Steven Harper's Blog, page 33
August 30, 2021
So Many Kittens Underneath the Shed, Update 1
This morning, Darwin set the traps, baited with wet food, after I left for work. Within an hour, the mother was in the first trap. Darwin left her in it and moved the other traps so they were next to hers. Not much later, we had two kittens in each trap. When Darwin went outside to check them, he found the remaining kittens sleeping on top of the mother's trap. She growled when he approached. The kittens sprang awake and bolted away.
Darwin is working at home today and couldn't spend hours dealing with the cats, so he had to leave things as they were. When I got home, we both went out to have a look at the situation.
The doors to the traps open by sliding upward. I realized we could combine the traps by facing the doors to each other, sliding them up, and shooing the kittens from one trap into another. Then we'd have a free trap, and the kittens would feel better.
We did this, and it worked very well. Then I thought, why not do that for the mother? So did it again, creating a mother-kitten corridor. Except the mother refused to leave her trap, and the kittens refused to leave their trap. I finally crouched down and blew a few puffs of air on the kittens. They backed away from this and finally noticed their mother was waiting for them at the other end of the double trap. They ran over to her, and we closed the doors.
Three more kittens to go!
I set the empty traps on either side of the occupied traps, and left. About twenty minutes later, I came downstairs to take out the trash and saw one black kitten in one of the traps, one calico kitten sleeping on top of the mother's trap (we'd covered the trap with a blanket to make the cats feel more secure) and one gray kitten crouched near the shed. I was able to slip up close to the trap. The crouching kitten saw me and scampered away, but the calico was too dead asleep. I reached down and YOINK! I had it gently by the scruff. It went limp--carrying reflex. I put in and the black kitten the main trap with the others, reset the two traps, and left.
One more kitten to go!
We'll see what happens next...
comments
Darwin is working at home today and couldn't spend hours dealing with the cats, so he had to leave things as they were. When I got home, we both went out to have a look at the situation.
The doors to the traps open by sliding upward. I realized we could combine the traps by facing the doors to each other, sliding them up, and shooing the kittens from one trap into another. Then we'd have a free trap, and the kittens would feel better.
We did this, and it worked very well. Then I thought, why not do that for the mother? So did it again, creating a mother-kitten corridor. Except the mother refused to leave her trap, and the kittens refused to leave their trap. I finally crouched down and blew a few puffs of air on the kittens. They backed away from this and finally noticed their mother was waiting for them at the other end of the double trap. They ran over to her, and we closed the doors.
Three more kittens to go!
I set the empty traps on either side of the occupied traps, and left. About twenty minutes later, I came downstairs to take out the trash and saw one black kitten in one of the traps, one calico kitten sleeping on top of the mother's trap (we'd covered the trap with a blanket to make the cats feel more secure) and one gray kitten crouched near the shed. I was able to slip up close to the trap. The crouching kitten saw me and scampered away, but the calico was too dead asleep. I reached down and YOINK! I had it gently by the scruff. It went limp--carrying reflex. I put in and the black kitten the main trap with the others, reset the two traps, and left.
One more kitten to go!
We'll see what happens next...
comments
August 29, 2021
So Many Kittens Underneath the Shed
Our condominium complex has a small storage shed. It sits on blocks in a corner of the parking lot. About a week ago, we residents noticed The Kittens.
Kittens spilled out from underneath the shed like popcorn from a popper. One, two, three . . . seven in all. We have a calico, two blacks, a gray, two tabbies, and a tuxedo. They're completely adorable. They play under the nearby trees and chase each other across the grass. Best estimate is that they're five weeks old. Their mother watches. She looks haggard. Nursing seven kittens is a lot of work. All of them vanish under the shed when any human gets too close.
The condo association Board was wringing its hands. Woe is us! What shall we do with Teh Kittehs? We can't think of anything! All we can do iz tell residents not to feed Kittehs, 'cuz if we don't feeds dem, dey not stay anymore and will move away and be problemz for someone elz.
Seriously? THAT was their solution?
Darwin and I went down to the shed with some cans of cat food. We cracked open a can, scattered the contents on the grass beside the shed, sat down a few feet away, and waited.
Within a couple minutes, kitten heads poked out from under the shed. Something sure smelled good! Finally, two of the braver ones crept out and found manna from humans. Their success encouraged the rest to come out, and the mother finally joined them.
This told us that the cats weren't feral. The mother acted more like a shy stray than a feral. The kittens were wary, and they wouldn't let us get close enough to touch them, but they didn't act like wild animals, either. They were probably rescuable. We think the mother was dumped when her owner learned she was pregnant.
We left the cats more food, against the hand-wringing Board's order, and went back inside, where I revved up the Internet. I Googled and I posted notices on local bulletin boards, searching for groups that rescue such cats. In a short time, I had the names of several organizations. I looked up their web sites and started sending emails.
The next day, I was chatting with Jen from Trapping Feral Kitties, a volunteer rescue group in nearby Pontiac. She agreed that the kittens could probably be rehabilitated, and possibly the mother, too. She came out today, the same day I talked to her, with a set of traps for us to set tomorrow morning, when the cats are likely to be active. The plan is to do our best to catch the mother, because the kittens will follow her anywhere. We're not above using captured kittens as bait for the mother, either!
After they're captured, TFK will put them up with fosters and see if they can be trained to accept humans. We'll see what happens.
Meanwhile, I printed up flyers explaining what's going on and telling everyone to stay away from the traps, even if they see a cat in them. I posted them around the complex.
See? That wasn't so hard.
Meanwhile, we're keeping our fingers crossed for Teh Kittehs.
comments
Kittens spilled out from underneath the shed like popcorn from a popper. One, two, three . . . seven in all. We have a calico, two blacks, a gray, two tabbies, and a tuxedo. They're completely adorable. They play under the nearby trees and chase each other across the grass. Best estimate is that they're five weeks old. Their mother watches. She looks haggard. Nursing seven kittens is a lot of work. All of them vanish under the shed when any human gets too close.
The condo association Board was wringing its hands. Woe is us! What shall we do with Teh Kittehs? We can't think of anything! All we can do iz tell residents not to feed Kittehs, 'cuz if we don't feeds dem, dey not stay anymore and will move away and be problemz for someone elz.
Seriously? THAT was their solution?
