I’ll wrap up my blogging this semester in the spirit of Christmas. Before the times when my sister and I could expect video games and cameras on Christmas morn, our family was experiencing hard times. Dad was experimenting with different managerial jobs around the country after his premature retirement from the Air Force during the Reagan/Clinton draw down of the early-Nineties. Job-hopping eventually landed us back at my mom’s parents’ where we stayed for two fantastic years.
Apparently finances must have been tighter than usual, because my sister and I were accustomed to the usual Wal-Mart Christmas: Hasbro and Mattel toys and fresh clothes, rather than hand-me-downs. But one Christmas was to be different. Mom took us aside and informed us that there would be no Wal-Mart this time around. Instead we would be getting something special, but not bought with money. We were probably skeptical – at least, I don’t remember feeling terribly reassured – but we were at that age where it is better to be outside and in the woods than inside playing Gameboy, so we accepted her explanation and set about getting excited for Jesus’ birthday.
When Christmas came around, it was better than we could have guessed. I do not recall what my sister received, but I was equipped with an entire armory of wooden weapons. In the heyday of raising children, Grandpa had mastered the manufacture of wooden guns from plywood, where the outline was traced with pencil and a jigsaw used to cut out the toy. Once free it could be sanded around the edges to prevent splintering. This technique he passed on to my dad that Christmas and the two of them spent hours fashioning swords, shields, and riffles enough to arm the entire household. The swords were fashioned in the style of the blades from the cover-art of my Narnia books – to which I was addicted – and I recognized them immediately. The shields were crafted with real leather grips heavy-duty stapled to the wood – I was heartbroken when the leather gave out, rendering one shield useless – and the rifle had a real military strap attached to the barrel and the stock, so that I could sling it across my back. But the pies de resistance was a PVC canon, complete with wheeled cart for easy field maneuvers. I was overjoyed, and spent the rest of my middle school years armed to the teeth and superior to any imaginary beast that thought to oppose me.
It was also at that time that I was developing my model craze. I had started with model trains, and somewhere had come into possession of a full track and train set. But I lacked terrain so Dad created papier-mâché mountains over chicken wire, with tunnels cut through the center, just like in the magazines. After my initial jaunt through the woods that left the wilds behind the house piled with the corpses of unfortunate goblins, I returned to become to railroad tycoon and ran freight for the entire afternoon.
To this day I’ve still got the best presents ever. It may not be often that I venture forth to do battle or to maneuver the iron horse through the Sierra Nevada, but my gifts are faithful, awaiting my eventual return.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Mom Woke Me Up
The first time I ever beheld forked lightning was in my mom’s arms as we looked out our dining room windows. She had woken me up from my four-year-old slumber to watch the lights show because she was not going to have me grow up afraid of thunder.
As we stood looking out – well, she was standing, I was sitting comfortably on her hip – a branch of spectacular light shot across the little German town near Dad’s Air Force Bases and spread its fingers through a boiling cloud as easily as a hand into whipped foam. I was astounded, having only seen such a thing in pictures.
Mom’s propensity for waking us in the name of experiencing spectacular phenomenon has gone on to this day. With one eye on the weather, Mom would make plans to witness God’s wonders as a family, wrapping up in blankets on a cold August night to watch meteors, or turning out all the lights and stepping out on the porch to identify the constellations on a clear night. Though tired and sometimes irritable, we rarely complained, but put on a happy face, intent on enjoying whatever she had in store for us.
It was always worthwhile. Lawn chairs were a favorite practice. These we’d set up in the driveway in a neat row while the dogs looked on from their little houses in mellow confusion and we’d pull up the hoods on our sweaters and blankets tight about our shoulder and wait. If it was a meteor shower, then we’d eventually start pointing out each sighting, our necks craning this way and that as we strove to see what another already had – too late. Then a duo would streak south and the lucky viewer would calmly point out the place where they had just gone and maybe someone else would agree, having caught the same pair in time. An hour or two would be spent thus, until none had spotted a falling star in some time, then we’d all give a mild cheer, as though for fireworks, a happy cheer as well as a thankful one, as though congratulating the speeding comets on a flight well carried out and thanking them for the privilege of playing witness.
Or if it was constellations, we might bring out paper or a book with us to hold in one hand while the other gripped at the blankets, and we’d search the sky, imagining that we were sailors, or ancient architects, or traveling Wisemen seeking guidance. At last we would have counted all the most recognizable signs available that season and we would congratulate one another before offering up a laudatory prayer to God, thanking him for granting us the privilege of seeing such great things.
As we stood looking out – well, she was standing, I was sitting comfortably on her hip – a branch of spectacular light shot across the little German town near Dad’s Air Force Bases and spread its fingers through a boiling cloud as easily as a hand into whipped foam. I was astounded, having only seen such a thing in pictures.
