Today, Part A: In the process of getting pictures for my India visa, I meet a friend from years ago, with his wife and daughter, then take a woman of grief to Taco Bell

Normally, I would have been able to mail my Visa application to the India Consulate in San Francisco from Wasilla, but, due to what proved to be an unnecessary process that I will not take the time to describe, I had not only my passport but Melanie's and I needed to get together with her, get a few things coordinated and then express mail both of our passports and applications out together.

So we had lunch, and then I headed to Wal-Mart to get my Visa photos taken. But the photo lady at Wal-Mart said she was closing down and I could come back in half-an-hour. I did not want to come back in half-an-hour, so I headed to Fred Meyer's.

As I drove through the parking lot, I saw George Oweltuck walking with his wife and daughter. I have not seen George in many year's - except on Facebook, where he is a friend.

I parked, got out out and he introduced me to his wife. I should have written her name down. I don't know what's happening to my brain!

Georgianna? If I am wrong, George, please correct me.

The beautiful daughter, I believe, is Nona, although I might need correcting there, too.

She is beautiful, too, but she was feeling very camera shy today, so you only get to see the back of her head.

I then went into Fred's to get the photo taken. I thought they would have lighting set up, but they didn't - just this guy with a flash and me against a tiny screen background. The picture, as you suspect, turned out awful.

Oh, well. I am rather homely anyway.

I then headed over to the Ingra Street post office to get the requisite money orders and express mail the package to San Francisco. I turned off my ignition and, BANG! Something smacked my passenger window. Then smacked it again.

I turned, and saw a short, frantic, woman of Southeast Asian decent motioning me to roll down my window. 

I did not want to, but I did. Did you ever hear about the Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief? Well, I did, and it is very hard for me to turn away, even when I know that ultimately, whatever I do in response will do no good at all.

"I'm hungry!" she spoke in a panic. "People are being mean to me! Nobody will feed me. Nobody will take me to the store, buy me food. My roommate wouldn't share his orange juice with me. Could you take me to Taco Bell?"

So I did, I drove her to Taco Bell and all the way there, she keep telling me how mean people had been being to her: young, pretty girls, mocking her, telling her they were prettier than she. "What does it mean, when they tell me that?" she asked. "Why do they say it? Why are they mean? When they call me retarded, what does that mean?"

She wanted to know the meaning of many things, but I could tell her the meaning of nothing.

She wanted five tacos, some crispy potatoes and a Diet Pepsi. "That's a lot of food," I said.

"I don't have food for later! It's for now and later." So I bought it all, then drove her to the place where she said she lived with her roommate, who was being mean to her, called her bitch, "hit on me."

"White people are mean to me! Black people are mean to me! Why? What does it mean when people are mean to me? Is this how people are in Alaska? What does it mean? How is it in the Lower 48? Is it better there?"

So I dropped her off to face her mean roommate, went back to the Post Office, got everything ready, paid my fees and then took note of the part in the instructions where it said that I should be certain to include my application number on the money order, and be certain to sign it.

I did not know why it said this. You can make a perfectly good money order without putting an actual signature on it. Yet, the Indian Consulate wanted a signature. No problem for my money order, but what about Melanie's?

So I called Melanie's place of work. She had just left to go perform some kind of task with her boss and a coworker. The receptionist did not know when she would be back. Worse yet, Melanie had forgotten her phone today, so I could not call her.

The postal lady who had taken my money had said that after I filled out the money orders, to give the packet straight back to her.

So I rushed over to Melanie's place of work, but she had not returned. I stayed in the area, got coffee, checked back. No Melanie. The clock hit 5:00. The office closed. No Melanie. The Post Office would close at 5:30. So I signed it for her and put my initials by it, rushed back to the P.O. and gave it to the lady just before she closed.

I could not help but think - if I had just ignored that hungry lady, shunted her aside, I would have gotten to Melanie in plenty of time. I would not have wasted the hours that I did. She would have survived. She is no better off now then she would be if I had turned her aside, avoided all this.

"A poor wayfaring man of grief hath often passed me on my way, who sued so humbly for relief that I could never answer 'nay.'"

How many people have helped me out, all over Alaska? I really had  no choice, did I?

