tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88420102024-03-13T05:47:12.604-07:00Tube City ChroniclesMemories: Personal Narrativeswiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-55433435957155669762023-09-09T11:33:00.000-07:002023-09-09T11:33:08.250-07:00Moving the Tubes...<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://tubecity.substack.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Tube City Redux on Substack</span></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">More Stories / New versions of old stories / New Stories</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaI2tqxdVmBsMhpXF9L-e2mNFiDMwc2l2L7GxQp5xMjQm8UTpi7qLM6AtWf-q51-Umogx24pPQxCwAE7SqEKGDMZX5O62DnBkSsg9iY4M4ETRKTnBZyZjrzqKQPcG19z1YhXDozY_cptjWC62cyVwAwUXIpFEOR6Jqultp8wqKRWy5XO6gYGw0/s1152/Absolute_Reality_v16_A_giant_hot_dog_curved_into_a_ying_yang_s_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaI2tqxdVmBsMhpXF9L-e2mNFiDMwc2l2L7GxQp5xMjQm8UTpi7qLM6AtWf-q51-Umogx24pPQxCwAE7SqEKGDMZX5O62DnBkSsg9iY4M4ETRKTnBZyZjrzqKQPcG19z1YhXDozY_cptjWC62cyVwAwUXIpFEOR6Jqultp8wqKRWy5XO6gYGw0/w427-h640/Absolute_Reality_v16_A_giant_hot_dog_curved_into_a_ying_yang_s_4.jpg" width="427" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://tubecity.substack.com/p/tube-city" target="_blank">Come See!</a> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-1111000468454216012023-03-29T16:52:00.000-07:002023-03-29T16:52:08.940-07:00Tube City<div>Of course, it all started at Cupid's. Your dream of a stand selling nothing but dogs and drinks. And, of course, the dogs would have the top-secret snap of an "All-Meat" casing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tube City was the name of your hot dog stand. The Armageddon of Entrepreneurship would have been too big to fit on the sign. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dad, I only know this time in your life by anecdote. I was on my 5-year walkabout. The secret, industrial knowledge of the all-meat casing passed me by. I never even saw your hot dog stand. I never sampled the wares. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wish I could have worked the stand with you. Then I would have seen the low riders beat you for the tab or the wide-bodied Buick lady hammer the slump stone corners of the restaurant as she lurched out of the drive-through lane. Ah, to celebrate your biggest sales day – when the drunk who crashed into your stand paid $100 cash for a dog and the wall.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfMv4jG_3_DtOPOBLLY5slWHldP99MfNLCbr_K1sGOQ5wEPmiXCGuWk5cDCmqwBrOspbzwcZ2qHKnJonbH2mH6vFCETLxRpflNOnc7PT6QqVH6qItWPkAuh-LwKhNLk_r8d3FU3x4-leiDSL8ILQJsukxUT5u6HtqC48ZL4kPCwM7fx4t8w/s348/cupids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="348" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfMv4jG_3_DtOPOBLLY5slWHldP99MfNLCbr_K1sGOQ5wEPmiXCGuWk5cDCmqwBrOspbzwcZ2qHKnJonbH2mH6vFCETLxRpflNOnc7PT6QqVH6qItWPkAuh-LwKhNLk_r8d3FU3x4-leiDSL8ILQJsukxUT5u6HtqC48ZL4kPCwM7fx4t8w/s320/cupids.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Instead, I will never forget our father-and-son meals at Cupids.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cupid's Hot Dogs are still part of my pilgrimage when I'm back in L.A. The snap may be gone from the "All Meat" casing, and they are finally serving fries, but Cupid's still serves the best dogs I've ever bitten. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sure, I enjoyed Nathan's, east coast, spicy, special, a dog lover's delight. I frequented Nathan's stand at Berkeley, but Cupid's wins out head to head, or better yet: dog to dog. Nathan's was like Berkeley, dark, spicy, vaguely dangerous. Cupid's, was like the clean, safe, fantasy of growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the 50's and 60's. </div><div><br /></div><div>We'd go to the original Cupid's on Lankershim Blvd. I imagine cruising North of Lankershim these days, especially late at night, is begging for a gang bullet, but then the frontier wasn't so hostile, and Cupid's was neutral ground. Good things happened there. It was food well worth the moderately long wait in line. </div><div><br /></div><div> Cupid's was always good for a meal, and it was easy to calculate the cost in your head. (I remember being shocked every time the price went up. Not that I ever paid when we went together.)The order was easy to compose; there weren't a lot of choices. No fries, no sides, just dogs. I'd get 2 with chili. You'd get 2 with chili, mustard, relish, onions, the works! Add two cokes and plenty of napkins. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Stepping up to the window, you see and smell the wonders of Cupid's. The wooden dog racks, 4 scallops of smooth breadboard wood, ready to hold a big order. The counter guy had a flourish to his preparation routine, riding the dogs on tongs through thin air, dipping and pouring the chili with a subdued sense of showmanship. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQNRGj4fs5FZ2dg5785F5XafFcOlrbjUhjf4aQcpHr_xBB9N4LHxYg0TwCITZJk_0cqe2UBae54cU5qwIWnpY7LHfpiCFE2qQEsHQcs7c6A3A-3-JhJ_AQ3yY5LAQy7_1rj1B-aJKF-oNGfy0GrY85HOaCW150WVt4wC8oIt7hsSrjmEZ7Q/s632/better-dog-rack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="632" data-original-width="474" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQNRGj4fs5FZ2dg5785F5XafFcOlrbjUhjf4aQcpHr_xBB9N4LHxYg0TwCITZJk_0cqe2UBae54cU5qwIWnpY7LHfpiCFE2qQEsHQcs7c6A3A-3-JhJ_AQ3yY5LAQy7_1rj1B-aJKF-oNGfy0GrY85HOaCW150WVt4wC8oIt7hsSrjmEZ7Q/s320/better-dog-rack.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>The stainless steel bins held the moist, steamed buns. They were perfectly soft, adding a homey, yeast-based smell to the spicy, tangy, slightly damp atmosphere that wafted from the open window. The counterman's fast hands laid out the slightly soggy buns, then he laid down the dogs, adding quick ladles of chili overflowing the bounds of the buns. With a flick, a snap, a twist, the dogs were wrapped in wide white, industrial-strength wax paper. Rack 'em up in a cardboard box. Add the cokes, pay the tab, and off we'd go to a tin metal table under the sparse shade of an L.A. sun-heated awning. </div><div><br /></div><div>Epic fast food. First bite, the snap, the spicy hot chili drenched taste, delicious, best dogs in the world. Those all meat casings were a top secret in the restaurant biz, a secret you were determined to discover. </div><div><br /></div><div>I guess once the secret was out, the Tube City stand was inevitable. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now Tube City is gone, and so are Cupid's all-meat casings. The dogs no longer snap.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh to sit with you again, Dad, over a couple of chili dogs and a coke and tell all that's happened since you left. </div><div><br /></div><div>At least I know you are now one with everything.</div><div><br /></div>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-91721763982673308842023-03-25T17:59:00.009-07:002023-03-28T18:45:12.018-07:00Up Close, They Are Monsters<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>It was my own
fault. I brought it on myself. Serves me right. I started telling spooky
campfire tales. I told 'em tall and terrifying, hoping to scare Susan, the
young lady I was backpacking with, into my sleeping bag.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMduv1mjA2mPJM6MaFThSc5PzwqROu2Xiwa8cUnZbf9X9iBmw7qG841Ffguekjb-1n7TZ9ccPq0fm5Ifc-TCm6pgC3_3cf_SAYzlSbB0bXHKN-Mp25LZQqeU6kTo-6nqUiozYAx6Q0Z4p70kgat0yop3G5wvHi0VGXKCShcP01KWoSPq78w/s1024/woman%20and%20lion.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMduv1mjA2mPJM6MaFThSc5PzwqROu2Xiwa8cUnZbf9X9iBmw7qG841Ffguekjb-1n7TZ9ccPq0fm5Ifc-TCm6pgC3_3cf_SAYzlSbB0bXHKN-Mp25LZQqeU6kTo-6nqUiozYAx6Q0Z4p70kgat0yop3G5wvHi0VGXKCShcP01KWoSPq78w/s320/woman%20and%20lion.png" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The campfire
flickered. The small light was a safe place to huddle and tell stories about
crazy things that happen in the woods at night. We were camped in a tree-choked
gully in the Santa Ynez mountains. Live Oak branches formed a canopy that shut
out much of the moonlight. The ground was carpeted with brittle, dry spiny leaves
that crunched underfoot. Outside, beyond the light, lurked the beasts of the night.
<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoPlainText"></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Anything could
wander into our camp. Some say big cats escaped the Hearst Castle zoo and are
still here. Leopards, lions, and bears, the food odors bring 'em in. They take
what they want. The cats could eat you. Even a small brown bear can toss a big man
like a rag doll. So you better hope you're not between a beast and what it
wants."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But my stories
didn't scare Susan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"These are
remote mountains. Not many backpackers up here; it's mainly hunters. Folks get lost
forever in these mountains. In 1942 a B24 Liberator disappeared off Big Sur. When
hikers found the wreck, the mummified bodies of the airmen were still strapped
to their seats. Only the captain's body was missing. Some say he still walks
these woods."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Coyotes yipped
and barked in the distance. Susan shivered, arms folded, huddling inside her
down jacket. She smiled but moved no closer. She wasn't buying my half-baked
Jack London/Stephen King routine. Even my most lurid lies about hog wild deep
woods crazies failed to move her. Susan was a sophisticated audience. She
laughed and rolled her eyes in all the right places. She had a Master's degree
in English and seriously appreciated the structure of my stories.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But Susan didn't
budge.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I exhausted
myself telling yarns. We spread our ground cloths on opposite sides of the
dwindling campfire, far enough back to keep sparks off the down sleeping bags. My
purple prose failed to lure Susan into even a snuggle. I resigned to sleeping
alone. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I watched the galaxies
slide above the oak branches, looking for shooting stars and satellites. A
breeze blew rustling leaves. "If I told her the one about..."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drifted into sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hideous! The
monster's foul breath is wet on my face. Hair bristling, the fiend's
slavering mouth is stuffed with massive crooked tusks. I can't breathe. The
ogre's lethal red eyes radiate fury. This swollen evil creature will destroy me.
I'm paralyzed, trapped, suffocating. I try to scream, but I can't hear my
voice. I explode. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Suddenly I'm
awake. The grotesque face remains in my mind. My fists are clenched,
my back is arched, my legs are tensed to run, but I'm frozen in fear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nightmare!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I spooked myself.
