Floridaaaaaa!

Crossing into Florida was a bit anticlimactic. We'd hoped for warm weather for so long, pinning our hopes on getting to the Sunshine State in order to have it in spades. When we finally crossed the state line and made our first pit stop, I was almost tempted to turn around and flee, despite the abundant and delicious sunshine. I've never been fond of Disney in any way, crowded theme parks ceased to hold much appeal in my early 20s, and we were arriving right at the beginning of spring break season. Not a good trifecta for my curmudgeonly self. We hit the Welcome Center on I-95 and I wanted to hide. Piles of Vacation Mode folks everywhere, kitch and hype and crowds, all things that give me hives. The boys delightedly discovered the free juice counter while I was in the bathroom, and the man handing you a little paper cup with your choice of grapefruit or orange juice in it looked like he'd morphed from a human being into a robot long ago. Jaded, tired, completely sucked dry of any emotion or energy … he did nothing to change my own view of things.

Once we sidled our way over to the western side of the state and dropped down into Palmetto (just south of Tampa), I started to revive a bit. Not a theme park in sight, just piles of trailer parks and strip malls, the promise of a hug from Ann Marie, and the ocean. We camped in an old trailer park within walking distance of our friends' winter trailer, which was bounded on one side by an entrance ramp to the highway, and a busy main drag on the other … convenient, cheap, and frill-free. Mostly full-timers in that park, not seasonals, and we'd barely parked when the neighbor lady next door blew in with garrulous enthusiasm, praise for Michael's mustache, immediate pledges of friendship and libations and great times together, and a fine how-de-do. We'd Arrived! (The libations never did, in fact we barely saw her again during our week there. I think she'd had most of them herself just before we showed up :)).

We found our way over to Steve and Ann Marie's, and made ourselves at home for the evening. They wanted help painting their trailer, and I think the promise of our arrival was as much help as the painting itself, as by the time we came back the next morning to get started, Steve was already attacking the front trim with a paintbrush. We jumped right in, and by dusk we had the entire project done! We'd booked a week at our campground, so the rest of the time was spent sailing, talking, flea marketing, hiking the mangroves and old Indian mounds, and biking and swimming.

The sailing was a delight, and pure entertainment to boot. The first trip out on Tuesday was fairly short due to the tides and light breezes, but as it bore the honor of our first experience ever in a sailboat, it was perfect. Steve has an old 17' boat that he keeps stored in the woods just up the road from his nephew's clam farm, so we helped haul it out of the undergrowth and down the road to the dock where he launches. Life jackets, paddles, maps, water bottles, and the tiller and sails were carried down and stowed. The mast had to be set once we were out a bit from land, as the trees were too low on shore. Steve gave calm and patient directions as we threaded ropes, helped rig sails, and got underway. Fynn's incessant questions were handled with equal patience, and we headed out of the inlet towards the mouth of Tampa Bay.

We circled a bird sanctuary island that was really really cool, and Michael especially was just mesmerized. A mangrove and tree-covered island absolutely teeming with big birds … pelicans, roseate spoonbills, glossy ibis, cranes, egrets, great egrets with their fluffy white tails, anhingas, osprey, and more. Every tree had dozens and they didn't bat an eye as we silently circled the island, staring and hopelessly snapping photos and video, knowing that truly capturing the scene was impossible. Steve, sitting in the back with the tiller in hand, quietly delighting in our delight, and offering bird names as we pointed and asked. The boys got a chance to try their hand at the tiller once we were back in the little inlet where we launched, and declared it a perfect day.

We went out again on Thursday, and Fynn had set his sights on going Fast! And Far! He wasn't disappointed on the Fast! bit, as the winds were better at 10 mph or so, and we started hiking our way speedily across Tampa Bay, taking turns working the ropes, checking the map, and swinging the jib. The sun was peeking out and we were just starting to feel like we had a handle on this sailing thing, when a loud CRACK! invaded the quiet and we momentarily all froze, watching the mast swing towards the water, dip in, and start to drag the sails under. Frantic grabbing ensued by all hands, and with a fistful of sail and cable in my arms, I asked Steve “What's the plan of attack?” It appeared that a mast cable had broken, shearing off a pin holding it in place and sending the mast overboard, though it was still attached by two more cables. Steve's “Well, first we need to secure the mast and sails …” kept us busy for awhile, and after it was determined that there was no way to jury rig the sail, we took them completely off and stowed them in the cubby, and lashed the mast to the side. Upon searching the cubby for the oars, it was determined that one of them had been left in the back of the car, leaving us with one oar, a dis-masted boat, and the closest shore about 1.5 miles away!

