For the home team

My friend Pat and I routinely obtain tickets to at least two -- more usually three -- Mariners baseball games each year.  We buy them from one of my former co-workers, who buys two season's tickets each year, and sells off the ones she doesn't want at cost.  As you might guess, she's something of a baseball fanatic -- I don't know if she still sits in the stands with pencil and paper, scoring each game, but I know she did for many years.

Call it prescience -- or coincidence, if you will -- but this year we only bought tickets for one game -- tomorrow night's game.  Most years, we have some hope, however fragile, that the season will work out to Seattle's advantage, if only in terms of moral victory.   They've rarely been an outstanding team, but often a pretty decent team.  Twenty-one years ago, they managed a 116-46 record (.716) -- tying a record set by the Cubs in 1906.  (But still lost the American league title to the Damn Yankees in a 4-1 series.)

This year is not 2001.  Although the local newspaper keeps finding grounds for optimism.  This morning's headline in the Seattle Times sports section read "Winker's two-run double backs stellar outing by Ray."  The game was a 2-0 victory over the Orioles, a team that after that loss now shares a .461 season's record with the Mariners.

But, unlike Baltimore which is last in its division, Seattle still ranks ahead of one other team in its own division.  That team would be the Oakland A's, with a .329 average, a team that's a distant 22½ games out of first place.  And ten full games behind Seattle.  And at this point in the season, boasts the worst record in Major League Baseball.

Who do we play tomorrow?  Oakland, of course.  A game of interest to the baseball world only should Seattle be humiliated.  And not much, even then.

Do I care?   Not really.  Going to a baseball game -- especially when it's only once for the year -- is a ritual totally satisfying in itself, regardless of who wins or how.  Neither Pat nor I are the kind of fans who score each play.  We're the kind who chat about our lives and catch up on each other's doings while we watch the play on the field.

We buy our ceremonial hot dogs and chips before the game, at booths outside the stadium.  We have set times for buying our one beer between innings, for getting a cup of those little ice cream chips whose name I forget, for cheering the scoreboard's inter-inning hydroplane races, and for rising and singing during the seventh inning stretch.  Both of us are retired, so we don't have to panic about work the next day if the game goes extra innings.  Leaving the game, we head home in opposite directions on the light rail, enjoying the atmosphere in the packed cars, whether loud and jubilant or silent and resigned.

Summer wouldn't be summer without at least this one game.  

"Feed me on peanuts and cracker jacks...."

Mock-orange

"We are all made of dreams, and our life stretches from sleep before birth to sleep after death."

--Shakespeare, The Tempest

 
As mentioned earlier, my sister spent a long weekend with me a couple weeks ago, while en route from a three-month visit in Chiang Mai, Thailand, to her home in rural Idaho.  She rarely visits Seattle, and I was excited to have her company during a season when one might reasonably hope for both sunshine and warmth.  

Although I realized she had experienced plenty of both in Thailand. She was so acclimated to heat that she complained constantly of the "cold" in Seattle.  To be honest, it was unseasonably cloudy and chilly.  On only a couple of days did Seattle's high reach 60 degrees (15.5° C), and even my house -- ten degrees warmer -- felt cold to her.

As usual, her timing was bad.  Today's high will be 82, tomorrow's is projected at 88, and Monday's at 91 (32.8° C) -- before falling temporarily back to around 70 on Tuesday.  I found myself a few minutes ago lolling on my back deck, re-reading David Sedaris essays on my Kindle, while Pollux was stretched out at my feet, savoring the 79 degree warmth, and sharing with me the moderating shade of neighboring shrubbery.

It was like Hawaii, I told myself.  Why Hawaii?  Then it occurred to me!   Because of the fragrance.  At one end of my deck, rising above my border hedge, rise stalks laden with white flowers.  They bloom every year, but never as luxuriantly as this year, and never before with such a distinctive fragrance or one that I recall ever tracing to them.  I was sitting at the opposite end of the deck, but the delicious smell was almost overpowering even there. 

My handy plant-identification app identifies the flowers as Lewis' mock-orange.  Also known as California mock-orange, or, botanically, Philadelphus lewisii.  They are supposedly easy to grow and require little attention, making them tailor-made for my limited gardening skills.  Where they came from, I have no idea.  Until ten years ago, the spot where they now grow was devoted to out-of-control blackberry brambles -- at which time I replaced the brambles with a laurel hedge.  The mock-orange sneaked in from parts unknown, and now towers a good three feet (one meter) above the ten-foot hedge.

