worthy state

During our stay at the cottage over the past weekend I got to thinking about our beautiful surroundings and how lucky we are to have what we have here in the state of Wisconsin. This state has such a wide variety of landscapes and environments that there is something to appeal to anyone who wants to take advantage of the opportunities here.

The state's geological identity was formed mostly 10,000 years ago during the last ice age, when the glaciers extended from the arctic all the way to what is now Illinois. The glacier carved its way south along the east side of our state, having been diverted from the west side by a huge outcropping of granite in the north that refused to succumb to the glacier's power. As the earth warmed and the glacier receded, it left in its wake the Great lakes and thousands of smaller fresh water lakes surounded by moraines, eskers, and monadnocks. So the east side of Wisconsin from Illinois, on north past Green Bay, is a large area of rolling hills dotted with lakes and woods and rich farm land formed by the glacial effluvium.

Part of that area in southeastern Wisconsin is called the Kettle Moraine, which has a wide variety of recreational opportunities, from hunting and fishing to camping, hiking, boating of all sorts, wonderful bike trails in summer and snowmobile trails in the winter, skiing, both cross country and downhill in the winter and water skiing in the summer, world class golf courses and resorts, and any other possible activity you can imagine that requires you to be outdoors in the midst of God's creation. Also located in this area is the Horicon Marsh, which is a major rest stop for migrating Canada Geese and ducks of all sorts, which gather by the thousands each Fall on their way south. Throughout this area, and indeed throughout the rest of the state, are the many dairy farms that gave Wisconsin its Dairy State nickname.

The west side of the state was spared the glacier's gouging and was instead formed by water and wind erosion, with the land shaped by the carving powers of the Wisconsin River and its tributaries. The landscape there is defined by high walls of sandstone and limestone containing the flow of those rivers. Rock climbers find their paradise here and scenery seekers are never dissapointed. Bald Eagles and hawks patrol the skies above. The Dells, as the river-formed cliffs and rock outcroppings are called, are a major resort destination that draws vacationers from the states that comprise the Upper Midwest.

Throughout the state there are numerous State and National Forests that protect and sustain a tremendous variety of wildlife, from wolves and bears, to deer, beaver, wild turkey, cranes, geese and ducks and all their fowl cousins, fox, couger, and even the seldom seen Badger, our state's official animal. The lakes, rivers, and streams throughout Wisconsin are home to every kind of freshwater fish imaginable, from bass, to northern pike, to trout, and panfish, crappies and bluegills, catfish and bullheads, muskies and even sturgeon. If it has gills and swims, you'll find it somewhere in the state.

Other areas of the country have their distinctive characteristics that beckon us. But stir in the majesty of changing seasons to the mixture of landscape, and we have the best of all possible worlds right outside our door here in Wisconsin. The cold rest of Winter gives way to the promise of Spring and the full flowering glory of Summer, followed by the grand finale of riotous color in Autumn. Having the full benefit of four distinct seasons is life affirming, a natural progression of time that isn't found every where else. As often as I might complain about the harsh cold of Winter, the short and uncertain Spring, the sometimes stifling heat and humidity of Summer, and the raking of fallen leaves in Fall, knowing that those seasons will follow each other in an unending parade through my life is reassuring. I would miss that parade and reassurance if I left this place, and I know that my time here in this world would be diminished by my absence. So if you ever hear me complain about the weather or my surroundings, know that it is just a momentary lapse of judgement, that I don't really mean it, and that my love affair with my home state will continue as long as I do.

winter lake

winter lake
Originally uploaded by Bobciz.

We spent the past few days looking at this out the cottage window. Mary had a two day winter break which we spent at the lake. It was very cold, below zero at night, but the cottage is very comfortable now that we did the remodeling last summer. (see the "cottage project" set in my flickr on the sidebar) It is always good to go there because we almost have to relax, since at this time of year there is little else to do but read books and watch movies. Mary does get out on the lake to ski a bit, but I'm basically house bound, which I don't mind. Now that we are home we will have to ease back into the routine. Real life awaits.

Leaves

Leaves
Originally uploaded by Bobciz.

This is the second in the series of wall sculptures with the leaf theme. I have three more in mind and will show them here when they are finished. If you want to see some of my other sculptures and other artwork, go to my flickr site (on the sidebar) and select the sculpture set or the artwork set.

she's at it again

It's not even Spring yet and already Mary is into one of her compulsive cleaning moods. She is doing what she calls "a deep cleaning" of every room in the house, including closets. She picks one room at a time and attacks the accumulated grime with a vengeance that makes Mr. Clean look like a wimp.

