Ding! Time to eat those words

I knew a girl in grad school in Austin who once told me during the course of our conversation that she would never want a microwave oven.  I admire the contrarian and I can respect and often applaud opinions held contrary to current trends. 

However, it stuck me at the time as the kind of statement that one could regret.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but for the rest of your life - going without a microwave oven could indeed be a regrettable vow.  I did not pursue the reasoning or feelings behind such an opinion, though I can surmise it had less to do with Luddite affiliations and more to do with her innate Calvinistic nature.  Where tea water has always been brought to a boil in a stove top kettle, and if one wants to melt cheese on one's sandwich, there is a way to do such a thing that is decent and in order, meet and proper so to do; and that way is to place the food into an oven of the conventional variety.  Microwaves just did not quite fit into the proper ethic of food preparation - in some people's opinion anyway.  It is kind of like cheating.

Well, of course that contrarian Calvinist later asked me to marry her, and after discussing and settling our differing views on appliances, I eventually did marry her.  Later, we two bought a home with a microwave oven built-in.  This current home had the original functioning microwave oven for 23 years, until one morning in early December we found it cold and dead.  The microwave was in fact so old, that the owner's manual did not even list an email address or website for product assistance, but rather provided an address to which an owner experiencing a problem could write to and post a letter.  How quaint.

I unbolted the cold carcass of the former quick and faithful food warmer and hauled it to the curb for Wednesday's bulky item pick up by the city.  Living for a few days with a empty space between the cabinetry and the range top was a physical reminder of the integral part the microwave oven plays in our daily life patterns.  Truly, with only the touch a few buttons, a multitude of task were accomplished.  The microwave oven had ingrained itself deeply into our lives.  With a quick bit of research on the internet, we narrowed our choices and moved to quickly replace that appliance.  The old unit was 13" deep, but no such model exists any more, so we have a 16" deep MW that juts out a bit.  The new profile makes all of us think the MW door has been left open, but then we realize it is just the allusion created by the bigger than accustomed new MW..

I measured twice, drilled a set of holes; then reread the installation instructions, and measured once again, only to drill another set of holes through the overhead cabinet.  With several hands supporting the unit, it was lifted into place and the second set of bolt holes actually flanged up to the location of the mounting holes in the top of the oven.  The familiar kitchen routines and timing have now been restored as they were.

I reminded my wife of her "never need or want a microwave oven" quote, and suggested that we test the newly installed MW oven model by having her eat those words - but of course, first we could put those old words into the new MW oven, and heat them quickly before she eats them.  Ah, those Calvinist have such a good sense of humor.

PS - I recall the old hit TV show from the 1960's & 70"s, Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In; where they would hand out on air the "Fickle Finger of Fate Award", a dubious honor for some ridiculous statement or achievement.  One night, the inventor of a new device, supposedly able to quickly cook food using microwaves while keeping the bowl cool, got the Fickle Finger of Fate Award, with the punch line being something like: "I suppose we can now cook an 8,000 pound chicken in only 20 minutes."  Who's laughing now?

Lost Love

A foggy & frigid Friday.  I met my wife for a mid-afternoon start on our Christmas shopping.  After our purchases we walked a few blocks to to get some grub at the pub; a bowl of stew, some fish & chips. I washed it all down with a Monty Python Holy Ale brew.  We vacated our table as the early crowd was filling up the place; I, back to the office to put a wrap on the week, while she drove directly home.

Some time later I walked in from the garage and found her sitting at the word processor in the breakfast nook with a Mona Lisa smile.  After a moment of studying her quizzical expression on her face, she asked, "Did you see what was on the table?"
 I answered, after a brief pause, with a very cautious, "ah, no."
"You need to go take a look".

There at her place on dining room table was a piece of stationery with words written in my own hand, and lying atop the hand written letter was an envelope address to Mrs. Susan Suneson, also recognizable as written in my hand.  The envelope had a foreign postage stamp affixed  in the upper right corner.

"Do you recognize that?  Do remember that letter?" came a mirthful voice from the kitchen.  I looked a bit closer and saw it was dated Feb. 1st, 2007.  The letterhead on the stationery was from the Westin Hotel, Warsaw, Poland.  Yes, I do remember sitting in my hotel room on a Winter's night in Warsaw, where I was to make a presentation on some of the Romanian geology and oil exploration prospects I had developed as a consultant for an international exploration company.  There, overlooking a drab, angular gray block, Soviet inspired skyline that evoked well the eve of a Polish Ground Hog's Day; I decide to write a few lines of poetry to my love and send it off in an old-fashioned envelope.  After all, one can only surf just so much Polish hotel TV before craving a few poetic vowels to go with all of the WC, CZ, SK combinations.  The next morning the staff at the front desk pleasantly assured me that they would post my letter to the USA.

Humor me here:
      Warsaw, Poland to Dallas, Texas USA = 5,743 miles
      Love Letter Dated 2/1/2007 - Received 12/9/2011 = 1,773 Days
      Rate of Travel: 3 Miles 458 Feet and 7.4 Inches per Day; or 679.1 Feet per Hour

Now what happened between the front desk and our mail box over these 4-plus years I can not say, nor I can I hardly speculate.  I must have wonder in the few weeks after my return in early 2007 what ever became of my letter; has the world so quickly moved to email, internet and social media that in most places on this planet, a hand written letter is no longer sacred or even much less accounted for? 

Never-the-less, I confess, it seems much more fun and mysterious and full-brimming with fancy to get a letter, once thought lost, delivered nearly 5 years later.  I dare say better than a text message: "How r u?"

Between the extra couple of hugs I received this evening, I have come to lament what must now be the nearly extinct sweet art of protracted composition and words lovingly sculpted to frame sentiment, hopes and fears and then sealed with a kiss.  Indeed, I do lament a generation that never feels a heart leap upon shuffling through the mail to find a letter addressed to them in a cherished script identifiable as unique to the composer.  All the more, how much is now lost among this generation to not grow old with a bundle of old love letters that easily kindle sparks, joys and tears from good times that should not be forgotten.  Progress is good, and as I blog here tonight, I have more praise than scorn for the internet and all - but a hand written letter has always been a treasure and I am reminded tonight of how sorry I am to feel that this intimate form of communication is all but passed.

