Good unintentions

You know how it is. You move just one piece of furniture and, the next thing you know, you’ve rearranged the whole room.

That’s sort of what happened to this website.

I was going to reposition the caption on a picture in my other website, one thing led to another—and here we are with a total redesign on this page instead.

Can I show you around?

I wanted to keep the blog site clean and simple, but a little less stark. This template model has crisp sections, with soft edges in muted gray.

The "boot" got the boot!

To clean it up a little more, the “about me” blurb, along with my posterized face, has been moved to a separate page; there’s a link on the right, under “Pages”.

Then I redesigned the heading, though still featuring my photo from Monument Valley. I moved the title down, used outline letters, and even managed to “trim” that annoying boot-shaped broken limb from the middle of the picture.

I fiddled with alignment, column widths and font size.

But I never did get around to moving that photo caption on my other blog.

*

Cooling off period

Just to be sure, I’ve waited several weeks, but now it seems safe to assume that winter has arrived here in the Sonora. Some of the signs:

• I’ve taken to wearing socks.

• My shirt is no longer a clammy layer between my back and the recliner.

• I only run one fan, maybe two, and just in the afternoon.

• Breakfast is finished before the sun comes up.

• I can get a drink of cool water—right from the tap.

• I haven’t used my furnace, but I do wear a hoodie at night.

• I’ve already closed my window at night twice in the past three weeks.

• I keep a jacket handy if I go out at night.

• Going out in daylight is pleasant no matter what the hour.

• Sometimes I cook a meal on the stove in the middle of the afternoon.

• A hot cup of coffee seems just the thing early in the morning.

• The RV park is filling up.

Yup, I'm thinkin' summer's over here in the Old Pueblo.

*

Family Feast

Today, December 6, is the Feast of St. Nicholas. The date and the occasion stand out in my mind because of a childhood custom.

In some European countries, including Poland, it was on St. Nicholas’ feast day, rather than on Christmas, that gifts were given to children. As I’m sure you know, St. Nick was the original Santa Claus.

Anyway, traditionally, the children’s shoes would be left outside the door, awaiting the nighttime passage of St. Nicholas. If a child had been good, morning would find the shoes filled with gifts and treats. If the kid’s behavior had been found wanting, then the shoes would be stuffed with the dreaded lumps of coal.

When I was a kid, Christmas was one of our two main “family” feasts, the other being our annual summer vacation trip. Now, my mother was big on anticipation. It was her belief that there was as much pleasure to be had in looking forward to an event as there was to the happening itself.

Our Christmas tree was always decorated weeks before Christmas. And Mom's seasonal mantra of behavior control, “Santa Claus is watching,” was in steady use even weeks before that. Contributing to the build up were her frequent hints of the glories to come which, when we got older, she turned into sad predictions of barren Christmas mornings that we knew were just her reverse-psychological teasers for the surprises in store.

The motivating force behind all this was that our Mom was just a big kid at heart. She was living again the joys of her childhood through me and my three sibs. She and my Dad just enjoyed the heck out of seeing us kids having a good time, and a significant portion of their lives was devoted to that pursuit. Christmas was just the perfect opportunity.

Mom used the Feast of St. Nicholas not only to increase the fun and contribute to the build up for the main event, but also as a reminder of our heritage and the original religious inspiration for holiday gift-giving. To these ends, she had us put our shoes in the hallway outside our bedroom doors on the eve of St. Nick’s feast, with sad laments about the tons of coal that were sure to result.

The next dawn, of course, saw us deep in the throes of a mini Christmas. Small toys, gadgets and wrapped holiday goodies would be overflowing our shoes and normal morning routines would be forgotten—which could be a problem if it was a school morning, as it so often was. But our parents’ joy, as well as our own, was fulfilled. And they also had the foresight to wake us up a little earlier than usual if school was on tap that day.

St. Nicholas, we thank you.

Like white on rice

There’s a peculiarly refreshing drink that becomes more commonly available the closer one comes to the Mexican border. It’s called horchata. Recipes for horchata include a variety of ground grains or nuts, but the version most commonly found along our southern border is made with ground rice.

