I Too Can Do Physical Labor

[Me on the steps…working hard.]

As a blogger I get tons of mail.  It’s mostly fan letters, notes of congratulations, invitations to weddings, birthday parties, fundraisers, dedications at mall openings and the occasional bris.  But I also get questions.

“Gee, Pat (I’m an informal kind of guy), what do you do when you’re not working on a blog post?”

“Gosh, Pat, you must spend most of your waking hours living inside your head.  That must be awesome and exciting!”  I didn’t have the heart to tell that fan that living inside my head is no picnic.  There are dark corners in my brain that I try avoid.  I know this because my insomnia forces me to confront the demons.  My nightmares are real and full of things that crawl on the ground and hiss and spit.

“Golly, Pat, your life as a blogger must so exciting and so totally awesome.”  I didn’t have the heart to tell the fan that my blogs often go unnoticed.

But I digress.

I am actually a very active guy.  True, I may spend weeks in bed waiting for the mosquitoes to die off.  But, on cool days when the breeze is steady and strong off the lake, I search for something to do around the house…outside that is.  One of the drawbacks to owning a home in the North Country is that there is never anything to do.  I mowed the lawn a few times last summer.  I stacked wood for about thirty-five minutes.  I swept the floor of the garage.  A couple times each summer, I put the ladder up against the house and I climb onto the roof.  I have Mariam pass up my favorite tool, the leaf-blower.  Then I attack the rain gutter to clear out the muck and pine needles.

Such a feeling of power to send clods of gunk sailing off into the trees.  It gives additional meaning to my life.

A few days ago, I decided it was time to apply a coat of Thompson’s WaterSeal to the railings and steps of our rear deck.  I gathered the rags, sander, the can of Thompson’s, the extension cord, my mask, a pair of ear protecters and a bandanna to keep the dust out of my hair.

The bandanna was orange.

To fully understand how intense this project is, I will simply say that I have fairly serious issues with my lower back.  My L3, L4 and L5 are held together with gossamer threads.

“Gosh, Pat, it’s age appropiate arthritis, said my doctor.”

I fully understood that  once the work was done (it took almost six hours) that I would barely be able to walk across the room without looking like Qusimodo or the Elephant Man.  (Full disclosure: it hurt like bloody hell at the end of the day).

As I was working my way down the stairs, step by step, my hand sander suddenly came apart.  Luckily, I had a spare so the work never stopped.  This was a good thing because it was proof to Mariam that for a skilled laborer such as myself (and for all handymen) that when it comes to tools, one should always have two of everything.

Later that night, after a couple of Ibuprofen, I was able to move about without actually crawling on the carpet.  The railings are good for another two years.

So, that’s how a blogger spends time when not sitting at a laptop.  Although, for me, even hunched over a keyboard can cause pain.

If you read this post and click ‘like’, then I will get better.  That’s the way it works.  My health is actually in your hands.

Use the power wisely.

The Two Faces of the Summer Solstice

[Summer Sunrise over the Heel Stone at Stonehenge. Photo source: Google Search]

A short time ago a friend posted this on Facebook:

Hooray! Only 59 Days Until The Summer Solstice!

Most of us know that the Solstice marks the first day of summer.  It’s a moment when the sun rays are directly overhead at 23.5° N. Lat.  Where I live, this will occur at 11:54 am (EDT) on June 21.

[Diagram of the relative position of the sun (R) and the earth (L). Source: Google Search]

People think of BBQ’s, swimming, hiking and kayaking over seventy foot waterfalls.  Kites will fill the air at beaches.  Pyrotechnics are being prepared for the 4th of July.  Pom-Pom girls are practicing the baton tosses in their backyards while toddlers splash in small plastic pools under the watchful eye of parents, sitting in camp chairs, sipping bottles of Coors Lite.  Cans of Deep Woods Off are flying off the shelves at Target.  Tubes of SPF 65 lotion are in every picnic basket.  Big drinks with little umbrellas are served at pool-side.  The quarterbacks of the Fall flirt with the cheerleader/lifeguards of the Summer.  Sandcastles, surfing, hang-gliding, rodeos, NASCAR races, deer-tick bites and human pyramid water-skiing are the activities on any given day south of Manitoba.  (Actually, most of these events happen in Canada as well, but no-one goes up there this time of year to see for themselves.)

[This is how I spent my summer days at the lake. Source: Google Search]

And, in sunny England, the Druids are allowed among the Sacred Stones of Stonehenge to welcome the arrival of the SUN.

