Dislocation

"But no matter how much planning you do, one tiny miscalculation, one moment of distraction, can end it all in an instant."

--Jeannette Walls, Half Broke Horses

It had been an amazing two weeks, hiking the West Highlands Way in Scotland with my friends Jim and Dorothy.  But wait!  There was more to come.  On Thursday, September 8, I flew from Glasgow to Milan, where I was to meet up with a group of Jim's relatives, and proceed to a house we'd rented on Lake Como.

I arrived late in Milan, checking into my hotel near the Milan Central Station at about 9:30 p.m.  I'd been warned that my friends had already gone to bed; we were to meet over breakfast in the morning.

I bounced out of bed, full of excitement, the next morning.  I took a shower in the room's deep tub, thinking about the day to come.  I had to make sure everyone was gathered together -- Jim was flying in that evening, and Jim and Dorothy's son arriving early on Saturday, the tenth.  We had to be at the station reasonably early on Saturday to catch a train to Como, connect with a ferry to Menaggio, and arrive at our rental house some five miles north of Menaggio by the 4 p.m. check-in time.

My hair washed and my body scrubbed, I turned off the water and stepped out of the tub.  But I never quite made it.  My foot slipped on the soapy bottom of the tub, my head hit the wall, I tried to catch myself on the floor outside the tub with my right arm.  After that?  My only memory after that was of excruciating pain.  

Not just excruciating pain, as when you hit your finger with a hammer.  Excruciating pain that remained excruciating at the same level as the minutes went by.  It dawned on me, through my mental haze, that something had gone very wrong, something beyond twisting my wrist or shoulder.  Finally, I contacted Anne, one of the friends with whom I had planned breakfast.  She was alarmed by the sound of my voice, and sent John, her brother, to see what was wrong.  I somehow had managed to pull on some boxers before he arrived.

I suppose that, even when dying, I'll want to comb my hair before the undertaker arrives.

John and Anne and their spouses leaped wonderfully into the breach.  Somehow, an ambulance was summoned, my bags were packed while I squeaked out instructions, and we dashed to an orthopedic hospital, sirens wailing.

It's a cliché, but Italians do have a flair for the dramatic.

By now, I was well aware that I'd dislocated my shoulder.  Full props to the ambulance personnel for treating me gently and with compassion -- although our speed  on a rough road made an extremely uncomfortable ambulance ride.  But, to be honest, I was beyond being able to distinguish between degrees of "excruciating."

I was admitted immediately at the hospital ER, and -- after a frustrating conversation about my travel insurance -- was subjected to numerous x-rays.  I was then seen by an orthopedist who spoke quietly to me, held my hand, pulled my hand gently -- it felt good, the first improvement in my level of pain that morning.  She gradually pulled more strongly until -- wow! -- I felt great.  The pain almost totally vanished in an instant.  I was given post-reduction x-rays, and my right arm was wrapped up in a sling.

Great moments in medicine, as MAD Magazine once declared it -- the presentation of the bill.  I was expecting something in the order of several thousand dollars.  But it was 340 euros -- at a time when the euro was worth almost exactly the same as the dollar.  They didn't have enough information to bill my insurance company, and they couldn't take my credit card, so they handed me the bill.  Have your bank wire us the money, they requested, trustingly.

Was my stay at Lake Como ruined?  Hardly!  But it was changed.  My friends abandoned our plans for a train-ferry trip to the rental house, and hired a taxi.  Less problem with moving me and my baggage about, although by the time I returned to the hotel, aside from having one arm hors de  combat, I was back to being my usual excited, witty self.

I hiked (well, walked) long distances almost daily for the next two weeks, and did everything everyone else did, everything I'd planned on doing.  I just did it all one-armed, with my crippled arm tucked under my t-shirt.  

But I wasn't unaffected by my injury, even when the pain was minimal or non-existent.  Before, I had been, mentally if not physically, a young guy up for any adventure.  Afterward, I found myself considering each day's activities, asking myself if I could handle the challenge, and if I could do it safely.  Thoughts that rarely crossed my mind before the Great Shower/Tub Incident.

Returning home, I learn that I may have torn my rotator cuff, which might well require surgery with a long period of recovery.  I am scheduled for a shoulder MRI this evening.

