Some Wives...

Some wives blog often- mine does not. But I love her nonetheless.

Cache Valley's "Valley View" Highway is Quite Haunted

On Saturday while riding out to spend a day fishing with my father, something that I should not be surprised about occurred. My 1980 dented motorcycle, a beacon of engineering marvel, puttered out on me. I was able to get about a mile or so after the sputtering began by simultaneously turning my turn signals on and off. It only angered the drivers behind me enough to glare as they drove by, so I found a place to turn off without the threat of getting winged by a passenger door. Apparently my alternator is going out. My mother had to come and pick me up in the truck and I felt like a schoolboy again - but in the embarrassed sort of way.

After catching my limit on weeds and sunstroke my father/son outing was over and we dragged my father's boat home through the canyon with his grey Buick (he would not let me turn the AC on, though my legs were burning like the fingernails of Hades). Upon reaching Petersboro and after charging my battery (because my alternator was still going out) I shot a bb-gun at a fat starling and missed. Having that under my belt I jumped on the motorcycle and took off down the road feeling the wind rush over my spammy knees. Upon reaching literally the same spot in the road where I was compelled to stop that morning, my bike gave up and sputtered off. Surprisingly I did not make any attempt at swearing or kicking the gravel as I usually would because I realized what the real problem was: the road is haunted by a vindictive biker spirit.

I concluded that the road was haunted when I recalled an incident of several years ago. Since the road runs directly through the valley's central system of bog, there appears vast quantities of fog when conditions are ripe (about six straight months out of the year). On one particularly foggy occasion I was driving my Pontiac Grand Prix (which mysteriously erupted into flames at a USU football game shortly thereafter - not even joshing) and listening to a Russian band of pre-teen girls when I passed a large man wearing a long dark duster and black hat. I passed but then thought the gentleman might need a ride since he was walking towards Petersboro and there is nothing in Petersboro to walk to. I turned around and scanned the side of the road with my window down while tendrils of fog violated the disco-like environment of my car. After a minute or so of looking I concluded that the man must have stepped away from the road to pee or something and I turned back around to look closer (but not for THAT reason). I probably gasped when I saw that there was nowhere to pee along that side of the road because it dropped directly into the bog but for a few feet of gravel. Unless the man went for a swim in the hideous swamp he was a phantasm.

It was within a quarter mile from the visitation that I broke down twice in the same day on my motorcycle. The man must still be there waiting. The sheer number of times I have driven my car through that corridor of doom without any problems whatsoever prove that the man was a biker from Minnesota, or maybe Hell, who lost his family in the bog while they all rode with him - a highly dangerous activity on such a small bike on such a narrow and foggy road.

So as I waited for my father to come and bring me some gas (I had run out of gas, but that wasn't the REAL reason behind me breaking down, as I am sure you are now convinced) I shivered, even as my sunburn reeled against the setting sun.

My Hair Bleeds From Being Cut

Erin was a doll and cut my hair last night. No more will I feel the comforting fingers of my hair massage my lower neck. Gone are the days where people would come to me and try to steal pieces of my clothing to sell in English parishes. I also stupidly shaved my facial hair - leaving me quite indecent in the face. When I go outside (which is not very often, anymore) it feels like I am flashing people. In all honesty I had hoped that by shaving and clipping my luxuriant locks the weather would stop being cold and the mountain snow would melt. My pale face certainly could use the tanning properties of the sunshine. I made this pact with the universe yesterday while I trudged up and down the Wellsville mountain foothills stretching a horribly dilapidated fence while rainwater dripped onto my bum. At least the rain makes the world mudlicious and puddle-wonderful. If you have never driven an ATV through mud and puddles in the mountains I would highly recommend it. It will not be long until they start charging a fee for having that much fun and getting that dirty. Of course my primal sense of fun has always involved the getting of dirt. Even the threat of mother publicly bathing me and my naked brothers with a green hose on our front lawn did not deter us from rolling in what little mud we found under the park swing-divots and drying it on us like Nile crocodiles.

Perhaps I have made a mistake to try and end the rain; it is futile. I did not account for children praying for mud holes. I can't beat the prayers of children, especially now that I no longer resemble Jesus.

7 Reasons Atticus Finch is a True Gentleman

I recently finished Harper Lee's masterful work, To Kill a Mockingbird. It was the first time since high school English that I had read it, and I took a very different set of ideas from this reading than I did as a teenager. While the storyline still affected me deeply, I was most impressed with how Atticus Finch's character epitomized several traits I think any true gentleman should strive to internalize. I will outline seven of his most prominent traits.