When I say "deep cleaning" you have to realize what all is involved. This isn't just a more careful vacuuming and maybe moving things while dusting. No, she takes anything washable and washes it or puts it in the dishwasher to get the stuff out of the way while she scrubs walls and ceiling and floors and everything in between. Twice. She is particularly fond of "show and tell" during this stage, insisting on waving as many dirty rags in my face as she can carry at one time, the implication being that I am somehow responsible for all the accumulated filth. It's not like I blatantly or purposely track mud through the house, leave toenail clipings on the carpet, or throw my dirty underwear on the coffee table. I live here, therefore I am the dirty one.

Understand that she does all this cleaning each day after working at teaching, or trying to teach, American Literature to reluctant, and quite possibly stupid, high school juniors and seniors, who for the most part would rather be getiing high and screwing than reading Thoreau. (actually, who wouldn't?) The point is, she has this amazing energy to expel each day. She has latched onto cleaning as a way to dissipate that energy and get something tangible and worthwhile accomplished at the same time. But I'm afraid that her cleaning jones has become an obsession, an addiction, that may require an intervention to stop, or at least mitigate.

I say that with love in my heart, but also with a bit of self-preservation in mind, because, you see, she feels that my participation in the process is essential to getting the job done properly. Mind you, I am not a slob. I like things neat and clean and orderly, a place for everything and everything in its place. It's just that I draw the line at sterilizing everything before putting it away. Sterile is for operating rooms and sex offenders. But each day she leaves me a set of instructions, usually in the form of notes, scratched on bits of paper, strewn across the kitchen counter, about my duties for the day that are meant to involve me in this madness. Today my job was to TAKE APART THE FAUCETS in the bathroom and clean them. When I said "deep cleaning", I wasn't kidding.

The one area that I am adament about her not cleaning is my workshop. She is forbidden from entering, let alone cleaning my space. It is delightfully cluttered and dusty, and the clutter and dust are all mine. It is my retreat from the insanity of cleanliness that pervades the rest of the house. About once a year, or maybe 18 months, I will make the effort to declutter and vacuum some of the dust just to appease her, but my heart isn't in it. While I appreciate the superb housekeeper that she is, I need a respite from feeling too clean all the time.

At the moment as I write this, she is hovering over me with a dust cloth, wiping the dust off the pictures that surround my desk. This, however, is not part of the deep cleaning, This is the routine dusting that takes place regularly each week. Never mind that she just finished the deep part of the cleaning a couple days ago. Dust knows no schedule, but she does.

And now, since she is leaning over my shoulder, about to read this, I am in dire danger of having that dustcloth stuck in one ear and pulled out the other. I had best beat a hasty retreat down to my workshop refuge, so that I might live to post another day.

something in the air

Lately it seems that there is a surfeit of philosopical maundering and existential angst among the blogs I read regularly. People are concerned with the meaning of our existence, with ageism and age, with the necessity of a balanced life, with our relative position in life and where we are headed. Of course, there are always the questions and comments concerning politics and the duplicity of our leadership and how we are being led down a path we did not choose. It seems there is a real need to find answers that are difficult, if not impossible, to find.

February's cold air and usually gray skies work to make us all introspective and generally meloncholy in mood. That is when we start to seek the answers to dark questions with no clear answers. The cold air of the season freezes our senses so that we have only our inner life to warm us. Searching for that inner warmth is what leads us down the path paved with all those unanswerable questions. We can't win. We can only strive to survive the bleakness and leave February with a modicum of hope left in us to help carry us through the most insidiously evil month of the year, March.

Shakespeare told us to "beware the Ides of March," but I think the Ides of February are to be watched as carefully. This is the time of year that brings out the anxiety of mankind, the time when all seems bleak and unforgiving. February is the Never Never Land of our calendar. We have, as a society, created artificial holidays like Valentines Day and Presidents Day to help us through the draught of warmth and sunshine, but one is fraught with the possiblity of rejection and disapointment and the other is a slighting of two great men, neither of whom was apparently great enough to warrant a celebratory day of his own. The only thing February has in its favor is its duration--short and to the point. Thankfully it is one small step closer to the possibility of Spring.

I propose, that to alleviate the darkness of our collective mood, we simply ignore February and all its disquietude and distress. Wipe it from the calendar. Erase it from our consciousness. Obliterate it from the year. Take its weeks and distribute them among the summer months when we can really enjoy them. By removing February from its place in the time continuum, we can more readily husband our psychic resources to help us survive the dregs of late winter, commonly known around here as March.

But barring that actually happening in our lifetime, I have only one other solution to offer: DEAL WITH IT. Let's stop all the feeling sorry for ourselves, all the damned introspection, and find something more interesting to talk about. If you read this far, you need help, because all the preceding was a bunch of crap, the like of which I've been finding on all those blogs I like to turn to to be entertained, not depressed. So lighten up, people. Winter is tough enough to deal with without having to wade through the snowdrifts of your whining. Help me out , ok. The next time you feel like philosophising, tell a joke instead. Laughter is still the best medicine. And I need daily medication to keep me going.

