Bike ride, part 2: I happen upon a bare-breasted young woman and then pedal to a place of prayer, where I find myself kneeling among the dead

After I left Patti behind to battle her cancer, I continued on, not knowing which direction I would take at any intersection that lay  ahead. When I reached the first, Seldon and Wards, I went straight through, towards Church.

And when I reached Church Road, I turned toward the nearest mountains, the Talkeetna's, even though I knew I would not be able to get up into them.

This has always been my tendency - to turn away from the greater concentrations of people, toward the lesser, or best yet, towards none at all.

When I reached the bottom of the hill that descends to the Little Susitna and came to the bridge that crosses it, my eyes went straight to the aqua green raft and the young man preparing it for launch. As you can see, he, like his three friends behind him, was shirtless.

I stopped on the bridge and then began to compose my photo, keeping my concentration on the raft and the young man with it. For the sake of composition, I noted the positions of the three who were behind him, but did not study them as I studied him. Two were working to ready gear for transport to the raft while the other lay chest-up on an ice-cooler soaking up sunrays.

"Where you headed?" I shouted to the young man at the raft, "all the way to the mouth?"

He looked up, startled, and then answered, "No, we're going to a place near Houston."

The sound of our voices also startled the sunbather, who sat up on the ice chest, then got up and started walking about. It was then that I noticed she was a woman, a rather finely sculpted one at that. 

And if I were to include the picture that I took just before this one, when she was still lying on the ice chest, her breasts bare and aimed at the sky, you would wonder how I could not have noticed earlier.

But I am not going to show you that one. 

She then walked over toward the boat. If she felt at all self-concious, she did not show it. I decided to end my interview and move on.

"I hope you enjoy your trip!" I shouted. "Have fun!"

"Thanks!" the guy attending to the raft shouted back. "We will!"

This afternoon, I took Melanie and Charlie out for coffee and afterward drove this very route and told them of the incident.

"That's so Wasilla!" Charlie said.

I pedaled away from the rafters, wondering why I have reached upper middle age so fast, why my body is aging and headed altogether too swiftly in the direction of old age, even as my mind, ambition and desire remain basically the same as when I was in my 20's.

In fact, I often believe that I am still in my 20's. Sometimes, I'm convinced that I always will be, no matter how many years I live.

Many times, especially on my late afternoon coffee breaks, I have passed by Grotto Iona, the Place of Prayer.

I have always been curious about the place, but have always kept going. Now I looked closely at the cross that marks the grotto and then read the smaller sign that hangs from it.

"Welcome," it said.

So I pedaled my bike into the driveway, laid it down upon the ground and entered this place of prayer.

Grotto Iona is not only a place of prayer, but a tiny graveyard, with but a handful of occupants. It is a quiet place and even though I do not share the faith of those who so lovingly built it and continue to care for it, I felt an atmosphere of peace here. It felt like a special place, a sacred place.

I am certain that people kneel before this shrine and pray, but I don't believe that way, so I didn't, but I did feel a strong sense of respect. I sensed the pain that people have brought here, including the worst kind of pain that humans can feel, the kind of sorrow that none of us who live long enough can avoid. 

People have brought that pain here in the hope that they might exchange it for comfort. I suspect that sometimes they succeeded and sometimes they did not. Sometimes they succeeded for awhile, but then later it all came back. In time, it would have retreated into that place in the human heart where pain no longer brings tears or robs one of laughter, hope, and happiness, yet once put always resides.

Just outside the fence that surrounds the shrine, I found a tiny grave, with no inscription written upon any of the rocks that circle it.

Upon the mound contained inside that circle I saw this toy truck, which by vintage speaks of a sorrow that happened decades ago, yet the fact that it still stands upright, rusted though it be, states that this sorrow still lingers in at least one living, beating, human heart.

And now it resides in my heart as well.

I walked over to the big cross and found that it stood above the grave of a woman, eight years younger then me. She died on April 6, 2004.

A tiny angel with butterfly wings: placed in sadness, so sad to look upon - so utterly still, so quiet.

Within the fence that embraces the shrine there is a grave and it holds two people - Paul George Mahoney and his wife Iona Mae, who was three years younger then he but preceded him in death by just under six.

