Campfires and Father’s Day Recollections

Solstice came at 10:42 on the night before Father’s Day this year in the state of Washington. Jess and I were at the North Cascades Institute for a weekend retreat I’d won at an auction supporting the Association of Nature Center Administrators… since I got to go to their annual summit a couple of times on the Nature Center Council’s dime, it was a nice way to support the organization responsible in part for my training over the last couple of years at Marshy Point. I’ve met some incredible people through ANCA, and seen some of the incredible places they run too…

Ready for a break from all the drama of moving, we flew up to Seattle and drove nearly all the way to the Canadian border and into the middle of North Cascades National Park. We spent the weekend hiking, eating, doing yoga, canoeing, eating some more, hiking some more, reading in their incredible nature library, and chatting with some folks who’d also come to enjoy the same. Nothing compared to the evening we spent with these strangers around a campfire though.

Circled together, with flames that grew brighter as the sun set through giant Douglas firs, we shared stories of our summertime youth. With each story came deeper layers of returned memories of childhood. My mind wandered from heavy pockets full of quarters made at street-side lemonade stands, to simple things like the smell of Uncle Joe’s car (it wasn’t quite as bad as “old man” smell, but it certainly wasn’t the most pleasant smell in the world either). I even sang Moo-Moo the Cow for everyone!

(Consequently, if you've heard this somewhere before please let me know where... I learned it on a tape of kids songs on a family vacation to Vermont and sang it every time we saw cows... and I still do)

Back to the campfire... We talked about our worst summer jobs. My paper route was hardly a bad job for a 12 year old, but it did afford its K-9 risks (one memorable pup was a rottweiler appropriately named Boulder). Thinking about the paper route got me to thinking about Dad, and how he would get up early with me on Sunday mornings to take me down to Depot Road so I could stuff my papers into bags so we could deliver them in the car. Sunday papers were way too big and heavy to carry in my bicycle baskets. Afterward we’d go to the Fireside deli for egg sandwiches (and no egg sandwich has tasted quite right ever since). Maybe later in the day we’d go to one of my fishing places like Blydenburg, Huntington Harbor, or the Nissaquogue River and dad would let me run amuck while he sat and did the Sunday crossword in a lawn chair. We might stop at a farm stand on the way home to pick up some corn for dinner. Maybe I’d clean a few snapper when we got home, and then fry them up for him and I to eat (no one else really liked them... come to think of it I don’t think either of us actually liked to eat the bony, fishy little things, but we did it just the same every time).

One summer when I was about 12 or 13 (when Mike was away at college or maybe had just started living in DC), I was getting tired of seeing Mike’s lonely 2-man sailboat go to waste, sitting in the back yard. I wanted to take it to Centerport, where he'd taken sailing lessons one summer when he was in high school. I wanted to try my own hand at sailing tat boat. It had always looked easy enough, and I’d been out in it with him so much that I was pretty sure I knew what to do. Dad, being the adventurous spirit (or more likely just wanting to make sure I didn’t do something foolish), agreed to take me out for a sail.

We spent the morning rigging the boat up and making sure it was still in working order. We disassembled the rigging and loaded it on to the roof of the car. Looking back on it, perhaps we should have spent the morning at the library where we could have found a book, something like “Sailing for Dummies” or “An Introduction to Not Capsizing Your Boat.” Although I was against it, Dad had the forethought to stop by Uncle Bob’s around the corner to borrow a couple of canoe paddles on our way down to Cold Spring Harbor… I don’t think I remember having lifejackets (in fact, I quite vividly remember Dad’s skin being considerably more stark white than fluorescent orange).

It was a perfect day for a sail. The Southwesterly wind was ripping out of the harbor, the American flag was unfurled and stiff, and the tedious “clink-clink” of the moored sail boat masts composed our soundtrack with the gulls. We hopped into the little hull, dropped the centerboard and keel into place, and raised the sail. And did we ever sail! The wind at our backs, the sail full of air pushing from behind, we close-hauled it like lightening through the waves. We flew, steering through the moored boats as we made our way to the cove at the far end of the harbor where we would cruise around a while, enjoying a perspective of a place I had known well from endless summer nights and long days spent fishing from the shores for blues (the big snapper) with Mike. There were people fishing in our favorite spot, and we avoided their lines. There was a water-skier in the cove too, circling it from end to end.