In fact, I may now write out some Christmas Letters to long lost friends.  Something I have not done in 11 years.  Watch your mailbox as well as your in-box.

Turkey Travels

Old Hat. Round Trip = 1290 miles. 
How the miles do fly behind the windshield. 
Time flies like arrows - but fruit flies like bananas.

I tripped on up to Columbia, Missouri to pick up Grant for a 1 week Thanksgiving holiday.  He had tickets for the last home football game against Texas Tech and thought he would stay to attend the game on Saturday.  But then heard that the dorms would lock-down at 5 pm and the game would still be in progress and then the question was how would I meet him and pick up his dirty laundry to take back to Dallas? 
Plan B: Skip the game, wait for my arrival around 4:30.  Load dirty laundry and computer with Dad immediately upon arrival.  Get food. Get sleep.  Then get going to Dallas the next day.

While the crowds were still at the game, we found our way to Harpo's downtown where I hoped to get the Missouri cuisine craze "T-Ravs".  Game day menu at Harpo's did not include toasted ravioli (T-Ravs), so settled for BBQ chicken wings, though I feel my life is as of yet incomplete without ever having tasted a T-Rav.  The game was on TV at Harpo's so we could see the home team Tigers come back and win in the 4th quarter.  Also seen were lots of co-eds walking around with fuzzy tiger ear barrettes and some with tiger tails hanging out behind their tight gold and black sweaters.  I'm just saying.

The night's stay for us was in Jefferson City (30 miles out of Columbia), the state capitol, where I could save $60 on a motel room over rates in Columbia.  I am ALL about value.

Grant slept in the car through all of Arkansas and all of Oklahoma.  Not that the natives of those lesser states should take any offense - I'm just saying the boy was tired after staying up most of the night in the motel on his lap top.  Mom whipped together the requested quiche Lorraine once we all arrived home.  Grant's view, "It is good to be home".

The week on either side of Thanksgiving Day itself was filled with reconnecting with friends.  A visit to Garland High to check in on the Might Owl Orchestra, where his 2nd chair cello seat had been filled.  Then an afternoon of fire arms shooting, a night of bowling, a couple of afternoons with the Ultimate Frisbee gang and meals out with buddies at the old hangout spots like IHOP and Chik-fil-A.  We didn't see that much of him actually.  Though we had to work out a car loaning arrangement, as "Ol' Woodrow", the 1998 Oldsmobile 88 seemed to have the started motor go south the first day back.  I told him I'd get it fixed before Christmas.

I informed him of my plan to leave at 6 a.m. on Sunday after Thanksgiving for our return to Mizzou.  He spent most of the night rattling around getting his laundry done.  Once the clean laundry was loaded into the SUV that dark and early morning, he managed to sleep through most of Texas (74 miles) all of Oklahoma, all of Arkansas, and most all of Missouri.  He was awaken about 50 miles short of campus by a phone call from one of his friends who has a two-seater sports car and was at the St. Louis airport picking up 2 other friends (and their luggage) - only there was not enough room for 3 people + luggage for both Caroline and the Jersey Kid; Grant had to say "sorry man, I can't help. But good luck with that".  [I need to find out how that was handled - as I don't think there is an app for that]

It was a quick unload at the entrance to College Avenue Dorm, I said "finish strong" and left him with new coat, new shoes, re-supplied toiletries kit and new socks all procured on Dad's plastic.

My solo return to Garland was an educational one; and I say that in a good way -and a not so good way.  Along I-44 in Lebanon, MO there is a well advertised "Factory Outlet" with "Discount Prices" for Chicago Cutlery and Case (made in America) pocket knives.  From my youngest days, a few life lessons were drilled into me;
Don't hitch hike,
Don't ride with strangers,
Don't go into abandoned mines and
Don't wear the same socks a second day. 
Also ingrained into my psyche as a small traveler in the back seat of the station wagon was the understanding that ANY private endeavor advertised along the highway was a "tourist trap!"  This include reptile farms (which strongly appealed to me), private property caves and the likes of other assorted amusements and retail venues.  Well, I not only stopped at the "Factory Outlet" with made in America "Fantastic Discounts", I actually bought a 10 piece butcher block set of Chicago cutlery, a couple of Victornox (Swiss Army) pocket knives and two kitchen utility knives.   Getting back on the interstate with a bag of knives, I had all of those earlier admonitions sounding off in my head; "Mark! Are you really all about value? - OR, did you just get sucked into a tourist trap, despite your careful upbringing?"



     My second bit of education that Monday return trip was a stop at Wilson's Creek National Battlefield, www.nps.gov/wicr/  southwest of Springfield, MO.  This kind of stop was the diametric moral opposite a tourist trap, if it is sanctioned by State or Federal Government, then it is to be considered a high moral calling to stop, see and learn history.  So for a mere $5, I toured the visitor's center and pretty much had the loop road around the battlefield to myself on that breezy 38 degree late November afternoon.  Wilson's Creek is the site were in 1861, Union General Nathaniel Lyon attacked a force of Confederate soldiers and allied Missouri State Guard troops twice the size of his Federal army.  It was a tactical victory for the Confederacy as the Union General was killed after being wounded 3 times, and Major Stugis withdrew the Union Army back to Springfield, having suffered 24% casualties from his army of about 10,000.  However, the surprise attack accomplished its purpose and drove the battered rebels and Mo State Guards out of Missouri, preserving this key state for Mr. Lincoln throughout the rest of the Civil War.  Always sobering to recall how thousands answered the call to defend the cause with their own blood and walk across ground once strewn with bodies and body parts. 

Once home, I just had to know.  Was Lebanon, MO a tourist trap or a retail bargain?  I priced checked at the local Wal-Mart; my Victornox pocket knives that I paid $16.49 for - available at home for $9.98.  That 10 piece butcher block set of kitchen knives - at Wal-Mart the same brand sells a 15 piece set for less than what I paid.  I should have listened to my Dad - "It's a Trap. It's a Tourist Trap!" 

