The Trifecta

The first day, there was enough snow to ski.  Mary and I took advantage of the opportunity.

Lots of snow in the air makes for and off-white day.
The low mountains beyond are invisible.
Skiing across the lake is not an option.

Far enough for this day.

The second day, there was a lot more snow.  Mary and I took advantage of the conditions with our snowshoes.

Mary is in great shape and not afraid of breaking trail uphill,
which was not for the faint of heart with all that snow.
It was more like corn meal than powder,
spilling onto the top of the snowshoes with every step.

This still life is called,
"Snow-laden hemlock with old guy."

There she goes!.
Time to put the damn camera away and catch up.

The third day, we hit the trifecta.  Copious snow, bitter cold, and high wind.

The lake was completely frozen,
with the wind driving the sub-zero air and abrasive snow crystals
 across the open expanse.
A great day to be alive!

"There is no bad weather," I declared.
"Only bad clothing!"
Attired for the cold, I was ready to go skiing.
"You're nuts!" declared Mary.

The chickadees did not impugn my sanity.
The feeder was filled prior to skiing.

They waited patiently as I finished the job
before I set out, upwind along the lake shore.
Into the wind first is a good policy.
Best to come home with the icy wind at your back.

The goal was the point about 3/4 of a mile away.
Almost there, this is the path to the interior.
The shelter of the trees was appreciated.
Even good mittens can produce thumbsicles!

Can't be sure about the thermometer reading,
but it wasn't far off.

The hemlocks on the edge of the clearing
made reaching the goal worthwhile.

Heading back on the broken trail was a breeze.
30 MPH is much better on your back.

Back out on the frozen lake, a short pause provided an observation. The ridges of the drifted snow perfectly matched the undulations of the low-hanging clouds, as both receded into the distance.

I don't think he noticed.

Autumn Finlan and Hilda Thompson would be proud.

Yes, Autumn Finlan and Hilda Thompson would be proud.

This post is a Book Report.  While not exactly what either of them taught, I’m sure they’d enjoy the fact that such a thing could happen after all these years.  Both of them were teachers at Greece Athena High School, and at least one thing they had in common was that they were disappointed by the same student.

"Student learning is the goal."
But what kind of learning?

Miss Finlan taught English.  She was an excellent old-school instructor, long before the time of the Ms. designation.  I suspect she would have adopted the less descriptive honorific if the option had been available.  Deeply passionate about literature, she was the teacher for a course called “Great Books.”

The first day of class, she began by addressing the class with the question, “What is a Great Book?”  A valid and honest question which is not easily answered.

Life had yet to provide we High School Juniors with the lessons that force one to admit how little one really knows, so Russ, partner in crime, leaned sideways to where I was sitting in the back of the room and whispered, “It’s one you hate to read.”

Laughter stifled, it is doubtful that my chortle alerted Miss Finlan to the breach of etiquette in the back of the room.  No, it must have been the hypersensitive and directional hearing so common to those in her line of work that prompted her to say, “Mr. Hamilton, if you have something to say, please share it with the class.”

Perhaps foolishly, and definitely brazen, Russ rose, cleared his throat, and clearly announced, “A Great Book is one you hate to read.”

Genuinely surprised, Miss Finlan considered the answer for a moment and asked, “If that is how you feel, why did you take this course?”

Without regard for personal safety, I rushed to the aid of my comrade, and said, “Did you see the choices?”

I’m not sure Miss Finlan fully appreciated our conundrum.

Much later, I learned that though my grades were quite good, I would not be asked to join the National Honor Society.  It seems that I was blackballed on the basis of “leadership qualities.” This was something of a misnomer, for my leadership qualities were quite effective.  The real issue was the direction in which I chose to lead.

Regardless, I was not inducted, and of course, it ruined my life.

Never learned the secret handshake.

Hilda Thompson was the one person in the Greece Central School District teaching Latin.  Though she also taught other languages, her heart and soul spoke to each other in the tongue of the Romans.  At the time she instructed in High School, we assumed she was old as the 7 hills, though she was probably significantly younger than this author.  

“Latin is not a dead language!” she would exclaim whenever there was any hint that the heinous misconception was being conveyed.  In her class, we learned not only words of the language, but also the structure upon which all the Romance languages are built. The hodge-podge of sounds became a framework of understanding.