My skin crawls. I look at Susan asleep in her bag. I feel ashamed. The mighty
woodsman, the big-time climber, the all-knowing backpacker has scared himself shitless.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But the nightmare
gargoyle's grin was so real. I'm ready to fight for my life. Trembling, stabbed
by the claw of an adrenal rush, I can't shake it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Back in my bag,
twitching at every breeze-pushed sound, berating myself for a fool, time
crawls. I'm scared to look into the darkness, scared not to. My mind plays a
litany of reassurances. "The woods are safe; it's people who are
dangerous. It was just a dream. The woods are safe." Finally, I fall into
a jittery half-sleep and doze until dawn. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Up at first
light, I build a fire and warm my back. Then I notice something odd about the
ground near my sleeping bag. The dark earth is gouged like it was tossed with a
shovel. There are deep tracks in the dirt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh God, it wasn't
a nightmare; it was a wild boar! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUm2wBL9gyTBCHy23uBhyalq-6RyHD_NsyKN7RhgucWSeGtHi_JIJYH30J5n2EIrsAe1El5qjqAlt0VWeIr3qrZbN41Pe8aChTWuc92AKhSjmOfuUggWVvP3EsfLW3sTh1E3n8zbuvBnHs17MMY7QGPfIvBcuQJI97fekofHjB8oD6oUuBPA/s533/boar4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="533" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUm2wBL9gyTBCHy23uBhyalq-6RyHD_NsyKN7RhgucWSeGtHi_JIJYH30J5n2EIrsAe1El5qjqAlt0VWeIr3qrZbN41Pe8aChTWuc92AKhSjmOfuUggWVvP3EsfLW3sTh1E3n8zbuvBnHs17MMY7QGPfIvBcuQJI97fekofHjB8oD6oUuBPA/w324-h324/boar4.jpg" width="324" /></a></div>Domestic hogs
escaped the Hearst menagerie at San Simeon in the 30s. Hogs go feral in two
generations. Now the whole Santa Ynez range was haunted by giant wild boars,
some reaching 800 pounds. They're mean, stubborn, unpredictable, and deadly. Wild
swine with razor tusks will charge, slash, and even kill.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I remembered the
story of hikers chased up an oak by a wild boar. The beast circled the tree, ramming the trunk and slashing the bark all day and night. The treed hikers were
in agony with thirst and cramps. </span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually, the damned pig just forgot about
it and wandered away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Closing my eyes,
I saw the demonic brute's face drooling over me. </span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why didn't it maul me? Why did
it run?</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I said nothing to
Susan. </span></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't want her to know I was scared.</span><span style="font-family: Courier New;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-47101950318191118652023-03-22T12:44:00.012-07:002023-03-23T16:03:08.617-07:00Why Did You Run Away?<p>I booted the kickball as the recess bell rang. It was a great kick. The ball shot through crowds of running kids, eventually clanging against a distant tree lined chain link fence in the far corner of the playground. I ran for it, weaving through the crowds rushing back to class. </p><p>It was cooler in the shadows of the peppercorn trees near the fence. The the trees whispered and twitched in the wind. Broken branches and crushed peppercorns lay scattered on the ground. </p><p>Looking back the kids drifted off the hot asphalt like steaming water down a drain. My friends disappeared into their hot stuffy classrooms. The last few ran to beat the tardy bell.</p><p>I stayed in the far corner, watching it all, sitting on the kick ball, hiding from a gusting San Fernando Valley wind. It was suddenly quiet. I was alone, away from class. My friends were settling in, sitting up straight, getting out the pencils. </p><p>There was an unlocked gate next to me. I thought how fine it would be to be home, gone from school, free from the hot afternoon classroom. I wanted to walk. Just wander into the breezy afternoon. I opened the gate and began walking. I was too scared to go back and face the questions and consequences. </p><p>Several blocks from school I realized that I didn't really know my way home. All I could do was walk the bus route. Trudging beside busy streets that would eventually lead me to my house. I walked the whole afternoon away. I looked for the intersections I knew from riding the bus. It was hot and I was very thirsty. The sense of adventure was gone. </p><p>Eventually the long yellow L.A. City School busses began to pass me. Suddenly I realized I was in big trouble. Each time I heard the grunting gears of an oncoming bus I hid behind the Eucalyptus trees that lined the street. Eucalyptus shed piles of thick paper bark around their trucks, it crunched and snapped underfoot. The stringent odor of the trees mixed in the oily bus exhaust each time a bus rumbled by. </p><p>Peeking out I saw my friends on their way home, They were riding easy over the same ground it took so long for me to walk. I'd be home now if I hadn't bolted. I thought about waiving a bus down for a ride, but I was scared. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBSKJ1_H_YREqha8GLfu72gzMHJ9Uwi-iBWABuk7ZxgQju0H4EExtDcErSXCRQPJE4g6mkwKRrzAFUoAgujYb-WCkkNgzEcFTyoG-_scJjh6YPwhGUGPMU98fT584iqbWXnsU-nNAqc6jpDx8fF2rBETvwiXAkrZOCqmPwViMnq-p-90DzGA/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-03-21%2015.24.22%20-%20A%20young%20boy%20hides%20behind%20a%20large%20eucylpytus%20tree%20watching%20a%20yellow%20school%20bus,%20kids%20at%20the%20windows,%20drive%20by.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBSKJ1_H_YREqha8GLfu72gzMHJ9Uwi-iBWABuk7ZxgQju0H4EExtDcErSXCRQPJE4g6mkwKRrzAFUoAgujYb-WCkkNgzEcFTyoG-_scJjh6YPwhGUGPMU98fT584iqbWXnsU-nNAqc6jpDx8fF2rBETvwiXAkrZOCqmPwViMnq-p-90DzGA/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-03-21%2015.24.22%20-%20A%20young%20boy%20hides%20behind%20a%20large%20eucylpytus%20tree%20watching%20a%20yellow%20school%20bus,%20kids%20at%20the%20windows,%20drive%20by.png" width="320" /></a></div>Why did I leave school? I'd be home now if I'd just gone back to class. I’d be bouncing those green leatherette seats, elbowing my buddies or gazing moodily at the traffic and trees. Instead I'm hiding here sinking deeper into big trouble.<p></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"></span></p><br />Now I realized mom would be wondering where I was. Angry that I hadn't come strait home after getting off the bus. I knew my folks would be mad I was walking home without permission, <div><br /></div><div>It didn't occur to me that I'd be missed right after recess, that a search would be launched, and terrible phone calls made. The police alerted. </div><div><br /></div><div>After the busses passed the walk took forever. It wasn't so bad when I was ahead of the whole school, questing for home before the herd was let loose. But now I was behind them all, way behind, walking so long it was getting dark. </div><div><br /></div><div>The sun set as I stood on the sidewalk in front of my house. There was a police car in the driveway. Footsore, hungry, thirsty and worn out, I turned the front door knob and entered the crowded house. The kitchen was full of relatives. I wondered why everyone was here. <p>"Dennis! you're safe! Thank God!" The pain, relief and joy in their voices cut through my fatigue and worry. They sounded so scared. Then they were happy to see me. I relaxed, everything would be fine, I wasn't in trouble after all. </p><p>"Where have you been !?" Their relief crested suddenly and a wave of anger broke. Mom and dad shouted simultaneously. "Where have you been, what happened, why....?" </p><p>"Uh, I walked home from school. I just didn't want to stay."</p><p>I caught of a couple of well deserved sharp ones on the behind. In the background a police officer was shaking his head and smiling as he spoke on his radio. Everyone was talking at once. </p><p>My dad had me by the arm," You're never, ever to leave school like this again! Do you understand?" </p><p>My back side hurt as I was hustled into my room. I knew I had it coming. I'd scared them bad. </p><p>The next day at school I was the center of attention in the fourth grade. First thing I had to go to the principal's. He talked at me, while the teacher nodded with a worried smile stuck on her face. I nodded my head a lot and kept silent. </p><p>All the kids gathered around at the first recess. Everybody asked the same questions.</p><p>Why'd you do it? Why'd you run away?</p><p>The principal, the police, the teachers, the kids, mom and dad, even my little brother John all wanted to know the same thing. </p><p>"Why did you run away?"</p><p>How could I make them understand? I wouldn't admit that I was just scared to be tardy. I couldn't describe the lure of the shade and sound of shaking leaves at the edge of a hot playground. </p><p>How do you tell worried faces that you couldn’t go back inside the airless classroom and just sit still in the second seat in the third row, when the chance to walk away is suddenly there?</p><p>I went with the urge to walk away. On impulse, I jumped into an adventure without thinking. </p><p>Eventually the questions stopped.</p><p>All I ever said was, “I just didn't feel like going back to class.” </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><div><br /></div></div>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-87213232529621369582023-03-13T16:15:00.003-07:002023-03-22T18:50:33.227-07:00Winter Solo<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Blast
after blast, lightning flashed, and thunder exploded over me. Curled fetal into the punk wood of a downed tree, I tasted a tangy smell. My hair shivered with static. Sleet
and wind whipped the quaking trees. I rocked and moaned. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVmxQvzHdxCplQEnyvtO68YgmL84el3QOlHnRkSH2NTOheuzB557zrvPAkQ-nKI3DaT8n7L7RK4wCXjZO5aNZbTnG6UMD0ZTL2Q3jSh28uS4reVrauycVBGUltYMymIgbFwOoml8B-K-_fnTWCtAWKTTMytzaA0OM0oIHWS8dAEoMXT5Tvg/s1024/camping-lightening.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVmxQvzHdxCplQEnyvtO68YgmL84el3QOlHnRkSH2NTOheuzB557zrvPAkQ-nKI3DaT8n7L7RK4wCXjZO5aNZbTnG6UMD0ZTL2Q3jSh28uS4reVrauycVBGUltYMymIgbFwOoml8B-K-_fnTWCtAWKTTMytzaA0OM0oIHWS8dAEoMXT5Tvg/w282-h282/camping-lightening.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">"You go up there alone. You'll die," the ranger
said.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I wanted to rough it, go light, move fast, and find
myself in the wilderness. After all, it was a dry March day in Yosemite National Park. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Winter solo. This was a trip of firsts-a two-week trek into
the Sierras. Deep into the big snowy, no programmed survival course for me! I'd shot my mouth off about the joys of backcountry isolation for weeks. Now it
was too late to run home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why was I wet, cold, aching, scared, and waiting to be
zap-fried by lightning? Because I wanted to be a mountain man. A
wilderness-worn hard guy in an old 60/40. I imagined the Vibram soles of my new
climbing boots run down by a thousand miles of mountain passes and peaks. I saw myself on the high route, a sun-bleached beard covering my shirt
pockets. My eyes zen-blue cool above a knowing smile. The type of guy with a
low Co-op number and endless stories to tell. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had no backcountry experience. I shipped camping gear for
Sierra Designs in South Berkeley. It was just a job. I knew nothing about backpacking
or mountaineering. So I decided to teach myself how to use all the equipment I sent
out daily. I'd done a few day trips and some trout fishing. I depended on
Colin Fletcher's The Complete Walker for the rest to show me the way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was time to pay my dues. I had the best equipment and
armchair experience money could buy. I was ready to teach myself how to snow camp. Unfortunately, I was a newbie about to learn the hard way.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After the lightning passed, I trudged into the sleet
and snow. My new boots leaked, hammered
my toes, and rubbed silver dollar blisters into my heels. Wind-crusted snow collapsed with each step. I longed for the new Vermont Tubbs snow shoes I left behind to save weight. Wallowing thigh-deep, I
exhausted myself to make a few miles a day.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eventually, I settled into the routine of solo backpacking. Making
camp became a ritual: find a spot by a downed tree, spread a ground cloth, rig the
tarp and blow up the air mattress. Soon, the throaty blue glowing hiss of the primus
8R flames up a pot of boiling water. Dinner time! Later, I relax with a hot coco warming my cupped hands, wrapped in my down jacket and 60/40 windbreaker. Bone weary and
happy, pulling the down bag over my hips, I let my mind go blank and sink into it
all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back in Berkeley, I resolved my boondocks diet would have a
monastic simplicity. I'd catch trout for my protein, wrap them in tinfoil
filled with butter and pepper, and set fish in a campfire! But, instead, after
a week of frozen lakes and no fishing, I lived on instant oatmeal, M&M
peanuts, brown rice, and a nut-rich mix of crunchy granola. I fantasized about
prime rib and dark chocolate, green salads, and pitchers of beer. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Setting up camp after another tough day, I pulled out a wet
food bag catching the metallic odor of white gas. I couldn't believe it. The
stove leaked into the granola, ruining it all. The granola became kindling. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The endless trudging, loneliness, and lack of calories took
a toll. The thin brown and green contour lines on the topo map lost meaning. Instead, I depended on blazed trees to mark the trail to my destination, a lake
at the base of Buena Vista Peak. I was flailing through the snow a few hundred
yards at a time, searching for the next sap obscured mark. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Reaching treeline, I dropped my Kelty DB5 pack against a
tall pine with a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wide snow-free well that
worked as a camp spot. I took a long drink and thought about the lake where I'd
fish and finally eat well. Ahead, I saw snow-packed windswept ridges leading up
to what I hoped was Buena Vista Peak. So I decided on a quick scout trip up the
nearest ridge. Climbing up over crusty snow, I kept my head down, going into the wind. Light snow stung my eyes. Finally, I crested the ridge. Time to
get my bearings. Turning in every direction, I see snow, occasional bare rock,
distant mountains, and blue sky. No lakes.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After a long rest, I turned, looking for my back trail. Nothing. My footprints were gone under drifting snow. Suddenly it all
