Christmas Wonderland

And only slightly more than a quarter year until Christmas. Complete with Bing Crisby crooning White Christmas in the background. It is still closer to Independence Day!

Redneck Roadkill

Windstorms can be inconvenient, but there are some benefits. Behold, the first Roadkill of this heating season!

Red sky at morning

Sailors take warning

Prior Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance

Although I'm sure he'd have a hard time believing it, over the years some of Hon's words of wisdom have stuck. And some days, life works to remind me of their validity.

We have this project. Run a couple of fiber cable assemblies between a couple of buildings, then terminate and test. No real magic, except it requires the use if a trencher. From the beginning, this project has been a series of hiccups. We ordered duct-rated fiber, but plenum-rated arrived. We pick a day that works for everyone, but an emergency call takes priority. Or the weather calls for storms or blazing heat. Finally, today rolls around. The forecast says clear skies and moderate temps are on hand. It's a GO!

And here's where the lack of prior planning kicks in - a lesson in how a change in one variable can have a significant ripple effect. To wit:

• I didn't confirm that the rental place has the trencher that we prefer. No problem, they'll provide a much larger machine for the same price.
• However, the bigger trencher does not gracefully fit our light-duty trailer with our light-duty ramps. You know, the light-duty trailer with five plus year old cracking tires and plywood decking that is...well...questionable. But we move forward anyway. We get the machine loaded and see that the tires are sagging a bit. Up to Sheetz for air.

A couple of miles into the journey, we pull off and check our load. And this is when it all hits home.
To quote Joe "we have a problem" The trencher is listing at a 30 degree angle; its right main wheel has fallen thru the plywood deck and is resting mere inches above the pavement. Even though the venture was marginal from the start, we REALLY can't go on.

Which brings me here. Here is the parking lot of the Sleep Inn just off the interstate. We were able to shift the load enough to drop the trailer. Joe has gone to the lumber store for replacement decking and ramp materials. I'm here in the parking lot watching over the trailer, trencher and conduit - wondering if we'll get even a fraction of the desired tasks completed. Which leaves me plenty of time to consider exactly how Prior Planning Really does Prevent Piss Poor Performance.

We NEED a bottle bill!

OK, so I'm a socialist - I want a government program to fix the problem. "What problem?" you ask? A public trash can where 50% of contents are recyclable. Why are there so many recyclable items in the trash can? Because we, as a community, have no incentive to do otherwise. The solution? Five cents per can or bottle. Not only will the landfill fill at a slower pace, but folks will walk the streets and pick up the bottles and cans that others have "misplaced". Costly to implement? Yes. But less costly than not implementing.

Tools, glorious tools

Honestly, how many 5/8" wrenches do I need? Well, I have five in my main tool box, plus one in my telecom tool bag and two more in different tool sets - the kind that have the nice organized case. So I suppose the answer is that I need eight. The thing is that, even though I've made a real effort in lightening the load of stuff, I have a very difficult time parting with the duplicates, knowing full well that any day I could lose seven and really NEED that eighth wrench.

Of course, I could pass the spares along to Chris or Alex - and they are welcome to have them. But I've become a believer in the sets with matching boxes - complete with a clear home for each piece.

So, until i find a better plan, I'll keep one of each size in my main tool tray and the spares in my spare box. And hope that, when I finally retire, I'll use them all in my VW hovercraft dune buggy project. Except...I'll need metric.

Can you say "In-de-pen-dence"? A rant.

For some reason, folks have a tough time saying "Independence".  They have no problem with "Christmas", "Easter", "Thanksgiving",  or even "Presidents'".   But when early July rolls around, these folks get tongue-tied and just can't spit it out.  Not to worry, there is a fallback plan - they simply say "fourth of July".  That's it, the date.  Not what we celebrate; the date.  Sharon and I were in Palms last night (fried chicken night) and there was a very nice poster advertising an upcoming celebration in Carroll Valley.  Full color with ample stars and stripes, a burst of fireworks, the location... and the date. So, there's a big party in Carroll Valley next week - I wonder why.