I was introduced to horchata at a farewell luncheon held at a Mexican restaurant in Denver in 1995. I was leaving my job there and, at the lunch, one of my colleagues pointed it out on the menu and recommended I try it. I was hooked from the first taste.

Often called agua de horchata, it’s lighter than the so-called rice milks sold in grocery stores and actually has a more pronounced rice flavor. Its origins go back to Spain; there are even indications of Moorish influence.

There are numerous formulas on the net, but the only really tricky steps are grinding the rice and then straining the ground rice from the final beverage. After that process, generally it’s sweetened and usually flavored with cinnamon.

Of course, the simplest thing is to buy horchata already prepared. Some Mexican restaurants serve it and bottled varieties can be found in some groceries. My favorite brand is Kern, which is carried by Albertson’s here in Tucson.

Then all you need is a tall glass filled with ice and you’ve got a real thirst-quencher. In fact, there’s some horchata in my refrigerator right now—and I think I can hear it calling my name.

Time out

I lost two days last week.

I discovered I’d missed Wednesday about 6 a.m. on Thursday, when the casual disposition of my cursor on the desktop clock revealed that my own internal calendar was out of synch with the real world by a full day. Right there was a rap in the chops!

What’s worse, in the same fashion I found that what I thought was 4:15 on Saturday afternoon was actually 4:15 on Sunday afternoon. Twice in one week! Talk about being gobsmacked!

Now, I’ve lost track of days before, on extended vacations and since I’ve been retired. But never a full, 24-hour day. And never twice in one week.

I’m sure my heat-mitigating, topsy-turvy sleep pattern contributed to the confusion, but it was still a disorienting shock to the system.

Later, I was thinking about those incidents and how the arbitrary names of an otherwise indistinguishable sequence of solar cycles could cause an actual physical experience of wooziness, almost a mild nausea. Of course, that discomfort might be partially attributable to my OCD personality, though the current condition of my living quarters would seem to put the lie to that diagnosis.

Even so, it took me back to a long-standing curiosity about the nature of time, originating in my catechetical youth when the concept of eternity first wormed its way into my gray matter. This interest took an amusing turn when, following my Star Trek phase, I began to wonder about the time-travel value of crossing from one time zone into another. Especially, I was bemused with the notion of what temporal flux state one would occupy if one crossed precisely at the stroke of midnight. During those years I pictured every cross-country trip as a science fiction experience.

However, when I eventually had to deal with the repeated switches between daylight savings and standard time, I began to suspect that the whole notion of time might be just a capricious collection of classifications made up to distinguish otherwise nonexistent entities, like inch and gallon, names for units of measure but which did not themselves have actual materiality.  I mean, you can see a mile of highway, but a mile (or a kilometer) doesn’t really have substance unless it’s describing something else. Which is why there is not a one-word answer to the question, how many bushels are in a mile? Or does anyone even still remember what a bushel is? Or have bushels and pecks been subsumed by pounds and tons like rotary dial phones evolved into push buttons? It’s sad, in a way.

Is this getting too dense for this blog? Well, it’s about to get worse.

Physicist
Stephen Hawking

By the time I finally figured out that this whole time business fell within the realm of physics, not metaphysics (go ahead, paste it in your dictionary search engine, paying special attention to the religious connotation), even graduate school was but a distant memory. I was saved, however, by the invention of the internet and by books like Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, attempts to simplify and popularize this topic.

To my chagrin, though, I was soon to discover that the concept of time had been repackaged as space-time, as in “the space-time continuum.” And now there was quantum physics which seemed to be able to twist time like Silly Putty; even some astrophysicists seemed stymied.

I felt like the kid who found lumps of coal in his Christmas stocking. What kind of deal was this? I spend most of my life trying to define time and, just when I think I might have it wrapped up, they go and introduce a new model.

Speaking of which, that brings up a unit of time uniquely specific to the automobile industry, the model year. So, are there model seconds and model minutes in a model day? Is there a model space-time continuum? 