At the end of our run, it was time to head back. And then it hit me – “How do we get back, Dad?”

“This is where we start tacking, ma’boy!”

“What’s that mean?” …and thus began my first big lesson on the value of “learning by doing.”

Tacking, I learned that day, is supposed to be when you sail your boat at a 45 degree angle into the wind, then turn to face 45 degrees upwind in the opposite direction, gaining ground with each turn. In theory it would have worked great. Why it didn’t work for us that day I haven’t a clue (I’ve done it plenty on my own ever since)… It could have been that the tide was ripping out of the harbor, the same direction as the wind, pushing us from below as the wind was pushing us from above. Too, it could have been that for Dad tacking was a theory he just hadn’t had a chance to put into practice yet. Hell, up until that point I hadn’t even heard the term before (looking back, I'd bet it was just a word he'd picked up from his Sunday crosswords).

So, we pretty much went back and forth, not gaining a single inch. For a good hour or so I got a kick out of waving at the water-skier going in circles around us. Some time around my tenth wave to the skier (some of which were more like signals of panic) Bob Frank knew it was time to turn to Plan B. Like the punishments of bygone days, the paddling began. Sail luffing, we paddled into the tide. Blisters were eminent. They came, they popped, and we kept paddling into the wind in our big clunky-hulled sailboat.

Finally nearing the spot we’d launched from, and with a bit more boat traffic on the water, Dad decided it would be worth going a little further upstream while we waited for the boat ramp to clear. Once there, we turned the boat towards the ramp, and Dad held the sail tight to let it fill with wind as he steered with the tiller toward shore. The boat was perpendicular to the wind, the tiller at full tilt downstream, the sail tight with wind, and over we went, paddles and all! Now capsized in the middle to the boat channel and slightly flustered, we had a greater task ahead of us. With the sail still fully extended in the current underneath us, we spent the next twenty minutes swimming it to shore, me pulling from the front with my side stroke, and Dad doing his best doggy paddle push from behind. We endured, and years later, when my fears subsided, I started learning a little more about sailing, this time on slightly more stable, double-hulled catamarans.

I mentioned the story of Dad's and my sailing misadventure to Uncle Gerry, who called when we were in Seattle getting ready to board the plane back to Oakland, and he remembered a time when Dad had flipped a canoe they were in as kids… I’d like to hear Dad’s side of that story, and if he's got any amendments to mine...

Work-shmerk!

Although it's only been a few weeks, nearly every day at work something really neat has happened. These things keep piling up though, so it's been hard to get a minute to write them all down. Here is a list of the top five most notable things that have happened at my job to date:

Notable Event # 5: The Prius
Yup, I got a 2009 Prius for when I have to run errands and go to meetings. I drove it all day today!

Notable Event # 4: Chinatown Fish Rescue
We headed to Chinatown to pick up a couple of live sturgeon (yes, the ones that caviar comes from and that get to be hundreds of pounds). We brought our two "rescues" to a holding facility run by the Contra Costa County Mosquito Vector Control District.

Notable Event # 3: Electoshocking Fish
Yes, it may sound a bit inhumane, and I suppose some might argue that it is (especially considering our daring broad daylight "sturgeon rescue" in the ninja-patrolled streets of Oakland's bad-ass Chinatown), but in effect what this means is we just mess with a fish's "sixth sense" (something of an electrical sensory system that runs the length of their skin from head to tail). By overstimulating them, they lose their sense of balance and turn to the side just long enough be netted them and put into a bucket. They come-to within seconds, good as new!