1. Responsibility. After his wife dies, Atticus is left to raise and teach his two children, Jem and Scout, by himself. He does have the help of his housemaid, Calpurnia, but he alone provides for the food, shelter, clothing and finances of his household. Not only does he take care of his family, he helps keep his neighborhood in order by helping them with their wills and entitlements, shooting mad dogs and taking the jobs no one else wants to do. He also takes his civic responsibility so seriously that he serves in the state legislature for several years even though it takes him from his family often and for long periods of time.
2. Education. One of the men outside the Maycomb courthouse regards Atticus as being a "mighty deep reader." Every night he reads from the newspaper and other sources, thus minimizing the risk of being ignorant or uninformed. As an attorney, he deals with an almost infinite range of cases and his education reflects directly on his professionalism and skill. He makes it a point to know enough to be able to do his job well.
3. Humility. Atticus' humble nature leads his children to think him a weak and uninteresting father. In reality, though, he is the best marksman in their county. He is so confident in his own abilities he does not need to promote them. Another example of his humility is in his interaction with the elderly Mrs. Dubose down the street. Atticus tells his children that she is the bravest person he has ever known - a marked statement considering how much courage he shows. He has no problem with seeing an old, bitter, morphine addict woman as his better.
4. Courage. As I touched on before, Atticus is as brave as any man need be. Not only does he accept and defend a black man accused of raping a white woman in 1930's Alabama, he stands outside the accused man's cell to protect his client from a mob of murderous townsmen. It does not take a stretch of the imagination to see the danger physically, emotionally and publicly in both of these actions. Atticus may be hesitant of the daunting task at hand, but he carries out the job nonetheless.
5. Respect. Atticus shows everyone around him the respect they should be due. Not always did the people around him act in a way worthy of his respect, though he gave it anyway. A prime example of this happens when Atticus passes the old woman, Mrs. Dubose, who had insulted his children and told them horrible things about their father. Instead of confronting the old woman and encouraging more useless dialogue he removes his hat to her and tells her what a lovely flower garden she has. He understands that we cannot change other people's actions, we can only influence them through our own. By showing his enemies respect and honor, he takes a nobler path.
6. Honesty. Atticus, as his neighbor Ms. Maudie tells his daughter Scout, is the same in his own house as he is on the street. He is honest almost to a fault. While his honesty causes others to trust him he in turn believes people to be more trustworthy than they are. While this is a dangerous character trait, it is admirable in its origins. Utopian would be the world where men held themselves and others to their word.
7. Stoicism. To an extreme and as an end to itself, this trait can injure one's self against emotion. As exemplified by Atticus, this trait becomes a virtue. Atticus is able, through controlling his appetites and passions, to bear the heavy burdens he meets. His wife dies and leaves him to care for the children alone. Taking Tom Robinson's case exposes him to a firestorm of hate from his friends and neighbors. The father of the prosecution spits in his face in front of his children. Atticus stoically wipes the offenses from himself and deals with each problem through sheer will-power. It is important to note that he retains enough emotion to weep openly when Tom Robinson's family and friends try to repay him for his attorney services. He is a man who is not afraid to cry, but saves his tears for the important moments when they are most needed.

Understandably Atticus is a fictional character, but just like other fictional heroes like Spiderman or Superman, that does not mean we cannot look to him as a role model. We live in a nation of where even our highest leaders who should embody them, lack many of the basic values of a gentleman. In response to this crisis of character we need to look seek out strong men and women to emulate. And aside from real life, what better place to find those people than in what I consider to be America's greatest art form - literature.

I Would Rather be a Big Man on a Small Bike Than a Small Man in a Big Truck.

Today I made the mistake of riding my 200cc motorcycle to work. The morning ride was nice and chilled but not a bad 15 mile drive through the central valley bog. I even saw some owls and a wily fox on the way. This afternoon was different, much different. Weather reports for today showed partly cloudy skies with a 15% chance of scattered rain. Unfortunately, in Cache Valley weather cannot be predicted. After my bus run I jumped on my bike and started down the road when the light rain turned into ice pellets of death. There was no avoiding the blasted little crusties as they pelted my face. The beard helped some, and so did my glasses, but I am overcoming a sunburn from a nap folly two days ago. What should have been only minor bee stings turned into wasps with rubber band guns. If you have ever stood directly underneath a tall waterfall and looked up you have a pretty clear idea of the pain. This all happened at 25 mph; over that speed and my face would have been cheese-grated.

