Only Our Conflicts Are Real

Today I came to a realization regarding our moral, ethical and political ideologies.

Recall the poem “The Blind men and the Elephant” by John Godfrey Saxe. Six blind men are examining an elephant and each is adamant of his experiential findings. The last verse says it all.

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong.
Though each was partly in the right,
They all were in the wrong!

Now before you go any further, examine this bit of reflection from—of all places— a 1966 western movie, The Professionals.

“Maybe there’s only one revolution, since the beginning, the good guys against the bad guys. Question is, who are the good guys?”

And therein lies the rub. Aside from the fact that we each approach the current situation in Washington wearing the filters of our respective human experience, we also approach one another with conflicting understandings of good versus evil. From this perspective, we come to debate and argue, each with the intent of winning over the other guy. And for the most part, each will fail.

We can’t even agree on right from wrong! And in our efforts to win each other over through seemingly benevolent discussion, we vehemently entrench ourselves ever deeper into our private realities, ever bending our arguments to protect what is ours, rather than admit it might not be entirely accurate. Nice going.

I knew we were in trouble when I saw the exact same news story concerning President Trump being shared on Facebook by both a pro-Trump advocate and an anti-Trump detractor. The same story! And when I realized they couldn’t both be right, it occurred to me that the only sure thing in this equation was the conflict itself. That was real.

Wake up. You cannot win with the arguments you are making. In this regard, you are no better than one of the blind men in that poem. In fact, you are worse because at least the blind men were all of a like mindset. 

Contemplating the Passage of Time

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I’m sitting in my home office (read: an old desk in my basement), tracking the progress of my son’s flight back to Oregon via flightaware.com as I write this. He is 23 years old and in the process of finishing off his final year at the Portland Actors Conservatory. He was home for the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, which have now passed. Today is also my daughter’s 25th birthday. I have no idea how I could possibly have two kids in their twenties when I am still just a kid myself. Alright, that’s a bald-faced lie… sort of. It’s true that on the outside, I am older, baggier, surely no longer young enough to be called middle-aged. But on the inside, my twenties weren’t all that long ago and I’ve still got this young, foolish streak that rises to the surface more often than I would care to admit. In many ways, I never grew up. And it’s unlikely that I will do so anytime soon because I’m having too damned much fun.

I hope that my daughter enjoyed her somewhat laid back birthday and I pray that my son lands safely in Portland, nearly three hours later than my intended bedtime. I look at their lives the way I look at this new year that has just gotten underway. Imagine the possibilities! My kids may be feeling the pressures of adulthood—and I know from experience, the pressure can be very real—but they still have so many possibilities ahead of them. Indeed I can still see many possibilities for myself. It’s true, I am a lot further along in life than are my two kids, but I assure you I am far from ready for the grave just yet. I have many roads left to travel, many stories left to write, and a great deal of love and laughter left to share.

So here’s to 2017! May we all realize at least some of those great possibilities we’ve imagined, and may we each find ourselves at least a little bit closer to whatever it is we are seeking in life. Thanks for hanging with me.

A Tale of Two Christmas Cacti

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I began with only one and given my propensity to kill houseplants, I never expected that one to last long. But it did. Then it gained a mate. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My mother had a green thumb. She loved plants and she surrounded herself with them. Pots and planters filled her home, upstairs and down, inside and out. She knew how to take cuttings and turn them into new plants. We might be walking somewhere and Ma would spot an interesting plant. In an instant, her hand would dart out like a cobra, pinch off a tiny piece of the plant, and disappear back into her coat pocket. In a matter of weeks, the same type of plant would be growing in her collection. My sisters were afraid she would get in trouble for this, but Ma would just look at them and smile.

At some point, my mother’s horticultural interests expanded to include cactus plants and before long, all manner of cacti began to appear—not from pinching off samples, I’m sure. By the time my parents had reached their golden years, every windowsill in their basement was lined with mismatched pots brimming with these needly things. Some of the more interesting cacti joined her other plants in the kitchen, dining room, living room, and porches.

A few years before my mother passed away, which was in 2006, she gave me one of her Christmas Cactus plants, assuring me that these things were not that easy to kill. What can I tell you, this woman knew her son. Turns out she was right. The darned thing seldom threw blooms—sometimes going for months or even years—but when it did, its red flowers were beautiful to see.

cacti-2011-03-20maOver the years, “Ma’s cactus” continued to grow and thrive, but after my mother died, it would go for very long periods of time without blooming. That pattern abruptly changed, however, when my father died in February of 2011. Within days of his passing, my mother’s cactus erupted, throwing more beautiful red blooms than it had ever done for me in the years prior. Having no better explanation for this phenomenon, I took the shower of blooms as a message from my mother, sent to assure me that Pop was with her once again.

Oh, you think that’s good? Wait; there’s more.

cacti-2015-03-28popWhen the time came for my sisters and I to sell our parents’ home, decades worth of physical belongings had to be sold, donated, disposed of, or taken home. One of the things I took home was another Christmas Cactus. This specimen wasn’t quite the same as the one I already had. It seemed more rugged somehow and the flat, spiney segments were shaped just a little bit different from those of my other plant.

I wanted to keep the two cacti side by side on top of a wooden pantry in my kitchen, where they would not easily be reached by Jazzy, the family cat. But I didn’t much care for the mismatched flower pots, so I went out and bought a pair of matching ceramic pots, large enough for each plant to grow into. Once transplanted, the two quickly adapted and within a few weeks, began to flourish.

That’s when  funny thing happened. Ma’s cactus, threw a few of her red blooms—but only on the side nearest the new arrival. Hmmm, interesting.

cacti-2015-03-28A couple of days later, the other cactus began to throw beautiful, yet different, white blooms. Both plants then continued to bloom, each in its own color, until finally reverting back to their usual, quiet selves.

This happened several more times in the years that followed, most often around Christmas or Easter. In time the two Christmas cacti came to represent my parents, at least in spirit. The “Ma” plant has always had more going on, growing in different directions and always throwing more blooms, and yet she is the softer of the two plants. Her spiny segments have always been more delecate and they are quicker to droop if neglected. By comparison, the “Pop” plant is sturdier and grows its woody parts just as much as its flat segments. Like my father in life, this plant holds a grudge. If neglected, this one will let sections die off rather than come back when watered again. He also doesn’t bloom as often, but his soft, white blooms are more delicate and short -lived than her prolific red ones.

cacti-2016-12-17And so it goes. Just this past week, with Christmas approaching, Ma threw a handful of red blooms, most of them in the direction of the strong, silent plant beside her. Pop, on the other hand, hadn’t bloomed once in over a year—until a day or two ago, then a couple of tiny white buds appears on the tips of two appendages closest to the beautiful plant to his right.