Saturday's concert

Saturday we drove to Madison to attend the Moody Blues concert with our friends, Pete and Judy, who live in Madison, and who are also our neighbors up at the lake. The concert was held in the new Overture Center which first opened about a year ago. The venue was beautiful--I was impressed. Our seats were in a balcony box, which allowed us to sit in chairs and to move around a bit, although our view of the stage was slightly obstructed by the angle of the box and the railing.

The concert itself was everything I hoped for and expected. For an aging rock band, they can still bring it. They played all the expected hits from years gone by and made them sound fresh. I liked the fact that they didn't do a lot of silly prancing and jumping around the stage, but stuck to presenting their music with an obvious love for the songs and a real desire to please all us fans. Although there are only three of the original five members still touring, they are the three essential voices that produced their unique sound. Since the band first appeared on the music scene in the late sixties, they brought back a lot of musical memories for the mostly Baby Boomer crowd. And even though the crowd was aging they could still scream in delight and wave their arms and clap their hands and dance in the aisles, just like they did back in the day when "Hippie" was a lifestyle and not the shape of their bodies.

Going to the concert was well worth the effort it took to get there. If we hadn't been going with Pete and Judy I would probably not have been able to sustain enough energy and stamina to make it through the event. But Pete and Judy make everything so easy for me without making a big deal out of it. Pete drove us there and dropped us off right at the door so I wouldn't have to walk the two or more blocks from the parking structure. It was Pete who stood in line to buy the tickets and had the presence of mind to buy the box seats so that I would be most comfortable. Pete left the concert during the encore so that he could get the car and pick us up right at the door, again so that I wouldn't have to make the long walk. And they opened their home to us so we wouldn't have to make the hour long drive home after the concert. Judy prepared dinner before the concert and breakfast the next morning, seemingly without any effort, so we never felt like we were putting her out at all. We felt thoroughly welcomed and pampered by their hospitality. But that's just the way they are all the time with all their friends. Having them as close friends is one of the true blessings of our life. I wish you could all experience them as we do.

time out

I bought my watch about a year ago. It's a cheap thing, only paid about twelve bucks for it. It has all kinds of available functions like stopwatch, interval timing, 24 hour clock, alarm, and several others that I'm not quite sure of, all controlled by four buttons that must be pressed in a variety of sequences to activate all those various functions. It's that alarm function that has caused the problem.

When I bought the thing I was only interested in the time function. That's really all a watch should be used for. The other stuff is just clutter as far as I'm soncerned. So when I bought it, I had the very nice lady behind the counter set the proper time on it so that I wouldn't have to fuss with all those buttons. Since the time was now set properly, I tossed the box the watch came in, along with the instructions on how to enable all those other functions, in the trash, reasoning that I had no further use for either. Besides, how many guys do you know who ever actually read instructions?

Somehow, somewhere along the way, one of those four sneaky little buttons was pushed by some sinister force, activating the alarm, which then beep, beep, beeped every hour on the hour. I figured, no big deal, I'll just push a few buttons and turn off the alarm. So I pushed the mode button followed by the set button followed by the start/stop button. The teeny, tiny alarm icon in the upper left hand corner of the display window disappeared, so I figured, probem solved, I'm a very clever person indeed. The next hour came around and, as the seconds ticked down, I counted down with them to assure myself that I was really that clever. Beep, beep, beep. Oops, so much for my cleverness.

I repeated the button pushing process, only in a different sequence, reasoning that the first attempt had somehow been improper by the watch god standards. Again that teeny, tiny alarm icon flashed a few times and then properly disappeared.
Surely I had it right this time. But when the next hour change came around, you guessed it, beep, beep, beep. Ok, now I'm getting a little bent out of shape. I'm a reasonably intelligent guy, even logical most of the time, so I'll be damned if I'm going to let a simple little device like a watch defeat me. Once more I pushed some buttons. Once more it appeared that the alarm was turned off. Logic told me that was so. Screw logic. The watch gods were apparently fucking with me because at the top of the hour that same insidious beeping reverberated through my head.

I admitted defeat. Tough as it was, ego crushing though it was, I waited until my son, who is more attuned to the eloctronic world than I, stopped over for whatever reason. I handed him the offending appliance with insturctions to make it right. He did, without so much as the slightest hesitation. Not more than thirty seconds passed before he handed the watch back to me with a slight smirk, indicating his contempt for my elderly ineptitude. I uttered my thanks, reminding him that smirking was grounds for removal from the will.

