I take a trip to Anchorage - bikers blast past me, cloud dancers dance atop the clouds

I had a to take a disk of photo proofs into Anchorage, to deliver to a client. As I returned on the Parks Highway, two men on a Harley and Kawasaki blasted past me so fast and loud that I could not even react to snap a frame. If this is the case, you must wonder, then how did I get this picture of them in my rearview mirror?

It was in a highway improvement construction area, where the speed limit was 55 and signs warned that double fines would be given to all speed violators. This fellow was in the lead. When he had put about 300 yards between he and I, his friend right behind him, he suddenly braked and began to pump his hand up and down over the road, his fingers spread out and his palm facing the pavement.

There was a cop ahead, sitting off to the side of the road, waiting for double-fine candidates.

The other biker slowed down, waved a thank you and then both pulled right, out of the fast lane and into the slow. Now I passed them, which did not worry me because I was doing 55. Now, they could not have been going more than 45. 

A bit of an overreaction, I thought.

But maybe they felt like cop targets.

Maybe they are cop targets.

They stayed behind me for a few miles, then, still in the 55 zone, decided that no more cops lie in wait ahead and, once again, blasted past me. I was now pushing my luck, doing 59. It felt like I was sitting still when they passed by.

Hey, Sandy - I bet you would like a bike like this, wouldn't you? What a sight you would be, roaring through Bangalore, the fabric of your saree - cut and tailored especially for motorcycle riding - rippling in the wind. 

And just a little bit before, back in Anchorage, I had to stop behind these guys while they worked out whatever problem it was with the driver of the car in front of them that had caused them to stop.

I think they performed a good deed, that the driver ahead had experienced car problems of some kind and they got him going again.

This is pure speculation on my part, because right after I stopped, they got back in the car and, flying the Stars and Stripes with the Confederate Flag painted in triplicate on their roof, hood and trunk, set back off to wherever it was they were going.

And shortly before that, I was passing near the Anchorage Park Strip when I looked up and saw two people dangling below a hang glider.

"What kind of idiots are these?" I wondered, even as I wished that I could be up there with them.

Then I saw that it was not idiots at all, but fabric people, cloud dancers, dancing with the clouds from the tail of a kite.

And this was even earlier, in Wasilla, as I waited at the stoplight at the corner of the Parks and Palmer-Wasilla highways to change so that I could continue on to Anchorage.

Kalib blasts me out of the bedroom when he makes an annoying discovery

I was in the bedroom, when all of a sudden the horn in the Escape began to honk repeatedly. "Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!..."

I blasted out of the bedroom and charged toward the living room to see if I could put a stop to this racket, as I knew the neighbors were hearing it, too.

There, standing in the front room was Kalib, who had gotten ahold of the electronic key. Kalib likes to push buttons and had just done so, setting off the horn. But the horn was quiet now, because Kalib's Dad had just turned it off. 

Kalib still had possession of the keys, however, and was most excited about it, for he suddenly realized that he held a magical power within his hands.

Kalib presses the button again.

Kalib jumps up with excitement and looks out the window towards the car as the horn blasts away again. He knows that, somehow, when he pushed that button, he caused this to happen.

Kalib points toward the honking car, as if to say, "listen to what I just did!"

 Kalib pushes the button again. The horn stops.

Again he pushes the button.

He looks toward the window in amazement as the car begins to honk again.

Dad tries to get Kalib to give him the keys. Kalib does not want to yield them. 

After our Vagabond caffeine party, we happen upon some tomatoes

Melanie, Charlie and I had partied on caffeine and pastries at Vagabond Blues in Palmer and were coming home via Fishhook Road when we saw this sign. Fresh tomatoes sounded good, so I turned the Escape onto a road that led to a long driveway. When we saw what at first looked like a duplex house at the end of the driveway, we began to have some doubts that we had come to the right place.

Then we saw a magnificent garden just beyond the duplex, which is not a duplex at all, but a house. We parked, got out, and then this dog came running to us. It jumped on me, then it jumped on Charlie. As I struggled to regain my balance and before I could ready my camera, it jumped on Melanie.

I mean, really jumped, like paws to shoulder - that high. But, by the time I had my camera ready, an elder lady came and collared the dog, took it to a corner of the porch and chained it up. 

"If you are going to jump on people," she scolded it in a voice with a strong north Italy accent, "then you are just going to have to stay on this chain."

We told the lady that we wanted to buy some tomatoes. "I have tomatoes in the house," she said. "Come on in." So we followed her through a door that led into a big shop. Resting by the window was this two year-old male cat, "Mucho."