Mom’s propensity for waking us in the name of experiencing spectacular phenomenon has gone on to this day. With one eye on the weather, Mom would make plans to witness God’s wonders as a family, wrapping up in blankets on a cold August night to watch meteors, or turning out all the lights and stepping out on the porch to identify the constellations on a clear night. Though tired and sometimes irritable, we rarely complained, but put on a happy face, intent on enjoying whatever she had in store for us.
It was always worthwhile. Lawn chairs were a favorite practice. These we’d set up in the driveway in a neat row while the dogs looked on from their little houses in mellow confusion and we’d pull up the hoods on our sweaters and blankets tight about our shoulder and wait. If it was a meteor shower, then we’d eventually start pointing out each sighting, our necks craning this way and that as we strove to see what another already had – too late. Then a duo would streak south and the lucky viewer would calmly point out the place where they had just gone and maybe someone else would agree, having caught the same pair in time. An hour or two would be spent thus, until none had spotted a falling star in some time, then we’d all give a mild cheer, as though for fireworks, a happy cheer as well as a thankful one, as though congratulating the speeding comets on a flight well carried out and thanking them for the privilege of playing witness.
Or if it was constellations, we might bring out paper or a book with us to hold in one hand while the other gripped at the blankets, and we’d search the sky, imagining that we were sailors, or ancient architects, or traveling Wisemen seeking guidance. At last we would have counted all the most recognizable signs available that season and we would congratulate one another before offering up a laudatory prayer to God, thanking him for granting us the privilege of seeing such great things.
ONSC Deathmarch: Part Five
The river was a welcome sight. After five days of intermittent walking we were granted the privilege of sitting for hours while still making progress. I was particularly pleased since I had somehow managed to strain my hip the day before, leaving me with a pretty good limp. Wes also had particular reason for joy, since he’d been given a loaner pack after the theft that was steel-framed and weighed about half the actual load it was meant to carry.
The sky was sadly overcast and a light rain was falling by the time we reached our birth that afternoon. But en rout we experienced the first real relief of the journey. There would be no more walking, and in another day or so, no more going hungry. I’m sorry if anyone gets offended by the constant talk of starvation and toil, given what many people worldwide experience on a day-to-day basis, with no end in sight. But to us Americans, this was a new thing, the notion that one could go without food for a week. It was remarkable. It was actually a smidge encouraging: if ever there is some kind of apocalyptic breakdown of our world as we know it, at least we’d not go out with the first missed meal.
While afloat we did little in the way of paddling. In canoeing, the front paddler is the power, the back paddler the steersman. In such a scenario sorry sap up front does most of the work. But by day five of our march, that setup was reversed, with the power-man sitting slumped over his oar, while the steersman in back spent more energy simply keeping on course. A curious thing, but a pleasant one. At least the position of rudder lent the steersman an invigorating sense of power.
Once we made landfall yet another camp was established as the rain began to fall in earnest. Our planned two-day canoe trip was to be curtailed due to thunder in the distance, but we were to compensate by sleeping in the next day while waiting for the water truck to arrive and ferry us back to the Center. One by one we retired to our tents and fell asleep. As dusk was setting in, though, my sister came by my tent. She peeked inside before retreating before the “man smell” that had stained the interior and seemed to get packed up with the whole contraption each day. After berating Wes and I on the condition of the tent – it was actually hers, I had borrowed it for the week – she asked if we had any salt left. I had plenty, hadn’t used any since the overhang. Good, because she and another girl had caught a bunch of crawdads and wanted to repeat the experiment. She was determined, despite the rain, to have a decent meal before bedding down that night, and promised me a tail if I donated salt.
Somehow, the girls coaxed a fire into existence. Dominic was off to bed, so he told them that, if they were able to actually boil the waterbugs, they should have Kyle test one for health and safety. Kyle grudgingly remained awake to watch the ordeal. The girls hovered about the fire and fed it what twigs they could find, but the drizzling rain soon soaked all the wood. But the girls would eat crawdad that night, so my sister retreated the only dry fuel she could think of: our toilet paper. None of us had eaten all week, so none of us had ever needed the several white rolls, so she determined that they would at last see service in the name of dinner. The boiling water was only just at a simmer, due to the pitiful, sputtering fire, and every time she fed a fistful of paper into the flames, they ate up the stuff instantly and threatened to fizzle out at once. So every couple seconds another fistful was sacrificed to the hungry fire, as Kyle called derisory and disdainful comments regarding the girls’ futility for the duration of the painful ten minutes of boiling time. At last, though, as soon as the ten minutes was accomplished and all the paper used up, the crawdads were miraculously boiled to perfection. One was duly offered up to Kyle for approval, who muttered, “It’s fine, I guess.” Shortly thereafter was a minor feast held by those trekkers who had participated in the escapade, as the stars appeared through the lifting haze.