Perhaps that is why, atop the slab on this memorial a poem is inscribed, which you can read at the bottom of this post.

I read the poem first and then I looked at the picture of the Mahoney's, their hair and his beard white. I looked at my reflection, my hair still brown but my beard turning ever more white, and then decided that I wanted to photograph myself with them. 

So I positioned myself just as you see here and placed the camera at a low angle so that it could see their portrait even as it captured me in self-portrait. As I did, I was surprised to notice that I was on my knees, in a place of prayer. 

I was raised religious, but now consider myself to be agnostic. Agnostic is not the same as atheist. To me, agnostic means that you look around at both the wonders and brutalities of this world and the universe that it travels in and you marvel. You wonder how such a magnificent place could be created except by God, even as you wonder how God could be so cruel as to have laid so brutish a system of survival upon it.

It means that you look at all the religions and you do not know quite what to make of them. In the case of Christianity, from which I come, you see, at one and the same time, preachers of high position and stature stand at the pulpit and preach hatred toward those who are different than they say all should be, yet you see other preachers of the very same faith call for love and tolerance towards all their fellow humans, whatever their belief, race, gender or sexuality.

You see the cruel people, see the sincere and kind, all espousing the same faith, and then you learn these people exist in the spectrum of faith - Christianity... Hindu... Muslim... the Apache beliefs that nurtured your wife's forebearers, the Navajo beliefs of your daughter-in-law...

You hear the hymns, the gospel songs, the music of faith as it is performed only for commercial purposes and as it comes from the heart to bestow comfort upon those who mourn. You hear this spirit of comfort against hardship sung by your Mormon blood relatives, your born again and Protestant Christian friends on the Arctic Slope and throughout Native Alaska and, yes, you hear it in the songs of your new Hindu relatives in India.

You see that the true believers among them all are equally sincere, their faith rises just as strong within their divergent beliefs.

And so you conclude that, despite your upbringing, your own experience as a missionary, the preaching that you once did, the prayers you have pled, the days of fasting you have endured, the sweats you have sat through, the peyote administered in the midst of physical ordeal, the testimonies that you have heard and delivered - it is beyond your ability to know. It is all a mystery. 

And then you see the reflection of yourself kneeling, an agnostic among the Catholic dead, in a place of prayer, and although you did not kneel to pray, you feel that it would be wrong for you to rise to your feet without doing so.

So you pray, not quite certain who you are praying to; you pray for Patti, whom you have just spoken to and who battles cancer for her very life... for your wife, that she might heal quickly and not fall again, for your children and their spouses, your grandson and the one that is coming, that they might be kept safe and live long and healthy; for the family of Senator Ted Kennedy who is being buried in the dark even as you kneel in the sun and for this nation that so struggles against itself... for all those Iñupiat friends and adopted family who have experienced and are experiencing so much loss; your friends of all ethnic backgrounds in all parts of Alaska, the USA, Canada, Greenland... for those in India who became your family only recently but are dear to you... in Africa...

Then I got up and walked away and saw this toy shovel, just inside the entrance to the grotto. I stepped through the gate, pulled my bike upright from the ground, straddled the seat and pedaled away.

And I gave myself an assignment - to find out who Paul Mahoney was, and Iona Mae, for whom the grotto is named. I can't do it right away. I don't have the time. But maybe later, in winter, when the projects that I now work on are done, when the night is long, when it is the time to learn of stories and to tell stories.

Blest with the Grace of a Saint

by Paul Mahoney

Many nights of bliss

many children to kiss

and still it comes to this.

That heaven I've missed

Nod with lady up there,

Eyes dimmed and stare

Frame needing repair

and soul wrought with care.

Ahah! Finally comes pay

The great Milky Way

that looms ever so bright

In the darkness of night

Each star but a step

Leading on to the next

Like hopscotch I'll go

be it quickly or slow.

So I'm circling around

And studying the ground

Where first star step be found.

And me thinks "it's the mound"

of a newly filled grave

so the one who lies there

May be off up the stair

Toward more heavenly air.

Bike ride, part 1: Kalib throws a big rock; the blonde lady battles her cancer with optimism

Later in the day, I got on my bicycle and pedaled away. Jacob and Kalib had taken off walking nearly an hour before and so I figured they would have looped around and been half-way through the march by now.