looked the same; no blazes, cairns, or tracks. The sun was setting. Snow-covered boulders threw scattered shadows. I didn't see the big pine as I looked down the ridge. I turned and turned,
trying to get my bearings. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was alone and lost.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Panic seeped in. Everything I needed to survive was in my
pack. Fear clawed me. Which way to go?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Breathe deep-conquer the fear. I sat on a rock and looked up
at the slow sunset colors of the sky. I'd read of lost hikers walking in
disoriented circles until they drop. Now I knew why it could happen. When you
are lost, all directions are the same. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was way across the line. Everything was dangerous now. Terror
lurked nearby. Alone. Death or survival?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I needed a plan. To avoid walking in circles, I imagined the
rock I sat on was the center of an ever-growing series of squares. To step out
of the maze, I counted my strides, extending the last leg of the square 100
feet before turning right 90 degrees. Scan the ground. Find my tracks. Repeat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I walked my squared circle for hours, searching for my
bootprints. Moonglow helped. Be careful, don't trip, and don't turn an ankle. I
kept looking for the pattern that would save me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hypothermia! The first signs are violent, uncontrollable
shivering. How do you build a snow cave barehanded? Does rubbing frostbite with
snow work? How does thinking twist and fade? The feet freeze first, hands
numb. I don't feel my ears. My fingers hardly tingle when I slap my hands. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The fear faded; no panic now. Just wrestling with a morbid
imagination. Thinking of London's "To Build a Fire, " I didn't have a
match or flint. But, hey, this isn't the Yukon. But the Sierras could kill you
too. I swore at my arrogant stupidity, shouting, " You wanted this fool! This is the test you sought."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hours now, keep moving, go all night, find the trail in the
morning light. Luckily the moon splashed the snow with blue shadows. Are those
my tracks? There it is! Down on my knees, I traced the wind-faded pattern with trembling
fingers. Stepped into a waffle pattern in the snow, then another. My tracks! Adrenalin cleared my head. Hope puts things in a new perspective. I was going
to be OK. I'd never been in any real danger. I stuffed my fears back into their
hole. I felt safer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I paced the tracks for miles before I allowed myself to
worry. Are these my tracks? Am I going toward my pack or away? What if I'm
walking in circles?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I found my pack at dawn. Tilted against the tree
where I'd left it. Home. Striping off my wet clothes, I crawled into my
sleeping bag and collapsed into an instant, dreamless sleep.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEek6HR5TFmtOiVupJqKWuPAJ-P_Jry4KtM14MYuHUl_LP77YFY7hiu7J62XAqzX9PtHHEEngS4OD6vyinDV9p3tEV8qTt9DaCX2K8py_U2_iK-bnUIe8JZ9qrp8aejXp3nF-_7qqo_WkYiWfz4V8M4Ye4l-OfRqVP0ASV5WNiJNyGyw6hg/s1024/climber.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEek6HR5TFmtOiVupJqKWuPAJ-P_Jry4KtM14MYuHUl_LP77YFY7hiu7J62XAqzX9PtHHEEngS4OD6vyinDV9p3tEV8qTt9DaCX2K8py_U2_iK-bnUIe8JZ9qrp8aejXp3nF-_7qqo_WkYiWfz4V8M4Ye4l-OfRqVP0ASV5WNiJNyGyw6hg/w263-h263/climber.jpeg" width="263" /></a></div>That afternoon I shouldered my pack and pushed over the
ridge. I eventually found Buena Vista Lake. It was frozen. No fish for me.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I camped by the lake for a long time. I forgot what I looked like. I didn't recognize my voice when it echoed across the frozen lake. Time is slippery. How many days and nights here? Breaking holes in the ice to watch the water refreeze. I <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>listened to the wind. Then I looked up and realized I would climb my first mountain.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next morning at sunup, I broke camp, packed my gear, shouldered my pack, and started up Buena Vista Peak. I'd never climbed before. Kicking back up the ridge with a full pack was challenging. But, for the first time in days, I could see across miles of wild space. Reaching the top woke me up. I took out my map and compass, finally able to orient myself. I found the names of the peaks and planned a route to Ostrander Lake, where there was a winter ski hut. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I navigated cross country to a ridge above0 Ostrander Lake. The water was open! A small section of water was open just below me. A howling boot glissade brought me to<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the open spot. Finally, I could use my fishing gear. I cast a tiny Daredevil spoon over the open pool onto a snow ledge. I teased the lure, so it dropped into the shadows. Sinking like a leaf on the breeze, the lure fell from view. With a hit and wrist flick, the rod shivered and bent. The
magic first cast! I reeled the fish and flipped healthy brook trout up on the snow beside me. I cast again and caught another. Hunting for food when you are starving was another new experience. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I gutted and washed the trout, added butter, wrapped them in tin foil, and waited impatiently. After a diet of brown rice and gas-soaked granola, the anticipation was intense. Opening the sizzling foil, I gently tugged the spines out, briefly warming my hands over the miraculous perfect fillets. Ah, that first bite became a lifetime memory.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I slept well that night in the Ostrander ski hut. The next day I fished the
sliver of open water and caught breakfast and lunch. Late afternoon I started back,
following a well-blazed trail. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I got to my beat-up F-10 Land Cruiser at dusk. The engine started on the first try, and I eased
out as night fell. Driving warm and in motion, I connected again to the concrete threads that stitch the roadmaps together. It was slow going back. Pushing the F-10 above 40
MPH caused the front end to wobble and shake. So it was a long slow drive through the night. I didn't see anyone on the
road. I was still alone. It felt like the world had emptied out
while I was lost.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3laNDF4-_jw-SEDCkAsGvsLSzMAjVdlTQf8n6VbPBiHUEW6yQkWuZd68jqYrhkdYrk4EhDSJQ7bJcXVa1yqGU7ykwoT9QpcQ3p7ZA0kJxjZ6o1IFBS41vbZpfdW-zGrLIT2QEZjFdtMmJeTHw3G3XgzB6umjBFYVyYg3cVHyO6QLBadvcoQ/s1009/cropped-final.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="1004" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3laNDF4-_jw-SEDCkAsGvsLSzMAjVdlTQf8n6VbPBiHUEW6yQkWuZd68jqYrhkdYrk4EhDSJQ7bJcXVa1yqGU7ykwoT9QpcQ3p7ZA0kJxjZ6o1IFBS41vbZpfdW-zGrLIT2QEZjFdtMmJeTHw3G3XgzB6umjBFYVyYg3cVHyO6QLBadvcoQ/w261-h263/cropped-final.png" width="261" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">As the sun rose, a few miles from home, I glanced out the
driver's side window. I saw my first human in two weeks.</p><p class="MsoNormal">He was a tall black
man dressed in a leopard-skin toga. The leather
straps of his gladiator sandals wrapped up his calves. He held a full-grown
cheetah on a leash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was back in Berkeley again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-1110999627774025962023-03-04T10:59:00.005-08:002023-03-23T16:04:02.793-07:00The Pomegranate Grove<p class="MsoNormal">We lived in the San Fernando Valley in Walnut Cove, a subdivision of ranch-style houses with big
front yards. Walnut Cove had a mature tree in front of every house. The trees were an echo of the grove bulldozed
to create the subdivision. At least the planners left enough trees to shade the
wide sidewalks. The trees were all grafted between English and White
Walnuts. That meant a white trunk, a black body with solid roots, and the best
walnuts. They were big branched trees great for climbing.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These piebald nut trees would fill with green speckled
pods every spring, then the heat and light of summer would darken and shrivel
the pods into a thin black leather. Finally, the pods dried, exposing the
wrinkled veined details of a new walnut shell. The ripe walnuts snapped from
the husks, and we collected wagons full!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All my neighborhood pals, Dave DeCamp, Judy Corn, and her
sister Sharon, David Olsen, and even the evil and weird Reynolds would gather
bag fulls of walnuts. We'd crack the shells with our teeth and extract the brain
like walnut meat. Occasionally a nut with bitter dark fibers and spider webs made
you shiver. But most of the time, we plucked the delicious light brown nuts from
the shell almost whole. You could always find a snack in Walnut Cove during the
late spring and summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Two big valley streets bordered Walnut Cove. Balboa Blvd and
Nordhoff are major commuter roads with fast-moving traffic. Crossing these
dangerous streets was forbidden. The valley was quickly filling up with sub-divisions.
But Walnut Cove was still surrounded by groves—oranges to the north, acres of pomegranates
to the south, and walnuts to the east. West across Balboa was bulldozed into
weedless, treeless lots sliced by new black top ribbons of asphalt. The
hammering of a new sub-division came next. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We could get into the orange groves without crossing the big
streets, which meant their allure was minimal. The oranges were usually small,
green, and bitter. Besides, the farmer hated kids and was always on the prowl. The
pomegranate groves on the other side of Nordhoff Blvd seemed the most
mysterious, remote, and irresistible. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Even though I wasn't supposed to cross the street, I planned
a raid on the pomegranates with Judy Corn. Judy lived down the block. She was
part of a Jack Mormon clan that seemed to have no trouble playing cards and drinking
coffee. I'd go to Judy's house to watch American Bandstand with Dave DeCamp and
Judy's older sister Sharon. I was the youngest of the group and always got
fidgety waiting for the program to end so we could go out and play. The older
kids, especially Sharon and Dave, who must have been at least 13, were
fascinated by the dancing couples on the screen. It was boring but neat to be
included with the older kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Judy was bored too, but she wouldn't admit that around her
big sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judy was a hot-tempered tomboy
and one of the toughest kids on the block. I fought her once, and she won. Judy
hit me ten times as I struggled to wrestle her arms down. She was hard to hold.
Her muscles were as big as mine. I told myself I held back during the fight
because she was a girl. You weren't supposed to hit girls. But she punched
harder than any boy in the neighborhood except Arty<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guftason, the worst bully on the block. I
liked Judy, but I was afraid of her. Her punches really hurt. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Judy wasn't supposed to cross the street either, but she
dared me, and I couldn't back down from a dare. Besides, I wanted to get some
pomegranates. We waited a long time for a break in the traffic, then sprinted
across the street, through the gully over the wire fence, and into the
forbidden groves. A faded no-trespassing sign hung on the wire fence made me
feel like we were on the verge of getting caught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
was probably a farmer meaner than the guy at the orange grove just waiting to
grab us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We went far into the grove between the neat rows of trees, disappearing
into the mysteries of this banned place. The traffic noise on Balboa faded. The
trees were planted in rows, a tractor-width apart. The leaves created a canopy
that cooled the hot valley sun. It was hot enough to soften the asphalt at the
edges of the street, but it was shady and secret here. Dust swirled, suspended
in shafts of sunlight that cut through the leaves. We were alone. It was better
here than either of us had hoped. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4D2EYMqmQE_BuU9Ot4d3xzD3HxZnHOxE-v6r8DFbPro0fosJWC9BJAeyt0lbuMfrzdEH8wT7YPkX6IH0Nn6kzt0z4gqc6SIHQ_uEmaI-QSljWj-s6cXdgIxY1AwhXuYqeaAuLrKrIDT2wpn_FQ9sG3UwnCKN3Yd3hXYtWrpJl7Vz3Qi9dQ/s1024/judy-dennis.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4D2EYMqmQE_BuU9Ot4d3xzD3HxZnHOxE-v6r8DFbPro0fosJWC9BJAeyt0lbuMfrzdEH8wT7YPkX6IH0Nn6kzt0z4gqc6SIHQ_uEmaI-QSljWj-s6cXdgIxY1AwhXuYqeaAuLrKrIDT2wpn_FQ9sG3UwnCKN3Yd3hXYtWrpJl7Vz3Qi9dQ/w335-h335/judy-dennis.png" width="335" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">The trees clustered in odd-shaped fruit, a pomegranate's
skin is a bumpy alien terrain, and pods like pale purple wasps nests hung heavy
from the burdened limbs. The overripe ones
had fallen to the ground and lay half-hidden in the tall grass. These were
insect-laden universes, purple, blood-colored clusters swarming with ants where
the skin had split. The air smelled rich with growing things, backed by a
cloying scent of decay. The skin color told you which pomegranates were ready
to be eaten. A baseball-sized pomegranate with a pale purple exterior, firm to the touch, wasn't ready yet. We
wanted the dimpled and swollen, almost violet fruit, bigger than your fist; the
ones just a bit soft to the touch were ready to burst with scarlet seeds and
sweet juice.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We jumped up to steal the fruit, snatching them from the low
limbs. But the best ones were out of reach. Pomegranate trees are hard to
climb, and none of the branches are low enough. With my hands, I made a step cradle
to boost Judy into the tree. She was surprisingly heavy, and it hurt my hands
and shoulders as she climbed over me. Out of reach, She laughed and teased me,
bombing me with dozens of pomegranates. I chucked back rotten, ground-softened,
ant-covered missiles but never hit her. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eventually, we called a truce. We stacked pomegranates in
pyramids like lumpy cannon balls on the fruit-littered battlefield. We lay back
in the grass, gorging ourselves, splitting open the sweet fruit, peeling back
the tough fibrous skin, devouring the thick scarlet seeds, biting into massive
clusters, chewing the pulp, and swallowing the juice. The crimson drippings ran
down our chins and stained our t-shirts. We ate only the thickest seed clusters.