Admiral Akbar warms the Millennium Falcon

at it approaches the Factory Outlet in Lebanon, Missouri

"It's a tourist trap!"

Now, I guess I have to go home a cut my wrists with Chicago cutlery in order to preserve the family honor.

With Thanks Left Over

 

Thanksgiving Feast is Prepared
Come to the Table

Once again our Thanksgiving Feast was a small affair, but that did not stop
us from giving hearty thanks for all of our blessings. I retrieved Grant from
the University of Missouri the previous Saturday, arriving home Sunday
saying it was good to be home. We did a bit of checking in the highways
and byways, alleys and avenues for a few souls to share our table, but
everyone we thought of already had plans. That is all well and fine - let
the preparations begin! 

Six days ahead of time, it was a list-making, double-checking, wham-bam,
T-day food-array, shop-o-rama extravaganza. The back story to this
year's grocery list (even the simple things in life can be laced with
complications you know): Do we stuff the bird? or just make it on the
range? What to do with cranberries? The basic, or is this the year for
Mama Stanberg's National Public Radio horseradish cranberry relish?
(Any votes for the cranberry gel that comes out of the can with concentric
rings imprinted on the red gelatinous cylinder?) Do we need fresh yeast or
can we risk flat rolls? And as always the most problematic Turkey Day
question of them all: If one makes tomato aspic for Thanksgiving and nobody
eats it, is it still a holiday tradition?

This was the menu:

• Turkey (10 lbs) for 3
• Green beans                                                                                                                           (Note: not green bean casserole, we observed everybody else in the store had the makings for said casserole with had the frozen green beans and a can of cream of mushroom soup)
• Cranberries (But what style?)
• Mashed Potatoes with Gravy
• Diced Sweet Potatoes with Ginger
• Suneson Family Cornmeal yeast Rolls
• Two Wines, Beaujolais & Riesling
• Dessert of Home made Pecan Pie and Pumpkin Pie

Now to fill in the back story. For the stuffing, we actually over did it, so
lots went into the roasted turkey and plenty was cooked on the stove top.
Once Grant got up, we asked about his preference for how the cranberry;
given the choices before him he allowed as to how he "was not eating any
more baloney at this circus" - which means he would plan on declining
anything but a small helping of cranberry relish, so we could make it what
ever way we desired. Done. This year it was to be Mama Stanberg's recipe.
My duties this year were that of turkey baster and bread chef. My yeast
rolls weren't giving me much of rise, looking about as flat as a 14th Century
cartographer's globe; but once rolled and ready to bake, they came out fine.
Another reason to give thanks.

Even for left over turkey enchiladas? Yes.

 

I told the cook that she looked like a Puritan at the Thanksgiving Table -
But I can't show you the picture of her after I told her that  ;-)



Strider stretched out after consuming large helpings of turkey skin and giblets



Hung One More Year on the Line

Officer Obie from the Birthday Police showed up in my mailbox to order me to have a "Happy Birthday!"  Followed by a reminder that a birthday is the first day of a 365 day journey around the Sun - so "Enjoy the Journey".  That is indeed my creed.  And so it was done.

Coming so close to Thanksgiving, I doubted anyone would want to leave family to join us for my celebration, if they were even in town.  So, as is often the case, it was a small family affair, but not without flare.  That is flare as in Signal Flare of Warning Flare.  [See photo evidence below]

I had suggested a liqueur type cake, building on the tiramisu from last year.  So, it became a rum cake for this year.  Very good I said, we can skip the numerous candles and just light the whole cake ablaze while everyone sings.  But- noooooo-body listens to me.  There just had to be a candle for every flamin' year.

After a check of our homeowner's policy to be sure we were up-to-date for fire insurance, the ignition became a two-person job in order to get every tiny wax candle lit before A) either there was a puddle of wax on the top of the cake resulting from the first candle having already burned to the point of extinguishment before the last one was lit, or B) the entire house was set on fire.  

The flaming dessert was quickly waltzed into the dining room, where, despite a might wind, I left 8 candles burning on the rim (No wish fulfillment for me).

However, I did receive my two requested addition to this year's reading list, though a divergent lot.  Stuart Diamond's Getting More and Destiny of the Republic by Candice Millard.  The latter being a tale of madness, medicine and murder of a president (James A. Garfield).  As it turns out, I am James Garfield's doppelganger.  All the time people stop me and remark how much I resemble Garfield; I ask "Do you mean the cat?"  No! The 20th president of the United States!  Once I ascertain that they are not a 'disappointed job-seeker', I thank them kindly.  I'll get around to reading these new books once I finish Moby Dick, which I pick up this summer.  With 150 pages left in Melville's tome, I have yet to encounter the white whale after 500+ pages.  I has occurred to me that this blog is written in a style similar to Melville's,

James Garfield or Mark Suneson?

The proto-paparazzi once telegramed Cary Grant and asked, "How old Cary Grant?"  The actor replied, "Old Cary Grant fine. How you?"  For those that want to know how old Mark Suneson, I challenge you to count the candles on my rum cake.

HAVE GOOD TIME

and

ENJOY THE JOURNEY

No Soap? Radio!! No T-Day Dinner! I lost my phone!

When in Junior High (as we used to call Middle School) and life largely revolved around being "in" and "getting it"; there was a prank that was sometimes employed at the expense of someone who "did not get it".  In a social setting, where the banter consisted of jokes and light conversation, some one would tell a "joke" that went something like this:

There were three otters.  The first otter grabbed a towel and slid down the slide saying, "Wee! That is wet!"  The second otter then grabbed a towel and followed the first otter down the slide saying, "Wee! That is wet!".  Now the third otter slid down the slide, but when he got to the bottom he said, "No soap? Radio!"

