I bike into Wasilla spring: preface

It is late Sunday morning and I find myself feeling extremely lazy and lethargic. I do not want to do anything. Melanie has bought Margie and I some tickets to an appearance by Ira Glass of This American Life, scheduled for 4:00 PM, so in just a few hours we will leave to join her there. At some point after that, I will drop Margie back off at Jacob and Lavina's house, where she will again stay for the next four days to care for Jobe, so his mom can go back to work - this time for real, I hope. No more e-coli!

Between now and when we leave for Anchorage, I want to do nothing but be lazy.

As much as I love this blog, I do not want to work in it right now. 

Yet, yesterday was a fantastically beautiful and warm day. At mid-afternoon, the temperature was 48 degrees, the sky was deep, clean, blue, the sun shone brightly and so I climbed onto my bike and took a good ride, one that took me past young children and old men, wary-looking police and through a park where basketballs soared toward hoops and kids on skateboards took to the air and I crashed my bike and could have ruined my shoulder all over again, but I came out just fine.

I also pedaled through the graveyard, where I could not help but feel sad to see memorials to children who do not toss basketballs, ride skateboards, bikes, or play at all.

So I had planned to put up a spread from that bike ride right now and I have already lined up 21 pictures from it.

But, on this Sunday morning, I haven't the energy or the will.

So I will make today's post a preface to that story and will plan to post it tomorrow.

Unless this blog gets too distracted by today's events.

Having already done so three painful times, I had planned not to visit the 9/11 site, but I did, anyway

When I went to board the subway train early last Saturday afternoon, I did not realize that I was headed to 9/11's Ground Zero. If I had paid closer attention to the doors of this still-moving train as I photographed it, perhaps I would have known. See how they evoke mental images of the Twin Towers of The World Trade Center, as they once stood?

In the days since the towers came down and with them some 3000 lives, I had visited the site three times, the first less than a year after the attack, when all the spontaneous memorials, packed with American flags, flowers, teddy bears, pictures of the deceased, words written to them and many items too numerous to begin to recount, still stood.

Each time, it was a gut-wrenching experience that brought me to tears and caused great anger and sorrow to well up inside me.

I did not wish to once again subject myself to such feelings this time and so I decided that, as deeply as the place is rooted in my heart and soul, I would skip a repeat of the experience.

I did not have much time. I had promised Chie that I would meet her for our tour of the Cloisters at 3:00 PM and I had not only overslept but had been slow to get going after that.

I thought perhaps I had just enough time to ride to South Ferry, at the very southern tip of Manhattan and then to turn around and ride to the very northern tip to meet Chie.

So I got on a train bound for South Ferry.

People on that train seemed all to be in a good mood.

At one stop, a man entered, clutching dollar bills in one hand and a document of some kind in the other. His legs were slightly twisted, he was bent a bit at the back, walked with a limp, had an unhealthy pallor to his skin and a look of desperation in his eyes.

He began to speak in a high, halting, voice, his words broken and slurred. He said that he had suffered a debilitating stroke, that he had a wife and three children, ages three to ten. He said that the assistance that he received was not enough to make ends meet and to feed his family and get them the medical care that they need.

He said that he hated to beg, but he just couldn't make it on his assistance and may God bless all who were willing to help with a small donation.

I did not know if his story was true, but I could not doubt that his spot in life was a hard one. As the train came to a stop, I reached into my pocket to see how much change I might have on me, but he turned, limped to the door at the far end and stepped out of the train before I could fish it out.

I did not see anyone give him money.

Then the train stopped and went no further, well before we got to South Ferry. Ahead of us, another train had broken down and we could not pass, but we could get off and catch a free shuttle to South Ferry.

So I got off, walked to the stairs that led to the exit and climbed out of the subway darkness into the light.

Immediately, I recognized that I had come up very close to the site of the 9/11 attack.

It seemed that despite my decision to avoid it, fate had determined that I would once again look upon one of the most painful memories of my life. So I decided not to go to South Ferry, but to spend what little time I could here, at the place where my country was dealt such a murderous, senseless, painful, blow.

Between where I stood and the site, I could see an ambulance, a road block, police officers, steam rising, and a young woman reading a book.

So I walked in that direction, past the ambulance and soon came to this scene, so familiar, yet so different now. For as long as I have a memory, the sight of these three buildings, standing tall, rigid, quiet, and firm, rising out of the smoke and ash after the Trade Towers fell, will never leave me.