We also read selections from Caesar.  “Veni, vidi, vici!” Why yes, Gaius Julius, you certainly did.  And it was quite interesting to learn a little about how.

Gaius Juius Caesar
Currently remembered for the family salad recipe.

After two years of Latin, it seemed prudent (even fools can have occasional prudent thoughts) to learn something of a more current tongue.  Remembering some of my family heritage, I chose German. When Mrs. Thompson found out, she was quite disappointed. “We’re going to read Cicero!” she lamented, and though I had no idea what “reading Cicero” meant, her tone left no doubt that my choice was a mistake.

And it was.  We introductory German students found ourselves in a class taught by a buffoon who had pulled a fast one on the School District because of his native language.  After he was exposed (though not literally, not far off), another teacher tried to remediate our misdirection, with only minor success. We learned nothing.

But the real mistake was not continuing with Latin.  Certainly worth the time and effort, I’ve never regretted the learnings from the first two courses.  And I sincerely regret being the cause of the look I saw in Mrs. Thompson’s eyes. I hurt her, and I’m sorry for that.

And now for the book report.  

The cover of the Penguin Classic printing
also shows Caesar, presumably
after Cassius, Brutus, and the gang were done with him.

Appian of Alexandria wrote The Civil Wars 100-odd years after their conclusion.  It is the story of a tumultuous time in the history of Rome.

I’m flabbergasted by the detail and the volume of knowledge conveyed to one reading a translation nearly 2000 years later.  That in itself is remarkable, but additionally, the chaos and societal breakdown contained in the many pages is difficult to comprehend.  

Noble Romans?  Few and far between.  More often, the lawless powerful Romans used all possible means to achieve their goals.  Bribery, kidnapping, lying, theft, mutiny, conspiracy, and every type of treachery. Life was cheap, and murder?  Nothing out of the ordinary.

So why would I read such an account?  To gain insight into how a Republic dies.  And how is that? The short answer is self-interest above all else.

While not precisely what Autumn Finlan might have considered a great book, I am certain she would love the irony of knowing I am reading the weighty tome.

And to Hilda Thompson, I must say, “I’m glad to finally know a little about Cicero, even with the 50 year delay.  I wish I’d learned in his own language.”

Winter Arrives Early

Regardless of the timing, winter brings a change in prominence of the locals.  The non-snow birds disappear, leaving others behind to be better noticed.  In particular, as long as all the water is not completely transformed to a solid, a variety of interesting critters provide entertainment.

There are plenty of scrumptious weeds under the moving water.
The geese are more welcome at this time of year
because they are not keen on defecating everywhere one walks.

The male hooded merganser also likes the water.
A bit skittish, he has yet to provide the photo op desired,
where individual feathers are on display.

Unlike the chickadees, who are paid models.

For a few black oil sunflower seeds,
they're more than happy to pose.

And to provide motion studies.

The herd heard there was food next door.

This charm of goldfinches did not need to go that far.

What should you call beavers without flat tails?
You oughtta call them otters.

Backlit and in the shade,
he provides a fine silhouette,
but the subtleties are lost in the shadows.

But he doesn't care.
He's having fun.
Otters always look like they're having a good time.

Sharp-eyed Mary spies a large bird in the treetops.
Who could this be?

Correct!
The American Bald Eagle watches from the treetops.
Come closer!

Oh yeah!
A visit to the water's edge
provides a more detailed pose.

The wind and driven snow are giving someone a bad feather day.

No matter.
The regal pose is recovered.

Now where did I put my cell phone?

Regal once again,
even if the talons don't penetrate the ice or granite.
(And there were no messages.)

Action and Reaction Upon Lack of Traction

One of the most dangerous tools ever devised is the chain saw.  It is a wonderful labor saver, but must always be treated with healthy respect.  Its capacity for unanticipated mayhem is unsurpassed.  Not only is it a magnificent creator of sawdust, but it is also a machine that changes the dynamics of large objects we expect to be intransigent much more quickly than our minds appreciate.

And every once in a while, it kicks back at its user to exact first hand revenge.

But for all these things, good and bad, it needs a chain with sharp teeth.  Hand sharpening can improve the saw, but when performance declines to the point of acting more as a sander than a cutter, it's time to go get a replacement.  