Everybody in the group that was already in the know, would break out into predetermined hysterical laughter at the punch line - which made no sense.  The point was to see if the other person in the group, who was not in the know, would hear the punch line and follow the lead of everyone else in the group with hysterical laughter, not wanting to let on to their peers that they did not understand the joke.  If the prank worked, and the target broke into laughter in order to go along with the group, then the group actually laughed at the person faking it - not with the person faking it.  Such was the cruelty of Junior High.

I saw a TV commercial this week featuring a young woman who downloads a "Thanksgiving app" from a super market chain and is thus provided instruction on how to perfectly prepare a sumptuous Thanksgiving meal - all with her iPhone app.  But, should her phone battery die or the phone gets misplaced, I can hear a frantic voice wailing from the kitchen on Thursday, "I can't cook Thanksgiving dinner! I lost my phone!"  This punch line/comment would have made no sense a year or two ago. 

If you don't have an iPhone with a Thanksgiving app, you are not in the know, or with the "in" crowd.  No Phone? I can't cook Thanksgiving Dinner! is the new No Soap? Radio!  Admittedly, I don't get it.  An app to go shopping and cook a turkey?  That makes no sense to me.  My turkey will be cooked using appearance, smell and touch while the iTurkey crowd laughs at me. Such is the cruelty of this techno world. 

Texas Peach Tree Chainsaw Massacre

My ol' friend, Wing T. Lee, once observed not long after he got married, "When you are about to get married, you go and register for wedding gifts, and you have to choose from thing like napkin rings, place mats, wine racks and soup tureens.  I got this far in life without napkin rings and I never even heard of a tureen before - and I certainly can live without one.  But, how come nobody has a list of practical gift things for the couple, like heavy duty jumper cables or a chainsaw?"  Wing T. Lee always had his own ideas, and some of them were not bad.

I have long remembered Wing's lament about not getting a chainsaw for a wedding gift, and ever since he mentioned it, at times I myself  have felt a little bit deprived.  The other night a strong wind blew in during the small hours and brought with it the perfect combination of opportunity and lament, justification and the means.  It was fast-flashing lightning show spectacular, with strong wind gust and a serious hail core that came into my backyard.  In the morning, we discovered that the top of our peach tree had been broken off, pushing about two-third of the branches over the fence and into the driveway.  My thoughts were:
A) That there mess will be a lot of sawing with my current collection of hand saws,
B) Wing T. Lee was right, a groom should get a chainsaw along with a soup tureen,
C) My birthday is coming up pretty soon,
D) There will be question of "What do you want for your birthday?" and some gift dollars coming my way.

This works on so many levels!  I will get a chainsaw for my birthday - only it will be an early birthday to me.  It is like a sign from heaven or a word from the prophet; I heard the words come to me and they sounded something like this, "Lo! And Behold!  Thine days of lament are over, for thou shall not mourn the topping of thy peach tree, for out of this disaster thou will be compensated. 
     Go now to Lowe's and Behold! - there you will find a chainsaw suitable for thine appointed task.  Thou art to saw the downed branches of peach wood into lengths of one cubit and stack them in the side yard.  And once they have dried they are to be consumed by fire for warmth.  This task is to be a celebration of thine years upon the earth, and the day shall be filled with much rejoicing amongst the revving of the chainsaw.  Amen."

And so it came to pass, with the addition of chainsaw oil and 2-cycle engine oil, the 18-inch [1 cubit] chainsaw was acquired and accomplished it's job in short order and the days of Wing's prophetic lament came to an end. 

Now, with that appointed task done, I think I'll go make a tureen of peach soup.

Post Massacre Peach Tree
About 1/3 of it former self following Wind-Hail Storm

Little House on the Prairie

My wife has so often quoted and recounted stories from the series of Little House on the Prairie books, written by Laura Ingalls Wilder, that within our household, this authoritative source is second only to revealed holy scripture and perhaps a few things my mother-in-law may have said.  My wife would often lead her response in conversation with, "Well, Laura Ingalls Wilder said in..." These anecdotes would cover a range of subjects from 19th century customs, the mindset of the American pioneer, the social understanding among women, race relations and the limits on morality when one is facing starvation, or the virtue of self-reliance.  This Little House on the Prairie series and its use by Sue as a commentary on nearly all things, has long been a source of endearment as well as a source of bemusement within our marriage.

Studying the road map (or maybe she already had hatched her plan) on our way to central Missouri to take Grant to visit the University of Missouri, she casually said, "Oh, look, we will go right by Mansfield, that is where they have a Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum and House."  I promised that on one of these trips, if Grant goes to school in MO, that we will visit the Pioneer Girl Mecca.  Well, after moving Grant into his dorm in August, we had reservations to stay the night in Springfield, MO (SW part of the state) and take a side trip to Mansfield the next morning before returning home.

Mansfield, still a small town, the place where Laura Ingalls Wilder moved with her husband by wagon to settle on some land where they could farm and grow apples.  Laura as a child had moved frequently with her parents who were always on the look out for a great pioneering opportunity.  The Ingalls' family moved from Minnesota, to Wisconsin, Iowa, Kansas Territory and finally settled in South Dakota.  These places (except wicked Iowa) are featured in her series of memoirs.  There is also a book about traveling by small wagon with her small daughter to Missouri with a hidden $100 bill that was to be used to purchase the farm.  Laura stayed in Missouri all her adult life, and it was here in her home that she penned her set of books, which have so enthralled generations of girls - including my wife.

The museum had all types of Ingalls Wilder artifacts, from dishes and utensils, dresses, early manuscripts and illustrations for the books, photos and prominently featured was Pa's fiddle - which often had a place in her pioneer family stories.  After walking through the exhibits, we were led on a tour of the house, built entirely by her husband, Alonso.  They started with a log cabin on the property and then began constructing the house, a little bit at a time.  As resources of time and money allowed, Almanso would add on to the original kitchen and single bedroom.  It later included an upstairs bedroom, an indoor toilet and bath, a parlor and music alcove.  Some accounts are given of ladies weeping upon getting so close to the true Laura Ingalls Wilder furnishings, but we and everyone in our group just admired the spirit and industry displayed by a couple in building a life and a home without government incentives or taxpayer funded programs.  It was refreshing to see what America once was.