What's the point? It's a technique that's used to find out population dynamics (density, diversity, sizes) of fish that would otherwise prove impossible to catch. Oh, and you do it in a big boat with giant electrodes sticking off the front of it! (We also made the bigger fish throw up their most recent meal to see what they'd been eating, but I'll leave out the gruesome details of how that was done)... Why all the fish torture? Because the pond we were investigating is one of the few places left where California's only native sunfish, the Sacramento Perch, lives. It's in a very remote place, and is apparently only home to the Sacramento Perch and their bigger East Coast cousin the Largemouth Bass... We found out that in this particular pond they live harmoniously in a very simple food chain of big fish eats little fish with no other species around to take another's niche. In places where there are also other sunfish around, Sacramento Perch die out because they tend to be less aggressive when nesting, ( since they didn't eveolve with other sunfish, they don't defend their nests as much as imported species of sunfish that did evolve together, or something to that effect).


Notable Event # 2: "Special Kids" Fishing Derby
On my second day I got to help out at this incredible event (one of probably a dozen each year) where special education kids from local schools come out and catch a fish with help from volunteers. Pete Alexander, the Fisheries Manager for the District has trout stocked into a small section of a stream and each kid gets to catch one with a little help. At the end of the day they get lunch and prizes are awarded. The program's been going on for something like 18 years, and it's understandable why. The kids LOVE it.


Notable Event # 1: Testing the Mobile Fish Exhibit
Pete and I spent a full day practice-running the giant fish tank on wheels. It kinda worked. And it kinda needs some tweaking before going public. We're doing six more "soft launches" this summer before we officially announce its completion. It's 1500 gallons of pure AWESOME though. Pete's daughter took this shot of me talking to a kid and his dad about the fish in the tank (the sturgeon's hiding behind the dad). This photo doesn't do the project any justice. It's HUGE.

And the amazing part is...
I get PAID to do this stuff!!!

Nesting...

We've been out here almost three weeks now and we've got just about everything we need to feel settled. We got some great furniture on the cheap - a chaise from Craigslist and a cool COMFY brown loveseat from Honey's, a used furniture place we came across one day while driving in a sketchy part of town. And the best part is they don't smell bad!

We could probably use a vacuum cleaner, but the broom is working fine for now, and we would like to get a toilet paper roll holder- actually we have a holder- we need the piece that goes through the roll. We thought about stealing one from a public place but haven't had the opportunity yet. It would be nice if we had some enemies here so that we could steal from them, but everyone here is soooo nice! Except for the person that stole my gardening table. James put an ad up on Craigslist for a bunch of our books and other things we decided to get rid of AFTER I already dragged them up the stairs. He put it all outside on top of and around my grandma's gardening table. He put a sign up that said take anything "IN THE BOXES" and someone up and moved the boxes and took the table. I was LIVID! DIRTY HIPPIES STOLE MY GRANDMA'S TABLE! So I put another ad on Craigslist that made me feel a little better telling whoever did it to bring back my table or they get bad Craigslist karma. Bastards. They never brought back the table. But lots of people called and emailed to say how sorry they were that someone took my table and they would be on the lookout for it in case someone tried to re-sell it or something. That is just the way people are out here. Craigslist began in San Francisco, so every neighborhood here in Oakland and San Francisco has it's own listings- it is CRAZY. People give away good stuff here! Sharing is a lot more prevalent too because of the cost of things like gas, food, rent, etc. People are just more open here. We have also met our fair share of stereotypical Californian people- hippy-ish drug addicts, gay couples, free-thinkers, hard-core cyclers, old hippies, and people who are in their own world (like our landlord). And they are just as cool as we thought they would be.

We have some excellent neighbors with little babies for me to hang with while their parents play music with James on the drums too.

Here's a tour of the place since we've settled in a little... And you'll meet our neighbor's (Steve and Sue's) baby too! He likes to listen to Steve and James play music...

Surviving our first earthquake...