As I write this, it strikes me how interesting our journey really was. I’d venture a guess that we were somewhat changed by the experience and the symbolism of the buoyant beginning, the mounting tension and strife, and finally the swift-flowing river fit very well into the conventional odyssey model of many “coming of age” stories. To be honest, I can’t really come up with an applicable message or moral. The whole tale just has a poetic overtone.
The sky was sadly overcast and a light rain was falling by the time we reached our birth that afternoon. But en rout we experienced the first real relief of the journey. There would be no more walking, and in another day or so, no more going hungry. I’m sorry if anyone gets offended by the constant talk of starvation and toil, given what many people worldwide experience on a day-to-day basis, with no end in sight. But to us Americans, this was a new thing, the notion that one could go without food for a week. It was remarkable. It was actually a smidge encouraging: if ever there is some kind of apocalyptic breakdown of our world as we know it, at least we’d not go out with the first missed meal.
While afloat we did little in the way of paddling. In canoeing, the front paddler is the power, the back paddler the steersman. In such a scenario sorry sap up front does most of the work. But by day five of our march, that setup was reversed, with the power-man sitting slumped over his oar, while the steersman in back spent more energy simply keeping on course. A curious thing, but a pleasant one. At least the position of rudder lent the steersman an invigorating sense of power.
Once we made landfall yet another camp was established as the rain began to fall in earnest. Our planned two-day canoe trip was to be curtailed due to thunder in the distance, but we were to compensate by sleeping in the next day while waiting for the water truck to arrive and ferry us back to the Center. One by one we retired to our tents and fell asleep. As dusk was setting in, though, my sister came by my tent. She peeked inside before retreating before the “man smell” that had stained the interior and seemed to get packed up with the whole contraption each day. After berating Wes and I on the condition of the tent – it was actually hers, I had borrowed it for the week – she asked if we had any salt left. I had plenty, hadn’t used any since the overhang. Good, because she and another girl had caught a bunch of crawdads and wanted to repeat the experiment. She was determined, despite the rain, to have a decent meal before bedding down that night, and promised me a tail if I donated salt.
Somehow, the girls coaxed a fire into existence. Dominic was off to bed, so he told them that, if they were able to actually boil the waterbugs, they should have Kyle test one for health and safety. Kyle grudgingly remained awake to watch the ordeal. The girls hovered about the fire and fed it what twigs they could find, but the drizzling rain soon soaked all the wood. But the girls would eat crawdad that night, so my sister retreated the only dry fuel she could think of: our toilet paper. None of us had eaten all week, so none of us had ever needed the several white rolls, so she determined that they would at last see service in the name of dinner. The boiling water was only just at a simmer, due to the pitiful, sputtering fire, and every time she fed a fistful of paper into the flames, they ate up the stuff instantly and threatened to fizzle out at once. So every couple seconds another fistful was sacrificed to the hungry fire, as Kyle called derisory and disdainful comments regarding the girls’ futility for the duration of the painful ten minutes of boiling time. At last, though, as soon as the ten minutes was accomplished and all the paper used up, the crawdads were miraculously boiled to perfection. One was duly offered up to Kyle for approval, who muttered, “It’s fine, I guess.” Shortly thereafter was a minor feast held by those trekkers who had participated in the escapade, as the stars appeared through the lifting haze.
As I write this, it strikes me how interesting our journey really was. I’d venture a guess that we were somewhat changed by the experience and the symbolism of the buoyant beginning, the mounting tension and strife, and finally the swift-flowing river fit very well into the conventional odyssey model of many “coming of age” stories. To be honest, I can’t really come up with an applicable message or moral. The whole tale just has a poetic overtone.
ONSC Deathmarch: Part Four
The day we left the Overhang was the day that I gave up on food. We were packing up the tents and, feeling strangely energized, I commented to Dominic about how our breakfast of leftover berries had really benefited me. Unfazed, he replied, “not really, you burned off whatever the berries gave you just packing up that tent.”
Well fine then.
Things weren’t really helped when Kevin shared a dream that he’d had that night: he was in a castle of stone and was approached by very purposeful guards. These seized him by the arms and dragged him to a great hall, wherein was a table piled high with food fit for Valhalla. But as soon as he reached out his hand, the dream vanished and he awoke in his sleeping bag, hungry and cold. My stomach rumbled.