Looking back, I keep pondering how my cheerful plans while showering, feeling excited about the day and capable of anything, were changed in an instant into extreme pain, and, worse, into a prolonged period of partial disability -- a period that continues today, and the full extent of which may not be known for months.

"One tiny miscalculation, one moment of distraction."  A lesson many learn to their sorrow at a much younger age than I have.  But a lesson that, whenever learned, changes one's sense of reality, of the continuity of life from one day to the next, from one moment to the next.

Writer's block, redux

So let's review the bidding.  Since July 28 -- nearly a month ago -- I have published one small essay on this blog:  On August 14, I reminded everyone that in two weeks I'd be in Glasgow.  Ready to begin my second walking of the West Highland Way. 

That was twelve days ago.  Tomorrow, I fly to Glasgow.

My blog has indeed been rich in content.  If by "rich" we mean one bare bones description of my planned vacation travel.  

And now?  It will be another 31 days from now before I return to Seattle.  To my computer.  To a place equipped to permit me to churn out my next feeble effort. 

Well, I do promise to give you, upon my return, a full accounting of my month's leave of absence.  

But there was a time -- say last summer -- when you were able to expect more from me -- in quality, and certainly in quantity.  Hopefully, my writing flows onward like a sine wave, and we have merely hit the bottom of that wave.  We're headed back up!  To amazing new peaks of quality, spun out several times a week. 

It could happen.

But then I remember the career of E. M. Forster.  Along with numerous short stories, Forster wrote five acclaimed novels between 1909 and 1924.  His 1924 novel, A Passage to India, was perhaps his best, the subject of a well-received movie in 1984.  Forster wrote that last novel when he was 45.  He lived to the age of 90, but never wrote another novel or other serious work, aside from some short stories published posthumously, during those final 45 years of his life.  

Now that's a serious writer's block.  I should post a photo of Mr. Forster above my computer as a stern warning.

Return to the Highlands

Paths are made by walking.

--Franz Kafka

Two weeks from today, I'll be looking forward to a comfortable bed in Glasgow, following a long flight from Seattle to London, and a 6½-hour layover at Heathrow.  I hope that I will have been reunited with my checked baggage, but, in light of recent airline difficulties,  I'll take the precaution of putting a few overnight necessities into my daypack.

Once in Glasgow, I'll meet up with friends Jim and Dorothy, and -- after my much-needed night's sleep -- we'll take a commuter train ride the following day to the suburb of Milngavie -- a pleasant small town, and also the start of the 96-mile West Highland Way northward to Fort William.  Those of you with extraordinary memories may recall that I hiked the same trail alone back in 2011.  It was one of my favorite British hikes, and I look forward to doing it again.

Immediately following completion of the hike, Jim and I will return to Glasgow by train, where we will say goodbye to Dorothy and catch a flight to Milan.  In Milan, we will meet with other members of Jim's family, and proceed to Lake Como, where we will stay in the same lakeshore house that my sister, cousin, and I stayed in a year ago.

At least that was my simple plan until British Airlines canceled my flight, forcing me to leave Scotland a day earlier than planned.  As a result, I will lop off the last 14 miles of the hike, and travel by taxi (or possibly, bus) from our overnight accommodation in Kinlochleven to the train station in Fort William.  Jim had better luck getting an alternate flight, and will be able to complete the hike, arriving in Milan one day later than will I.    

I'll be sorry to miss the last leg of the hike, but I did finish the entire hike in 2011 -- walking that last stretch in a constant downpour, as so often happens during summers in Scotland.  I'm glad Jim and Dorothy will be able to complete the hike, and wish them better weather than I had on my last day.

The West Highland Way is a beautiful hike, varied in terrain and in atmosphere -- from the gentle terrain of the Loch Lomond shoreline, to the bleak beauty of Rannoch Moor, down to the head of Glen Coe, up the switchbacks of the aptly named "Devil's Staircase," and across a forested expanse through Kinlochleven and on to Fort William.  

Just two more weeks!

This isn't Global Cooling

"[C]limate scientists warn that a decade from now, a scorching summer like this one might seem comparatively mild."

--New York Times (7-28-22)

Yes, I know that when they hear me complain that Seattle high temperatures have broken into the 90s for the fourth straight day, the reaction from the rest of world may well be bitter laughter.  In a different article, from a week ago, the Times wrote that during this past spring, the temperature in northern India routinely exceeded 110 degrees.  The heat was so persistent that people were unable to work. 

