Mr. Mole 1; Cats 0

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.  ...  It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on  the floor, said, "Bother!" and "O blow!" and also "Hang spring-cleaning!" and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat.  Something  up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air.  So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged, and the he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, "Up we go!  Up we go!" till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.

"This is fine!" he said to himself.  "This is better than whitewashing!"

--Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows 

I woke up last night with a start.  Loud thumping downstairs.  Years of experience taught me what to expect -- the game was afoot, and the cats were in hot pursuit.  Whatever it is, I prayed, just dispatch it quickly and keep it downstairs. 

But the pursuit lasted all night, and most of it was conducted in my bedroom.  I got up on a number of occasions and turned on the light.  Some poor prey was hidden back in the bookcases, and the cats -- doing their upmost, lying on their sides with front legs extended behind the books as far as they could go -- were not able to bring their quarry to the ground.  

I slept in snatches.  All in all, I was probably reduced to four hours of sleep, maximum.

The cats continued following the mouse from one hidden area to another, never getting their claws on him so far as I could see. I went to lunch about 11 a.m., and returned, not sure what I would find.   Please at leaast let the corpse be intact, I prayed -- not beheaded with quantities of rodent blood flowing across a carpet.

I wasn't prepared for what confronted me in the kitchen.  A small mouse, quite alive, daintily licking water from the cats' water bowl.  Pollux was asleep on the couch.  Castor was nowhere to be seen.  The mouse totally ignored me, even as I stood inches away from him.  

The mouse?  Well, it was the size of a mouse.  But with a very short tail, and odd looking forelegs.  Even its mouth was peculiar.  Could it be a mole, I wondered?  A very tiny infant mole?  It could, and I'm sure now it was.

If it had been a fast-moving mouse or rat, I could never have captured it.  But I approached it with a bath towel, and easily scooped the sluggish little devil off the floor.  It took three tries -- he was more wiggly and resistant, once in the towel, than he had seemed at first sight, but I evacuated him to a secluded part of the backyard.  Both cats still on vacation, fortunately.

The baby mole immediately began burrowing through the grass, and eventually under the grass.  Pollux chose this time to make a dramatic appearance, like the U.S. Cavalry, and my attention was diverted by the need to grab my wily and determined cat, take him kicking and screaming back inside, and close off his cat door.  Back outside, Castor then wandered onto the scene, but he was unaware of the drama happening within feet of himself.  Sure, let's go inside and check out breakfast, he suggested.

Finally returning to the backyard, I discovered that Baby Mole had dug a little tunnel, just barely underground, and I could still locate him by watching the disturbance as he inched his way across the yard.  He was headed for the hedge area, which was probably a good idea, as the soil there is looser and easier digging.  The last time I checked the area, there was no sign of my little friend.  

The cats -- "Our work is done!" -- slept all day, and I let them back outside at dusk.

No, it never occurred to me to flush Mr. Mole down the toilet.  Yes, I realize that adult moles play havoc on carefully tended lawns, but my lawn's not that carefully tended.  And unlike some conquerors, I don't kill my enemy's children, because some day they would otherwise grow up into adult enemy soldiers.  

I'm told that, while dogs often kill moles, domesticated, well-fed cats are more likely to play with them as toys than to actually kill and eat them.  So maybe his danger was less than I feared.  But I'm glad I didn't rely on that advice.

Moles eat prodigiously, and they continue eating and surviving underground in winter.  This little fellow was uninjured, so far as I could tell, despite his war with the cats.  And he was drinking water from a bowl, suggesting that he was weaned and able to find food on his own.  

I hope he builds himself a cozy mole-cave, beneath my yard or that of a neighbor.  And I hope that the trauma of this childhood experience will not discourage him from following the example of Kenneth Grahame's Mr. Mole.  I hope that some day soon, when the air is warm, the sun is bright, and the world is fragrant with flowers and grasses and opportunities for adventure, he will screw up his courage and venture to the surface.  And that he will look around happily at the world of nature and exclaim: 

"This is fine!  This is better than whitewashing!"

Ash Wednesday 2023

 
...it seemed clear that wars were not made by generations and their special stupidities, but that wars were made instead by something ignorant in the human heart.

― John Knowles,  A Separate Peace

"Medical student's disease"

As may be apparent from my posts, I virtually live to walk.  Around my house, out in the country,  or in a foreign country --  I spend vast amounts of time walking.

So when I suddenly began experiencing mild pain, weakness, and stiffness in my legs, I was concerned.  Possibly, it was a sign of old age, I thought, laughing at the concept of "old."  Or maybe it was from an overly enthusiastic attempt to strengthen legs by standing and sitting with my legs crossed.  That effort had, in fact, pulled an upper thigh muscle, which bothered me for several days -- maybe it also caused a generalized pain throughout my legs.