I observe the banter between these two plants and remember many happy times and the colorful chatter that often took place in our household, especially during the holidays.

Merry Christmas.

 

 

The Night My Plastic Snowman Attacked Me

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We’ve had this plastic snowman since the kids were little, which means it’s been a while. He stands on our front porch from sometime after Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day. He lights up after dark by means of an incandescent light fixture glowing from within his hollow body. Some of his painted features are now worn and faded. I no longer recall where we bought him, but he hadn’t cost a lot. Our snowman used to have a pipe in his mouth, but it broke off. That might have happened the night he attacked me, but I don’t think so.

Oh, haven’t I told you about that? Yes, it’s true. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the little bugger came at me one night, when I wasn’t expecting it. The whole ordeal was rather violent and caught me completely off guard. I mean look at him; he’s a four-foot tall molded plastic snowman and they are generally considered to be a benevolent sort. I don’t believe anybody else would have anticipated his violent outburst any more than I did.

The incident happened four or five years ago on a cold, winter night. A winter storm had passed through our area, dropping four or five inches of new snow. Once the snowfall had stopped, as the temperature began to fall, I suited up and went outside to clear our driveway and sidewalks. I rolled my trusty two-stroke snowblower out of the garage, threw the choke lever over, turned the key, yanked the starter cord and stood up with a look of great satisfaction as my machine roared to life. I squinted slightly as I leaned forward into a cloud of blue smoke to push the choke lever back over. The engine settled into a stable growl, which escalated to a controlled roar as I began to clear rows of snow.

I remember adjusting the directional chute as I moved along the curved sidewalk leading to my front porch, which was well lit, not only by the usual area lighting but also by the strands of Christmas lights, which my beloved wife and teenage daughter had strung up across the porch roof and front rail, and of course from our plastic snowman. He stood at the edge of the concrete porch, smiling at the world around him and glowing brightly from within.But an instant later, as I approached, his demeanor changed.

As the snowblower and I moved ever closer toward the snowman, he grew agitated, literally. First the little guy began shuddering and then rapidly shook from side to side as if having some sort of seizure. I stared at this amazing site for an instant, not yet comprehending the situation at hand.

Suddenly and without further warning, the snowman lept from his place on the porch, sailing through the air, straight for me and my snowblower as his pleasant glow from within changed to a brilliant white flash before going out completely. Startled, I released the engagement lever on my snowblower as the snowman crashed into us and then lay on the ground before us in total, dark silence. My heart beat like a triphammer as I stood there, piecing together what had happened.

My eyes traced the remnants of a slender electrical cord leading from the snowman’s backside not toward an electrical outlet up on the porch, but toward the intake of my snowblower. For whatever reason, instead of plugging the snowman directly into the outlet behind him, my decorating team had run his little cord out to a four-outlet temporary fixture on a stake in the front flower bed, which in turn was plugged into the outlet just outside our front door. Somehow, perhaps during the course of the snowstorm, a portion of the snowman’s electrical cord had strayed onto the sidewalk, only to be spooled up by the paddles of my snowblower. Good heavens, I’d all but disemboweled the little guy!

I did my best to hide my shocked, sorrowful state by laughing uncontrollably at the memory of being attacked by our plastic snowman. I spent no small amount of time freeing the stripped, stretched and broken electrical cord from the snowblower’s intake. And in the days that followed, I spent more time acquiring and installing another incandescent light fixture inside of my little friend.

Before long he was back out on our porch, glowing from within as usual, and he has done so ever since. We tend to be a little more careful these days about where we run the electrical cords when we put up Christmas decorations. I can’t help but smile whenever I think back on that incident. This usually happens while I’m removing snow from the front walks during the holiday season.

Just last weekend, for example, I was clearing several inches of snow for the first time this season. As I came along the front walk toward our house, I glanced at the little snowman and smiled. A moment later, as I turned to pass in front of him, I was certain I heard him utter a derogatory remark about the legitimacy of my birth. I can’t imagine he would still bear a grudge against me after so many years, especially after I took such care to restore his innards, but one never knows.

The Most Expensive Dog I’ve Ever Owned

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This is my Thanksgiving story…

I don’t know whether she began her life with a given name. Her shelter name was Madeline and by the time I’d met her, she had already cheated death twice. It was September of 2015. After having said goodbye to Rocky, our last dog of fourteen years, that past April, we’d finally decided that we were ready to bring a new four-legged family member into the fold. I began perusing the adoption listings on petfinder.com, occasionally sharing individual listings with the family to get their opinions on this or that prospect. After a few weeks, Madeline appeared in this listing (still there, with original photos) by Wags 2 Wishes Animal Rescue.

I shared her listing with the family and continued to share others, but I kept circling back to this one. The reason why was anything but obvious. Madeline was described as a lab mix and we weren’t necessarily looking for a large breed, although we had owned labs before. She was also a she, which wasn’t a deal breaker in itself, but we had always gone with male dogs in the past. Finally, she was being kept at a foster home until medically cleared, which meant she had health issues of some sort. There was certainly no shortage of healthy male dogs of smaller breeds, so why did I keep returning to this dog’s listing for another look?

Perhaps something deep inside told me this was the one, that this was to be our dog. After consulting with my wife, I messaged Wags 2 Wishes and inquired about arranging a visit to meet Madeline, who was being fostered somewhere up near the Illinois/Wisconsin border. They replied with an invitation to come see her at the shelter, right in Plainfield,  as she had been cleared medically and was there. Thing was, we wouldn’t be able to get there before the weekend. What if somebody else came and took her? That very thought was driving me nuts. but we didn’t really have any alternatives and as Karen was quick to point out, if it was meant to be, she’d still be there.

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She was there, and she seemed very happy to see Karen and me. If this pup was sickly, she was keeping it well-hidden. Madeline seemed to have the energy and curiosity of any healthy puppy, but as I said, she’d already cheated death twice by the time we first met. Madeline had been rescued from a kill shelter somewhere in Tennessee. What Karen and I hadn’t known is that this pup was listed to be put down the day she was rescued. Then while at her foster home, she became extremely ill. Turns out she had contracted a severe case of parvovirus and was not expected to survive. But she did survive and with a great deal of tender, loving care from her foster family, Madeline was nursed back to health. And so she was there to meet us that day—and after spending some time together at the shelter, she came home with us.