How slow the process of reconstruction has been. Hopefully, it will move a little faster now that New York City and developer Larry L. Silverstein have reached a tentative agreement that will put a mix of public and private funds into the project.

If I understand correctly, this skeleton structure now going up will become The Freedom Tower, 60 stories tall.

I had it in mind to go back and recount for readers that beautiful morning, both in Wasilla and New York, when Jacob barged into our bedroom and woke Margie and I up with this words, "Mom! They bombed the World Trade Center," but I feel too weary at the moment to do so.

I'm afraid my travels, and all the sleep that I have continued to miss even since my return home, are catching up to me. I did, however, write a bit about that day in the second post that I ever made in this blog.

I did not have time to walk to walk around the entire area of Ground Zero, but I was right by St. Paul's Chapel, the Episcopal Church where George Washington worshipped on the day that he has sworn in as the first President of the United States. After surviving the 9/11 attack, St. Paul's also served as a relief center for rescuers and those who worked to do the initial cleanup.

Many believe that the chapel, which did not lose even a single broken window, was saved by a giant sycamore tree that took the brunt of flying debrie from the northwest corner of the chapel yard.

A root of that tree has been cast in bronze.

As I sat down on a bench beside tombstones of Americans dead now for well over 200 years, a little bird came hopping by.

People passing between the church and Ground Zero. Please take note of the small group that includes three children, walking just to the right of the tree.

They turned into the walkway to the chapel, where the adults stopped to ponder what had happened here.

I wondered about the children and their thoughts and feelings toward the events of 9/11. Had any of them even been born on that day?

I spoke with their parents and learned that the boy and the older girl had both been born in 2001, before the attack. So they were here for the event and the parents say they are very much aware of what happened that day. I did not get to speak to the children directly.

While she agreed to it, the mother of two of the children was a little bit nervous about them appearing on the internet, so I will not identify them by name or town.

These are the graves of two veterans of the Revolutionary War: Major John Lucas and Major Jon Sumner. Both died after the war in New York City of illness. Both were 33.

People pass through the cemetery of St. Paul's chapel. I would have lingered longer, and gone inside the chapel, but right after I took this picture, I checked the time. It was 2:14 PM. I still had to return to the guest house to clean up a bit. I was going to be late to meet Chie.

As I began my walk back to the subway, I spotted this gentleman with his bicycle, looking up at the under-construction Freedom Tower.

I would liked to have talked to him, but I had to move quickly on and so I did.

Soon, I would be back in the subway. Soon after that, I would be off to meet Chie, to take the tour of Cloisters.

Chie, Cloisters, the Dutch purchase of Manhattan and Bunny Rabbit soup will be the subject of my next post. I had planned to put that post up Saturday, but due to a bad malfunction by Squarespace, my problem-plagued, quirky bloghost, I did not succeed in getting this post up until Friday evening. I want to leave it up for a full 24 hours and so will probably just go ahead and hold the Chie/Cloisters post until Sunday morning.

Yesterday, I did pay a little visit to Kalib and Jobe - so, maybe, I might put those two up late Saturday evening and then get back on schedule Sunday morning.

We will see.

My lens smudged and dirty, I walk into Central Park, where I am greeted by a smiling dog

I had barely stepped into Central Park when I saw this little dog, smiling at me.

I also saw this woman, photographing what I took to be a cherry tree. She said that she did not think it was a cherry tree, but rather a tree that she thought was pretty, but could not identify.

I still think it was a cherry tree, but I could be wrong and she could be right.

I saw a big rock, with many people upon it.

A jet passed overhead.

A girl slid carefully down the rock...

...another slid down a slippery slide...

...as did still another.

I saw a bunch of boys, sitting upon a rail fence as they watched...

...another boy leap over a picnic table.

I saw a young man practicing his rock climbing skills. I asked him if he ever did serious rock climbing and where. He said yes, and named the Adirondacks. He radiated pride when he told me that, so I did not tell him that I was from Alaska.

He was loving his mountains and I did not wish to upstage him in even the smallest way.

I saw a little boy, shooting bubbles at a little girl.

I followed the sound of a drumbeat, and then came upon this fellow. I looked for a container into which I might drop a coin, but found none. He was not begging, he was practicing.

I was amazed to see leaves like this so early in the spring.

I found a little road upon which a pretty woman roller-bladed.

Other people pedaled bicycles...

...some rolled by on push scooters...

...one fellow cranked his way past on a hand-cycle.

Along came a trike, followed by a horse-drawn wagon.