The lady paid no attention to Mucho, but the three of us did. When she saw that we were interested in the cat, she picked it up and put it on the cement floor and then showed us how she could hold her arms in a circle in front of Mucho and he would jump through, just like her arms were a hoop.

It was too dark to take a picture, so she brought Mucho into the house itself, where it was still pretty dark, too dark, really, for the pocket camera, and did it again. At that moment, I wished that I had my big DSlr's with me instead of just the pocket camera, but, oh well.

You can't take pictures with the camera you don't have with you, so you have to take them with the camera you do have with you.

I believe Donald Rumsfeld said that.

Then Charlie made an arm hoop. Mucho jumped right through it.

Charlie and Mucho. We picked out our tomatoes and bought them. Then we went out to take some pictures in the garden and greenhouse.

So this is Pia, with a box of tomatoes, of which she is very proud. Pia was born in California but raised in North Italy, which is why she has the accent. My dad used to fly over Italy to drop bombs on the Germans. I wondered if she had been there at the time and had ever heard his B-24 pass by?

I didn't ask, though. Why didn't I ask? Someday, I must go buy more tomatoes from her, and then I can ask her if she was there during the war and if she heard the squadrons of B-24's flying by, the sound of German anti-aircraft fire and the explosions of American bombs. 

I miss my Dad. I truly do. I will miss him until the day I die. After that, I don't know.

Pia then invited us into the greenhouse. It was surprisingly warm in there and the aroma was pleasant - a mix of tomato and the scent of birch burning in a woodstove.

I touched the woodstove and it was not hot. There was no fire in it. The scent lingered from the last time that there was.

You see how those leave stems have been clipped? Pia does that so that the nutrients that would go to the leaves go to the tomatoes instead. Of course, the plant needs leaves to survive. It must be an art to know just when and what leaves to cut.

Pia plants the tomatoes in March, in pots in the house, but waits until May to transfer them to the greenhouse. In about one month from now, it will be too cold in the greenhouse, even with the woodstove and that is when her growing season will end.

So, if you want to buy Pia's tomatoes - and if you are in Wasilla or Palmer or even Anchorage, you should want to - you've got about one month.

I'm out of order here, as I actually took this picture before we entered the greenhouse.

Oh well, life often gets out of order. I like the picture better here than where it would be if it was in order and this is my blog and I can do whatever I want with it.

She's telling us about the plant that she touches. I was unfamiliar with that plant, so I memorized the name so that I could include it here.

I have forgotten, though.

There was another plant, inside, that she had us touch. It left our hands smelling like lemon drops.

I haven't had any lemon drops in a long time. I want some.

Pia grows many things besides tomatoes. She asked if we wanted some fresh green beans. We did.

"These will be the best green beans you ever tasted," she told Melanie as she put some in her hand.

Next, Pia took us into the greenhouse where she grows peppers. "These are not hot peppers," she said. "They are banana peppers." She also had two kinds of cherry tomatoes growing in there and she gave us samples of each. One was more tart, the other more sweet. Both were superb.

There was the summer squash. It still had some growing to do. I imagined it boiled, but not too boiled, with a touch of butter, salt and pepper, on a plate beside a moose steak. Damn good, I'm sure.

Speaking of moose, see those wires with the flags on them? They are hot wires and they enclose every section of Pia's garden. I don't know what it is about hot wires, but whenever I see them, I have this terrible desire to touch them, to see just how strong of a shock they give.

"Don't do it, Dad!" Melanie said.

"No!" Charlie agreed, "Don't do it Bill."

I touched the electric fence. The power was off at the moment.

Elsewhere, there were wires that were hot.

"Don't do it, Dad!" Melanie warned.

I didn't.

Celery is a thirsty plant that needs much water. That is why Pia plants it beneath the eve of the greenhouse roof, which has no gutter - so all that extra rainwater will flow down onto it.

I asked Pia why she and her husband, who was feeling camera shy, came to Alaska. "More guts than brains," she answered. "We've been here 53 years."

After that, I drove us back to the house, where Jacob had cooked corn chowder for dinner. I added tomato slices. Melanie cooked her green beans and shared them with everybody.

It was a taste of heaven. I must go see Pia again.

President? A carpenter looks for work; signs that Wasilla's summer has reached its end

I simply could not bear the thought of eating a sandwich and can of soup for lunch today, plus, I figured that if Margie felt up to it, I really ought to get her out of the house, as she had spent the whole morning and early afternoon sitting in one spot. 

"You up to getting into the car and going somewhere for a fast food lunch?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. 