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Later that day we dropped her shelter name and gave our pup her forever name, Leia. In the weeks and months that followed, Leia’s size and strength increased substantially. One day Karen thanked me for getting her the horse she’d always wanted. After much debate, we decided that her lineage is most likely a mix of Labrador Retriever and German Shepherd. She also began to show quite a mischievous streak. Leia—or the black princess, as I sometimes call her—proved herself to be a capable runner, digger and chewer, like none I had ever seen before. She tore all the landscape timbers from the ground and made kindling of them. She dug holes in the same rocky soil that blunted my best shovel and spade.She broke off fence planks on two sides of the yard so that she and the neighbor dogs can converse more easily. Last spring, in an effort to expend some of that energy, Leia and I began walking a few miles each day, which turned out to be good for me, too.

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In so many ways, Leia has been unlike any other dog I’ve had. But as has been the case with every single canine companion of mine, we grew very close. When I come home, she eagerly greets me. Karen says she knows the sound of my motorcycle, apart from all the others in our area, and when I return from a ride, she can tell that it’s me heading into our subdivision. She is decidedly not a lap dog, yet she chooses to be near me. When I move around within our home, she follows. I can’t tell you how many times I have come out of the bathroom to find her curled up outside the door.

November 10, 2016 began as any other day for me. I woke up, said good morning to Leia, got ready for work, and then the two of us went downstairs. A few minutes later, I was on my way to work. Nothing had seemed different in any way, shape or form. But within minutes after I had arrived at work, my wife called to tell me Leia had collapsed and that she and our daughter were in the process of rushing her to the emergency vet. My head swam trying to process what I had just been told. I had a full day of work ahead of me and absolutely no desire to deal with any of it, but I knew that if I didn’t busy myself right then and there, I’d go mad. So I worked and waited.

We didn’t learn much that first day, only that Leia was in big trouble. She had no strength at all, couldn’t even stand up. Her blood counts had gone berserk and she was not clotting. Attempts to take simple blood draw caused a large hematoma on her neck. They had to wheel her in on a cart for Karen to say goodbye before taking her in back to begin administering fluids. A teary-eyed Karen filled me in and then left to get ready for work. I felt so empty inside, having no choice but to wait. My personal productivity that day was probably not the greatest, but I know I gave it my best, knowing that Karen would be back at the animal hospital before I could even leave my office.

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When Karen returned around mid-afternoon that day, she had to visit Leia in her crate and the dog barely lifted her head in acknowledgement. On her last visit, right before visiting hours eneded, Leia walked into the exam/visiting room under her own power, albeit very slowly. Then she almost immediately laid down and closed her eyes. Karen visited for a while, spoke with the veterinarian, and then sent me the photo she took along with an update, that Leia was holding her own, but not improving. If she survived the next 24 hours, her prognosis might be better. In order to keep a medical appointment of my own, I wouldn’t be able to get back to Plainfield before visiting hours were over. My heart was heavy, not knowing whether I would see my girl again. I steeled myself  and hoped for the best.

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The following day, following a telephone update or two, I was able to go see Leia myself. Again she walked into the room under her own power, but that was about it. Karen had brought some scrambled eggs for her, but the dog would not eat. Her platelet and glucose counts were dangerously low and her liver values were too high to be measured by the vet’s equipment. One day later, an external lab result came back with a liver enzyme value above 10,000. Normal was 12 and high was anything over 60. The animal hospital’s machine would have counted anything up to 1,000. Leia’s values were higher than her vet had ever seen in a dog. Whatever had happened was causing her liver to die off. It could be a toxin, such as xylitol, the effects of a tick bite (we knew she’d had at least one), or even an autoimmune reaction. In addition, one of the lab results that came back indicated that she was heartworm positive, despite having been on a preventative medication all summer long. Treating the wrong cause could make it worse, so our only hope was to keep her liver going long enough to fight back. They gave her fluids, platelets, and antibiotics. On top of everyting else, the original estimate for the cost of treatment had been surpassed by the end of day two. We waited.

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Leia was hospitalized for six days and but for that first day, I managed to see her at least once each day. During those days I watched her gradually become more alert. About halfway through, I got her to eat some grilled chicken that I’d cooked especially for her. Mostly we laid together and talked. We had to get her eating again in order to make it possible for her to take oral medications, thus making it possible for her to come home. We also had to have proof that her numbers were returning to normal, even though it might take a long time to get there. In an effort to give her veins and arteries a chance to recover, all four of her legs had been shaven and used for IV’s and blood draws. Every day we saw progress, though it was clear that Leia looked better in person than on paper, where her numbers still told a different story.

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On the evening of day five, we got a call from one of the vets saying that Leia would be put on oral meds the following day and sent home. Her liver numbers had come down to 8,800, still many times normal, but a clear indication that her liver was no longer dying off. Understand that for most of this week, nobody on that veterinary staff had expected this dog to get out alive. That night, emotionally exhausted, even Karen admitted that she hadn’t believed Leia would come home again.

On the evening of day six, we brought Leia home. She had a long list of medications to take and we had a list of symptoms to watch for, any one of which might mean rushing her back to the animal hospital. Total billing to date was in excess of five thousand dollars. As long as everything went okay, we would come back in a week for another blood test. Because of the heartworm result, though, they prescribed six weeks of cage rest—little to no exercise of any kind that could cause an elevated heart rate.The idea was that any exertion could dislodge an adult heartworm and potentially kill my dog. Absolute cage rest was, however, out of the question for this dog, who in an effort to free herself had literally bent the bars of the strongest crate we could find.

So we did what we felt was the next best thing. Leia never went out except on a leash. I took her for daily walks, but only around one block—a fraction of what she’d been accustomed to—and only at a slow, walking pace. As her strength and energy returned with each passing day, Leia quickly grew tired of this routine.Meanwhile, Leia had many people hoping and praying for her, even since before she’d gotten out of the hospital, and her Facebook following surpassed my own.

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As the one-week mark approached, Leia had visibly returned as close to normal as I could have hoped for. Along with all her other fans, I had been praying for her every day and as the day of her next blood test approached, I became certain that just getting her liver and platelet counts wouldn’t be good enough. So we made a rather unusual request: “Since you have to draw blood anyway, please run the heartworm test again.” The vet was understanding, but cautioned us that these results were usually very reliable.

On Wednesday, November 23, the day before Thanksgiving, Karen called me at work. Her voice was trembling as she relayed the news to me. The liver number had dropped to 826, a 90% decrease from one week prior. Her platelet count was normal… and the heartworm test had come back negative. Leia was now cleared for any activity. At that point Karen was crying and I was pretty close to doing so myself as I passed the news along to my family, friends and anybody at work who was willing to listen.

