Man vs. Skunk: A Photo-Essay

Regular foldedspace readers are aware that we’ve been harboring a skunk under the office for the past two months. The odor was fairly strong at the end of October, but faded for several weeks until erupting in a perfect storm of stench earlier this month.

Today, I’d had enough. I made it my crusade to eliminate this odor from our lives. Here’s the story of J.D. vs. the skunk.

This is the old trailer house in which our offices are housed.

[photo of trailer house in which our offices are housed]

My office is on the left-most end of the trailer. It is from here that the odor emanated. It was strong. It was nauseating. It was unbearable. We evacuated my office, moving all necessary paperwork and computers to other offices. When the smell would not go away, we called in a company called the Critter Gitters. They set a trap in order to lure the skunk from under the house.

[photo of the skunk trap that did not work]

We left the trap outside for about a week, but to no avail. No skunk. Last night, it dawned on me: a whole host of factors seemed to indicate that the skunk might not be alive to take the bait; it was likely that the skunk was dead. This seemed so probable, in fact, that I prepared to crawl under the trailer to retrieve the corpse without taking any pre-cautions in case I might encounter a live animal (or worse, more than one).

I bought a box of Vicks VapoRub. (I was just going to buy Vaseline, but Kris noted that Vaseline doesn’t really have much of an odor.) Would this stuff work?

It certainly had a strong odor of its own! I applied liberal gobs of it to my moustache and to my nose (including inside my nostrils).

Ouch! Ouch! Vicks VapoRub burns when applied in large doses. And it smells awful.

It smells no worse than skunk, though. Fully armed with two flashlights, the digital camera, a garbage bag, a dustpan, some eye protection, and a pair of gloves, I set off to find my skunk.

There’s no easy way to maneuver under the trailer house. The crawlspace is small, especially toward my office. I simply sucked it up and dove in…

[photo of me crawling under the trailer house]

The ground under the trailer is basically solid earth. Or, at this time of the year, a cold, hard mud made damp from weeks of rain. Much of the trailer’s underlayment has been torn away, and insulation hangs in wads. I’m almost certain this damage was caused by the three ornery boys who grew up here.

[photo of the crawlspace beneath the trailer house]

It took some time to determine the best path. Eventually, I opted to skirt the edge of the house, crawling around the wheelbase.

My second obstacle was the sewer pipe. I thought about crawling under it, but elected to go around again.

Soon after, though, I found myself stuck, wedged between a metal joist and the sloping ground. I had to crawl backward to get out from under the house. I removed my jacket and my sweatshirt, leaving only a turtleneck. Minimal protection, but my body was much thinner now. This time, I made it through the tight place. Almost immediately, I found the dead villain.

It took several more minutes of maneuvering to reach the body. It was a tight fit, as I’ve said. And the whole time, the skunk’s scowling face stared at me. His little black beady eyes were knowing and evil. They gave me the heebie-jeebies. Oh, and let’s not forget the stench. Even though I was making every effort not to breathe through my nose, it took enormous discipline to keep from wretching. It would not have been fun to crawl through my own vomit. By breathing through my mouth, I avoided most of the stench, though my throat did begin to burn.

I wrestled the skunk into the garbage bag, and then dragged it outside.

I felt triumphant! I also felt sick. Though the Vicks VapoRub did a fine job of suppressing the smell, I could taste the musky foulness.

[photo of the dead skunk resting on the lawn]

What then to do with the skunk? “Throw it in the trash!” suggested Jeff. This seemed like an awful thing to do, simply shifting the odor to somebody else. “Burn it!” he said, but I was worried about the stench of burning flesh. Eventually, we hit upon an imperfect solution: we buried the thing on the furthest corner of the property, near the road.

[photo of me digging the grave for the skunk]

Now we’re waiting for the trailer to de-odorize. Most of the rooms already smell fine. My office, however, stinks, probably because the skunk died just below it. Perhaps, too, it stinks because Nick dowsed all of the draperies in vinegar. sigh

Comments

On 21 December 2004 (02:09 PM),
pril said:

you are one brave mofo, JD. That’s all i can say. ;)

On 21 December 2004 (02:14 PM),
Scott said:

J.D. wins best post of the year. Hands down.

On 21 December 2004 (02:17 PM),
Denise said:

Ok, that is probably the scariest and stinkest thing I can imagine. That dead skunk picture is disgusting. I can’t believe you did that. Being under the house would have scared the heebie jeebies out of me just on it’s own, let alone having to find THAT thing and bag it!

Thank goodness I am NOT a man and will never have to crawl around under a house looking for dead varmints.

On 21 December 2004 (02:27 PM),
mac said:

next task? Find the skunk’s mode of entry and bar any future spelunking by J.D. Unless he secretly liked it.

On 21 December 2004 (02:34 PM),
Kris said:

How will he smell when he gets home, I wonder? Great job, Custom Box Hero!

On 21 December 2004 (02:35 PM),
J.D. said:

Find the skunk’s mode of entry, Mac? You mean any one of the dozen places where the skirting is missing? :)

I keep meaning to post this anecdote. It’s funny (and skunk related), though it’s also a bit like the whisky anecdote:

One day last week I had to spend a couple of hours in the office before visiting customers. Though I couldn’t smell skunk on my clothes when I left, I knew the odor was there. “I can’t make sales calls smelling like a skunk,” I thought. “What can I do?”

It occurred to me that I should stop by home and pick up my pipe. I did so. I puffed it in the car for about ten minutes, bathing in the rich aroma of cherry tobacco.

When I got to my first appointment, I realized that I probably smelled like Tony used to: like the butt end of a cigarette. I took a ten minute walk, hoping the odor would fade.

As I carried the Christmas basket (filled with tons of goodies) into my customer’s office, I noticed a “Proud to be a Non-Smoking Workplace” on the door. Great.

I greeted the client with a hearty “Ho ho ho”. The basket was well-received. But after a minute or so, the client frowned — only slighlty — and backed a step away from me.

After this, I drove around for twenty minutes with all my windows rolled down, hoping the cold, brisk wind would all the odors from my body.

I’ve had a disproportionate number of Idiot Stories this winter, haven’t I?

sigh

On 21 December 2004 (02:47 PM),
Jeff said:

The most obvious mode of entry for mr. skunk would be the very same mode of entry used by JD to retrieve said skunk.

On 21 December 2004 (03:11 PM),
Mom (Sue) said:

Don’t worry, Kris, my shower was used to remove whatever residual odor there may have been from J.D. (although he didn’t smell like skunk when he came down here, amazingly enough). There is a bit of the mud from under the trailer house in my back entryway and bathroom, and Silver was spooked by J.D.’s muddy shoes left in the back entryway until I took them outside. I don’t know if that was because of J.D.’s scent or the skunk’s. :-)

On 21 December 2004 (05:14 PM),
Courtney said:

How did you get the skunk to show his pearly whites? That’s what I want to know.

Thanks for bringing levity to an otherwise dark day. I needed a good story and a good laugh!

On 21 December 2004 (10:15 PM),
Joel said:

Congratulations, very bravely done! Is there a skunk-retrieval bonus at CBS? And if not, shouldn’t there be one?

On 22 December 2004 (08:38 AM),
jenefer said:

Cecily & I want to know why you didn’t use a “custom box” instead of a plastic bag to retrieve the skunk.

On 22 December 2004 (09:01 AM),
al said:

I regret that I am unable to attend the funeral. I suddenly remembered my dental appt. at the same time. I don’t know why.