All was well for quite some time. The watch performed admirably, never missing a tick or a tock. The world of time keeping was a thing of wonder, until one day, for no descernable reason, the alarm reset itself, or was reset by some phantom force intent on destroying my sanity. Futiley I pushed buttons, begging the gods for redemption. I promised to be good forever more if only the beeping would stop. That hourly alarm became a source of marital dissention. I was not allowed to take it off and leave it on the nightstand in the bedroom, since Mary is a light sleeper and really didn't relish waking to raucous beeping every hour of the night. I couldn't wear it while watching a movie, because invariably, at the moment of greatest drama, the beep, beep, beep would destroy the mood. I didn't dare request another round of asssistance from my son for fear of my further diminishment in his eyes. I was determined to solve the problem on my own, or die trying.

I set to pushing those buttons with a vengeance and determination to succeed, despite whatever cost to my ego. I even was smart enough to wait until a couple minutes before the hourly changover to start my button pushing, so that I wouldn't have to wait too long to hear the results. I tried every possible combination of button pushing sequence, hour after hour, seeking the solution. I'm sure there are mathmeticians out there among you who can determine the number of possible combinations that four buttons can produce. Be assured, I tried all of them at least three times. In the back of my mind I cursed the idiot who threw out the instructions for the watch.

And then one day, after another round of button sequencing, miraculously, in a moment of utter clarity, I found the solution. It was so simple. I upbraided myself for not arriving at this moment sooner. I cursed myself for the wasted time and effort over the previous months. Why hadn't I thought of this sequence before.

The solution went llike this: hold watch in left hand and gently place it on the workbench being careful to flatten the band so that it would not impede the process. With right hand, grip the hammer firmly, and while keeping the left fingers out of the way, repeatedly pound the face of the watch with the hammer, until all that is left is the watchband and a vague memory of what the watch looked like.

If I need to know what time it is I will look at the clock on the wall.

Leaves

Leaves
Originally uploaded by Bobciz.

This is the latest work from my workshop/studio.
The leaves are carved out of cedar and placed on top of a shadow box made of oak and framed with pine. It is 8"x20". This is the first in a series of similar works that I plan on doing. The second in the series is already carved and only awaits mounting on the shadow box. When that one is completed I'll share it here.

glad that's over

I am not a fan of those special occasions that require a card with mushy poems and that are foisted on us by the cabal of florists, candy makeres, and jewelers. Those Hallmark holidays turn me off. I just don't like the idea that someone with a vested interest in selling me something is telling me that I have to buy someone a gift. Particularly a gift of flowers, candy, or jewelry. Such days require too much forced and artificial sentiment to be taken seriously. So Valentine's Day is better left unnoticed as far as I'm concerned.

It's not that I'm cheap either. I just don't want someone to expect me to come through with a gift when it isn't my idea. Besides, I've felt like the gifts I've given in the past have somehow fallen short of expectations. That's my perception, right or wrong. I have a very difficult time finding the right gift for any occasion, so when one is expected, the pressurre gets the best of me and I take a pass. I would rather the giftee tells me what is wanted and then I hand over the cash and say "go for it." And I don't need a special occasion to do that.

Birthdays and anniversaries are the only exceptions. And even then I will only give a gift that I know is expected, that has been suggested by the recipient. Unless I can give somehting that I have made especially for the occasion as a surprise, I will only give something that has been requested. I am not above wishing a happy whatever on whatever day it happens to be. But beyond that, I will not be forced to go.

Yeh, I know, the last of the great romantics I'm not. Please don't think too much less of me.

a sign of the times

My wife, Mary, is a high school English teacher at a school in a upper middle class suburb. The school has its share of probems, just as any high school does, regardless of location. The problems include drugs, alcohol, sexual promiscuity, and the usual academic cheating and indifference. In other words, pretty much like every other school in the country.

Like other school districts, her school also has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to weapons of any kind. That is the one thing that sets the current school climate apart from previous generations. That we have to worry about guns and knives and other personal devices of violence carried by students, with the possible intent to actually use them, is a sign of the times.
In the aftermath of Columbine, we can take no chances compromising the safety of our students and teachers. To that end, today at school Mary had to participate in a simulated lockdown, practicing what to do in the event of a violent episode.

The local police department enacted a situation that would require lots of running around and shouting and the brandishing of weapons. Teachers and their classes were locked in their classrooms temporarily, had to sit on the floor, give up their cell phones, and eventually were led out of the building holding hands to keep track of each other. Once outside, they had to witness the police firing their weapons into the air to give them the feeling of what gunfire really sounds like.