So off we went to Carl's Jr.

After a scrumptious meal eaten from inside the parked Escape, watching cars go by, we prepared to leave. As we neared the exit onto the Palmer-Wasilla highway, I saw this guy, who, judging by his sign is a carpenter looking for work.

I was hoping that I would reach the corner just as a horde of traffic came barrelling down the highway, so that I would be forced to stop right by the man and then I could interview him through the passenger window as I waited for a break in traffic. I rolled the window down as we drew near. The capenter saw my pocket camera and hid his face behind his sign.

"I'll put you on my blog!" I shouted through the window, as I rolled by as slowly as possible. That seemed to catch his interest. He lowered the sign away and exposed his face, as if he were ready to be photographed and interviewed. Unfortunately, there was a break in the Palmer-Wasilla Highway traffic and there were several cars behind me and he drivers all wanted me to pull out onto the highway so they could, too. Not only could I not conduct an interview, but the pocket camera takes a full second to recycle and I did not have a second to wait.

So I had to zip out onto the highway without even taking a second picture, one that would show his face.

"We should hire him to fix our toilet," Margie said as I sped away.

Maybe. But we really can't afford to, right now, and once I am on the road, I do not like to turn around and go back in the direction from which I just came.

And how would I check his credentials?

I hope he got some work, though.

What does he mean, "President," at the bottom of his sign? 

Maybe he is the President of his company. Maybe he doesn't like President Obama. Maybe he likes President Obama. Maybe he means that not only can he do carpentry work for you, he can be the President of your company. Maybe he has just launched his campaign for 2012.

I don't know.

I wish I could have done that interview.

 

They say that when the fireweed blooms at the very top, our summer has reached its end. For any reader who may be unfamiliar with fireweed, all those purple stems were once blossoms. The ones at the bottom would have bloomed in mid-July, when I was on the Arctic Slope and then they moved their way up.

Now they have reached the top, so summer must be over. It felt like it today, too. It was so cold in the house that we had to turn the heat on for awhile.

Still, I wore a t-shirt when I took my walk and the cool air felt good to me. 

And here is another sign that summer is ending. Green remains the dominant color in the deciduous trees, but more and more yellow is appearing and soon the green will all be gone.

And here is still another sign. (In a comment added after my post, OmegaMom, who knows her mushrooms, suggested that I separate the above photo of what she identified as an amanite mushroom from the following discussion of Portabello mushrooms, lest some innocent person should become confused and poison themselves.)

I had a portabello burger at Carl's Jr. Oh, my goodness! It was good! No other fast food restaurant that I know of makes a burger to match Carl's Jr. In fact, very few restaurants do.

I was also reminded of when I first became aware of portobello mushrooms. I was down in the Lower 48 and portabellos were being touted as a delicious meat alternative. Some people were eating steaks and lobster. Others were eating portabello mushrooms. I told the server that I wanted the steak, the lobster and the mushroom. He scowled and said it was one or the other. 

So I ate the steak and lobster, then came back for seconds and got the portabello.

Now you can buy a portabello burger at Carl's Jr. that combines mushroom and meat and it is wonderful.

I drop Margie off for her MRI, see sights, big man gets stuck in children's slide, a femur fracture is found

"No, Royce!" I shouted as the old man orange cat ran through the door and dashed outside. I was about to drive Margie to town for her MRI and I wanted him to stay in the house. Even so, he went outside. After I helped Margie into the car, I picked Royce up and put him back inside the house.

"Where do you want to eat?" I asked Margie, once we got to town. She mentioned a couple of possibilites but when I noted that we had not yet feasted at the any of the Fourth Avenue hot dog stands this summer, she got excited.

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed. "Let's go for hot dogs."

So, while Margie waited in the car, I bought two reindeer dogs. As the vendor prepared them, a guy roared by on a loud motorcycle. "What's this guy who comes by here everyday at the same time on his motorcycle going to do when winter comes?" the vendor asked.

I did not have the answer.

"I don't understand people who have to drive loud bikes," he continued. "Who are they trying to impress? I drive a bike, but it's not loud. A bike doesn't have to be loud."

I handed the money to the pretty young woman who works with him and who might be his wife and he handed me the hotdogs. I took them back to the car, along with Pepsi, Diet Pepsi and original Lay's Potato Chips. Margie and I sat there and ate them as the rain drummed on the roof.

It was the nicest time that we had experienced since she got injured and the dogs were delicious. I must go back and have another, but I think I will get beef next time, or maybe Kosher Polish.

