When you change schools in the middle of the third grade, and you already smoke
cigarettes, it narrows your choice of friends in the new neighborhood. I started
hanging out with Tommy within a couple months. He smoked, got in a lot of fist
fights, and told jokes I had never heard before, and really couldn’t repeat to
anybody else.
During my years hanging out with Tommy, I sneaked out in the middle of the
night in summertime, did a bit of vandalism, shoplifting, fighting – sometimes as
teams against gangs from other schools, sometimes against each other. We
looked up to older guys, who were further along the same path. Lots of our
friends had spent some time in Skipworth – the Lane County’s ‘juvie’ hall. Some
of our more hardened role models had done serious time in Maclaren up in
Woodburn. They called Maclaren a reform school, but, judging from the guys
coming out of there, the only reforming going on was honing the skills they would
need as future adult criminals. Though I was in awe of these guys, I really didn’t
want to emulate them. Even when I was immersed in this, I didn’t see it as my
future, and tried to stay on the periphery; keeping one foot on a straighter path.
If we had been caught in some of our adventures though, my path might have
been decided for me – at least in the short term.
I got in a lot of fights, both within my gang, and with other kids at school.
Sometimes it would be a spontaneous flurry of fists, but at least a couple times a
year, I would be ‘featured’ in an arranged after-school fight on the playground,
that other kids would plan for. Because so many of the kids I hung out with did
this same thing, I thought it was normal. It wasn’t, even then. A number of kids I
grew up with are now Facebook friends. And at least a few of them tell me I was
the only person they ever fought. It is my shame that I sometimes don’t even
remember fighting them … much of that time is a blur of stimulus and out-of-
control response. At a high school reunion a few years ago, I ran into somebody I
hadn’t seen since graduation. He didn’t remember me at first, but when it finally
dawned on him, he blurted out ‘You’re left-handed, aren’t you?’ I am, and
confirmed that, and he mentioned that I had broken his nose with a left hook.
The shame I carry from that period of my life, and the osteoarthritis in my hands
and wrists are the legacy of my lack of impulse control.
I don’t blame my Dad for my pugnacious nature, but he was an influence,
whether intentional or not. He grew up tough in Hoquiam, on the Washington
coast, had been a varsity boxer in high school, and continued boxing in the Navy
during the Second World War – when they would set up a boxing ring on the deck
of the aircraft carrier he served on. One year, he gave me and my brothers each a
pair of boxing gloves for Christmas. It was all well-intentioned, but in my young
mind, it validated the idea of using my fists. Dad would tell me, ‘Never start a
fight, but once you’re in one … finish it!’ No doubt, this is advice he was given by
his Dad, and he just passed it on.
I don’t know for sure what broke me of the tendency to fight. Two things
contributed. Some of my friends’ older brothers were being drafted and sent to
Vietnam – and in a couple cases, not coming back. I didn’t believe in that war,
and wanted to be a contentious objector, but thought that a life punctuated by
violence might work against gaining that status. The other factor was marijuana.
In junior high, some of my buddies started smoking pot, and when I tried it, it kind
of took the fight out of me. Prairie Home Companion fans may remember the
commercials from the Ketchup Advisory Board, which tout the ‘natural mellowing
agents’ ketchup contains. If you relate to that, you can see the effect pot had on
me. I don’t recommend this to others – as a teenager, it had a detrimental effect
on my overall motivation. But it made me an easier-going person. I may have
extended that self-medication longer than needed, but have long-since left it
behind.
Leaving fighting behind, along with the increasing numbers of ‘better’ kids who
also smoked cigarettes, enabled me to enlarge my circle of friends. Over time, I
saw less and less of Tommy and the gang. I’ve never seen him as adults. I heard
from old classmates that he has served time in prison, and that a few years ago,
accidentally blew one of his lower legs off with a shotgun he had intended to use
to intimidate somebody into revising the terms of a drug deal he thought should
have gone differently.
When I retired my fists I substituted a sharp wit, and a poison pen. I convinced
myself that I only unleashed these on those who truly had it coming, but that’s
the same easy fiction I told myself when I was fist fighting. I doubt that many
people are changed for the better after verbal humiliation, any more than they
would after being punched. It took me years to realize that this was as
destructive to my heart and soul as fist fighting ever had been. I now try to use my hands
to build useful things around my house, and my words to validate and heal. Old
habits die hard, but I keep my eye on the prize, and am successful more often
than not.
When my daughter Madeleine was in Kindergarten and First Grade, I coached her
soccer team. There was one boy who had a tendency to suddenly act out – either
pushing another player down, or screaming at them. His parents were in the
midst of a divorce, and he wasn’t handling it well at all. Some of the parents
asked me to kick him off the team, but I asked them to give me a little time to see
what I could do. I can’t claim to have turned this boy’s life around—I haven’t
stayed in touch, and don’t know how things have gone for him—but I did spend
some time with him, showed him some respect and love, and helped him practice
impulse control. He would still occasionally get angry, but there were no more
incidents of violence. Part of me feels that I owe the universe something – and
that perhaps helping nurture a troubled boy might be at least something positive.
I can never untip the scales for the actions of my youth … any more than one can
‘unsay’ a cruel comment or ‘unspank’ a child. But I hope that some of the nature I
try to cultivate in my behavior now at least has some healing effect on others I
encounter.
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
WFW - Hamilton in the Snow
For my birthday, I chose a day on my own in the woods. A solo hike up Hamilton
Mountain seemed to be just what the doctor ordered. I hadn’t been up there for
a long time, and was overdue for my favorite go-to hike.
There as snow on the ground at the trailhead; a promise of deeper snow up
above, so I put on my new strap-on cleats – the heavy-duty ones with the teeth
like crampons.
I put in my earbuds; music enough to lay the soundtrack for my day, but quiet
enough that I could still hear the sounds of nature through it. Lord Huron would
be perfect – beautiful, ethereal and just a bit mysterious.
Out there’s a world that calls for me, girl
Headin’ out into the unknown.
The first steps up the trail from the parking lot are anything but unknown – as
familiar to me as any footsteps in the Gorge. The snow, with the spots of bare
ground where tracks had worn through spoke of earlier adventures, and the
promises of my day. This would be time out of time for me – time within my
mind, punctuated only with brief trail greetings and exchanges of pleasantries
with others of my ilk.