On 22 December 2004 (09:12 AM),
Andy said:

Wow – this is nastier than the dead rats I ferreted out of our crawlspace.

I’m just glad there wasn’t the extra stank.

On 22 December 2004 (10:19 AM),
Amanda said:

Wow. I can totally empathize, although clearly a stinking, rotting dead cat under our house can’t possibly have been as bad as a dead skunk. Eek!

Even more gruesome, however, was the other dead mummified cat that was found under out house. But I wasn’t nearly as brave as you. We hired someone to remove the stinking carcasses.

On 22 December 2004 (09:17 PM),
Andrew Parker said:

Wow. A (rare) compelling argument for slab floors.

On 22 December 2004 (10:01 PM),
Betsy said:

I’m still stunned that one of your necessary pieces of equipment was your digital camera. I’d have wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible, which would have meant no time for pictures…

On 23 December 2004 (01:44 AM),
Schmela said:

Great post. I agree with Betsy about the camera, although I’m not sure I could ever go into a crawlspace looking for a dead skunk…camera or no camera.

You should read a chapter in Gary Paulsen’s book, Winterdance, entitled “Major Wrecks.” There is a passage about some evening training he did with his sled dogs that may just be the wildest, most hilarious skunk story I’ve ever heard. I had difficulty reading it because I was laughing so hard.

Hope you have a skunk-free Christmas.

On 23 December 2004 (10:00 AM),
Lynn said:

I love the difference in the pictures of “JD prior to entering” and “JD post skunk-gathering”. The facial expressions are great.

On 23 December 2004 (11:06 AM),
Amanda said:

By the way, you remind me of Jonathan Frakes, especially in that last photo.

On 23 December 2004 (09:50 PM),
grannyj said:

Have you given and thought or concern as to WHY you had a dead skunk under your office trailer?

Nightmares

I had a couple of vivid dreams last night, one of which was an eerie nightmare. Anybody care to interpret these?

Dream #1
The Gang has gathered for a fancy dinner at a nice hotel. We’re there the same night as a high school prom. I’m restless, so I wander the event, taking in the damage — gloating boys, girls in tears, etc. I wander up and down vaulted stairways (the hotel is very vertical), killing time between courses. Jeremy is outside smoking.

When I return to the table for dessert, Kris has her dander up. Some local television journalist has arrived. Kris loathes this woman for a hatchet job she did on the crime lab. Kris is complaining about her, and Joel and Dave are egging her on.

The high school dance starts in the middle of the restaurant, and the instances of emotional carnage increase. Through it all, Kris continues to rage. The television newscaster has a cadre of impressionable teenagers around her, and is holding court, laughing, telling stories.

After an interminable slow song (“Crazy For You” by Madonna?), Kris rises and begins to harangue this woman. Initially, she makes a strong case, has the woman on the defensive, and the audience supports her. Soon, however, she begins to loser her way, and with it, the audience.

“You’ve got to do something,” Pam says to me.

“Help her. The crowd is turning,” says Jenn.

So, I crawl — unseen by the newscaster — so that I’m at the base of Kris’ speaking podium. (Where’d the podium come from?) “You’re losing,” I tell her. “Go on the offensive. Attack her. Be confident. Speak with strength.”

And so she does. The audience is awed. The newscaster slinks away in fear, and then Kris begins to attack George W. Bush.

Then I wake up …

My second dream was a variation on the first.

Dream #2
The Gang has gathered for a fancy dinner in a nice hotel. We’re there the same night as a high school prom. To be precise, we’re there the same night as my high school’s Senior Prom 17-1/2 years ago. I am literally in two places at simultaneously in this dream.

There are a couple hundred of us, and we’re all seated at once. I’m seated across from Laurie Saxton, a girl whom I treated cruelly in real life. Only it’s the Laurie Saxton of now. She’s grown to be a beautiful self-possessed woman, and she’s forgiven me the wrongs of my youth.

We all chat for a while. Mac, Jeremy, and Joel begin complaining about the service. Only just then do the waiters appear to take orders. (For some reason this is not a catered event with a fixed menu; the restaurant’s entire menu is available, and there are only a couple of servers to process all of these orders at once. This, in itself, is a nightmare.)

Kris notices the problem and volunteers to help. She waits tables. She’s cheerful and professional, and makes the best of a difficult situation. I decide to help, too. I’m less cheerful and professional. In fact, I’m harried and curt. Kris tries to offer advice, but this only makes me angry.

“I know what I’m doing,” I say as I stalk away to take orders from the band that’ll be performing at the dance. It’s a popular band, but one I’ve never heard of. The bandmembers are aloof, and they want special food prepared in meticulous fashion.

I go downstairs to the kitchen to verify we can meet their demands. I can’t find the kitchen. I find a storeroom with thousands of bottles of ketchup, but no kitchen. While I’m there, lost, one of the ketchup bottles begins to ring. I’m puzzled, but I pick it up and speak into it. Sure enough: it’s a phone.

“Your alarm is going off,” says a man at the other end of the phone.

“What?”

“Your alarm is going off.”

I’m very confused, but hang up the ketchup bottle and continue to search for the kitchen.

I find it, but it’s the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant. The cook is there, but something’s wrong. It looks as if he has been cut in half. Actually, he’s “phased” into the floor: his body has melted into the floor so that he’s only there from his shoulders up. He’s dying a painful death, the main symptom of which (aside from being stuck in the floor) is excessive vomiting.

I’m repulsed, so I leave the kitchen. I find the manager in his office. He’s suffering a similar fate. In fact, as I go from room-to-room, all I find are people stuck in the floor, dying.

I’m about to run upstairs to make sure Kris is okay, but then it’s time to get up and go to work.

OMFG! All previous skunk woes pale in comparison to the odor this morning. For once, I think we’re going to call in somebody to take care of it. You cannot possibly imagine the strength and intensity of this foul stench. This laptop, which sat in the office above the skunk overnight, has acquired the scent, too. Ugh.

The Cinnamon Bear doesn’t stink, unless his fur is wet. But his latest episode will have to wait until later today.

Comments

On 14 December 2004 (11:48 AM),
Tiffany said:

No more spicy food for you.

On 15 December 2004 (08:04 AM),
Jeremy said:

JD, I especially like the part about me smoking. Some things never change, even in dreams. I would like to take a shot at interpreting these dreams: You have been reading toooooo many comics and watching toooooo much science fiction!

On 15 December 2004 (10:17 AM),
Joel said:

What a crazy dream! I’d never egg Kris on. At most I’d goad her into a frenzy.

Chilly

I can’t get warm.

“I’m cold,” I said last night at the dinner table. Kris and I were eating take out pizza: mine pepperoni and pineapple, hers barbecue chicken and skanky black olives. (Why can’t pizza places buy good black olives?)

“This house is going to get cold this winter,” Kris said, munching on a slice.

“You think?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” she said.

She may be right.

We recently had a high-efficiency gas furnace installed. It takes a while for it to do its thing, but once the house is warm, it seems to maintain the temperature fairly well. Still, we have to figure out how to program the thermostat so the house is warm when we need it to be warm, but is cool when we need it to be cool.

This morning was bad.

Last night Kris decided to fiddle with the thermostat. She delayed the morning heat by half an hour. It’s not tremendously cold outside yet — no lower than the mid-40s — but when I got up this morning it felt colder than it has been so far this fall. I was decidedly cool. In the old house I would have warmed my inner core with a nice bath. That’s no longer possible, of course, and a shower just doesn’t provide the same warmth.