[Druids at Stonehenge on June 21st. Source: Google Search]

The Glory Days!  The Endless Summer.  Autumn is months away.  The Farness.  The Freedom.  The Freshness…it’s the eternal now moment everyone wants to be in and stay in.

And, best of all…it’s the longest days of the year!

[Allow me to muddy the waters a bit here.  The longest day?  No, of course not.  The length of the ‘day’ is and will remain twenty-four hours.  Can’t change that.  First day of Summer?  That depends on how you think of summer.  There are really two “summers”.  One is the Meteorological Summer, which traditionally is from June 1 to August 31.  This is when the thermal load begins to build in the Northern Hemisphere.  Hence, one can go swimming on June 7 because it’ll likely be warm enough and you are willing to hold your breath for twenty-three minutes underwater to escape the black flies.  But this post is mostly concerned with Astronomical Summer as described in the diagram above.  None of this seasonal stuff would happen if the earth was not tilted 23.5 degrees off the vertical plane in our relationship with the sun.  The planet Mercury has no tilt and therefore no seasons.  If you lived on Mercury, SPF would be your least problem.  The daytime temperature is approximately 800 degrees Fahrenheit.  Hot enough to melt your nail polish.  Hot enough to even…well, you wouldn’t have an arm to apply anything on.  It’s very difficult to rub SPF on a gelatinous mass of bubbling protoplasm.  But in the few seconds you perhaps survived, you’d need an SPF of 2,500.  I haven’t seen anything like that at Walgreens lately.  And, forget about a beach book.  The temperature is twice that of the burning point of paper.  You’d need a Kindle for sure.]

Back to earth.

And, there’s the catch.  Just when you’ve reached the peak (the Summer Solstice) you have to begin thinking about going down.

After June 21, the days begin to get shorter.

You may say that after reading this that I’m a glass-is-half-empty kind of guy.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  I’m the eternal optimist.  After all, in a mere six months, the days will start to get longer!

And then you have the Holidays to look forward to.

 

Languid June

[Languid June As Seen From Our Back Deck.]

Languid June.  Languid June.  The name has a certain ring to it.  Like Lay Down Sally, Calamity JaneBlack-Eyed Susan, Axis Sally, Typhoid Mary and Moaning Myrtle.  I chose the title of this post with care.  I do believe that I saw a Sad-Eyed Lady at the corner stool in a dusty bar in El Paso in 2013.  I do believe I heard the bartender ask: Same again, Languid June?

But, already I digress.

It’s that time of year.  We had a Spring, but I can’t tell you what day that was.  It certainly wasn’t March 21, the Vernal Equinox…there was still snow on the ground.  Now, it’s summer, only a few days before the Summer Solstice.  I sit on the living room sofa and look out toward the lake.  The leaves are out in full now, so we’ve lost nearly all of our view of the water.  It is uncannily still considering the wind storms we’ve been having.  The fresh new maple leaves flicker almost imperceptibly.

It’s quiet, so much so that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears (or maybe it’s my tinnitus again).  A man and a woman talk quietly as they kayak past our dock.  The crickets buzz on occasion.  The crows squawk away in the near-by woods.  The bullfrogs down at the lake never seem to tire of their amorous croaking.  Okay, sounds like a noisy place…but it’s not.  It’s quiet.  It’s lonely.  It’s languid.

I was a science teacher so I know that just beyond the frequency of our hearing range, there is a riot of activity, in our yard, in the nearby woods and down by the lakeside.  But, speaking only for myself, I can’t report a “riot” of anything going on in my brain.

When I look out at the motionless trees, the only term that comes to mind is Dog Day Afternoon, then I remember that’s a 1975 movie with Al Pacino. It feels like the Dog Days of Summer, but I think that happens sometime in July or August; I can’t remember and it’s not on my wall calendar.

Maybe I should ask Alexa.

Late Night Thoughts on Thumb Twiddling

[Mariam in the act of thumb twiddling. Photo credit: Me]

Twiddle. (v) To wait idly because one cannot take action.

Not that many weeks ago I found myself behind the wheel of an Avis Rent Car.  I had set the cruise control at 71 mph.  We were heading north out of Albany, coming home from several months in England.  I was fixated on the highway beyond the windshield.  We were on I-87, the ‘Northway’.  It was no use using the radio because if you found a station that was interesting, you only had about nine minutes to enjoy it.  Then it would fade into crackling static.  I was bored and apparently so was my wife, Mariam.  I knew that because I glanced at her during an hour of quiet.  She was twiddling her thumbs.  I never noticed her doing that before, but upon later questioning, she admitted she often twiddled her thumbs while I drove.  (Refer to the above definition.)  I further wondered about her actions knowing that she had a thumb joint replacement about thirty years ago.