There is no waiting for the incline to begin, and within a hundred yards my
breathing was deeper and faster. The crispness of the winter air held tickled my
nose, and lungs. I anticipate the first landmark – the clearing that opens for the
power lines coming from the dam to keep the lights on.
And I feel like I know this place
as the tree line breaks into wide-open space
A hiker ahead of me had pulled over. She was wearing tennis shoes, with no
traction help. She said she would continue, but I could only wonder how far up
she would reconsider and turn around. We spoke briefly, and I pushed on.
You made me swear I’d never forget,
I made a vow I’d see you again
The trail winds around a bend then opens to the left, looking down to the first
footbridge, cutting back to cross a stream. I remember the first time I brought my
daughter and former wife on this trail; stopping here to take their picture on the
bridge. It’s so easy to frame the shot, and catch an unforgettable moment – even
in summer. It was familiar in the snow—though the bridge now held only
memories—it was starkly beautiful.
Further up I began to hear the sounds of Hardy Creek in the distance – meaning
that Rodney Falls and the Pool of the Winds were getting nearer. I met the hiker I
has seen earlier on her way back to the lot. Slippery was the order of the day, and
she made a good decision to go back.
I reach the place where the trail descends to the footbridge that crosses Hardy
Creek just below Rodney Falls. I pause to take in this beauty before I walk down.
I don’t hike up to the Pool of the Winds this time. The trail is narrow where it
passes under a cliff, and in slippery conditions it’s a risk I’ll pass up this day. I love
this feature, but not enough to give my life to reach it.
Lie where I land, let my bones turn to sand
I was born on the lake and I don't want to leave it
Across the bridge, with a couple pictures in the can, I walk back up the other side.
The trail is steeper now, and will be for the next mile. You don’t necessarily
notice it as you walk, but there is one place where the terrain folds back, and the
path continuing on the other side, looks daunting in the distance. Once you
round the corner though, it’s just one foot in front of the other, looking forward
to the turn at the top of this pitch, what has an incredible view of Beacon Rock,
and the Oregon side of the Gorge. This is stunning in summer and winter. This
year, it is doubly stark. I’m torn between the rugged beauty of the bare trees
jutting whisker-like from the landscape, and the grief for the incredible forest that
no longer provides the hills a modicum of modesty. I take a couple pictures as I
catch my breath, and press on.
A bit further is the fork in the trail. The new sign is more informative, but less
whimsical than the old sign that read ‘Difficult’ to the left, and ‘More Difficult’ to
the right. I loved that sign, both as validation for the sensation in my legs, and as
a metaphor for so many of the choices we face in life.
After a bit of scrambling, I reach a promontory that goes out to a 500+ foot cliff. I
choose to not walk out to the edge today, but take a picture of a gap that affords
a peek-a-boo view of a meadow, and the river beyond.
Don't want a long ride,
I don't wanna die at all.
Because of a late start and friends making me dinner when I got home, I had
planned to hike only to a saddle that affords a breathtaking view of a cliff-face at
the edge of the last part of the climb. But the snow was deeper there, and
sloppy. People were passing less frequently, and it looked like weather might be
coming in. Since I was by myself, I turned around to head down.
About a quarter mile back down, I was approaching a particularly challenging five-
foot step. As I began to consider what would be the best way go down the step, I
forgot to think about where I was in the moment. My feet came out from under
me. I slid about twenty feet, changing directions at the last minute – avoiding a
significant drop, and landing at the bottom of the five-foot step. Problem solved.
All that was injured was a slightly bruised buttock and my pride. A small price to
pay to be there.
The rest of the hike down was uneventful. I reached the parking lot grateful for
my time alone in the woods, and ready for the companionship of my friend with
food and drink together.
This is my go-to hike. I have stayed away for a while – allowing her to provide
solace to displaced hikers from the Oregon side. But I have missed her.
Where could that girl have gone?
Where? I've wandered far.
Where could that girl have gone?
She left no trail but I cannot fail; I will find her.
Mountain seemed to be just what the doctor ordered. I hadn’t been up there for
a long time, and was overdue for my favorite go-to hike.
There as snow on the ground at the trailhead; a promise of deeper snow up
above, so I put on my new strap-on cleats – the heavy-duty ones with the teeth
like crampons.
I put in my earbuds; music enough to lay the soundtrack for my day, but quiet
enough that I could still hear the sounds of nature through it. Lord Huron would
be perfect – beautiful, ethereal and just a bit mysterious.
Out there’s a world that calls for me, girl
Headin’ out into the unknown.
The first steps up the trail from the parking lot are anything but unknown – as
familiar to me as any footsteps in the Gorge. The snow, with the spots of bare
ground where tracks had worn through spoke of earlier adventures, and the
promises of my day. This would be time out of time for me – time within my
mind, punctuated only with brief trail greetings and exchanges of pleasantries
with others of my ilk.
There is no waiting for the incline to begin, and within a hundred yards my
breathing was deeper and faster. The crispness of the winter air held tickled my
nose, and lungs. I anticipate the first landmark – the clearing that opens for the
power lines coming from the dam to keep the lights on.
And I feel like I know this place
as the tree line breaks into wide-open space
A hiker ahead of me had pulled over. She was wearing tennis shoes, with no
traction help. She said she would continue, but I could only wonder how far up
she would reconsider and turn around. We spoke briefly, and I pushed on.
You made me swear I’d never forget,
I made a vow I’d see you again
The trail winds around a bend then opens to the left, looking down to the first
footbridge, cutting back to cross a stream. I remember the first time I brought my
daughter and former wife on this trail; stopping here to take their picture on the
bridge. It’s so easy to frame the shot, and catch an unforgettable moment – even
in summer. It was familiar in the snow—though the bridge now held only
memories—it was starkly beautiful.
Further up I began to hear the sounds of Hardy Creek in the distance – meaning
that Rodney Falls and the Pool of the Winds were getting nearer. I met the hiker I
has seen earlier on her way back to the lot. Slippery was the order of the day, and
she made a good decision to go back.