I found a pair of lovers, intertwined with each other, oblvious to my presence.

Another pair of lovers had just taken their vows before a justice of the peace. Now, they had begun their honeymoon. They told me their names, but I did not speak them into my iPhone and so I forgot.

A helicopter passed overhead...

...as did a squirrel.

A little girl rode a horse without using her hands while eating a sucker...

...and a teen wearing high-heeled boots jumped between two oppositely oscillating ropes.

Since I got this pocket camera in December, I have been working the battery hard and heavy and all of a sudden, it has grown weak. It died immediately after I took this picture of a young woman teaching a younger boy how to manipulate his skateboard. If the battery had still had the ability to retain a charge that it had up until very recently, it would have still been good for at least 200 more frames - maybe 300. There was much left in Central Park for me to see and photograph.

I did not feel too badly about it, though, because I figured that I had taken enough pictures and if I were to take anymore, I would just have to spend that much more time editing them.

Yet, just as I was exiting the park, I saw something that I had to photograph.

So I pulled out my iPhone - as I would two more times after my pocket camera battery would again die in New York. I will post some iPhone pictures on another day.

Next up: A quick stop in the old graveyard across the street from where the Twin Towers once stood.

I find a pretzel in Times Square, plus a naked cowboy; These days, invited or not, Sarah Palin travels with Alaskans everywhere we go

I would not want to give the impression that I am a person who travels often to New York City, but I have been there a number of times and on my very first trip in the early 1980's, I established a ritual: to buy a pretzel from a Times Square street vendor and wash it down with a Pepsi.

Prior to that first trip nearly 30 years ago, I had always thought of pretzels as small, hard-baked, crunchy things packaged with dozens or even scores of others in plastic bags. I did like them, and found them to be particularly good as car food.

Then I made my first trip to New York and, for $35 a night, found myself in the Edison Hotel, immdiately off Times Square. After I checked in, I set out to explore and soon saw my first real pretzel, being sold by a street vendor. I bought it. It was a giant thing, maybe twice the size of the one you see here, twisted and coarse on the outside. The crust was not so smooth as this one, but was broken by little cracks and seared with scorch marks from the coals over which it had been roasted. The salt looked the same.

The pretzel had the aroma of fresh bread and salt and when I bit into it, I was amazed. It was fresh, thick and chewey, rich with the flavor of whatever wood had been used to roast it. It was one of the best things that I had ever tasted. I devoured it, along with the Pepsi, and then ordered another one.

Every day for the rest of that trip, which was maybe three days long, I bought at least one pretzel and a Pepsi to wash it down.

As for Times Square, I found it to be a strange mix of high and low culture, plus everything in between, all twisted together. Broadway theatres and porn shops, with naked inflatable dolls, whose use I did not even want to contemplate, hung suspended in large display windows. Men in tuxedos and women in fancy gowns walked the streets, brushing against prostitutes, pimps, beggars and hawkers. Many tourists walked about, gawking, as multitudes of vendors tried to sell them everything from magazines to sketches of themselves.

The air smelled delicious and there was an abundance of food to be had, both on the streets and in the abundant restaurants. There were hot dogs and sausages on a bun, grilled meat and vegetables on a stick. Whole chickens cast in red light turned on grills in window displays. The aroma of Asian food, French cuisine, beer joints and pizza, whole and by the slice, wafted out of doorway upon doorway.

All the food that I tried, and I tried as much as I could possibly afford, both from street and restaurant, was among the best that I had ever tried.

On that first evening, as I walked down the street, I saw a woman walking the other way, looking right at me. As anyone from my part of the world would likely do, I responded with a polite nod and a "hi."

Big mistake. I never did that again.

Day or night, crowds of people swarmed through the streets as the famous, corner, Coca-Cola lighted marquee played above. For a seeker of open space, untrammaled country and solitude, it was an amazing thing to see for the first time. As short as my tolerance for big crowds is, I yet found it exhilarating and exciting.

After that, whenever I would return, wherever I would be staying, I made it a point to go to Times Square to eat a pretzel and drink a Pepsi.

"Be sure to try a pretzel," I would tell New York-bound acquaintances. "They are special - the best in the world."

Back home, I kept trying to replicate the experience. Whenever I would find a pretzel shop in an Anchorage mall, I would buy one. Many were good - but they were not New York pretzels. I discovered frozen Super Pretzels in the grocery store. I would bake and microwave them at home and share them with the kids, even as I boasted about the far superior New York pretzels.