Darwin and I went down to the shed with some cans of cat food. We cracked open a can, scattered the contents on the grass beside the shed, sat down a few feet away, and waited.
Within a couple minutes, kitten heads poked out from under the shed. Something sure smelled good! Finally, two of the braver ones crept out and found manna from humans. Their success encouraged the rest to come out, and the mother finally joined them.
This told us that the cats weren't feral. The mother acted more like a shy stray than a feral. The kittens were wary, and they wouldn't let us get close enough to touch them, but they didn't act like wild animals, either. They were probably rescuable. We think the mother was dumped when her owner learned she was pregnant.
We left the cats more food, against the hand-wringing Board's order, and went back inside, where I revved up the Internet. I Googled and I posted notices on local bulletin boards, searching for groups that rescue such cats. In a short time, I had the names of several organizations. I looked up their web sites and started sending emails.
The next day, I was chatting with Jen from Trapping Feral Kitties, a volunteer rescue group in nearby Pontiac. She agreed that the kittens could probably be rehabilitated, and possibly the mother, too. She came out today, the same day I talked to her, with a set of traps for us to set tomorrow morning, when the cats are likely to be active. The plan is to do our best to catch the mother, because the kittens will follow her anywhere. We're not above using captured kittens as bait for the mother, either!
After they're captured, TFK will put them up with fosters and see if they can be trained to accept humans. We'll see what happens.
Meanwhile, I printed up flyers explaining what's going on and telling everyone to stay away from the traps, even if they see a cat in them. I posted them around the complex.
See? That wasn't so hard.
Meanwhile, we're keeping our fingers crossed for Teh Kittehs.
comments
The New School Year 2021
School started last week.
We're not as excited as you might think.
Some years, I'm ready to get back to it. Some years, I still feel like I need a couple more weeks. This time? I need another year. Teaching under the pandemic, with a virtual classroom first semester and a hybrid classroom second semester, was a real burnout. My reserves and my emergency reserves and my special, secret hidden reserves were all depleted, and they haven't been replenished. If I had the years, I would have joined the many teachers who retired. But I don't, so here we go.
This year, the emphasis--for me, at least--is an attempt to return to regularity. I'm not planning anything new. I'm not going to reinvent anything. I don't have the reserves for it. My current work will have to suffice. Fortunately for my students, my "current work" is platinum A-grade. (I don't do modesty. I've learned the hard way that no one will praise you in public except you yourself. And anyway, it's not boasting if it's true.) I set up my classroom in my tried-and-true method and created the first set of lessons with my tried-and-true plans. Normal school year was ready to go!
And then, on Tuesday at 9:00 PM, we got the announcement that the county was handing down a mask mandate. All students and staff must wear masks at school and on the bus.
I should probably say that I support mask wearing, especially with the Delta variant of COVID putting children into the hospital with shocking regularity. But I would much better prefer that the Health Department hand down a VACCINE mandate. No vaccine? No school for you. Then we wouldn't NEED masks. Too many politicians are cowards, though, so were stuck with the masks.
So now I can't see my students' faces, and I'm faced with the attendant problems--I can't tell who is speaking if someone calls out in class; I don't know who is who; I have to police mask wearing. Day One, and we're already stressing.
At least we don't have to use the barriers.
Now we're coming up on Week Two. Let's see what happens...
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We're not as excited as you might think.
Some years, I'm ready to get back to it. Some years, I still feel like I need a couple more weeks. This time? I need another year. Teaching under the pandemic, with a virtual classroom first semester and a hybrid classroom second semester, was a real burnout. My reserves and my emergency reserves and my special, secret hidden reserves were all depleted, and they haven't been replenished. If I had the years, I would have joined the many teachers who retired. But I don't, so here we go.
This year, the emphasis--for me, at least--is an attempt to return to regularity. I'm not planning anything new. I'm not going to reinvent anything. I don't have the reserves for it. My current work will have to suffice. Fortunately for my students, my "current work" is platinum A-grade. (I don't do modesty. I've learned the hard way that no one will praise you in public except you yourself. And anyway, it's not boasting if it's true.) I set up my classroom in my tried-and-true method and created the first set of lessons with my tried-and-true plans. Normal school year was ready to go!
And then, on Tuesday at 9:00 PM, we got the announcement that the county was handing down a mask mandate. All students and staff must wear masks at school and on the bus.
I should probably say that I support mask wearing, especially with the Delta variant of COVID putting children into the hospital with shocking regularity. But I would much better prefer that the Health Department hand down a VACCINE mandate. No vaccine? No school for you. Then we wouldn't NEED masks. Too many politicians are cowards, though, so were stuck with the masks.
So now I can't see my students' faces, and I'm faced with the attendant problems--I can't tell who is speaking if someone calls out in class; I don't know who is who; I have to police mask wearing. Day One, and we're already stressing.
At least we don't have to use the barriers.
Now we're coming up on Week Two. Let's see what happens...
comments
August 18, 2021
Physical Therapy Update
I saw the joint specialist yesterday, and he said I don't really need physical therapy anymore. I still get pain when I move my arm in certain directions, but not nearly as much, and that satisfied the doctor. So no more PT.
I, however, am not satisfied with this verdict--I want NO pain--so I've decided to keep doing the PT exercises at home. I bought a yoga mat and a set of ten-pound weights so I can continue the planking exercises. Now my home exercise routine involves a 45-minute run followed by a half hour of plank work. I did PT two or three times a week for an hour, but now I'm doing it six times a week for half an hour, so the time stays the same.
Darwin is always a little startled at how much sweat the plank work generates. I'm dripping with it, and the mat is wet all over. I threaten to give him a big hug when I'm done, and he scurries away in terror.
This is married life.
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I, however, am not satisfied with this verdict--I want NO pain--so I've decided to keep doing the PT exercises at home. I bought a yoga mat and a set of ten-pound weights so I can continue the planking exercises. Now my home exercise routine involves a 45-minute run followed by a half hour of plank work. I did PT two or three times a week for an hour, but now I'm doing it six times a week for half an hour, so the time stays the same.
Darwin is always a little startled at how much sweat the plank work generates. I'm dripping with it, and the mat is wet all over. I threaten to give him a big hug when I'm done, and he scurries away in terror.
This is married life.