I reach the place where the trail descends to the footbridge that crosses Hardy
Creek just below Rodney Falls. I pause to take in this beauty before I walk down.
I don’t hike up to the Pool of the Winds this time. The trail is narrow where it
passes under a cliff, and in slippery conditions it’s a risk I’ll pass up this day. I love
this feature, but not enough to give my life to reach it.
Lie where I land, let my bones turn to sand
I was born on the lake and I don't want to leave it
Across the bridge, with a couple pictures in the can, I walk back up the other side.
The trail is steeper now, and will be for the next mile. You don’t necessarily
notice it as you walk, but there is one place where the terrain folds back, and the
path continuing on the other side, looks daunting in the distance. Once you
round the corner though, it’s just one foot in front of the other, looking forward
to the turn at the top of this pitch, what has an incredible view of Beacon Rock,
and the Oregon side of the Gorge. This is stunning in summer and winter. This
year, it is doubly stark. I’m torn between the rugged beauty of the bare trees
jutting whisker-like from the landscape, and the grief for the incredible forest that
no longer provides the hills a modicum of modesty. I take a couple pictures as I
catch my breath, and press on.
A bit further is the fork in the trail. The new sign is more informative, but less
whimsical than the old sign that read ‘Difficult’ to the left, and ‘More Difficult’ to
the right. I loved that sign, both as validation for the sensation in my legs, and as
a metaphor for so many of the choices we face in life.
After a bit of scrambling, I reach a promontory that goes out to a 500+ foot cliff. I
choose to not walk out to the edge today, but take a picture of a gap that affords
a peek-a-boo view of a meadow, and the river beyond.
Don't want a long ride,
I don't wanna die at all.
Because of a late start and friends making me dinner when I got home, I had
planned to hike only to a saddle that affords a breathtaking view of a cliff-face at
the edge of the last part of the climb. But the snow was deeper there, and
sloppy. People were passing less frequently, and it looked like weather might be
coming in. Since I was by myself, I turned around to head down.
About a quarter mile back down, I was approaching a particularly challenging five-
foot step. As I began to consider what would be the best way go down the step, I
forgot to think about where I was in the moment. My feet came out from under
me. I slid about twenty feet, changing directions at the last minute – avoiding a
significant drop, and landing at the bottom of the five-foot step. Problem solved.
All that was injured was a slightly bruised buttock and my pride. A small price to
pay to be there.
The rest of the hike down was uneventful. I reached the parking lot grateful for
my time alone in the woods, and ready for the companionship of my friend with
food and drink together.
This is my go-to hike. I have stayed away for a while – allowing her to provide
solace to displaced hikers from the Oregon side. But I have missed her.
Where could that girl have gone?
Where? I've wandered far.
Where could that girl have gone?
She left no trail but I cannot fail; I will find her.
WFW - Saint Louis
If you say to an American, ‘Take me to Saint Louis, Louis’, you’ll either get a blank
stare, or a smile that takes them back to a show tune from a century ago. Heck,
they may even come back with a tune to go with the lyrics.
Ask a Parisien the same question, and they may just walk you to Sainte Chapelle,
on the Ile de France in Paris, just a few blocks from Notre Dame.
Saint Louis … King Louis IX, or Le Roi Saint Louis is memorialized with a statue on
the main floor of Sainte Chapelle. His bones are buried elsewhere, but this is
where his statue sits, surrounded by beauty.
At one time, Sainte Chapelle was said to hold an item considered priceless to
Medieval Christians; in fact, it was built expressly to hold it. Louis spent his life
fighting wars, leading Crusades, concluding peace, uniting and expanding his
kingdom … basically kingly-type stuff. But he did one thing that no other French
king, before or since, has done.
Louis purchased the crown of thorns from the Byzantine Emperor. It is said that
Louis paid a quarter of France’s annual national income for the crown of thorns;
so you know it has to be the real Crown o’ Thorns, because … you know … who in
his right mind would pay that much for a knock-off? He built Sainte Chapelle
primarily for this relic. It’s incredible when you think of it, that one of the most
magnificent buildings in Paris was built for this, and actually cost only a fraction of
what was paid for the Crown of Thorns.
Every year on Good Friday, the Crown of Thorns would be taken from its safe
storage, and presented to the congregation at Sainte Chapelle. It was moved
during the French Revolution, and I think is now at Notre Dame.
stare, or a smile that takes them back to a show tune from a century ago. Heck,
they may even come back with a tune to go with the lyrics.
Ask a Parisien the same question, and they may just walk you to Sainte Chapelle,
on the Ile de France in Paris, just a few blocks from Notre Dame.
Saint Louis … King Louis IX, or Le Roi Saint Louis is memorialized with a statue on
the main floor of Sainte Chapelle. His bones are buried elsewhere, but this is
where his statue sits, surrounded by beauty.
At one time, Sainte Chapelle was said to hold an item considered priceless to
Medieval Christians; in fact, it was built expressly to hold it. Louis spent his life
fighting wars, leading Crusades, concluding peace, uniting and expanding his
kingdom … basically kingly-type stuff. But he did one thing that no other French
king, before or since, has done.
Louis purchased the crown of thorns from the Byzantine Emperor. It is said that
Louis paid a quarter of France’s annual national income for the crown of thorns;
so you know it has to be the real Crown o’ Thorns, because … you know … who in
his right mind would pay that much for a knock-off? He built Sainte Chapelle
primarily for this relic. It’s incredible when you think of it, that one of the most
magnificent buildings in Paris was built for this, and actually cost only a fraction of
what was paid for the Crown of Thorns.
Every year on Good Friday, the Crown of Thorns would be taken from its safe
storage, and presented to the congregation at Sainte Chapelle. It was moved
during the French Revolution, and I think is now at Notre Dame.
WFW - Listening to Scientists
Listening to scientists is the beginning of a slippery slope, with the potential to
dislodge you from what you learned growing up … and what you might be
learning now, if you stuck to traditional sources.
The nice thing about traditional learning is that it doesn’t change from time to
time. Truth is revealed, and it remains truth forever. Scientists tell stories that
change all the time. Last year they said to not eat eggs, now they say to eat eggs,
but not the toast. They tell us the Chinese landed a rocket ship on the dark side
of the moon, then tell us there is no dark side of the moon. They tell us that
we’re receiving radio signals from outer space that were sent over a billion years
ago. A billion years ago? How do they know … were they there?