I guess I never really considered the reality of the possible danger. There are simply too many crazy kids out there with access to any kind of weapon, with the lack of conscience that allows them to use those weapons on their classmates and teachers. Why does the present generation of kids so readily resort to gun violence to right even the most minor of percieved wrongs? I've heard all the usual arguments about the influence of tv and video games. I know about the preponderance of two parents working and the decline of the family. I know about peer pressure and the need to fit in. But do all those really account for the violent tendencies we witness all too often these days?

I don't want to get into an "old fart opining about the good old days, and deploring the kids today" rant. But when I was growing up, the idea that a gun was the solution to the problem you were having with the bully on the playground was as foreign as the idea that good girls "did it." It was inconceivable. If the bully pushed you too far, you eventually pushed back and the two of you spent a few fevered moments grappling and rolling around in the dirt on the playground until one of you cried "uncle." Now you would just pull out your .38 and put a few holes in him instead. If one of our peers entered a classroom with an attitude, the nuns would simply bring down the wrath of God on him. Worrying about frying in Hell for all eternity was a powerful deterrent. Guns were make believe and good for playing cowboys and indians. We all died a thousand pretend deaths at the end of a make believe gun battle, but the concept of actually using a real gun to do the real deed was simply not something we could comprehend.

What has happened to that innocence? Have we traveled so far from the inherent goodness and common decency that we used to believe existed in all of us? How do we get it back? The necessity of metal detectors and guards at the doors of our schools somehow doesn't seem to be leading us back to those good old days. Practicing a lockdown at school is the antithesis of the good old days. And I'm afraid.

get on with it

Man, those funky Italians can come up with some weird shit. If you watched the Olympics opening ceremony last night you know what I mean. Somebody spent a lot of sleepless nights hallucinating. Then they decided to share the hallucinations with the rest of us.

Is there some kind of competition among cities and countries that host the Games that we don't know about, besides the effort to actually win the contest to spend too much money and go extravagently over budget? Maybe there are judges out there who are supposed to award the prize for most abstruse, absurd, complex, and idecipherable hodge podge of unrelated and needlessly obscure images thrown together in a collage of color and gaudy excess. Those judges have their hands full with this one. For some reason, the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympics have become a venue for the overindulgence of medaphorical nonsense. And I, like all the rest of you with masochistic tendencies, was drawn to that visual flame like the moth that instinctively flies too close, and gets burned once again.

I was repeatedly unable to make the connection between the scampering bodies on stage and the Olympics--ballroom dancers dressed in Holstein colors while the namesake cow slid around them, an amorphous mass of shiny skinned bodies wiggling and waving, scooting skaters with flaming heads terroriizing the assembled throng, suspended boidies writhing overhead as if caught in a giant spider's web, diembodied bloated balloon heads floating through the sky (I'm going to have nightmares over that one for a long time), a dancer with see-through skin showing gigantic arteries enwwrapping his body, and a group of whitish maggots crawlling up and down a grid coalescing into the shape of a, what, a dead pigeon? Call me stupid, but I don't get any of it.

Granted, the sight of a flame red Ferrari squeeling donuts around the stage was cool, but I don't think auto racing is part of the Olympic competition. The finale with the lighting of the cauldron was impressive and exciting, but why did we have to sit through hours of preliminary visual flotsam to get to that point? What I would like to see at future Olympic games is the assembled athletes in their country's colors and costumes singing an anthem or two and then hearing Jacque Rogge say, "On your mark, get set, go!" And at the end of it all two weeks from now, hearing him say, "That's a wrap. See you all in four." Is that too much to hope for?

mind your own business

I went to the grocery store this morning to do the weekly shopping. As usual I parked in a handicap spot and hung my placard from the mirror and got out of my vehicle. A forty something looking guy walking past me hesitated and looked me over and asked, rather snottily, "what's your handicap?" The implication being that I was illegitimately using a handicap parking space. In the guy's defense, I don't necessarily look to be very handicapped and the fact that I got out of my pickup truck may have indicated to him that I was not legit.

Somewhat taken aback by his confrontation, I didn't respond, but just looked at him with a sense of confusion. He reminded me that I had parked in a handicap space and said it was wrong to use someone else's placard. At that point I finally realized that he was talking to me and taking me to task for what he thought was a transgression on my part. I nearly started to give him my medical history before I came to my senses and told him, "I really don't need to justify myself to you or anyone else. Please mind your own business." He walked away and said over his shoulder that he intended to call a cop.
At that point I grabbed my cane from behind the front seat and proceeded to lock the truck and shuffle my way toward the store. If he had been closer, I very well might have whacked him with my cane, but he was safely out of reach.