I drove back to Wasilla, stopped at our post office to check my mail and there saw the above dog, waiting for a human.

And late in the evening, about 9:00 PM, as everything was beginning to refreeze, I went walking with Jacob and Kalib.

On a fine spring day in Wasilla, I first ride my bike, then drive my car

I rode my bike again today. I went through many puddles, but this was the biggest one.

It was fun - so much so that I turned around and rode through it again, twice. When I did, I knew how I want to live, all the time. Why can't I?

When it came time for my afternoon coffee break, I took the car. I saw a girl on a horse. Two girls on two horses, actually, but I only photographed one.

I saw a kid leaning against a bike...

...and horses in a field...

...a man riding a bicycle up Church Road...

...as he neared the top, the mountains came up in front of him.

I saw what appeared to be a family, out walking on a bike trail...

...and two young men, jogging, one manipulating his phone, the other looking at me. He probably wondered why I was taking their picture. I took it because for two seconds on this day, our lives crossed. It was a fleeting moment, but I wanted to document it forever. 

One can never document anything forever. Even those who are immortalized will be utterly forgotten. Still, even if I couldn't, I wanted to document the moment forever.

Now, you see, I rank right up there with the great philosphers - the words of whom will all one day cease to be read.

Even that moutain, it will be made flat. Or maybe it will be shattered. I don't know. I'm not a prophet. 

Just before I got home, I saw this guy, sweeping the dirt and gravel off the edge of Ward's Road. This was the strangest thing that I saw, all day. I suppose he had his reasons.

And he wore a crash helmet.

And there there was the gentleman in red, driving a four-wheeler.

This is how life is this time of year, right here, in Wasilla, Alaska.

I could have went to Carl's Jr, and bought a hamburger, but I didn't.

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.

Easter Sunday, part B: Kalib and Muzzy compete to see who can scarf up the most Easter eggs (C still to come)

Not so long ago, I was hiding eggs so that this guy could toddle out to search for them. Now it is he who hides eggs for a toddler to find. 

Jacob hides an egg in plain sight atop an upturned 5 gallon bucket. As he searches for a place to put the next egg, Muzzy grabs the one that he has just hidden and eats it.

The eggs are all hidden now. The toddler comes out to find them.

Kalib finds his first egg, right on the porch. He will grab it and then, just as though he had been doing this all his life, will put it in the Easter basket his Mom made for him.

Kalib grabs another egg.

And still another. Muzzy has already stolen a couple more.

Kalib spots a blue egg and goes for it. He does not seem to see the pink one - yet.

Kalib grabs a plastic shark egg. It has candy inside it.

Kalib snatches an egg off a septic vent. Don't worry, with Jacob's help, we replaced that septic system a decade ago - much farther back in the yard.

Kalib drops another egg into his Easter basket

Muzzy eats another egg.

There is still some ice atop this water. Kalib plunges his hand in.

Kalib battles Muzzy for the last egg. With Dad's help, Kalib will win. Muzzy has already eaten at least half-a-dozen. He doesn't need anymore.

Easter Sunday, Part A: Our early morning reunion with Kalib and his parents

A few minutes before 1:00 AM, it suddenly occurred to me that I had better get a camera ready. I found a memory card, inserted it into the camera and then walked into the kitchen, where Margie continued to suffer through tax preparation.

"What are you up to?" she accused, suspiciously, when she became aware that I was standing directly behind her, fiddling with my camera. It was as if she suspected that I was about to take a surreptitious picture of her preparing taxes - this is something that I would never, ever, ever, do - no, not ever!

"It should be just about time, I answered. "I want to be ready."

 Just then, I heard a car pull into the driveway. Suddenly, Margie understood. "Is it them?" she asked.

It was. After more than a full week without him, we were about to see our little grandson again. And his parents. As you can see, Kalib was so thrilled to see me, he didn't know what to do.

Then it was grandma's turn.

Oh, the joyous reunion with Royce!

And then, back in the bedroom where Kalib and his parents sleep, Muzzy joined in.

Here they are, the travelers, home from the southwest. After everybody got some sleep, there would be an Easter egg hunt. Please come back, and witness the action. It will be up, soon.