Busy Weekend

I’ve got a poop-load of writing to get done this weekend, but think I’ve got time for a couple of long walks and for worship service on Sunday.

A Busy October

I’ve been doing a lot of reading and writing for another project that has deadlines, so haven’t had as much time to spare for what my wife calls “joy-reading” or, for that matter, free written expression. I’ve also been attempting to research long-term vocational and other life outcomes for child sufferers of post-traumatic stress syndrome – but have found little of use in the journals usually devoted to this sort of thing.

Sometime during the month of October, 2009, fell the anniversary of my 25th year of sobriety. By no means have I lived all of the past 25 years responsibly or even in the way that made best sense to my thought processes that were occasionally impaired by rigidly held conceits and residue of a less than idyllic childhood. To the good, however, I never did go all Heathcliff, criminal; nor did I continue to actively seek my own destruction. I can only credit the faith of Christ for this.

In the Orwellian Year, in the cool early afternoon of a sunny October day, I dressed in my best clothes and made my way, I do not recall how, to a restaurant called El Paso Cantina located at one end of Ports O’Call Village in San Pedro, which is the port of Los Angeles. I had a bout five cigarettes in a shiny metal case, a Zippo lighter, and maybe five or six dollars. I was an underage drinker, but was rarely carded. I ordered some kind of mixed drink. The waitress, a young woman named Vlasta or Vlosta, of Yugoslavian ancestry, brought me my drink and gave me her telephone number. It must have been the next day that I checked myself in at San Pedro Peninsula Hospital’s drug and alcohol rehabilitation unit, thinking that I would there learn to control my drinking as a preliminary means to regaining some self-control and self-direction. I had become a sort of monster. I was about two months shy of my 21st birthday.

The recidivism rate for programs of that sort are high, and I do not know whether any of those in-patient with me , or even any of the program’s counseling staff, have remained clean and/or sober during the intervening years. During the course of my life I have, for the most part, turned my back on the acquaintances or ‘friends’ of my time as a drunkard. The people with whom I have kept in touch are the people who, for a number of reasons, matter to me. Along the way, I have met and both befriended and been befriended by other people who matter, and I wish I could have kept in touch with all of them. Even among those who matter, I have found it best to distinguish between those experience has taught me are best kept at arm’s length and those who generally tend to live and speak out of a truth that imbues them with a greater value.

I recall a dream I had sometime shortly before my 30th birthday. I was on a paved-over embankment sitting with my back against a chain-link fence feeling the warmth radiating up from the asphalt covered ground and metal of the fence, looking at the playground and buildings of Crestwood Street Elementary School – another of many places of unhappy memory for me – and was aware in that instant that everybody I loved knew that I loved them, whether I’d been in touch with them or not. When I awoke, I accepted the dream-world knowledge as fact, and went on.

My family and I had a good Halloween. My wife dressed our little boy as the cartoon dog, Blue, and we took him to visit family and friends. As we were leaving our neighborhood, I was incensed at the fact that people who appeared to be of the tax-consumer class were bringing their children in carloads. I thought that it is bad enough the government steals my money to pay their rent, buy their groceries, pay their utility bills, and now buy them cellular telephones and “minutes,” now I am supposed to give their children candy? Of course, none of that’s the fault of the children, and I normally have some charitable feeling for children regardless of their class. We ate supper at my mom’s house in another neighborhood, and our son was frightened by the orange Scream mask worn by a polite child who came to the door seeking candy. Seventy-Six ran off crying, and later, during the meal, seated in a place where he could see the front door, kept looking apprehensively over there saying, “Door?” We didn’t let him have any candy, but I think we did let him have some frozen yogurt.

My work has required me to travel to a county I’m not usually tasked with visiting to clean up the mess wrought by another group’s failure to adequately manage its responsibilities, and the driving involved has been tiring.

Our house is situated among a number of mature trees, and a million leaves have fallen on our yard. Another million or so are poised to fall over the next couple of weeks. I have discovered raking. My other strategy for coping with fallen leaves is even more primitive and ignorant, although it involves the use of an internal combustion engine and moving mechanical parts: I drive the lawn mower over the leaves repeatedly until they are ground up to the point where my conscience isn’t bothered by leaving (har) them where they lie. Even if that’s not correct, it is euphonious. Three of my nephews recently came over and, in exchange for a few dollars, helped move the piles of leaves to the curb. The youngest of the boys worked the most diligently. The older two combined their work with squirrel-like silliness.