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In Which Steven and Darwin Spend Serious Money
My treadmill is dying. It's a low-price (read "cheap") model I bought nearly nine years ago, and the math says I've put more than 5,000 miles on it. The machine is showing its age. When I turn it on, it works for a few seconds, then the belt stops. When I step off, it starts up again. This goes on for several minutes. Eventually, the belt runs properly, but this isn't tenable. The treadmill also isn't well-cushioned, which means Darwin can hear my feet thudding throughout my hour-long run, which drives him crazy.
The time had come to replace it.
The first problem, however, arose from what to do with the thing. You can't just toss a dying treadmill in a dumpster. When you buy a new refrigerator, stove, or sofa, the store usually hauls the old one away, but a treadmill? Unlikely. I wondered if I should call a junk removal service and see if one of them would take it.
The other problem came from finding an actual place that sells--and delivers--treadmills. I won't order a treadmill online, sight unseen, thanks, so Internet vendors were out. We live not far from a Dunham's store, but when I called them to ask if they would deliver a treadmill, the worker said, "You have to order it online, and they'll deliver it." I figured I could go into the store and test the floor models, then order the one I wanted online, but when I checked the company's web site, there was no option for delivery; the site forced you to choose a store where you would pick it up. So no-go there. I tried to look up places to buy a treadmill in my area, but nothing showed up. I was at a loss, and my old treadmill was getting worse.
I mentioned this problem to my friend David, who said I should try American Fitness. I checked and found a store in Lake Orion, only a few minutes away. Darwin called to see if they did indeed deliver treadmills, and the lady said they did, would we like to make an appointment to come look at one? Huh.
At the appointed time, we drove over. Darwin came along partly because I had threatened to buy the most expensive one in the store if he didn't, and partly because he wanted to look at some of the equipment.
A very nice lady named Annie met us at the store, which was bright, airy, and filled with exercise equipment of all sorts. She cheerily showed me different treadmill models and I tried them out while Darwin mostly listened to see how loud they were. I had narrowed it down to two of them and wanted time to think when Darwin announced that he was interested in buying an elliptical.
This startled me quite a bit. Darwin owned an elliptical when I first met him, as it happens, and I only saw him use it twice, both times at my urging. We--and by "we," I mean "I"--sold it the last time we moved because it was too much trouble to haul around something that was more often used as a clothes rack than for exercise.
However, Darwin =has= been trying to do more movement lately in order to keep his blood sugar under control, and he wants to lose a little more weight. I made him swear he would use it regularly before letting him do any shopping. We'll see if it takes.
Darwin did, in the end, decide to get an elliptical, and I chose a treadmill, a nice, cushioned, quiet model. Annie, the enthusiastic sales person, did the enthusiastic, "Since you're buying this all at once, I'll see if I can rustle up a discount." It was very much like dealing with a car dealer.
Well, it turns out Annie did. American Fitness would gladly haul away my old treadmill for a small charge. Additionally, the delivery and setup fees would be cut because we had two pieces coming to a single address. And--here, Annie lowered her voice confidentially--she was sure she could get us on the schedule for delivery on Saturday. Goodness!
Her sales pitch enthusiasm was so wide-eyed and blatant, I had to hold in laughter. For thousands of dollars worth of exercise machines, we had become her new best friends!
However, Annie was also knowledgeable and service-oriented, unlike Dunham's, which barely acknowledged my existence, or Amazon, which blithely expected me to buy a treadmill from them without trying it.
So I put an breathtaking amount of money on my debit card, and we drove home. Now we wait until Saturday for it all to arrive. Don't tell anyone that Annie sneaked us in!
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The time had come to replace it.
The first problem, however, arose from what to do with the thing. You can't just toss a dying treadmill in a dumpster. When you buy a new refrigerator, stove, or sofa, the store usually hauls the old one away, but a treadmill? Unlikely. I wondered if I should call a junk removal service and see if one of them would take it.
The other problem came from finding an actual place that sells--and delivers--treadmills. I won't order a treadmill online, sight unseen, thanks, so Internet vendors were out. We live not far from a Dunham's store, but when I called them to ask if they would deliver a treadmill, the worker said, "You have to order it online, and they'll deliver it." I figured I could go into the store and test the floor models, then order the one I wanted online, but when I checked the company's web site, there was no option for delivery; the site forced you to choose a store where you would pick it up. So no-go there. I tried to look up places to buy a treadmill in my area, but nothing showed up. I was at a loss, and my old treadmill was getting worse.
I mentioned this problem to my friend David, who said I should try American Fitness. I checked and found a store in Lake Orion, only a few minutes away. Darwin called to see if they did indeed deliver treadmills, and the lady said they did, would we like to make an appointment to come look at one? Huh.
At the appointed time, we drove over. Darwin came along partly because I had threatened to buy the most expensive one in the store if he didn't, and partly because he wanted to look at some of the equipment.
A very nice lady named Annie met us at the store, which was bright, airy, and filled with exercise equipment of all sorts. She cheerily showed me different treadmill models and I tried them out while Darwin mostly listened to see how loud they were. I had narrowed it down to two of them and wanted time to think when Darwin announced that he was interested in buying an elliptical.
This startled me quite a bit. Darwin owned an elliptical when I first met him, as it happens, and I only saw him use it twice, both times at my urging. We--and by "we," I mean "I"--sold it the last time we moved because it was too much trouble to haul around something that was more often used as a clothes rack than for exercise.
However, Darwin =has= been trying to do more movement lately in order to keep his blood sugar under control, and he wants to lose a little more weight. I made him swear he would use it regularly before letting him do any shopping. We'll see if it takes.
Darwin did, in the end, decide to get an elliptical, and I chose a treadmill, a nice, cushioned, quiet model. Annie, the enthusiastic sales person, did the enthusiastic, "Since you're buying this all at once, I'll see if I can rustle up a discount." It was very much like dealing with a car dealer.
At one point, she said, "Do you have other questions?" And I said I did.
"I need to get rid of my original treadmill," I told her. "Do you know anyone who would come and get it?"Well, it turns out Annie did. American Fitness would gladly haul away my old treadmill for a small charge. Additionally, the delivery and setup fees would be cut because we had two pieces coming to a single address. And--here, Annie lowered her voice confidentially--she was sure she could get us on the schedule for delivery on Saturday. Goodness!
Her sales pitch enthusiasm was so wide-eyed and blatant, I had to hold in laughter. For thousands of dollars worth of exercise machines, we had become her new best friends!