Well, you get the drift of the rant.  Look around you and you'll see that I'm right.  And, in the true spirit of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em", use this simple list when greeting others for an upcoming celebration:

Happy January first!
Happy February fourteenth!
Happy February twenty-second!
Happy Friday immediately preceding the the first Sunday after the first full moon of spring!
Happy first Sunday after the first full moon of spring
Happy last Monday in May!
Happy June NINTH Sharon!
Happy Independence Day!
Happy First Monday in September!
For you politicos, happy first Tuesday AFTER the first Monday of November!
Happy eleventh of November! ( specifically the Eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, and all was quiet)
Happy fourth Thursday of November!
Merry December twenty-fifth!

Summer Solstice

The abundance of flora (mostly weeds), the swarming deer flies on our morning trek to fetch the paper, and the very red thermometer all proclaim that summer has arrived. Schools are out with mixed reviews. Teachers are all wearing smiles, while parents... well... not so much. Air conditioners hum and the grass needs mowing.

But summer is really about kids. I'm sure you remember how it felt, even though none of us fully appreciated it at the time. A kid's summer is a time with absolutely nothing hanging over their head. No homework assignments or social studies quiz. No rent or tuition due. Just pure, sweet, simple nothingness.

The perfect summer age is twelve. Too young to get a job, but old enough to be out of direct parental supervision for hours at a time. Old enough to play pickup sports until dark with the other neighborhood kids. Or ride your bike to wherever the road takes you. Or wade barefoot in the creek, trying not to fall on the slippery rocks as you catch crayfish - all the time knowing that you'd really never cook and eat them.

Teen summers are still good - getting together with friends, even though that job always seems to interfere social plans. Inevitably you'd get an evening job and your friends would all have daytime jobs. So they'd go out every evening while you work, and you'd have to hear what a blast they had. Sure, sometimes they'd come by your work to say hi, but It always seems to be when you're the busiest. You smile and wave while they bound off laughing and joking as they head off to the movies or the current social hangout.

Then there comes the summer after high school graduation. That last hurrah before true adult life begins; the end of an era. College, internships, really-need-the-money jobs, and tax paying member of society.

Fast forward thirty years or so where summer evening consists of sitting on the deck watching the hummingbirds sip nectar, listening to the songbirds sing and watching the cars go by. The flowers are in bloom, scenting the earth with a wonderful fragrance and the fireflies dance in the treetops. And while it's not quite like being a twelve year old, it's not bad. Not bad at all.

Honfest

Where the people-watching is grand!

The nicest cat you never saw

She was another of the many that wandered out of the woods and into our lives - this one a dozen years or so ago.  For many days we knew she was out there as she'd sing from the fringes.  We'd call back and be rewarded with a quick and enthusiastic response.  Then one morning the calls came from the red maple next to the deck.  From there the path was straight and quick - from a high branch, across my back (with claws fully extended for maximum traction), down the ladder steps and straight into our family. Although she was wishfully dubbed "Little Outside Cat", when we discovered that she was "with kitten", she moved inside and became Lily in honor of Harry Potter's mother.

For a dozen years she slept on the pillow over Sharon's head or slumped against my chest.  Each evening she would race down the hallway at bedtime, to ensure that she got a prime spot and plenty of attention.  She was pretty, clean, and polite.  But when visitors came a calling, she would quickly disappear - always a challenge when folks would house-sit.  They never knew if things were OK in Lily's world or not.

The end came quickly for Lily.  A routine annual exam begat a tooth extraction which revealed a more ominous problem.  So now she has crossed the rainbow bridge, where all good cats grow opposable thumbs and have unfettered access to tuna and can openers.  And there to greet her were Arthur, Marmalade, Pumpkin, Mother Kitty, Jack, and all other good pets that have gone before.  And Woody is keeping a friendly, yet respectable distance.  Thanks Lily - you were a joy.     

Youtube DJ

It all started when I walked into Scott's office at CLV.  Security Randy was with him and they were listening to music form Scott's computer - a bit unusual in my world for "grown men" to be spinning mp3s during the work day.  Allison Krauss then a Nanci Griffith - they were definitely in my neighborhood.  After a few comments on the music, I answered a couple of questions and left.

Fast forward a couple of hours.  Sharon is out on a work event, leaving Obie and I to fend for ourselves.  Obie and me, a glass of vino and YouTube.

YouTube is an amazing invention.  Artist or title in... a dozen versions of whatever out.  And I have yet to stump it.  One of the best aspects is that, if I just want to hear the sound of my son's voice (either one), YouTube will provide.