Much of the world consists of economies that barely provide basic necessities to their people.  Those economies are failing.  Because of excessive heat.  Because critical portions of the population insisted that global warming was a hoax.  

But the rest of the world exists only in my mind.  My reality is what I see before me, day after day.  And 90 degrees means something different to me -- who grew up in a world where 80 degrees in summer was considered hot -- than it would to a resident of Delhi, or Cairo.   Or San Antonio.  

At this moment, 6 p.m., it is still 90 degrees outside.  Inside my house, it is now 80 degrees, a temperature that has been very slowly rising throughout the day.  And "inside my house" means on the main floor.  Upstairs, where I sleep, it must be well over 100 degrees -- as you ascend the stairs, the change in temperature is sudden and overwhelming.

So I spend most of my day indoors.  My two outdoor-oriented cats have also spent most of the day indoors, sprawled out on a window ledge.  I will again go to bed at 11 p.m. or midnight, rather than my normal 10 p.m., as I wait for the upstairs to cool down.  Because one advantage Seattle possesses over some hot cities is that -- usually -- the temperature does cool down during the night.  Down to 64 or 66 degrees this past week.

This morning, I arose at 6 a.m., despite being retired and having no job to hustle off to. I opened front and back doors, hoping that a little fresh 66 degree air would cool the downstairs to below 70 degrees, in preparation for another day beneath the blazing sun. It didn't, really, never dropping below 72. I ate an early breakfast, glanced at the morning papers, and then left at 7 a.m. for a morning walk.

That walk was refreshing, and was definitely the highlight of the day. I followed one of my several walking routes -- through the Arboretum and down into Madison Park. I sat outside in the cool morning air at Starbucks, arming myself with a blueberry muffin and a latte, and then continued walking into Madrona, and wound my way back home.

It's sad, but that was the highlight of my day. I arrived home at 9:30 a.m., with the temperature already pushing past 75 degrees. I spent a short time on my back deck, being entertained by my cats and plucking a few dandelions out of the yard. Then, the temperature up to 80, the doors went shut, a fan in my living room was turned on, and I once more was barricaded against the outside heat.

A novel addition to my daily ritual: from 2 p.m. to about 3:30 p.m. I slept. Siesta time, making up for those lost hours at night. As well as the boredom of incarceration in an over-heated house. Who would have ever predicted that the Siesta would come to Seattle?

You may properly conclude that I don't have air conditioning. Correct. I'm a native resident of the Northwest Corner. We don't do air conditioning, because we don't need air conditioning.

So I keep telling myself, with less and less conviction, as I listen to the hum of the AC next door. Power-driven machinery, keeping a group of kids cool, kids renting the small, neighboring house. Bah! A waste of power and one more source of environmental degradation.

My cats look at each other, and roll their eyes.

Ascending Mt. Si, to measure decline

Many of us have childhood memories of measuring our heights at intervals -- keeping track of our growth, for example, with pencil marks and dates on a wall or doorjamb. It was encouraging proof that we were not only growing up, but getting bigger and stronger as we did so.  

I'm probably in a minority, however, in keeping track of my decline as I age -- by documenting the increasing time it takes each year to climb Mt. Si, an isolated 4,167-foot volcanic remnant, looming above the town of North Bend, Washington, about forty miles east of Seattle.  I've hiked the trail frequently ever since I was 26, but have documented my climbs annually only since 2011.  My Mt. Si post on June 5, 2011, continues to be one of my most frequently read entries, a reflection of the large number of persons who continue to climb the mountain.

Each year, I add to my 2011 post my most recent time to climb Mt. Si.  By which I mean the hike from the trailhead only to the open rock field, below the Haystack, where one emerges from the forest, some 3,200 feet above the trailhead.  The Haystack itself is a class 3 scramble which I did a number of times in my careless and foolish youth, but not in recent years.   

My annual time entries show a definite trend upward, and my physical condition a corresponding trend downward.  It takes me longer to climb the same distance each year.  In 2011, it took me an hour and 40 minutes.  Last year, that had increased to two hours, 13 minutes. Yesterday, it was five minutes longer: two hours, 18 minutes.