It all started with buying a drum set. Back in Baltimore, the fact that our house shared walls with two different neighbors wasn’t the issue. Even though we didn’t appreciate our loud neighbors all that much (they were particularly fond of yelling at their one-and-a-half year old and his older two-and-a-half year old brother to “shut the #?^& up before I #@&% you up,” or an occasional, more modest rendition being to “get the $%&# in here before I #*%# you up”), we were considerate enough to make an arrangement with our buddy Bryan (HE-EY!) to set up the kit in is basement at the State Park. Underground, in the middle of the woods, we were more likely to entertain the deer and woodland critters instead of our charming friends next door. Together, the three of us formed a band, “The Wildlife Animals,” which was destined for fame (and getting “all the hot chicks” as Bryan would say) with our hit single, really the only song we ever even worked on, “Mama told me to keep my panties on,” written by Jess on an envelope during our very first rehearsal. Rehearsing once every month or so we spent more time enjoying our own company and that of a bottle or two of wine than playing music. We ODed on the wine occasionally, but it kept the spirit alive, and we rocked. So we decided to start touring the Country (hence the move to California), but Bryan had other plans and couldn’t come with us.

It’s hard to find a basement in a house tucked into the woods here in California, so when I was told by the landlady that our upstairs neighbors are musicians, I fell in love with the place. The fact that it’s beautiful, has BIG windows, hardwood floors, and is in a quiet part of a bustling, lakeside city neighborhood with tons of great ethnic restaurants had little to do with it. I knew the drum set would be perfectly suited for our living room. Jess wasn’t so convinced.

En route to our new digs, a deal was struck while driving West somewhere in Wisconsin or Idaho or South Dakota or somewhere. I could keep the drums in the living room on the condition that she could purchase a new couch. And even though we know they have a reputation of making crap furniture, and even though our trip blew away a huge proportion of our savings account, when she saw the Ikea off 580 on our way into town, I could see her turning to the Dark Side like Luke hanging on to the ledge, one hand already chopped off, the other thirsty for more action…

The whole Ikea experience has nothing at all to do with the furniture… It’s really all about walking through a gerbil maze of dream house mock-ups towards the smell of cinnamon buns and the promise of a hot dog and an ice cream cone at the end that keeps you going back for your next fix. It seems that in return for the free ride through the Swedes’ human maze experiment, most people are willing to put up with overpriced, substandard particleboard-and-staples furniture that they have to take home in a box and assemble for the next two days before they get to use it, and then it falls apart in a year or two.

If you haven’t been to Ikea, you’re missing out on one of the most incredible examples of applied psychology in marketing our species has to offer. I’d love to go back to school and do a Masters in marketing just so I could sit on a couch or lay down in a bed while watching people walk by with their eyes glazed over, tossing random crap they don’t need into an oversized blue and yellow shopping bag…

And that’s just what was happening on the afternoon of Sunday May 31st. We passed the line of lemmings entering the four-story parking garage and parked behind the giant blue box with equally gigantic yellow letters spelling “IKEA.” The place could house at least three minor league football stadiums, so the walk to the entrance took a few minutes. We went in, and followed the herd up the escalator. We got on the queue for the Swedish meatballs at the café (amazing how much nicer that sounds than “cafeteria,” which is what it really is), and after filling ourselves with the processed spheres of meat parts and binding agents, we were ready for our big adventure. We walked through showroom upon showroom of bright colors and designer styles with names like “Kjorkensteralp” and “Plaptenk” and letters like “ë” and “å” (what the %$^& does that mean?).

Well, we were pondering this jibberish on a sign dangling over one of the couches, when I noticed that the sign was bouncing… BOUNCING! Other signs nearby were doing the same thing! An earthquake?! I’M GONNA DIE IN IKEA??!!! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be!