Scientists do things that make us change what we do. They tell us to stop
smoking, but we have a right to smoke. They tell us we can’t log the forests,
because of spotted owls, and that we can’t dam the rivers because of salmon.
First they tell us that we’re descended from monkeys, but where’s the missing
link? Now they’re telling us that the coal and oil we burn is making the world
hotter, even as the Midwest id having the coldest winter in history. It just doesn’t
add up! They just want us to fail, by not doing our best to compete with the
Chinese. That should be obvious to anybody.
A few hundred years ago, an apple plopped on Isaac Newton’s head, and he
thought up gravity. I mean, so what! This is the same guy that invented Calculus,
so even if gravity’s a good thing, that doesn’t make up for it. Anyhow, about a
hundred years ago, some Einstein … I mean THE Einstein said that Isaac Newton
got it all wrong, and that there isn’t a force of gravity, but planets and stars bend
something called ‘Spacetime’. Seriously, he called it that, and came up with all sorts
of crap about what happens to things when they go really fast … that they
get heavier and that time slows down. What a crock! Time is time, and has
nothing to do with space. They’re just trying to confuse us.
Now they’re going after people who don’t want to get shots for measles, or the
flu, or whatever. Hell, I had measles when I was a kid … it wasn’t so bad! And I
hate getting shots!
dislodge you from what you learned growing up … and what you might be
learning now, if you stuck to traditional sources.
The nice thing about traditional learning is that it doesn’t change from time to
time. Truth is revealed, and it remains truth forever. Scientists tell stories that
change all the time. Last year they said to not eat eggs, now they say to eat eggs,
but not the toast. They tell us the Chinese landed a rocket ship on the dark side
of the moon, then tell us there is no dark side of the moon. They tell us that
we’re receiving radio signals from outer space that were sent over a billion years
ago. A billion years ago? How do they know … were they there?
Scientists do things that make us change what we do. They tell us to stop
smoking, but we have a right to smoke. They tell us we can’t log the forests,
because of spotted owls, and that we can’t dam the rivers because of salmon.
First they tell us that we’re descended from monkeys, but where’s the missing
link? Now they’re telling us that the coal and oil we burn is making the world
hotter, even as the Midwest id having the coldest winter in history. It just doesn’t
add up! They just want us to fail, by not doing our best to compete with the
Chinese. That should be obvious to anybody.
A few hundred years ago, an apple plopped on Isaac Newton’s head, and he
thought up gravity. I mean, so what! This is the same guy that invented Calculus,
so even if gravity’s a good thing, that doesn’t make up for it. Anyhow, about a
hundred years ago, some Einstein … I mean THE Einstein said that Isaac Newton
got it all wrong, and that there isn’t a force of gravity, but planets and stars bend
something called ‘Spacetime’. Seriously, he called it that, and came up with all sorts
of crap about what happens to things when they go really fast … that they
get heavier and that time slows down. What a crock! Time is time, and has
nothing to do with space. They’re just trying to confuse us.
Now they’re going after people who don’t want to get shots for measles, or the
flu, or whatever. Hell, I had measles when I was a kid … it wasn’t so bad! And I
hate getting shots!
WFW - No Dark Side
Sorry, Pink Floyd fans; there is no such thing as the ‘Dark Side of the Moon’.
There is a side which always faces away from the Earth, but it is, on average just
as light as the side which does face us. In fact, since the side which faces away
from us is never eclipsed by the Earth’s shadow, its average illumination is just
ever-so slightly brighter. This doesn’t amount to much, but if we choose to label
one side or the other as ‘dark’, I’m afraid it would have to be the side which faces
us.
So, why does the same side of the moon always face the Earth? Is it mere
coincidence that the Moon rotates on its axis at exactly the same rate at which it
orbits the Earth? Does it have something to do with the origin of both bodies,
that these two movements would be so precisely coordinated?
Actually, it is a phenomenon known as ‘Tidal Lock’. The same interaction
between heavenly bodies that cause our seas to rise and fall twice a day, also
affects the interior of each. The liquid mantle deep within the Earth also moves
just a bit with the tides … not much, but a bit.
The effect of the Earth on the Moon’s interior is much more profound. If we
presume (as scientists do) that the Moon once rotated on its axis at a rate
independent of its orbit around the Earth, the proximity of the much-larger Earth
so close to the Moon would cause incredible internal tidal dynamics with each
rotation. These dynamics, this friction, had a slowing effect on the Moon’s
rotation, as friction tends to slow any motion. Over time—and there has been
plenty of time (~4.5 billion years)—the friction completely overcame the
rotational inertia, and the Moon’s rotation became synchronized with its orbit.
The Moon is not alone in this tidal lock phenomenon. Mercury, the closest planet
to the Sun always shows the same side to the sun, for the same reason. It is likely
that, given enough time any small celestial object near a much larger object will
exhibit the same behavior.
In fact, the tidal pull on the Earth’s interior, mentioned above, has a slowing
effect on the Earth’s rotation. But because the Earth is so much larger than the
Moon, the effect is much slower, and the changes in rotational velocity of the Earth
are much smaller. It is estimated that an Earth day is about 1.7 milliseconds
longer than it was a century ago. While this seems a very slight rate of slowing,
given enough time—and, as I mentioned, there’s plenty of time—the Earth’s
rotation would eventually also slow to the rate of the Moon’s orbit. My only
caveat to this is that the time required is long, and our sun may become a red
giant, and envelope both the Earth and the Moon before this occurs – making the
whole question moot.
There is a side which always faces away from the Earth, but it is, on average just
as light as the side which does face us. In fact, since the side which faces away
from us is never eclipsed by the Earth’s shadow, its average illumination is just
ever-so slightly brighter. This doesn’t amount to much, but if we choose to label
one side or the other as ‘dark’, I’m afraid it would have to be the side which faces
us.
So, why does the same side of the moon always face the Earth? Is it mere
coincidence that the Moon rotates on its axis at exactly the same rate at which it
orbits the Earth? Does it have something to do with the origin of both bodies,
that these two movements would be so precisely coordinated?