However, Annie was also knowledgeable and service-oriented, unlike Dunham's, which barely acknowledged my existence, or Amazon, which blithely expected me to buy a treadmill from them without trying it.
So I put an breathtaking amount of money on my debit card, and we drove home. Now we wait until Saturday for it all to arrive. Don't tell anyone that Annie sneaked us in!
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A Bushel of Teeth
When Darwin and I were in Alpena, Michigan a while ago, we discovered the downtown has an app for a walking tour. You download the app and whenever you come across a spot of interest, the app leaps to life and a recording gives you a little of the spot's history. Darwin and I love local history, and we especially love weird local history, and we especially loved this story from the app:
A particular building in downtown Alpena was built in the 1860s. It's still standing. In the 1990s, I think it was, a new owner took over the building and did some renovations. While they were working on the first floor ceiling, the workers heard a TINK. It sounded like a small object bouncing off glass. They looked around, mystified, and heard another TINK. They looked around again, and realized that the ceiling, which was temporarily torn away near the front of the building, just above the storefront window, had spat out something--two somethings--that had tumbled down and struck the window. A worker picked up one of the objects.
It was a human tooth.
At that moment, a rushing sound roared through the storefront. A torrent of human teeth poured from the ceiling, clattering against the window and tearing across the floor. The workers leaped back to get out of the way. The teeth kept coming and coming, but finally slowed to a trickle, and then stopped.
The workers couldn't figure out what on earth they were looking at, or why they were ankle-deep in human teeth. A little research turned up the answer.
The second floor had originally been a dentist's office. He did all the usual dentist-y things, but in those days, if there was something wrong with a tooth, there was no reliable way to fix it. So you pulled it. This guy pulled teeth every single day, in fact.
There was also a knothole in the floor near the patient chair. For reasons known only to himself, the dentist developed the habit of dropping pulled teeth into the hole. For more than thirty years. Eventually, he retired and the office became something else, but the teeth remained behind, quietly waiting under the floorboards.
They waited a hundred years, until the ceiling renovations jarred them loose and thirty years of pulled teeth came tumbling down.
In all, the workers swept up a bushel and a half of human teeth.
You can't make this stuff up!
comments
A particular building in downtown Alpena was built in the 1860s. It's still standing. In the 1990s, I think it was, a new owner took over the building and did some renovations. While they were working on the first floor ceiling, the workers heard a TINK. It sounded like a small object bouncing off glass. They looked around, mystified, and heard another TINK. They looked around again, and realized that the ceiling, which was temporarily torn away near the front of the building, just above the storefront window, had spat out something--two somethings--that had tumbled down and struck the window. A worker picked up one of the objects.
It was a human tooth.
At that moment, a rushing sound roared through the storefront. A torrent of human teeth poured from the ceiling, clattering against the window and tearing across the floor. The workers leaped back to get out of the way. The teeth kept coming and coming, but finally slowed to a trickle, and then stopped.
The workers couldn't figure out what on earth they were looking at, or why they were ankle-deep in human teeth. A little research turned up the answer.
The second floor had originally been a dentist's office. He did all the usual dentist-y things, but in those days, if there was something wrong with a tooth, there was no reliable way to fix it. So you pulled it. This guy pulled teeth every single day, in fact.
There was also a knothole in the floor near the patient chair. For reasons known only to himself, the dentist developed the habit of dropping pulled teeth into the hole. For more than thirty years. Eventually, he retired and the office became something else, but the teeth remained behind, quietly waiting under the floorboards.
They waited a hundred years, until the ceiling renovations jarred them loose and thirty years of pulled teeth came tumbling down.
In all, the workers swept up a bushel and a half of human teeth.
You can't make this stuff up!
comments
August 17, 2021
Colorado!
My sister Bethany recently moved to Colorado. It was a difficult move that involved packing up a house she'd lived in for more than 20 years, along with her two horses, all their gear, and even an outdoor riding pen. Then there was the unpacking. You may gape in awe!
Eventually, she got out there, but still felt nervous and unsettled. She only knows a couple people out there, and they're mostly work-related folk. So my brother Paul organized a family trip for him, my mother, and me to go see her. Plane tickets were reasonable and Bethany has plenty of room for guests, so no need for a hotel. It was a win!
Mom drove down to Paul's house, and they drove together to Detroit Metro Airport, where I met them. My mother has some mobility issues these days, and we discovered that this is both a minus and a plus at an airport. Minus in that arranging for and maneuvering a wheelchair through an airport is a bit of a trick, plus because a person in a wheelchair goes straight to the head of the security line, and so do the people traveling with her. I guess it was a wash.
The flight itself was boring, which is just how I like it. We landed in Denver and dealt with a wheelchair bobble--there was supposed to be one waiting for us at the entry gate, but it turned out THREE people on the flight had requested wheelchairs, and only one chair actually showed up. This caused some back-and-forth, and in the mess, I got separated from Paul and Mom. But we all managed to find each other again through the magic of cell phones. Mom co-opted a skycap to wheel her out to the car rental company shuttle bus (we tipped well), and we found ourselves at Hertz. Here we had more bobbles with memberships and credit card numbers, but it was finally all ironed out. Paul and I each got a rental car--the advantage of mature adulthood--so we wouldn't have to coordinate miscellaneous driving.
Bethany lives in a small town about an hour outside of Denver. Her house is incredible. A sprawling two-story ranch with a walkout basement floor that's basically a house all by itself. This is where Paul and I stayed. It has an enormous, luxurious barn for the horses, too, complete with a warm-water washing station and self-filling water stations and lots of pasture.
Paul and Mom and I, of course, first noticed the air. Not only is Denver arid, it's also low pressure. Bethany's house is actually higher than Denver's famous mile-high stature, and we noticed the difference! I didn't quite struggle for breath, but I got winded way easier--a flight of stairs got me panting--and I found myself having to concentrate on my breathing. Every so often, a wave of "a little hard to breathe, here" would hit me. And I was thirsty almost all the time! It was a strange experience.
On the first day, we helped Bethany do a bunch of finishing work on her house, mostly hanging pictures (she has a =lot= of pictures to hang, and many of them require multiple people) and arranging furniture. We also went out to eat at a wonderful Mexican restaurant in the town. Here we had the Dreaded Pepper Incident. My order came with a roasted jalapeno the size of a sausage. I can handle a fair amount of spicy, but I knew that this would be a Pepper Too Far, and said so.
