Backward Technology

Media Girl has taken to sending text messages to my cell phone.

My reply is generally call when u can.

Text messaging is a PITA. Press the key once for A, twice for B, etc. I feel like I'm sending Morse Code. Never mind the keys are so close together that I generally end up pressing two at a time.

Why would I want to peck out a message in this fashion when I can use the same device to actually speak with the person?

Somehow wireless providers have taken us back to the days of teletype and convinced us we're making advances.

April Waters

I have decided there's no time like the present to be bold and foolish. After all, we're soon all going to be living in cardboard boxes, wrapped in layers of blankets as we succumb to the swine flu.

So this weekend I did the previously unthinkable. I went for a quick April dip in the ocean.

I spent Sunday on the beach. The air temperature was in the nineties which made the ocean look particularly inviting. I knew the water could be no more than fifty five degrees but with Sahara winds sapping moisture from my body I steeled myself for immersion.

I probably could have stayed in longer than I did. It was no more than three minutes before I was numb from the waist down. Another three minutes and I could have been happily diving through breakers without a care in the world. The responsible part of my brain insisted there was that whole breathing thing to be concerned about, so before my mind slid behind a numbing fog I stumbled back out to shore.

I'm looking forward to May. Swimming should be a snap.

Super size Me

While I was driving today, my progress was interrupted by the descending traffic control gate of a local drawbridge.

This particular bridge crosses the canal that runs between local coastal towns. The canal is a narrow inland waterway that is mostly used by relatively small boats. So the arrival of a yacht or ship large enough to require the opening of the drawbridge brings with it a certain amount of curiosity.

Being fortunate to be near enough to the bridge to see the canal, I craned my neck left and right in an effort to catch a glimpse of the approaching vessel.

The only craft that passed was a rowboat with an outboard engine.

Granted, the captain of this small boat was puffing on a pipe, but I don't think enough smoke was being generated to be mistaken for the exhaust of a smoke stack.

I could only assume the old salt had radioed the bridge operator saying "Hey Jonas, super size me."

And that the bridge operator had accordingly set the gears in motion.

Bikes and Memories

Now that the weather is nicer, I decided I would start each day with a bike ride to the local marina and back.

As a kid, I was an avid bicyclist. I would think nothing of a twenty mile bike excursion.

Cycling became more the exception than the rule as I moved into adulthood. The trips shortened from extended excursions to cruising the neighborhood.

This morning I was again struck by the fact that, even though it had been nearly a year since I was last on a bike, I remembered how to ride without the slightest falter.

So if I can remember how to ride a bike after a one year hiatus, why is it I can't remember where I left my reading glasses twenty minutes ago?

This morning I remembered that my right hand works the rear brake, but Saturday I couldn't remember what that one extra item was that I needed at the grocery store - the item I didn't write on the list because, duh, it was just one item.

Perhaps the memories built during childhood are longer lived because they are more momentous.

Outdoor Breakfast

There's something about eating breakfast on the patio that gets the day off to a terrific start.

The splashing of milk into a cereal bowl accompanied by the gurgling of the waterfall in the fish pond is truly a zen moment.

The trilling and chirping of birds hopping through the grass in search of their morning meal is the perfect counterpoint to the snap, crackle, and pop of my own breakfast.

Sunlight alternately brightening and dimming to the passing of puffy clouds suggests the world is joining me in the joys of a leisurely start to the day. Soon the sun will rise high enough to get to the business of nurturing plants as I will get to the day's chores. But for the moment, pondering the day is sufficient.

Fruit Tip

Tomorrow will be our first marathon beach day of the season. Which means this evening has been spent loading the car with everything from sun block to barbecue grill.

In the kitchen we're marinating chicken breasts and making fruit salad.

I thought I'd pass along a tip I learned last summer.

If you squeeze the juice of a lime over a fruit salad (and stir well), the fruit will stay fresh much longer.

As a bonus, the hint of lime is a pleasant addition to the flavor of the salad.

Another tip - always buy at least one extra lime for the margaritas.

Barber Talk

I was at the barber shop today. I and the gentleman in the chair next to me were faced with the same dilemma. How to describe the way we wanted out hair to look when the barber was finished.