Sue having seen it all with her own eyes and having settled most of her curiosity, stopped at the bookstore, picked a few needed volumes and said it was a delight.  Now lets hit the road jack and get back to our little empty nest on Corley.  Done deal.

I admit I love traveling overland, but I sure do like doing it at highway speeds.  Twenty miles a day in a small wagon makes me give thank for those who provided such a good foundation in the years before and makes me feel obliged to try and do as much for the next generation.

Last Fledgling Leaves nest to Become a Tiger

Over the months from Spring and into Summer, Grant had become more and more ready to move on with life.  Next big adventure was the University of Missouri.  His choice and reward for top-notch academic achievement, to be admitted into the highest rated J-School (journalism) in the world.  He had been oriented, wooed, welcomed, warned and registered by the University, all as a part of breaking out as his own man.

He had been assigned a dorm room, actually a suite comprised of one 2-bed room separated from another 2-bed room by a common bath area.  Move-in was Wednesday, which meant he was to be packed and ready to leave for Mizzou on Tuesday; this after I had been home for only two full days from my northwest vacation road trip.  He was kind of packed for college when I drove in from Denver and managed to piece together most of the necessities and place them in the back of the SUV.   He took most of our suggestions, which we tried to keep to the very minimum, as to what to include; opting to live on the spartan side of the spectrum.  Traveling and living unencumbered is a good plan.

Arriving the evening before move-in, we three lodged in a hotel room from which we could spring into action once we finished our free continental breakfast the next morning.  During summer orientation in August, one of the Student Facilitators guaranteed that move-in day would either be 102 degrees, or pouring rain.  He was good.  It was the latter.

Student volunteers, coated in yellow plastic rain gear were station on the corners to direct and advise the tangled and teaming masses of new students and parents.  We got a temporary parking pass to briefly stay in the (un)loading zone outside the dorm.  With windshield wipers on medium, Grant and Mom began to ferry (an apt verb on this day) boxes and sundries into the indoor staging area known as the "fish bowl", while I was required to stay with the vehicle.  Once disgorged of freshman cargo, I then parked in the assigned lot a half-mile away.  Doing my darnedest at dodging between the drops, I made my way up to the third floor to help with the unpacking process.  Grant's roommate, Cambridge, from Kansas City area had not yet arrived, so Grant got his choice of beds and side of closet.  The adjoining suite had Ted from St. Louis and Carson from Chicago.  Meanwhile, down the hall rumbled warehouse carts filled with appliances, electronics and boxes of clothing being unloaded from a U-Haul trailer and pushed by father and mother into their daughter's dorm room.  Seriously? A U-Haul trailer?!  Just reinforced my appreciation for Grant's minimalist approach to living.

A Spartan Beginning
Dorm Life

We parents were invited to leave our fledgling behind and attend a University sponsored lecture/seminar styled after air traffic controllers calmly aiding "helicopter parents" to gently land their hovering vehicle and allow their 18-year old to - as they say, get a life.  Good-bye Mom.  They'll be fine.  Really.  We took the opportunity to leave Grant's new living space (even though we did not need the preparation for separation talk) and allow social connections to be made on Grant's own terms without the embarrassment of having to introduce parents (especially loose-cannon Dad).  We planned to meet him at the Union for lunch in a few hours.  Meanwhile he had meetings with faculty and student advisers to get his schedule arranged.

He ended up with one 8 AM class (psychology) and had to settle for a high-intermediate Spanish course since the intermediate level course had already been filled.  This challenging level of Spanish was the most daunting of all his classes he figured.  We have since heard that he was getting a 96 in Spanish.  And his early morning class was conducted by a young, energetic professor who kept things lively for that early hour, no snoozing.

After lunch I got out my thin plastic card, and Grant picked up all of his text books that had been pre-boxed by the Tiger Book Store, and with one quick swipe, $730 worth of text books was handed to us.  With the precious box of books in hand, the sky opened up as we walked back to his room.  Fortunately one of Grant's high school graduation gifts was a large umbrella.  The handy grad gift was employed, while Grant and Mom alternately struggled with one holding the umbrella for maximum coverage and the other carrying the box.  Then they tried each carrying one side of the box and trying to use the umbrella simultaneously.  As they struggled along the sidewalk beside streets flowing torrents of rain water, a car drove by and soaked 'em good with a rooster tail of water,  the umbrella was no defense.  The book box was so soggy that it could barely contain the $700 worth of cargo.  The two besodden book wranglers caught up to me inside the dorm, dripping and laughing at the poorly managed episode.

Purposely light on any final advice, we said our good-byes; feeling he he had been well-enough prepared and expecting the best of the young man.  If I could have left him with any advice it would have been, "Feed the chickens while it's hot - but sleep with one eye open."  But I didn't tell him that.  No tears.

What? Enough already - I will be fine
Filling Frosh Forms in new Quarters

I will return to Columbia on November 19 to pick him up and get him home for 1 week of Thanksgiving break.  Requested first home cooked meal - quiche.  Good choice, but go figure.  Ah, how quickly refined tastes are developed with even less than a semaester of higher education.  Welcome back, your quiche will be ready momentarily.

Falling for Fall Colors

On a day when the November sky was chalk and the limestone cutbank of Spring Creek was milk, I chose to travel Holford Road, a short two lane route that connects my office to the geologic library where I sometimes have business to attend to.  On this day I delayed my bit of consulting business to stop and peer over the edge of the limestone bluff at a blazing canopy of color displayed in the Spring Creek Nature Preserve, a remnant of Blackland Prairie set aside by the city of Garland.

If you are not in too much of a hurry, why don't you join me in a little walk along the bank of Spring Creek on this crisp November day and share a marvelous thing with me? 