We got a contract on our old house with a buyer more qualified and more committed to its purchase who is using a realtor and a mortgage company capable of performing the functions necessary to complete their assigned tasks.

That’s all I know good, right now. My great adventure is living the ordinary life in an ordinary way.

Neglected

I have been busy with other projects and have, of late, neglected this blog.  Maybe I’ll post something this weekend.

A Striking Image

Anybody else notice the striking resemblance last week between Kathleen Sebelius and Rotwang's evil counterfeit - the Machine Man from Metropolis?

Probably the most striking image I saw in the news last week was of Kathleen Sebelius manifesting a left-eye problem. If you haven’t seen Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, you should watch the 1927 silent film masterpiece, and then reflect upon the images above. Yoshiwara, anyone?

Chattanoogan Identity Card Photos

Identikit standard Indo-European binary typing stereoscopy

Shopping Trip

I’d planned to drive to the university at Murfreesboro to use the library Saturday, and Caution-Lady said she wanted to go along to do some shopping – Halloween treats for the kids in her class, and a costume for Seventy-Six, use a gift card at Target. Turned out I was able to find the resources I needed online and full-text, so I decided I wouldn’t make the drive. Caution-Lady received the news with a distant, angry, sad look on her face. She’d been looking forward to the trip, prefers to shop distant locales with company, and for some reason really likes it when I go shopping with her. We ate an early lunch and hit the road.

At Toys-R-Us we looked for the costume Caution-Lady had decided Seventy-Six should wear for Halloween, but were unable to find it. She bought some Pixie-Stix candy treats for her classroom, and I picked out cylume sticks for Seventy-Six to play with. Brightly colored and graphics-rich packaged toys appealed to him. A large toy truck in a case that transforms, moves about, and speaks at the touch of a button was one of his favorites. Each time after it completed its routine, the little guy emphatically pointed his finger at it by way of saying, “Again!” We also got him a child-sized toy broom that’s still a little too big for him. He likes to help sweep the house, and we want to encourage him to spend time while he’s under our roof to help carry out the chores necessary to maintain a home. I keep thinking he’ll accidently stick the real broom’s handle through the glass on a hutch, or into a ceiling light-fixture, or knock the photos off the piano. I’ve taught him already to hit toy balls across the floor with his small broom – like golf or polo.

At Target we were likewise unable to find the costume Caution-Lady wanted. Instead, we spent our gift-card on one of those umbrella strollers. Seventy-Six is still too young to walk everywhere with us, so it’ll be a handy addition to Whitecar’s trunk.

Finally, the Cautious One wanted to visit The Avenue, a sort of outdoor mall near Manson Pike Trailhead on the Stones River.  A row of stores specializing in clothing and accessories for babies and toddlers might have the right Halloween costume for Seventy-Six.  Alas, no joy.  I waited in the car with Seventy-Six giving him a snack of Kix cereal.  He didn’t seem to care that we hadn’t been able to find anything for him to wear Halloween.  We played with a hard plastic ball his aunt, Jennifer, had given him at Christmastime or for his birthday.  We counted individual pieces of cereal.  Eventually my wife returned to the car having found nothing suitable.

“(Another teacher whose name I’ve forgotten) said there’s a Halloween costume store here, but I don’t see it,” Caution-Lady said with a hint of distress in her voice.

“I’ll drive out this way, and maybe we’ll see it,” I said, “You look out for it, and I’ll try to make sure I don’t hit (any pedestrians with Whitecar).”

We found the store – a semi-big-box retail space that had evidently been sitting vacant until rented temporarily to house the “Spirit Halloweeen” store.  Adults young and middle-aged, families with elementary and older age children were walking into the store from the parking lot with facial expressions set to denote happy expectation.  We parked the car and went in, carrying Seventy-Six.  The decor was pretty much a Zombie/Satanic motif with red-eyed monsters and graveyard sets that included dead toddlers and babies clambering about in rotting green tones.  Caution-Lady tried to distract Seventy-Six, who didn’t seem to notice the store’s preoccupation with the filth of decay and the one-night-a-year hope of a devilish and horribly incomplete resurrection of the dead.  It struck me that said preoccupation is about as wholesome as and a lot like playing with feces – the waste products left behind when life departs.