Nevertheless, I had it in my mind that a hot shower would be just the thing. Only a hot shower was not to be had. There was no hot water. Kris had used it all. So, not only was my inner core not warmed, it was actually cooled.

I reacted by sulking and pouting, of course.

“Stop it,” Kris said. “It’s not worth being grouchy.”

“You’re not the one who’s cold,” I said. “You had a hot shower.”

She just shook her head and ignored me. I went upstairs to the computer. There I performed an iTunes filter on the word “cold”. I played the resulting songlist.

“Very funny,” said Kris over Foreigner’s “Cold as Ice”. When I left the house, Hank Williams’ “Cold Cold Heart” was playing.

On the drive to work, I cranked the heat as I listened to my Patrick O’Brian. I’m sure the car was an inferno by the time I reached work, but I still felt cold.

At work, in my skunky office, I turned on the space heater full blast. I zipped my sweatshirt. I tried to think warm thoughts. I listened to the Beach Boys.

José came in for some orders. “Ay-yi,” he said. “Es muy caliente!”

I still think it’s cold.

I can’t get warm.

Comments

On 21 October 2004 (09:54 AM),
Kris said:

We’re having temperature issues here in our new laboratory, as well. The chemistry rooms have been warm. Even for me, 84 degrees when I’m wearing a fall sweater and lab coat is too hot. Today we learned the reason: the thermostatic sensor that controls the chemistry lab, instrument room and offices is (wisely) located in the trace evidence microscope room, located on an outer wall right by a large window. As a result, the thermostat thinks it’s cold, and heat is pumped out in chemistry. The heat never reaches the sensor, of course, because the heat and the sensor are separated by two air-seal doors. Lovely.

This morning, we are finally getting our bulletin boards mounted on the walls. Why, you may ask, did it take three weeks? Because, dear reader, we were not allowed to hang them ourselves. No, sir! Instead, a state (DAS)employee had to do the job. Now, there are state employees and there are state employees. Our particular DAS representative is about 6-foot-two and hugely obese. He moves in slow motion, taking frequent rests. As you can imagine, in the heat, he was sweating profusely, using his already-sodden bandana to wipe the sweat from his bald head.

As the DAS guy was laboring with drill and screws, my co-worker Rob had put in a CD mix of mine that ended with Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise”. This engendered a discussion of the Weird Al version, “Amish Paradise”. So, the next CD had to be Weird Al’s Greatest Hits. Too late did we guiltily realize that the first two songs are “Fat” and “Eat it”. Boy, did we feel like jerks.

On 21 October 2004 (10:06 AM),
Denise said:

Hmm…and Kris doesn’t have her own weblog because of ????? ;)

I just think it would be very intersting to hear of all the testing and other coolio activities she does during the day.

Ok – bad pun, but I couldn’t resist.

On 21 October 2004 (10:31 AM),
AmJo said:

I too can’t seem to get warm. I forgot how much colder it feels when it is damp. The winter temps. in DC are lower than here and the wind can be a real bitch, but it is dry. I warmed up much easier there than I do here. I can’t get my feet and hands to stay warm, especially at night. I think Paul may have even felt sorry for me last night–he wrapped his ever-warm hands around my cold, cold feet while we were watching the West Wing.

On 21 October 2004 (10:33 AM),
Pam said:

J.D. – First your interest in clothes shopping raised some eyebrows and now you are cold – Welcome to the world of ice “queens.”

On 21 October 2004 (01:54 PM),
Joel said:

I bet a nice hot enema would warm your core!

They turned on the heat in our classrooms. Now instead of bundling up in a sweater and a ski cap for class we all strip down in the heat. And doze.

On 21 October 2004 (01:59 PM),
Lynn said:

Funny, I’ve been colder this fall than normal. I even stocked up on longjohns at the Target sale for sleeping.

On 21 October 2004 (02:12 PM),
Denise said:

Hmm…maybe we are all just getting old.

On 21 October 2004 (03:16 PM),
Semi-sequitur Tangent Man said:

I too wonder if olives can taste good on pizza. I like olives on my pizza but they almost always turn out rubbery. (These are your run-of-the-mill black olives BTW.)

On 21 October 2004 (03:42 PM),
J.D. Roth said:

Greetings, Mr. Tangent Man. It’s good to have you back. :)

I am very particular about olives. I love olives, or at least the good ones. I had never tried non-black olives until a couple of years ago, and now I’m an addict, especially in the spring and summer. Black olives have their place, of course, and I eat them especially in the fall. However, I prefer meat olives, and above all they must be *firm*, especially if I am to eat them by themselves.

Too often I find that food service olives in general, and pizza olives in particular, are of some strange degenerate variety: limp and rubbery, possessing a dull, metallic taste. If I wanted metallic olives I’d, well…I’ll never want metallic olives. And yet those were the sort on Kris’ pizza last night.

Deplorable.

(p.s. I am particularly fond of Black Pearl Jumbos, which have long ago been renamed Black Peral Extra Large or some such. The MNF women take pleasure in trying to test my ability to detect Black Pearl Jumbos. I’ve got a fairly good — though not perfect — track record. The key is the olives must be of quality; they need not always be Black Pearl Jumbos.)

On 21 October 2004 (07:25 PM),
John said:

Try this…
Snuggle-up together in a warm blanket with a good novel, take turns reading. It warms the body, heart and soull

On 22 October 2004 (09:41 AM),
Jon said:

We put in a gas water heater when we remodeled the basement. I’ve never noticed that we run out of hot water.

Broken Glass

A couple of weeks ago young Emma smashed a pane of glass in the door to our back porch. I felt miserably qualified to make the repair, so I put it off as long as I could. (Which was until Kris couldn’t take it any more and we had a big fight about it. Aren’t I bad?)

On Sunday, I gathered my tools and set to work.

My first goal was to strip the paint from the wood around the broken glass so that I could determine how to remove the various bits of moulding. I believe the can of paint stripper was specifically designed for maximum spillage. As I stood at the kitchen counter, attempting to pour from the can into an old mug, none of the liquid found its way into the designated container. It all dripped onto the countertop. The painted countertop.

“Shit,” I said. I grabbed some paper towels and wiped up the mess. Fortunately, I acted quickly enough that no paint was stripped; there’s just a slight discoloration, one that’s not too apparent because these counters are old.

I read the side of the can: Do not swallow. Do not allow to come in contact with eyes. This substance is poisonous. There is no way to counteract the poison, etc. etc.

“Shit,” I said. I slathered the countertop with soap and water and crossed my fingers. (If you hear we’ve died from poisoning, you’ll know why.)

I decided the kitchen wasn’t the best place to be pouring paint stripper, so I headed to the utility room steps. (I might have gone to the shop but it was raining and I didn’t have shoes on and, well, I don’t really have a good excuse for not going to the shop, I guess.) This time I poured more freely. And still none — or very little — of the paint stripper made it into the designated container. It splashed all over my hand, splashed onto the steps.

“Shit,” I said. I held up the can again, re-read the warnings. This time I noticed: Do not allow to come in contact with skin. If contact occurs seek medical attention immediately.

“Shit,” I said. You all know how paranoid I am about my health. I started panicking, of course, sure I was going to die soon. (Kris once told me the heartbreaking true story of a woman working in a lab who had inadvertently come into contact with some substance (a heavy metal?) despite extraordinary precautions. The moment she came into contact with this substance, she knew she was doomed. She had only days (hours?) to live. After spilling the paint stripper on my hand, I felt I was this woman.) I scrambled around, washing my hands repeatedly, mopping up the spill, cursing.