We eventually found our way back to the roads, paved and otherwise. We slogged along, panting, sipping water every thirty seconds – I had the urge to hurl whatever the nothing was in my stomach whenever I went about forty-five seconds without a half-swig, and if I overdid it and got a mouthful I felt even worse for several minutes – and muttering, “I think I can I think I can.” We had left the hills behind and were passing inhabited lands, now, farms and horse ranches. At one point a floppy-jowled bloodhound came padding and bouncing from under a barbed wire fence and followed us cheerfully for the length of his property line, while we debated ways of taking him off guard and dividing up the best parts. Gray’s older brother even ate an ant when Kevin jokingly dared him.
We were taking a break on a dusty stretch of backroad when the familiar warning, “car,” now lacking its former chirp, was sounded down the line and we all swayed silently to our feet and dragged our packs aside. The rust-red pickup thudded and trundled along with ponderous curiosity until it braked beside my bag.
“What are y’all up to?” asked the shirtless passenger, one elbow leant against the sill and peering at me intently from between his smoker-induced crow’s feet. I’m sure we all looked remarkably out of place, myself shirtless as well, with my wash towels tucked into my ball cap a la the French Foreign Legion.
“We’re hiking,” I replied, suddenly cheerful in the presence of unfamiliar company.
“How far?”
“Dunno, ‘probly about sixty miles or so. ‘Least that was the plan; this is day four.”
“Why, just for fun?”
I nodded.
“Hell,” he muttered and looked from me to the line of grimy, bedraggled teenagers stretched along the road beyond the windshield. “Well, hope y’all make it, wherever that is!” Then he waved and the driver nodded as they pulled away.
We did make it. At the final campsite we were informed that a short trek the next morning would put us at the canoe landing. We all rejoiced and went to bed happily, the pain in our shrinking stomachs long dulled.
Well fine then.
Things weren’t really helped when Kevin shared a dream that he’d had that night: he was in a castle of stone and was approached by very purposeful guards. These seized him by the arms and dragged him to a great hall, wherein was a table piled high with food fit for Valhalla. But as soon as he reached out his hand, the dream vanished and he awoke in his sleeping bag, hungry and cold. My stomach rumbled.
We eventually found our way back to the roads, paved and otherwise. We slogged along, panting, sipping water every thirty seconds – I had the urge to hurl whatever the nothing was in my stomach whenever I went about forty-five seconds without a half-swig, and if I overdid it and got a mouthful I felt even worse for several minutes – and muttering, “I think I can I think I can.” We had left the hills behind and were passing inhabited lands, now, farms and horse ranches. At one point a floppy-jowled bloodhound came padding and bouncing from under a barbed wire fence and followed us cheerfully for the length of his property line, while we debated ways of taking him off guard and dividing up the best parts. Gray’s older brother even ate an ant when Kevin jokingly dared him.
We were taking a break on a dusty stretch of backroad when the familiar warning, “car,” now lacking its former chirp, was sounded down the line and we all swayed silently to our feet and dragged our packs aside. The rust-red pickup thudded and trundled along with ponderous curiosity until it braked beside my bag.
“What are y’all up to?” asked the shirtless passenger, one elbow leant against the sill and peering at me intently from between his smoker-induced crow’s feet. I’m sure we all looked remarkably out of place, myself shirtless as well, with my wash towels tucked into my ball cap a la the French Foreign Legion.
“We’re hiking,” I replied, suddenly cheerful in the presence of unfamiliar company.
“How far?”
“Dunno, ‘probly about sixty miles or so. ‘Least that was the plan; this is day four.”
“Why, just for fun?”
I nodded.
“Hell,” he muttered and looked from me to the line of grimy, bedraggled teenagers stretched along the road beyond the windshield. “Well, hope y’all make it, wherever that is!” Then he waved and the driver nodded as they pulled away.
We did make it. At the final campsite we were informed that a short trek the next morning would put us at the canoe landing. We all rejoiced and went to bed happily, the pain in our shrinking stomachs long dulled.
Civilians At Boot Camp
I am not in the military and I do not plan on joining any time soon. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got real respect for the brave boys in the service, but that is just not my calling right now. Nor did I particularly feel called to join the army grunts at morning Physical Training (PT). In fact, the notion of joining did not even cross my mind until I was asked.
My suitemate is a workout junky. To look at him, you might think differently, but when the blood gets flowing that guy is a solid collection of ATP. He can run, jump, grapple with football linemen – he ain’t too big, neither – and still have enough get-up-&-go to hit the gym. He climbs sheer walls – both boulders and buildings – for fun, without rappelling lines. He’s also social in his exercise, so not a few days into semester he was bugging us to join him at his activities.