About halfway through the trip home the ice storm let up and I was left with snow and rain friendlets. Now I could only go about 35 mph because I was soaked and my knees and wrists were non-responsive. Hugging the far right side of a two-lane road seemed the best course of action. I was wrong, though, because that was taking up too much of the road. A jacked-up Super Heavy-Duty Custom Special Edition troop-supporting big-tired F-1050 Ford truck decided I was being a prick and passed within a foot or so of my whimpering Honda 200CM. The draft nearly sucked me off into the smelly muskrat ditch. I tried to apologize to the fellow with a wave of my hand but it was so cold I could not keep my finger up to do it properly. He probably could not see me anyway since I could barely make out his baseball-capped head above the truck's front seat.

After the truck incident and a minivan soccer mom on a cell phone who almost ran my foot over at a light, the ride continued with little incident. Why do we allow small people to drive vehicles much too big for them, anyway? There should be an unwritten law against just that sort of thing. Too many times people too small for their vehicle of choice have encountered me, and it always almost ends badly. The first vehicular collision I had was when an old woman ran into the side of our car. She could only see a few inches above the dash (between the dash and the top of the steering wheel) of her monstrous Cadillac and tried to blame the accident on our yellow Nissan because she did not see it. Oh, and her dog was tiny, too.  My second accident was with a woman who backed into my red Nissan (we upgraded) and could not see over her backseat. My third and final accident involved a small cow, or "calf" as they call them, who could not see me because of  a sagebrush.

I admit that it would be somewhat discriminatory to make an actual law against this sort of thing. But could we not all just make fun of them until they stop doing it? It is pretty funny to see an old short bloke or blokess in their honking machines looking for all the world like muppets or Dr. Seuss characters. Making fun is not only an enjoyable way for us to begin separating small people from their death-carriages, it keeps me from dragging the baseball-capped, oakley-glassed, facial-hairless oompa-loompas  from their behemoth trucks at stop lights and strapping them behind my 200cc Honda like they did in the old days. Until then I will try to be more careful and not take up so much of the road. 

Just Looking at an image

I just wanted to see how this image I made looks on my blog.

Books To Read If You Have The Time...

Just before graduation last May my literary capstone class met to discuss books they would recommend to each other. This is that list. Though I have read only a few of the books below I am sure most of them are worth reading. There was at least one screwball in the class, though. She recommended "Two Weeks with my Brother."

• Bless Me, Ultima / Rudolfo Anaya
• Cat's Cradle / Kurt Vonnegut
• Exodus (& Mila 18) / Leon Uris
• The Count of Monte Cristo / Alexandre Dumas
• Shogun / James Clavell
• V. / Thomas Pynchon
• Two Weeks with My Brother / Nick Sparks
• Fall On Your Knees / Anne Marie MacDonald
• The poetry and short stories of Dorothy Parker
• Cat's Eye / Margaret Atwood
• Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance / Robert M. Pirsig
• Burning Chrome / William Gibson
• Into the Wild / Jon Krakauer
• Owning It All / William Kittredge
• Anansi Boys / Neil Gaiman
• All the Pretty Horses / Cormac McArthy
• The Far Pavilions / M. M. Kaye
• Cloud Atlas / David Mitchell
• Cry, the Beloved Country / Alan Paton
• White Teeth / Zadie Smith
• The Harvester / Gene Stratton Porter
• Mind Gym / Gary Maek
• Atlas Shrugged / Ayn Rand
• We Have Always Lived in the Castle / Shirley Jackson
• Sonny's Blues / James Baldwin
• Nicholas and Alexandra / Robert K. Massie

CreedThoughts Was Taken

This is the first of two blogs I will be starting. The other involves a lot more prep work and time because it concerns translation of Russian poetry and other fun things related to my Slavic half. In an attempt to create my own personal server and blog that would run off my computer I spent the entirety of my evening yesterday in a state of much cursing. Having failed that (though I still think I could pull it off given more time) I will instead make both blogs on Blogspot and Wordpress. My first official posting is this one, but my first interesting posting will shortly follow. Oh, and the daffodil is just there to look pretty.