Let me know if you can figure it out. I’m still wondering what happened to last Wednesday.

A seasonal offering

Oops! Missed a couple deadlines. Oh, well, don't want to take these things too seriously. So, here's a favorite of mine for many years.

Easy Carmel Apples

Ingredient List

~ 1 16 oz bag wrapped carmels (for this recipe, I prefer Brach's)

~ 8-12 (pending size) apples (I prefer Granny Smith)

Preparation

In a comfortable chair (I prefer a recliner), unwrap 1 carmel, place in mouth. Take a bite of apple. Add additional carmels or apple to taste.

Desert lullaby

It’s finally cooled off a bit here in Tucson, which means temps have dropped all the way down into the lower 90s.

To cope with the heat I’ve been watching movies about climbing frigid mountain peaks and documentaries about exploring Antarctica. I’ve also resumed my practice of sleeping during the day and taking advantage of the cooler nighttime temps to…well, not do much at all.

Tucson is set to mark its warmest October on record. I don’t know about Tucson, but this for sure is my hottest October ever.

But do I complain? Darn betcha!

The nights, though, have been sweet.

Cooling breezes barely whisper through my open window. Night birds call from the palo verde. In the distance, the plaintive keening of a diesel engine’s horn reminds one of places far away—remote in distance, more so in time.

The Sonora embraces.

Ambivalent Trails

It's that time of year again, when we snowbirds head south.

I still have a couple projects to finish and the bulk of packing up. Then I plan to make a few days of the trip back to Tucson. Ergo, I'll be absent from my blogs for a week or three.

Enjoy your respite.

So far, so good.

Seems I'm still online, so at least that situation remains stable. On the other hand, getting ready for the autumn migration south is not so sanguine. For every task I take care of, another problem pops up.

Lately it's been hassles with the Suburban.

First the starter broke—literally—into pieces. Then there was a pesky electrical short that would draw the battery down if I didn't use the truck for three or four days.

Fortunately, I have a good friend who owns an auto repair shop; we'll call him the Mechanic. He is old school and he is good. Earlier this week I was over in Alamosa shopping (read "WallyWorld"). Late that afternoon, as I was accelerating onto the highway to retrace the 50-mile drive to South Fork, all of a sudden something let loose up front and a persistent clanking began to emanate from the engine compartment. I pulled off the road, raised the hood and scanned futilely over what has become the modern automobile power plant.

After several minutes of intense bewilderment, I called the Mechanic at home. Working my way through a grandchild and his wife I finally got him on the line. I explained what happened and asked him to give a listen to the engine noise over my cell phone.

I held the phone over the running engine for a few seconds and then I asked him what he thought.

The Mechanic said something like, "Oh, that's just the flitdinder banging against the belt dousing. It must have come loose. No big deal. You can drive it home and bring it in tomorrow morning."

And sure enough, the next day the Mechanic showed me where the loose flitdinder was hitting the belt dousing. He snugged it down and Bob's your uncle.

Like I said, the Mechanic is good.

And I'm back in the game!

Through the help of a talented programmer, I was able to reestablish internet connections last week. To make a long story short, when he was unable to figure out exactly what was the matter and had exhausted all of his tricks, he simply did the macro version of a restart: saving my documents and the Vista operating system, he wiped my hard drive and then reloaded the saved material.

Problem solved—mystery remains. So it all feels a bit tenuous. I’m still not sure what program I reload might sow the seeds of the next breakdown. But I reckon, since you're reading this, you're all too familiar with the vagaries and varieties of computer meltdowns, so I’ll skip the whining.

All too soon the end of summer looms. By late September the RV park will close for the season. These months in the mountains have raced by. Small chores that I was putting off suddenly command attention. Visits and trips that I’d intended now morph into regrets. I’m not sure if my sorrow is more for having to leave these Colorado mountains or for my failure to meet my summer's goals.

Or it could just be my meds.

Know excuses!