Once he saw me with my cane and how I wasn't exactly skipping toward the store, he looked sheepishly at me and apologised for jumping to a wrong conclusion. His justification was, he said, "that you know, you often see people using someone else's handicap sticker just to get a parking place closer to the store. Sorry." I reminded him that he ought to withhold judgement in the future until he was sure about what he was judging. He beat a hasty beeline to the store and I'm quite convinced he tried desperately to avoid me in the store. At least I didn't see him again while there.

The whole experience left me with my nerves on edge the rest of the morning. The fact is, I don't really like using the handicap parking space if another space is available within a short distance. But when faced with the need to park a hundred yards away or use the handicap spot, I really don't have too much choice if I'm going to get where I have to go in a timely manner and with a bit less effort. When there is only one such space available and there is someone who looks like he needs it more than I, I don't hesitate to move aside and relinquish that space. But don't ever presume to judge my need for that space. The fact that I am not in a wheelchair or on crutches doesn't mean I don't need some advantage. Remember this, I, and everyone like me, would gladly trade places with you if it meant you needed the space and I didn't.

a proud biography

My daughter is in Africa. For the third time. How strange that sounds. I never thought I would utter those words when my little girl was growing up. Who thinks about such unusual adventures when that little girl is on the road to maturity. Of course, I should not be surprised by anything she does, given the intelligence, talent, curiousity, and creativity she always exhibited. But still, Africa seems a bit of a stretch.

When she was just over two years old she was naming dinasaurs, and I don't mean pet names, but the actual Tyrranasauras Rex and Stegasauraus and Brontosauraus and all the others. She memorized "Twas the Night Before Christmas" for her third Christmas and was reading by age of three. A child pyschologist we consulted at that time said she was ready intellectually for third grade, but emotionally she wouldn't be able to handle it, so we didn't push it. Still, she skipped first grade and jumped right into second. I can still remember her geting up early on a Sunday morning, sitting at her child size table doing math problems she made up for practice. She was five at the time.

We enrolled her in a grade school for the gifted and talented, which managed to keep her mostly interested. She then went on to a middle school for advanced kids and eventually to the high school for that same group. She was ranked first in her class at that high school, but in the middle of her Junior year she decided that that school didn't offer a good enough art program to give her the background in the visual arts that she felt she needed. So she transfered to the school that had the reputation for having one of the best art programs in the state. She gave up her first place ranking to do that, even though it meant not getting the state scholarship given to the topped ranked students in each school. (My son did get that scholarship as valedictorian of his high school class, but that's a story for another time.) At the new school she flourished and developed as an artist, winning, in her junior year, a Gold Key Award in the state scholastic art competition for a pencil drawing.

In her Senior year she submitted a photography portfolio to the same competitiion and won the first place ribbon for that. That's like winning a state championship in sports or academics. So the switch to the new school paid off for her as far as her development as an artist. She is still a working photographer and artist. She never goes anywhere without her camera and a sketch book. You can witness some of her creativity by going to her flickr site, artbanditoand clicking on her africa pictures and especially her self portraits.

College took her to the University of Wisconsin, where she was selected as a Med Scholar. That's a program for gifted students who have expressed a desire, and have demonstrated the necessary aptitude, to go to medical school. Being a med scholar at UW meant she would automatically have a place in the UW medical school if she chose to go there without having to take the MCAT exam required of all other applicants to the med school. Of course, she decided to take the MCAT anyway so that she could apply to other med schools as well. Naturally, she did quite well on the MCAT, and that encouraged her to apply to a number of other schools.

An interesting side note to her taking the MCAT. She took that exam in her junior year at UW on a Saturday in April. It just so happened that that was the weekend that we, she and I, were planning to travel to Boston, where she was running in the Boston Marathon on Monday. (Did I mention that she was a runner? She ran cross country in high school and was the top girl runner on the team.) I had promised her that if she qualified for Boston that I would take her there to run. She qaulified by running the Lakefront Marathon in Milkwaukee the previous October, so I had to make good on my promise. Anyway, because of the MCAT, which she took at Marquette University in Milwaukee, we had to scramble like hell to make our 6 o'clock flight to Boston. She finished the exam at 5 o'clock, we made our flight, she ran the Boston Marathon, we had a great weekend in Boston and by Tuesday she was back in class at UW. She hasn't run another marathon since then. She just wanted to prove she could do it.

Speaking of athletic endevours, she is also an avid bicyclist, both touring and off road. She even did the 500 mile Aids Ride from MInneapolis to Chicago one year. She raised the necessary money and pedaled away, again, just to prove she could do it. She and Jerry, her significant other, are both into building bikes and mountain biking and riding wherever and whenever they can.

During her college career she also took a variety of art classes in addition to her work on a Zoology degree. The combination of science and art is somewhat unusual, since both sides of the brain need to be developed. That's why few scientists are artists and few artists are also scientists. She managed to do both and still does.

