I look through Little Miller's kiosk and see someone look back at me; poets on hold for one more day

Today, I took my coffee break at the drive through on the south wall of Little Miller's. When I drove to the window, I looked through and saw these two, and the guy looked back at me, with suspicion. They got their order before I did. I hoped that he would then come over and ask why I took their picture, so that I might learn their names and get a meaningful observation from them.

But they just drove away.

How would it be, to be young, and to drive away with a beautiful young woman at my side?

That used to happen. It was wonderful. Nothing was more wonderful than that. And now that beautiful young woman is aging and when she sits beside me as I drive, it is wonderful. If you were to ask me what my most enjoyable experiences of the last few years have been, I would put my long drives with Margie at my side right up at the top, along with hanging out with little Kalib (yes, my children, to hang out with you is most special, too).

But since she got hurt January 17, she no longer sits beside me. She needs the entire back seat to support her leg. She cannot stay in the car very long as it leaves her in too much pain.

Now, I must leave for awhile. Day after tomorrow. Who will drive for her?

Yet, I must go, as you will understand when you get to the bottom of this post.

On my way home, I detoured, to extend the drive. Along Shrock Road, this dog trotted by, going the other way. 

Right now, I sit at my computer as "Alaska News Nightly" plays on KSKA, our public radio station. The story is how the recession appears ready to smack tourist based industries in Alaska. Cruise ship bookings are down. They just interviewed a man who depends upon cruise ship passengers to make his living. He felt grim.

That's the Catch 22. I don't want anybody to lose their job. I want those who have no job and need one to find one.

Yet, the places in Alaska where cruise ship passengers congregate are much nicer when the cruise ship passengers are not here. It's a fact. Much nicer. And they are here during the nicest time of the year. Such a short time.

Cruise ship passengers, please do not take offense! Buy your tickets and come and visit our great land, with not only my blessing but my invitation. This land belongs to you as much as it does to me.

It's just one of the conumdrums of this life. The more people who come to enjoy a wonderful place, the less enjoyable that place becomes.

There's nothing to be done about it, but to accept it - and to get a new airplane when I can, so I can go to where few tourists travel.

Yet, I have $150 in my wallet, $19 in my checking account and not a dollar in savings. How can I buy a new airplane?

I could use some of that cruise ship passenger money.

For you, Danny...

When Caleb was growing up, his best friend was Danny Elmore and he lived in this house with his family, all of whom were excellent people to have as neighbors. Never have we had better neighbors than these.

Danny has become a regular follower of this blog, and yesterday he made a special request that I photograph his old house and post the image here, as he has not seen it for awhile.

So today, I did, from my bicycle, with my pocket camera, as I pedaled by.

I shot other pictures today, too, but I am exhausted; beyond all reason, so this will do it for today.

I did work on another post today, one about a couple of poets, and I did place all of the photos, but I need a clear head to finish it and my head is not clear right now. The story behind those poets is a special one, and rather amazing. So I have put it on hold for at least one more day. 

Hey! You people out there who know how to sleep at night - what is the secret?

While taking care of final income tax matters, we stumble upon a tea party; the bad good news is that we have a tax refund coming this year

Poor Margie! She had been working so hard on our taxes, but today it paid off when we learned that we have a refund coming. This sounds like good news and it is, but the reason is bad. Being self-employed, I pay my taxes quarterly and I paid enough after the first quarter of last year to cover the entire year.

That's because I earned very little money after that. All because I stood upon a rolling chair to take a picture.

But this, the year of the great recession, is also going to be the year that I get going again.

As we went out to settle these tax matters and to dine at Taco Bell, I found myself in a perplexing situation. I needed to turn right out of the Fred Meyer parking lot onto the Palmer-Wasilla Highway toward the Parks Highway, but this kid was sitting there on his bike, waiting for a break so that he could cross the road.

