Dummies in and on machines - the problems they cause (and why I continue to ignore the Palin controversies - and Kohring, too - in my Wasilla blog)

Why the hell do I bother? Damned if I know. Bother to keep a blog, I mean. It takes time that I do not have. Even so, I think I will continue to keep it. Maybe if I keep it long enough, some rich person or philanthropic organization will come to me and say, "Quit wasting your time doing other stuff! Here is $64 million dollars and 39 cents, tax free. Go and blog."

In the meantime, you will recall that yesterday I had rounded up a tiny handful of my pre-blog photos and I posted a few here. The above, taken in October of '05, is also from that group, and although I do not really want to think about the marsh being frozen right now, it leads directly to the new images that follow, so here it is.

I was glad that day when I walked into the marsh and saw that this truck had got stuck. Glad, because it never should have been there. My friend, the property owner, had his signs posted. He did not want machines tearing up the marsh, which he describes as a meadow.

"Walkers always welcome," his sign said - but it forbade the trespass of all machines.

The driver of this vehicle saw the signs but drove on in, smashing and crushing all before him as he charged forward. He (possibly a she, I suppose) was a DIM - "Dummy In Machine." We have many of them around here, and DOMs too - "Dummies On Machines." DAMs also - "Dummies Abandoning Machines." They do this kind of thing all the time and they will even drive right through your yard, if it suits them.

So I was glad this one got stuck. He would be stuck for awhile.

And this is what he and his dummy peers have wrought. That fence now extends far out into the marsh and this is a very recent development. This was the first time I saw it that way. And do you see the clause that says, "walkers always welcome?" No. It is gone. It would seem that my neighbor is just getting exasperated and so is building barriers that he hopes will keep everybody out. Thanks to the DIMs and such.

I believe that I am still welcome, because the owner and I have known each other almost since the day he moved in with his wife and dogs and we get along well and sometimes we talk about earthquakes. That's what he does. He assesses property for its proximity to fault lines and its potential to wreak havoc upon structures by earthquake. I take some comfort that he is my neighbor.

So we talk about earthquakes. And late last summer, we wound up at the same bar to watch Obama make his acceptance speech and it was so good, we wondered what McCain was thinking - how could he possibly answer such a speech?

And of course, his answer to the articulate and well thought-out words of Obama came right from our own little town and Wasilla and the United States of America have never been the same since.

Now, especially after a week such as this, some may come to my blog and wonder why I ignore all the nonsense that is being wrought out there as a result.

I could probably triple or quadruple or even quintuple my blog readership if I jumped on the blog band-wagon - and it is a mighty big bandwagon - and started ranting about all this. 

But there are enough bloggers doing that. I don't need to. The instant I start, I will polarize this blog and that will be that. 

Except for the part where I photograph things as I drive, walk, and bike about Wasilla and in this way create a somewhat impressionistic image of this little town, I have yet to find the resource and time to meet my larger goal and dig into the soul of this place.

Even though I lean left, I have always been able to get along with people of different viewpoints. When I am able to make this blog what I want it to be, I will need to communicate with the left and right, the middle and the fringe. If I can't, they will not communicate with me - except maybe with one finger.

So I cannot polarize this blog - not too much, anyway.

Plus, on these matters, I have nothing of substance to add.

If I could sit down with our governor, her supporters, her enemies, talk to and listen to them and then find a way to thrash it all out in words and photos, that would be one thing. But that day has yet to come and right now the only thing that I could accomplish would be to blow off steam. That would accomplish nothing.

Plenty of bloggers are doing that already. And each morning, those who go to bed loving Sarah Palin get up loving Sarah Palin and those who fall asleep despising her wake up feeling just the same.

And this goes for Vic Kohring as well. I did get into a big argument with him once, but I was not blogging then. It had to do with Alaska Native hunting and fishing rights. On this, we disagree sharply - as do the governor and I. 

Well, I ramble, to no good end. Maybe I've polarized myself a bit here. Like say, with those DIMs, DOMs and DAMs, Oh, well. I am quite tired. I should not be writing at all. I will stop now.

Float plane landing on Sarah Palin's lake, and other Wasilla scenes: will soon continue the India series

I am so ashamed of myself. This blog has nothing to do with our former Mayor, present governor and ambitious woman traipsing about the nation in preparation for 2012, but I figured if I put "Sarah Palin" in the title, someone might google her name and wind up on my blog.

Not only that, the lake the airplane above is landing on is not her lake at all; she just happens to live on it. It is called Lake Lucille and it belongs to all of us Alaskans - even to you who are not Alaskans.

But don't try to get on Lake Lucille by passing through Sarah Palin's yard.

I don't know if she has a mean dog, but if she does, it might bite you.

The picture was taken through my windshield as I drove down Lucille Street.

A fence and imitation well on Gail street. We have a well in our front yard, too, but it doesn't look like that. We don't have a fence. I don't want a fence. I hate fences.

My next door neighbor has a fence. He put it up so that he would not have to look at my wrecked airplane.