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: Uncle Genie is still having trouble with his ethernet drivers and we have been unable to maintain our publishing schedule. At present, we are attempting to re-grade (what you do when you can't afford to upgrade) the drivers and hope to have a dependable net connection again very soon.

Truth be told, it's amateur night in our computer systems management department so any permanent repairts will be blind luck.

Rush Job

My persistent dilemma in writing about the San Luis Valley or the canyons of the Rio Grande and its South Fork, or the mountains of the San Juans and the Sangre de Cristos, is that in proclaiming the sublime beauty, one then has a hand in its despoiling.  Indeed, there is little point in the telling if it is not to implicitly suggest to others that the area is worth a look-see—or more.

Fortunately, I don't think that poses an actual problem with my blog, counting as it does only two followers, and very casual followers at that. But still, the quiddity remains.

The mystery of the July 3rd fireworks display in South Fork has been solved. Apparently, South Fork and Creede, the quaint old mining town 23 miles up-rio, agreed to alternate nights for their fireworks shows so that area residents and the many tourists staying with us could enjoy both. I guess next year folks in Creede can feel odd.

Had some trouble getting on line today. My best guess is that one or another of various program updates I downloaded gummed up my external router, the wireless antenna I depend on when the RV park gets crowded. Not sure which of my desperate remedies fixed it, but all of a sudden it started working again, so I jumped on the opportunity to post. Bit of a rush job as I'm going sans graphics. Oh well, you get what you pay for.

An old fashioned Third of July in South Fork

For some reason that I have yet to discover, the Independence Day fireworks display in South Fork burst forth on the third this year! I will get to the bottom of this, but my main plan for the weekend was neatly scuttled.

When I'm in town for the Fourth I like to enjoy the show from the Rockaway Cafe, the steakhouse I cooked at for several years. It's the tradition there that the crew from both the front and back of the house--dining room and kitchen--take a break and watch the fireworks together from the receiving dock out back. The display doesn't start until half past 9 and usually the dining room is slowing down by then. Wait staff will tell any lingering guests where they'll be and even invite them to come along if they don't mind the proximity of the dumpster. (Even so, some waiter or hostess will continue to make quick circuits of the front to make sure no one is neglected.) Those that want can grab a cold one from the beer fridge on the way through the kitchen; it's refreshment that's especially appreciated after the usual holiday crush of diners and a nonstop cycle of orders, prepping, cooking, service and clean-up.

The fireworks are launched from a bluff north of the Rio, up near the golf club, readily visible from the Rockaway and most of the town in general. It's only a half hour show, paid for by donations, but it's better-than-average for a small mountain town. And it's something I look forward to every year.

But not this year. This year they launched on the third. I still feel disoriented.

A scenic mountain ode

Let’s assume, without further mention of The Lone Ranger, that you are familiar with The William Tell Overture. Besides the finale alluded to above, this instrumental tone poem, the introductory theme to Rossini’s William Tell opera, also contains a section entitled Ranz des Vaches. That “call to the dairy cows” features an English horn and flute duet familiar to most of us as the signature music suggesting daybreak in dozens of animated cartoons. (Still doesn’t strike a chord? Try this sample.)

That would have been my theme music for yesterday. Yesterday was perfect. An impeccably comfortable temperature enhanced by a relative humidity that subtly caressed the skin. A flawlessly right-on mix of sunshine and passing clouds. Precisely modulated breezes. Even a concise and to-the-point thunder shower at late morning—just enough to infuse the air with that ambrosial mountain fragrance that you can all but taste on the back of your tongue.

I was lucky enough to have friends drag me out into that glory. First a former work associate surprised me with a visit that we enjoyed out at my picnic table. Later I was required to drive over to Del Norte for a wienie and burger cook-out with other former colleagues. What a pleasure it was to be out and about, especially with friends.

It was a Rocky Mountain summer day just begging to be savored. Nothing was out of place. Colors were brilliant, the air practically sparkled and even the acoustics—well, every mountain seemed poised to echo whatever song you chose to sing.

This is my song.