When Kris returned from grocery shopping, I told her about my predicament, and asked her if I should be worried, if I should seek medical attention immediately. She glared at me (we were still angry at each other — this was the middle of our fight). “No,” she said. “You’ll be fine.” But the way she said it didn’t inspire comfort. In fact, I got the distinct impression that she might be lying to me. Never make a chemist mad!

Still, I returned to the task at hand. Eventually I found an angle that spilled less paint stripper than before (though it still spilled prodigious quantities). I filled my container and went to work.

I had set a piece of corrugated cardboard on the floor at my work area, and had gathered together a hammer, a chisel, and a flat paint spreader thingie. I brushed on a layer of the paint stripper. Then, slowly, carefully, I hammered out the broken glass. I was able to pull many of the pieces out by hand. (Most of the glass ended up on the back porch, to be shop-vacced later, but some of it fell inward — thus the corrugated pad.)

After removing the glass, I scraped away most of the paint on the moulding below the window. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see any obvious place where the moulding connected to the frame. I began to fear it was all of a piece.

“Shit,” I said, not knowing what to do next. Eventually, I decided simply to dash ahead, trusting to blind faith that this really was a piece of quarter-round nailed to the frame. And so I chiseled and pried, but s-l-o-w-l-y. Eventually, a piece of wood began to loosen, or so it seemed. I pried more and the wood popped free! I pried with increased vigor and then the piece shredded in two before my very eyes.

“Shit,” I said, as the pieces fell to the ground. I picked them up to examine them. Even after prying them loose, I couldn’t find any sign of a seam. It was as if the entire frame, even the decorative parts, was a single piece, and I had just hacked off an edge.

I’m getting better at home improvement, but still I find myself intimidated by tasks I’ve never before attempted. When I fixed the faucet in the bathroom upstairs, I initially felt a great deal of trepidation. Eventually I figured out what I was doing, yes, and I did a fine job making the repair, but I started warily, unsure of myself. Here I had not yet reached the feeling that I knew what I was doing.

“Shit,” I said. I slumped to the floor, frustrated.

Kris came in, still angry.

“Why don’t you just call Jeremy?” she asked. When Emma broke the window, Jeremy had immediately offered to help me fix it. I wanted to try it myself, though, and so had declined his aid.

“Shit,” I said, but I went to the phone and called Jeremy.

Tonight, Jeremy and I will tackle the window. This kind of project requires sustenance, of course, so I’ve pulled some steaks out of the freezer (thanks, Ron!), and have set aside a bottle of wine. If we get very frustrated, the whiskey’s not far away — just on the shelf there by the back porch — and the tobacco supply is also at hand.

Kris is worried that we’ll be too busy debauching to get any work done.

As for our marital squabble: eventually we talked things out, as we always do. Neither of us is completely satisfied, which to me indicates we’ve reached a proper compromise (the definition of compromise requiring that neither party feel he or she has “won”). In the evening, we watched West Side Story together while I ironed clothes and Kris looked for Christmas cookie recipes.

Comments

On 19 October 2004 (09:47 AM),
Johnny said:

If it’s any consolation, the warnings on the paint stripper are designed for people who intend on a) drinking the stuff on the theory that raw alcohol smells like paint thinner and it’s cool stuff so why not drink this too, or b)bathing in the stuff and leaving it on their skin for an extended period of time. Any time I’ve stripped paint using that goopy paint remover I’ve gotten it on my skin in select places, wiped it off, washed it off and received nothing but a slight burn for my carelessness. Apparently my overall health hasn’t suffered any at ARRRRGHHHH

On 19 October 2004 (10:05 AM),
Dana said:

I decided the kitchen wasn’t the best place to be pouring paint stripper, …

Allow me, at this juncture, to offer an interjection: DUH!

When I was at LLNL there was an incident involving broken glassware and a glove-box. The upshot — someone stabbed themselves through the glove with a broken pipette contaminated with Uranium or Plutonium (I don’t recall which — probably Uranium).

Yeah. Not a nice way to go.

On 19 October 2004 (12:29 PM),
Anthony said:

Some people. As if you really expect whiskey to improve your problem-solving abilities.

Those steaks, now� if I was closer, you could definitely count on my help with that glass.

On 19 October 2004 (01:19 PM),
pam said:

true story my ass – nobody is poisoned from spilling things on their hands. now you can corrode off all your skin and then die from the infection that ensues, but that’s another matter entirely.

On 19 October 2004 (02:02 PM),
Kris said:

Hey, Pam– I don’t think Jd’s in danger, but it can happen. Please read below.

The News York Times
HANOVER, N.H., June 10, 1997 – A Dartmouth College chemistry professor has died from exposure to a rare form of mercury, first synthesized more than 130 years ago.

Karen E. Wetterhahn, 48, who also had served as an associate dean and a dean at the college, died on Sunday, about 10 months after accidentally spilling a few drops of dimethylmercury on her disposable latex gloves while performing a laboratory experiment. The substance, which has no practical application, is used in research on heavy metals.

Prof. John S. Winn, chairmen of the college’s chemistry department, said Professor Wetterhahn was a leader in the study of how heavy metals can initiate cancer at the molecular level. Dimethylmercury is so rare that it is only in use in perhaps 100 laboratories worldwide at any given time, he said.

Through a search of medical literature, the college determined that exposure to the substance killed two laboratory assistants in 1865, shortly after it was first synthesized, and a 28-year-old chemist in 1971.

“Karen Wetterhahn’s death is a tragedy for her family and for the Dartmouth community,” said Dartmouth’s president, James O. Freedman

After years of study chromium metal toxicity, Professor Wetterhahn had turned to the study of mercury in a sabbatical at Harvard University in September 1995, Professor Winn said. In the experiment at Dartmouth last August, she had used dimethylmercury to set up a standard against which to measure other mercury involved in her research.

The drops apparently spilled onto her gloves, passed quickly through the latex and were absorbed through her skin. After her illness was diagnosed in late January, the college had the latex gloves independently tested, and it was determined that the mercury could pass through in 15 seconds or much less.

Other types of gloves offer more protection, but she probably used latex to increase dexterity during the delicate procedure, he said.

In a letter to Chemical and Engineering News about the accident, Professor Winn and the other college officials recommended that heavier gloves be used during experiments, and that “medical surveillance measuring mercury concentrations in whole blood or urine” should be considered during extended use of these compounds.

Professor Wetterhahn’s symptoms, which initially included difficulty with balance, speach, vision and hearing, progressed rapidly and she was in a coma from late February until her death. Although treatments were administered to eliminate the mercury in her system, they began too late to prevent irreversible damage to the nervous syster, Professor Winn said.

On 19 October 2004 (02:05 PM),
Anthony said:

nobody is poisoned from spilling things on their hands.

That is a very broad statement. I might make so bold as to say that JD is highly unlikely to be seriously poisoned by pouring paint stripper on his hands, but skin is porous� well guarded but porous. I think it is fairly common knowledge that your skin can absorb many kinds of harmless chemicals, and poisons are no different.

I’m not saying you’re in any danger, JD. Just be sure your living will is up to date. ;)

On 19 October 2004 (02:37 PM),
Joel said:

Johnny said: “Apparently my overall health hasn’t suffered any at ARRRRGHHHH”
Apparently Johnny dictates his comments?