"I'll take it!" Bethany said, and took a big bite.
It was like watching a cartoon. A flush crawled up her face and she lost the power to speak. Then the hiccups came. I swear steam whistled from her ears. She slugged down water and margarita in equal portions.
Paul couldn't quite believe the hype. He snatched up the pepper and gave it test chomp. Flush, mute, hiccups. Mom and I were laughing so hard, the tears salted our margarita glasses.
I also impressed everyone with my gaydar by spotting two gay guys among the wait staff.
The next day was more touching up the house, but in the afternoon we went exploring. Paul, who loves trail riding on a motorcycle, really wanted to try some mountain riding. He rented a motorcycle, found a trail that looked interesting, and persuaded us to follow him in Bethany's mega-truck so we could all have a look around. This we did.
We weren't technically in the Rocky Mountains, but in some foothills that form a state park. The trail started off as a fairly decent dirt road that climbed and curved steadily upward. The scenery was wonderful. Colorado's ranches and woods and meadows spread out far below us. House-sized boulders and chunks of granite stuck up like giant's bones.
Paul zoomed ahead of us, then came back to find us, then zoomed ahead again. Bethany gamely followed in the truck. The road devolved into a rutted trail, and we were moving up and down like a drunken ship. We came across truly rustic campsites and signs warning us about bears. The scenery continued to amaze, and we stopped every so often to get out and admire it. I came around a mega-boulder and discovered a cliff. Yeek! Several times, the family remarked that Darwin, who is acrophobic, wouldn't handle this trip well, but we found it lovely.
Eventually, the trail degraded too much for the truck to continue. Paul decided to keep going and see where the trail came out and we agreed to meet up in a nearby town. Bethany careful turned the truck around and we began the descent, with another pit stop at the parkapotty. (Seriously, go Team Parks Department.) Going down, I was, of course, sitting on the other side, so I got to see stuff I missed on the way up.
We made it safely to the bottom and headed into the town, where we stumbled across a brew pub and decided to eat there. It turned out to be a great choice. I'm not sure what it was, but I really liked the place. The food was good, and so were the drinks. A live duo played guitar and sang, and it was just . . . perfect. Paul found us, and reported a breathtaking ride down the other side of the foothills.
That evening, I ran on Bethany's treadmill and did my plank work. I totally impressed myself--I did the full workout and didn't have breathing trouble. Go me! Then I drove into Denver to see what the gay district was like. (Yes, Denver has a gay district.) I wandered through a couple bars and struck up a conversation with a nice gay couple that fell just short of, "The next time you're out here, you can stay with us." It's always fun to see what the LGBT scene is in another town.
Somewhere in here, I also made . . The Pavlova.
I had come across the recipe for pavlova only recently and was dying to try it, but it's a HUGE dessert, and I didn't want to waste it on just Darwin and me. I decided it would be fun to try it out at Bethany's. To make a pavlova, you whip egg whites, sugar, and vinegar into a meringue and bake it flat. Then you make whipped cream and cut up whatever fruit you like. (I used strawberries and peaches.) When the meringue cools, you spread the whipped cream and fruit on top of it, then roll it up and slice it for serving. It turned into a big project, with everyone helping. When it was done, we tried it. Delicious! The meringue was crispy outside, chewy inside. The fruit and whipped cream were both tangy and sweet. A great summer dessert, and fun to make.
I actually kind of became the self-appointed cook during this trip. We ate at restaurants in the evening, but I made breakfast every morning--scrambled eggs one day, pancakes the next. It was fun cooking for a larger group.
The next day, we decided to hit Pikes Peak. Pikes Peak is Colorado's most famous mountain and is 14,115 feet high. It's also a park. To get there, you have to drive through the town of Bust, Colorado, which, legend says, was formed by people who couldn't make it to Pikes Peak and they took the town's name from "Pikes Peak or bust!"
We packed a picnic lunch of thick sandwiches, chips, and pavlova, and headed out.
This time, Paul was driving his rental car. We went past the entry tollbooth, got the rules explained to us by a very nice park ranger ("Stay in low gear. On the way down, use your engine to slow the car instead of the brakes. Stop here for a brake temperature check"), and wound our way upward.
The road up Pikes Peak is well-paved, but narrow and twisty. There are several sets of hairpin turns. You find yourself leaning back in your seat. Your ears pop several times, and you can FEEL the air thin out. Meanwhile, the road beside you drops away. You can see miles and miles. Eventually, you can look over the edge and see far below you the road you just came up. It twists like a snake.
The vegetation thins out the higher you go, and it gets chilly. At the bottom, it was 80s and warm. Up on the Peak, the sun shone ferociously and you could feel its heat, but the air was cold, a strange sensation. Eventually, you get past the tree line, and the bare mountain top looks like Mars, with great piles of red rocks.
We stopped about halfway up at a park rest station and had out picnic lunch (pavlova!). We were careful--it was easy to get winded. Seriously. Walk too fast, and you were out of breath. Bethany was starting to feel nauseated and Paul was feeling anxiety. Both are common symptom of altitude sickness. We talked about turning around, but ultimately decided to keep on going.
At the very top, we found a startlingly-large parking lot, complete with several school buses. (!) How they got them around those hairpin turns I'll never know. Paul wanted to head right back down--the altitude sickness was getting to him--but I persuaded him to stop for just a moment at the top. "It would be a shame to come all this way and not at least get a couple pictures," I said.
The road follows the peak's ridge for quite a ways, and there are lots of places where you can say, "I'm at the top of Pikes Peak!" Paul decided it would be okay to stop for a little bit. I hopped out and picked my way across the martian surface to the edge for some photos. Paul and Bethany and Mom decided to join me, and we found a piece of cardboard with "Pikes Peak 14,115 feet!" written on it in black Sharpie. We posed with it, then tucked it back into the rocks for someone else to find.
Being up there is definitely strange. It's beautiful and literally breathtaking. It's also pointedly hostile to human life. It's cold and difficult to breathe, and one wrong step will send you to a messy, painful death. This makes the Peak both exhilarating and frightening at the same time. But we climbed the Peak!