And so you see, this year Thanksgiving took on a very special meaning to me. Leia, my black princess, has cheated death three times. I have my dog back. It was raining on that Wednesday, and Leia hates getting wet, so we waited until Thanksgiving day to take our celebratory walk—over three miles worth. Today we did 3.7 miles, and only kept it down to that because I couldn’t keep up with the girl. The video clip below was taken during our walk. She’s back! Thanks be to God, my Leia is back!

Ann and Michael’s Great Labor Day Weekend Adventure (Version 2016)

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This adventure began in the wee hours on the Friday leading into Labor Day weekend. I was up sometime between 3:30 and 4:00 AM, getting myself ready and loading Miss Scarlett, my motorcycle, and I was rolling out of Plainfield shortly after 5:30, hoping to miss at least some of the dreaded Chicagoland morning rush hour traffic, which incidentally lasts about four hours. Despite the relatively early hour, I was stoked. My friend Ann and I were taking a three-day road trip to Dubuque, where we would rendezvous with an unknown number of motorcyclists who attend the Midwest Motorcycle Rally, which occurs in July of each year. This Dubuque meet-up was not a formal event like the rally, but more of a “gathering by invitation” for those rally goers who would rather not wait until next July to get together again. As soon as I received the invite, I had begun pestering Ann about going with me. After all, she had enjoyed the La Crosse rally so much and besides, as I’ve said so often, I am not a good alone person.

By sheer coincidence, before we had even discussed taking this weekend trip, Ann and I  had individually arranged to have that Friday off. So even though the first gathering of our group wasn’t scheduled until 6:30-ish that evening, we were able to take full advantage of what turned out to be a picture perfect day, weather-wise. Which is why this adventure began so early on Friday.

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I rode up to the Oconomowoc area, encountering a few pockets of traffic, one near O’Hare International Airport and the rest in the greater Milwaukee metro, which has been hobbled by road construction for some time. All in all it wasn’t so bad, though. The air was on the cool side for early September, but the sun was shining and the skies were beautiful. Before long I arrived at Ann’s place and began removing my riding gear as my dear friend came out to greet me, as she usually does. We were both grinning from ear to ear, like a couple of kids on Christmas Eve, but as eager as we were to set out, our coffee-drinking adult sides won out and we went in for some hot java first. We sat out on Ann’s balcony, sipping our coffees, updating each other on our respective family lives, and discussing the day’s loose itinerary. I even got a poppy seed muffin out of the deal. When time and weather allow, breakfast on that balcony has become our favorite way to start days like this one. But just because we had all day didn’t mean we wanted to spend it there.

In no time we had Ann’s things stowed away with mine in Miss Scarlett’s hard luggage and were heading out toward Dubuque, Iowa by way of Galena, Illinois. I take no small amount of pleasure in taking Ann places to which she has never been before. In that regard this whole weekend promised to be a virtual jackpot for me, because as far as I could ascertain, my favorite pillion hadn’t been to any of the places we were scheduled to visit, unless you want to count passing through Prairie du Chien on our way home from La Crosse as a visit.

In any case, I have been making trips to historic Galena, Illinois ever since I was seven years old.My eldest sister attended a small liberal arts college in Mt. Carroll and when we went to visit, we would sometimes go to Galena. Since that time, I’ve managed to go back at least every few years, either by auto or motorcycle. (Side note: Shimer College moved out of Mt. Carroll years ago, but the former campus is still there, now home to the Illinois Preservation Studies Center. It’s kind of a neat place to see, so perhaps Ann and I will stop there, briefly, on some future ride.)

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Galena is a great destination in itself, for people of all ages and walks of life. Bikers love this area because Jo Daviess County features some great riding roads, with plenty of hills and scenery that most of Illinois is not know for. They don’t call us flatlanders for nothing, but in this, the northwest corner of the state, they don’t call us flatlanders at all. Ha!

There is enough here to keep history buffs occupied for a while, too, including the home of Ulysses S. Grant, our country’s 18th president  (see granthome.com and www.galenahistory.org). Shoppers and antiquers alike will love all that the downtown area has to offer. Do you like to eat? The restaurants and food shops will keep you busy for some time. Romantic getaway? It’s here. Stuff for seniors? It’s here. Got kids? Galena has toy stores, candy, popcorn and ice cream shops, too.

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The first thing Ann and I did was head over to Durty Gurt’s Burger Joynt for lunch. Some eating establishments come and go in places like Galena, and some places stick around for a while. Durty Gurt’s has been offering decent food,  generous portions, and atmosphere in spades since 2007. I had been there a couple of times and thought Ann might enjoy eating there. She did, although we walked out full almost to the point of being uncomfortable. The portions here are very generous, but the food itself is rather tasty, which makes it easy to just keep right on eating, even when you know you ought to stop. We needed to walk it off, so we spent some time perusing downtown Galena.

We went into a yarn shop Called FiberWild that had a sign by the door proclaiming “You Need Yarn” (Ann is a knitter/crocheter and loves yarn). I applauded Ann for not being shy about going into any store she wanted to see, but much to my amazement, she did not buy anything. Whether this was because the bike was already almost packed to bursting or because of my friend’s iron willpower, I can only speculate. By comparison, at my urging, we stopped in at the Galena Cellars winery shop, tasted a variety of their goods, and walked out with two bottles of wine to enjoy during our stay in Dubuque. Hey, there is always room on board Miss Scarlett for wine.

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Get this: I’ve been going to that town for almost 50 years now, and in all those years, I have never taken the time to check out the Galena River that flows through it, or this picturesque little place called Grant Park, which lies just across the river from downtown Galena. Until now. Besides motorcycle touring, Ann and I both enjoy taking long walks—not rugged hiking, but nice walks of say one to five miles—so on that Friday, both of us walked across the foot bridge at the end of Green Street and checked out Grant Park for the first time. What a lovely municipal park this is, with many benches, old-fashioned street lamps, a gazebo, a pavilion, a really old-looking fountain, and people. Real people, like school kids, running about hooting and hollering, and couples young and old, strolling the park or sitting together watching the river flow. In the middle of this park is a statue of Grant. At Ann’s urging, I did my best to imitate his stance, but I don’t know how well I did.

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After a decent amount of walking, and with our wine selection safely stowed, we headed off to Dubuque, a mere 20–25 minute ride via US Highway 20, which becomes Dodge Street after you cross the mighty Mississippi and come into town. That’s where our group’s hotel, Days Inn Dubuque, is located. And unfortunately this is where the only dark cloud cast its shadow over our otherwise bright and cheerful weekend.