In later years, Melanie got to New York. Having heard about the legendary New York pretzel for all of her life, she bought one.

"Dad," she complained back to me, "there is nothing special about this pretzel. It is just like a Super Pretzel that we could buy at Carr's."

She was right. The old New York pretzels are gone. In my more recent trips, I have searched the streets of Manhattan uptown, midtown, downtown and lower. Nowhere can I find a New York pretzel. Only imitation pretzels, like any Super Pretzel that I could buy in any decent grocery store in any city or town in America.

Times Square is different, too. Redone in high-tech electronics; selling high fashion, glitz, glamour, Mickey Mouse, sporting memorabilia and romantic fantasy.

I suppose that it is a safer place than the old Times Square and that maybe it is good to be able to walk down the street without having to fend off pimps and prostitutes, but, as furiously busy as it remains, there is something bland and artificial about it.

Still, when in New York, I have a ritual that I must now follow. I go to Times Square. I buy my pretzel and my Pepsi and then I eat and drink and I still enjoy - just like I would if I were eating a Super Pretzel at home. As I eat, I try to remember how the real New York pretzels tasted. I long to have one.

This is the pretzel I bought at Times Square this trip, and that's Times Square right behind it.

In the new Times Square, crowds of people still flow. Many gawk and marvel.

After I finished my pretzel, I came upon a famous man, who claimed to be naked and a cowboy. All kinds of girls and women were stuffing dollar bills - no less than three at a time, for that seems to be his minimum - into a slot in his guitar and then posing for both front and back shots as their girlfriends, boy friends, husbands and countless strangers took their pictures.

As it turns out, he is not really naked, but wears some little white shorts. I kind of doubt that he is a cowboy, either. Has he ever lassoed a calf? Castrated a steer, waded through wet, green, dung or sat in a saddle, all day long, pushing cattle through the brush as mosquitoes fed on him? If he did, would not the saddle horn have castrated him?

I don't know. Perhaps he was once a real cowboy who caught a glimpse of the city and could not be drawn back to the ranch. I could google his history and maybe find out, but I am too lazy. Plus, I am not certain that I would believe what I read - not even on Wiki, because anyone can be a historian on Wiki.

The Naked Cowboy definitely has a lucrative gig, though. An unending flow of women constantly stuffs dollars into his guitar. It appeared to me that he works very hard, but reaps substantial financial reward. I am certain, too, that when the need rises, the Naked Cowboy never lacks for a woman.

I wonder what kind of sunscreen he uses?

A woman places her hand on the Naked Cowboy's butt as her husband or maybe boyfriend snaps a picture.

A little girl drapes her arm across the Naked Cowboy's butt and places her hand atop his hip as a man who might or might not be her father documents the moment.

Naked Cowboy and fan.

Directly across the street from the Naked Cowboy, I came upon what appeared to be a father and daughter, taking a rest beneath a giant, full-motion, billboard.

Not far away, I found a lady police officer with her horse. "I'll bet lot of people photograph you," I stated as I photographed her. She rolled her eyes, sighed and groaned, "Yes, you wouldn't believe it. I get so tired of it."

Perhaps readers have noticed that there is a dull, grimy, hazy, even blurry, cast - most pronounced right in the middle of the frame, over all these pictures. That is because the lens to my pocket camera is dirty. A drop of water or some other fluid had struck it right in the middle and dried there and a thin coating of grit and grime had spread all the way across the glass.

One bad feature of this pocket camera is that the lens is not much more than a quarter inch across, so a drop or smear on its surface that would not noticeably affect the quality of an image shot through a lens with more surface area will truly mar a picture taken with a soiled pocket camera.

I had brought a small bottle of lens cleaning fluid and a new cleaning cloth with me, but the cloth had disappeared. I decided to drop into a Times Square camera store and buy another.

I stepped in and was met by this guy. He did not want to sell me a cloth, but rather a whole lens cleaning kit, complete with cloth, brush, air-puffer and fluid. But that kit cost at least four times as much as did just a cleaning cloth. I did not want to pay the money, nor did I want to have to carry all that stuff around with me.

It was the kit or nothing, the camera merchant said. I could buy the kit, clean my lens and get clear pictures, or I could go around with a dirty lens and get mucky pictures. I would not find a kitless lens cloth anywhere - certainly not on Times Square. All of Manhattan's big camera stores are owned by Jewish families and were closed for Passover, so I could not go to one of those and buy one, either.

I told him that I did not need all that and was not going to buy it. I added that if he were to sell cloths, he would still increase his business because people like me who will not buy a kit would still purchase something from him.