After earning her Zoology degree with Honors and receiving the Dean's Prize for Academic Excellence from UW she enrolled in medical school at Washington University Medical School in St. Louis, one of the top 5 med schools in the country. She had applied to several other med schools but chose Wash U beccause they offered her the best aid package. She got through the first two years of med school and then decided to take a year off, staying in St. Louis, to reevaluate where she was headed. During that year she decided that veterinary science was her true love and so applied to several veterinary schools. Cornell Univeresity College of Veterinary Medicine, considered the top veterinary school in the country, was glad to have her with her previous med school background. So off to Ithaca, NY she went and spent the next 4 years earning a DVM degree. So now she is a veterinarian and I get to call her Doctor.

Currently she is living in California. She recently passed her vet boards exams in CA so she can practice veterinary medicine if she so chooses. That will probably wait until she finishes her PHD, which she is pursuing at UC- Berkeley. And that brings us back to Africa. She is there right now learning how to dart large wild animals so she can do whatever it is she wants to do with them. Which doesn't mean, I presume, eating them, since she is a vegetarian. Her research focus is something to do with Anthrax and its spread among wild animals. Or something like that. When she tells me what she is doing, I just nod and mumble and pretend that I understand what she is talking about. I am a bit apprehensive about her current activity, since those are real wild animals she is dealling with, not the zoo variety. Big animals like cape buffalo and rhinoceros and elephants and zebras, and maybe even lions. She knows no fear, however, only that curiousity that she has always displayed. I think her adventure is just now beginning. I'll keep you updated.

ennui

Now that the Super Bowl has been played and replayed, discussed and disected, analyzed, scrutinized, criticized, and examined ad infinitum, I find myself in the throes of a huge letdown. Football withdrawal has commenced and can only be mitigated by the thought that Spring training is only a few short days away. Anticipating that, and college basketball getting into the meat of the season, means there will be something to catch my attention over the next few weeks before March Madness consumes me.

You may be wondering why I don't include the upcoming Winter Olympics in my sports anticipation schedule. It's just that they have been in the anticipation stage for so long now, with all the attendant hype by NBC, that I feel like they have been going on now for at least a couple months. Enough already. I find it hard enough to get excited by most winter sports in the first place, so knowing that I'm going to be bombarded by hours and hours of figure skating is leaving me less than enthusiastic about the whole thing. I don't relate well to winter, so any endeavour that requires snow and frigid temperatures leaves me cold.

Watching skiers zooming down a mountain can be fun to watch in a detached sort of way, I guess. I simply can't relate to sliding that fast on a couple slats of wood while whipping around those flagged gates. Sometimes it hurts to watch, and not just when one of them plants his face into the side of that mountain. I feel my hamstrings tearing and my quads bursting just watching.

Some of the so-called winter sports that masquarade as Olympic events are simply too difficult to comprehend. Where would some of the skills necessary to compete in some of those events get you in the real world? Cross country skiing until your lungs are ready to burst and then stopping to shoot a gun at a target as they do in the biathalon, could only be good training for a serial 7-Eleven stick up artist rushing from one job to the next. Sliding down a hill on a garbage can lid is something we did as kids and called it fun. Now they call it skeleton and add sport to the discription. How does bobsledding correlate to the real world? While going too fast on the freeway, at least you still have brakes. Not so with a bobsled, You'd never catch me on the top of a mountain, aimed downhill toward the spot where solid earth ends and air begins, with the intent on seeing how far I could "fly" before crashing in a heap of broken skies and bones. But that's what ski jumping is all about. Curling is something your wife does to her hair, not something that should require sliding rocks and brooms.

Don't get me started on figure skating. The stuff they do is simply not humanly possible. Skating backwards and then jumping in the air and spinning around three or four times and landing on a sheet of slippery ice without adding a second crack to your ass is not something that people should be allowed to do. And those costumes would get you arrested for indecent exposure and soliciting in any other venue. There is also the method for deciding who won the skating contest that doesn't do it for me. I think anytime a panel of judges gets to decide who was best, you don't have "sport." You have an "exhibition." So I don't mind seeing the contest between athletes who are trying to see who's the fastest or who can jump the highest, because the result is readily apparent and easily determined. I hate the idea that some prissy little wimp of a judge, who has trouble blowing his own nose, or anything else for that matter, can decide if your effort was good enough to warrant a prize.

Still, realizing that all those competitors spend countless hours practicing and training to do some of these things, speaks wonders about their dedication and willingness to endure the long road of preparation necessary to compete at such a high level. Hell, it beats getting a job.