Of gourds and fishes

Yesterday, while frying up some trout (compliments of a neighbor) for dinner, I was reminded of the small town in northeast Oregon where I lived for some years. There, it seemed, almost everbody had a vegetable garden. Back then I was a gardener, too, though probably more persistent than avid.

That first spring, while I was prepping and laying out my garden, my retired neighbor came over and leaned on the fence. Typical of small towns, neighbors were friendly, happy to advise or help on whatever project one might be about. I had built up five four-by-four foot raised plots and I was telling him what I intended to plant in each. My neighbor asked, "No zucchini, then?"

"No," I said, "Why, do you think I should plant some?"

"No, no," he chortled. "I was just asking."

I said, "I've got room. I could throw in three or four vines."

"I wouldn't," he said.

"Why not?" Now I was curious.

At that point his wife stuck her head out the back door to advise him that lunch was ready. As he turned to go he was chuckling and he said over his shoulder to me, "You'll see, you'll see."

And I did see.

By late summer, town was awash in zucchini. It seems most gardeners planted it and the climate and soil were ideal. Proliferate doesn't begin to describe it. As it turned out, my neighbor always had zucchini in his garden and during August and September we were the recipients of several full grocery bags of the tubular green squash. At work there were bags and boxes of zucchini free for the taking and the local restaurants took to featuring zucchini dishes as daily specials.

The neighbor told me that there was usually so much zucchini that people didn't know what to do with it. In fact, every September their church sponsored a potluck where all the dishes had to include zucchini, partly for fun, partly to see if anyone had found a new way to prepare it.  So much was to be had that the word around town was that, if you were at Safeway's produce counter buying zucchini, it meant you didn't have any friends.

As I turned the fish in my skillet to finish cooking, I realized it was much the same way around South Fork RV parks: if you have to catch your own trout, it means you don't have any friends.

faceboarding

I will offer two analogies for my novice facebook experience.

Once, when I was swimming in gentle surf off a sunny South Carolina beach, I crossed a shallow sandbar and suddenly found myself being swept rapidly along parallel to the coastline. My first experience with rip tide and I could see that this surprisingly strong current would soon be turning seaward through a gap in another sandbar. I knew enough to swim cross current which, fortunately, took me toward shore. Just as the flow began to course toward the open ocean I reached the inner sandbar and swam over it to calmer water.

With facebook, though, there's the addition of a thick fog.

It's been ten years since my attendance at a family, well, what shall I call it? Gabfest comes to mind. There's a bunch of folks crowded around a too small dining table, a few others tripping over one another in the kitchen while whipping up a casual feast and several more nearby, contesting comfortable spots in front of the tube. Maybe 12 or 15 people in all—and everyone is in the same conversation! The TV is blaring to be heard over the voices and the voices are raised to be heard over the TV and each other, people are stepping all over each other's comments, there's some sort of card game at one end of the dining table, a couple dogs underfoot in the kitchen waiting for crumbs and, oh yeah, a half dozen younger kids running around yelling, whining for attention or trying to join in.

Boy, do I ever miss that!

I'll be sorry

The new plan: I post in this blog on Mondays and the Other Blog on Fridays. Yeah, right. We'll see.

My facebook page—a bare minimum profile and a reference to my blogs—is starting to bug me. I should have known. One of my sisters and a Canadian friend from the Tucson RV park want to be added as facebook "friends." No idea how or why, nor do I want to learn. What's worse, it's starting to cut into my Netflix time.

Note the "Aphorisms" page I've added to this blog. There's a link on the right.

And it's good for you, too!

I’ve discovered Netflix.

Not the service where they mail you a movie. No, I’ve discovered Netflix on line.

This is streaming video and it’s included with the DVD mail service. What’s more, Netflix seems to be able to stream video at some very slow speeds, making it ideal for the crowded bandwidth in an RV park.

So I’ve been watching movies, one of my favorite things to do. And for free, since I’m still in the 30-day trial period. They’ve got scores of movies I’ve never even heard of. I must have watched a couple dozen movies in the last week. Plus the entire Firefly TV series, which I’d never seen, and a couple documentaries.