I'm not getting younger.  Or faster or stronger.  But I'm like the dog that learns to dance on his rear legs:  he doesn't do it well, but it's a miracle that he does it at all. 

Yesterday was a Saturday, and the trail was mobbed.  I used to hear complaints that hiking and climbing were recreations enjoyed only by privileged white youth.  That certainly wasn't true yesterday -- climbers of both sexes and of every conceivable ethnicity and age.  It was a veritable United Nations on the slopes, reminding me of a recent report that Seattle was behind only New York and San Francisco in the diversity of its population.

The usual approach to Mt. Si from Seattle is to take I-90 to North Bend, then exit and follow the winding road to the trailhead.  My car has some problems that made me uneasy about taking it onto the interstate, so I chose the "back road" that I'd never taken before.  I drove across Lake Washington on SR 20, continuing as far as Redmond -- a freeway as crowded as I-90 -- but then turned off onto SR 202, a very pleasant and scenic drive through rural King County, including the small towns of Fall City and Snoqualmie, ending up in downtown North Bend.  The drive takes about 15 minutes longer from my house than the I-90 route, but was much more enjoyable.

An enjoyable day that has become something of an annual ritual.  As has the following day, during which I once more learn to walk on legs made of rubber.

Return to North Rim

After my major disappointment, two months ago, as I unsuccessfully attempted to reach Bar Harbor, Maine, for an idyllic four-day vacation, I held my breath last week as I plotted a four-day visit to the Grand Canyon.  

The gods toyed with me, as they did with Odysseus's attempt to reach Ithaca -- throwing up a series of obstacles en route, obstacles that seem funny only in retrospect -- but they ultimately allowed me to succeed.

This was my fourth visit to the North Rim in the past decade -- prior visits having been noted in this blog in 2013, 2017, and 2018.  The place obviously attracts me.  As in those past years, I braved a six-hour drive, going and coming, between Las Vegas (the nearest major airport) and the Canyon.  As in past trips, I unaccountably chose to make the trip in mid-summer.  The temperatures as I drove through southern Nevada reached 114 degrees (45.4° C), but began moderating once I left I-15 at St. George, Utah, and began climbing toward the canyon.  

During my stay at the North Rim, with an elevation over 8,200 feet, the temperature never exceeded the high 70s -- far below the temperature down at the level of the Colorado River.  On past visits, I have braved hikes down into the canyon as far as Roaring Springs at 5,200 feet (2013), and the Supai tunnel (6,800 feet) (2017).  I began those hikes, both years, at about 6 a.m., and I still had a long, hot hike back to the rim.  

This year, I didn't feel like getting up at 5:30 a.m., or skipping a good breakfast in the lodge.  Shamefacedly, I admit that I therefore confined  my hiking to trails on the rim.  But it was some pretty good hiking, in a nice climate.

Grand Canyon Lodge is situated on something of a promontory into the canyon.  On its east is Kaibab Canyon, where the Kaibab Trail leads down to the river.   On its west, is another canyon, called the Transept.  A trail follows the rim of the Transept from the Lodge to the only North Rim campground, a distance of about 1½ miles.  Although there is no appreciable change of elevation between the Lodge and the camp, the trail dips up and down in places, making it an easy, but not too easy, hike.  I hiked the trail early on my first full day at the North Rim, and again as a send-off to the Canyon on the morning of my departure.  Both times, I returned on a dedicated Bridle Path -- closer to the road, and a slightly shorter route back to the Lodge.

On Monday afternoon, the day after my arrival, I hiked the Uncle Jim Trail (4.7 miles), a loop originating at the Kaibab Trail trailhead.  The trail was steep in places, the afternoon was hot, and I worried for a while that I should have brought more than my one liter of water.  Eventually, the path reaches the rim of Kaibab Canyon, and follows the rim for some distance with excellent views of monuments arising out of the depths of the canyon, such as the Throne of Wotan and the Vishnu Temple.  As the loop began moving away from the best view at the Observation Point, I heard distant thunder, and soon was drenched in heavy rainfall for about 45 minutes.  Unexpected, but entirely welcome -- my concerns about being overheated vanished as I strode briskly down the trail in sodden shorts and t-shirt.  A happy  Seattleite, hiking in the rain!