There were multiple logs to be cut into firewood, so Russ volunteered to drive down to Zipp Hardware.  We were about half way there when it was noticed that we'd forgotten to throw in the gas cans that would insure that we could get the job done.  

"Better go back and get them."

"I guess so."  So we delayed our arrival in downtown Dolgeville by 20 minutes or so. 

Good for containing gas.
Not so great for pouring it.

Ya gotta love Zipp Hardware.  It's a real old-fashioned hardware store, with real people who actually know things about tools and hardware.  Once upon a time I went there with my friend Bob to get a 1" diameter piece of copper pipe.  Rarely used these days, we were skeptical that the store would have the pipe we needed to get the camp waterworks back in order, and as suspected, there was none in the store.  But one of the owners said, "Follow me," hopped in his truck, and drove 2 blocks to his house on the outskirts of Dolgeville.  We followed and waited while he rummaged around in the attic of his garage.  He emerged with a 4 foot length of 1" copper pipe...enough to do the fix twice.

Amazed at the service, Bob whipped out a $20 and held it out to the man.  "Naw... Put that away.  I've been meaning to throw it out for some time.  You saved me the trouble."  Can you imagine that happening at Lowes or Home Depot?

A great place.
Certainly, they have something you need.

This time, what was needed was in stock.  Anyone needing a chain with sharp teeth later in the day was out of luck, because I took all 3.  Good teeth are important.

Then off to fill the cans at Stewart's, the combination gas station, convenience store, and ice cream stand.  Magnanimous Russ offered to do the fill, since his truck was also in need, and he began with one of the cans.  

"Wait a minute.  What gas did you put in there?  We need to get the higher octane version with no ethanol for the small engines."

"Oops!"

"No matter, I'll dump the can into the truck."  So Russ filled the other can with the good stuff while I emptied the full one into the truck.  The damn "spill proof" nozzle did not fit well into the truck's filler neck, so of course, I spilled all over before the gas in the can went down to a more manageable level.  All the while, there was another truck behind us waiting to pull into the space at the pump while we did our keystone cops routine.

Self conscious about the delay, with the can finally empty and Russ refilling it and topping off the truck, I wandered back to the truck behind and motioned the driver to roll down the window with an outdated cranking gesture.

The window came down and revealed two young guys in the cab.

"Yeah," I offered.  "We're idiots.  Sorry about the delay."

"No problem, man.  We're on our phones, so no hurry."  A good use of technology.

Russ was finishing up, so I hopped back into the passenger seat.  Not being of the same generation as the guys in the truck behind us, accessing the cloud did not occur to me.  I stared a the steel trestle bridge across East Canada Creek, on which we would shortly begin our return.  As I observed without purpose, an 18-wheeler flew down the hill on the other side much faster than any reasonable operator would attempt.  The right hand turn onto the bridge would have been easily negotiated with half the current inertia.  Frozen and fascinated, I watched as the westbound semi crossed into the eastbound lane and began disintegrating as it tipped into the massive steel triangles of the bridge.  The cab came to rest halfway to the other side.

A few seconds prior,
just another boring day
for the bridge over East Canada Creek.

The destruction of the vehicle seemed to unfold slowly, even though the impact and destruction certainly were quite sudden.  Time was stretched while pieces of what looked like foam insulation and metal fell into the stream below.  Much later, I wondered if I would have reacted at all if my viewpoint had been much closer.

The effect of the bridge on the vehicle was remarkably like that of a gigantic grater on a long block of cheese.  Little pieces of the truck were skived off, dropping to the water below.  Each blade took a little more as the giant provolone was reduced by half.

Bad day for Old #106
Gotta wonder how long it took to get the bridge back in service.

Feeling the need to help if possible, I hopped out and began walking toward the bridge, not looking forward to what I might find in the cab.  The driver waiting behind us was right behind me, saying, "Man, that guys job is over!  He'll never work for that company again."  My thoughts were similar, but not for the same reasons.  Oh, to be young and immortal again.

As we approached, the remnants of the front windshield fell forward, and out of the now-vertical opening popped the driver.  Soon on the bridge, I asked, "Are you OK?"  He said nothing and turned away.  There was a cut on his hand, and his sock was bloody, but in light of what had just happened, he was in great shape.  I had to wonder why he would ever drive the rig with no shoes.