One of these was PT with the boys of Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC). The poor saps join the army, then get up at five every morning, rain or shine, to fashion their bodies into suave death-dealing machines. To everyone’s surprise, including the ROTC officers’, my suitemate joined them. He would get up at O’dark-thirty and proceed to “get shredded,” often coming home after classes with knuckles and palms stripped of skin from doing pull-ups and the like. And he wanted us to join him. I flat-out refused at first, preferring my hit-or-miss swimming schedule to “getting shredded” on a daily basis. Suitemate was incorrigible, telling me that college was about getting out and doing something memorable. The sick thing is that I agreed with him, just not on the ROTC issue. But I decided that I’d give him one workout in the hope of appeasing his incessant pleas.
The day I elected to attend, it was Suitemate and I along with two cowboy friends and another late show. We arrived at PT in high spirits and after role call we fell out into groups of four or five each for station drills. Pull-ups, pushups, bicycles, crunches, lunges, and tire-jumping ensued. And I had neglected to bring water. So for forty-five minutes I was on the verge of tossing my cookies.
After all stations had been hit the whole company bolted out of the building and jogged across campus and back. Suitemate and Late Show were up there with them, shouting and whooping for the joy of inflicting self-improving pain, while the cowboys and I sauntered briskly behind. We took our time, and wandered down to the designated turn-about, dodging touch military encouragement, and on the way back we realized what the army boys had been yelling about “running the bear.” As we approached the football stadium, we saw lines of gray-shirted GIs hustling up and down the bleachers. At that the cowboys suddenly found their second wind – at least one did, the other sort of stumbled purposefully in pursuit – and left me to follow, dehydrated and sore.
Once in the bleachers, I did all right at walking pace, but by the time I was about four-fifths of the way through one of the drill sergeants appeared suddenly behind me. I had seen him churning along behind some of the other stragglers, urging them on to greater feats, ordering the vomit case aside. At last leaving the others, he fell in behind me and started lecturing me about training and telling myself to go on.
“Your washing machine doesn’t tell you when it washes, right, so your body doesn’t tell you when it’s gonna work, what keeps you moving, ATP right, you’ve got plenty of that left so where’s the problem: in your mind; your mind is still your own, you make it tell your body when to work…”
curiously, I actually was able to go on, faster, stronger, and even made a clumsy jump to touch a rafter when leaving the stadium. And as it happened, by the time I got back (last) the final exercises were done and we were off for breakfast at the cafeteria.
Since then I’ve been to PT twice more. I’ve no real desire to catch this “sickness” that everyone assures me will soon take hold – that I’ll push myself to painful limits in the name of improvement – but I’ll be trying to make PT more often. I’ve also found it is a lot easier when accompanied by a water bottle.
My suitemate is a workout junky. To look at him, you might think differently, but when the blood gets flowing that guy is a solid collection of ATP. He can run, jump, grapple with football linemen – he ain’t too big, neither – and still have enough get-up-&-go to hit the gym. He climbs sheer walls – both boulders and buildings – for fun, without rappelling lines. He’s also social in his exercise, so not a few days into semester he was bugging us to join him at his activities.
One of these was PT with the boys of Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC). The poor saps join the army, then get up at five every morning, rain or shine, to fashion their bodies into suave death-dealing machines. To everyone’s surprise, including the ROTC officers’, my suitemate joined them. He would get up at O’dark-thirty and proceed to “get shredded,” often coming home after classes with knuckles and palms stripped of skin from doing pull-ups and the like. And he wanted us to join him. I flat-out refused at first, preferring my hit-or-miss swimming schedule to “getting shredded” on a daily basis. Suitemate was incorrigible, telling me that college was about getting out and doing something memorable. The sick thing is that I agreed with him, just not on the ROTC issue. But I decided that I’d give him one workout in the hope of appeasing his incessant pleas.
The day I elected to attend, it was Suitemate and I along with two cowboy friends and another late show. We arrived at PT in high spirits and after role call we fell out into groups of four or five each for station drills. Pull-ups, pushups, bicycles, crunches, lunges, and tire-jumping ensued. And I had neglected to bring water. So for forty-five minutes I was on the verge of tossing my cookies.
After all stations had been hit the whole company bolted out of the building and jogged across campus and back. Suitemate and Late Show were up there with them, shouting and whooping for the joy of inflicting self-improving pain, while the cowboys and I sauntered briskly behind. We took our time, and wandered down to the designated turn-about, dodging touch military encouragement, and on the way back we realized what the army boys had been yelling about “running the bear.” As we approached the football stadium, we saw lines of gray-shirted GIs hustling up and down the bleachers. At that the cowboys suddenly found their second wind – at least one did, the other sort of stumbled purposefully in pursuit – and left me to follow, dehydrated and sore.
Once in the bleachers, I did all right at walking pace, but by the time I was about four-fifths of the way through one of the drill sergeants appeared suddenly behind me. I had seen him churning along behind some of the other stragglers, urging them on to greater feats, ordering the vomit case aside. At last leaving the others, he fell in behind me and started lecturing me about training and telling myself to go on.