Of course, I could check with my doctor, but that's like asking for directions when you're driving through an unfamiliar town.  For us guys, it's only a last resort, after all attempts of self-help have failed.

No, far better that I do a fast check of my symptoms on Wikipedia.  Wikipedia always has an answer for everything, and it had a number of possible answers for me:

Stroke

Congestive heart failure

Spinal cord damage

Pinched nerve exiting spinal cord

Muscular dystrophy

Viral nerve damage

Cancerous and non-cancerous growths in brain, spinal cord, or peripheral nerves

Long time exposure to alcohol

Diabetes

Drugs, like statins and steroids

Slipped disk

Idiopathic inflammateory myopathy

Beriberi from Vitamin B1 deficiency 

Lou Gehrig's Disease

Cauda equina syndrome

I hardly got past the "congestive heart failure." My legs were forgotten, as, with beating -- nay, racing -- heart, I read all the indications of heart failure. Yes. I exclaimed to myself! I meet the diagnosis. Just like my dad, my heart's giving out on me.

By the following morning, common sense prevailed. Whatever my problems, I definitely do not have congestive heart failure. The leg pain, meanwhile, had paled into insignificance.

Saturday, I walked about eight miles; today about seven. My legs are still a little stiff each day as I begin my walk, but the stiffness quickly wears off.

I'll survive -- both my legs and my heart will survive -- to hike another hike.

Winter walking

It was near noon.  I was sitting in a dark room -- dark at mid day  -- staring out the window at a light but steady rain.  With a cat on my lap. 

The Rule of of Feline Ownership is, of course, that -- barring a threat of imminent injury (to the cat, not to the human) --one does not move until the cat himself chooses to move.  For amusement, I had at hand my Kindle and I had my iPhone.  I grew weary of reading, so I took the photo.

Well, I can't sit here all day, I remarked to my immobile cat.  Time for a walk.  In the rain.  To clear my mind and quicken my heartbeat.  My cat rolled his eyes.

I have two basic walking routes, each of which has a few minor variations.  By some odd coincidence, the half way point on both routes happens to be a Starbucks.  I order ahead while en route, and am often greeted by name when I arrive.  But not today.  Today, I decided to reactivate a route I used to follow frequently, back in the early days of the pandemic when half the challenge of my hike was anticipating and avoiding coming within six feet of other walkers.  

But it's  good route.  A little shorter than my others, but since I hadn't done it for a while, it seemed longer.  Up onto Capitol Hill, as far south as Roy Street, back to Volunteer Park, a loop around the south and west portions of the Park, down past Seattle Prep, and then through the length of long, skinny Interlaken Park. back to my own neighborhood.  About four miles total.

It had stopped raining.  But it was still drippy under the trees.  And I'm a Northwesterner.  I love sunshine, sure.  But I experience a certain exhilaration walking in the rain.  Unless the rain's actually a downpour being driven by a strong wind into my face.  It's still mid-February, but plants were in the early stages of their spring growth.  Some early-budding trees had buds.  A few flowers were popping out -- even a few early-blooming rhododendrons.  Birds were in full activity, busy about their business.  

I approve of nature, and nature, in turn, always obligingly cheers me up.

My route took me through neighborhoods filled with large, old houses, many dating back to the early days of Seattle.  Houses with odd shapes, large bay windows, towers, impressive balconies, three or four stories in height.  Square feet sufficient to room several families,  but that don't.  

I've read protests in the local paper about Home Sections that feature architecturally interesting houses, the kind of houses I saw while walking today, houses that are obviously far beyond my ability to ever purchase.  Readers protest that reading these features, looking at their size and their beautiful architectural details -- and at scenes of apparently happy, upper middle class families enjoying their good fortune -- just infuriates them, makes them angry and depressed.  I infer that they would love to drag these happy families out onto the street, and force them to live in cheap rentals like everyone else.

Not me.  I like reading about huge old houses, and studying them as I walk by.  I enjoy them for the same reason that I love visiting (or just reading about) castles and chateaux in Europe.  It's fun to walk past Buckingham Palace in London.  I'm not enraged that the Royal Family lives inside; if anything, I fantasize about living there myself.  

I never felt the urge to drag the Queen out and make her cook her own meals like everyone else.

But these are all topics for another day.  Today, let me just say that walking -- even walking in the rain -- maybe even especially walking in a light rain -- raises my spirits.  It helps me think clearly.  My daydreams while walking give me ideas for future travel.

Walking in a light drizzle even gives me the gumption to come home and remind the cats who's boss.  Oh.  Well, now I'm exaggerating.

Confirmation

As I completed my weekly thirty minute walk and approached the church last night, I caught sight of a crowd of young people milling about the door.  Uh oh, I now recalled.  I'd forgotten that we'd been given full warning last week that a group of young people were being confirmed this evening, in case we chose to attend a different service.