On 20 October 2004 (07:36 AM),
Dave said:

Isn’t there a St. Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh’s in Cornwall?

On 20 October 2004 (08:10 AM),
Dana said:

I think you mean St. Iiiiives.

On 20 October 2004 (08:11 AM),
Dana said:

I think you mean St. Iiiiives.

On 20 October 2004 (08:12 AM),
J.D. said:

Shhh. Be quiet. I’m composing a poem about the skunk under the trailer house. You’re distracting me.

On 20 October 2004 (08:35 AM),
Dana said:

My cousin was bit by a skunk.

(sorry about the double post earlier)

On 20 October 2004 (08:39 AM),
kool-azz rider said:

A poem? Sweet dude! Im teh best when it comes to riting poetry. Let me know if’n you want my help there, G. I can lay down some mad rimes about skunks.

On 20 October 2004 (10:08 AM),
pam said:

ok – i concede to kris. i searched the med lit and could find seven cases of death from contact exposure – all of them involved some form of mercury and a few may have had inhalational exposure as well. so what i should say is that no one is fatally poisoned from spilling non-mercury compounds on their hands!

interestingly enough, there are a lot more cases of husbands being poisoned by there wives (i’ve even seen a case – arsenic, caught before fatal) and in many cases the wife works in the field of science or medicine…so how bad was that fight??

On 20 October 2004 (11:39 AM),
Kris said:

I think that just goes to show you that both Mac & Jd should be on their best behavior!

On 21 October 2004 (10:26 AM),
Pam said:

Joel may have to start watching his behavior as well.

And I don’t think Mac noticed anything odd about dinner last night, did you, honey? ;)

The Best Uncle Ever

My brother, Tony, brought Alex — the youngest of his two sons — to work this morning. I entertained him for a while. Or, rather, he entertained me.

Alex comes into my office, wearing his Gap-brand child’s hoodie. I shake my head. He’s three-years-old and already a slave to fashion.

Alex: I’ve got a candy in my mouth and in my pocket
Me: You have two candies?
Alex: I have a blue one. In my mouth
Me: What flavor is it
Alex: It’s blue (Accidentally spits it onto the ground. It’s covered with dirt.)
Me: (Loudly, so Tony can hear.) Quick. You’ve only got five seconds. Pick it up and put it in your mouth.
Alex: It’s yicky.
Me: Nah, it’s okay. It was only on the floor for two seconds, tops.

Me: What are you doing here today?
Alex: (Pointing at the floor, which is bare plywood.) We just colored on that. (He and his brother, Michael, have colored on it many times in the past.)
Me: What are you doing here today, Alex?
Alex: Nothing.
Me: And what will you do later?
Alex: Dad said I can do mumble. (Grins.)
Me: Do what?
Alex: Nothing.
Me: Do what?
Alex: Nothing.

Alex: (Pointing at my breakfast bowl.) What’s this?
Me: It’s a bowl. What does it look like?
Alex: Frosting. (Pause.) There’s a bug in it. There’s an ant. There’s an ant at your house. There’s one right there.
Me: Let’s see. Oh, there is. Gross.
Alex: (Urgently.) You’ve got to get him. His touch is yicky. Yick. I’ve gotta tell Daddy. I’ve gotta tell daddy there’s an ant. (Runs from my office, shouting—) Dad, there’s an ant in his house!

Me: Are you going to come over to my house tomorrow?
Alex: Yeah.
Me: Are you?
Alex: Yeah.
Me: What are you going to do at my house?
Alex: Just play toys.
Me: Tony, are your kids coming over tomorrow?
Tony: For the chicken fest?
Me: (Indignant.) Chicken noodle fest.
Tony: Uh — hadn’t planned on it.
Me: Why not?
Tony: They’ll break your stuff, dude.
Me: Do you think they’ll be the only kids there?
Tony: The only destructive ones.
Alex: Only me here. I’m the only one.
Me: Come on. (Peer-pressure voice.) Everyone will be there.
Tony: Is Jeff going to be there?
Me: Yeah.
Tony: There you go. Alex’ll be pushing Noah down the stairs. Alex doesn’t like babies.
Me: Neither does Emma. They could team up. They’d beat up all the other kids.
Tony: Ha. There you go. Tell me what time you want people to leave, and I’ll bring my kids over then.
Alex: (Panicked, feeling inside his pocket) I don’t feel candy. (Relieved) Yes I do.

Alex: (Comes in, carrying a huge bottle of water that Nick has poured for him) Lookit! This is Big Water.
Me: Yes it is.
Alex: This is Big Water.
Me: I’ll give you a box of candy if you drink all that water.
Tony: Alex, can you sing that song?
Nick: There’s a Big Water song?
Alex: (Singing) Big big wahteh, big gibberish.

Me: Do you wanna go for a walk?
Alex: Yeah, let’s go outside.
Me: Look, your Uncle Jeff is burning a fire. Do you wanna go see?
(We walk out to the burn pile.)
Jeff: Your mom and dad sure had a lot of stuff to burn. It made a lot of black smoke.
Alex: It’s really hot.
Me: Fire is like that.
Jeff: The black smoke was probably shoes. (No, I don’t get it either.)
(Alex asks to be taken inside the shop where the guys are making boxes.)
Me: Cristobal, do you want another niño?
Cristobal: Where’s Michael?
Alex: At school.
Cristobal: At school?
Me: Preschool.
José: (Shouting from outside) Hello, Alex.
Me: Come on, let’s get out of the way.
(As we move aside, there’s a loud thud behind me. I look back and Alex is flat against the floor, his Big Water rolling away. He’s tripped over a piece of wood.)
Me: Alex, are you okay?
Cristobal: (Behind Alex, holding his hands in the air, grinning.) I didn’t do it.
Me: Come on, big guy, you’re okay. Here’s your Big Water.

(We watch José drive the forklift for awhile until Alex gets fidgety.)
Me: Now where do you want to go?
Alex: (Pointing at warehouse) Let’s walk through there.
(We walk through the warehouse, looking at the big stacks of corrugated. The air compressor comes on and scares us. Outside I can see robins hopping along. One has a worm in its mouth.)
Me: Look, there’s some birds. They’re robins. (Alex runs at them.) No, don’t chase them! If you chase them, they fly away and then you can’t look at them anymore
Alex: There’s another one. (Runs at it.)

Alex: Let’s sit down.
Me: We can sit down when we get inside.
Alex: I want to sit down now. My head hurts.
Me: What, do you have a five minute pain delay?

(Time passes. Alex comes into my office again.)
Alex: I wanna show you something.
Me: What is it? (Alex takes my hand and leads me down the hallway to the kitchen.)
Alex: (Pointing.) I want some of that.
Me: Ding Dongs? (Pause.) That sounds like a great idea. (Cackles.) There you go.
Alex: Mmm. Mmmm. Mmm. Mmm.
Me: I’m the best uncle ever!

Comments

On 12 March 2004 (12:29 PM),
Lynn said:

So, if you’re really the best uncle ever, you should be taking your nephews, and other young friends, to the “Sing-a-long Wizard of Oz!” In the tradition of “Sing-a-long Sound of Music,” it’s coming to Cinema 21 on NW 21st in Portland from April 9 – 18. It’s great fun and costumes are not only encouraged, but rewarded!

On 12 March 2004 (01:51 PM),
nate said:

“Jesus: (Behind Alex, holding his hands in the air, grinning.) I didn’t do it.”