The drive down was more than a little harrowing. It took all of Paul's concentration to avoid burning up the brakes. Some guy in a yellow car tailgated us for quite a ways, and Paul finally pulled over to let him by. He zipped down the mountain until he caught up with the next car, which wasn't so accommodating. Yellow Car's brake lights were on all the way down the mountain, and we started smelling scorched brake fluid. Not good, dude!
When we got halfway down, we encountered the brake check booth. A park ranger stops you and checks the temperature of your brakes with an electronic thermometer. Our windows were down, and when Yellow Car arrived at the booth, we heard the conversation with the park ranger. The ranger checked the brakes and scolded Yellow Car for riding his brakes down. His car was deemed unsafe for further travel, and he was directed to a special parking lot to wait for at least half an hour for his brakes to cool down. Yellow Car tried to argue, but the ranger was adamant. Finally, Yellow Car wrenched himself over into the parking lot with bad grace. We were laughing at him as we approached the ranger, who gave us a clean bill of health and permission to continue.
We made it to the bottom safely (whoo!) and finally made our way to an Italian restaurant, where we enjoyed yet more good food. We also agreed that the trail ride and Pikes Peak trips were extremely enjoyable experiences that we never wanted to do again.
That night, Mom and Bethany went to bed early, and Paul and I ended up having a long brother-to-brother talk that went on for hours, something we haven't done in a long time.
The next day was a lazier day, and we mostly rested. In the evening, Bethany and Paul and I ended up with cocktails on her deck, looking up at endless stars and talking about nearly everything.
In the morning, we packed up and headed for the airport. The plane ride home was equally dull--yay! And when we landed, we immediately noticed the difference in the air. It was so much easier to breathe!
It was a fine trip to Colorado, and we're looking forward to more of them.
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Eventually, she got out there, but still felt nervous and unsettled. She only knows a couple people out there, and they're mostly work-related folk. So my brother Paul organized a family trip for him, my mother, and me to go see her. Plane tickets were reasonable and Bethany has plenty of room for guests, so no need for a hotel. It was a win!
Mom drove down to Paul's house, and they drove together to Detroit Metro Airport, where I met them. My mother has some mobility issues these days, and we discovered that this is both a minus and a plus at an airport. Minus in that arranging for and maneuvering a wheelchair through an airport is a bit of a trick, plus because a person in a wheelchair goes straight to the head of the security line, and so do the people traveling with her. I guess it was a wash.
The flight itself was boring, which is just how I like it. We landed in Denver and dealt with a wheelchair bobble--there was supposed to be one waiting for us at the entry gate, but it turned out THREE people on the flight had requested wheelchairs, and only one chair actually showed up. This caused some back-and-forth, and in the mess, I got separated from Paul and Mom. But we all managed to find each other again through the magic of cell phones. Mom co-opted a skycap to wheel her out to the car rental company shuttle bus (we tipped well), and we found ourselves at Hertz. Here we had more bobbles with memberships and credit card numbers, but it was finally all ironed out. Paul and I each got a rental car--the advantage of mature adulthood--so we wouldn't have to coordinate miscellaneous driving.
Bethany lives in a small town about an hour outside of Denver. Her house is incredible. A sprawling two-story ranch with a walkout basement floor that's basically a house all by itself. This is where Paul and I stayed. It has an enormous, luxurious barn for the horses, too, complete with a warm-water washing station and self-filling water stations and lots of pasture.
Paul and Mom and I, of course, first noticed the air. Not only is Denver arid, it's also low pressure. Bethany's house is actually higher than Denver's famous mile-high stature, and we noticed the difference! I didn't quite struggle for breath, but I got winded way easier--a flight of stairs got me panting--and I found myself having to concentrate on my breathing. Every so often, a wave of "a little hard to breathe, here" would hit me. And I was thirsty almost all the time! It was a strange experience.
On the first day, we helped Bethany do a bunch of finishing work on her house, mostly hanging pictures (she has a =lot= of pictures to hang, and many of them require multiple people) and arranging furniture. We also went out to eat at a wonderful Mexican restaurant in the town. Here we had the Dreaded Pepper Incident. My order came with a roasted jalapeno the size of a sausage. I can handle a fair amount of spicy, but I knew that this would be a Pepper Too Far, and said so.
"I'll take it!" Bethany said, and took a big bite.
It was like watching a cartoon. A flush crawled up her face and she lost the power to speak. Then the hiccups came. I swear steam whistled from her ears. She slugged down water and margarita in equal portions.
Paul couldn't quite believe the hype. He snatched up the pepper and gave it test chomp. Flush, mute, hiccups. Mom and I were laughing so hard, the tears salted our margarita glasses.
I also impressed everyone with my gaydar by spotting two gay guys among the wait staff.
The next day was more touching up the house, but in the afternoon we went exploring. Paul, who loves trail riding on a motorcycle, really wanted to try some mountain riding. He rented a motorcycle, found a trail that looked interesting, and persuaded us to follow him in Bethany's mega-truck so we could all have a look around. This we did.
We weren't technically in the Rocky Mountains, but in some foothills that form a state park. The trail started off as a fairly decent dirt road that climbed and curved steadily upward. The scenery was wonderful. Colorado's ranches and woods and meadows spread out far below us. House-sized boulders and chunks of granite stuck up like giant's bones.
Paul zoomed ahead of us, then came back to find us, then zoomed ahead again. Bethany gamely followed in the truck. The road devolved into a rutted trail, and we were moving up and down like a drunken ship. We came across truly rustic campsites and signs warning us about bears. The scenery continued to amaze, and we stopped every so often to get out and admire it. I came around a mega-boulder and discovered a cliff. Yeek! Several times, the family remarked that Darwin, who is acrophobic, wouldn't handle this trip well, but we found it lovely.
Eventually, the trail degraded too much for the truck to continue. Paul decided to keep going and see where the trail came out and we agreed to meet up in a nearby town. Bethany careful turned the truck around and we began the descent, with another pit stop at the parkapotty. (Seriously, go Team Parks Department.) Going down, I was, of course, sitting on the other side, so I got to see stuff I missed on the way up.
We made it safely to the bottom and headed into the town, where we stumbled across a brew pub and decided to eat there. It turned out to be a great choice. I'm not sure what it was, but I really liked the place. The food was good, and so were the drinks. A live duo played guitar and sang, and it was just . . . perfect. Paul found us, and reported a breathtaking ride down the other side of the foothills.