I hadn't been present at a confirmation service since my own confirmation as a 20-year-old.  Everyone being confirmed along with me was a college student, so the ambience was a bit different from last night's.  Twenty-four children, together with their parents and sponsors, filled the front half of the church.  The rear half, where I settled in, was uncommonly sparsely filled.  The ages of the "confirmands" appeared to range from about eleven to fifteen -- typically, middle school age.  Most were neatly dressed, most of the boys in white shirts and red bow ties, the girls in attractive dresses.

The celebrants processed down the central aisle, the various readers and two altar boys  followed by our two parish priests.  The entire ensemble was followed by an auxiliary bishop of the archdiocese -- wearing a miter (tall headdress) and carrying a shepherd's staff, just like in the movies.  After the homily, or sermon, the young people were called to the front by name, one by one, where the bishop laid his hands on the head and applied a smear of fragrant "chrism" (oil).

Theologically, baptism of the children, usually received as babies, was thus confirmed and the child's baptismal graces were brought to completion; the Holy Spirit was called down to enter and aid each of them, analogous to the descent of the Holy Spirit on the apostles at Pentecost.  (The children were warned that they might not feel different afterwards, but they were different.)  Socially, confirmation, which follows a series of lessons and instructions, resembles a Jewish bar or bat mitzvah (without the parties and gifts!), marking the spiritual adulthood of the young person and bringing him into full membership in the congregation.  

Each child had been asked to write a short statement for the weekly church bulletin, explaining why they sought confirmation, the name of their adopted patron saint and the reason for the choice, and something personal about their own life.  The paragraphs were often touching, occasionally a bit rote, with some hoping to love and aid the marginalized more fully (St. Theresa of Calcutta, St. Francis), some hoping to be strong when persecuted (St. Sebastian, St. Joan of Arc), and one boy expressing his  love of science and astronomy (St. Dominic as patron saint of science).

As for the "something personal," we had a group of young athletes, both boys and girls, devoted to a wide variety of athletics.  Other passions were a love of music and musical instruments, and, for two kids, playing card games.  

It was a lengthier ceremony than I'd anticipated when leaving my house last night, but the church was full of happy people, young and old.  In a nation and world full of hatred and cynicism, it was a relief to spend a couple of hours watching young people optimistically sharing their hopes for their own lives and for their world.

I walked home with a lighter step than at my arrival.

By train through the desert

Déjà vu all over again.  A year ago this coming Thursday I snuggled into a comfortable Amtrak roomette and began a cross country rail trip from San Francisco to Chicago.  I called it "A Train Trip to Nowhere," because I had no earthly reason to visit Chicago while it was caught up in the icy embrace of February.

And now, three weeks from tomorrow, I repeat that trip.  But leaving from Los Angeles, not San Francisco.  On the Southwest Chief, not the California Zephyr.  

But the idea is the same.  A long train trip, cozy in my roomette, watching the changing scenery whiz by outside my window.  Occasionally -- never as much as I anticipate -- reading.  Meals in the diner (two breakfasts, two lunches, two dinners, all included in the fare).  Two restful nights sleeping, after my seats have been converted to a bed.  (Not everyone agrees that sleep on a train is restful, but this is my trip, not theirs!)

I initially expected the trip from Los Angeles to be even longer than the trip from the Bay Area, but such is not the case.  More miles, undoubtedly.  But from San Francisco, the train passes slowly over first the Sierras and then the Rockies.  Once past Denver, the miles speed by surprisingly quickly.

But from Los Angeles, the train does a southern end run around both mountain ranges, moving from California, across northern Arizona, through New Mexico, entering Colorado east of the Rockies, and speeding through Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, and into Illinois to Chicago.

Both the Chief and the Zephyr are scheduled to arrive at about the same time in Chicago.  But the Zephyr leaves Emeryville (across the Bay from San Francisco) at 9:10 a.m. while the Chief doesn't leave L.A. until 5:55 p.m.  That makes the latter approximately a nine hour shorter trip -- nine hours that I'll miss experiencing.  But to compensate I'll be seeing parts of the country I've never seen before.

So I'll fly from Seattle to LAX at 9:10 a.m. on Monday, March 6.  I'll take the "Fly Away" shuttle from the airport to Union Station in downtown Los Angeles, with about five hours to kill until my train leaves.  Fortunately, Union Station has a lounge for sleeper passengers (although I gather far less impressive than Amtrak's lounge in Chicago, not to mention airport lounges provided by airlines for their qualifying passengers.)  But I can check my small item of baggage in the lounge, and either kill time in the lounge or wander around downtown.