Without dwelling on the negative, let me summarize it thusly. About a month prior to our stay, I made one reservation for two king rooms at this inn via Booking.com. I added a request that the rooms be close together and corresponded directly with the hotel (I still have the emails) regarding this request. When we arrived,  the desk help claimed they received reservations from Booking.com for one king room and one room with two double beds. That’s one count of bullshit.

With regard to my (documented) request that the rooms be together,  the desk help would not even acknowledge receiving my request and said our rooms were nowhere near each other. They were at opposite ends of a three-building complex. Neither Ann nor I was okay with that arrangement, if only for safety reasons. So in order to get two rooms anywhere near each other, we had to agree to two rooms with two double beds each. Not the end of the world, but not what I reserved over a month prior. That’s two counts of bullshit.

The only available rooms were smoking rooms—that’s not the hotel’s fault because such was the case when I made my reservation—but my room was so bad, it smelled like someone had just put out their cigarette, and that odor never got better, for three days and two nights.

I’d like to say that’s the end of it, but the bullshit went on. The outdoor pool was cold and full of insects—mostly dead, but not all of them—and there was this odd little spot in the pool where mini/micro bubbles continuously rose to the surface for no apparent reason. We swam once; that was enough. I can’t comment for Ann, but in my room, both of my mattresses were worn out. Meanwhile in Ann’s room, one corner up by the ceiling had substantial mold growing on it. Presumably because this was Labor Day weekend, the hotel was booked solid; and it had been too late in the day when we arrived to cancel anything, which meant our essential choices were two: take it or leave it. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

But Ann and I are both resilient types and made the best of a bad situation, essentially laughing it off, saying nothing of consequence to the others in our group, and making the most of an otherwise fantastic weekend. Besides, it sounds worse than it was. On a bright note, one day after I returned home, I received the usual survey invitation from my friends at Booking.com, asking me to rate my recent stay at the Days Inn Dubuque. I gave a very thorough review, with a chaser email sent directly to my friends at Booking.com, and I’m sure as soon as the appropriate party’s computer quits smouldering, I’ll hear something back. But I digress.

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On the evening of Friday, September 2, our merry band of travelers convened in the hotel bar and made plans to go out for supper. There being no substitute for local knowledge, we took the advice of some locals and went downtown to the Mason Dixon Saloon, which is reputed to have good barbecue. I am pleased to report that their reputation is duly earned. I ordered a half rack of ribs, while Ann ordered grilled shrimp. We shared and for the second time in one day, ate more than our fill. The ribs were served dry-rubbed, with a sweet sauce on the side. They had the right texture and decent flavor, too. The shrimp rested in a seasoned garlicky buttery coating, were cooked correctly and were also very flavorful. This proved to be a good start to our weekend.

After supper, some of the group returned to the hotel bar, some turned in, and some opted to open a bottle of Galena Cellars wine and toast the weekend before saying goodnight. You know, thirty-some years ago, I’d have stayed out until the last person had had enough and then laughed as I walked away, still vertical. Today I possess neither the stamina nor the need to prove my drinking prowess. I’m either becoming old or becoming more careful; maybe a little of both.

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Saturday was to be a full day of  motorcycle touring for our group and it did not disappoint. After a free continental (read: no meat) breakfast at the hotel, we readied up and gathered in front of the lobby for a day of fun and adventure that would take us to destinations in Iowa and Illinois. Our first stop would be the National Motorcycle Museum in Anamosa. I enjoy visiting this museum, which features quite a collection of interesting, unusual, and/or historically significant pieces, in addition to changing exhibits that give visitors a reason to return.

Certain enthusiasts will spend hours here, going over every detail of a particular genre or brand or even a single machine, while others take a more casual approach and simply peruse the exhibits, spending a little more time on items of particular interest. Ann and I both fall into the latter category. I would occasionally stop and tell her what I knew about a particular item and she would do likewise, often pointing out things that I would have otherwise missed. I particularly enjoyed the small Evel Knievel exhibit, which included one of his Harley-Davidson XR750 motorcycles, a couple of his leather jumpsuits, and a rather nasty-looking set of his x-rays that I had never noticed before. And then of course there is the Roadog, a unique custom motorcycle built by the late William “Wild Bill” Gelbke, an engineer from Wisconsin. This machine, like its designer, is the stuff of legends, utilizing a Chevy engine and a Powerglide transmission, among other things. It’s big, really big.

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Next we went down the road to J&P Cycles, a large mail order/internet retailer of motorcycle parts, accessories, apparel and novelties. The company was founded by John and Jill Parham in 1979. John is also one of the founders of the museum from which we had just come. I don’t know that either of us was expecting to buy anything—we had merely intended to browse the huge retail center—but we both walked out with some new headwear. Ann found a headband that she really liked and also bought me this really neat “COOLMAX” skullcap-like thing that is easy to don and remove, but manages to stay put, even at highway speeds. I was skeptical when she first pointed it out in the store and I remarked, “it looks like underwear for my head,” but she persisted and bought the cap for me. I was grateful for the gift and within minutes was loving the thing, which can also be worn as a cooling liner inside of a helmet.

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From Anamosa, Iowa we headed east on Iowa 64 toward the Mississippi River, where about 70 miles later, we crossed over into Savanna, Illinois. Sometimes it seems as though every weekend in the river town of Savanna, during riding season, is like a mini rally of sorts, with a constant parade of motorcycles coming, going, and of course, stopping. There are several bars in downtown Savanna that cater to the two-wheel crowd, including one called the Iron Horse Social Club, which is an arch rival to the establishment we were about to visit. I have never been there, but we rode past it and there were a lot of bikes parked in the vicinity of that place.

Just on the other side of town, on Illinois 84, we arrived at Poopy’s, which bills itself as Illinois’ biggest biker destination. This place is impressive. Besides the Pub n’ Grub, where the bar stools are made with padded toilet seats and references to excrement run wild on the menu, there is a souvenir and apparel shop (where you will find more crude references), multiple bars indoors and out, live entertainment outside, cabin rentals, and new this year, the Squirrel’s Nest, a covered bar up on their catwalk outside. Poopy’s used to have a tattoo parlor on the premises, but that had moved up the road since my last visit. I’m not sure why. In any case, it’s quite a biker destination and I had the privilege of taking Ann there for her very first time—but maybe not the last. Ha!

Poopy’s was to have been our lunch stop, and it was, but it was mid afternoon by the time we arrived, so this became our late lunch stop. And since Poopy’s serves up good food in generous portions, like most popular biker stops, we effectively did away with the need to go out for supper that night, too.

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A live band began performing while we waited for our food and the place began to take on a more festive atmosphere as people continued to arrive and the rumbling thunder of bike engines never died down. This is the Poopy’s experience.