And then a little bit deeper into the woods --

Our cavalcade of color has come to an end, and now it is time to leaf the Blackland Prairie Preserve and return to work

Passages Southeast

We reached the geographical zenith as well as the pinnacle of all that we hold dear when gathered with all of Sue's brothers and sisters and their families in and around Anacortes, Washington this August.  But all too quickly the currents of time an obligations swept us all away, dispersing us back to our well-worn worldly niches carved in disparate places by our careers and a multitude of other bonds.  It was time to return, and for us, that meant backtracking to the southeast.  Texas or bust.

Sally caught a ride back to Sea-Tac Airport with us, and both Sue and sister Sally were dropped off at curbside mid-morning.  Sue had a one-way ticket back to Dallas, reasoning the expense of plane fare was worth defraying time away from her job where schedules had to be met, programs planned and all those things that needed attention that could not bear the allotted time for overland travel.   We let the elder two Cook sisters to chat for a few hours more before they boarded the Boeing.  Meanwhile Grant and I had the evening's stopover planned for my sister Sheri's outside of Boise, Idaho.  Grant too had lobbied for air fare back to Dallas, rather than endure a road trip across the Rockies and through the southern plains.  He said, that he needed the time to get packed and ready for college which was coming in about a week's time for him.  Fair enough.  I bought Grant a plane ticket from Boise to Dallas so he could have a few days to recalibrate at home before leaving.  With only me to drive back to Dallas, I too recalibrated and made plans to swing into Montana to spend a couple of days with my parents before driving hell-bent-for-leather to make it home.  I left for Montana the next morning, while Grant spent an extra day in Bosie before he was driven by Aunt Sheri to the airport. 

Sheri watched from behind the TSA checkpoint and satisfied herself that Grant had been removed from the Do-Not-Fly security list and that he was not caught smuggling a water bottle or more than 2.1 ounces of toothpaste onto the plane.  Grant had a scheduled layover in Salt Lake City before arriving in Dallas, but once on the plane, the passenger address system was not working, so the plane was not allowed to leave the gate.  Grant was then eventually placed on another flight that took him through LA before reaching Dallas about 5 hours later than planned.  At least it was not nearly as bad as Uncle Bill, who left Seattle for Oklahoma City, only to be deplaned in Denver and told that his airline no longer had a scheduled flight to OKC.  So they would put him up in a hotel for a night and 2 days and then fly him to his ticketed destination.  Outrageous.

I made it to the folk's place in Montana in pretty good time.  I told them I did not want any entertainment or tours scheduled, just a chance to hang out and cool my jets with them for two days.  I was sorry that I was unable to meet up with my Aunt Margie and Uncle Norm from Virginia who were in the area (Missoula) visiting their daughter, but by the time arrangements could be made for them to get to Polson, I was already on the road back to Texas.  The one request I made was to go out to Kerr Dam and see if torrents of water were still flooding over the gates due to Montana's very wet Spring.

The view downstream from Kerr on the
Flathead River in Polson, Montana

Note: The white bluffs and hoodoos composed of "glacial flower" that was once the bottom of Lake Missoula a Pleistocene lake formed behind a glacier blocking its natural flow into the Columbia River Basin.  When Lake Missoula did burst through the glacial ice dam, it created a flood 800 feet deep of spectacular power

My parents at the Kerr Dam Overlook

The deluge flowing over the dam had subsided by the time of year I got there, but it was a nice drive out into the Flathead Valley farmland.  We drove around looking for the Buffalo Bridge that crossed the river and would take us back home, but could not find the crossing.  But we did make it back home in time to cook up a fresh trout dinner, supplied by the neighbor's grand kids who like catching, but not so much eating.  I loaded on a few extra treasure from my parents house, including four quart jars filled with rhubarb-raspberry jam.  Beebop-A-Reebop Rhubarb!  Some stuff is just worth driving a few thousand miles for (currently we have one-half a jar left).

On your short list of things handy to have; put this item: A good friend or family member who lives in Denver.  When we briefly lived in Denver, we were frequently delighted and blessed to have somebody stop by and look us up.  Now my niece Lisa has a job and a place in Denver.  So, my travel plans were Western Montana to Denver Day 1, Denver to Dallas, Day 2.  Simple.  Outside Casper, Wyoming, I planned to give Lisa a call to let her know when to expect me.  But my cell phone was mysteriously dead and I didn't have a carjack charger for it.  In Douglas I stopped for gas, and inquired about the possible whereabouts of a Wal-Mart to get a recharger for my phone.  The manager lady said "We don't have a Wal-Mart here, but we have Wal-Mart lite, it is call Pamida, be we refer to it as 'plum outa'". I laughed sincerely at her joke, and they she asked what kind of phone I had.  I told her Verizon.  So she gave me directions to a Verizon store, and I got there 10 minutes before they closed.  And then I had plenty of miles of prairie to pass through my windshield while I got the phone recharged.

Drive south on I-25 across the gently undulating prairie that was a sea of green tinged with yellow of the coming Fall, I enjoyed the rhythmic swaying of my 4Runner as I scanned the broad blue horizon.  It felt for all the watery world that I was truly sailing over a sea of grass and feeling the rolling waves of land as the road rose and fell before me as I surveyed the unbroken horizon.  I loved the feeling of sailing through Wyoming, having my eyes splashed with the yellow-green hues of the prairie grass expanse beneath the blue horizon fading toward sunset.

With my recharged phone, I called Lisa to confirm my late arrival and she warned that parking around her place could be tough.  Most parking spaces were assigned with posted tow-away warnings, though a lot of cars were parked illegally along the curb across the street.  I decided to take my chances and park late at night and leave early in the morning, hoping I would not be towed en mass or get the Denver Boot (a device of heavy cast iron that the Denver PD locks to your car tire - until you pay a fine and an office unfetters your wheels).  It was late, but I had just what I needed, a couch to lay upon, a chance to get a few hours sleep at the end of the day.  I was quietly out the door around 7 AM, leaving Lisa my sincere thanks and leaving her undisturbed on a Saturday morning.

I was home Saturday night.  I would leave to take Grant to college in Columbia, Missouri on Tuesday.

I had navigated our own Northwest Passage and recorded these passages on this blog.  It was good.