Anyway, that store didn’t have anything suitable either, and we left it pretty quickly.  Apparently we’re not as big on the Halloween spirit-thing as a lot of other people in Middle Tennessee.  A pity I’d left my camera at home – this post should have some illustrations.

Back at the house, Caution-Lady bid on some costumes on Ebay, and eventually bought one.  We’ll see whether it arrives in time.

Some Pionier 450 S Frame Photos

I’ve already posted most of these in a Facebook Album, and may also put them in an album at Folding Kayaks website.

As you look at some of these photos, you’ll see what appears to be a powdery residue on the keel. Either the hullskin is turning to powder, or talcum powder was used when the boat was last assembled in order make eventual disassembly easier.

My blog stats show that two people have already downloaded the assembly instructions for this boat – happy to know there are some others interested in assembling a Pionier 450 S.

Stem or bow of the Pionier 450 S – truly beautiful

Completed bow assembly

This is how the cross-braces attach at the keel inboard frame Nos. 1 and 7.

Note the pronounced keel on this boat. My two Pouch folding kayaks have a sort of double flat keel Note also how the bottom of the frames accommodate the keel. The powdery residue may be from talcum powder used when the boat was last assembled.

Here are both bow and stern assemblies next to one another. Yes, the garage needs order imposed upon it, and when my shoulder has sufficiently healed, I’ll see to it.

This shows how the cross-brace members attach at the gunwales – permanently fixed thereto with a brass screw. They are part of bow and stern assemblies.

Completed stern assembly

Interesting features of the Pionier 450 S frame are cross-braces running diagonally from keel at stem and stern up to gunwales fore and aft the cockpit

Stern assembling, looking astern

Bow assembly seen from the side

Language

Seventy-Six is now about 18 months old, and seems to alternate between acquisition of social, linguistic, and motor skills.

Motor skills, for instance, he can jump up off the ground – getting a little air – at will and when asked. He can alternately walk or run. Sometimes he alters his gait to something that resembles skipping. He can build towers with blocks four or five high. He can pretty efficiently feed himself with fork or spoon. He’s learning to color and use a Magna-Doodle. He’s learned to climb up onto living room furniture without assistance (most of the time).

As to social skills, he answers questions, follows commands (when they are not too irksome), responds to conversational gambits, sometimes initiates conversation. He likes to play games that involve taking turns – uttering sounds, playing with items, playing peek-a-boo. He likes to play by himself. He likes to wrestle and play with the parents. He enjoys playing with other children. He expresses preferences for some types of food over others, and those preferences may change from day to day, meal to meal. Because he’s older, now, and more like a little boy than a baby, it’s harder for me to “let him cry it out.” Crying is, of course, one of the defining characteristics of babies. Sometimes they cry to blow off steam, and it seems like a normal, healthy activity for them. In an older child, however, I perceive crying arising from real distress. But I think toddlers still need to blow off steam by crying, still have no way of distinguishing between a serious problem and a minor annoyance – both may feel the same – without nice distinctions.

Linguistically, the little guy abbreviates words he’s not willing or able to completely enunciate by using the first letter of the word in place of the word. Tent is ‘T.’ Another child, named Ellie, is ‘E.’ Piano, Pizza, Peas, Printer are all ‘P.’ His sitter, Becky, is ‘B.’ Book, Bottle (now sippy cup), Bed, are ‘B.’ Other words he says clearly are Mop, Blue (Blue’s Clues), Keys. Other words he manages by uttering the first syllable, like ‘Tow’ for Tower.

Pionier 450 S Assembly Instructions

Pionier 450 S Instruction Sheets In German and English:

Pionier 450 S Instruction Sheets

Low-Res Image Dump

From my late, lamented 360.yahoo.com blog. The higher resolution images I’ve uploaded to a Facebook album. Happy Thursday, C.