Speaking of which, I saw this Citabria for sale at the Palmer airport. I had a doctor appointment at 4:00, but had to wait until 8:00 PM to see the doctor. I got bored, left the doctors office and drove to the Palmer airport to see what kind of airplanes might be for sale.

And here was this Citabria. Looks almost like the Running Dog once did.

Look at that! $28,000! When I saw that number, my hopes rose. But then I read that part about the fuselage and windows showing their age. Plus the part about the engine and prop "still" passing annual. And nothing about time on the engine or prop. I figure that means they must be high time and so soon will have to be replaced or rebuilt.

So I reckon that once this Citabria is purchased and put into good working order, the buyer will have spent anywhere from $45 to $60,000.

Hell. There's no way I can afford that.

In fact, there's no way that I can afford $28,000.

Yet, seeing this airplane gave me hope and still does.

I don't have $60,000 today but that doesn't mean I won't on another day.

And if I get it, I will buy me a good airplane and Margie will shrug and sigh and think of all the things that she could do with $60,000, but she will love me anyway, and she will smile, and be happy to see me take off and then later buzz the house and then come in for a landing.

That's how it used to be around here.

That's how I want it to be again.

And when it becomes that way, you will see this blog turn into something, because Alaska will once again be mine.

And here is a dog that was at the doctor's office when I returned. I was officially ahead of him in line, but still, he got in to see the doctor ahead of me.

I didn't see it for myself, but I'll bet she petted him.

She didn't pet me.

How come?

Despite suffering two flat tires since I returned from India, my bike works pretty good. I took this picture as I pedaled past this kid.

Easter Sunday, part C: We eat and hang out

Remember those strawberries that I photographed in Carr's yesterday? Here they are again - desert, on Easter Sunday, 2009 at the Hess home in Wasilla, Alaska.

The main course was ham, mashed potatoes, potato salad and green beans. Even before dinner, we could not stop ourselves from eating eggs. When it came time for the strawberry shortcake, Kalib wandered about, mooching off of whomever he saw eating in front of him - in this case, Mom.

Charlie borrowed my guitar for awhile and filled the house with wild music. As for the guitar, it is a martin and I first saw it in the display window of a music store in Globe, Arizona, in 1976. I went inside, the salesman got it down for me, I took a seat, and played a bit of Bach on it.

Never had a guitar sounded so good in my hands. I had to have it. It cost $1800 and my annual income was $10,000. I didn't care. I put some money down on lay-away and kept paying until that day came when I could finally pick it up and bring it home.

I did love that guitar and I even played it in a master class with Christopher Parkening. Many people used to think that I was really good, but that was only because they did not know better. I knew better.

There is only one way to be really good on the classic guitar, and that is to play and play and play and play. Practice, practice, practice. I'm a photographer, I'm a writer. I hardly have time for both. How could I be a classical guitarist, too?

So I put the guitar aside, because the only thing that I could do with it was to play works that other people had composed, that other guitarists could interpret much better than I could - but I can create originals with a camera, and keyboard.

Once, during one of those times that I have mentioned when I was broke and in dire need of money, I took this guitar to a pawnshop right here in Wasilla. The fool behind the counter asked me how much it was worth. I told him.

He laughed loud and scornful, asked me what kind of fool I thought he was. At most, he said, it was worth about $150 - he had seen a lot of guitars and he knew - so he would loan me maybe $50 for it.

So I walked out of his store with no money but my guitar in its case, leaving the fool to think that he was very clever, with no idea of the profit he could have made had he given me a loan that reflected its true value, if I had then defaulted.

I often imagine that the day will come when I am able to do nothing but sit at home and write my books, and that I might then find myself with a little time to play the damn thing again.

But really, I don't think so.

As Lisa looks on in bemusement, Melanie reads a few lines from the Anchorage Daily News, concerning Wasilla's most famous resident. These are the words that she read, ""April 6, 2009, Juneau, Alaska -- Responding to the missile test by North Korea, Governor Sarah Palin today reaffirmed Alaska's commitment to protecting America from rogue nation missile attacks." 

Both of my daughters were most amused. 

Juniper came out with Lisa. We were all happy to see her, but she was unhappy the entire time that she was here.

As for the blue golf-ball, Kalib got to hunt Easter eggs twice this year. The first time in Shonto, Arizona, down in his ancestral Navajo home. There, he found an egg that designated him as a prize winner - he won a toy golf set, with a minature plastic golf cart and minature clubs, but large, blue, plastic golf balls, including this one.

Uncle "Tiger" Caleb was greatly pleased.

Melanie and Lisa continue to engage in little verbal battles, which they smile and chuckle through. Many such duels arose today, and I was at the center of at least one.

Melanie asked, "Dad, is there any way to play music in the house?"

"Dad's not anti-music!" Lisa retorted.

"I didn't say he was!" Melanie shot back.

Then everybody chuckled.

Later, their bellies full, Melanie and Charlie walked out to Melanie's car so that they could drive to Eagle River and eat a second Easter dinner with Charlie's parents.

Remember what I said when Melanie left after her last visit? It always comes to this. Every time she visits, she leaves. Every single time.