Hence, I’ve been neglecting everything else, including blogging—sorry about that.

On the other hand, it’s also distracted me from eating, so I give you—TA DA—The Netflix Diet!

Springtime in the Rockies

It snowed Monday morning. That night the temperature got down to 26.

It's great to be back!

Hittin' the dusty trail

It’s a travel week.

First, everything has to be taken down, broken down, stowed and secured. Then there are the hasta luegos to be said, so long ‘til autumn—that’s the hard part. After that it’s cranking up the jacks, hitching up the truck and rolling up the road.

Then in South Fork the whole process is reversed!

Hmmm.

It’s only 630 miles but I think I’ll make two, maybe even three, days of it, just so I can rest up.

Anyway, if I don’t post anything for a week or so, now you’ll know why.

Top o' the morning

One thing that makes the heat more tolerable at this time of year in the Sonora is the relative cool of the nights. While later in the summer it will be 10F degrees warmer at night, right now it still drops into the 60s. So by running my fans all night, I’m able to draw in those nighttime temps and chill the rig down—not just the indoor air, but the furniture and the cabinets, as well as the exterior shell. This pushes the serious heat gain into mid-afternoon. Then at sunset it starts to get comfy again.

However, in just over a week heat gain will be a different sort of problem.

The San Luis Valley is known as “The Land of Cool Sunshine.” Even in the warmest spots summer temps rarely hit the 90s. And in South Fork, close to a thousand feet higher and at the junction of two mountain canyons, warm gloves are suitable attire most early summer mornings. That’s because, by early morning, the cold air from the high mountains, heavier than the warmer air in the Valley, is dropping down those canyons to displace that air on the Valley floor. When two of those airstreams, following the canyons of the Rio Grande and its South Fork, converge, it makes for a noticeably chilly breeze.

Not that I’m complaining. It will make an early morning cup of hot coffee even more to be savored. And even when it gets warm, there’s always a stream to be followed high into the mountains where it’s guaranteed to be cooler.

Better living through topography.

In case of emergency

Yesterday I awoke from my post-luncheon nap—one of just three daily naps that I allow myself—and decided to check the temperature: outside 97°F, inside a balmy 99°F. True, I was a bit "dewy," but all in all it wasn't half bad. I was genuinely surprised to see that it was that warm in the rig; I would have pegged it nine or ten degrees lower.

As I made an entry to my other blog, though, I noticed that my laptop felt warmer than usual, as did its power supply. I decided to cut short my on-line time and turn the laptop off after posting to UGOB.

Following that chore I figured that the best way to deal with the heat was to sleep through it, so I allowed myself a rare pre-dinner nap. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Face to face

Pleasantly mild weather for the past couple days, though a bit windy; had to roll up my awning. It looks like the moderation will hold for my picnic today with the kids and my grandson. We're going to visit the east unit of Saguaro National Park. I'm really looking forward to it.

I'm sorry it came to this, but I finally caved and joined facebook. The decision arose when I googled my own name to see if either blog made the lists and wouldn't you know, there's another Gene Rybarczyk, and he's on facebook. Go figure. And so, to avoid confusion, I jumped in too.

Holy samoley! Friends, friends of friends, associations, walls, postings and whatever in the heck. Talk about a virtual life. I don't think so. I'm not ready for that kind of commitment. I plan just to use it to reference my blogs and to differentiate the Genes.

And then there's Twitter. But not yet.

Pig fur and bird sass

I’ve made reservations at an RV park in South Fork; in less than a month I’ll be back in Colorado.

Still plenty to do before then. It turns out my old HP flat bed scanner isn’t compatible with Vista. HP has no driver for Vista; it looks to me as if they decided to just obsolete it. Reckon I’ll need a new one. And I need at least one new tire for the rig, and maybe one more so I can lose my iffy spare. That will depend on price. And I need a haircut. I’ve been cutting it myself for a while; lately I’ve become partial to the old fashioned flat top. Unfortunately, due to an unsteady hand and OCD values, about one in three ends up as a basic training buzz cut. So I have to psych up for the chore, remind myself that nothing is perfect.