Now I must confess at this point that I tried, really tried to enjoy twiddling.  I really tried.  But, like piano jazz, it wasn’t working for me.  I consider it akin to chewing gum.  I’ve actually chewed gum before, mostly while a teenager, and all I ever got out of it was a sore jaw.  I’m fully aware that the main purpose of chewing gum is that you can stare down a guy named Slash while sitting in a bar in Reno.  It makes you look confident and nonchalant.  I never actually tried it, but I assume it works.  I saw it work in a few Clint Eastwood movies.

But, I digress.

I decided to delve deeper into this twiddling thing.  The further I went the more fascinating it became.  For example, the word origin is likely a blend of TWIST (or maybe TWIRL) and FIDDLE.  It’s past participle form is Twiddled.  It’s Gerund form is Twiddling.  Don’t ask me about that.  I never really understood what a gerund was anyway.

A further confession:  I found myself twiddling my thumbs a few months ago while I sat in my doctor’s office in NYC.  Why?  Because the office staff had failed to put a recent copy of Arthritis Today magazine on the table.  I love those articles and sometimes I can copy out a recipe.

So, that’s it.  I’ve covered twiddling in my blogs.  Next topic?  Maybe Bone Spurs.  Who knows.

By the way, if you are a thumb twiddler, always keep your thumbs in contact.  Less stress on the joints.

Or, so I’m told.

One final comment: A priest once told me that twiddling your thumbs would make you go blind.  I haven’t seen any evidence of that in Mariam, although she may be having cataract surgery sometime in the next ten years.

[Photo credit: Google search (CartoonStock]

 

 

The Robin’s Nest

[The nest after being moved from the lamp]

[American Robin: Turdus migratorius.]

I’m sure it was a Robin’s nest.  Every time Mariam or I would use the front deck entrance (with a screen door that slammed louder than the front gate of Alcatraz), a bird with a rusty breast would scold us from a nearby branch of a long-needle pine.

When we arrived home after our late winter trip overseas, neither of us noticed anything.  But one afternoon something caught my eye.  It was atop our outdoor light.  At first it looked like Rip van Winkle’s hat…leafy, twiggy and crusted with mud.  I chanced to pull out our kitchen stool and peaked inside…it was a birds nest, constructed with such engineering skill, it made a beaver dam look like a 6th graders science experiment.  I touched nothing, knowing the rules about birds and nests.

Nothing much happened for a few days.  No sign of any action.  Then on another afternoon, I was in the guest bedroom trying to find a clean flannel shirt for the day (It’s late May, so I get to level down from wool to fleece to flannel.)  I looked out at the lamp.  A mother Robin was tending the nest!  I moved the window shade ever so slightly and she took off to a nearby branch.

We had a family living above our lamp.  Life was about to begin on our front porch.  For several weeks we watched as the mother sat as still as a dead parrot in a cage.  We began to use the back deck for our commerce, avoiding the disturbance of the slamming screen door.  Mariam began to take a special interest in the birds welfare…she watched it from afar like a trained ornithologist…which was great to watch…since she, Mariam not the bird, is from Queens.

A few days ago, I was sitting in our living room reading David Copperfield.  (I’m on page 260…I have only 469 pages left…that’s good for me, I’ve only been at it for four years) when Mariam walked in and announced that she believed the mother bird abandoned the nest.  I thought about it for a few minutes and told her that I thought that the hatchlings had already taken wing.  She didn’t think so.

Today, she asked me to take down the nest as it was obviously empty, but she didn’t want to see inside.  So I went out and actually had to struggle to move the nest.  It was so firmly attached to the lamp that even the stormy weather we’ve had couldn’t possible have budged it.

[The original nest site…pretty good choice I think.]

It was a marvel of…well, nest-making.  But I found no signs of egg shells bits.

I believe the family is gone and the fledglings are fine in the parents care.  Soon, they too will be fully adult by summers end…and will migrate when the time comes…that time when their internal chemistry tells them it’s time to fly south, something I can relate to.

Watching nature’s cycles unfold from a window is a privilege.  This is what living in the North Country offers.