This line is inadvertantly hilarious until you realize that you don’t mean the Jesus. ;) That Jesus; such a prankster! Even being God’s son can’t stop him from being wacky!

On 12 March 2004 (04:37 PM),
Nikchick said:

Nate’s right! That line totally gave me visions of a twisted sort of Family Circus strip. Jesus, as the invisible “Not Me”, standing over Billy’s prone body, shrugging.

Ha! That’s going to amuse me for some time.

On 12 March 2004 (04:48 PM),
J.D. Roth said:

Ha! Lynn, your Wizard of Oz comment is funny because one of my favorite parents has prohibited me from screening the film for her children (three and five). She and I have different opinions about what is age-appropriate for children, but I try to respect her wishes.

As for the Jesus thing, I’ve changed the name to Cristobal which, while not true is True enough. Know what I mean?

On 12 March 2004 (05:42 PM),
Mom (Sue) said:

This makes me want to see Alex soooo bad! But it’s nice that he is old enough for his dad to take him to the shop when he comes in on his day off. And it’s good that he get more firmly introduced to the world of his uncles. (I was going to say “wacky world” but somehow thought that wasn’t something a loving mother would say, especially since those uncles are such nice people.) -G- I would have loved to have him come here today but I was feeling pretty rotten late this morning and afternoon so it wouldn’t have worked. I will have to miss your fest tomorrow for the same reason, J.D.; also, because I don’t do chicken noodle soup. Since you have invited the whole Internet, have you been able to come up with a head count?

On 12 March 2004 (09:45 PM),
Virginia said:

Sounds like such a fun idea. (Chicken Noodle Soup)
Since I can’t be there I guess I’ll eat a can of Chicken Noodle Soup for lunch in memory of the box of Chicken Noodle Soup mom used to keep under the bench in the breakfast nook. I think it was just for Steve’s boys. Was it you JD or was it for Jeff?

On 13 March 2004 (09:53 AM),
Emily said:

haha. man i wish my uncle let me eat candy off the ground! i have to do it when no one is looking. hehe

On 13 March 2004 (10:10 AM),
Mom (Sue) said:

I think that all three of my boys loved Grandma and Grandpa’s chicken noodle soup, Virginia. It was always Campbell’s, too. I never have liked that soup — I guess I could be doing ads for Progresso. -G- The way I’m feeling, I probably ought to also be celebrating J.D.’s party by eating some of the Progresso chicken noodle soup I think I have on hand (I know I have some of their chicken and wild rice). I knew yesterday that I wouldn’t be feeling good enough to make it to J.D. and Kris’s soup fest because if I get to feeling crummy, it never lasts for just one day. Naturally, I am feeling worse today. Bummer, that. I will miss the opportunity to see my little grandson Noah as well as his parents and uncle and aunt. I hope that J.D. writes an entry about who all else was there and who I missed seeing.

Lux Magna Orta Est

On Sunday afternoon, I join Dave and Karen and Nicole for a concert at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in northwest Portland. Trinity Episcopal is certainly the most beautiful church I’ve ever seen: the towering red doors, the daunting narthex (that’s a new word for me), the vast nave, the towering pipe organ.

While we wait for the concert to begin, I eavesdrop on the two couples in front of me. They’re discussing The Lord of the Rings. “I loved the first movie, but I hated the second,” says one woman.

“Oh, I loved the second movie,” says the other woman.

“I hated it,” says the first woman. “Too many battles. The movie was just one battle after another.”

Quietly, the second woman says, “I loved the giant talking trees.”

I glance through the program. What’s this? Kari Brenneman is listed under the sopranos. I knew she was in a big Portland choir, but I hadn’t realized it was the Trinity Consort. Will her parents be here? Will John and Louse be here? Will Jeremy and Jennifer be here?

I look around, and sure enough, there are John and Louise. I walk over to talk with them. They, along with Carolyn and Judy (John’s sisters), have brought all of the young Gingerich/Brenneman cousins: Nicole, Andrew, Julian, Brooks, and others I’m unable to name (they occupy an entire pew). Andrew’s long hair has been put into dreadlocks. Nicole’s short hair has also been put into dreadlocks. Brooks’ hair is still in a gigantic afro. (What is with these Gingerich kids? I’ll have to get a photo of them this weekend.)

The concert itself, entitled “A Baroque Christmas at Trinity”, is lovely. Eric Milnes, the conductor, is an early music aficionado, and the pieces are performed on period instruments.

The first piece, Dialgoue between the Angels and the Shepherds of Judea on the Birth of the Lord is by Marc-Antoine Charpentier (1643-1704), a composer with whom I am unfamiliar. I particularly like the Latin text; even its English translation has a lovely poetry:

Tenor: Even as you avert your face, Lord, and disregard our tribulations.

Trio of the Just: Remember your covenant which you declared. Come from on high, and set us free.

Bass: Be comforted, daughter of Zion, why are you consumed with grief? Your King will come with mildness, you will not weep at all. And the pupil of your eye will be still. In that day the mountains shall drip sweetness, and the hills will flow with honey and milk. Be consoled, be comforted, daughter of Zion, and support God, your Savior.

Chorus: If you would only burst through the heavens, our redeemer, and descend. You heavens, drop dew from above and let the clouds rain down the just one. Let the earth be opened up and sprout forth a Saviour.And my favorite bit:

Chorus: Caeli aperti sunt, lux magna orta est, lux magna, lux terribilis! (The Heavens are opened, a great light appears, a great light, a terrible light!)

I quite like this first piece.

The next few pieces are purely instrumental, and while nice, they don’t hold my attention as well as a choral piece would. (I’ve always been more fond of choral pieces than purely instrumental pieces.) The nave is hot, and with the dulcet sounds of the orchestra, and my perpetual lack of sleep, I am drowsing off.

I try to stay awake by looking around at the cathedral. I look at the elaborate stained glass windows, each of which is inscribed with a line from the beatitudes. I look at the immense pipe organ which looms in the apse. (Is it the apse? I have trouble with terminology for elaborate church structures.) I look at the two rows of chandeliers which run the length of the cathedral, their lights perhaps meant to be almost like candle-light. I look at the slat-like construction of the ceiling. I look all around, absorbing the beauty of the church.

Still, it’s all I can do to keep from dozing.

The final piece is, thankfully, more choral music. Various individual bits from Johann Sebastian Bach have been combined into a Christmas Oratorio, and among these is one of my favorites, Break Forth, O Beauteous Heavenly Light, performed in the original German.

After the concert, the four of us walk up to Laslow’s Northwest for a bite to eat. I order the pork chop, and the waiter asks me how I’d like it prepared. I’ve never been asked that for pork before, so I choose medium, which turns out to be a mistake. The pork is delicious, but it’s too done. I ought to have ordered medium-rare. Don’t restaurants usually prepare pork as they best see fit?

On the way home, I stop at Home Depot to pick up molding and paint, etc. I walk into the store, and have only made it to the paint section when an employee announces the store is closing. I thought Home Depot was open 24 hours! (Seriously.) Not this one. Ah well — it’ll be nice to get to bed early for once.

(I do stop at Krispy Kreme for a donut and hot chocolate, though!)

Comments

On 15 December 2003 (12:14 PM),
Paul said:

If you don’t already have it, I give high marks to Anonymous 4’s cd “11,000 Virgins: Chants for the Feast of St. Ursula”. Wonderful vocal work. When does a group of singers become a choral group? Can a quartet be a choir?