Night visitor

I think the javelinas were by again last night—I could smell them. It’s that unmistakable pig odor anyone who’s been around a hog farm would recognize. I looked out the window, but there’re so many rigs close by that my visual range was confined. Too, I’m right at the edge of the park and they could have been outside the fence in the brush. Besides the raid on the neighbor’s can stash a few weeks ago, other sign of their visits are the tufts of their tough, bristly hair we sometimes find stuck in the fence.

In your face

More mockingbirds and cactus wrens around now—grackles, too, much to my chagrin. I’ve had run-ins with grackles before, especially in Florida. Very confrontational birds. And not a species to hide their annoyance in silence, either. Nope, I won’t be sad to bid hasta la bye-bye to the grackles.

Wire Less

The Sonora has returned to its warming ways and I write to the thrum of multiple fans since she (the Desert) appears not to have the energy to stir up a breeze. I have some chores awaiting but decided that Sunday ought to be a day of rest—pretty much like most of my other days.

The internet wireless service at the RV park has been boosted but it's still a mixed bag. Sometimes I can get a signal with all my windows shut and covered by mylar bubble sunscreens while at other times I can't pull a signal out of the ether with a grappling hook.

I've rigged a makeshift antenna by taping a dual-band wireless-N network adapter to the end of a mop. I extend it out the window so that it's above my roofline and clamp it to the window frame. Sometimes it helps with reception but all the time it looks silly.

The signal tends to degrade when there's a rig in the lot just east of mine, though they're never between me and the source antenna—not even close. So I don't get it.

Maybe I'm not wearing the right hat.

Wish come true

That cool rainy day arrived sooner than I'd hoped. No fans blasting last night and I shut all my windows, too. It's only 3 degrees warmer here in Tucson right now—44F—than it is at South Fork up in the San Juans in Colorado. The sun's out but it's supposed to rain again later today and again tomorrow.

I'm thinkin' that this is a chicken and dumplings day. I've got a new twist for my "cheater" recipe, which uses refrigerator biscuit dough. This time I've left the biscuits open in the fridge so they'll dry out a bit, a variation of an idea I saw on a TV cooking show. Hopefully it will make firmer dumplings. We'll see.

Under consideration

It's warm. Very warm. Not by local standards, of course, but folks that have air conditioning have been using it for several weeks now. I haven't turned mine on yet.

I did buy another fan. Now I have 4, including my rig's tiny bathroom exhaust fan. It's the fan that's tiny—come to think of it, so is the bathroom. The others are an odd assortment, but I won't bore you with that. Anyway, one or more of these fans are running 24/7.

It's actually not too bad. I mean, if I had to be doing manual labor right now, it wouldn't be much fun. But sitting here, just having finished an icy cold Coke—it's tolerable.

But it takes the fun out of cooking. As a result, for supper last night I had microwave popcorn and grapes for dessert. The chicken, pork, fish and steak in the cold storage are just dreams waiting for a rainy, cool day. Which have become fewer and farther between.

It will be cool in the San Juans. I think I'll stay in South Fork. I'll be just a stone throw from where the South Fork River joins the Rio Grande. It will be cool there.


I'm thinking about starting a second blog. One of different content. It's caused me to start reading the news again. I don't like reading—or hearing—the news. If it's not bad news it's stupid news. And if it's not stupid news it's outrageous news. I discovered a few years ago that filling my head with bad, stupid and outrageous stuff makes me feel awful.

And so I purposely detached myself; I quit reading, watching or listening to the news. I quit reading novels with gruesome plots. I quit writing about everything that was bad, stupid and outrageous. I even quit arguing—well, I cut back a lot. And I became a semi-hermit, only going out as necessary.

But when this darn Obama was elected, I was struck with a deep, ominous twang. It took me a while to identify the feeling, having been absent it for so long. Just as I feared—it was hope. Damned hope returns. Nertz! I don't need it. Life is much simpler without it. Now I probably have to start another blog.