But who gives a hoot about its origins?  I sat there, stretched out in my chair, Kindle in hand, cat at foot, intermittently reading, meditating, enjoying -- and increasingly, I'm afraid, dozing.  Finally, I looked down and discovered that the unfaithful cat had apparently become bored and had wandered off elsewhere.  (Pollux is back in the house as I type this, noisily chasing house flies; Castor, on the other hand, is off on another of his 30-hour absences without leave.)

Anyway, half-reading and half-dreaming on my back deck on a warm, sunny day is always pleasant.  The newly-assertive appearance of my mock-orange merely kicks my enjoyment up another notch.  If only we'd had this weather two weeks ago, when my sister could have enjoyed it with me. And kept me awake with a little pleasant conversation.

Republic of Texas

According to Yahoo News, the Texas Republican party's committee on party platforms has drafted a document calling for a referendum in 2023 to determine whether Texas should secede from the union.  This development comes as no special surprise, following on the heels of the Texas GOP's declaration, overwhelmingly approved, rejecting the "legitimacy" of the 2020 presidential election.

The reader comments to this story were also "overwhelming" -- let them go, and good riddance, was the general thrust of reader reaction.  

Devout American patriot Sen. Ted Cruz, exercising what passes as Texas caution, declared: "We're not there yet, and if there comes a point where it's hopeless, then I think we take NASA, we take the military, we take the oil."

Readers hooted, pointing out that the federal government owns NASA and the military.  Maybe the erstwhile state would keep the oil.  The federal government would end all subsidies, including Medicare and Social Security payments to the "Texas Republic's" aging citizenry.  Texans collect more from the feds than they pay back in taxes -- kiss those subsidies goodbye, too. 

But, for many Texans, like their emotional brothers and sisters in England, it's all about sovereignty -- economics and the financial welfare of their citizens (i.e., themselves) is irrelevant.  Texit and Brexit -- the two great 21st century accomplishments of ideology over reality.

I doubt if anyone takes "Texit" seriously.  The issue of state sovereignty was decided in the 1860s, regardless of the arguments by some Texans that their accession to the Union was different and "special."  I'm sure the Texas Rangers would fight bravely against the U.S. military, but to no avail.

Still, it's fun to consider building a "Big Beautiful Wall" along the Texas border, and crying out against the bandits, murderers, and rapists who try to sneak across from the slums of Dallas and Houston.  Hopefully, normal diplomatic relations would soon be worked out, with an American ambassador sitting in the U.S. embassy in Austin.  Probably American consulates in Dallas, Houston, and El Paso (unless El Paso breaks away and joins New Mexico).  Senator Cruz drools at the thought of becoming president; now he could do so -- but  President of the Lone Star Republic of Texas.

Most important, of course, would be the formation of an all-Texas college football league -- Texas, Texas A&M, Texas Christian, Baylor, Houston, Rice -- probably others.  All joined together, because they'd have nowhere else to go.  

Hook em Horns! 

Now back to the real world ...

Avoiding the pangs of autumn

This morning at 2:13 a.m. (PDT) was the summer solstice, when the sun tired of it's northward journey, and began trudging back south.  In Seattle, the sun rose at 5:11 a.m., and set at 9:10 p.m., although I note that the first glimmer of daylight was visible even through my closed blinds at 4 a.m., and still lingers past 10 p.m. 

On Facebook, I noted -- only half facetiously -- that it doesn't get any better from this point on, and that "until the first flowers of February, it's all downhill."  By this point, as a kid, I was already fretting about how fast summer vacation was passing, and by July 4 I was wailing that "the summer's half over."  My mother would calmly suggest that looking at the calendar more carefully might provide a needed attitude correction.  

Today, for many kids, vacation ends in August, but for us, the first day or two after Labor Day marked the start of our nine-month incarceration under supervision of the school authorities.  In my mind, Labor Day still marks the end of summer, although in the Pacific Northwest, September is often one of our most enjoyable summer months. 

But I digress.  This year, rather than September's arrival looming with the childhood horror of school, or marking the dwindling of daylight and of decent weather, as the damp chill of winter approaches, my summer will end with a bang.

On August 27, I fly to Glasgow to meet my friends Jim and Dorothy, where we begin our nine-day walk from a suburb of Glasgow to Fort William -- some 95 miles.  For me, this duplicates a hike I did in 2011, one of the best walks I've done in Britain.

After a night in Fort William, we return by train to Glasgow.  Dorothy, who will have arrived in Scotland a week before me, to visit family near Glasgow, will return to their home in Indiana, but Jim and I will fly on September 9 from Glasgow to Milan.