After we had eaten our fill and bought our souvenirs, we found our way to US Highway 20 and followed it north and west, past Galena, over the Mississippi and back into Dubuque. But rather than return to our hotel, we made our way into the city and up the bluff upon which is built, to check out the Fenelon Place Elevator, a fairly short and very steep scenic railway of sorts.

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As I understand it this elevator was put in by a banker who worked in town and lived up on the bluff above, so that he would have a quicker way to go home at noontime for dinner and a nap. The only other time I had been there, we started our tour at the bottom, but this time we started at the top of the bluff. From there you can see parts of Wisconsin, Illinois, and Iowa. On a picture perfect day like ours, the view was breathtaking.

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The cars are pretty small, so we had to descend in two groups. Ann and I were in the second group. The ride is relatively slow and smooth, but the stop at the bottom is somewhat abrupt, so riders are warned to remain seated until they hit bottom—literally. Once at the bottom, we got out, walked around, took more photos of the elevator, and found a shop that sold ice cream, candy, popcorn, and toys. Ann and I were still pretty full from our feast at Poopy’s, but we managed to share a cup of peanut-butter-and-chocolate-laced ice cream. Hey, it’s not like we were the only ones.

A short while later, we ascended the bluff, got back on our bikes and rode back down to our hotel, where an overwhelming majority of the group voted “no” on going out to eat again and instead we opted to hang out in the hotel bar, where a folk music duet was performing and the drink prices were on par with those of any normal bar, as opposed to a hotel lounge. As we all sat there, talking, laughing, and sipping our various libations, I looked around at the bar, the adjacent breakfast eating area, which had surely been a full service restaurant at one time, the patio and circular outdoor fireplace, and the decent-sized outdoor swimming pool. I imagine this was once a pretty cool place to stay, perhaps back in the late 1970’s or early 80’s. That wasn’t too hard to visualize, because I was certain we were looking at some of the original furnishings.

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Despite my opinions about the hotel, it still felt like Sunday morning had come all too soon. I didn’t want to leave yet; we were having too much fun! Part of the group was staying through Monday morning, but Ann and I had decided in advance to go home Sunday. We both had things to do before returning to (ugh) work on Tuesday and besides, we each had our respective families and pets waiting for us at home.

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Before heading for home, though, we followed our group over the river and up into Wisconsin, where we had planned to stop for lunch in Prairie du Chien. From that point, several of us would be peeling off and heading our separate ways. The weather was beautiful, again, and the ride to Prairie du Chien was fabulous. Besides, I was only too glad to have a few more hours of “we’re not going home yet” time with this awesome group of people.

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Unfortunately every other biker for miles around, and quite a few non-bikers as well, had the same lunch idea in mind. We walked to four different places and they all had long waiting lists. Ann even tried smooth-talking a cigar store Indian posted outside of one such establishment, to no avail. So while the rest of the group toyed with the idea of crossing back into Iowa and looking for a lunch stop in that direction, Ann and I decided it was time to head east. So we bid our goodbyes and peeled off from the group.

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We found our way to Wisconsin 60, a most excellent road, and then onto Wisconsin 19 by way of US 12. Whenever we would enter a town and slow down enough to hear each other easily, Ann and I would talk about things, clarify our route, or just share a laugh together. After a quick snack and caffeine stop in Boscobel, we had decided to enjoy a late lunch in Watertown, at  a place Ann had wanted me to try, before getting her home. But as luck would have it, that establishment was closed when we got there. So we continued on to an alternate restaurant and found it to be closed as well. Ann suggested one more place to try before we headed out of our way in search of decent food—the Ixonia Pub. Lo and behold, the place was open! And so we went inside to share one last meal before I dropped Ann off.

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You know what? It wasn’t bad at all. The place was clean, the staff was friendly, the beer was cold and the food was quite good. Ann ordered a Pub Wrap with a side of fried curds and I ordered the Boss Hog, a burger topped with ham, bacon, cheddar cheese and barbecue sauce, with a side of crinkle cut fries. We shared our sides along with each others company and had a nice meal together.

We got to Ann’s place and unloaded her things. I lingered for a short while, trying to rest a bit before taking my long, lonely ride home. I don’t like goodbyes. I don’t like long, lonely rides, either. I usually counteract my post-road-trip letdown by looking ahead to the next time—and that’s pretty much what I did, all the way home to Plainfield. My Sunday night ride home was blissfully uneventful, mainly because the big going home traffic jams were still 24 hours off. I no longer recall exactly when I pulled in, but it was late.

Time and again Ann and I found ourselves thanking each other for the fantastic weekend we’d shared. It really had been great. Less than 24 hours after I got home, I was sending Facebook friend requests out to the folks in the group who were on Facebook but with whom I had not yet connected, while Ann uploaded many photos and a few awesome videos that she had shot, and began producing the most lovely slide show video as a permanent reminder of the wonderful time we’d shared. Ann is a decent photographer in her own right, with a creative eye for doing things like this video. She is also my most excellent riding companion and a very dear friend. I look forward to our next outing.

Thanks for hanging with me.

The Sting

All I had wanted to do was adjust my throttle cables. I had been riding home from a DuKane A.B.A.T.E. meeting in West Chicago two nights prior, when my throttle jammed on me. Fortunately, I think, it jammed in the closed position, but it had jammed nonetheless, making it difficult to accelerate or decelerate in heavy traffic. With only a few centimeters of play in the throttle handgrip, I managed to limp along, slowly working up and down the gears as I moved on from stoplight to stoplight. Then about fifteen really long minutes later, the problem corrected itself and I was once again able to run Miss Scarlett, my Victory Vision Tour, under full power.

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The most likely culprit, according to Randy Weaver at Randy’s Cycle in Marengo (my Victory Motorcycles dealership of choice), was a loose throttle cable bunching up inside the housing. This particular motorcycle utilizes two throttle cables, one pulling in each direction, which the cruise control unit uses to regulate speed. It’s a simple enough adjustment, which I won’t get into here. Suffice it to say that last evening I adjusted some slack out of the cables and needed to check the adjustment, under both manual control and with the cruise control engaged. So I took a short ride.

My throttle adjustment checked out just fine. Roll on and roll off were smooth, the engine responded better than ever, and the cruise control functioned without issue. Best of all, the throttle didn’t jam again, even when I tried to make it jam by abruptly opening and closing the throttle (while stopped of course). Satisfied with my results, I headed back home. That’s when the trouble began.