Short timer

Soon it will be time to leave Tucson. Already the heat has tempted me to turn on the rig’s air conditioner once or twice. So far I’ve resisted. But the cool mountains beckon. Unfortunately, they’re still a bit too cool. In fact, it’s supposed to snow at home tomorrow.

In the park most of the mid-winter RVers, chiefly the Canadian contingent, have been replaced by Mud Season visitors from the Rockies. Mud Season is how us mountain folk refer to Spring. Only place I know where Spring is nothing to get excited about. Up to home every driving and walking surface that isn’t paved will be a quagmire. Many of the Forest Service roads won’t open until the middle of June; until they firm up traffic would simply trench them out.

Meanwhile I’ve completed several of the projects I had planned for my camper trailer. The bed’s been replaced with the new rocker recliner (Luv ya’, babe) with two four-drawer cabinets filling in for the under-bed storage that was lost in the exchange. The cabinets are much more convenient. And I still have the jackknife couch and the dinette for beds just in case, like if the Crown decides to quarter troops with me.

There’s a new large capacity convection toaster oven installed under the cook top. I also reinforced the load-bearing capability of both that cabinet and the microwave cabinet above the cook top. To keep the interior cooler I’ve rigged insulated sun shades for the windows and added an exhaust fan and a small oscillating fan.

Some projects remain. Still on my tewdew list is my kitchen counter extension. Like many rigs (other than the million-dollar behemoths), kitchen space is all but nonexistent. The counter extension will quadruple my work surface as well as providing a work area that’s raised a few inches, making it scads more comfortable for us taller types. And then I want to make an awning anchor system that will utilize the weight of my truck; still have a few wrinkles to iron out, though.

But diverse emotions abide: while I’m eager to return to Colorado, I’m sorry to think about leaving the Sonora. Ah, well, the increasing temperatures over the next six weeks will probably cure that sentiment.

Man vs Wild

Ah, the wild life. And the wildlife.

Just past midnight a week or so ago, my neighbors, Merle and Lynn¾a normally staid and quiet Canadian couple¾exited their travel trailer with all manner of whooping and thumping, raising an unholy ruckus that awakened everyone in our corner of the RV park. Fearing I might be missing a good party, I stuck my head out and asked what the fuss was all about.

Turns out that two javelina were under the Canadians’ trailer, rooting around in the bags of aluminum empties the Canadians had stored there. The javelina (HAV-ah-lee-nah), small, hairy wild hogs also known as peccary, scampered off, leaving only their musty scent on the still desert air.

Even though we are surrounded by Tucson, our wild enclave along the river continues to support a population of commonly rural residents. Besides the wild pigs, solitary jack rabbits and herds of quail, the coyotes continue their evening serenades, siren songs to pet dogs who sometimes end up on the coyotes’ menu. Then the other afternoon I spotted a road runner that was so tall I wasn’t at first sure what was speeding across the sand. His legs a blur, the spindly bird gave credence to the image of one of my all-time favorite cartoon characters. Made me smile.

Character Flaws

Deepest apologies for the long absence—but I've been on a honeymoon! And it was love at first sight!

Early December. I'm Christmas shopping, wandering with only minimal purpose, idly scanning both products and patrons. Suddenly, across the sales floor, in the midst of the gadabout shoppers and glassy-eyed salespeople, appears a vision in warm golden green brocade. She's broad and tall, with full arms and a plump, yet firm, back. I knew in an instant that we were meant for each other. Afraid to lose her in the rush, I plow through the holiday crowd. At last, breaking free, I rush the last few yards and throw myself into the arms of the most seductive recliner I have ever met. Three days later we moved in together; the intervening months have been one long orgy of unadulterated relaxation.

My extreme R&R—and the fact that I refuse to pay for internet service nor to much inconvenience myself in finding hot zones—has resulted in my thoughtlessly long absence from the waves. Hey, whaddaya want? So I'm not just lazy, but cheap too. Believe me, those are not my worst features.

Anyway, for the moment, I’m back.