So I was very surprised to turn the corner and find them playing in these puddles, a mere few hundred yards from the house.

Jacob was holding this big rock over his head and was about to throw it into the puddle. This put me in a bit of a predicament, because I wanted to catch the splash but I knew that if I did, the water water would likely splash upon my pocket camera. I did not want to get it on the lens.

So I snapped the photo just when the rock reached the water and then jerked the camera away, but still the splash got on it. Big, ugly, gritt, drops of dirty water landed right upon the lens.

I had no lens cloth with me and so had to carefully use my t-shirt to clean the lens. Even so, I did not totally succeed and it would diminish the rest of the pictures that I would take on this ride - perhaps ever again with this pocket camera.

Kalib then picked up the rock again, with Dad's help.

Then his dad gave him a smaller rock and he threw that. If I would have had my motorized DSLR, I could have got the full series of him throwing and the rock splashing, but the pocket camera is slow and limited in this record.

But it is easy to carry and when you are riding a bike, this is important.

Kalib hefted this rock all by himself. But it was too heavy for him to raise much higher than this. Still, I was most impressed.

Then he grabbed a smaller rock and was able to raise it high.

Father and son.

Dad threw a rock into the grass. Kalib went to look for it, but he did not find it.

I got back on my bike and pedaled away, but turned for another look and this is what I saw.

I had not gone very far at all when I spotted Patti, walking on the trail towards me. Patti is the blond woman whom I referred to last week, when I met her almost in this same spot and she informed me that she has cancer on her liver.

I did not name her then or show her picture, because it seemed to me that she had enough to deal with. She says it's okay, though, so here she is.

She looks much better than when I saw her last. Despite the diagnosis that would give her from months to just one year to live, she is walking, eating, thinking about riding a bike and she is determined to beat it.

I told her that was good, because for decades now I have been seeing her on my walks, bike rides, and ski expeditions and that was the only way I could imagine it. And if I didn't?

"It wouldn't be right," she said. "It wouldn't be right at all. So I'm going to beat it."

We all know of people who are told they have terminal cancer, but who beat it and live. So fight, Patti! Just like you are doing.

As I visited with Patti, here come these three.

Patti was glad to see Kalib, but Kalib was feeling shy. Muzzy was not shy.

Patti, who has always kept herself physical fit. This week, she will learn when she will go Outside for surgery.

Kalib frolics through a Family Restaurant breakfast

Saturday was another such morning. I could not bear to cook so off we went to Family Restaurant - Kalib, Caleb, Jacob and I. Lavina had to work and Margie did not want to struggle with her crutches.

After we arrived, Kalib strolled in with great confidence. I felt so proud of him.

He studied the sugar packets, then picked up the salt shaker.

The table needed salt, so he salted it. Then he picked up a little creamer. I looked down at my menu.

Suddenly, I felt the creamer that Kalib had just picked up bounce off my forehead. In a state of shock, I looked up just in time to see him pick up the sugar packet that he grips. It was about to bounce off my forehead, too.

My pride only increased. What an arm! What control! What accuracy! 

Soon, it will be a baseball that bounces off my head.

I hope I survive.

Next, Kalib studies literature.

The food is slow in coming. Kalib grows fussy.

Dad calms Kalib down. Outside, happy diners, their bellies already stuffed with eggs, laugh their way past.

Kalib ordered a milkshake. He indulges.

Kalib offers Dad a taste of milkshake. Dad indulges.

Dad feeds eggs to Kalib.

Kalib studies some human interaction that takes place outside.

Kalib and his dad finish before I do. They go outside to play.

Kalib sees Caleb and runs to the window, places his hand upon it and leaves a palm, finger and thumb print. Caleb places his hand over it.

Then it is time to go. A bus boy cleans up our table.

His name was Rocky and he was lost, but I could not help him find himself

I was out on my bike, not far from where all roads disappear and the Talkeetna Mountains begin, headed back toward home when I saw this car slow way down. I knew then the driver was lost and wanted directions because I cannot tell you how many times this kind of thing happens to me.