In Memory of Harry Cook - Northwest Passages VII

Sue's father, Harry Cook, slipped quietly out of our world on the first day of this year as all of his seven children gathered at his bed side.  Harry had requested that their not be a funeral service and expressed a wish that he be discreetly returned to the natal soil of Fidalgo Island.  There on Fidalgo Island he grew strong and formed strong bonds with the mild land that his parents farmed on Marche's Point outside of Anacortes.  After putting himself through veterinary school at Washington State, he eventually returned to the area with the US Department of Agriculture to care for the dairy herds of Snohomish and Skagit Counties.  When he had finished with his day job at the USDA, he then returned to labor on his beloved land where he had a couple of cows, pasture in the back forty, an orchard and a bountiful garden. He was a man of the good earth.

With the family had all gathered around New Year's Eve on sudden notice of Dad's fast fading health, upon his passing everyone purposed to return to Anacortes as a family once schedules could be arranged, and make a proper farewell.  Over several months and a series of iterations of everyone's schedules, obligations and preferences, early August seemed most practical for gathering in Dad's memory and to serve as a reunion.

Several years earlier Harry had donated funds to purchase a parcel of land that is part of the Anacortes Community Forest Lands (ACFL), as a means to keep the mountains, lakes and forest around Anacortes undeveloped and freely available to enjoy for generations to come - just as he had enjoyed the land.  Cathy, with her accounting background handled the papers of the estate, for which we offer our thanks.  Bob, our man in Anacortes (or at least pretty close), did a bit of discreet checking around.  Technically, there was not provision or even permission to scatter ashes in the ACFL; but Bob, in talking with the director thought he detected a wink over the phone, with the implication being that if cremains of someone were to spill while people were walking in the forest lands, it was unlikely anybody could really do anything about that.  Bob, got a map with the location of the specific Harry Cook parcel and placed it before Mike, Bill, Sue and me.

We decided a reconnoitering expedition was in order before the entire Cook clan gathered and hiked about the ACFL with no clear direction or plan.  It would not be a good beginning to a final farewell.  So with a much technical savvy as we could squeeze out of our brains and into our digits (which was mostly Mike), we surfed the web and downloaded satellite images, websites, county and city maps and a topographic image courtesy of the US Geological Survey.  The directions to the correct ACFL area were not without a few discrepancies and it looked like we needed to be flexible in our navigation even though we did reach agreement on the Cook parcel coordinates.  I drove the lead expedition vehicle, made a few turns into private roads, but eventually found the trail head that would lead us to the location of the parcel.  With my own sense of dead reckoning and based on the digital contour maps I had studied earlier in the morning, I found a spot that I believed to be the tract that Harry had donated to the ACFL.  Bill then uploaded an app on his phone that would give us a GPS lat/long once we got out from under the forest canopy.  Once Bill's app uploaded and seemed to work, we hiked back up the trail to see if the GPS coordinated got close to my dead reckoning.  The location was confirmed.

The next morning, the family gathered and strolled about a half mile up the gently inclined trail to the previously scout location of the Harry Cook plot.  We all stepped off the trail and scrambled over a few fallen logs and slipped behind a veil of sword fern and and spread ourselves in a circle beneath a cathedral of conifers.  Tom, the eldest, had prepared a few words from Ecclesiastes, Dietrich Bonhoeffer and a few other sources, to bring fond remembrances and a sense of closure closure for the occasion.  Tom's words were well chosen and well delivered drew the solemn ceremony to a close with a few tears and a few hugs as all his kids returned their father back to the good earth in silence, except for the eternal sounds of wind and spirit moving among the boughs and aria of a few distant birds.  A he wished, a good man of the land was returned to his land by those for whom he cared and provided.

The return trek was a return to a sense of the present with a short hike along the trail to Whistle Lake in the ACFL Preserve.  Quiet chattering among brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, all connecting to the now and future before us.

Northwest Passages: A recognition of the passing of time and of people, an over-the-shoulder glance at the paths from and back to Western Washington, a recording of those things seen and those things thought along the way.



The Cook Clan gathers at Whistle Lake in Remembrance of their Father



Nephews & Niece with Aunt Sally
On the Shore of Whistle Lake



Grant & Cousin Connor tossing Rocks into Whistle Lake
To everything there is a Season
A Time to scatter stones and
A Time to gather them together



Some of the Grand kids
Grant, David, Matthew
Connor, Emma, Zach



Emma with Aunt Sally



The Cooks of Minnesota
David, Mathew, Esther & Tom



The Week After

The ancient Celts marked the cycle of the seasons by beginning the reckoning of time in the short, dark days of winter and ending the cycle with the gathering of the year's harvest stores under the Harvest Moon in the warm days and brisk nights of Autumn. 

The end of the Celtic year was believed to be a time when the world of the living came in closest proximity to the world of the spirits, demons and apparitions that go bump in the night.  For the ancients, this end of the cycle was a time to be mindful of things unseen and humbly respectful of powers and principalities not at all fully comprehended.  The end of the year was time to bring in the harvest, count one's blessings, lay up provisions for the coming winter and prepare for the future; where the unseeable tragedies and fading of good fortune were known to be lurking.  As a means to ward off ill fortune and bad spirits the Celts carved gruesome faces on pumpkins and lit them on the inside on this night when they believed such entities drew perilously close.  This end of the harvest festival and wariness of the spirit worlds was of course incorporated by the Church and baptised as All Saints Day, a time to be mindful of the all souls and saints who have passed into heaven.  Over the centuries, the eve of All Hallows Day became Halloween (Hallows' Eve).

We moderns are ready to dismiss any real and contemplative thoughts of what the ancients professed as knowledge of the other worlds.  "No such thing" we bravely say.  Just whistle a happy tune as you pass through the graveyard at night.  "It's all about free candy for the asking", becoming a princess or a pirate in a good night's fun, nothing more.  Right?