Tuesday morning, I drove the narrow, winding, 23-mile side road to Cape Royal, east of the Lodge with views not only of the canyon, but beyond to the Painted Desert far below, and mountain ranges beyond.  From the end of the road, there is a paved, flat, one-mile trail, lined with descriptive signs regarding local plant life, and with an excellent view of the Angel's Window, a square hole carved in the rock.  The trail ends on top of Angel's Window.

A 2.6-mile side road from the Cape Royal road leads to  Point Imperial, the highest point in Grand Canyon National Park, at about 8,800 feet elevation. 

Tuesday afternoon, I set off on the Widforss Trail.  The trail is 4.8 mile in length (one-way), circling the end of the Transept and following the opposite side back for some distance before turning inland toward the south.  I started late, and had no intention of completing the entire trail; I planned to be back for dinner!  I turned back after reaching the Transept's approximate end, maybe two miles.  It was a very enjoyable hike, with  ups and downs into side gullies, but not really strenuous.  Next time I visit the North Rim, I'd like to start early and hike the entire trail.  I met only one party while on the trail, and my car was the only one in the parking lot when I returned.

I got up early Wednesday, had my final Lodge breakfast, did a final hike on the Transept Trail to the campground, returned to the Lodge, spent some time hanging out on the Lodge patio, and finally checked out at the last allowable minute at 11 a.m., squaring my shoulders and facing my six-hour return drive to Vegas.  

I hated to leave.  I'll be back.

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

PS -- At Grand Canyon National Park, the Park Service has recently reinstated masking mandates at all indoor spaces for everyone, and -- for the unvaccinated -- at outdoor spaces where social distancing can't be observed.  Signs informing the public of these rules are posted everywhere.  While I was there, I was surprised at how many visitors totally ignored the rules.

Klara and the Sun

Sixteen years ago, while on a family canoe trip in France, several of us took turns reading Kazuo Ishiguro's novel, Never Let Me Go.   We were fascinated by his story of young people (all clones) who had been raised into their teens for the single purpose of having their organs harvested for the medical needs of those who could afford them. .  Fascinated, and creeped out.

Ishiguro's recent novel, Klara and the Sun (2021), is equally eerie, and raises somewhat similar questions in our minds -- questions we may or may not like contemplating.  Ishiguro's approach in both novels reminds me of that in works by Ursula K. LeGuin -- both authors deal with worlds very similar to our own, but with certain critical differences.  As LeGuin once stated, she was not interested in predicting our future, or in envisioning possible scientific advances -- she was not, she believed, writing science fiction.

Instead, like Ishiguro, in story after story, she described our own world, or a world very similar to our world, but one with certain critical differences, asking the question -- if we postulate these differences, what might result?

In Klara, the variable is the development of artificial intelligence to the point that resulting "robots" not only can imitate all human behavior, not only have superior perceptions to humans, not only excel humans in analytical skills, but also seem to have a sense of self and an ability to display empathy, to experience emotions.  

These abilities have permitted the development of robots that serve as "Artificial Friends," or AFs as they are called in the novel.  (A development we see developing even now, in "real life," in embryonic form.)

The story is told from the point of view of a female AF, whom we first see as she stands on the floor of a retail establishment, waiting to be purchased.  She develops a reciprocal friendship with a young girl, Josie, whose mother finally decides to purchase Klara to keep Josie company.  Josie is ill, it turns out, suffering from after effects of having been "lifted" -- genetic editing to increase intellectual ability -- which has become a prerequisite for admission to virtually all universities.  Klara is purchased to help keep Josie's spirits up, to give her a close friend, while she struggles with the illness.

As in his earlier novel, Ishiguro asks us what it means to have a soul.  In Never Let Me Go, the young people -- cloned, which in our civilization would not detract from their humanity -- were believed by everyone to be soulless, mere physical imitations of human beings.  In Klara, the AF is clearly a manufactured being.  But, by telling the story from Klara's point of view, we are left unable to doubt that she thinks, acts, and feels in ways identical to ourselves, modified only by not having the advantage of our years of gradually accumulated experience with the world.  If she doesn't have a soul, what exactly do we mean by a soul?