Lacking a micrometer or ruler, we were unable to define the exact length we wanted our hair to be. The best we could come up with was terms like: neat, short but not too short, squared off in the back, almost but not quite a crew cut, etc.

As a collective group, the barbers and customers decided a list of names needed to assigned different final results. The even all over, the get it off my ears, the heavy on the top, etc.

I don't know, somehow I think that still leaves too many variables. Heavy on top for Jimi Hendrix would come out looking a whole lot different that a similarly described result for Sean Connery.

Maybe barbers just need to start keeping slide rules in their shops.

Hovering Hawk

I was watching a hawk in the sky today. What caught my attention was the bird furiously flapping his wings but going nowhere. He was simply hovering.

It was very windy here today and the hawk was flying headlong into the wind, flapping his wings just enough to keep from being blown backward. The bird hovered directly overhead for what had to be over a minute. I was hoping the hawk didn't have to - well, you know- because I was at ground zero.

A subtle change in the position of its wings sent the hawk spiraling upward. No longer flapping its wings, the hawk glided on the air currents.

I was thinking that had to be the most peaceful experience in the world when I realized I had enjoyed a similar experience a few years back when I went parasailing.

Parasailing was one of the most peaceful experiences I've ever had. Wind rushing past my ears, blocking out all other sounds, as I sat beneath a parachute and scanned the ocean and shore for miles around.

Ah, to have the opportunity to do that on a daily basis. I wonder if the hawk appreciates the gift it was given.

Extraction

Queen B (my mother) had one of her chompers yanked yesterday.

When her tooth started aching, I was able to get her a hurried appointment with a dentist who shares office space with our regular dentist.

Small world. It turns out the dentist Queen B saw is originally from the same area that Queen B grew up in. He even knew Queen B's old dentist.

Once the offending tooth was removed we headed in search of a thick milkshake for the evening meal.

I considered offering Pedro's extra spicy chili for dinner - but figured it wouldn't be appreciated - even though it would have required minimal chewing.

Maybe some Tabasco sauce in today's soup? It is a little chilly out today.

Ancient Crab

It will soon be nesting season for the horseshoe crab and local volunteers will be heading to the Delaware beaches for the annual observation and recording of nesting sites.

I considered joining the volunteers until I learned that the crab tracking is done at night. That just gave me the chills.

Horseshoe crabs are some of the creepiest creatures I've ever seen. (You can click here to see a picture.) They make me think of the unspeakable creatures that haunt H.P. Lovecraft novels. In fact they would be the perfect creature for a Lovecraft novel. They're a remnant of the dinosaur era and, though called crabs, are actually closer to the spider family.

The thought of combing the beach at night, flashlight in hand, and tiptoeing through a mass of hard shelled spiders with razor-like tails is the thing nightmares are made of.

It's bad enough that I now realize I'm likely to be stepping on these spider crabs when I wade into the waters of the Delaware coastline.

Maybe I'll just stick to watching the other swimmers from now on.

Look Out

I have been doing some research on sailing ships for a short story I'm working on.

I needed some information about crows nests. The crows nest is the platform high up on the mast of the ship where lookouts spend their time.

I came across a picture showing the view looking straight down from a crows nest about one hundred and twenty feet above the deck of a ship.

You've got to be kidding me! If I were to be stationed up there the only looking out that would be going on would be the people below me looking out for what I had eaten at my last meal.

I get nauseous just thinking about what it would be like to be perched at that height with a storm rolling in.

I'm imagining clinging to the tip of a pendulum on an inverted clock. Now I see the ship below me, now I see nothing but water, now I see the ship...

Why do I suddenly have a craving for an egg salad sandwich?

Mother Goose

Now I know why there is no mention of Mr. Goose in the Mother Goose nursery rhymes.

Mother Goose sent him packing.

At least she should have if her mister was anything like the Mr. Goose hanging out at the pond near our house.

I was working outside this morning when I heard such goose racket that I just had to spring from my knees and see what was the matter.

Mr. Goose was distraught - no, infuriated - that Mrs. Goose had gone wandering too far from the nesting grounds. He honked angrily and mercilessly until his betrothed made an about face. Even then he hounded her every step, honking out continual chastisements, until he was satisfied Mrs. Goose understood her place.