I am also a big fan of Arvo Part’s choral compositions. I have this cd and really enjoy it, “Arvo Part: Kanon Pokajanen”. Though Part’s “Arbos”
has what I believe are soulful organ instrumental pieces, the interspersed choral pieces may be too infrequent.

If you find any pieces that you like of the Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir, please let me know.

Enjoy the music.

On 15 December 2003 (01:47 PM),
Dave said:

To answer Paul’s question, I conceive of the defining characteristics of a choir as being a group of singers in which you have at least four distinct parts, usually characterized by the vocal ranges of the singers and frequently divided into soprano, alto, tenor, and bass parts. Each part has more than one individual singing it. This would normally preclude a quartet from being a choir since each person in a quartet usually has their own part.

On 15 December 2003 (01:51 PM),
Dana said:

Yeah. But four-part harmony is pretty keen sounding in a different way than a choir. Both are cool, I think.

On 15 December 2003 (02:37 PM),
Jazzercize said:

you can have as many singing mouths as you wish if you can carefully form them and then open them in the proper way. one person then is the whole and whole is of holes emitting sounds that combine together to form a ragged tapestry of traps that hurt your fingers finally. god enjoys the quiet to reflect. his ears do not demand noise. the headaches come fast and furious.

On 15 December 2003 (02:49 PM),
dowingba said:

Wait, I’m confused. Loud noises gives God headaches?

JD, I too have never heard of restaurants serving different kinds of pork like that. “Rare” pork would be pretty uhh…horrible to eat.

The Home Depot in my town isn’t open 24 hours. I can’t imagine them getting much business at night time…unless people are doing midnight renovations often.

On 15 December 2003 (03:32 PM),
Tiffany said:

The Home Depot & Lowes here are open from 4am to 12 midnight. There are also signs says that contractors can arrange to be let in early if required!

On 15 December 2003 (03:40 PM),
mac said:

Home Depots (I almost typed “Depot’s”!) in Portland used to be open 24-7, but no longer…at least not since last May or so when I made the same mistake you did J.D.

On 15 December 2003 (04:06 PM),
Denise said:

Yes, Home Depots close at 8:00 now. We asked an employee and he said they didn’t get enough business in Oregon during the late evening/early morning hours to warrant being open past 8:00pm.

On 15 December 2003 (05:01 PM),
Joel said:

Oregon, the sleepiest of states.

This is actually the second time I’ve heard of a restaurant asking a customer’s pork-pinkness preference. I wonder if they’d serve it at less than 170 degrees? “Mm, that pig sure was tasty! And I just love these trichinellosis cysts imbedded in my muscle tissue!”

Those lyrics are wonderful, but what does “the pupil of your eye will be still” mean?

On 15 December 2003 (05:23 PM),
J.D. said:

Well, the translation in the program is even worse: “The pupil of your eye will be silent”. I took the liberty of altering “silent” to “still” because it seemed to make more sense. Sort of. :)

On 15 December 2003 (05:25 PM),
J.D. said:

Also, I just remembered another bit of the womens’ Lord of the Rings conversation. Woman one (who hated The Two Towers was raving about Viggo Mortensen’s heroic Aragorn, and woman two said something along the lines of: “I like Sam. I think Sam’s the hero of those movies.” She was quiet, but perceptive.

On 15 December 2003 (08:28 PM),
Dana said:

Here in Minneapolis, some Home Depots are open 24-hours, and some aren’t.

(PS – Go Sam!)

Twenty-Two Year Reflection

One night, when I was twelve, I stayed up late to watch the ten o’clock news with Dad. It was the day of the first space shuttle launch, and we wanted to see the footage of the shuttle on the launch pad, the shuttle in flight, the shuttle lifting into space. (Dad possessed a strong conviction that manned spaceflight is important to our future as a species, and he imparted that conviction to me.)

We watched the entire newscast, including the end credits, which featured slow-motion images of the shuttle launch set to ethereal new age music. Dad was enthralled. The music, especially, captivated him.

He called the television station in the morning and learned that the song on the end credits was from the soundtrack to the Carl Sagan television series Cosmos. The song was called Heaven and Hell, Part 1 by someone named Vangelis. (Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire soundtrack would become popular several months later, making him a household name; his Blade Runner work was still a year away).

Dad went out that day and bought the record album.

He played it repeatedly, and we kids even played it when he wasn’t around. I liked Vangelis’ Alpha and Tomita‘s The Sea Named Solaris. But Dad — Dad played the entire album, loudly, whenever he could.

Though Dad bought the record for Heaven and Hell, the track he loved most was the Bulgarian Shepherdess Song. We hated it, and we told him so: the bagpipe-like instruments, the indecipherable lyrics, the strange shrieking of the woman’s voice all grated on our nerves.

But Dad loved it, and he listened to the song again and again.

One morning I woke, in darkness, to the Bulgarian shepherdess wailing from the living room. In our 1000-square foot trailer, sound carried well, and in this case, the volume was set quite high. I tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible with that woman wailing.

I got out of bed and walked down the hall, through the kitchen, to the living room. I looked in at Dad. He was sitting, alone, on the edge of the couch, staring out the window at the still-black dawn. He was dressed for work, in his business suit; his wild curly hair almost looked neat.

“Dad, I’m trying to sleep,” I said.

He didn’t seem to hear me.

“Dad,” I said.

“Go back to sleep, bug,” he said, but he didn’t look at me. His expression didn’t change. He stared out into the blackness.

“But Dad…” I said.

“I said ‘go back to bed’, bug,” and though his appearance was unaltered, something about his voice told me it was best not to disobey.

I crawled back in bed and lay in the dark, listening to the Bulgarian shepherdess again and again and again, wondering what it was Dad was doing, sitting alone, staring into the darkness.

A while later I heard the front door open and close, heard Dad clip-clop clip-clop down the walk to his car. Skrp, skrp. He scraped the ice from the windows of the Datsun 310GX. The car door slammed. As he pulled away, the Bulgarian shepherdess continued to wail from the living room.

I’m older now, but I still listen to the Cosmos soundtrack; it’s a great album. In fact, I own it on vinyl, cassette tape, and compact disc, and at the end of March I purchased the deluxe expanded edition of the album (which is better than the original in some ways, worse in others — I like both).

I find myself drawn to that song which I hated in my youth, the Bulgarian Shepherdess Song. I still don’t understand the lyrics, but I think, perhaps, I understand their meaning. I understand what Dad heard, I understand what he was doing that morning, staring out at the darkness, listening to the shepherdess sing.

He was thirty-five. I am thirty-four.

Comments

On 20 May 2003 (04:53 PM),
Dana said:

Shall I hazard a guess? Is someone feeling the inexorable march of time wearing away at the strands of his life? Has the Christmas (or Birthday, or whatever) sweater become threadworn and shabby, with inexpert patches at the elbows and loose threads dangling from the edges, ready to pull the whole thing to bits?

Or am I projecting?

On 20 May 2003 (07:55 PM),
J.D. said:

Nah, I was just feeling a bit melancholy after hearing the song, and I started to think about Dad.

Although, if you substitute body for sweater, perhaps your analogy is apt. :)

On 20 May 2003 (08:11 PM),
Dana said:

Not analogy, metaphor. At least, that’s what I was aiming for. Ah, well.

Are you ready for surgery?