Actually, it is a phenomenon known as ‘Tidal Lock’. The same interaction
between heavenly bodies that cause our seas to rise and fall twice a day, also
affects the interior of each. The liquid mantle deep within the Earth also moves
just a bit with the tides … not much, but a bit.
The effect of the Earth on the Moon’s interior is much more profound. If we
presume (as scientists do) that the Moon once rotated on its axis at a rate
independent of its orbit around the Earth, the proximity of the much-larger Earth
so close to the Moon would cause incredible internal tidal dynamics with each
rotation. These dynamics, this friction, had a slowing effect on the Moon’s
rotation, as friction tends to slow any motion. Over time—and there has been
plenty of time (~4.5 billion years)—the friction completely overcame the
rotational inertia, and the Moon’s rotation became synchronized with its orbit.
The Moon is not alone in this tidal lock phenomenon. Mercury, the closest planet
to the Sun always shows the same side to the sun, for the same reason. It is likely
that, given enough time any small celestial object near a much larger object will
exhibit the same behavior.
In fact, the tidal pull on the Earth’s interior, mentioned above, has a slowing
effect on the Earth’s rotation. But because the Earth is so much larger than the
Moon, the effect is much slower, and the changes in rotational velocity of the Earth
are much smaller. It is estimated that an Earth day is about 1.7 milliseconds
longer than it was a century ago. While this seems a very slight rate of slowing,
given enough time—and, as I mentioned, there’s plenty of time—the Earth’s
rotation would eventually also slow to the rate of the Moon’s orbit. My only
caveat to this is that the time required is long, and our sun may become a red
giant, and envelope both the Earth and the Moon before this occurs – making the
whole question moot.
WFW - Tumalo Mountain Morning
The packed snow squeaked beneath my snowshoes as I left my car and made my way across the parking lot to the place where I would step off the trail, and head uphill. Soon the parking lot would be filled with the sights and two-stroke smells of snowmobiles off-loading and heading out. But I would be oblivious to them. Once in the woods, outside sounds are quickly muffled.
As I stepped off the track, the squeaking sound was soon replaced with a nearly imperceptible whoosh of powder being displaced with each step. Forty yards in, this was the only sound, other than my breath.
The sky overhead was a study in pastel blues – translucent Caribbean to the east; fading to azure to the west. I could see the sun kissing the icy treetops, but since my route began on the southwest slope of the mountain, I would be in the shade for at least the first hour of my walk.
After a few minutes, I looked back to get my bearings – not that it’s all that easy to get lost going up a cinder cone … if you’re heading up hill, you’re on track. Behind me, across Century Drive, I could see the chairlifts on Mount Bachelor begin to move; not holding any stylishly-clad butts for another hour or so – just cycling through so the operator could confirm they work properly, flip the seats down, and brush off the night’s accumulation of snow and ice. The Sno-cats were on their last overnight run; working their way down the mountain, leaving wide corduroy paths in their wake—ego-snow—which would lend the first skiers of the day a false sense of competence, before warming temperatures and accumulating moguls replaced those delusions with cold reality.
I could see each breath as I exhaled, little puffy clouds of water vapor, suspended in front of me as they froze to micro-crystals. The sense of aloneness was so profound – so welcome. After two days of lift lines and rapid descents, a morning of measured steps and solitude was the elixir I needed. An airliner passing above left thin cloudlike contrails in its wake, as it traversed the sky. I paused for a moment to consider where it was heading, and the lives of the people on board, six miles high, traveling at nearly the speed of the silence we shared.
The sun began to work its way down the nearby trees, slowly melting the ice that coated each branch, and hung from them in icicles. Every so often a chunk of ice would break off a branch, and hit with a thud against the branch below, before falling into the snow. As I continued, this percussion became more frequent, like a percolator beginning to brew the morning coffee. Finally, the sounds were almost constant – like a thousand Andean rain sticks. It was other-worldly. I looked around, and realized there was nobody else; the concert was just for me. Then, as rapidly than it had built to its crescendo, the sounds diminished; becoming more random ... less frequent ... then finally not there at all.
A minute or so after the concert ended, as I had returned to my waking dream state, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. I spun to look in the direction of the sound, and saw powder still suspended from where a branch had broken off and fallen into the snow. The tree stood within a grove of standing dead trees – many so desiccated that the water which freezes each night is ultimately all that holds the branches to the trunk. finally comes the morning when the ice thaws, and the branch gives way, to the tune of a broken-bat single, as it drops to the ground – returning whatever meager minerals and nutrients it retains to the sparse earth, whence they were drawn.
This thin forest of standing dead trees stood as they had for decades; ancient ghost-sentries—their forest green uniforms long-since faded to gray, and fallen away—manning their posts in death as in life; the vanguard frontier of the losing battle against climate change. They now resemble rows of abandoned scarecrows, or crumbling crucifixes – standing where they had vicariously atoned for mankind’s unrepentant sins against nature; bravely facing our longer, hotter summers, and decreasing precipitation; finally falling to those most relentless six-legged horsemen of the apocalypse – the pine bark beetles.
I pressed on – haunted, yet nourished by what I had seen and heard. Above the scrub pine forest, was an open snow field. By now the nascent morning sunlight reached the surface of the snow at an acute angle. As I walked, it glinted from the millions of individual ice crystals, like a visual cacophony of camera flashes capturing a key play at a nighttime Superbowl. As my mind wandered—a couple hours of free association being the reason I was there—I imagined these flashes were directed at me, as though somebody wanted to document my ascent for posterity. ‘Gosh, it ain’t no big deal’ I would reply with the best breathless humility I could muster, ‘It ain’t nothin’ any other elite athlete couldn’t accomplish on a good day’. Yeah … sometimes I really crack myself up.
My musing came to an end as I reached the juniper grove that guarded the summit. This grove, though only about thirty yards across, is dense, and confusing – a labyrinth, requiring strategy to negotiate. Some years, when the overnight snowfall hid the paths of earlier hikers, I’d plod up and back two or three cul-de-sacs before finding a place to break through. As nice as it is to lay fresh tracks on virgin powder, there is something to be said for the confidence in one’s path that comes from following more experienced footsteps.