Being the good companion, Mrs. Goose returned home and settled back down - until Mr. Goose fell asleep. Whereupon Mrs. Goose made a stealthy escape, leaving her insignificant other snoring in ignorance.

J-E-L-L-O

I was in a restaurant tonight and my attention was drawn to a nearby booth where a family of four was oohing and awing.

The source of the excitement was the arrival of two desert glasses filled with Jello.

It occurred to me that I haven't eaten jello since I've been married. Motivated Mom contends there is something unnatural about water that shimmies.

When you come right down to it, Jello is about ninety percent water, which does make me wonder just what the other additives are that manage to turn water into a gel somewhere between custard and corn oil.

Fruit can be mixed with the stuff - and still if jiggles.

If I were to pour something of similar consistency into a storm drain, the EPA would come looking for me.

I think I'll just continue to pass on the JELLO.

Wedding Plans & Old Ties

College Dude (our son) and Language Lass (his fiancee) have recently settled on a venue for their wedding.

The chosen place is a farm that has been converted to a bed & breakfast catering to momentous events.

It turns out the place is just around the corner from our old house in Lancaster County, PA.

I don't think College Dude has ever really forgiven Motivated Mom and I for selling his childhood home. When we first moved to Delaware, College Dude spent nearly as much time going back to visit friends in Lancaster as he did living with us.

Language Lass grew up in the same general area. (She and College Dude did not meet until after College Dude's family had dragged him from Lancaster.) Her family is still there. So it seems College Dude will have eternal ties to the region.

I wouldn't be the least surprised if College Dude called one day saying Hey Dad, I just bought our old house.

Pillow Talk

The subject of bed pillows came up today, along with bed making in general.

Motivated Mom (my wife) is a big believer in accent pillows for the bed. There are as many throw pillows on our bed as there are pillows we actually sleep with, making twelve pillows in all.

Something is backward in all of this. We hide the pillows we actually use beneath the bed covers or inside pillow shams, while the pillows we'll never use are prominently displayed in places where they could be pressed into service at the drop of a tired head.

Why don't we just get attractive pillow cases for the pillows we use every day and do away with the extra fluff? Bed making is nothing but a necessary evil anyway. Why complicate the process?

Making the bed should consist of nothing more than straightening the sheets as far as I can see. Why strive for decorative perfection every morning just to come home and tear it apart at night?

Think about it. If you knew animals were going to rip the flowers out of your flower box every night, would you keep planting new flowers every morning? Heck, no. So why is a bed any different?

Modern Jack

I've been following the news about the pirates who hijacked an American ship and took the ship's captain hostage.

I'm thinking that the leader of that particular band of pirates must be a modern day Jack Sparrow.

For those of you not familiar with Jack Sparrow, he is the pirate captain played by Johnny Depp in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. Somehow Captain Sparrow's plans always fall short of expectations.

So who else but a modern day Jack Sparrow sets out to hijack a ship without enough fuel in his own boat to get back home?

When I heard other pirate ships were moving into the area, I pictured a floating rum party with the other pirates guffawing at the captain who was now adrift.

It is not my intention to belittle the events. I think the crew and captain of the American ship were incredibly brave and I'm glad things worked out well.

I just had to wonder at the "little pirate that couldn't".

Similar Voices

I was watching a Lindsay Buckingham concert on television over the weekend. Many of us know Lindsay from his days with Fleetwood Mac. The concert that was on over the weekend was Lindsay with his own band.

Lindsay has a rather unique speaking voice. As I listened to him explain the stories behind some of his newer songs I kept thinking Lindsay's voice reminded me of someone else.

It wasn't until the concert was nearly over that I finally figured out that someone else was Red Skelton. Both Lindsay and Red have voices that fall into a unique octave range - and they both speak with a purposeful cadence.

Once I made the connection, I started sifting through my memories of Red's weekly television show. I thought about his characters of Clem Clididdlehopper and Freddy the Freeloader along with some of his pantomime skits.

We need a resurrection of those kind of television shows. I think we would all trade a quality variety show for wondering which of the people on a deserted island will be the first to eat red fire ants.

