.
This alternation between Ms. Anderson and the Irish stage builders continued for the next 15 or 20 minutes. Every so often the table would more forward or backward slightly, and then it was over. The noises stopped for longer than usual and I heard the attendant push the door to the room open as he reentered. I hadn’t even known he had left. The table was scrolled out of the tube and lowered and I hopped off while he repositioned the padded sensor thingeys and replaced the white sheet. I lay down in the other direction this time for the lumber scan and was rolled in head first, nearly all the way to the other open end of the machine, though not quite. I guess I’m not really claustrophobic because none of this bothered me.
We began the same scenario again – more beeps, raps and banging as the concert set up, followed by the same electronic set and dancing construction crew and soon it was all over. Between this and the upper G.I. I endured earlier this spring, I have certainly increased my diagnostic medical repertoire to the point that visions of all my hypochondriacal future screenings don’t hold quite as much horror as they once did.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
One Day to Spare
Just to follow up on our van repairs . . . we got the thing back from the shop late this afternoon. They were told we were leaving tomorrow. We don't actually leave until Friday, but as far as they knew we were going straight home to pack the car. That was cutting it extremely close. Good thing I learned from dealing with my perpetually tardy mother to give a padded start time for important events. This gives us a cushion of two days to drive the thing around and make the sure the wheels don't fall off.
For all of you praying folks, think of us as we drive across the country. There will be plenty of photos to post when we return. Thank you.
For all of you praying folks, think of us as we drive across the country. There will be plenty of photos to post when we return. Thank you.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
I Met a Man
Today on my walk to the bus stop after school, I met a man. I said hello, and something in his manner and his, "How do you do?" made me stop and ask how he was doing. We chatted a few seconds and I asked him if he lived nearby. He thought he lived on the other side of the block, but he wasn't sure. I asked him if he knew his address, but he wasn't sure of that either. He did know his name, so we walked back to my house and I looked him up in the phone book.
He wan't listed, and I began to worry just a bit. I asked if he had someone at home that I could call. He said he had a lady, but he hadn't used her actual name in so long, he couldn't remember it. I suggested looking in his wallet for something with his address on it. He pulled out a small stack of cards and on top there was a woman's name and an address, ten blocks east of here. I read out the name and he said, "That's my woman! Don't ever tell her I forgot her name."
"Should I call her to come and get you?"
"Oh, no. That would be embarrassing."
My husband had just left with our van, so I offered to walk him home. He said I didn't have to, but he seemed happy to have company. Besides, I rather doubted he would have made it back without help. There are two extremely busy, uncontrolled intersections between my house and his that can be very difficult to cross, even for someone who has no trouble walking. At this time of day it would be downright dangerous. I made a quick mental note of the number on the paper now in his hand and told him I would just go get my keys.
While inside, I dialed the number that had been in his wallet and spoke to Ann, his lady. I explained what was obviously not an unfamiliar situation to her, and told her I would begin walking with Lou east on our street towards home. She agreed to drive up and meet us.
I came back out with my keys and we set off. He gripped our rickety railing and went down our stairs very slowly and carefully. I mentally prepared to catch him should he fall. He must be at least in his 80's and his tall, bony frame wobbled a bit as we made our way. He blamed the wind when he wavered towards the edge of the sidewalk. "It's trying to blow me over." He told me about being a kid on the south side of Milwaukee and how his grandmother spoke nothing but a dialect of Polish unintelligible to most of the Milwaukee Poles around her. He also told me how he took off four months ago and walked 75 blocks. Then he got tired and sat down. The police picked him up and took him home. He said this with a tone of how nice of those policemen to drive me all the way home!
We walked less than two blocks before a brown sedan pulled over and rolled down the window. His lady had arrived. Not to embarass him, I said she must have come looking for him. They both thanked me profusely, she in English and he in both English and Polish.
He wan't listed, and I began to worry just a bit. I asked if he had someone at home that I could call. He said he had a lady, but he hadn't used her actual name in so long, he couldn't remember it. I suggested looking in his wallet for something with his address on it. He pulled out a small stack of cards and on top there was a woman's name and an address, ten blocks east of here. I read out the name and he said, "That's my woman! Don't ever tell her I forgot her name."
"Should I call her to come and get you?"
"Oh, no. That would be embarrassing."
My husband had just left with our van, so I offered to walk him home. He said I didn't have to, but he seemed happy to have company. Besides, I rather doubted he would have made it back without help. There are two extremely busy, uncontrolled intersections between my house and his that can be very difficult to cross, even for someone who has no trouble walking. At this time of day it would be downright dangerous. I made a quick mental note of the number on the paper now in his hand and told him I would just go get my keys.
While inside, I dialed the number that had been in his wallet and spoke to Ann, his lady. I explained what was obviously not an unfamiliar situation to her, and told her I would begin walking with Lou east on our street towards home. She agreed to drive up and meet us.
I came back out with my keys and we set off. He gripped our rickety railing and went down our stairs very slowly and carefully. I mentally prepared to catch him should he fall. He must be at least in his 80's and his tall, bony frame wobbled a bit as we made our way. He blamed the wind when he wavered towards the edge of the sidewalk. "It's trying to blow me over." He told me about being a kid on the south side of Milwaukee and how his grandmother spoke nothing but a dialect of Polish unintelligible to most of the Milwaukee Poles around her. He also told me how he took off four months ago and walked 75 blocks. Then he got tired and sat down. The police picked him up and took him home. He said this with a tone of how nice of those policemen to drive me all the way home!
We walked less than two blocks before a brown sedan pulled over and rolled down the window. His lady had arrived. Not to embarass him, I said she must have come looking for him. They both thanked me profusely, she in English and he in both English and Polish.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Can someone please give me a plausible explanation into this current fashion trend? Is there any function, statement or excuse for wearing your pants thus, as this young man was doing last night at my daughter's track meet? I've seen fashions come and go, styles that I don't appreciate, such as the miniskirt, gauchos or pointy-toed shoes - but this one goes beyond comprehension for me. It just looks plain stupid.
photo by A. Graf
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