After a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>few mouthfuls and we'd be left
with the difficult part of the fruit. We tossed the half-eaten carcasses aside,
took a fresh pomegranate from the pile, and began again. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We spent the late afternoon eating, talking, watching the
sky through the trees, and reveling in the special secret of the place. It was exciting
to spend time with a girl, even if she was a tomboy. It got late quickly. The
sky darkened, and the shadows grew. We had to get home. All around us were pomegranates'
split, smashed, and broken remains. We ruined more than we ate. When I looked
at empty husks and wasted fruit, I felt uneasy. If the farmer caught us now,
he'd be right to be mad. Suddenly I felt guilty. We used a fine place poorly. It
was a hopeless mess. Turning away, we ran from the grove.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I came slinking into the house. My conscience is hurting.
I'd disobeyed, crossed the street, thieved the pomegranates worse, and wasted
as much as I'd eaten. My face and hands were stained in juice and guilt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mom's radar was on maximum. It was dusk, too late to get
home. She was waiting for me. My furtive slump-shouldered skulk towards my room
tipped her off. She took one look at me and knew something was wrong. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Dennis, what is it?" was all she needed to
say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"I, uh, I ... crossed the street .... took
pomegranates.... stole them, I guess."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My story tumbled out, sneaking away with Judy, the shame of
wasting the farmer's pomegranates. I had to confess. It was a relief to own up.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Surprisingly, Mom wasn't upset with me. Instead, she had a
smile on her face as she nodded and told me not to cross the street again. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I never returned to the pomegranate grove. I never took
another of the farmer's pomegranates, even when Judy brought me an extra. I'd
lost my taste for pomegranates, and the ones bought at the store weren't the
same.<o:p></o:p></p><br />wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-22213185407268713292023-03-01T15:50:00.003-08:002023-03-01T15:50:33.191-08:00Saab Stories - The Nautilus<p>I bought my first car in 1968. It was a jet-black 1960 Saab 93. It had 3 port holes on each side of the hood and suicide doors that flipped open like clam shells, ready to catch the wind. <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEmQe3ITXAfNInHLCsAc9SAfm18y7ODSZkc_-OlMRBQMhuNaLr89aCYlEg28flUFIvqxyYI1QrqVseBaAlTOFAfSI1WoTv5H9Yoc6yWFx_hYm9xvN4rOS_ecwg0b6_wThOl8SP_CEI7szQtFOyuUHM8H6eExs5YracDdbnzau2ftOVjIiPA/s527/saab-93.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="527" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEmQe3ITXAfNInHLCsAc9SAfm18y7ODSZkc_-OlMRBQMhuNaLr89aCYlEg28flUFIvqxyYI1QrqVseBaAlTOFAfSI1WoTv5H9Yoc6yWFx_hYm9xvN4rOS_ecwg0b6_wThOl8SP_CEI7szQtFOyuUHM8H6eExs5YracDdbnzau2ftOVjIiPA/w398-h152/saab-93.jpg" width="398" /></a></div><p>I bought the Saab for $300 from an Australian in Culver City, California. The Aussie talked out of the side of his mouth (he'd been shark scarred somewhere off the Barrier Reef and asymmetrically stitched back together).</p><p><br /></p><p>"She's a sweet potato, mate."</p><p>I believed him and laid down every dime I had. I bought a Saab solely on the strength of a bit part the car played in Richard Farina's ultra-hip novel,<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Been_Down_So_Long_It_Looks_Like_Up_to_Me" target="_blank"> Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me</a>.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p>This narrowed my choices for my first car to a Saab or a Citroen 2CV. I was into the reverse status of obscure foreign cars. The 2CV looked (and drove) like a corrugated trash can on wheels; the Saab was like a bastard child of a Porsche and a VW Bug. </p><p>This Saab was sleek, black, and mysterious. She had portholes on each side of the hood that earned her a nickname: The Nautilus. Finally, I had a car that was "way cool?" long before the term was coined.</p><p>The Nautilus had a pull-chain activated grill flap that sealed up the engine compartment for sub-zero Swedish driving. After a cruise on an LA freeway, the heater could bring the red metal dashboard up to egg-frying temperatures. Revving produced a mad popcorn-like pinging set of 2-stroke explosions punctuated by gouts of blue smoke. Take your foot off the pedal, and freewheeling delivered a cliff dive every time you crested a hill.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p>What a great car.</p><p>Eighteen hours after I bought The Nautilus, the engine seized. My girlfriend drove it to the beach. There it died; it would 2-stroke no more. The lady swore she had mixed the oil in with the gas. But the engine seized anyway </p><p>Less than a day into my first car, I started what would become a lifetime of Saab stories.</p><p>The Nautilus was towed to Lindqvist Motors in Culver City. A new engine would be $300, thank-you-very-much. Exactly what I'd paid the Aussie for the beautiful sleek hunk of immobile Swedish metal.</p><p>The Nautilus sat in Ingvar Lindqvist's back lot for three months (no doubt Ingvar was away rallying his <a href="https://www.hemmings.com/stories/2019/06/23/a-race-for-only-the-very-toughest-when-saab-took-on-the-baja-1000" target="_blank">Saab through Baja</a>). I worked as a car jockey at <a href="https://www.curbsideclassic.com/architecture/dealership-classic-casa-de-cadillac-restored-to-its-full-1949-glory/" target="_blank">Lou Ehlers Casa de Cadillac</a> on Wilshire Blvd to earn bail money. I slipped 100's of Detroit blimps in and out of mechanic's stalls to save the money for a rebuilt engine that would drive me north to Berkeley, California, in the summer of '68.</p><p>Eventually, The Nautilus lived again. I took advantage of the fold down the rear seat to turn The Nautilus into a spud-shaped truck. I packed all my worldly goods into the car, using every cubic inch of storage space to make the move north. I must have looked like the hippy version of the clown car act when I unloaded my Saab at my first apartment in South Berkeley.</p><p>I cruised California reveling in the" What is that?" looks of middle-class America. I'd silently freewheel down on a Rambler wagon and fly by a black blur shrouded in two-stroke smoke. I drove the Natulus from Berkeley to L.A. and back a dozen times, averaging about 40 miles to the gallon. </p><p>I could fill a dry gas tank with 96-octane Supreme for $2.97. Often attendants would refuse to add two-stroke oil during a fill-up. </p><p>"You put oil in the gas, and she'll blow, buddy. I ain't doing it!"</p><p>I'd tilt that blue and white Saab oil can into the gas tank, trying not to dribble down the fender while the attendant and his buddies scratched their heads and pointed at the weird machine. </p><p>The Nautilus really was way cool.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiefcCV2Ae6dQAUwypFt-ViX_o0EM4Gh5UpfxrntMsQF-yjhEOCzAZGM-25oks_7mHMMW_APReiDJ08hHwxqEDH7Xzu2ARPZ5n0DL-UTHKXBiRPfm9c2OqqykFlgVlk_zE65-wyRDZNxrjxolz8G7m4KiE7HCNma3lSCodZlG9gNSSxTOpbOw/s550/58saab93.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="550" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiefcCV2Ae6dQAUwypFt-ViX_o0EM4Gh5UpfxrntMsQF-yjhEOCzAZGM-25oks_7mHMMW_APReiDJ08hHwxqEDH7Xzu2ARPZ5n0DL-UTHKXBiRPfm9c2OqqykFlgVlk_zE65-wyRDZNxrjxolz8G7m4KiE7HCNma3lSCodZlG9gNSSxTOpbOw/w381-h211/58saab93.jpg" width="381" /></a></div><p>Well after midnight, on a return run from L.A., I found the outside of the freewheeling envelope. After a long climb, I was coasting the Grapevine on Highway 99, freewheeling and flying low on a long cruise to Bakersfield. The speed jumped quickly - 70, 80, 90, I tried the brakes, but they weren't serious about stopping me. Besides, I was trying to stretch the miles per gallon. </p><p>With the speedometer bumping a hundred, I began to worry about the tires. I felt like a skater on thin rickety blades. By now, the brakes were useless. </p><p>I had only myself to blame as I'd pointedly ignored the advice of the manual about locking the free wheel " ...to utilize the braking action of the engine when going down steep mountain grades... " </p><p>Stiff-armed, I pointed the 93 at the fast lane and held on.</p><p>Suddenly the tiny rearview mirror lit up with the blinding high beams of a 16-wheeler charging down on top of me. The trucker was on his own freewheeling breakaway. </p><p>The truck blew at 140 mph, belching eye-watering clouds of burning brake lining. The big truck's backwash blew me across three lanes. I wrestled The Nautilus back into the fast lane and rolled on. </p><p>I finally coasted down to safe speeds on the flats. I didn't have any trouble staying awake that night. I Bet I averaged 50 miles per gallon that run too.</p><p>I was a mechanical ignoramus depending on the Berkeley Saab agency to get me going when I broke down. Finances dictated a fix it when it stops approach. Other than a set of brakes and a slipping fan belt that sidelined me near Big Sur at 3 a.m. The Nautilus treated me well. </p><p>I cringe now when I remember that due to the insidious effects of </p><p>"Flower Power," the Saab acquired an Indian bedspread headliner. It was a green and tan paisley that also adorned the door panels.</p><p>A young arrogance, a heavy foot, and the call of Saab's rally heritage finally did the Nautilus in. </p><p>Idling a stoplight in Oakland, I glanced over at a blue-haired pensioner in a highly polished Plymouth Valiant four-door sedan. She eyed me nervously. Obviously, she wanted to drag.</p><p>When the light changed, I revved the 2-stroke, blasted a cloud of blue smoke, and popped the clutch. The front tires chirped and stuttered. The Nautilus surged forward, lurched violently, and rolled to a metal-clattering halt in the intersection. A broken right front axle clanked hideously from down below. I was stranded and humiliated in the middle of the road. The Valiant, without so much as a glance from the driver, drove past me.</p><p>I was broke. A busted axle meant a dead Saab. I remember pushing dejectedly on the door jam. The open wing of the suicide door threatened to scoop me up as we gathered speed down the hill. I jumped in for a last miserable freewheel onto a residential side street. </p><p>I was too broke to rescue it. </p><p>So my first car, a jet-black 1960 Saab 93 with portholes on the hood, gathered dust, weeds, and bird droppings until it was tagged, towed, and totaled in an Emeryville car crusher.</p><p>I didn't know it then, but I was permanently hooked on Saabs. This first experience set the pattern for the rest of my automotive life. I tried to kick the Saab habit with Corvairs and VW's, Rovers, and Jaguars. Then I'd relapse, buy an old two-stroke or a couple of V4s, find a dead Saab in a field, and toe it home. I even bought a 900 EMS at a car auction. It burst into electrical flames the day I bought it). </p><p>For years Volvo's were the best Methadone. I drove more sensible Swedish for years! </p><p>Then my willpower collapsed last summer, and I bought a 1971 Saab 96 V4 (Desert Sand, rally rigged). I couldn't pass it by.</p><p>While zipping through the midwinter Tahoe slush, I thought of the tell-tale two-stroke ring and pop of The Nautilus. </p><p>Another slippery slope</p><p>I still miss that car.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9RDOHXAfQXHLrl07lOs-0dyMHKokZ3kETNra7hH0pwpgIbuB8sZbGbXQl9zoL5Kq8selw3FdkR7MEV5lgdNQOU9Iu5BmXW-txeaidcmapM5k2GwnQhP7ZQgSKYKZDwduu8nWKvMXOYUUGC7SZA2uUsQXkBlf7ssMv59dK84EHVDvFNC8kxA/s3457/saab-addition-upper-truckee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3457" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9RDOHXAfQXHLrl07lOs-0dyMHKokZ3kETNra7hH0pwpgIbuB8sZbGbXQl9zoL5Kq8selw3FdkR7MEV5lgdNQOU9Iu5BmXW-txeaidcmapM5k2GwnQhP7ZQgSKYKZDwduu8nWKvMXOYUUGC7SZA2uUsQXkBlf7ssMv59dK84EHVDvFNC8kxA/s320/saab-addition-upper-truckee.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Mz7gCM-odtEtfuu5iTWZnSmyVChWIUB-9R0ZAn2K4psCjSo-78tQVyMsxEaX4G-OclEzl94zN69ce7gUPRfzWPMr4TKcqN0swopWAYSL-VQoflb4_CP9A7Wl9VW0iznGouhGDUFtDxmP-Ev-KP4LED3bF-pjX6C_cRxXb3-dmAfqV398og/s3448/p_g10ag6pezl30291.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2246" data-original-width="3448" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Mz7gCM-odtEtfuu5iTWZnSmyVChWIUB-9R0ZAn2K4psCjSo-78tQVyMsxEaX4G-OclEzl94zN69ce7gUPRfzWPMr4TKcqN0swopWAYSL-VQoflb4_CP9A7Wl9VW0iznGouhGDUFtDxmP-Ev-KP4LED3bF-pjX6C_cRxXb3-dmAfqV398og/s320/p_g10ag6pezl30291.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTlWRbPVCDwjvm-LrEO-agItbZOFmatbEC28g6z8xNN5LQUIH28P5xbIlZgryFVhAI1Om0yLVP-8ApGa35Nef4t6dnFHtMighAVVi1zub5Ac23nnE9Wjd7EzPT-7x4w9uSLLW3UFFiS8rDW2Drts2fzrLaGMsl4bCJxqwcK4Te2VFY490Tg/s3452/p_g10ag6pezl30428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2315" data-original-width="3452" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTlWRbPVCDwjvm-LrEO-agItbZOFmatbEC28g6z8xNN5LQUIH28P5xbIlZgryFVhAI1Om0yLVP-8ApGa35Nef4t6dnFHtMighAVVi1zub5Ac23nnE9Wjd7EzPT-7x4w9uSLLW3UFFiS8rDW2Drts2fzrLaGMsl4bCJxqwcK4Te2VFY490Tg/s320/p_g10ag6pezl30428.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-smYOpmz7u6lNigYXRr6zzp6UZvqleZJRR7Gl4Dl6YhUaeBlumQmOCn8291JsMLOwpDLNiTpHXz4bx5Bh-wGEb8wC3ChR302U_lQd46TvJYRwAougiS-3Xpszy7I4bQQxJgFmTKx-5JY2fKqx3xOGLGGRFj2e2OKRnAtNXeltOBzZPAvL_A/s3455/p_g10ag6pezl30429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2298" data-original-width="3455" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-smYOpmz7u6lNigYXRr6zzp6UZvqleZJRR7Gl4Dl6YhUaeBlumQmOCn8291JsMLOwpDLNiTpHXz4bx5Bh-wGEb8wC3ChR302U_lQd46TvJYRwAougiS-3Xpszy7I4bQQxJgFmTKx-5JY2fKqx3xOGLGGRFj2e2OKRnAtNXeltOBzZPAvL_A/s320/p_g10ag6pezl30429.