In Milan, we will meet Jim's brother and sister, and their spouses -- with whom I hiked together in 2018 (the Great Glen Way, Scotland) -- and spend the night at a hotel near Milan's central railway station.  The next morning, we will walk to the station, where -- if all goes as planned -- we will be joined by Jim's son Graham, who is arriving from the States early that morning.  We proceed by train to Como city, on the southern tip of Lake Como, and hop on a ferry to Menaggio, where we will proceed to the same house my sister, cousin, and I rented last September.

The seven of us will enjoy a week at Lake Como.  My friends will then depart, leaving me to be joined for the rental's second week by a varied group of friends and relatives  -- including my sister, and a couple of friends with their four-year-old son and one-year-old daughter..   

Will two weeks at Lake Como be too much?  Will I be bored?  Such questions can be asked only by someone who has never visited the Italian Lakes.

Finally, on September 24, we surrender our rental and return to Milan.   My sister -- having been deprived of Lake Como during my first week there -- will make up for it by traveling south for a visit to Puglia and Sicily.  I'll spend two nights in Milan, and then fly home to Seattle on September 26.

By the time of my return to Seattle, trees will be changing and autumn will be well underway, although some Indian summer may yet remain.  But though another summer will be gone, it will have ended while I was happily engaged elsewhere, and I can settle cheerfully into a season of arranging my photos and planning future travels.

Day of wrath

Day of wrath, day the world
is reduced to ashes, as
David prophesied with the Sibyl.

What great terror there will be
when Heaven's Judge comes to
strictly measure all. 

***

What weeping on that day
when from the ashes arise
the guilty to be judged.

--------------------------------

Verdi's Requiem was first performed in 1874, and from the outset it has been criticized as too "operatic" for a piece of religious music.  But, of course, Giuseppi Verdi was primarily a composer of operas, and the late nineteenth century, in general, was noted for a somewhat bombastic style -- "Romanticism" -- bombastic, certainly, compared with compositions by earlier generations of composers.

I attended last night's performance of the Requiem by the Seattle Symphony -- orchestra, soloists (soprano, mezzo-soprano, tenor, and bass-baritone)  and the symphony's Chorale.  The work certainly is operatic, and nothing I'd want performed at my own funeral.  But also, stirring, scary, and -- in places -- beautiful.

The performance was nearly an hour and a half in length, and sets to music just seven sections of an actual mass, so I can't imagine its actually being used liturgically, although it no doubt has been.

Verdi, of course, composed only the music.  The text is from the traditional, pre-Vatican II liturgy for funeral and requiem masses.  

Compared with today's typical funeral services, the Requiem puts great emphasis on those elements calling forth the terror of the Last Days and Judgment, and the horrors of Hell.  The most notable and by far lengthiest section (of which I quote above just three stanzas of nineteen), and probably most familiar, was the "Sequence," beginning with the words Dies Irae ("Day of Wrath"), played magnificently by the full orchestra, with the Latin lyrics sung by four soloists, accompanied by the Chorale. The translated lyrics, displayed above the stage in super-titles, must have caused some consternation -- maybe salutary, probably not -- among some members of the audience.

As an archbishop, a member of the commission that made post-Vatican II revisions to the liturgy, explained:

They got rid of texts that smacked of a negative spirituality inherited from the Middle Ages. Thus they removed such familiar and even beloved texts as "Libera me, Domine," "Dies irae", and others that overemphasized judgment, fear, and despair. These they replaced with texts urging Christian hope and arguably giving more effective expression to faith in the resurrection.

A worthy change in the liturgy, in my opinion, but the old liturgy -- and especially the Dies Irae -- provided material for great theater, for which Verdi had ample talent.

The performance last night -- not just the more frightening passages, but also the more lyrical ones, such as the "Agnus Die" and the "Lux Aeterna," were magnificent and stirring.  The audience gave the performance a lengthy standing ovation at the conclusion.

And even in our modern times, a little medieval sensationalism may be good for us now and then! 

Domestic wildlife

One crisis after another strikes your correspondent's household.  Last night, Castor once more performed his magical disappearance trick.  And, during the same night, in a presumably unrelated development, Pollux brought a mouse upstairs to toy with in my bedroom.  

Castor's disappearance remains unresolved.  All I can say is that he's done an identical trick two or three times in the past.  He never reappears during daylight hours -- as it still is at this moment -- probably because he's in a bit of a jam and needs the cover of darkness to squirm his way out.  But, at least in past episodes, he has reappeared no later than 2 a.m. the second night.  I.e., tonight.

I can only wait and hope.