And what do we mean by love?  Klara doesn't love romantically, but she is devoted to Josie, to Josie's boyfriend, and to their hopes of a lasting relationship.  She loves the Sun, which she personifies as a divine presence, one to whom she turns repeatedly with both prayers and adoration.  She perceives the divine Sun, as it reflects through several stacked panes of glass:

Although his face on the outermost glass was forbidding and aloof, and the one immediately behind it was, if anything, even more unfriendly, the two beyond that were softer and kinder.  There were three further sheets, and though it was hard to see much of them on account of their being further back, I couldn't help estimating that these faces would have humorous and kind expressions.  In any case, whatever the nature of the images on each glass sheet, as I looked at them collectively, the effect was of a single face, but with a variety of outlines and emotions.

She thus develops a sense of the complexity of her divinity, the Sun, and, perhaps, of the complexity of human love.

As I've suggested, the entire story is told by Klara.  Klara has a high intelligence, an incredible ability to infer human emotions from studying faces, but a limited familiarity with day to day human life.  Her eyes apparently divide her range of vision into "boxes," blocks which she learns to combine to give a true picture of reality, the way we combine views from our two eyes to obtain three dimensional sight.  She has concluded that the sun literally sinks into the ground at the point of the viewable horizon.  Her nemesis throughout the book is some form of machinery that emits a cloud of smoke; she believes the purpose of the machine is to produce pollution, an offense against the Sun.

It's a fascinating story -- the oddities of Klara's perceptions, the intense, the lasting sense of guilt by Josie's mother for having had Josie "lifted," and thus subjected to life-threatening illness, the underlying love story between Josie and her friend Rick.  The Kindle edition has a Study Guide at the end, with eighteen questions to consider.  I didn't find the questions particularly helpful, but they do suggest the number of issues considered or hinted at in the novel, the various ways it might be interpreted.

Despite its complexity, Klara and the Sun is an absorbing story that draws one into its world, a world so like our own, but with the addition of thinking, feeling Artificial Friends, AFs with their own hopes and dreams and ways of viewing life around them.  

And an ending that is therefore heartbreaking.

Music in the park

Last night I enjoyed a free outdoor concert in Volunteer Park, provided by the Seattle Chamber Music Society -- the traditional precursor to their annual (indoors) summer festival.  I say annual, but -- thanks to the pandemic -- this will be their first summer season since 2019.  

Unlike prior outdoor concerts, this one was presented from the stage of "The Concert Truck" -- a van with a side that opens out into a small stage.  The Concert Truck, apparently an independent entity that has worked together with the Society this year, has been visiting various areas of the city, offering free concerts to audiences who might not otherwise have exposure to chamber music.

If I can offer an opinion -- thank you, I will -- I much prefer the open air stage to the Concert Truck venue.  The performers looked cramped on the tiny stage, and the acoustics sounded odd.  I suppose that instruments are always amplified in outdoor concerts, but they sounded peculiarly amplified, especially the piano, last night.  

The program was somewhat different from that announced on the Society's web page.  With a couple of exceptions, each piece played was a duet between piano and an instrument, or a piano for two hands.  One exception was one movement from a Bach cello suite transcribed for solo viola.  The other was a well-received performance of all four movements of the Dvořák Piano Quintet. 

Aside from the Bach and the Dvořák, the various duets emphasized African-American composers, or other Americana.  

The five players of the Quintet appeared uncomfortably crammed together on the tiny stage, but their playing was, as expected, excellent.

Outdoors performances have their advantages and disadvantages.  The primary disadvantage last night was the decision of Sea-Tac's Air Traffic Control to direct incoming flights over Voluntary Park seemingly about every ninety seconds (well, to be fair, as they probably do every night).)

The advantages of an outdoor performance on a pleasant summer night are obvious.  The ambience of a beautiful park.  Friends and families stretched out on the lawn, many accompanied by extremely well-behaved dogs.  Kids dividing their time between rapt attention, and running around the periphery, working off excess energy.

Entertainment not to be overlooked was the somewhat surreal appearance in the distant background, while a duet was playing on stage, of  the Society's artistic director and violinist James Ehnes.  He was wandering through the park, amongst kids playing games, warming  up his violin for his upcoming part in the Dvořák.  I'm not sure anyone besides me noticed -- but it brought to mind a scene from a Fellini movie.

Enjoyable evening, and a happy crowd.  Hope this tradition continues every year.

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)