Although I'll have time to kill in Los Angeles, life may be a bit more hectic on arrival in Chicago. I'm scheduled to arrive at 2:50 p.m. on Wednesday, March 8, but trains are often a bit late.  Sometimes a lot late.  I was lucky last year when my Zephyr arrived about 45 minutes ahead of schedule, but one can't predict.  My flight out of O'Hare, returning to Seattle, is scheduled to leave at 6:55 p.m.  If Amtrak is within an hour (or hour and a half) of being on schedule, I'll have plenty of time to walk a couple of blocks south of the train station to the Clinton Street CTA station, and take the rapid transit to O'Hare -- about an hour's trip.

If the train appears seriously late, as we enter Illinois from Iowa, I'll reschedule my flight out of O'Hare by phone and, if necessary, also book a room at some conveniently located hotel.  One way or the other, I expect to be flying home roughly on time, barring massive snowstorms or nuclear attack.

Some people say I spend too much time considering what might go wrong.  It's a professional disability of anyone who has spent his career trying cases  in court!  The habit eventually becomes sort of fun.

And you can never anticipate every possibility of disaster.  Who knows, some people have unpreditably slipped, just emerging from a shower, and dislocated their shoulder.  But, we won't go there!
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Photo:  Southwest Chief barrels through New Mexico

Audiences of the future

I've been increasingly impressed by the number of young people who show up for regular season programs by the Seattle Symphony.  Most frequently, by "young people," I mean high school and college ages.  But last night, I was impressed by the number of pre-teens, on best behavior, accompanying their parents.

The young boy -- maybe ten or eleven -- sitting directly in front of me was dressed in a dark suit and tie.  With white sneakers, but even so he was dressed better than I was, or, for that matter, than 90 percent of the male audience.  He listened raptly to the concert, occasionally whispering a comment to his mother.

If the program had included numbers like Peter and the Wolf, the Nutcracker Suite, or the William Tell Overture, I might have understood the appeal.  But, with the exception of the ten-minute Finlandia by Sibelius, the program consisted of pieces unfamiliar to many in the audience (including me), their music often atonal and with no obvious sense (again, to me) of melody and harmony.¹

But the music was stirring and often dramatic -- and maybe something that youngsters, with no preconceptions about "classical" music, might respond to more readily than would we stodgy old codgers.

The next performance on my season's ticket comes in just two weeks, and features Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto and a tone poem by Richard Strauss.  A couple of classical "hits" for us traditionalists.  It will be interesting to consider how the demographics of the audience for that performance differs, if at all, from last night's.

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¹Benjamin Britten, Violin Concerto

Dai Fujikura, Waverly World (world premiere)

Sibelius, Symphony No. 7

Stock photo

Month of mud and cabbage

And here we are.   The first day of February.  Once more we have survived the seemingly endless days of January (alleviated for me, this year, by my brief, mid-month jaunt to Maui).

In considering a blog topic, I recalled past posts about the origins of January -- two-faced Janus and all that.  And about March, named after the Roman God of War, the month when warfare again became practical in snowbound countries.  Practical for primitive reasons that are about to be re-discovered by the armies of both Russia and Ukraine.

But February was virgin blogging terrain.  Or so I thought until a scan of my own blog revealed an extensive history of the month in 2017, just six years ago.  How confused our memories become as the years go by!

As pointed out in 2017, February was named after the Februa, the Roman ritual of purification held half way through the month.  I noted, meaningfully, that sometimes entire nations require purification, as suggested by the recent election of, well, never mind.  He Who Must Not be Named.  In addition, the Church designated February 2 as the Feast of the Purification, but purification in a different sense -- a ritual ceremony under Jewish law that women underwent forty days after birth of a child.  Or, in this case, a Child.

Our nation is no less in need of purification now than it was six years ago.  But enough.  You are subjected to sufficient political angst on TV and in the newspapers.  

Not all nations have dwelled on ethereal concepts of purification, either Roman or Christian, in naming February. Many nations are more earthy. The Ukrainians call it лютий (lyutiy), meaning the month of ice or hard frost -- a name they must find especially poignant this year. Other Eastern and Central European countries have a number of outlandish names for February, most of them focusing on aspects of snow, ice, icicles, ice floating in partially frozen rivers ... well, you get the idea. Try to picture Lower Slobbovia as portrayed in one of the old Al Capp "Li'l Abner" comics.

No, let's just focus on the good, old Anglo-Saxon terms for February. Solmonath (mud month) and Kale-monath (cabbage month). They are both down-to-earth, and descriptive. It's where we of English descent descended from -- long cold, wet winters ending in mud and meals consisting of the last of the prior summer's cabbage, as our grandparents huddled shivering in their hovels.

At least they, like us, have March -- the month of War -- to look forward to. A little bloody excitement to bring us out of our long winter tedium. Things haven't changed much.