But that brings us to the mouse.  I can't stand to witness carnage -- especially drawn out carnage -- and especially not feline induced carnage, while I'm trying to sleep.  I evicted Pollux from my bedroom, and left the mouse (who, so far as I knew, may have been dead or terminally injured) for future consideration.

I heard various noises, off and on, during my remaining hours of fitful sleep, but didn't see Mr. Mouse in person for the remaining hours of darkness, or throughout the morning.  After lunch, I walked upstairs and found our rodent friend stretched out on the floor, eyes open but not moving.  I gathered some useful utensils, and approached the possible corpse in the hopes of scooping him up and removing him from the premises.  He suddenly awoke to my intentions, however, and scurried off into areas of clutter on the bedroom floor.  

What to do, what to do?  I couldn't kill him, even if I could catch him.  To be  honest, he was just too cute.  Unlike rats, who also have their charms but who seem somewhat sneaky and underhanded, a mouse in captivity looks sad, childlike, and innocent.

Suddenly, I remembered a rat trap that I had ordered for an earlier infestation of rats, but had never had to use.  To my surprise, I was eventually able to locate it.  I baited it with peanut butter, set the device in trapping mode, placed it close to a wall where mice are wont to scurry, and left for a two hour walk.

I know that mice and rats prefer to sleep by day and investigate their surroundings by night, so I didn't expect to find any results when I arrived home. 

But ... lo and behold ... Mr. Mouse was in the cage, looking anguished.  He became frantic as I picked up his cage and carried it downstairs and out the back door.  I opened the cage, and he was out like a flash, disappearing into the tall grass and brush at the back of my property.

I'm glad I remembered the cage.  I hate Reign of Terror mouse traps that break the little guys' necks.

Will he return?  Maybe.  Online gurus say a mouse or rat should be released at least two miles from your home, or they will find their way back.  But this guy has never lived in my house, any more than alleged terrorists "live" in Guantanamo.  I suspect Pollux came upon him outside, and brought him in simply for recreational and bragging purposes.  The mouse sees no happy connection between my house and a former life of comfort and ample food.  

Can he survive in the wild?  I don't know.  I've given him back  his life.  From now on, it's up to him, and to the implacable and often cruel laws of Nature.  If he succeeds in building a happy life, I just hope it's in the house of one of my neighbors, not in mine.    

Now -- where is that Castor?

---------------------

6/17/22 - Castor reappeared, right on schedule, at 2:05 a.m.

Home from Chiang Mai

As I write this, my sister is sitting in Bangkok's Suvarnabhumi Airport, waiting for her 11 a.m. (Seattle time) flight to Seoul, Korea.  She will connect in Seoul with a Delta flight tonight, arriving in Seattle at 1:50 p.m. tomorrow.

My mind boggles every time I try to figure out where on her journey she might be, because Bangkok is 14 hours ahead of Seattle time, and Seoul is 16 hours ahead.  It makes more sense when you are actually traveling the route yourself.  In any event, I suspect she will have a lengthy layover in Seoul, as I always do, flying home from Thailand through Seoul.

My sister has been in Thailand for three months, having obtained an extension of her original one-month visa.  She's been living in the suburbs (exurbs?) of Chiang Mai, visiting with her son Denny and his wife Jessie, heaping adoration on her granddaughter Maury, and providing company to her ailing former husband and good friend Clinton.  

If we're not careful, our family's going to end up with more of us in Thailand than back here on the West Coast.

Anyway, I'm sure she's eager to get home to Idaho, back with family, horses, dogs, and cats, and supervising the end construction phases of a small cabin she's building on their 50 acres.  But first, she will spend four days here in Seattle -- visiting me and an old friend Suzy.  I'm delighted, because so few relatives ever make it up here to the Northwest Corner for a visit.  She probably will be zonked out with jet lag for much of that time, as I always am after trips to the Far East, but we'll have fun.

In preparation for her arrival, the Northwest Weather Gods have prepared another "atmospheric river" -- or "Hawaiian Express" -- a deluge of rainfall that is just now arriving.  It's supposed to rain most of the time she's here -- so much for my earlier visions of long hours chatting in the sun on my back deck, nursing cups of coffee.  But my sister, like me, is a Northwest native.  We're unfazed by a little rain.  Or even a lot of rain.

And she's spent the past two months in Chiang Mai during the monsoon season.  Admittedly, warm monsoons with scents of flowers, rather than chilly "atmospheric rivers" with scents of moss.  But still.

Welcome home, Kathy! 