Thankfully, golf season is just around the corner (my clubs are clean and ready to go), baseball season is imminent (I'm wearing my Brewers hat while I write this), college basketball has a lock on March (and a pretty good hold on the present--Louisville and Cinncinati are on ESPN2 right now). So the Olympics can, at least, help to grease the slide out of February and into a better time of year. As long as I don't have to watch ice dancing, I think I can make it.

red light district

We have a large window on the side of the house that can be seen from the street. That window is Mary's venue for seasonal statement. Whatever holiday falls in the current month or season gets interpreted on that window with whatever typical decorations are in fashion. Christmas, of course, gets twinkling lights and stars and snow flakes and decorated trees and holly vines encircling the window. Halloween gets the pumpkin, ghosts, and goblins treatment with orange lights shining through miniture jack-0-lanterns. Easter has bunnies and eggs (what is the correlation between bunnies and eggs, anyway?) and more lights on spring greenery. Thanksgiving brings out the colored fall leaves and turkeys prancing across the pane trying to outrun the ax. She has been decorating that window ever since the kids were little and can't seem to break the habit. I'm ok with it if it makes her happy, but I get a little uneasy when February rolls around and Valentines Day takes over the window.

That window is now festively awash in red lights, hearts, and naked little cupids aiming their arrows at each other's ass. There is an 18" wide, lit up red heart, with that usual arrow through it, drawing your attention. I vetoed the idea of putting a red light into the outdoor porch light, though. I understand her need to decorate that window. It's a connection to the past, and the continuity of the seasonal decorations adds order and a little bit of fun to her life, But I have a real concern that those current decorations may give the wrong impression to passersby who might misinterpret the function of our happy home. All those hearts and cupids and red lights fairly screams "BROTHEL."

I fully expect to see a line of cars and pedestians queuing up outside the door, waiting to take advantage of the delights within. Not that I'm averse to making a buck; I just never considered pimping to be my career path of choice. I may have to rethink that, though. I just don't know where to get the necessary employees to fill out the roster of delights. I'm new at this pimp thing. And don't anyone suggest that I become self-employed as one of the delights. I will restrict myself to the duties of cashier and revenue counter. Mary will limit her duties strictly to decorating.

This brothel thing may or may not work out. We have the necessary "look" to start with. But for some reason I find myself hoping that Easter with its precious, innocent bunnies, and gayly colored eggs will come sooner rather than later this year.

I did it again

Yesterday I got a massage. it was wonderful. I highly reccomend that everyone in the world get a massage at least once a month. The world would be a better and more relaxed place with less strife and contention among us. Encouraging you all to do so, however, is not the purpose of this post. My massage was only the catalyst for my further descent into "brain not engaged before opening mouth" hell.

Naturally for a massage to be most effective it is necessary for the massagee, that being me, to shed whatever clothes are in the way. That is, all of them. Nakedness is a prerequisite for a good massage. Because it is so relaxing, there is little danger of any overly sensitive appendages being more noticable than usual. I think you get my drift.

Anyway, last night when we were "spooning," as we are wont to do on a regular basis when the lights go out for the evening, Mary asked me how my massage was earlier that day. I replied that it was wonderful, that I thoroughly enjoyed it. She then escalated the danger for me in the discussion by asking if I got, you know, one of those reactions that manifests itself when certain physical stimulations occur. (So, ok, I'm trying to be delicate here and not get too graphic or raunchy, but yeh, she wanted to know if I got an erection, a hard-on, a boner, a______--Insert your favorite name for it here. There, you made me say it.)

I told her, "no, of course not. It isn't that kind of situation. It's all very discrete. I was never exposed at any time, so, no."

She asked, "Well how come you do when I give you a massage?"

"That's different," I mumbled, not particulary mindful where this was leading me.

"Is it because you love me and think I'm sexy and my massaging you turns you on?"

Now a normal person would have simply agreed with her and taken the high road here, saying that that was indeed the case.
I never claimed to be all that normal however. I have an accute, almost compulsive need to say the wrong thing whenever possible. I think I may be lacking the gene that regulates the brain/mouth synapse. At this point it didn't help that a certain protuberance was taking a pointed interest in the conversation. Remember, we were spooning.

To my later utter dismay, I replied, "No, it's because you're available."

As soon as those words left my mouth I involuntarily flinched, wincing even before the elbow to my ribs landed. The only thing that saved my sorry ass was that I was laughing when I said it. To cover up my insensitivity and callous disregard for her delicate disposition, I continued to laugh harder and harder, drawing her into the moment. Thank God she thought it was funny and not another of my intentional barbs. I guess one of the main reasons we have a marriage that has lasted these 36 years, is that she can laugh at me at times like that and realize that my mouth does not always convey my true feelings. But one of these times my brain/mouth disfunction is going to get me in some serious trouble. As long as I remember to laugh, I should be alright.