So, on to the DJ part.  What to play...  Defying Gravity from Wicked.  You're the Luck One by Allison Krauss.  Needle and the Damage Done by Neil Young.  Boots of Spanish Leather by Bob Dylan and sung by Nanci Griffith.  Happiness from You're a Good Man Charlie Brown.  The Donut Song sung by Burl Ives (watch the donut not the hole!).  Nancy Sinatra singing "The City Never Sleeps at Night" (B side of "These Boots are Made for Walking).  They even have Tubby the Tuba.  And one of my very favorites is "I Shall Be Released" by The Band.

As I sing at the top of my lungs, Obie just looks at me with that adoring look of "good one Dad" (or is it "maybe if I bite him, he'll shut up" - honestly, the look is all the same on a Golden)

So, go ahead and sing along with the late great Levon Helm.  It'll do you good.  It sure did me good.

 

A greenhouse supreme

We had a great Saturday.  Started with a trip to the landfill, ridding ourselves of stuff that really needed to go.  Then to Home Depot to buy four half-old-whiskey-barrells to use as flower pots.  Then to the biggest flower store I've ever seen.  Catoctin Mountain Growers is located between the metro areas of Keymar and Detour, and has acres of greenhouses filled with bedding plants and flowers of all varieties.  Automated watering systems, radiant heat, automatic roof, ski lift type conveyor for hanging pots... they have it all.  Something you just have to see.  Retail Saturday only.  Really, you have to see it.

For a good cause

Gone Retro

We've gone retro. Pulled the plug on the dish and hoisted a big ol' antenna thirty feet in the air. The funny thing is the excitement that I had when we did our first digital auto-scan - almost like Christmas morning, just wondering what you'll get. Amazingly, from our tree-surrounded holler in the mountains, we're getting all of the Baltimore stations, plus stations from York, Lancaster and Red Lion PA. An amazing selection of over forty channels free from the air. And, just like the dish, there's nothing to watch. Except it now costs $70/month less.

Dites-moi

My temporary father passed away yesterday. I really only knew him for a couple of months and have spoken to him just once (at a chance meeting in JC Penney) since the summer of 1976. Reading of his passing took me back to that wonderful summer and the experience that lives in my heart today.

It all began in the late winter - my sisters and I went to the big church on the corner of Dill Avenue and Bentz Street to audition for the upcoming Fredericktowne Players production of South Pacific. It was my intent to get a part in the chorus as a sailor or something. This was more of a "go along and see what happens" trip for me - my sights were not set on anything in particular. During the audition they had me sing a few lines and say a few lines - nothing too difficult. A week later a letter arrived announcing that I had gotten the part of Jerome, the son of the French plantation owner and his now-deceased Polynesian wife. I had no real understanding of why I got a part for which I hadn't auditioned - but in later years I've realized that the boy with blond hair and blue eyes got the part because he was the only pre-teen boy to show up for auditions.

That spring was filled with twice-weekly play practices, first at the church, then at Waverly/Rock Creek school, where they had an actual stage. Play practice was a wonderful mix of social time and... social time. Funny thing is that I don't remember feeling particularly awkward, even though my "sister" Ngana (whose name was Susan - and was a couple of years younger than me) was the only other cast member even close to my age. Maybe because my sisters and their friends were always close at hand, or maybe because I was enjoying the whole thing. By the time the actual performance came around, I knew every word of every line of the entire show.

As the weeks rolled past, the performance date quickly approached. At some point the director asked if I would be willing to color my hair for the show. Team player that I was, my blond coif became jet black. I clearly remember my friend Carla Stitely's wide-eyed surprise - having no idea who was calmly walking into her house - until I spoke.

Opening night. Butterflies? Nope. Bats and flying dragons in my stomach. The orchestra plays the overture to the packed house at the Maryland School for the Deaf auditorium. The curtain opens and Ngana and I run onto the stage - she skipping and running merrily while I trailed behind dragging a box kite. The orchestra begins and we sing out:

Dites-moi
Pourquoi
La vie est belle,
Dies-moi
Pourquoi
La vie est gai,
Dites-moi
Pourquoi,
Chere Mad'moiselle,
Est-ce que
Parce que
Vous m'aimez?

Of course, it was all a blur. There were a total of six performances over two weekends - each beginning with Ngana and me singing and playing on that tropical island, somewhere in the South Pacific. But the voice that I remember most was that of Ed Lehmann; his rich baritone mesmerizing the audience and Nellie Forbush. Those were very Enchanted Evenings!