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As is often the case when my family is at home, there were cars parked in our driveway, blocking the conventional path into the garage. When this happens, I usually just cut across part of my front lawn and get into the garage by cutting in front of the parked cars. So I jumped the curb and motored across the grass. About halfway across, I felt a sharp, hot pain in my left ankle, followed by another one in exactly the same spot. And another one.

I don’t remember all the words I uttered as I sped into the garage, but “Ow!” was probably one of them. The rest were probably a bit more colorful. As quickly as I could, I stopped the bike, set her down on the kickstand, and bent sideways to swat off whatever was attacking my ankle. I didn’t get a good look at the little bastard, but it was small and slender, with a body that looked more brown than yellow in the dim light of my garage. Too thin to be a honey bee, unless it was anorexic. Whatever it was (most likely a yellow jacket) stumbled about on the concrete floor a few feet away from me, then righted itself and took off. I wished my attacker a pleasant evening—maybe not exactly those words—and went inside to assess the damage.

The spot on my ankle was throbbing, but the sting site was barely visible at first. Just a red spot. Of course that changed soon enough, as the redness and swelling began to kick in. My wife looked at the spot to make sure there was no stinger present, even though I was pretty sure there would not be one, because it felt like that little bugger had hit me more than once. Okay, but how to treat it?

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I pulled out my smart phone and began my research in earnest. According to Google, bee venom and wasp venom are not alike. One is acidic and can be neutralized with baking soda and the other is alkaline and can be neutralized with vinegar or lemon juice. Suddenly I wished I had been able to swat that bug and keep it for identification purposes, or at least detain it and conduct an interview, but no such luck. I tried the vinegar, but couldn’t tell much difference. I found an old bite stick and tried that; ditto. Then peroxide, figuring that I might bubble some of the venom out of the open wound. Nothing. I checked with my friend Ann, who suggested the baking soda route. I mentioned that to my wife, who suggested that I take the dog for a walk. I did both. By the time I got back from walking the dog, I had a nice, painful welt on my ankle, which the baking soda paste appeared to help. I ended up reapplying that a couple of times until I went to bed that night. I also began taking Benadryl to help curtail some of the reaction that would surely continue to evolve.

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The sting site is the red spot on the left. The darker blotch to the right is an old (presumed) spider bite that doesn’t seem to want to go away completely.

By this morning most of the swelling was gone and the pain had been replaced by an annoying itch. A glance at my left ankle revealed that some of the redness had subsided, too, and as long as I could refrain from scratching that maddening itch, I could keep i that way. As I prepared to go to work, I brought out the arsenal. I took two Benadryl tabs and sprayed some Bactine on the site. Once that dried, I lathered on some hydrocortisone and immediately put a sock on over it. The antihistamine and the  topical steroid each helped knock the itching down some, but it never disappeared completely.

I made it through the day, took the dog for a walk, and set about looking for something else to try. When I was a kid, we always had calamine lotion in the medicine cabinet. At the mere mention of that goopy pink liquid, I can recall its distinct smell. Calamine has astringent properties, which I thought might help. There is now a preparation called Caladryl, which contains both calamine and hydrocortisone. I went and got some. Whether it’s actually doing anything or only in my mind, I can’t say for sure, but I think it’s helping.

I do know one thing: I made it through the day without scratching that blessed sting site once. And that took some doing. Thanks for hanging with me.

History, Memories and a Gastronomic Adventure

My friend Ann and I love riding together and cooking together. When we try to combine the two, unless the ride or the meal is particularly small, it makes for a long day—albeit a fantastic day. Well, you’ll see what I mean.

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As has often been the case lately, we were blessed with nearly perfect summer weather for our planned outing. Neither too warm, nor too cold, low humidity, and zero chance of precipitation from my little corner of the world to Ann’s. I was up and out early enough to pick up my favorite passenger/photographer during the eight-o’clock hour. She in turn favored me with freshly brewed coffee and a plate of fresh fruit, meats and cheeses (not a bad spread by any standards—and Ann is not even 1% Italian, so go figure). We sat out on her balcony, chaperoned by her feline bodyguards, Mona and Atlas, and planned our day. I probably ate more than I should have, but the food was really good.

Minutes later we were rolling across the heartland. I have no photos to offer from the ride itself, which was quite pleasant. Some of the greatest features Wisconsin has to offer lie not in her tourist attractions, which are in and of themselves formidable, but in her natural features, even along “ordinary” roads. Ann and I rode along Wisconsin Highways 83 and 60, plus a few lettered (i.e. county) roads in-between, and the scenery was beautiful. If you draw a rectangle around an area roughly from Oconomowoc to Cedarburg, you are capturing a portion of the Kettle Moraine region of Wisconsin. You don’t even have to be on the official Scenic Drive to appreciate the rolling hills and scenic views to be had on a ribbon of two-lane blacktop coursing through the area farmlands.

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Before we rolled into “downtown” Cedarburg, we headed north along Covered Bridge Road until we arrived at our first stop, Covered Bridge Park, home of the last covered bridge in Wisconsin. What a beautiful little spot! Ann and i spent some time walking the park, examining the bridge itself, and marveling at the fact that there were so relatively few people there on this beautiful Sunday. What I had expected to be nothing more than a token stop had turned out to be a joyful discovery. When in Cedarburg, make a point of checking this place out. You may wish to bring a picnic lunch along, as a number of tables dot the park, which runs along both sides of the creek there.

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From there we motored down Washington Avenue into downtown Cedarburg. I’ve been coming to this town since my college days (shortly after the earth cooled), when my then-girlfriend (now wife of 30+ years) introduced me to this historic town filled with shops and galleries. Because, as Ann likes to kid me, I always want our outings to be perfect, I had done a little research and found many good things said about The Stilt House, a gastro bar specializing in small plates, craft beers, and wine—it says so, right on their sign. It was a pleasant enough little place, with (are your ready?) stilted tables and stools. From our perch near one of the windows, Ann and I enjoyed a couple of craft beers and a relatively light lunch. The beers were good, the food was well-prepared, and the waitstaff went out of their way to make us feel at home. I would go back there.

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We walked a few more shops. Not counting the newly discovered Covered Bridge Park, my favorite place to visit in Cedarburg is still the old woolen mill, which houses the shops of the Cedar Creek Settlement. This includes the Cedar Creek Winery, now owned by Wollersheim (my favorite winery in all of Wisconsin). That was not the case when I first started visiting there. Of course Ann and I had to stop in and sample a few wines. We both liked the Marquette red (we both attended Marquette University), made with Wisconsin-grown grapes. If you enjoy a medium-bodied, dry red, check this one out. I appreciated the pleasant nose and good flavor.