While there is good fun and great memories to be had at school Halloween Carnivals, award winning costumes and sweet treats, candied corn and chocolate.  I think we should not be to hasty to toss the other worldly intuition of the Celt's onto the compost pile of baseless superstition.  I think we do our souls good and stay soundly humble when we too consider our mortality, enjoying this world of affections and confections while we can.  Halloween is a time to be mindful of transitions, purposeful in the harvest of good friends, kind words and shared friendships from all that we planted earlier in our lives.  It is a time to be circumspect and slow down a bit to let one's soul catch up to the busy mind that has been racing all season long.  Light a fire in the short, dark and cold days to keep the chills away, and share the light and warmth with as many as you can.  Let this season of reflections begin on All Saints Day, let those distraction settle out as you rest after Halloween.

The Jack-o-Lanterns that burned so bright and made good scary decoration fun on my Halloween doorstep just last week - I have now placed them atop the compost pile at the end of my driveway.  They serve as a reminder of this season, and give me a moment to reflect as I accelerate pass them into the work-a-day world.  I reflect on how quickly the eyes have sagged, the toothy smiles have begun to cave and how they sit there as testimony to mortality; sinking into the compost, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

Be mindful and respectful of life as it passes, plant well and enjoy the harvest you have sown and reach into that Halloween candy bowl and grab a fistful of treats.  Curse not the coming darkness, but kindle light and warmth.  Enjoy the journey.

The End
...and then the Beginning

Northwest Passages VI

Destination - Skagit County, Washington
The underlying purpose of this trip was to gather with all of the Cooks in celebration of Harry Cook, Sue's father, who had passed away on the 1st of the year.  As it is said, funerals are for the living, and though at Harry's request, no funeral was planned, a memorial gathering of his seven children in Western Washington was a fair and fitting tribute.  August was expected to be accommodating as far as the weather could be predicted, and of course assembling all of 7 brothers and sisters and and their families at a defined point in space at the same time was nearly as unique of an occurrence as the conjunction of all planets in the solar system (of course not counting Pluto).  But when it all aligns, it is a good sign.  Indeed it was good.

Growing up in a family of seven kids, I think one thing that all learned for certain, was not to schedule anything too tight and allow for lots of moving parts to spin on their own axis, and somehow, it will mostly work.  With this dynamic in play, and with the aid of cell phones and unlimited texting plans, everybody kind of arrived about the right time and managed to get themselves north of Seattle and find a roost.  Sally was located at Sea-Tac airport, grabbed a ride with Mike and landed at Cathy and Eric's among her nephews and nieces, Zach, Connor and Emma.  Bill traveled without his lovely wife this time and also ended up in Mike's rental car.  With Sally dropped off, Bill and Mike checked into a shared room in Mt. Vernon.  Tom and Esther arrived with their sons, and had arrangements out on Fidalgo Island.

The Suneson's were invited by brother Bob and Ann to settle in with them and the dogs for the duration.  Our arrival was greeted enthusiastically by Robert, Katy Ann and Hannah, even though our arrival meant we were displacing them from their rooms.  We offered to let the kids keep their own beds and set up the tent and sleep out on the lawn next to Bob's mobile chicken coop, newly stocked and industrially wired to keep the raccoons and coyotes at bay.

I thought it would be a hoot each night as we went to bed inside our tent to have Ann call out into the dark yard, "Who's there?" and then Robert could rosin up the bow and fiddle (though he much prefers the violin) and Bob could come in on the horn section, as we all sang, "Ain't Nobody Here but Us Chickens".  A very silly idea.  Any how, as we all know, tomorrow is a busy day, we got things to do, eggs to lay...

But if we were chickens, we would be sure to get great care from Katy Ann, as she is masterful a taking care of all the animals around the place.

Actually, tomorrow would be a busy day, but we did not have to wait until then to be busy.  As soon as I shut off the ignition, Hannah was leading Aunt Sue and the rest of us into the woods and showing us all of her best berry-picking spots.  We were in luck, some wild raspberries, a few huckleberries, black caps and salmon berries (known to Hannah as "rug" berries because they taste like licking a rug).  With berries picked and consumed, we marched back down the trail to unpack for a few days stay.  Even though we were not chickens, we were well cared for by the great hospitality of Ann, all the kids and Bob, who made sure we started each day with as many of his hot cakes as we could eat.

First order of business now that everybody was within two counties of each other was to consolidate the family at the traditional picnic reunion dinner at Rosario Beach.  At least five generations of the Cook Family have sat upon the Rosario Beach logs and caught up with one another.

Rosario Beach - Preferred Location for Cook Family Reunion
The feast is Spread while the Sun Shines (briefly)

Grant (foreground) selects a skipping stone to impress young cousins

While 3 Cook sister representing Washington, New York & Texas
talk with those in from Minnesota
It's a Wonder we all make it!

The 3 Cook sister chat with sister-in-law Esther and her two sons



Three of the Cook brothers sit in silence on the
Rosario back beach logs as the fog rolls in



Another day, another excursion and a chance to act like tourist for those now from New York, Texas, Arizona and Minnesota and a chance to act like they did not really grow up around here and took all of this for granted. 

A ferry ride - just because it is a ferry ride, to Guemes Island.  A cool thing to do if you're a Washington State tourist. Dock, get off, stroll around, have an island lunch and then catch a ride back on the local ferry.

Pedestrian Passengers on Guemes Ferry
Includes Sue & MN Cooks on the port side

Some of the Cook Clan watch carefully for a sea level rise;
Finally concluding tide & time wait for no man





Grant walks the littoral zone of Guemes Island

 

Food taste better
with an island sea breeze just beyond the railing
It better - because island lunches are so expensive

Sue and Brother Tom
Discuss Deep Thoughts & Wonder where Grant got off to

Inga had summer school in Eugene where she was knocking out a required math course, but once she finished for the week, she was eager to join the family reunion.  She boarded an earlier Amtrak Train in Eugene and rode it up to Seattle and then transferred to a bus that got her as close as the Mt. Vernon, WA Amtrak Station.  We picked her up there and brought her to the reunion festivities.  She could only stay a day before it was back on the train (50 minutes late) to the University of Oregon.

Inga joins the reunion and hangs out on the Anacortes Beach with cousins Matthew and David