"I can't make any money off you!" he snickered derisively. "I make my money off of suckers. Suckers who will buy the whole kit. I can see you're not a sucker. I make my money by selling to suckers." As he taunted me, his side kick, the one whose arm extends from the blue-striped shirt sleeve, chortled mockingly. I was reminded of Ralphie confronting the school-yard bully and his toadie in A Christmas Story.

I decided that I had to put the man and this story in this blog, so I pulled my camera out of my pocket, changed the settings from outdoors to indoors, then lifted it and shot this picture. This angered the man.

"I'll slap you!" he threatened. "Get out of my store!"

So I decided that on this day, I would just shoot with a dirty lens. When the angle of light was against me, I would settle for the impressionistic effect.

Shortly after I stepped out of the store, this car stopped at a red light and this young woman asked me if I could tell them how to find a certain place. "I can't," I said, "I'm not from here. I'm from Alaska."

"Alaska?" she said. "Where Sarah Palin is from?"

"Believe it or not, I'm from Wasilla."

Everyone in the car was very amused by that fact.

The hard truth these days is that if you live in Alaska - especially Wasilla, Alaska - and you go traveling Outside, Sarah Palin travels with you, everywhere you go.

Sometimes, you can be having a good conversation with a couple of people, then they learn that you are from Wasilla, they look at each other strangely, find a way to quickly end the conversation and walk away.

Sometimes, they smile big and tell you that they love Sarah Palin and how lucky you are to live in the same town with this magnificent and brave woman.

Funny, the assumptions people make, just because you live in a certain place at a certain, very odd, time in history.

There are those who do not assume, but they tend to grill you with questions when you might rather talk about something else.

I did not make this up. After the carload of people in search of direction moved on, I kept walking and came upon this dog. It kind of looks like a pitbull.

And then I moved on toward Central Park. My stroll there will be the subject of tomorrow's post.

As a reminder that I am no longer in NYC:

Here is a picture that I took on my coffee break, while stopped at a Wasilla red light.

Jobe on the phone, a biker in the snow, along with other big vehicles; blogging with Jimmy

I can't believe it! It is now already two full weeks since Jobe was born. And I have not laid eyes upon him for 12 days. I have missed him every single one of those days - just as I have missed his big brother, Kalib. As I waited in the drivethrough at Metro today, I heard the text message tone go off in my iPhone.

It was this picture, sent by Lavina.

Jobe is growing so fast and I am missing it all. 

But, weather permitting, Margie and I plan to drive into town after we get up. We will see him again.

Finally, a little new snow. The temperatures are still warm - mid 20's today. Sadly, Laverne is going to take Gracie back to Arizona and the rez on Sunday and unless Nature gets her act together fast, when everybody asks if she froze in Alaska, Laverne will have to say it was warm the whole time she was here.

What fun will that be?

Of course, it's always warm when it snows. It can't snow when the temperature is cold. Maybe we will all get lucky and some cold weather will come just before Laverne and Gracie leaves.

My friends up on the Slope have been experiencing brutal weather lately.

That's what they tell me on Facebook. Nobody has said anything about temperatures. They have just said that it has been cold and windy. And when an Arctic Slope Iñupiat states on Facebook that it is cold and windy, you can pretty much believe its true.

Especially if they say, 

"Alapaah!"

A bit further along, I saw this school bus.

And then this snow plow.

Two nights ago, I mentioned how I was typing away with my good black cat buddy, Jimmy, sprawled across my chest. I also noted that I have had a great deal of time to practice this technique.

So tonight, I started working on my blog and, once again, there was Jimmy, sprawled across my chest, except that this time he was lying on his side.

I decided that I might as well try to photograph the scene, so that my readers will know that I do not lie or exagerate. So here I am, typing, working on this very blog post as Jimmy sprawls across my chest.

And I am taking a picture, too.

This is what is known as "multi-tasking."

Jimmy and I are good at it.

Jimmy sits up to think about things. Jimmy likes to think. He is a thinking cat. He is not quite as deep-a-thinker thinking cat as Thunder Paws was, but still, he is a thinking cat.

He thinks about many things.

He is very bright.

He is a bright cat.

A bright black cat.

He then executes a maneuver that would distract a lesser blogger, but, as you can see, I blog on, undettered. My powers of concentration amaze me.

Jimmy and I, blogging together.

Jimmy. My good black cat buddy.

What a character. What a friend.

How could I even do this blog without him?