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-84130649722785736302022-12-24T14:31:00.004-08:002023-04-01T15:22:44.578-07:00 Machapuchare at sunrise<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiJ0Otr2CgfBT2NofChM-GciGXxY0PMG-_WTtKH1o-Npeic5u36a3GD0NBrrpugGK26-FY0DHIHUJAK7SrEf0Lb_lV8D3NG0VRveLAqBFB1OEbb55bi3M0AaNeWBmPoPb_IDcw4PqXhhdxDN1UbiSu-63ouTOkxceBzao9YNl7bN1zPlkEw/s1500/Machapuchare_close-up_of_summit_ridge%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="1500" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiJ0Otr2CgfBT2NofChM-GciGXxY0PMG-_WTtKH1o-Npeic5u36a3GD0NBrrpugGK26-FY0DHIHUJAK7SrEf0Lb_lV8D3NG0VRveLAqBFB1OEbb55bi3M0AaNeWBmPoPb_IDcw4PqXhhdxDN1UbiSu-63ouTOkxceBzao9YNl7bN1zPlkEw/s320/Machapuchare_close-up_of_summit_ridge%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">between breaths</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">the air is still</span></p><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">cumulous clouds torn</span><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">by </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">the fishtail</span><div><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="color: #666666;"><span>vapor fountains </span></span></span></div><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">to the </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">stratosphere</span></div><div><div></div><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">peaceful moment</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif;" /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">charged with certainty</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif;" /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">of storm</span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">eventually</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif;" /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">momentary </span></div><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">stillness</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif;" /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><br />prayer flags flap</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif;" /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">beyond the tent </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif;" /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">it begins again</span></div><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQLNBoGWnKToqYTBSNabcOtnT-pllOsWG8_haGUctOOmCGhuvIHeuQUxtuEdllQdGRfWs3hhweP4dMLD3gopQVvz2GCjZOf67xOTpDcZDHR0OMC453joHzIBleA4N3l5_Uy2d3N21z9aP_2HNq5ImcF9S0KcT1QyBT8tyTP94JzDRVa5ngHQ/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202022-12-24%2014.00.21%20-%20peaceful%20moment%20charged%20with%20certainty%20of%20storm%20followed%20eventually%20with%20momentary%20stillness%20%20then%20hear%20the%20prayer%20flags%20whisper%20beyond%20the%20tent%20flap%20.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQLNBoGWnKToqYTBSNabcOtnT-pllOsWG8_haGUctOOmCGhuvIHeuQUxtuEdllQdGRfWs3hhweP4dMLD3gopQVvz2GCjZOf67xOTpDcZDHR0OMC453joHzIBleA4N3l5_Uy2d3N21z9aP_2HNq5ImcF9S0KcT1QyBT8tyTP94JzDRVa5ngHQ/w269-h269/DALL%C2%B7E%202022-12-24%2014.00.21%20-%20peaceful%20moment%20charged%20with%20certainty%20of%20storm%20followed%20eventually%20with%20momentary%20stillness%20%20then%20hear%20the%20prayer%20flags%20whisper%20beyond%20the%20tent%20flap%20.png" width="269" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666;" /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></span></div><br /></div></div></div>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-66735977216068627152022-03-15T14:56:00.009-07:002023-04-01T15:29:51.794-07:00daily notes in the old snail log<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYID-k-4a7gk7AnO7KHsD-6FcA4YC4tHAisMxMLLl_iZA4AALUX5oMXmyzjJrC77Ogdsrin9BxVp1C-BrjrbGRTdcmmLd92iYImv08T4JfVBPtpxIJHMdhBzN3SR4MyM8J32-ddt7qS3FfDyT6xBBUNAM-lK7-79d1grI9kivr8ekqcfkSw/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-04-01-snail-fugi.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYID-k-4a7gk7AnO7KHsD-6FcA4YC4tHAisMxMLLl_iZA4AALUX5oMXmyzjJrC77Ogdsrin9BxVp1C-BrjrbGRTdcmmLd92iYImv08T4JfVBPtpxIJHMdhBzN3SR4MyM8J32-ddt7qS3FfDyT6xBBUNAM-lK7-79d1grI9kivr8ekqcfkSw/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-04-01-snail-fugi.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">haiku of change </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">on insight timer</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">daily notes in the old snail log</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">scattered leaves on the </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">pond of consciousness </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">meandering past the bodhi tree</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">golden trout giggle </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">while the big fish slumbers </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am a fish swiming to the sea </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">dissolving in the waves </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">wondering</span><span> </span><span>if the atoms of us</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">ever drift</span><span> </span><span>to space</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">will our star dust escape this place?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">or are we bound by Newton </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">to the third planet from our small sun?</span></p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-43098779353883028382022-03-15T14:50:00.005-07:002023-04-01T15:50:00.107-07:00Wilderness Lost<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmcABIOPlRGcQuXduPhVmlxnSGIyojsnqoTAIgfPmLuo24VKfwEYDbYNtKEjvT3av_Zi75I6zko6H18OnplVVId9IXOrKFu2cldeLk3lIcdT8wOKMh8XUCbwCB84qSTO77cHiZCoDX0bS-7hRIBULQ6_KU5cb3QCBWWVCjw8e3t979n9hqw/s1024/hawk-desert.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="1024" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmcABIOPlRGcQuXduPhVmlxnSGIyojsnqoTAIgfPmLuo24VKfwEYDbYNtKEjvT3av_Zi75I6zko6H18OnplVVId9IXOrKFu2cldeLk3lIcdT8wOKMh8XUCbwCB84qSTO77cHiZCoDX0bS-7hRIBULQ6_KU5cb3QCBWWVCjw8e3t979n9hqw/w400-h276/hawk-desert.png" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Do you remember the naked desert?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">time flowed to rock </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Do you recall when this rock was better than that rock?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When the wine was so foul we watered the sand with Gallo red?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You left a clay figure of hopeless to melt</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">abandoned in the cold of winter desert</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">old Saab sliding up hill and down </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">building momentum to crest the summit to Saline valley</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">opening up to </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">sky and rock</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">to the soulless cold of desert night</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">to Death Valley in winter </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Our journeys into the darkness were ways to find the light</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So often we went from alone together to just alone</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You on the path out... me on the path to wildness </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The long high hike alone, with Tolstoy for company</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The high ledge and million star sky </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">a lifelong touchstone</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I lay on the stone and fell into the cosmos </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">always there </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">in my stony heart </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">always there </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my high granite bed </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">under the yawning sky </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">there were signs that said turn back. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">a hawk screeching and flashing talons in my eyes, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">stay away </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span>stay away </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span><span> </span>stay away </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I kept on </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Stepping over a downed log I a wasp stabbed me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">electric shock snapped my head out the hike and into alert. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">signs to turn back? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">challenged to go on</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I hiked</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hawk and wasp echoing</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">widow maker</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> limb fell </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">crash bashed across the path</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">just a step behind</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A pause, a shrug, an extra breath and I'd been dead.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Instead I hike on </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">alone </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">three warnings</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">before </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I found IT </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">on the stone bed in the night. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I found solitude and Tolstoy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I hiked </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span>one hundred miles </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span><span> </span>one hundred miles </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">alone</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">now and then the same </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">now and then connected </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">all I've carried </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">all these years </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">connected</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to song and soaring grace </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">found in the backcountry</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I carry it all </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">blessed</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and still alive!</span></p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-34498548914299431832022-03-15T14:39:00.007-07:002022-03-15T14:40:36.368-07:00 sunday <p><span style="font-size: large;">barrel chest wrapped with pain</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">sore </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">wrapped in a blanket of tears </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">for the pain </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">for the hurt</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">for the weight of </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">a human </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">floating and sinking</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">floating belly to the sky into space</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">between planets in the family orbit</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">touch the face of whatever god you can imagine</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">find </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">strength and peace </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">share it share it share it....