Several times, a break came and I could have gone, but it must not have looked a break from his perspective, because he just sat there. Still, I could not go, I could not assume that he was going to just sit there, because his is a precious life and I could not make such an assumption about it.

So I sat and waited and waited and waited.

Then finally he went. I turned right, immediately thereafter.

Up ahead, someone who I do not even know insulted me. Or maybe the insult was directed not at me, but the driver of the red car, perhaps the white. Or maybe the driver of the black truck described himself. Perhaps he takes pride in being recognized as such.

Before we left the house, we had seen news clips of people holding "tea parties" across the country. I didn't even think about the possibility of a tea party being held in our little town, but, of course! This is Wasilla. People here love tea, and would not pass up a chance to stage a tea party.

As for the website posted on the sign, I checked it out and you can, too, right here. It also contains a link to Glenn Beck's website, who the website creator holds in high esteem. 

One day, I hope to photograph and interview Glenn Beck, as part of a project that would also have me interview and photograph Senate Majority leader Harry Reid, Democrat from Nevada, for both share a common bond that in an odd sort of way links each to me.

I'll probably never find the time or the money to do it, though.

Plus, I have other priorities that rank above this part of the project.

Once, in Dupree, South Dakota, I bought a piggy bank. It was ceramic, red, made in Mexico and it looked Mexican. I thought that if I put just one quarter a day in it, in just a couple of decades, I would have saved so much money that I could retreat from all jobs and fully dedicate myself to my work. So I put the first quarter into it.

That night, some kids stole it. The next day, I found the shattered remains of the bank spread across the sidewalk. The quarter was gone. I did not feel bad about the quarter, but I felt bad about the piggy bank.

I have never managed to save anything, since. And though I dabble at it here and there, I remain financially unable to dedicate myself fully to my work.

I think I am going to be a pauper in my old age.

If I can have a hut, enough food to eat, and be able to sit there and write, intelligently, I won't care. I would do that right now, but too many people depend on me to keep a roof over their head.

I have said it before: I have observed enough of this life to come to one conclusion about God-granted rights. God grants us but one right - the right to struggle to survive for as long as we are able. Not to survive, but to struggle to survive. 

Beyond that, God gives us no rights at all. How many people die on their first day of life? All these exercised their one God-given right, but it didn't work out for them. We envision rights, we create political systems and codify the rights that we desire in Constitution and in law and then we fight with each other about what these rights mean; we defend the rights that we seek even as we try to take away those that the other guy seeks but that we find offensive, be our reason noble or petty, informed or based on emotion.

Should these people in this picture and those who feel as they do find full success in their quest, I wonder what kind of rights I would be left with?

The light turned red for me, right here, beside this lively boy.

Very recently, many Americans rose up to take their country back and succeeded. Now others, most of whom thought they were taking the country back when they elected George W., want to take it away, again.

I drive on from the tea party and see joggers on a bike trail. I admire joggers, not necessarily for their politics but for their jogging discipline. I don't jog, but I do ride a bike. 

And so passed this day as seen from my Ford Escape, right here, in Wasilla, Alaska.

Today, Part B: A moon rises over the bank of the Little Susitna River

Actually, this is from what was today, two year's ago to the date. I had taken Margie on a drive across the Little Su, then turned around and headed back. Here's what I figure happened: the bare-assed guy with the big grin told his friends something like, "here comes a middle-aged couple in a car. I'll moon them and shock the hell out of them."

So he mooned us and just like that, because I am good at this kind of thing, I raised my camera and shot his bare ass, thus preserving the moment so that people from now until the end of photographic time can look upon the image and marvel. They will say, "this is what happened in Wasilla, Alaska, on April 14, 2007."

They will know that, whatever miserable condition the city is in by then, however crowded and laid to waste it might be, once, Wasilla, Alaska, was a place of exquisite beauty, populated by wonderfully handsome people.

A little more detail from the top picture. There is enough resolution in the original image that I could show even more detail of this tailless tail, but this is enough.

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.