That evening, I ran on Bethany's treadmill and did my plank work. I totally impressed myself--I did the full workout and didn't have breathing trouble. Go me! Then I drove into Denver to see what the gay district was like. (Yes, Denver has a gay district.) I wandered through a couple bars and struck up a conversation with a nice gay couple that fell just short of, "The next time you're out here, you can stay with us." It's always fun to see what the LGBT scene is in another town.
Somewhere in here, I also made . . The Pavlova.
I had come across the recipe for pavlova only recently and was dying to try it, but it's a HUGE dessert, and I didn't want to waste it on just Darwin and me. I decided it would be fun to try it out at Bethany's. To make a pavlova, you whip egg whites, sugar, and vinegar into a meringue and bake it flat. Then you make whipped cream and cut up whatever fruit you like. (I used strawberries and peaches.) When the meringue cools, you spread the whipped cream and fruit on top of it, then roll it up and slice it for serving. It turned into a big project, with everyone helping. When it was done, we tried it. Delicious! The meringue was crispy outside, chewy inside. The fruit and whipped cream were both tangy and sweet. A great summer dessert, and fun to make.
I actually kind of became the self-appointed cook during this trip. We ate at restaurants in the evening, but I made breakfast every morning--scrambled eggs one day, pancakes the next. It was fun cooking for a larger group.
The next day, we decided to hit Pikes Peak. Pikes Peak is Colorado's most famous mountain and is 14,115 feet high. It's also a park. To get there, you have to drive through the town of Bust, Colorado, which, legend says, was formed by people who couldn't make it to Pikes Peak and they took the town's name from "Pikes Peak or bust!"
We packed a picnic lunch of thick sandwiches, chips, and pavlova, and headed out.
This time, Paul was driving his rental car. We went past the entry tollbooth, got the rules explained to us by a very nice park ranger ("Stay in low gear. On the way down, use your engine to slow the car instead of the brakes. Stop here for a brake temperature check"), and wound our way upward.
The road up Pikes Peak is well-paved, but narrow and twisty. There are several sets of hairpin turns. You find yourself leaning back in your seat. Your ears pop several times, and you can FEEL the air thin out. Meanwhile, the road beside you drops away. You can see miles and miles. Eventually, you can look over the edge and see far below you the road you just came up. It twists like a snake.
The vegetation thins out the higher you go, and it gets chilly. At the bottom, it was 80s and warm. Up on the Peak, the sun shone ferociously and you could feel its heat, but the air was cold, a strange sensation. Eventually, you get past the tree line, and the bare mountain top looks like Mars, with great piles of red rocks.
We stopped about halfway up at a park rest station and had out picnic lunch (pavlova!). We were careful--it was easy to get winded. Seriously. Walk too fast, and you were out of breath. Bethany was starting to feel nauseated and Paul was feeling anxiety. Both are common symptom of altitude sickness. We talked about turning around, but ultimately decided to keep on going.
At the very top, we found a startlingly-large parking lot, complete with several school buses. (!) How they got them around those hairpin turns I'll never know. Paul wanted to head right back down--the altitude sickness was getting to him--but I persuaded him to stop for just a moment at the top. "It would be a shame to come all this way and not at least get a couple pictures," I said.
The road follows the peak's ridge for quite a ways, and there are lots of places where you can say, "I'm at the top of Pikes Peak!" Paul decided it would be okay to stop for a little bit. I hopped out and picked my way across the martian surface to the edge for some photos. Paul and Bethany and Mom decided to join me, and we found a piece of cardboard with "Pikes Peak 14,115 feet!" written on it in black Sharpie. We posed with it, then tucked it back into the rocks for someone else to find.
Being up there is definitely strange. It's beautiful and literally breathtaking. It's also pointedly hostile to human life. It's cold and difficult to breathe, and one wrong step will send you to a messy, painful death. This makes the Peak both exhilarating and frightening at the same time. But we climbed the Peak!
The drive down was more than a little harrowing. It took all of Paul's concentration to avoid burning up the brakes. Some guy in a yellow car tailgated us for quite a ways, and Paul finally pulled over to let him by. He zipped down the mountain until he caught up with the next car, which wasn't so accommodating. Yellow Car's brake lights were on all the way down the mountain, and we started smelling scorched brake fluid. Not good, dude!
When we got halfway down, we encountered the brake check booth. A park ranger stops you and checks the temperature of your brakes with an electronic thermometer. Our windows were down, and when Yellow Car arrived at the booth, we heard the conversation with the park ranger. The ranger checked the brakes and scolded Yellow Car for riding his brakes down. His car was deemed unsafe for further travel, and he was directed to a special parking lot to wait for at least half an hour for his brakes to cool down. Yellow Car tried to argue, but the ranger was adamant. Finally, Yellow Car wrenched himself over into the parking lot with bad grace. We were laughing at him as we approached the ranger, who gave us a clean bill of health and permission to continue.
We made it to the bottom safely (whoo!) and finally made our way to an Italian restaurant, where we enjoyed yet more good food. We also agreed that the trail ride and Pikes Peak trips were extremely enjoyable experiences that we never wanted to do again.
That night, Mom and Bethany went to bed early, and Paul and I ended up having a long brother-to-brother talk that went on for hours, something we haven't done in a long time.
The next day was a lazier day, and we mostly rested. In the evening, Bethany and Paul and I ended up with cocktails on her deck, looking up at endless stars and talking about nearly everything.
In the morning, we packed up and headed for the airport. The plane ride home was equally dull--yay! And when we landed, we immediately noticed the difference in the air. It was so much easier to breathe!
It was a fine trip to Colorado, and we're looking forward to more of them.
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August 11, 2021
D'oh! A Deer!
I'm startled to report that a deer hit me. On my bike. I was riding down a wooded trail and passed two hikers going in the opposite direction. The three of us must have spooked the dear, which burst from the bushes. It hit me, but just barely, and I didn't even lose my balance. The deer was an adolescent, still spotted from childhood. It bounded away, looking embarrassed. I cycled on.
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August 2, 2021
PT Update
It's not "physical therapy at the clinic." I have a personal trainer at the gym. The rebranding helps. It also helps that the personal training burns about the same number of calories as a good run, or so my Fitbit tells me, meaning I can use a session as part of my exercise regiment and I no longer feel like I'm losing time--this is something I'd be doing anyway!