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Not long after that, we headed back to Ann’s home, where we had planned on making ourselves a little supper before I headed on to my own home. In preparation for this part of our day, I had brought up a sizeable bag of fresh tomatoes, some fresh basil that I had picked from my yard that morning, some fresh mozzarella cheese from Caputo’s, a loaf of ciabatta bread, and a box of angel hair pasta. Ann supplied everything else we needed.

Ann and I were cracking jokes, trading barbs and laughing ourselves silly as we prepared our meal. She and I cut up many tomatoes and chopped a fair amount of garlic as well, in preparation for the two dishes we had set out to make—a Caprese variation on traditional garlic bread and our own interpretation of Shrimp Fra Diavolo.

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Without getting into the entire play-by-play (that’s what my upcoming book is for), suffice it to say that Ann’s entire home was smelling quite fabulous almost as soon as we got started. Caprese garlic bread starts out much like any other garlic bread—with bread, butter and garlic—but then add slices of fresh mozzarella and tuck that under a broiler until the cheese melts and the edges begin to brown. To that we added slices of fresh tomato, shredded fresh basil, and a reduction of balsamic vinegar. Neither of us had created such a reduction before, but we were very pleased with the results.

Our version of Shrimp Fra Diavolo involved a fresco sauce, made from all the tomatoes Ann and I had chopped into little pieces. From this we created an arrabiata sauce, which relies heavily on the use of garlic, onion and cayenne pepper to produce the desired result. Ours was not so spicy up front, but produced a pleasant flavor and a nice after-burn. The shrimp itself was sautéed in olive oil with garlic, pepper and salt added. Right before removing the shrimp, we deglazed the pan with some Pinot Grigio.

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The appetizer could very well have been a meal in itself (thanks, Ma, you trained me well), and the main dish was to die for. We ate and drank our fill in earnest, congratulating each other on how well this meal had turned out.

When it was all over, I helped Ann clean things up and then prepared for my run home. She seemed concerned—no, she WAS concerned—because I had already begun showing signs of fatigue. She had been clearly worried when I took off, and remained worried until I had arrived home safe. Me, I was touched by the concern she had shown for me as I motored home that night. As soon as I had arrived home safely, I messaged Ann to that effect.

After that, I slept. And soon after I had slept, I began planning our next outing. Why? Because I live to do exactly that, and I believe Ann also looks forward to our next outiing. Until next time… Thanks for hanging with me.

Not My Week 

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Between an unscheduled motorcycle repair last Saturday and a whopper of an air conditioning system repair bill last Monday, I was already four figures deep into unplanned expenses this week. The last thing I expected—or needed—was to come home and have my wife tell me that water was pooling on and around our hot water heater, but that she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. So what could I do? I grabbed a flashlight from my collection and went down for a look.

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I think what disturbed me most was that I, with my wooden hearing, could hear water running before I even got to the unit. It was exactly as Karen had described. Water was indeed pooling around the water heater, but was also dripping off the top of the tank. I looked up, expecting to see water dripping from a pipe overhead. Nope. Dry as a bone.

Then I saw it. Water was raining out of the flue directly above the little opening on top of the unit. I shook my head and looked again. Water was raining down from the little ductwork opening above my hot water heater. But that’s an air duct, I reasoned. How on earth was water pouring out of an air duct? I reached up and touched the duct about a foot up from the opening and felt the faint vibration of running water, which was still  very audible. Had I entered the twilight zone?

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My eyes followed the duct up to the ceiling. Both the metal duct and the ceiling above it looked quite dry. The sound of that running water was maddening. What in the world had happened? I ran upstairs and checked two of our bathrooms, one on each floor, that were not quite directly over that spot in the basement. Both were dry. And while I could hear the usual telltale sound from our copper pipes announcing that water was running somewhere in the house, it was not loud like it was downstairs. This was maddening. I had water raining down from an air duct and no apparent source. I had visions of walls being cut open and unbelievable bills mounting up.

I shut off the water to the house and called a very handy friend of mine (I’m not handy—I break things). He came right over and I showed him where the water had been coming from. “That’s impossible,” he said, as he pointed upward, “This is just a flue. You see any exhaust from the hot water heater just goes up the duct work and…”

“I know what it is,” I said, smiling. Then I turned to my wife. “Karen, please turn the water back on, so Lee can see this for himself.”

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By now some of you probably know exactly what had happened. My handy friend figured it out almost as soon as the water came back on. And yes, water was in fact raining out of the flue and all over the top of the tank, where it then ran to the floor, pooling until it went down the drain in the floor. What was not immediately obvious to me or my wife was that the water was spraying up into the flue from a rupture at the top of the tank—hidden from sight by the little hood around the bottom of the flue. The water was then running back down the flue, spreading out along the little round hood and raining down onto the top of the unit. I’m glad I didn’t have to pay for this discovery outright, although in all candor, I must take my dear, handy friend out for a nice meal sometime soon. He is always helping me look less inept than I actually am.

And so tomorrow morning, I will wash up with cold water as I get ready for work. A new unit has already been ordered and will be installed before I come home. This will undoubtedly put me at an all-time personal record for highest amount of unexpected expenses in a seven-day period, but at least I’ll be able to drown my sorrows in a hot shower.

Thanks for hanging with me.

I Was Once Young

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Today I attended the wake of a man who died far too young. I don’t want to dwell on the specifics of that, but such events always give me reasons to pause and reflect on my own life. And so I offer you the following thoughts, in no particular order. For whatever it’s worth… 

  • I hate wakes. I attend them because it’s the right thing to do. I pay my respect to both the deceased and to those left behind. But  I hate these things! I promise you, if I had any say in the matter, I would not attend my own. And if I had to be there, I’d make sure there was entertainment, and maybe even an open bar. I thought it might be cool to make a video in preparation for this eventuality. Can’t you just see it?
    “Hi! I’m Michael D’Aversa. If you’re watching this video, I’m dead!”
  • The first wake I ever attended was for an 8th grade classmate of mine who succomed to a brain tumor back in 1975. He was a good guy and an altar boy. I still think about him to this day, as well as other people who died before me and in each case, for the life of me, I cannot tell you why they’re gone and I’m still here. 
  • I am going to die, eventually. I don’t know when and I don’t know why. But understand this, if you can: When I die, go ahead and cry about it; but then pick yourself up. In the end, I don’t want you to think about how I died, but how I lived. 
  • If I die in a firey motorcycle crash, know that I died while doing something I loved. That’s not a tragedy. A tragedy would be for me to suffer a fatal stroke while seated at a desk, sruggling to find a way to save a few cents off the cost of a given thing. 

I know, strange odds and ends. Thanks for hanging with me.