Cool and Fresh

It's that time of year when my attention turns to sprucing up the patio, porch, and gardens,

I was outdoors on Sunday following a day of soaking rains. The air was brisk and had that special fresh bouquet that comes after Mother Nature has completed some serious house cleaning.

The sky was a deep blue, clouds were only occasional and puffy, and sounds carried for miles.

It was the kind of day that makes me test the capacity of my lungs. The kind of day when I tend to forget about things I have to do and simply stare at the sky.

I found myself imagining I was in a meadow along the yellow brick road, with Emerald City in the background. I was ready to spread my arms wide and fall backward, carefree, into the cushioning meadow grass.

Then I realized that trips to the land of Oz required spontaneous song. My magical moment was broken. Were I to pelt out a tune, the newly blooming flowers would draw their petals shut in dismay.

I turned my attention to the gardening chores at hand,

Happy Easter

May you find happiness in the company of others as you observe your particular beliefs.

HAPPY EASTER

Pond Bottoms

I was dredging out the muck at the the bottom of our goldfish pond today.

I had to work carefully since the frog stooges had already set up housekeeping. The pitchfork method I've used in past years was out. Instead I blindly explored the bottom with my hands.

A winter's worth of muck oozed between my fingers. I scooped out dinner plate sized globs of interlocked leaves with green algae trailing like strands of over cooked spaghetti.

It made me think of the pond on my uncle's farm. I hated to go swimming there. Although the center of the pond was clear and clean, it was first necessary to wade through muck that oozed between my toes and sucked at my feet like quicksand.

I was a product of 1960's suburbia - swim clubs with concrete pools and chlorinated water. A pond nurturing cat tails and bullfrogs was no place for human recreation.

Standing Proud

I took notice of a nearby barn today. The wood siding, which at one time was no doubt bright and fresh is now a weathered gray.

The weathered siding is not detrimental to the appearance. The barn shows no sign of neglect. The roof doesn't sag, the doors are not hanging askew, and the glass in the windows is not broken.

Rather than announcing the barn needs maintenance, the silver gray siding calls the eye to a sturdy structure that has weathered the years well. Much as a successful person is eyed with respect as his hair begins to silver at the temples.

So if weathered clapboards can earn a building respect, where did we get into the mindset that structures most always sport the brightest, shiniest, man made finishes to be found?

I say hoorah for the stately structures that have endured the years with grace.

Feathered Bullies

I'm learning that Canadian Geese are the bullies of the aviary world.

Two goose couples have recently arrived at the pond near our house. The first thing they did was to drive off the ducks and gulls who have been calling the pond home for the past five months.

The geese strut around the pond bobbing their necks as if to say that's right, we're here, it's all about us now.

Mr. and Mrs. Mallard duck tried to make peace by keeping to the grass at just one end of the pond and slipping unobtrusively in and out of the water.

The insolent geese were having none of it. Both goose couples would rush forward any time a duck so much as twitched a feather.

I've always viewed ducks as fairly docile creatures so I guess I'm not too surprised that Mr. and Mrs. Mallard finally gave up.

But why did the seagulls so willingly back down? Gulls are generally assertive birds. I can only assume goose attitude must be a thing of legend in the bird world for only four geese to have driven off dozens of gulls.

Past Cubes

I was in a store yesterday that specializes in things for the kitchen. I discovered an item that I didn't realize was even made any more.

I stopped dead in my tracks and laughed out loud when I saw metal ice cube trays. If you are forty years of age or older you might remember these things. The cubes are formed by a mechanism that resembles something that might be used to force a confession. A series of metal plates (ice cube dividers) hinged to a center bar. Raising or lowering the bar causes the dividers to ratchet back and forth.

I can't begin to count the number of times I reached into a freezer with damp hands only to have my fingers weld to the sides of a metal tray. It was sometimes necessary to run the whole contraption under water just to get my fingers to release. By that time the cube release bar was glistening with frost. Just the sort of thing I wanted to wrap my hand around.

The screeching of frozen hinges as the release bar was levered back and forth was like chalk squeaking on a blackboard. The end result was a tray of half cubes. The top of of the ice cubes stayed in tact while the bottom half was grated into chopped ice.