------------------------------

Photo -- Sister Kathy and granddaughter in Chiang Mai (2017)

Such stuff as dreams are made on

I rarely read books recommended to me, for the same reasons that others seldom care for the books I recommend to them.  But a short time ago, a friend -- who had never before suggested a book to me  -- enthusiastically recommended Sarah Winman's Still Life.  I downloaded it, and then forgot about it until I serendipitously confronted a combination of a bad cold and an extracted tooth.  

I needed something not too heavy to read.  Not too heavy, but not simple-minded either.  I gave Still Life a try.

My decision to accept her suggestion wasn't totally blind.  I knew Still Life took place in England and Italy between the last years of World War II and 1979.  I knew it was in part an enraptured tribute to Florence -- one of my favorite cities.   

What I wasn't expecting was a Dickensian novel, set in the less distant past.  The novel presents a rich variety of characters -- rich enough to be confusing at first -- each well fleshed out.  The point of view changes from chapter to chapter, and even within each chapter.  The two central characters, perhaps -- but this could be disputed -- are Ulysses and Evelyn.  Ulysses is introduced in 1944 as a British army private, who is the aide and driver for Captain Darnley.  Ulysses is a friendly, likable boy from east London.  Darnley is a well-educated young British officer with a love of art.  The unlikely pair (unlikely because of their ranks) become friends, and spend much of their time sightseeing, even as the war rages about them.  

The second central character is an unmarried woman from Kent, in her mid-60s, also intensely interested in art, who is in Italy to help salvage the nation's heritage of art. .  She runs into Ulysses and Darnley near Orvieto, midway between Florence and Rome, and the three Brits enjoy each other's company. 

The dialogue by both Captain Darnley and Evelyn does tend a bit to the didactic -- offering detailed, erudite lessons in art history (and history in general) not only to Ulysses, but also to us, the readers. Didactic and conversationally unrealistic, perhaps, but entertaining as well.

Most importantly, for the novel's plot, Ulysses laps it up and proves essentially a sponge, absorbing not only knowledge of Italian art from his two companions, but a sense that this world of thought and knowledge is the life into which he should have been born -- rather than into the working class world of Whitechapel.

From this beginning, the novel blossoms forth, adding new acquaintances, or introducing old acquaintances, one by one.  The scene changes back and forth between the depressing -- but unexpectedly diverse and interesting -- lives of the habitués of a pub in London, and the lives of those dwelling in a square near Florence's Santo Spirito basilica, not far from the Arno river on the Oltrarno side.   

We watch the lives of the characters unfold over a period of 35 years, as they grow, age, and occasionally die, to be replaced by new births.  The story feels somewhat bittersweet, but ultimately more upbeat than you might expect.  People separate, go their separate ways, and reunite.  And as bodies age, minds and hearts grow.  Ulysses draws uncomfortably close to stagnation, having returned to London after the war, but events eventually call him back to Florence -- joined by his closest friends.

If London represents stasis and small-mindedness, Florence represents growth, an embracing of life and an openness to new ideas and new kinds of people.  

Yeah, it's a feel-good story, but a welcome tonic for recovery from a bad cold and a sore tooth.

The novel also has touches of magical realism.  There is Claude, the Amazonian parrot who not only talks, but seemingly understands, and offers both commentary and sage advice to whomever will listen, throughout the novel.

Claude opened his eyes.  Peg, he said quietly.  What is it, sweetie?  And she leaned in close to him.  What is it?  (Her ear now at his beak.)  What?

Don't marry Ted.

There are at least two trees, one in London and one in Florence, who pass on the wisdom accrued from their centuries of life to favored human friends. 

And there is the rather surprising realization, obviously a reflection of the author's interests, that the female characters are, with one major exception, lesbians, whose loves and friendships drive much of the action, and that many of the male characters -- whose love lives are treated with perhaps less gusto than those of the women -- are gay (but not Ulysses himself).  It's all statistically unlikely, but we accept the plot and characters without question -- until we think about it later.

The opening scenes of Florence, where Evelyn is introduced to us while she is staying at a small, rather rebarbative pensione,  project the same golden aura over Florence, even in wartime, as did similar scenes in E. M. Forster's novel, A Room with a View.  Not surprising, as we later learn that Evelyn had met Forster in Florence, when they were both very young, where she had encouraged him to break away from his domineering mother and to think and act for himself.

The final chapter of the book ends the otherwise chronological progression, and goes back to 1901, when Evelyn as a young girl first stepped off the train in Florence.  The chapter describes Evelyn's early life and first love -- with one of the maids at her pensione.  An interesting chapter, but it feels like a bit of an afterthought.  I felt it could have been omitted, or parts of it integrated into the chronological narrative.

And now?  I'm ready for another visit to Florence.  You will be, too.