</span></p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-27162061273134516732022-03-15T14:36:00.007-07:002023-01-20T16:51:25.959-08:00Old friend<p><span style="font-size: large;"> Old friend</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">lost so many years ago </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">at the cross road</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">solo or family</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">you are alone</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I am not</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">yet we have the same task</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">live with ourselves</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">live with it</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">live</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">hidden memories of trail days</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">bubble like the burp of Yellowstone mud</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">reach to the light</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">form in the mind</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">remember when we were young </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and so dumb</span></p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-84460128006811914562022-02-14T12:54:00.001-08:002023-01-20T16:54:18.901-08:00Know with all my heart<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2woFJ9DAv6NLSGXj68q95T_W4YPzMdEQZjuQvCPRV4FCEfUaATSAEYayHiFQos8FYQvyTvudbQFpKnWa7ya9W3in_5pvlWND52TSDVKVjvkpMuxpJzCdhUW1JcVkgvvV9SITRTqsMz2W0ZmlUQUTjZGC0dGcn-tje6K4hmb7Ue_l44w-skA=s966" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2woFJ9DAv6NLSGXj68q95T_W4YPzMdEQZjuQvCPRV4FCEfUaATSAEYayHiFQos8FYQvyTvudbQFpKnWa7ya9W3in_5pvlWND52TSDVKVjvkpMuxpJzCdhUW1JcVkgvvV9SITRTqsMz2W0ZmlUQUTjZGC0dGcn-tje6K4hmb7Ue_l44w-skA=s320" width="212" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Janice warm inside</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">silent snow sleeps outside</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">blazing inner fire</span></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">touched by winter</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">wind disguised as summer</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">wind chimes </span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">bird song</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">meditating</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">San Diego bird song</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">stills my wandering mind</span></p><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh11uI77mTOcOe7kj3NhyQHtlj-tksOdJLfoHob3bKDXFR_Mp9NHTbcyRc4blSVTBDmeb3UQMo5sZmFNtbJa0W5hrlVfXSGEnfZ-G4hLeb3ioVeLClQNoDYtsKEXtY5t8CplqWumrtqqSlyWM9gvqYyH0Mh_Zy_qWwcZJZy5L4i5cgp2vK8WQ=s568" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="461" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh11uI77mTOcOe7kj3NhyQHtlj-tksOdJLfoHob3bKDXFR_Mp9NHTbcyRc4blSVTBDmeb3UQMo5sZmFNtbJa0W5hrlVfXSGEnfZ-G4hLeb3ioVeLClQNoDYtsKEXtY5t8CplqWumrtqqSlyWM9gvqYyH0Mh_Zy_qWwcZJZy5L4i5cgp2vK8WQ=w249-h306" width="249" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">my breath</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">like the surf sliding</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">on a gentle shore</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">blissful wave</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">breathe balance</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">breathe </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">be present</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">feel the crest</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">with all my heart</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">this song of sweet life</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">we sing together</span></p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-78862304159752983612021-12-20T10:15:00.005-08:002023-01-20T16:58:27.351-08:00Crazy Hiram's Used Computer Emporium<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b>Would you buy an online education from this guy?</b></span><b style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jLGhyY4qgss/S1yMY-0VZ_I/AAAAAAAACKI/sU_WPm74B5I/s400/crazy1.jpg" width="400" /></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(This is a revision of a post published in 2010) </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I was wallowing in Unix and trapped in 1980's corporate computing. I knew it was time to bust the rut and do something different. How to escape?</div><div><br /></div><div>The idea for Hiram Access the computer guru as a printed calendar was born in a Carson City Nevada coffee shop talking with <a href="https://www.wolf-products.com/about-wolf/" target="_blank">Wolf Kohtz</a>. I collaborated with a cartoonist to create a series of 12 cartoons. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let me note for the record, this is a project where the only person to get paid was the artist! <div><br />
The closest I got to a deal was standing in line to talk with the computer columnist John Dvorak. I pitched him with the mock-up calendar. John gave me a one word review: </div><div><br /></div><h1 style="text-align: left;"><blockquote style="text-align: center;">"Cute." ~ John Dvorak </blockquote></h1><div><br /></div><div>That word killed the project for me. Somewhere in the files I still have a proof copy, but the calendar never went to press. In the world before the world wide web, you printed things! </div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">Today I resurrected Hiram Access and 'minted' him as an NFT. </h3><div><b><br /></b></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Update: Now's your chance to own a very limited edition of the "Epiphany Image" of Hiram Access as a gas free NFT on </b><a href="http://t.ly/xeTl" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">OpenSea</a><b>. </b></span></div></blockquote></blockquote><span><a name='more'></a></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Origin of Hiram Access</h3><div>
Hiram learned to concentrate so completely that the propeller on his beanie would spin to the point of lift-off.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jLGhyY4qgss/S1yPYsduHSI/AAAAAAAACKQ/RTLhNowU8E4/s1600-h/hiram.gif" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jLGhyY4qgss/S1yPnd-LgRI/AAAAAAAACKY/RiLoh2CkfGg/s1600/dataman.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jLGhyY4qgss/S1yPnd-LgRI/AAAAAAAACKY/RiLoh2CkfGg/w277-h320/dataman.jpg" width="277" /></a></div><b><br />
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<b>Back up is essential.</b><b> </b>Imagine the despair. Imagine the creative electrons lost when you failed to back up. It's the digital equivalent of scattered pages on the wind. How many times have I written just the right reply, hit post, and seen the screen freeze?<b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="color: black;"><b>Getting Zapped means different things to different people</b>. Some think of the splat of an unexpected paint-ball right in the kisser. Others remember sparking up the Norwegian wood above the tree line in the High Sierras. Or maybe you remember that foggy day in San Francisco when you stumbled into a file box of R. Crumb wonders in a dingy thrift store?</span><span style="color: black;"> What's real when it comes to memory?</span></div>
<span style="color: black;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jLGhyY4qgss/S1yQPnflrRI/AAAAAAAACKo/fhPJHK_VOHs/s1600-h/floater3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jLGhyY4qgss/S1yQPnflrRI/AAAAAAAACKo/fhPJHK_VOHs/w320-h247/floater3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chant today with Hiram Access!</span></div><div>
<br />
So why not wiggle like so many blissful salmon fulfilling their destiny in the ragged creeks of Marin county? I remember climbing under the sheets wiggling in the subconscious hoping to merge with a desperate group of questing weirdos. Hey let's chant to the Web3 gods and put the ideas out there on electronic space. Who l knows other than me and you?</div><span></span><div><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now's your chance to own a very limited edition of the Hiram's origin story as a gas free NFT on <a href="http://t.ly/xeTl" target="_blank">OpenSea</a>. </span></b></div><span><!--more--></span></div>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-86362758580770045482021-10-07T17:30:00.000-07:002021-10-08T17:38:25.784-07:00Confessions of an American TeacherWritten October 14, 2006<br />
Slightly revised June 6, 2014<br />
Minor revision January 19, 2018<div>A bit more revision October 8, 2021<br />
<br />
<br />
I’m tired of saying the right thing. I've taken too many bullets for the team. I've been a Pollyanna with my head stuck up my ass… and a visionary that changed lives for the better. <div><br /></div><div>I walked picket lines, exposed evil, compromised my integrity, and given with all my soul. I've ranted across the desks of more than one superintendent and rolled over for others. </div><div><br /></div><div>I charmed, trashed, ignored, sympathized with, and bullshitted hundreds of parents. I faced surly classes and then flipped them into open-minded learners. I missed as many teachable moments as I caught. I helped some kids gain 4 years on the reading test and ignored others because they were hopeless punks who pissed me off. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hung around in the computer labs and classrooms weeping with inspiration and happiness for simply being part of the learning environment I dreamed of building, </div><div>I hated the deep rut of driving back to school every morning to participate in the systematic destruction of joy and trust that small-minded inane administrators and school board members call education.<br />
<br />
I was an American Teacher for 45 years and I’m sick at heart about public education. I want to tear the system down and let the ferrets run free. I want to teach skepticism and critical thinking and create a generation that will fight for their minds and fight for freedom. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I’m tired of tilting at windmills. I’ve learned to choose my battles. I’m not sure how much fight is left in me.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I just want to scream and tell it all. All the good, all the bad, the lunacy and the laughs and everything in between. Instead, I’ll just blog.<br />
<br />
I got my credential in 1974 despite a system that kept trying to talk me out of wasting my life in the classroom. All my neurotic friends in the graduate English Department at Berkeley thought I was nuts.<br />
<br />
“You’re too good for teaching. Why waste your talent in a classroom?”<br />
<br />
The application committee at the CSUN asked me the same thing (after beating me up for misspelling the word professional in my writing sample). </div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">“You don’t want to teach. There’s no money in it. You won't’ be able to get a job, there are too many teachers already.”</div></blockquote><div>
<br />
But I was stubborn and burned out by the life I’d been leading and looking for direction. Up in Canada, I made a deep woods camp. I spent time on mountain tops and in the wild thinking about it all. It gets old talking to fish and sitting on the high ground with a rifle. Ultimately, you are left with the questions only you can answer…<br />
<br />
My career choices came down to law or education. I could be a lawyer or a teacher. I could make a living working with people at their worst or helping kids learn. I chose to teach and despite 45 years of classroom joy and pain, I don’t regret the choice.</div><div><br /></div><span></span><span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br />Growing up in the cold war meant institutionalized drop drills and living with the gut-grinding anxiety of being nuked out of existence. Junior high conditioned me like a rat in a skinner box to jump, duck and cringe under my desk.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis and the afternoon when everyone thought the button would be pushed. The adults building bomb shelters. That feeling is always there. I saw fighting in the supermarket, the shelves empty.</div></div><div>
<br /><b>
"Drop" the teacher shouted in a voice that said it was all real. </b><br />
<br />I curled up under that pitiful flimsy wooden desk. I imagined the flash and blast of a hydrogen bomb taking out downtown LA. The pressure wave rolling over the hills to the valley where I’d be toasted alive.</div><div><br /></div><div>
I remember the horror of thinking the screaming air raid sirens were for real. I remember just wanting to ride my bike home so I could die with my family. Instead, I cowered on the floor, weeping, huddled on the dirty linoleum of the overheated classroom, back to the wall under the windows so the flying glass wouldn't shred me.<br />
<br />
The teacher was crying, she couldn't answer as we begged, </div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">“Is it real? Is it the bomb?” </div></blockquote><div><br /></div><div>The teacher was sobbing, kids were running through the halls screaming…it had to be real. I was going to die, away from my mom and dad and brother. I just wanted to ride my bike home and die with my family. But I was too scared to move. </div><div><br /></div><div>After fifteen minutes the moron who was principal got on the P.A to announce it was all just a drill.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y13BLD38HFo/U5JTLCOj9SI/AAAAAAAAJ2s/IKKqHAR_4lY/s1600/drop-drill.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="504" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y13BLD38HFo/U5JTLCOj9SI/AAAAAAAAJ2s/IKKqHAR_4lY/s1600/drop-drill.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I learned a lot that day. I learned that faced with certain death I was too afraid to get up off the floor. Nice lesson.<br />
<br />
That’s the lesson of mainstream American education: just curl up in a ball and wait for it… lay on the floor and pray… let’s spend lots of money to train kids this way… "...children, when it comes to a fiery death, STOP! DROP! and wait for it like sheep."<br />
<br />
In my day it was the Russians and ICBMs, overkill and nothing left but the cockroaches. Now it’s a Stalinist dictator with a nuke or a Jihadi hoping to pack a bomb in a suitcase…or an FBI agent breaking down a door and dragging out an 8th grader for threatening the president on Facebook… and let’s not forget the twisted 15-year-old in a trenchcoat shooting kids in the head while they lay on the floor praying.<br />
<br /><b>It was Mr. Pinto, my 8th-grade social studies teacher, who saved my mind from the terror. </b>After the phony air raid, Mr. Pinto gave me a way to deal with my fear. </div><div><br /></div><div>We were debating nuclear war in his Social Studies class and someone asked him what he’d do if the air raid sirens went off for real. Just thinking about this 60 years later makes my stomach knot… but it makes me smile too.<br />
<br />