That's the driver on the left.
He may be stupid and careless, but his luck is enviable.

The town came alive, and very quickly there were crowds of people watching from both sides of the bridge.  It could not have been more than a minute before the flashing lights on the car of the local constable were blocking western access.  A guy in a red truck, who had backed away in the eastbound lane as the disaster unfolded before him, shouted a few minimally coherent profanities and sped off, perhaps in search of a lottery ticket.  Satisfied that there was little we could do, and that the authorities were properly in charge, we went back to Russell's vehicle and made our way out of town by an alternate route.

As one might guess, the topic of conversation was what we had just observed, and our part in it.  If the chainsaw was not so dull, we'd never have gone to Dolgeville.  Had we not returned for the gas cans, we never would have seen any of the mayhem.  Had we been efficient in filling the gas cans, and on our way across the bridge back the way we came, this story might be quite different.

Have chainsaws attained a new level of devious malevolence?  Are they now colluding with also-dangerous gas cans in plotting mayhem?  Have fools once again been protected by their own incompetence? 

We never used any of the gas.

October 2018 Loonatics at camp

If there is interior work to be done, it makes sense to make sure that prior to such work, the exterior keeps the elements outside.  Thus the leak detected in the spring and ignored all summer needed attention.

Vacuuming the pine needles out of the seams between metal roof segments.
Later, a few flicks with the screwdriver proved adequate.

A few long roofing screws and the impact driver did the rest.
Moisture is no longer expected to be forced beyond the seams by the wind.

Shortly after this photo was taken, Pete-from-next-door offered both a safety suggestion and the rope to carry it out.  A safety harness was formed by a loop around the waist.  Then the opposite end of the rope was thrown over the peak and secured to Peter's earth mover, insuring that a missed step did not result in a long fall off the slippery green metal.

Then all well-grounded folks came around to the business side, in anticipation of possible macabre entertainment that did not come to pass.

Later that Friday evening,
Booboo awards Chowdahead the hat
he's been wanting for so long.

Note the appropriate shirt.

Wind driven rain and sleet made the next day quite memorable,
but nearly impossible for outside work.

A little bonus hail on the deck.
The gang was all there,
 but not being paid enough to work outside in that stuff.

Nonetheless, a few logs were made ready for splitting.

In the garage, Cut Boy and Sam Adams made good progress
despite being harassed by Chowdahead.

Careful not to create relapse conditions necessitating additional back surgery,
Dock Doc excelled at supervision.

The Loonatics came to the unanimous conclusion that young blood is necessary.  Two heart issues, one recovering from back surgery, another with no prostate, and a fifth struggling with hearing problems and probably dementia.  When asked what his malady was, Chowdahead answered, "Baldness."

"But that's half the crew."

"Chronic flatulence?"

"That's at least the other half."

What's he pointing out?

Even inclement weather could not prevent proper grooming.

The little blue car snuggled up due to the weather.

A man perhaps overly happy with his work.
Were we wrong to give him the title of Hellfire?

The previous shot is uncomfortably reminiscent
of this Arnold Newman portrait of Alfried Krupp, don't you think?

Regardless, the work goes on!

Be sure that children can never access power tools.

Always observe proper safety procedures.

And be sure never to use a ladder on a stairway.

But it is just fine to use ladders to escape from mice.

Perseverance Pays!
Naughty pine is behaving!

Meanwhile, an experiment in acoustics is conducted.
As Thomas Edison once said, "Now I know what not to do!"

And in a final tribute to perseverance,
a couple face cords in place for the winter.
The birch is wet and the maple is punky,
so the average should be just right!

The last stick was stacked, and much of the crew on the road, so cleanup ensued.  Chowdahead pilots a mean vacuum.  Who knew?

A courtesy call on Pete at his house to thank him for the support and use of his machines was in order.  While informing him where the splitter rested under a tarp, Pete decided that he absolutely had to come over and grab some prints of drone shots of the lake.  

In he bustled with muddy boots, not only to grab the pictures, but to use the facilities as well.  Territory marked, he was soon headed back home.  Considering all the help he provided through the weekend, a heavy sigh was all that preceded the second cleanup.

The exit plans disrupted, the realization that a few things had been forgotten did not occur until near Utica.  The hope is that the Friday-night chowder will stay contained, even if it comes to life in the fridge.