A session with my personal trainer, though, has become way, way rougher than it was initially. Instead of doing little stretchy exercises with resistance bands, I'm doing serious planking exercises and doing balance pushups on a horrifying thing called a Bosu and lifting weights and holding barbells outstretched until my arms are shaking.
This is good. Early into the workout, I'm breathing hard and sweating and my pulse gets to 130 and 140, which is where it goes on a decent run. But it's also awful. The workout is really strenuous, and whenever I gain some strength, the trainer makes a given exercise more difficult--or adds a brand new one. The conversations go like this:
"Well, you've been holding that plank position for two sessions of thirty seconds each, but now it looks like you aren't straining, so let's have you hold it for forty-five. Three times. And, go!"
Lately, my trainer has gotten down on the floor and done the exercises with me. I'm not sure why, to be honest. I know how to do them now and don't need the example, and it's also clear that the planking is a major strain for him. Is it a solidarity thing? Or maybe a way to goad me on with a little testosterone-driven competition? ("Can you keep up with me!") I'll have to ask him next time.
For one set of exercises, he has me beat, though. I have to hold a ten-pound barbell straight out sideways with one arm while pumping another ten-pound barbell repeatedly up and down above my head. Then I switch arms and do it again. (If you think lifting ten pounds over your head isn't difficult, you're right. But holding up that ten-pounder sideways wipes you out REAL fast.) Although I have an easier time with the planking, the trainer does the lifting with 15-pound barbells and doesn't break a sweat!
Today the only other trainee there (I'm avoiding the word "patient," thanks) was a roly-poly lady who spent most of her time on her back doing leg stretches and leg lifts. When the trainer and I started planking, a look of horror crossed her face. The supervisor noticed.
"Don't worry," she said reassuringly. "He's hard-core. You won't need to do those." Which everyone present found amusing.
Meanwhile, I was dripping sweat onto that Bosu.
I still get pain when I move my shoulder in certain ways, but I think the situation is improving. I'm guessing I'll be continuing with the training for a while yet.
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A session with my personal trainer, though, has become way, way rougher than it was initially. Instead of doing little stretchy exercises with resistance bands, I'm doing serious planking exercises and doing balance pushups on a horrifying thing called a Bosu and lifting weights and holding barbells outstretched until my arms are shaking.
This is good. Early into the workout, I'm breathing hard and sweating and my pulse gets to 130 and 140, which is where it goes on a decent run. But it's also awful. The workout is really strenuous, and whenever I gain some strength, the trainer makes a given exercise more difficult--or adds a brand new one. The conversations go like this:
"Well, you've been holding that plank position for two sessions of thirty seconds each, but now it looks like you aren't straining, so let's have you hold it for forty-five. Three times. And, go!"
Lately, my trainer has gotten down on the floor and done the exercises with me. I'm not sure why, to be honest. I know how to do them now and don't need the example, and it's also clear that the planking is a major strain for him. Is it a solidarity thing? Or maybe a way to goad me on with a little testosterone-driven competition? ("Can you keep up with me!") I'll have to ask him next time.
For one set of exercises, he has me beat, though. I have to hold a ten-pound barbell straight out sideways with one arm while pumping another ten-pound barbell repeatedly up and down above my head. Then I switch arms and do it again. (If you think lifting ten pounds over your head isn't difficult, you're right. But holding up that ten-pounder sideways wipes you out REAL fast.) Although I have an easier time with the planking, the trainer does the lifting with 15-pound barbells and doesn't break a sweat!
Today the only other trainee there (I'm avoiding the word "patient," thanks) was a roly-poly lady who spent most of her time on her back doing leg stretches and leg lifts. When the trainer and I started planking, a look of horror crossed her face. The supervisor noticed.
"Don't worry," she said reassuringly. "He's hard-core. You won't need to do those." Which everyone present found amusing.
Meanwhile, I was dripping sweat onto that Bosu.
I still get pain when I move my shoulder in certain ways, but I think the situation is improving. I'm guessing I'll be continuing with the training for a while yet.
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August 1, 2021
Smackdown of a Meme
On FB, a meme is wandering about that complains how high schools don't teach Greek and Latin anymore, so now we teach remedial reading in college.
Utter nonsense.
During the time period the meme is complaining about, finishing sixth grade was considered decent, and finishing eighth grade was considered advanced. Finishing high school back then was equivalent to an associate's or bachelor's degree today. If you weren't academically-minded, or you disliked school, or your family needed you on the farm, you dropped out, and no one made you stay. They also taught Latin because in those days, Latin was considered a superior language to English and scholars therefore needed to be grounded in it. (The prejudice against English in the academic community was so bad that the first grammaries for English were actually written in Latin.)Things have changed. Now we expect EVERYONE to finish a college-prep high school, whether they're academically-oriented or not. (Hence the need for remedial reading--back in the old days, the remedial kids would have dropped out; we don't let them do that now.) Latin is gone, replaced by a pesky 100 more years of literature and history than they had back in the old days, geography that includes information about 50 states instead of just 38, a crap-ton more math, entire fields of science that didn't exist a century ago, physical education, and a living language such as Spanish or German.
The "good old days" of education produced people who had never heard of algebra, geology, economics, atomic theory, basic biology, or literature that wasn't written by a dead white man. We can let Latin go.
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Utter nonsense.
During the time period the meme is complaining about, finishing sixth grade was considered decent, and finishing eighth grade was considered advanced. Finishing high school back then was equivalent to an associate's or bachelor's degree today. If you weren't academically-minded, or you disliked school, or your family needed you on the farm, you dropped out, and no one made you stay. They also taught Latin because in those days, Latin was considered a superior language to English and scholars therefore needed to be grounded in it. (The prejudice against English in the academic community was so bad that the first grammaries for English were actually written in Latin.)Things have changed. Now we expect EVERYONE to finish a college-prep high school, whether they're academically-oriented or not. (Hence the need for remedial reading--back in the old days, the remedial kids would have dropped out; we don't let them do that now.) Latin is gone, replaced by a pesky 100 more years of literature and history than they had back in the old days, geography that includes information about 50 states instead of just 38, a crap-ton more math, entire fields of science that didn't exist a century ago, physical education, and a living language such as Spanish or German.
The "good old days" of education produced people who had never heard of algebra, geology, economics, atomic theory, basic biology, or literature that wasn't written by a dead white man. We can let Latin go.
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