Beyond the junipers, the slope flattens, and I reach the bald pate of the summit. The view is breathtaking - irrespective of the aerobic work to reach the top. Ahead, and just west of due north is Broken Top. No depth of snow can hide the scars of the geological violence which it's name describes. Further west, and a bit north, lay South Sister – more distant, but no less dramatic, with its more refined cone-shaped summit, followed by Middle and North Sister. On a clear day like today, Mount Washington, Three-Fingered Jack, and Jefferson may be seen, shining in the distance.
As beautiful as is the view, the top is exposed, and it doesn’t take much of a breeze at 25 degrees to discourage a lingering farewell. A few pictures to capture the moment; perhaps brief pleasantries with other intrepid souls at the top, then a U-turn back to head downhill.
Descending Tumalo Mountain seems less memorable. It goes faster, and there is less attention to the scenery (or perhaps less need for excuses to take a break to admire it). Wherever there is a clearing, you just look at Mount Bachelor – by now in full operation. The faster pace, and without the effort of climbing in the snow, the unconscious craving for out-of-body moments is not as strong. And, of course, there is my focus; hike to the bottom, doff the snowshoes at the car, drive back to town, and enjoy the cold beer I’ve just worked so hard to earn.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
Thursday, February 14, 2019
WFW - Friends Tour
I don’t have a lot of ex-friends. When I form a friendship, the connections grow deep roots, and I hate digging them up.
But there is one.
The summer before my sophomore year of college, I was scouting a place to live, and ran into this fantastic old farmhouse about a mile east of Corvallis on Highway 34. It was HUGE – eight bedrooms for four guys, so each of us had a bedroom and a separate study.
Anyhow, I met George when I checked the place out. He was in graduate school in the same mechanical engineering program where I was an undergraduate.
He was quirky as hell, and had no filters at all. In most situations, especially at first, it seemed funny. It very quickly became obvious that he simply didn’t care about the effects of his words or his actions – and that we who laughed at him were enablers. I am not qualified to diagnose, but his behavior seems to perfectly fit the descriptions of narcissistic personality disorder. He had an intense need to be the center of attention, and would do or say whatever it took to remain there.
He moved out after about a year, to move in with Ann, who would one day become his wife. She is incredibly gentle; intelligent, well-read, and kind. In a way, they complemented one another. Both are intelligent, but her sensitive nature offset his thoughtlessness. With the passage of time, I would visit them, more to enjoy her company than his. I imagine there were many like me in that regard.
Eight years later, after I had moved to California, then moved back, and was married, I told him we were going to be parents. Without hesitation, he responded with, ‘Don’t get too attached; it could die.’ I had known George long enough that there was no delay in my response that if she did, I would kill him. We both chuckled at this great humorous exchange, but his comment really hit home. As one who has spent his life catastrophizing, I have lived in fear since the day she was born that this would come true, and his comment didn’t help much. A couple years later, when my Mother was diagnosed with cancer, I prefaced my telling him with a warning to just listen and to keep his mouth shut. Uncharacteristically, he did.
As horrific as his standard behavior always was, I didn’t see much of George, and it mostly didn’t affect me personally, so it didn’t create a breach. He was just an oddity, even among my menagerie of odd friends.
I don’t recall how I heard that he and Ann were divorcing. The rude way he told her would have been shocking for anybody else, but standard for him. He sent her home early from a vacation in Argentina. When he got home a couple weeks later, he rang the doorbell and waited. When Ann answered, he told her he was not coming in, that he wanted a divorce, and that they could work out the details later.
I was terribly disappointed, but I really try to not judge the inner workings of other people’s marriages … or divorces. My goal has always been to maintain bonds of friendship with both parties. But what happened a few weeks later cut the cord with a jagged, rusty blade.
George called to say he’d be in Vancouver, so we invited him over for dinner. I didn’t plan to broach the subject of the divorce, and to just wait and see. The wait was very short. By the time the wine had decanted, he was on a roll, elaborating about what a terrible wife, and human being Ann is, and how he was lucky to be out of such a terrible marriage. I was stunned and disgusted, but tried to be as neutral as possible. After a while, it became clear that George was looking for validation for what he had done, and the he wanted his friends to choose between the two of them. I didn’t communicate it to him that evening, but his insistence that I decide made the decision for me. For years, I had shared much more in common with Ann than with him; so it was a choice of maintaining a rewarding friendship, or a complex relationship with an intelligent, but immature man.
I occasionally have asked mutual friends about George since that evening, but have never sought him out, nor he me. The validation he sought that night was not forthcoming, which was all he needed to know. I doubt he grieved losing me any more than I do him. I wish him well, along with his Argentinian wife, and their child – but don’t feel the need to ever see him again.
I stay in touch with Ann. A few years ago, when I was in Bend, I stayed with her and Bill - the wonderful, caring man with whom she now shares her life.
But there is one.
The summer before my sophomore year of college, I was scouting a place to live, and ran into this fantastic old farmhouse about a mile east of Corvallis on Highway 34. It was HUGE – eight bedrooms for four guys, so each of us had a bedroom and a separate study.
Anyhow, I met George when I checked the place out. He was in graduate school in the same mechanical engineering program where I was an undergraduate.
He was quirky as hell, and had no filters at all. In most situations, especially at first, it seemed funny. It very quickly became obvious that he simply didn’t care about the effects of his words or his actions – and that we who laughed at him were enablers. I am not qualified to diagnose, but his behavior seems to perfectly fit the descriptions of narcissistic personality disorder. He had an intense need to be the center of attention, and would do or say whatever it took to remain there.
He moved out after about a year, to move in with Ann, who would one day become his wife. She is incredibly gentle; intelligent, well-read, and kind. In a way, they complemented one another. Both are intelligent, but her sensitive nature offset his thoughtlessness. With the passage of time, I would visit them, more to enjoy her company than his. I imagine there were many like me in that regard.