The next major event is black-fly season.  I’ll be watching that play out from the screened-in porch, thank you.  There are some things in nature I just don’t do…getting my blood sucked by anything with wings is not on my to-do list.

To Bob With Thanks

[Source: Google search.]

I think we can consider the fact that Bob Dylan is a Renaissance Man for our times.  He is a master welder of artistic forms.  He can write poetry and songs that are confusing, subtle and ultimately profound.  He earned the Nobel Prize in Literature.  He is an accomplished painter, owner of his own Whiskey Brand (Heaven’s Door), master of the harmonica, piano and guitar.  He tours over 100 hundred days a year…the Never-Ending Tour.  If there is a country he has not visited, I can’t think of it.  His range of musical interests span gospel, folk, rock, protest, Sinatra-style crooning, blues and country.  I may have missed a few genres.

He supports an entire industry of Dylanologists.

And he says about himself: “I’m only a song and dance man.”

You’re more than that, Bob.  I’ve used your lyrics to inspire my children, make sense of my blogs…and, yes, even in attempts to seduce.

But one thing that Bob Dylan cannot do is to stay forever young.

He will be 78 on May 24th.

I’ll light a candle for you on Friday night.  Thanks for all you’ve given to me…and to the world.

Happy Birthday, Bob !

Staring Down at 72

[A post card image from Inkognito.]

As I write this post the weather here at Rainbow Lake is unsettled.  Windy with thunder in the distance.  I fell asleep in the screened-in porch last night listening to heavy rains falling.  I’m staring at a calendar (The kitchen wall calendar…this year: Japanese prints).  I see that I have eleven days until I turn 72.

[My photo.]

72!

When I was a young boy of perhaps nine or ten years of age, I used to play Wiffle Ball with my older brother, Denny.  After many swings and hitting little or nothing, I asked him something that worried me:

“Denny, how many fouls make an out?”

Without hesitating he replied: “72”.

I had no reason to not believe him…I was young.

But that number, 72, kept echoing in my mind over the many years since I sat in our backyard with my older brother. I decided to do a little research.  Google was smoking for me two nights ago as I found many references to that magic number.

The fact is, that number is VERY significant in many ways…mostly to Numerologists.

Here’s a small sample of what I found:

–It is known in esoteric numerology as the Master Number.

–72 x 12=864…the diameter of the sun. (www.netfind.com)

–The average human lifespan is 72 years.

–December 21, 2010 (Winter Solstice) was the date of a total lunar eclipse which lasted exactly 72 minutes.

–The human body is 72% water.

–The Zodiac has 12 constellations and 72 secondary ones.

–72 is the par on an 18-hole golf course.

–There are 72 spaces on a Parcheesi board.

–72 Hz is the frequency commonly used to examine the emotional spectrum.

–In the Old Testament, God destroyed the Tower of Babel and divided the people by 72 languages.

–Jesus died for 72 hours.

–Muslims are awarded 72 virgins in heaven.

–The Pentagon in Washington has 5 angles, all of which are 72 degrees.

–WWII lasted 72 months.

–And, in numerology, 72 = tolerance, philanthropy and intuition.

And there is so much more.

So, what does all this mean for me?  That’s a good question.  All I can say for sure is that I’m not anticipating that day…a week from Friday.  There are so many more years behind me than in front of me.  Have I done right in all those years on this planet?  Have I always made the right choices? (No).  Have I lived a moral life? (Mostly).  There are so many more questions but so few answers.  My only real hope is that I will be here to write about the significance of the number 73.

My dreams at night are those of a young man, not with white hair but merely salt and pepper.  I have no aches in my legs and back…in my dreams.  The young women in my dreams say to me: “Yes, I could love you tonight.”

In the brightness of day, those same young women think: “He looks just like Grandpa.”

“If I’m here in the morning, baby, I’ll know I’ve survived.  I can’t believe it.  I can’t believe I’m alive…but without you it doesn’t seem right.  Oh, where are you tonight?”

–Bob Dylan

“It is hard to do justice to old pleasures that cannot be revived–we seem half to disown our youthful selves, who loved and treasured them.”

–Alan Hollinghurst The Sparsholt Affair.

[Vitruvian Man. A sketch by Leonardo da Vinci. Source: Google search.]

[Full disclosure:  No humans or animals were harmed while writing this post.  The facts listed above have not been verified by me.  They were found during a Google search.  And, most importantly: This post is in no way a shameless and gratuitous plea for LIKES on my Facebook page on May 31. But, don’t let that stop you…]