“Your washing machine doesn’t tell you when it washes, right, so your body doesn’t tell you when it’s gonna work, what keeps you moving, ATP right, you’ve got plenty of that left so where’s the problem: in your mind; your mind is still your own, you make it tell your body when to work…”
curiously, I actually was able to go on, faster, stronger, and even made a clumsy jump to touch a rafter when leaving the stadium. And as it happened, by the time I got back (last) the final exercises were done and we were off for breakfast at the cafeteria.
Since then I’ve been to PT twice more. I’ve no real desire to catch this “sickness” that everyone assures me will soon take hold – that I’ll push myself to painful limits in the name of improvement – but I’ll be trying to make PT more often. I’ve also found it is a lot easier when accompanied by a water bottle.
ONSC Deathmarch: Part Three
By the time we made it to the cliff shelter, many tempers had turned sour. Every middle class American one of us was hurting for the absence of our accustomed eating routines. Kevin was ADHD, so he was the only one with energy and we all were frustrated with his constant over-the-top output. Kyle still didn’t want to be on the hike at all and capitalized upon Dominic’s new rule that we were to cease asking about distance and time-of-day by denying us any answers at all. No matter what was asked of him, whether it be, “is a maple leaf edible?” or “can we take a break?” or even the covert attempt to skirt Dominic’s no-questions-about-distance rule, “what road is this?” Kyle would respond with a surly, “don’t ask questions. It got to the point where we found subtle ways to innocently inquire into some minor detail, just to harass the poor guy. We nicknamed him Kyle the Communist.
It was at the Indian overhang that we had our first “real” meal in days. There was a little creek nearby which was fed by a waterfall beside the shelter. When Kevin reported that there were no fish in the creek – I think Dominic had counted on that – we turned to the little pool. No fish, but the place was crawling with crawdads. Upon inquiry – of Dominic and the nice girl that made up the third party of the councilors, no one turned to Kyle – it was determined that crawdads could be boiled like lobsters. Ecstatic, we broke up into teams to produce firewood, whittle kindling, and catch a half dozen of the water bugs – not many, but we didn’t care.
Once the fire was going hot someone turned up with an empty bean can that they had packed for such an occasion and we set to boiling our unfortunate meal. We took turns nursing the can with its precious contents and salted the concoction from our individual supplies, given to us at the Center in film canisters. When done, the wee lobsters looked great, but one of the councilors had to test them to make sure they were safe for consumption. We all thought the excuse was rather lame, but once given the go-ahead, we no longer cared. Our catch was carefully divvied up; each person who contributed received a crawdad tail for their pains and several of us even sucked out the meat from the legs. I’d never tasted anything so good.
The one downside to the overhang experience was the presence of prolific Poison Ivy in the area, to which my sister and I are terrifically allergic. The terrain was very rocky, so in places we’d had to toss our pack either up or down to a waiting deathmarcher, and as a consequence my pack had taken a roll or two in the dreaded undergrowth. To my shock, Dominic, who is EXTREMELY ecologically friendly, allowed us to bath our arms and legs with anti-ivy cream that Mom had provided and – gasp – to wash the chemicals off in the waterfall. I’ll bet that if I went back there now, all the crawdads would be equipped with extra eyes or tails.
It was at the Indian overhang that we had our first “real” meal in days. There was a little creek nearby which was fed by a waterfall beside the shelter. When Kevin reported that there were no fish in the creek – I think Dominic had counted on that – we turned to the little pool. No fish, but the place was crawling with crawdads. Upon inquiry – of Dominic and the nice girl that made up the third party of the councilors, no one turned to Kyle – it was determined that crawdads could be boiled like lobsters. Ecstatic, we broke up into teams to produce firewood, whittle kindling, and catch a half dozen of the water bugs – not many, but we didn’t care.
Once the fire was going hot someone turned up with an empty bean can that they had packed for such an occasion and we set to boiling our unfortunate meal. We took turns nursing the can with its precious contents and salted the concoction from our individual supplies, given to us at the Center in film canisters. When done, the wee lobsters looked great, but one of the councilors had to test them to make sure they were safe for consumption. We all thought the excuse was rather lame, but once given the go-ahead, we no longer cared. Our catch was carefully divvied up; each person who contributed received a crawdad tail for their pains and several of us even sucked out the meat from the legs. I’d never tasted anything so good.