Eight years later, after I had moved to California, then moved back, and was married, I told him we were going to be parents. Without hesitation, he responded with, ‘Don’t get too attached; it could die.’ I had known George long enough that there was no delay in my response that if she did, I would kill him. We both chuckled at this great humorous exchange, but his comment really hit home. As one who has spent his life catastrophizing, I have lived in fear since the day she was born that this would come true, and his comment didn’t help much. A couple years later, when my Mother was diagnosed with cancer, I prefaced my telling him with a warning to just listen and to keep his mouth shut. Uncharacteristically, he did.
As horrific as his standard behavior always was, I didn’t see much of George, and it mostly didn’t affect me personally, so it didn’t create a breach. He was just an oddity, even among my menagerie of odd friends.
I don’t recall how I heard that he and Ann were divorcing. The rude way he told her would have been shocking for anybody else, but standard for him. He sent her home early from a vacation in Argentina. When he got home a couple weeks later, he rang the doorbell and waited. When Ann answered, he told her he was not coming in, that he wanted a divorce, and that they could work out the details later.
I was terribly disappointed, but I really try to not judge the inner workings of other people’s marriages … or divorces. My goal has always been to maintain bonds of friendship with both parties. But what happened a few weeks later cut the cord with a jagged, rusty blade.
George called to say he’d be in Vancouver, so we invited him over for dinner. I didn’t plan to broach the subject of the divorce, and to just wait and see. The wait was very short. By the time the wine had decanted, he was on a roll, elaborating about what a terrible wife, and human being Ann is, and how he was lucky to be out of such a terrible marriage. I was stunned and disgusted, but tried to be as neutral as possible. After a while, it became clear that George was looking for validation for what he had done, and the he wanted his friends to choose between the two of them. I didn’t communicate it to him that evening, but his insistence that I decide made the decision for me. For years, I had shared much more in common with Ann than with him; so it was a choice of maintaining a rewarding friendship, or a complex relationship with an intelligent, but immature man.
I occasionally have asked mutual friends about George since that evening, but have never sought him out, nor he me. The validation he sought that night was not forthcoming, which was all he needed to know. I doubt he grieved losing me any more than I do him. I wish him well, along with his Argentinian wife, and their child – but don’t feel the need to ever see him again.
I stay in touch with Ann. A few years ago, when I was in Bend, I stayed with her and Bill - the wonderful, caring man with whom she now shares her life.
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
WFW - Kit Dodd
The first time I met Kit was the beginning of fifth grade. They had started a music program for grade schoolers. I went to the first few meetings, and chose the stand-up bass, because that was the only instrument the student’s family didn’t have to rent; they just had a couple at the school you could use.
Kit played the viola – and while my experience with classical string instruments was very brief, his was lifelong. Fifty years later, Kit was still playing the viola in the Syracuse Symphony – and later with the musician-owned Symphoria, which rose from the ashes after the Syracuse Symphony’s bankruptcy.
I mostly lost track of Kit after high school. We had run in very different circles, and, aside from memories of somebody I admired, he rarely crossed my mind.
At one point, we rediscovered one another through Facebook. We were each surprised by how much we had in common, and an on-line virtual friendship grew. His quick, sharp wit, sense of humor, and knowledge of quality beer all endeared him to me.
I began camping each August with a group of boyhood friends in the summer of 2005. Some of them were much closer friends with Kit than I was. Brother Brian invited him to come out one year and join us. He did so that year, and each year after. He had to fly all the way from New York, but since both he and his wife (more on Becky shortly) both have roots in Eugene, they would combine trips.
In one sense, Kit brought a level of refinement to our rustic camp. None of wear tuxedos to work, and he is likely the only one who could tell Bach from Rachmaninov, or Dvorak – and he could tell one of their works after a mere handful of notes.
But Kit wasn’t there to class the place up, but to bond with old buddies on a level we all shared … eating unhealthy camp food, drinking beer, playing cards, and generally just loving one another’s company. And he damn sure didn’t wear a tuxedo to camp … more often an Oregon Ducks sweatshirt and cap. He brought unique food from his part of New York … salt potatoes, and Dinosaur brand barbecue sauce; one year, he brought kits so we could make our own cannolis, and helped us remember the immortal line from the Godfather, ‘Leave the gun! Take the cannoli!’
He downplayed his role in helping his symphony survive the bankruptcy, and rise from the ashes. But as one of the longest tenured performers, and the music librarian, he was a linchpin, and his fellow musicians have never forgotten.
He brought a CD one year that included music from Symphoria, and from his side-gig with the Clinton String Quartet. He pointed out one piece in particular; as they were playing it one time, he was moved to tears by its beauty, and when he looked around, he noticed that some of the other musicians were crying as well. I thought that was interesting … I love music, and am sometimes deeply moved by it, but it had never occurred to me that a performer could be, even as he or she performed it. It really touched my heart.
I loved talking with Kit about his lifelong love of Becky. She was his girlfriend when he was in eighth grade, and she in seventh. To my knowledge, neither of them ever dated anybody else. For one like me, whose love life consists of randomly-arranged chapters in a poorly bound book, they are a shining beacon of stability. One time, when I expressed my admiration of their steadfastness, he warned me against idealizing them – and that they had certainly had their share of struggles. He didn’t go into detail, I could tell they had been as serious as most couples face. That they chose to face these struggles together only made me love and admire them all the more.
As a viola player, Kit had to endure the same type of jokes bass players do in rock bands. One evening Becky shared this one, ‘How can you tell when the orchestra stage is level? When it is, the viola players drool equally out of both sides of their mouths!’
We plan meals in camp with two guys assigned to each breakfast and each dinner. I was always glad when Kit and I were paired up for same meal. It was a nice time to catch up, while the rest of the guys were preoccupied elsewhere. He’d bring a unique staple from Syracuse, and I’d be responsible for the more perishable local ingredients.
We had just gotten our meal assignments in the spring of 2016 when Becky told us that we may need to make a change of plans. It seems that Kit had suffered a stroke, and was not likely to be able to come that year. He was having trouble balancing, and she was worried about tree trunks and the other tripping hazards in camp. I told her that, if his condition improved enough, I would be willing to meet him at the airport, and do all the driving, so he wouldn’t have to. He could stay at my house, then as the camping date approached, we could go to Eugene, and just stay at a motel and visit friends, rather than risk the hazards of camp, and the distance our camp would be from help.