Anyway, I could not piece it together from what was written down on the paper and since the end of the road was not far ahead and there was no left turn from here on and Rocky was pretty sure he needed to turn left, I sent him back in the direction from whence he came.

Not long afterward, Rocky came driving back again, headed back toward the end of the road.

We waved at each other and went our separate ways.

I have much more from today, but I will wait until tomorrow to blog it - in four parts.

How the contest between Senator Lisa Murkowski and toddler Kalib turned out

I awoke with a tough decision to make - go to the town hall meeting being sponsored by Senator Lisa Murkowski or follow Kalib to the Alaska State Fair. Ever since I learned about the town hall two or three weeks ago, I had been eagerly looking forward to it. I had prepared a little argument in my head and was ready to deliver. I knew it would upset some people but I suspected that they would not get so unruly and belligerent as we have seen in newscasts from the Lower 48 - but if they did, I was ready.

I had been debating whether to bring my big pro DSLR cameras or just the pocket camera and I had good arguments for each.

And then last night I learned that today was kid's day at the fair and Kalib would be going. I wanted to photograph that glorious expedition.

Two readers weighed in with opposing advice. Said aksuzyq, "Come to the fair. We will be there!"

To be moseying about and all of sudden have someone squeal, "Kalib!" and then come up and introduce herself - that would be fun. Good argument.

Omegamon said, "Go to Murkowski's meeting. We need some folks there who are for health care reform, so the yellers and shouters don't give the impression that everyone agrees with them."

There has been a curious phenomena at work here in Alaska. It seems that when Senator Mark Begich, a Democrat, holds town halls, most who come and sound out are in favor of health care reform. When Republican Murkowski does, it seems that most who speak up are against.

So, yes, indeed, she needs to hear from those of us who would like to see her do what I believe she knows at a fundamental level is right, but she does not want to buck party politics. And party politics right now is to bring down Barack Obama, at all costs and facts be damned.

As I mulled my decision, Margie and Lavina fed Kalib his oatmeal.

Finally, I decided to follow my grandson to the fair - and here is why: First, I have made my position on this matter known to Murkowski. I sent my first email to her several months ago and in the past couple of weeks I have sent her three more. I have called her office and left her a message.

I have stated my position in various online news forums, including my comment on the Bob Herbert column that was chosen most recommended by New York Times readers.

I have committed myself to attend a function in Anchorage September 3 that is designed to give both Murkowski and Begich a send-off message as they get ready to return to session in Washington, DC. So it is not as if I have not taken a stand on the matter.

And, the hard fact is, I could wave my hands all about at the town hall but many people would be doing the same and the odds are that Murkowski would never have called on me.

Most importantly, Kalib would be attending the fair as a one-year-and-seven-month-old only one time in his life. He has reached that absolutely magical stage where everything that he sees and touches is a new and wonderful discovery - and this year he would discover the fair.

Sure, he will get excited about it in subsequent years, but this year he would discover it. In his entire, life, he will make that discovery but once.

And I wanted to be there to observe and document the wonder of it all.

First, though, I had to take a short, vigorous, bike ride. So I did, and as I pumped the pedals toward home, I was surprised to see these three walking through the rain toward me.

So I stopped and laid my bike down. Kalib had to check it out - because, as I noted, everything is a new discovery to him.

He did not care that it was raining. This made me glad, because it would almost certainly be raining at the fair.

And then he decided to check out a mud puddle. It looked like he was going to stomp in it...

...but then he suddenly held back, but with great excitement, contemplated the possibilities..

He decided to go for it, but stepped cautiously.

And then he stomped his way through. Soon, we were all back home. His parents said we would leave within the hour. 

So I took a shower.

When I got out, Jake informed me that Kalib was exhausted, was going to sleep and that the trip to the fair was off.

At this point, there was about 15 minutes left in the Murkowski town hall.

Sometimes, life just plays funny tricks on you.

The thing that we mostly do at the fair is overeat. Not knowing what else to do, I suggested that we go somewhere else and overeat, but noted that one of the parents would have to stay home to watch over the dozing Kalib.

So Jacob stayed home. Margie hobbled out on her crutches and she, Lavina and I went to Jalepeno's. It was the first time that we had been there since May. Lavina insisted that she pay.

I invite her and she pays. I must invite her more often.