I pointed it out to Jess and she too felt the rumbling under her feet, the building shaking…

I was a little panicked, but having been so mesmerized and engrossed by the nearby sectional “Pupenon Bjorn” couch with the “Tronknut” attachment or whatever they were calling the couch with a trundle pull-out, Jess paid little attention. I snapped her out of her PsycholoSwede spell a second time, the signs dangling from the ceiling still shaking, our feet still bouncing up and down. There we stood, silent, for a good three seconds. Glancing around us we noticed that these were the only signs that were bouncing, and Jess commented that there were dozens of people nearby, probably thousands on the second floor alone. All I could think of was all of us trapped under the rubble of broken “Splonks” and “Dongeltrods.” Just then, Jess pointed out that perhaps IKEA builds their warehouse department store as strong as their “Dongletrods,” and that perhaps what were were witnessing was just the movement of the BUILDING, and not the earth beneath it. Lo and behold, the signs near us, and the shaking we felt were happening only in that part of the store.

Did we survive a potential Nightly News Disaster? OR was our earthquake merely a product of mass hypnosis caused by the mind control of the Swedes and their poorly designed, over-sized building? We may never know for sure, but I’m glad we got out of that store and decided to get our couch on Craigslist instead.

The Big Move-In

Following the long (and exciting) haul across the country, one week ago Monday, we made our way into Oakland. We moved in with all the worldly belongings we had brought with us in the car (because the delivery truck with all three of our “small” storage units wasn’t scheduled to arrive until Friday).

We picked up the cats at the airport...

Excited to have started to settle in, we spent the next four days camping-out squatter style in our empty apartment.

While over the years we certainly have grown to appreciate the value of living with less (examples being not subscribing to cable tv, and riding my bike to work occasionally as a compromise to sharing one car), we discovered there is a threshold below which life becomes more of a challenge than any person should have to endure.

This is a long one, but there's a TOP TEN at the end...

Exhibit A: Lack of Refrigeration.
Take food for example, which some might consider to be an important part of life. In our modernized country, food isn’t so hard to come by (heck, our whole culture revolves around finding food easily– it doesn’t take much effort to hop into the car and drive to the nearest grocery store, all-night fast-food joint, or “all-you-can-eat” corral – No need to have a garden or slaughter your pet cow, just fill a few bags with neatly packaged, processed “food products,” and bring them home to fill the cupboards and fridge, then indulge. Simple and convenient, right? Not when you’re squatting.

I was about to put water into the ice trays before heading out to the grocery store for some juice, when I noticed a problem… the freezer wasn’t freezing. In fact, the air that came out was actually warmer than the rest of the kitchen. Being that we’d just signed our lease the night before, I immediately called Pat the Land Lady. I left her a voice message, then decided that perhaps she would have it fixed quickly enough that we could go on our merry way shopping… after all, 11 out of 100 people in this state are looking for JOBS. Not enough of those folks must know anything about refrigerators because it took two more days for her to get it done.

Exhibit B: Lack of furniture.
While we did have our Aerobed, aside from the floor it was the only “furniture” we had. We did eventually find a couple of chairs to “borrow” from a neighbor’s storage unit, but by the time that happened it was too late. My back decided it had had enough by Thursday night. It was apparently revolting after having endured a week and a half of a constant thud-thud of the car traveling over regularly spaced highway cracks. Couple that with three recent nights of being contorted for the sake of finding “comfort” on either a solid wood floor or the space-walk super-bounce carnival bed, and you get a gut-wrenching spasm that makes a grown man want to OD on ibuprofen and pain killers. (Aerobeds, you may have heard, were recently exposed by a Fox news reporter to have been used in Guantanamo).

So, it was a bit of a bittersweet moment when our stuff arrived just in time to be unpacked on the very next day. I had to leave work at 10am for a doctor appointment that became a visit to an X-ray technician followed by another appointment with a Physical Therapist. My third day on the job amounted to a whopping 1.5 hours of standing at my desk to avoid flexing my back, followed by trips to the doctor, an x-ray technician, and a physical therapist. As I type this it's Tuesday and I'm still getting occasional twinges of pain.

There is a happy ending to this story though… after unpacking and carrying most of the three containers worth of boxes and furniture up two flights of stairs, Jess’ legs are looking hotter than ever. We went out to dinner last night to celebrate.