For a couple weeks, it looked like that plan might work. But then Becky contacted me again to say that they had discovered that Kid hadn’t had a stroke, but was in the early symptomatic stages of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, and that he wasn’t going to be coming to camp this year, or ever again. CJD is a brain-wasting disease that is always fatal.
We stayed in touch with Becky as the summer progressed. Kit has always been a gentle man (as well as a gentleman), and he retained his sweet nature, even as this cruel disease robbed him of everything else. Becky related a conversation they had, as he reverted to a child-like state. She asked him who his best friend in the world was. He thought about it for a minute, then replied ‘Bugs Bunny!’ But when he saw that this wasn’t the answer Becky wanted, he changed it to, ‘You are … but Bugs Bunny is second!’ We are so grateful that Becky kept us close as they went through this transition – and she expressed that she was grateful to have the company of others who had known him nearly as long, and loved him.
That year at camp, we made a batch of cannolis, and recorded a video toast, where we shouted, ‘Leave the gun! Take the Cannoli!’ I posted our toast on Facebook, and Becky said that Kit loved seeing it.
Kit passed away at the beginning of September, less than a month after that year’s camping trip. Our world, my world is a lonelier place for his absence, but a lovelier world for his having been part of it.
Kit played the viola – and while my experience with classical string instruments was very brief, his was lifelong. Fifty years later, Kit was still playing the viola in the Syracuse Symphony – and later with the musician-owned Symphoria, which rose from the ashes after the Syracuse Symphony’s bankruptcy.
I mostly lost track of Kit after high school. We had run in very different circles, and, aside from memories of somebody I admired, he rarely crossed my mind.
At one point, we rediscovered one another through Facebook. We were each surprised by how much we had in common, and an on-line virtual friendship grew. His quick, sharp wit, sense of humor, and knowledge of quality beer all endeared him to me.
I began camping each August with a group of boyhood friends in the summer of 2005. Some of them were much closer friends with Kit than I was. Brother Brian invited him to come out one year and join us. He did so that year, and each year after. He had to fly all the way from New York, but since both he and his wife (more on Becky shortly) both have roots in Eugene, they would combine trips.
In one sense, Kit brought a level of refinement to our rustic camp. None of wear tuxedos to work, and he is likely the only one who could tell Bach from Rachmaninov, or Dvorak – and he could tell one of their works after a mere handful of notes.
But Kit wasn’t there to class the place up, but to bond with old buddies on a level we all shared … eating unhealthy camp food, drinking beer, playing cards, and generally just loving one another’s company. And he damn sure didn’t wear a tuxedo to camp … more often an Oregon Ducks sweatshirt and cap. He brought unique food from his part of New York … salt potatoes, and Dinosaur brand barbecue sauce; one year, he brought kits so we could make our own cannolis, and helped us remember the immortal line from the Godfather, ‘Leave the gun! Take the cannoli!’
He downplayed his role in helping his symphony survive the bankruptcy, and rise from the ashes. But as one of the longest tenured performers, and the music librarian, he was a linchpin, and his fellow musicians have never forgotten.
He brought a CD one year that included music from Symphoria, and from his side-gig with the Clinton String Quartet. He pointed out one piece in particular; as they were playing it one time, he was moved to tears by its beauty, and when he looked around, he noticed that some of the other musicians were crying as well. I thought that was interesting … I love music, and am sometimes deeply moved by it, but it had never occurred to me that a performer could be, even as he or she performed it. It really touched my heart.
I loved talking with Kit about his lifelong love of Becky. She was his girlfriend when he was in eighth grade, and she in seventh. To my knowledge, neither of them ever dated anybody else. For one like me, whose love life consists of randomly-arranged chapters in a poorly bound book, they are a shining beacon of stability. One time, when I expressed my admiration of their steadfastness, he warned me against idealizing them – and that they had certainly had their share of struggles. He didn’t go into detail, I could tell they had been as serious as most couples face. That they chose to face these struggles together only made me love and admire them all the more.
As a viola player, Kit had to endure the same type of jokes bass players do in rock bands. One evening Becky shared this one, ‘How can you tell when the orchestra stage is level? When it is, the viola players drool equally out of both sides of their mouths!’
We plan meals in camp with two guys assigned to each breakfast and each dinner. I was always glad when Kit and I were paired up for same meal. It was a nice time to catch up, while the rest of the guys were preoccupied elsewhere. He’d bring a unique staple from Syracuse, and I’d be responsible for the more perishable local ingredients.
We had just gotten our meal assignments in the spring of 2016 when Becky told us that we may need to make a change of plans. It seems that Kit had suffered a stroke, and was not likely to be able to come that year. He was having trouble balancing, and she was worried about tree trunks and the other tripping hazards in camp. I told her that, if his condition improved enough, I would be willing to meet him at the airport, and do all the driving, so he wouldn’t have to. He could stay at my house, then as the camping date approached, we could go to Eugene, and just stay at a motel and visit friends, rather than risk the hazards of camp, and the distance our camp would be from help.
For a couple weeks, it looked like that plan might work. But then Becky contacted me again to say that they had discovered that Kid hadn’t had a stroke, but was in the early symptomatic stages of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, and that he wasn’t going to be coming to camp this year, or ever again. CJD is a brain-wasting disease that is always fatal.
We stayed in touch with Becky as the summer progressed. Kit has always been a gentle man (as well as a gentleman), and he retained his sweet nature, even as this cruel disease robbed him of everything else. Becky related a conversation they had, as he reverted to a child-like state. She asked him who his best friend in the world was. He thought about it for a minute, then replied ‘Bugs Bunny!’ But when he saw that this wasn’t the answer Becky wanted, he changed it to, ‘You are … but Bugs Bunny is second!’ We are so grateful that Becky kept us close as they went through this transition – and she expressed that she was grateful to have the company of others who had known him nearly as long, and loved him.
That year at camp, we made a batch of cannolis, and recorded a video toast, where we shouted, ‘Leave the gun! Take the Cannoli!’ I posted our toast on Facebook, and Becky said that Kit loved seeing it.
Kit passed away at the beginning of September, less than a month after that year’s camping trip. Our world, my world is a lonelier place for his absence, but a lovelier world for his having been part of it.
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| Kit's Viola |
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