On 20 May 2003 (10:13 PM),
Dave said:

I think that there comes a time for every man (I can’t speak to the woman side of the coin, of course) at which we realize that despite our promises as youths, despite our best intentions, and most of all despite our best efforts to be someone or do something different than that which we see around us, we take stock and realize that our youth is gone and that we have become that which we feared most- our fathers. Sometimes that’s not a good thing. Sometimes it is. Most off all I think that we just feel very keenly the loss of the illusion that we could have changed and that we had a choice in the matter coupled with the sudden shock of being confronted with a reality that we thought we had a lot more time to change.

In the course of my practice I’ve seen men handle this transition in many different ways. Count yourself lucky, JD, that at the end of the day your father came back home. Many don’t.

Ok, I’m done being maudlin for the evening.

On 20 May 2003 (10:57 PM),
Virginia said:

What can I say? I miss him!! Why was I blessed with a life span of (at this point) 10 more years than my brothers? At this time Steve knew he had cancer. If he was thirty-five it would have been the winter of 1980-1981. Ice generally
comes in Dec. or Jan. Mom, your Grandma, was also dying of cancer. We had just found it out.
She died July 3, 1981. One day when I was down at Steve’s place he had just bought a CD of Enya. He loved the song “How Can I Keep From Singing” That was in the early 90’s. By that time he had resigned himself to his condition. He was a great person.

On 21 May 2003 (08:02 AM),
Nikchick said:

I have two handwritten books of poems that I collected in high school. About half are my own poetry that I thought represented my best efforts at the time. The other half are poems from issues of Patina, or poems that I exchanged with JD, Andrew Parker, and Mitch Sherrard. (Strangely, I also have poems from David Carlson and Darren Misner…)

I also have one poem that Steve wrote and that I find just as touching today as I did when I was an intense, naive, romantic 14 year old. This is it:

Suzanne

If I do not sing,
My music
Will break its bonds
And cause great damage
To my soul
And maybe yours.

My music is love.
My music is freedom.
My music is joy.

My song is for you.

Double Habanero Beef Jerkey

Tony came back to the office after a meeting with the people at The Jerky Hut. He brought with him two types of jerky: Double Habanero and Chernobyl (as in nuclear-meltdown-hot).

Being the manly man that I am — I’m always eager to try the hottest foods, ordering Thai food extra hot, asking for my Indian food to be as hot as possible despite the indredulity of the server — I ripped open the bags and started chomping.

“Mmm. This is good,” I said. And it was. I chomped some more.

Then the pain began.

“AAARRRGGHGHGHGHGHHGHGH!!!” I said. And it was. My lips were burning fire! My mouth a mass of pain! Nothing could be done to balm the wounds inflicted by this devilish beef by-product!

Can you guess how this story ends?

After the pain subsided, I ate some more.

“AAARRRGGHGHGHGHGHHGHGH!!!“

I’m so predictable.

Where’s the Human Torch when I need him?

Only You Have the Power to Absorb All Heat!

Buy your own ultra-hot jerky. Yum.

The Gingeriches stopped by and chatted for a while. Harrison had a new stuffed shark, and he charged around the house shouting, “Shark charge! Shark charge!”

Outstanding!

The $1124.97 that each couple lost in the investment club will translate into big-time tax savings. Just think: we paid $1125 in order to gain a $297 tax advantage.

Our best tax hedge? TQNT: we purchased eighteen shares at a total cost of $851.13 and sold them for a total of $181.64.

Not that I’m bitter or anything, but ABTL, the stock that I recommended buying at $1.42, is now a $2.77, down from a high of $4.25. We could have made some money there, but then I guess we wouldn’t have had any tax help, huh? If we’d put our $1430 in ABTL at the time I advocated, it’d be worth $2784 now. The SUNW that we bought instead is worth $337.

Our investment club disbanded last year, and I think our wives are all much happier for it.

The Dream of the Red House

I rarely have strange dreams. Or, more precisely, I rarely remember the strange dreams that I do have. Last night was an exception.

I dreamt that Custom Box Service was having a party or celebration of some sort. A box festival. As part of this festival, I decided to take my house to work.

On the morning of the day of the festival, I jacked up the house, hitched it to the car, and towed it to the shop. I decided to leave my keys in the car in case somebody needed to move the house. The strangest part? The house was painted red.

I felt good because nobody else had thought to bring their house to the box festival. I was the only one to have done so. The box festival was great — lots of talking and fun. Even so, I decided to leave early to work out at the gym. When I walked out to my car, both it and the house were gone!

“Has anybody seen my house?” I asked my fellow employees. Nobody had.

I panicked.

I ran to the road and looked north on Oglesby. No sign of the house. I looked south on Oglesby. No sign of the house. I set off to find it.

For some reason (which made sense in the context of the dream) there was an old, decrepit chicken shack next to Custom Box Service. The shack was being used by a horticulturist society. And for some other reason (which made sense in the context of the dream) I began to search for my house inside the chicken shack.

The shack was dark and earthy. I wandered from room-to-room but, unsurprisingly, found no sign of my house. In one room, a room filled with fruited tomato plants (how did these plants grow with no light?), I found a book with an interesting cover and paused to read it.

I realized that I was wasting time so I set the book among the tomatoes and hurried on, winding through the horitculturists’ maze of rooms and plants. When I reached the end of the chicken shack I still had not found my house.

I was becoming increasingly concerned. I began to jog. I jogged down Oglesby to Needy and then down Heinz. No sign of the house. I jogged back to Needy and then down the hill by the Gingeriches. No sign of the house.

I found myself at Zion Mennonite Church. There was a potluck in progress in the old church basement, and people were milling about. I made an announcement: “My car and house have been stolen. Has anybody seen them?” Nobody had.

Ken Kauffman suggested that I look for them at [BLANK]. (Here you, the reader, need to use your imagination. I have no idea what the [BLANK] was that Ken suggested to me. I can describe the building, but not its purpose.)

I went to [BLANK]. [BLANK] consisted of a large, elongated building with a parking lot. It resembled a college dormitory. [BLANK] resembled a college dormitory on the inside as well. There were several floors of long (half-mile long) white cinder-block hallways with hundreds and hundreds of doors.

I started knocking on the doors. “Have you seen my house?” I asked whomever answered each door. Nobody had.

It was getting late, nearly midnight. I could no longer knock on doors. Instead, I ran the length of the hallway, stopping anybody that I saw, asking about my house. Floor after floor and no result.

At about 5 a.m. I came to the final room, a lounge at the end of the top floor. A group was gathered inside watching a movie: Repo Man or The Princess Bride or After Hours (a movie of which this dream reminds me, incidentally — some kind of weird recursive thing going on here?). They were laughing and eating and having a fine time. I asked for some food but nobody would share. One man offered to sell me some beef jerkey, so I bought $2 of it from him.

“Has anybody seen a red house?” I asked. Nobody had.

Well, almost nobody.

Joyce Trussell, the receptionist at Wilcox Arredondo, was there and she pulled me to the side. She handed me a business card with a hispanic name and a Wilsonville address. She told me that maybe this fellow could help me find my house. The implication was (I remember this clearly from the dream) that the person on the card had stolen my house and that boy, was he dangerous. I’m not sure how all of this was conveyed, but it was a dream, so it was.

I thanked Joyce and left. I didn’t know how I was going to get to Wilsonville; I dind’t have a car or a house.

As I was jogging to the [BLANK]’s exit, a woman stopped me and asked me if Joyce had been able to help me. I said that she had.

Then the dream ended. I was awakened by a couple of loud booms from the other side of Canby. I wonder what they were.