The one downside to the overhang experience was the presence of prolific Poison Ivy in the area, to which my sister and I are terrifically allergic. The terrain was very rocky, so in places we’d had to toss our pack either up or down to a waiting deathmarcher, and as a consequence my pack had taken a roll or two in the dreaded undergrowth. To my shock, Dominic, who is EXTREMELY ecologically friendly, allowed us to bath our arms and legs with anti-ivy cream that Mom had provided and – gasp – to wash the chemicals off in the waterfall. I’ll bet that if I went back there now, all the crawdads would be equipped with extra eyes or tails.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Playing In Texas: Part Two
Another game we played at night was the Raptor Game. We had just seen Jurassic Park for the first time and while it was fresh on our minds we could play nothing that did not include dinosaurs. The plot device of humans versus intelligent predators was particularly appealing, so the next time the moon was out, we were stuck outside an upturned jeep (our grandpa’s boat, on a trailer by the jungle gym) and the raptors were prowling.
The game started much the same way as the Witch Game. But unlike the Witch Game, the raptors – again played most often by our little cousin, who could make a convincing raptor chirp, and sometimes joined by her brother, since raptors traveled in packs – were not confined to the dark and would be perfectly willing to snatch their prey off the porch if necessary. So we leaped form the porch post haste and the game began again, with much shrieking and yelling and chirping. But this game had another new rule: if the victims held still, the raptor could not see them. This was a bastardization of the Jurassic Park mythos, since only the tyrannosaurus was baffled by non-moving prey. But it made for good fun, so we employed the new rule anyway.
At first we treated the freezing rule much like that of Freeze Tag, where we would stop wherever we were and remain motionless in the most absurd position we could produce on the fly. At once the raptor was baffled and circled carefully, sniffing and prodding before signing with a rattling chirp and loping away. Once at a comfortable distance, the human statue would suddenly leap away and the angry raptor would again give chase.
After a while, though, we got a bit tired of the raptors constantly sniffing around our faces, pushing us until we stumbled (“you moved! Creeee!), and generally getting up in our personal bubbles. So someone devised a new variant in the rule by sprawling on the ground while being chased. Lying spread-eagled in the grass prevented the raptor pushing one about and it was much more acceptable to have the back of one’s head furtively snuffled rather than the face. The downside was that the raptor reserved the right to step absently upon one’s back while performing the investigation, which actually produced more giggles than groans. And even though the time taken to leap to one’s feet was time that the observant raptor could take to leap for the kill, the thrill of the chase was worth every extra nanosecond.
Once the humans escaped to the jungle gym, they were safe, but here too the rules were altered from Witch. Unlike the former rules where leaving the gym was a matter of good sportsmanship, in Raptor the humans were in an isolated compound that suffered from all manner of structural and technological weaknesses. As such, it was only a matter of time before the intelligent raptor(s) discovered and exploited a weakness, prompting an evacuations. Naturally, the raptors took advantage of the new system by exploiting new weaknesses (like monkey bars) within a minute or two of the initial escape. The situation was rather distressing until the humans learned to exploit the raptor’s hampered agility in the compound by waiting until she was clambering over a rarmpart before leaping to the ground and sprinting back to the porch. It was not so simple when two raptors played. In that case, one would invade while another patrolled and it was incumbent upon the fleeing humans to not be the slowest…
The game started much the same way as the Witch Game. But unlike the Witch Game, the raptors – again played most often by our little cousin, who could make a convincing raptor chirp, and sometimes joined by her brother, since raptors traveled in packs – were not confined to the dark and would be perfectly willing to snatch their prey off the porch if necessary. So we leaped form the porch post haste and the game began again, with much shrieking and yelling and chirping. But this game had another new rule: if the victims held still, the raptor could not see them. This was a bastardization of the Jurassic Park mythos, since only the tyrannosaurus was baffled by non-moving prey. But it made for good fun, so we employed the new rule anyway.
At first we treated the freezing rule much like that of Freeze Tag, where we would stop wherever we were and remain motionless in the most absurd position we could produce on the fly. At once the raptor was baffled and circled carefully, sniffing and prodding before signing with a rattling chirp and loping away. Once at a comfortable distance, the human statue would suddenly leap away and the angry raptor would again give chase.
After a while, though, we got a bit tired of the raptors constantly sniffing around our faces, pushing us until we stumbled (“you moved! Creeee!), and generally getting up in our personal bubbles. So someone devised a new variant in the rule by sprawling on the ground while being chased. Lying spread-eagled in the grass prevented the raptor pushing one about and it was much more acceptable to have the back of one’s head furtively snuffled rather than the face. The downside was that the raptor reserved the right to step absently upon one’s back while performing the investigation, which actually produced more giggles than groans. And even though the time taken to leap to one’s feet was time that the observant raptor could take to leap for the kill, the thrill of the chase was worth every extra nanosecond.