Why are these things still made? Who would possible want to expose themselves to such a tortuous method of making ice cubes?

Green Dawn

Dawn arrived this morning as a pale green glow.

I knew the color was somehow wrong, but wasn't awake enough to figure out why.

Just as I was about to turn from the window, my ears caught a low rumble. Was it distant thunder - or my stomach reminding me it was breakfast time?

Thunder was confirmed by the first raindrop. The raindrop was heavy, sounding like a lead pellet hitting the window. I jumped, half expecting to see a spiderweb crack in the glass.

No crack, but the globule of moisture clung to the glass as a tiny bubble, in defiance of gravity. More drops hit and stuck like the suction cups on the ends of plastic darts. The window glass was beginning to resemble the wavy glass in my great aunt's kitchen cabinets that distorted the objects on the shelves.

Then the rain came in earnest and dawn was lost to a wet, gray haze.

Spur of the Moment

I walked to the mailbox today - and I discovered a neighbor.

The mailbox is only two blocks away, yet I had found myself looking for my car keys on the way out the door. If I had driven, I would have missed the opportunity for a spur of the moment conversation.

Our chat was brief, really little more than a verbal tip of the hat. Yet it was momentous enough to linger in my thoughts.

Why? I could say that the cold weather had kept me indoors and out of touch. While that would be accurate, there's more to it. Walking seems to be becoming as obsolete as front porches and manual garage doors.

It's an unfortunate loss.

Sitting on a front porch, getting out of a car to open a garage door, or strolling down the block all provide the chance for spur of the moment human interaction. The opportunity to acknowledge a neighbor - the opportunity to build a neighborhood instead of just living in a housing development.

In the Air

The signs of summer are popping up all over.

Just as trees are adding buds and flowers, people are shedding layers of clothing.

Scarves have disappeared in favor of sweaters tied across shoulders.

Knee length coats are gone, replaced by shorts that bare the knees.

Flowers are showing off new blooms, and couples are showing off new family members. Baby strollers are on the roll once again.

Those same happy families gather in front of takeout windows on the boardwalk, waiting for french fries, popcorn, and hot dogs.

Yes, summer is in the air.

Frog Stooges

We have a decorative pond in our backyard. Thanks to that pond I've learned lots of things about water creatures.

For instance, during the winter goldfish and frogs go into suspended animation at the bottom of the pond. There they lie, passing the winter in sleep, with a block of ice above them.

In spring, the fish and frogs awaken and resume their swimming, eating, and basking.

Sometimes mother nature plays cruel tricks. Two years ago the frogs awoke after three seventy degree days in January - then got caught in the refreeze. When spring arrived for real, we had ice cubes containing bloated frogs floating in the water. (I was tempted to put them in the freezer for later use if guests overstayed their welcome. I ended up deciding against that.)

Happily this year the fish and frogs survived. We have three playful frogs frolicking in our pond. I've decided to name them Moe, Larry, and Curly.

Shadows Past

I was scrolling through the program listings on the television the other night and saw a program listing for Dark Shadows.

What memories that brought back! As a kid, I and my friends would interrupt whatever afternoon activity we were involved in and sit in front of the television from 4:00 to 4:30.

Dark Shadows was our daily journey into the things we did not talk about after dark. Vampires, ghosts, journeys into mausoleums - these were all excitingly entertaining while the sun was still up.

Unfortunately the show that was on the other night was not the original but a weak remake.

Unbelievable that a producer would think that anyone other than the actor Jonathan Frid could convincingly portray the vampire Barnabas Collins.

Combat Zone

With all of the construction going on here recently, various contractors and I have been in and out of the crawl space under the house.

I can understand where the term crawl space would have originated, but I think it misses the mark.

Combat zone is a more appropriate name for the space that gives nightmares to those who suffer from claustrophobia.

Moving around requires shifting on elbows and knees like a sniper in a battlefield. While raising your head won't get you shot at, it is likely to result in scalp injuries.

Insulation sifts loose and falls in your face, dust swirls and fills your nostrils.

Then there's the unseen creepy crawly things that inhabit the combat zone. I always expect to find things with eight legs or more falling from within my pant legs when I resurface in the sunlit world.