I can still hear Mr. Pinto's voice, </div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">“Kids, if the bomb gets dropped we’re all finished. We’re so close to prime targets there’s nothing we can do. I’m not hiding under my desk. I’m getting a six pack of beer, and a folding chair and climbing up on the roof where I can see it all. It will be one hell of a light show."</div></blockquote><div>
<br />
We all started to laugh. “The teacher said hell!” Nuclear annihilation suddenly seemed funny. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mr. Pinto with a little smidgen of honesty, helped me vent the paranoid steam of the arms race. He gave me a way to confront my fear and begin to stand. His fatalistic and funny advice gave me a game plan.<br />
<br />
I was 13 years old. That’s when I started thinking seriously about being a teacher. I could say things that might help people… and get summers off!<br />
<br /><b>
After decades as a teacher, it seems right that my career choice was founded on visions of Armageddon laced with fatalistic humor. </b></div><div><br /></div><div>My years in the public school classroom were both sublime and mediocre. I love it and I hate it. I went farther and did more than I ever dreamed possible and I’m still dissatisfied with what I’ve accomplished. </div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve met some of the finest people on the planet and I’ve uncovered power-corrupted evil-doers. I’ve fought the good fight, won some, and lost more.<br />
<br />
I stood up for my principles and was cut off at the knees.<br />
<br />
I’m not done. I still want to break on through to the other side. If that means taking another beating, I will punch back.<br />
<br />
I’m still standing… maybe I’m standing on stumps, but I’m still upright.<br />
<br />
...<br />
Post Script<br />
<br />
I came across this piece and was reminded of the passion I felt at the time. This was one last vent written as I transitioned from teaching school into online teaching in college. </div><div><br /></div><div>The venting worked. The anger is gone. The memories are mostly good. More sweet than bitter. The few decades of teaching online to help American Teachers yoked to the nonsense of NCLB have sharpened my empathy and reinforced the wisdom of my decision to leave public school behind.<br />
<br />
For many years now I've been a teacher of teachers. Working online allowed me to look through the windows of so many brave and dedicated teachers. It's good for my soul.<br />
<br />
I still like being an agent of disruption. I'm glad the silos of education are cracking. </div><div><br /></div><div>Cracking lets some light in. </div></div>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-24242423219497482542020-11-11T13:43:00.003-08:002021-01-09T19:37:10.003-08:00Remembering My Grandfather Frank Thomas O'Connor November 11, 2020 <p><span style="font-size: medium;">My grandfather, Frank Thomas O'Connor was born on May 29, 1894, in Omaha, Nebraska. He died February 25, 1965, in Los Angeles, California, at the age of 70.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Frank, was a graduate of Creighton University, where he boxed and played football. At age 23, in 1917 he was working as a Public Defender in Omaha. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4LRjWzHXlNU/X6xQCXscMOI/AAAAAAAAgU8/IXyuXGaDzTcrL9j6ZtyWGgfV95RL3HAuACLcBGAsYHQ/s988/Frank%2BOConnor1916.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="988" data-original-width="562" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4LRjWzHXlNU/X6xQCXscMOI/AAAAAAAAgU8/IXyuXGaDzTcrL9j6ZtyWGgfV95RL3HAuACLcBGAsYHQ/w364-h640/Frank%2BOConnor1916.jpg" width="364" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">He tried to volunteer to become an officer in the AEF. They turned him down because of an eye injury he got when he was a teenager. He sang in an Irish trio. Here's a picture of Frank (in the middle) at age 18.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m-OS3BP71fY/X6xMSSRA3AI/AAAAAAAAgUo/lM5voizNR9cMkxtavdyygpHeg5PvRHuagCLcBGAsYHQ/s806/the-trio.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="604" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m-OS3BP71fY/X6xMSSRA3AI/AAAAAAAAgUo/lM5voizNR9cMkxtavdyygpHeg5PvRHuagCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/the-trio.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The family story is that Frank and his friends loved to sing together. They were walking down some street in South Omaha and saw a sign on a bar that said, "No Irish Allowed". Of course, they went in to talk about it. During the fight, Frank was hit across the face with a bottle that broke and cut his eye. </span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The army wouldn't take him as an officer, but they did draft him into the infantry and made him into a machine gunner. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3PjEZP6F60c/X6xQe0eusBI/AAAAAAAAgVE/gYcUbCpkG30BDE0IKnookfx0Qf44FCw9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s658/draftcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="658" data-original-width="534" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3PjEZP6F60c/X6xQe0eusBI/AAAAAAAAgVE/gYcUbCpkG30BDE0IKnookfx0Qf44FCw9ACLcBGAsYHQ/w520-h640/draftcard.jpg" width="520" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Frank served Company A, 341st Machine Gun Battalion, 177th Brigade, 89th Division of the American Expeditionary Force. He trained at <span class="highlightedWord" face="HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue Light", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, "Lucida Grande", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Camp</span><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue Light", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, "Lucida Grande", sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="highlightedWord" face="HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue Light", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, "Lucida Grande", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Funston</span><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue Light", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, "Lucida Grande", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #595959;">, </span><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue Light", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, "Lucida Grande", sans-serif" style="background-color: white;">Fort Riley, Kansas.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r1usBBmB5Hc/X6w7DnlcG-I/AAAAAAAAgTs/2LI1mqZv-AA80pkKZPnuhVGy_k8w6Ks2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s421/Frank%2BOConnor%2BCamp%2BFunston%2BKansas%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="325" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r1usBBmB5Hc/X6w7DnlcG-I/AAAAAAAAgTs/2LI1mqZv-AA80pkKZPnuhVGy_k8w6Ks2QCLcBGAsYHQ/w494-h640/Frank%2BOConnor%2BCamp%2BFunston%2BKansas%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="494" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--WU4aRpHdpo/X6w7hPJGWaI/AAAAAAAAgT0/rs-EgptbS5o7LcF4cKfKTrty5BN3A9brwCLcBGAsYHQ/s660/frankoconnorWW1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="441" data-original-width="660" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--WU4aRpHdpo/X6w7hPJGWaI/AAAAAAAAgT0/rs-EgptbS5o7LcF4cKfKTrty5BN3A9brwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/frankoconnorWW1.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ujHMYO23Np8/X6xD-RMnloI/AAAAAAAAgUA/Fyws-rhDHT083pzydWx14JI8vwvmCi2ywCLcBGAsYHQ/s439/frank-germany-when.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="264" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ujHMYO23Np8/X6xD-RMnloI/AAAAAAAAgUA/Fyws-rhDHT083pzydWx14JI8vwvmCi2ywCLcBGAsYHQ/w384-h640/frank-germany-when.jpg" width="384" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Machine Gun Battalion</span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zy4xR8RwoYQ?start=109" width="560"></iframe>
</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="font-size: medium;">BATTLE PARTICIPATION OF THE 89TH DIVISION.</span></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="font-size: medium;">341st Machine Gun Battalion</span></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="font-size: medium;">—</span></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(1) Lucey sector, Toul, France, 10 August-ll September 1918.</span></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(2) St. Mihiel offensive, France, 12 September-16 September 1918.</span></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(3) Euvezin sector, Toul, France, 17 September-7 October 1918.</span></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(4) Meuse-Argonne offensive, France, 19 October-11 November 1918.</span></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Frank remained in Germany assigned to the military police until he returned home in 1919.</span></span></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dlx5xXhC82A/X6xEhbX_csI/AAAAAAAAgUM/-MKN7z0Y6OglXKdKfik1VbQlPdqH5QacQCLcBGAsYHQ/s525/frank-germany1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="335" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dlx5xXhC82A/X6xEhbX_csI/AAAAAAAAgUM/-MKN7z0Y6OglXKdKfik1VbQlPdqH5QacQCLcBGAsYHQ/w408-h640/frank-germany1.jpg" width="408" /></a></span></div><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959; font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N1AgVFeyuUk/X6xEheTCq4I/AAAAAAAAgUI/m99UDojHYPArfXy0ANOZzi-AIAZ4jLLewCLcBGAsYHQ/s521/frank-germany2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="521" data-original-width="317" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N1AgVFeyuUk/X6xEheTCq4I/AAAAAAAAgUI/m99UDojHYPArfXy0ANOZzi-AIAZ4jLLewCLcBGAsYHQ/w390-h640/frank-germany2.jpg" width="390" /></a></div><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span face="HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif" style="color: #595959;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He was part of the first element of the 89th Division to sail from Brest Brest France upon the Leviathan May l5 (1919) troops comprised the 355th Infantry, the 353rd Infantry, and 340th and 341st Machine Gun Battalions.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Frank's experiences in the trenches marked him for life. As a machine gunner, his job was to clear the way for the infantry. He survived gas attacks, shelling, very few of his friends ever got back to Omaha. He survived the Battle of Argonne Forest a deadly campaign resulting in over 26,000 US soldiers being killed in action (KIA) and over 120,000 total casualties.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I was a young boy told me a few stories about the war. He was a taciturn man. When a story came, it seemed to erupt </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">He repeatedly told me how important it was to take care of my feet. "Keep 'em dry. Otherwise, it's trench foot and they'll just rot away." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Don't tell me about religion. I'll tell you what it gets you. I remember when one of the men just jumped up and started preaching. He was really screaming about Jesus and a bunch of the guys gathered around to listen. A shell hit and killed them all. That's what religion gets you."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I got lost in the trenches. I was out in the mud for days. No water. It was night and I heard voices, I was so hungry and thirsty I just jumped into the crater. It was full of Germans, they were as startled as I was, I managed to get away before they could shoot me."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I can only imagine what must be going on in his head in this photo from 1941. He's got his arm around my dad, Jack E. O'Connor. Dad was a Lieutenant in the Army Air Corps, home on leave. He survived WWII and carried his own scars.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hQchVCECWBY/X6xZ2yogOZI/AAAAAAAAgVg/aBfV0vn9N1kzkpcAGvdsrFf9CowTbhp-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s789/jack-frank2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="789" height="386" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hQchVCECWBY/X6xZ2yogOZI/AAAAAAAAgVg/aBfV0vn9N1kzkpcAGvdsrFf9CowTbhp-wCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h386/jack-frank2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="color: #595959;"><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="color: #595959;">This day, 102 years ago, my Grandfather was alive on the battlefield </b></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>with the smell of the Argonne on him when </b></span><b style="color: #595959; font-size: large;">World War 1 ended at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. </b></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">War is pain that echoes in the genes. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My Father and Grandfather were scarred for life by the death they survived as young men. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Memorial Day is more than a calendar event.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f2X9TiGetPM/X_p2SAW4MfI/AAAAAAAAom0/o3sHHvSlYSgt-NYXPcGNaRF3Os4AnKi2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="751" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f2X9TiGetPM/X_p2SAW4MfI/AAAAAAAAom0/o3sHHvSlYSgt-NYXPcGNaRF3Os4AnKi2QCLcBGAsYHQ/w563-h751/IMG_7471.JPG" width="563" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-11526329126047916382020-04-16T10:12:00.002-07:002020-08-03T10:41:08.527-07:00a momentThe queen<br />
on her throne<br />
under flowering Matisse<br />
froggy nudes looking coy<br />
the seal infuses mushrooms<br />
we laugh<br />
a wet bird hops at midnight<br />
we laugh<br />
two birds tied together<br />
tap dance on the tiles<br />
we laugh<br />
together at last<br />
the doors open<br />
we are the light<br />
hearts joined<br />
still time<br />
joyful moment<br />
we<br />
are<br />
onewiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-4757293132878394962019-04-15T17:02:00.002-07:002023-03-23T16:00:51.565-07:00April 15, 2019<p>present moment </p><p>perfect</p><p>love ripples</p><p>out</p><p>ripples </p><p>back</p><p>from infinite space</p><p>to infinite place</p><p>riders</p><p>senders</p><p>sharing our water</p><p>and our cheese sandwiches.</p>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-5791308219436985222018-01-19T14:16:00.002-08:002020-08-03T10:40:20.064-07:00Esther Alvina Ellinghuesen<h3 style="background-color: #5e6770; box-sizing: inherit; color: whitesmoke; font-family: "source sans pro", "helvetica neue", arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Teacher, Publisher, Missionary: What an amazing woman.</span></h3>
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To this day, artifacts of Esther are present in my life. </div>
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A battered camel saddle bought in a Cairo souk 60 years ago. </div>
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Huge brass candlesticks.</div>
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Inlaid boxes, falling to pieces.</div>
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Just tourist trinkets that seeded my life with the desire to travel and see the places of my childhood imagination.</div>
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Inside Tut's Tomb</div>
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The Lion Gate at Mycenae </div>
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Standing atop the Great Pyramid looking out over the Sahara</div>
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The Palace at Knossus</div>
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Luxor</div>
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The Nile</div>
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The Taj Mahal</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Fatehpur Sikri </div>
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The Toy Train to Darjeeling</div>
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Kanchenjunga</div>
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Dhaulagiri</div>
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Machupuchare</div>
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Annapurna</div>
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Kaziranga</div>
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Thank you, Esther</div>
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wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-72163022785119206062017-10-18T10:57:00.002-07:002017-10-18T10:57:25.383-07:00Henri's crapgameHenri Pierre Hillinck<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="300" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/347494012&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
<br />
For more of Henri's art see his Pinterest Page: <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/wiredinstructor/the-art-of-henri-pierre-hillinck-1900-1959/">https://www.pinterest.com/wiredinstructor/the-art-of-henri-pierre-hillinck-1900-1959/</a>wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-67071995716494641302016-06-12T17:27:00.000-07:002023-01-20T17:28:32.142-08:00Play The Circle Game<br />
<br />
once I'm gone<br />
<br />
Scatter the ashes off <br />
<br />
point loma where my mom<br />
<br />
and dad <br />
<br />
dissolved<br />
<br />
past time<br />
<br />
Know <br />
<br />
I found my way to heaven<br />
<br />
5 minutes at a time<br />
<br />
Keep the sweet knowledge <br />
<br />
of my love for you <br />
<br />
Sing a song<br />
<br />
Lift a stein<br />
<br />
shed a sentimental tear<br />
<br />
know <br />
<br />
you are loved<br />
<br />
~Dad<br />
<br />
(sunday in la mesa 6/12/16)wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-80423553888106193762016-06-11T12:04:00.000-07:002016-06-11T12:04:45.618-07:00Erin- so many belated birth daysThinking about my daughter Erin. She'll always be my little girl, even though today she is young, vibrant, intelligent and very loving woman. I'm so proud of you Erin. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FYXbd5spc3g/VFxn7oRJUxI/AAAAAAAAKxA/m72L04loz2I/s1600/young-erin-oliver1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FYXbd5spc3g/VFxn7oRJUxI/AAAAAAAAKxA/m72L04loz2I/s1600/young-erin-oliver1.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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I remember you sleeping in your flannel pj's with Oliver the cat purring in the warmth. This picture feels like a Tahoe Christmas.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HLvTU8JM-go/VFxn3qwaAnI/AAAAAAAAKwg/aHC3yVgH0I4/s1600/young-erin-dennis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HLvTU8JM-go/VFxn3qwaAnI/AAAAAAAAKwg/aHC3yVgH0I4/s1600/young-erin-dennis.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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In the front room at the Upper Truckee house. I think that little umbrella was still around when we finally moved back in 2006. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2IOVBSkJ2Ds/VFxn0o2idkI/AAAAAAAAKwQ/TApW-DpwvG8/s1600/father-daughter-dance-erin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2IOVBSkJ2Ds/VFxn0o2idkI/AAAAAAAAKwQ/TApW-DpwvG8/s1600/father-daughter-dance-erin.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
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The father daughter dance at your school got us both dressed up. Can you remember us standing on the back deck at Tahoe? </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tm3ehrSERKI/VFxoRBV2SHI/AAAAAAAAKxQ/_b0Ts2LjXD0/s1600/erin-honey-den.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tm3ehrSERKI/VFxoRBV2SHI/AAAAAAAAKxQ/_b0Ts2LjXD0/s1600/erin-honey-den.png" width="270" /></a></div>
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Here we are with your great grandmother Lillian Hillinck. We all called her Honey. Do you remember Honey? She loved you so.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CEmqhbQRbGk/VFxn0B_3oMI/AAAAAAAAKwM/fXsPrWfeqro/s1600/erin-young-soccer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CEmqhbQRbGk/VFxn0B_3oMI/AAAAAAAAKwM/fXsPrWfeqro/s1600/erin-young-soccer.jpg" width="273" /></a></div>
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My soccer girl. How many games do you think you played over the years? Some of the best memories of my life happened on those side lines watching you run and play. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2uZjJ-IzrFc/VFxnzH4zquI/AAAAAAAAKv8/NW43eZwcSpw/s1600/erin-soccer-team.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2uZjJ-IzrFc/VFxnzH4zquI/AAAAAAAAKv8/NW43eZwcSpw/s1600/erin-soccer-team.jpg" width="273" /></a></div>
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There were some golden moments connected with soccer (there still are). </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-amdjo054MqQ/Sm3PaYTRQSI/AAAAAAAAD78/F-aAKFQTPRU/s1600/Hana%2BHighway%2B8_4_05%2B273.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-amdjo054MqQ/Sm3PaYTRQSI/AAAAAAAAD78/F-aAKFQTPRU/s1600/Hana%2BHighway%2B8_4_05%2B273.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Maui in 2005 with Kyle. That summer before you were off to school was special. I like remembering the sun and the water and the smiles on your faces. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vhNOX3FWa5Q/Sm3ZUgowlmI/AAAAAAAABJA/eiKPBVjcy4s/s1600/maui07_29_05%2B022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vhNOX3FWa5Q/Sm3ZUgowlmI/AAAAAAAABJA/eiKPBVjcy4s/s1600/maui07_29_05%2B022.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
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You are so beautiful. </div>
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I'm a lucky man. </div>
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Happy birthday Erin.</div>
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<br />wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-51347488370436974452015-09-26T13:39:00.000-07:002015-09-26T14:04:14.683-07:00Recipe for meditation on a saturday morningThree small cups of coffee,<br />
spaced over several hours<br />
mix in a portion of<br />
coconut coffee sand<br />
sip and savor <br />
rattle on for an hour<br />
then another cup of Trader Joe Chai<br />
Costa Rican beans all in Jack's<br />
small thick porcelain cup<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RxdSxxAAr00/UQ6gX7d5FmI/AAAAAAAAHi8/TiYs3B2VX_U/s1600/jacks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RxdSxxAAr00/UQ6gX7d5FmI/AAAAAAAAHi8/TiYs3B2VX_U/s200/jacks.jpg" width="149" /></a><br />
<br />
tied to an iPhone<br />
learning to breathe<br />
and be<br />
via bluetooth<br />
<br />
Am I that Jacked up?<br />
<br />
snapshots from the big picture window<br />
in La Mesa...<br />
<br />
watch birds in Enrique's pepper tree<br />
<br />
a jungle at eyeball level <br />
cactus and flowering trumpet vines<br />
crawl the veined pepper bark<br />
<br />
flit from feeder to tree<br />
<br />
watch with cataract clear eyes<br />
then with my Alaska binocs<br />
see sparrows the size of pigeons<br />
poised in the peppercorns and leaves<br />
<br />
...and dream for the kids.<br />
<br />
we talk of how our children will grow<br />
their children<br />
through the future<br />
that's beyond<br />
our reasonable reach<br />
and smile old folks smiles<br />
and remember being young<br />
<br />
another ingredient:<br />
<br />
30 minutes of caffeine induced focus<br />
spent doing meaningful work for pay<br />
<br />
help my students find a path<br />
learn to think, research, imagine<br />
a teacher's life<br />
without the cells and bells<br />
trading the classroom<br />
for a computer and phone<br />
<br />
que the chorus<br />
<br />
can I do it?<br />
is it possible?<br />
could I be happy?<br />
could I live this way?<br />
<br />
and then the morning chores ... wrong word<br />
duties? <br />
not quite<br />
opportunities<br />
... yes <br />
helping janice<br />
defines my present<br />
knowing<br />
moments are just moments<br />
being together is a gift<br />
we didn't appreciate<br />
until<br />
it was almost lost.<br />
<br />
Yes a bit of marital laughter<br />
saturday morning confluence<br />
then, with a laugh...<br />
off to mediate<br />
on three cups<br />
of strong coffee<br />
<br />
And to my surprise listening to<br />
<a href="http://www.healthjourneys.com/Store/Products/Sacred-Pause/216" target="_blank">Karen Sother's Sacred Pause</a><br />
--- well worn words<br />
--- worked<br />
<br />
caught me up<br />
helped me find the (not so )<br />
still quiet place of mediation<br />
add spontaneous yoga<br />
i am in the breath<br />
escaping the spit of time<br />
<br />
watched the floaters dance<br />
shadow sheeted<br />
on back lit eyelids<br />
the breath moves<br />
the liquids of me<br />
in clockwise motion<br />
iFind<br />
"peace in the midst of it all"<br />
<br />
Is it as simple as mixing some spiced, dark roast<br />
into Jack's cup and<br />
laying down on my mat<br />
with Karen Sothers in my ears?<br />
<br />
yes... on this saturday morning<br />
that's all it took<br />
used the jingle jangle coffee<br />
to power the moment<br />
escape the tail chase<br />
of persistent distractions<br />
that track my<br />
worn worrier's mind.<br />
<br />
what will work for you?<br />
will you try something new?<br />
or shrug and tug<br />
at your triggers<br />
till the monkey roars<br />
and time becomes<br />
like a toothache<br />
in the night<br />
<br />
my screen saver<br />
<a href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAcQjRxqFQoTCOLcj5XMlcgCFQTSgAodPnMMcg&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwall.alphacoders.com%2Fbig.php%3Fi%3D399853&psig=AFQjCNESQvOkLlnfO_UeZO3CnOHXz0251g&ust=1443387652051058" target="_blank">Machupuchare</a> at sunrise<br />
the air is still<br />
cumulous clouds<br />
over the fishtail<br />
vapor mountains<br />
in the<br />
stratosphere <br />
<br />
peaceful moment<br />
charged with certainty<br />
of storm<br />
followed eventually<br />
with momentary stillness<br />
<br />
then hear the prayer flags<br />
whisper beyond the tent flap<br />
as it begins again<br />
<br />wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-83496733464039315842014-12-12T08:16:00.001-08:002014-12-12T08:29:49.926-08:00Toni's Dad after Chosin Resevoir<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wGHQj8czmkU/VIsWhGZOpQI/AAAAAAAALmc/KvqpB72onyw/s1600/toni-dad2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wGHQj8czmkU/VIsWhGZOpQI/AAAAAAAALmc/KvqpB72onyw/s1600/toni-dad2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://life.time.com/history/korean-war-classic-photos-by-david-douglas-duncan/attachment/10_marine-w-sleeping-bag/">http://life.time.com/history/korean-war-classic-photos-by-david-douglas-duncan/attachment/10_marine-w-sleeping-bag/</a></div>
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Other images from <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=chosin+reservoir&espv=2&biw=1536&bih=716&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=uxOLVOm-DIGKNunQg4gB&ved=0CDAQsAQ&dpr=1.25" target="_blank">Chosin Resevoir</a></div>
<br />wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842010.post-4162370018524896152014-06-04T18:29:00.000-07:002014-06-04T18:29:01.397-07:00Last Days in the classroom (then and now).Came across this as I sorted through my old papers in preparation for another move. Gratifying to recall that my last days in the classroom had sweetness and light. Thank you Christina for the kind words (then and now).<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pK-Q_OOdnyg/U4-4M28HzqI/AAAAAAAAJ2U/tk0A_htnYqY/s1600/last-days-kms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pK-Q_OOdnyg/U4-4M28HzqI/AAAAAAAAJ2U/tk0A_htnYqY/s1600/last-days-kms.jpg" height="640" width="464" /></a></div>
<br />wiredinstructorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221464821539727027noreply@blogger.com0