Lisa stayed longer, but, then, just before 10:00 PM, she carried Juniper to the car, came back in, passed hugs around and then she, too, drove away.

Yes, it always comes to this.

A walk with Muzzy, a dog who is a decent representative of Wasilla

Muzzy knew. I don't know how he knew, but he did. He knew that I was about to take my walk, even though I had not put on my jacket or done anything to signal my intent. His ears were perked; he had that excited look on his face and he was jumping up and down, hammering our bamboo floor with his claws.

I wanted to walk by myself. I walk to let my mind go, to let roam where it will even as I roam where I can reach, to let it play with words. I can not do this when I walk Muzzy. He demands 98.5 percent of my time and concentration, and then causes chaos during the 1.5 percent of my time that I do let my mind wander.

It is okay when Jacob and Lavina are here and I walk with them, because they take the responsibility, but Jacob is in New Mexico and Lavina in Arizona.

This type of thing used to be okay, too, back before Serendipity, before Muzzy, when Willow was the dog of the house. Willow and I would go into the woods and I would just let her go and she could run as she liked, my mind could go where it liked.

But now I cannot go into the woods. I must walk along roads and through subdivisions. Some call this, "improvement," "growth," "progress."

Even so, Muzzy needed to walk, so I took him.

"Muzzy! Muzzy!" I would keep saying and he was doing okay, until I saw this girl, walking her dog from Lower into Upper Serendipity.

Fortunately, I saw her before Muzzy did, and so I got a good solid grip on his collar.

He pulled and he jerked and he whined and he tugged against my arm. I thought about the screws that bind the artifical socket that my titanium humerus fits into to my bones and wondered how much of this kind of thing it could take before those screws popped out.

But I kept him restrained. He didn't like it, because he wanted to play with that dog, but he knew that I meant it.

Finally, the girl and her dog were safely out of sight. Next, I came upon Becky and her mother. Becky was thrilled to see Muzzy. "He's so sweet!" she said. "So beautiful."

This kind of thing happens often with Muzzy.

And he is all of those things. True, he's not a cat, but he is a pretty good fellow and if I did not have an artifical shoulder and they had never built Serendipity, I would not mind taking him out at all. I would enjoy it.

Becky's mother commented that she had a friend who has a collie that looks just like Lassie. "She's bigger than Muzzy," she said.

I wonder about that. Maybe she looks taller, because she's probably skinnier.

I bet Muzzy would weigh more, if you put the two on a scale.

I'm more than a bit disgusted with what is going on news-wise right now, emanating ultimately from our small town.

Muzzy could represent Wasilla better than these folks.

Both daughters come to visit, separately

Yesterday, she said she might come out and have breakfast with us this morning, but she arrived a bit before 3:00 PM. I still offered to take her to breakfast, but she was not in the mood for it and neither was I, to be honest.

She found a box that Kalib plays with when he is here and opened it up. "My kitty!" she exclaimed, for she did not know this kitty would be in it. She said it had been a very long time since she had seen the kitty, which was a gift to her from Jacob.

To me, it looks less like a kitty than a tiger. A white tiger. See that creature walking across the floor? That is Chicago. Chicago is a kitty, albeit full-grown for probably a decade now.

Chicago? A decade old? Chicago Kitty?

Where does the time go?

And speaking of tigers, Melanie was not certain whether or not she would come to India with me to attend the wedding of my Muse, the beloved Soundarya Ravichandran.

Today, Melanie announced that she has decided to come. It was the email from Murthy that convinced her.

We leave one month from tomorrow.

It will be fun, except that the nights will be dark there.

I can hardly take a dark night, during that time when the Alaska night is light.

It takes a lot to drag me out of Alaska during the season of light.

For Sandy and her wedding, I will venture forth into the night that is dark.

We waited until 4:00 to go get coffee, to see if Lisa would arrive. But she did not, so we went without her. As the car was warming up, we saw our neighbors from four houses down walk by with their two dogs. 

It was strange to see those two dogs on leash, but there they are.

We went to Mocha Moose, where they still have a sign up that says "Palin Fever." After this past week, none of us were feeling even the slightest bit of affection for our governor - who, for a brief period in history, I actually did admire and adore. This did not stop me from drinking Mocha Moose coffee, which is usually pretty good but today was subpar.

Immediately after I drove us back home, Melanie climbed into her little car and drove away. I don't know why, but her visits always come to this. She drives away and goes home.

Immediately after Melanie left, Lisa showed up, carrying laundry. She cooked us dinner: stir fry chicken and straw mushrooms. It was quite excellent.

After dinner, I took Lisa to Dairy Queen for ice cream. As we neared the Parks Highway, I heard the whistle blow. I was thrilled. I pulled out my pocket camera, put it on the dash, and, grateful for the fact that I had a red light before me and no car behind be, pointed it toward the railroad tracks.

And then the train came rumbling through!

It was thrilling - as it always is.

I never get bored with the train.

I love the train.

I have never ridden on it, but I love it.

Maybe this summer I will ride on it, and blog about it.

And I hope to ride the train in India, this time.

Last time I did not.