Once the humans escaped to the jungle gym, they were safe, but here too the rules were altered from Witch. Unlike the former rules where leaving the gym was a matter of good sportsmanship, in Raptor the humans were in an isolated compound that suffered from all manner of structural and technological weaknesses. As such, it was only a matter of time before the intelligent raptor(s) discovered and exploited a weakness, prompting an evacuations. Naturally, the raptors took advantage of the new system by exploiting new weaknesses (like monkey bars) within a minute or two of the initial escape. The situation was rather distressing until the humans learned to exploit the raptor’s hampered agility in the compound by waiting until she was clambering over a rarmpart before leaping to the ground and sprinting back to the porch. It was not so simple when two raptors played. In that case, one would invade while another patrolled and it was incumbent upon the fleeing humans to not be the slowest…
Playing In Texas: Part One
Growing up away from my dad’s parents, it was a big deal when we traveled to Texas for the annual reunion. All the cousins would be there to visit too, and immediately upon exiting the vehicles we all would tear off to the backyard.
The yard was probably legendary to us, though such a concept was foreign to me at the time, so I cannot recall if we considered it such. But that yard was one of a kind to us, and it had traditions attached.
Coming from the country, my cousins and I had to develop games to fit the enclosed neighborhood yard. Thank the Lord it was not just a big dirt patch, but was carpeted by a thick layer of meshed grass that allowed for barefoot running. Bushes ten feet high and pourous enough to climb through divided the yard into sections and tunnels, and one entire section was hidden by tall, climbable trees with smooth bark meant for gripping. The sunny section of the yard played host to a great wooden jungle gym that was like a monstrous castle to eight, nine, and ten-year-olds. There was also one especially huge three growing beside the gym, with thick limbs for sitting, one of which leaned over the gym’s slide so that we would run down the hot tin and take a flying leap onto the limb. That place was great. And it had rules.
One such set of rules applied to the Witch Game. At nighttime, particularly when the moon was out, we would all dash outside after dinner and “vanish” into the dark. The point of the game was to hide from the witch who lived in the moon, usually played out by a certain girl cousin because she had the shrillest witch laugh – and she was the youngest. It was a game not unlike Hide-&-Goseek, though unlike the normal game, the witch started out the game in hiding. After a given number of seconds the witch’s “victims” would tumble out from the screened-in porch and huddle nervously under the green porch light above the patio. We wouldn’t see the witch – though we all knew that she could see us – and though we were “safe” on the porch, she could come up to the invisible wall and circle us, a prospect very unnerving to those closest to the porch’s edge. And if anyone stumbled, she would drag them off into dark…so we didn’t stay there long; as soon as the first or second witch laugh was heard we bolted onto the grass and began shrieking and running in circles as the fleet-footed little she-devil materialized from the gloom. In a frenzied chase around the yard we would try to evade her wicked clutches and escape to the jungle gym where we were safe for a while, until it came time to escape again and run back to the porch and repeat the vicious cycle.
The yard was probably legendary to us, though such a concept was foreign to me at the time, so I cannot recall if we considered it such. But that yard was one of a kind to us, and it had traditions attached.
Coming from the country, my cousins and I had to develop games to fit the enclosed neighborhood yard. Thank the Lord it was not just a big dirt patch, but was carpeted by a thick layer of meshed grass that allowed for barefoot running. Bushes ten feet high and pourous enough to climb through divided the yard into sections and tunnels, and one entire section was hidden by tall, climbable trees with smooth bark meant for gripping. The sunny section of the yard played host to a great wooden jungle gym that was like a monstrous castle to eight, nine, and ten-year-olds. There was also one especially huge three growing beside the gym, with thick limbs for sitting, one of which leaned over the gym’s slide so that we would run down the hot tin and take a flying leap onto the limb. That place was great. And it had rules.
One such set of rules applied to the Witch Game. At nighttime, particularly when the moon was out, we would all dash outside after dinner and “vanish” into the dark. The point of the game was to hide from the witch who lived in the moon, usually played out by a certain girl cousin because she had the shrillest witch laugh – and she was the youngest. It was a game not unlike Hide-&-Goseek, though unlike the normal game, the witch started out the game in hiding. After a given number of seconds the witch’s “victims” would tumble out from the screened-in porch and huddle nervously under the green porch light above the patio. We wouldn’t see the witch – though we all knew that she could see us – and though we were “safe” on the porch, she could come up to the invisible wall and circle us, a prospect very unnerving to those closest to the porch’s edge. And if anyone stumbled, she would drag them off into dark…so we didn’t stay there long; as soon as the first or second witch laugh was heard we bolted onto the grass and began shrieking and running in circles as the fleet-footed little she-devil materialized from the gloom. In a frenzied chase around the yard we would try to evade her wicked clutches and escape to the jungle gym where we were safe for a while, until it came time to escape again and run back to the porch and repeat the vicious cycle.
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