I could not accompany Margie to the MRI room, so I dropped her off. I was told that the MRI would take 25 minutes, so I headed off to see what sights I might see. I had not gone far before I saw a young man push a woman in a wheelchair across the road as another man crossed in the opposite direction, carrying what appeared to be two cups of coffee.

The rain fell upon them all, just as the Bible says it does.

It didn't fall upon me, though, because I was in the car.

But not for long. Lisa had left her driver's license at Penney's, Penney's had sent it to us, so, as Margie lay in the MRI machine, I took it to the Alaska Native Medical Center's Family Medicine Clinic where Lisa works and brought it to her.

She then took a break and followed me back to the car. We then stood in the rain for just a little bit and discussed important things.

We hugged. "Bye, Dad," she said. I drove away.

To kill time, I circled the Alaska Native Medical Center itself and as I did, an airplane came flying by. At that very moment, Margie was in the tube, getting her knee cat-scanned. She did not like it. She felt claustrophobic, she kept her eyes closed and focused upon mental images of Kalib, running, laughing, playing. She saw him pull the telephone book off of the tiny table that it sits on, place it on the floor and then dance upon it - just the way he did yesterday.

She saw him pull Kleenix's, one after the other, out of the box and smile ever so sweetly and mischievously, as he drop them to the floor - as he did just a few months ago. She saw him at just a few weeks of age as he sat in his car seat in the back seat of the rental car and she and his mom drove across the Navajo Reservation to introduce him to his other grandma and a host of aunts, uncles and cousins.

She saw him as they drove on to the Fort Apache Indian Reservation, and then how happy her own mother had been when infant Kalib met his only living great-grandparent.

She replayed scenes from his whole life thus far in her mind, right up to that moment when we stood outside the door to the birthing room and heard his first, beautiful, cry.

Next I drove up onto the campus of Alaska Pacific University, where I saw these children, gathered in a circle.

I then returned to ANMC, parked the car, and headed toward the building. There is a children's playground just outside the door to the emergency room, where I would enter the hospital. I saw a small child climbing into the slide, helped by his Dad.

The small child's mother scolded the dad. "He's not going to like it!" she warned. "He's going to be frightened." Just the same, the dad gave the small child a shove and down into the tube he disappeared.

His mother readied her hands to catch him.

Then the small child began to scream. He had gotten stuck, somewhere in the darkness within the tube.

So the dad climbed in, to see if he could unstick him.

The small child got the hang of it and came out with a smile on his face. Now the Dad was stuck. He could not go up. He could not go down. Why... look at the kid! It's my own grandson, Kalib! He had come to ANMC to greet his grandmother when she came out of the MRI tube. That must mean that the dad stuck in this tube... is my own son... Jacob.

Jacob wiggled a bit, and finally he slid out. Kalib headed back, ready to go again.

Margie had not yet exited her tube. I strolled through the hospital, looking at the art, reminded of what life was like in Alaska just a short time ago.

Finally, Margie hobbled out into the hallway and headed for the car. She did not know that Jacob, Kalib and Lavina were behind her.

"Kalib!" she squealed when she discovered them. "Thank you! You got me through the MRI. I kept seeing you in my mind and that's what got me through."

When we reached the car, Margie handed me her crutches so that she could climb in. Kalib took the crutches away from me and handed them right back to her. 

So she put them on the floor and then climbed in. Kalib was very pleased, for he knew that he had done something good for his grandmother.

Kalib, Jacob and Lavina then went off to do some house shopping. Margie and I met Melanie at the Title Wave Kaladi Brothers coffee shop, where we discussed the airplanes that fly over her new house, renovations that she wants to make, the dogs that come and pee in her yard, her cats and other important things.

It was even better than sitting in the car, eating hotdogs. It was, in fact, the most pleasant experience that I have shared with Margie since she got hurt, and all the more pleasant because Melanie was there, encouraging her mom not to be discouraged. "It will be better, soon," Melanie soothed.

It already seemed quite a bit better, although we did not know what secrets the MRI would reveal.

Shortly after we said goodbye to Melanie and began the drive back to Wasilla, we got a message that Margie's doctor wanted her to call, so she did. The doctor had taken a look at the MRI and had immediately discovered something the original x-rays had not. 

Margie did break a bone when she fell. Not her knee cap, but her femur, right on the outside where it meets the knee.

"Try not to put any weight on it," the doctor said.

We have yet to get a report on any ligament damage.

It still rains and as I sit here typing this on my computer, I hear the whistle of a train, passing by miles from here. It seems kind of odd, but sometimes when it rains around here, sound really travels.