We tried rowing by tossing the oar back and forth between Michael and I, but that quickly proved futile. Steve tried tying a bucket to a rope and throwing it ahead of us and pulling it in, while balanced on the prow, but that lasted about 3 dangerous and slippery tosses before being abandoned also. Phone calls were made to the nephew, and to Ann Marie, in an attempt to get someone to come tow us in. In the meantime, the boys were tasked with watching for passing boats and waving life jackets to attract attention.

There was something delightful in the air though … no real dismay or fear, just the excitement of something to Do!, and a Problem to Solve!, and Steve was the one who set the tone for the rest of us. He didn't seem unduly dismayed, more like a wee bit pleased to be honest, and it truly was entertaining! We had water and snacks, we knew someone would eventually see us, or come find us, and the weather was clear and sunny with a nice breeze. Things could be a LOT worse. Just as Steve got his nephew on the phone and was working through rescue options, the boys managed to hail a beautiful fishing boat with two men on board, and they offered to tow us to Emerson Point. As they were getting ropes tossed and tied, I spotted a Tow Boat going by, and was rather thankful that we got help from passers by instead. They kindly towed us as close to shore as the shallows would allow, and we pulled the boat up on the beach there, a spot we'd hiked to just 2 nights before.

We waited there for Ann Marie, who had braved driving Matilda over to pick us up (their car being at the launch point), never having driven anything remotely like her before. There are some benefits I guess to Michael's penchant for leaving the keys IN the truck! I was as proud of her for that as anything … she rose to the occasion beautifully, and I do believe found her own delight in it all.

We parted ways after a week, though I knew I'd see Ann Marie again in a few weeks, as we had a cruise coming up later in the month, together with my sis Martha and sis-in-law Keren. (Tom really rocked it in the birthday department this year!).

That week set the tone for the rest of our time in Florida. Staying away from big attractions for the most part, quiet adventures and misadventures, lots of water and sand and heat, and most excellent companions to hang out with. And nary a Disney character in sight :).

My name is Edmund

My name is Edmund. I am a 4-year-old tuxedo cat. Me, my sister, and 4 tall-ones live in a small moving-home. But I didn't always live in a moving-home. A lot of feedings ago we lived at a home by a big water with lots of tall greens with moving prey to eat! It was nice to live there. I even fell in the water two times! Then the tall-ones got the moving-home and we had to go in it for a long time and it rattled around. After a long time the bumping stopped. A couple feedings later we got to go outside and it was a whole different place, and a big hill with trees on it, and even lots of small prey to chase and eat!

There were two other cats there too but one of them didn't like to play with us. We sometimes got to eat bits of the tall-ones food after they were done eating.

A little bit before we got back in the moving-home and went somewhere else the second cat disappeared in a sleeping box. We always had to stay inside after our darktime food because of the coyotes.

Then we appeared at a place that had only one home and was full of trees and had a big water next to it!

We got to run around as much as we wanted and play in the greens. The next place was a small home that had three dogs in it!

While we were there the tall-ones dug a big pit full of water that we couldn't go into. That place had lots of bushes to hide in and small trees to climb! Sometimes the dogs chased us, but they had to stop at the edge of the home-grass. The homes next to that one also had dogs that could only go in a circle around a stick. I liked to sit at the edge of the string and watch them!

Very soon before we left the tall-ones made a platform out of dead trees, with more dead trees sticking out of it.

Then we went to a place that had no trees! Just homes that we couldn't go into. We got to go outside a lot there, but the tall-ones were gone a lot of the time. Sometimes I caught mice and other prey. And then for four feedings there were lots of lights and very loud noises, that were so loud my sister hid! But she came back when the noises stopped. In the grass behind the house there was something that was always making it rain. There weren't any other cats there that we could play with, just birds and prey.

Then there was a similar place, but it had a lot more grass. We were allowed out there, and there were also some dogs, and another cat. I even caught a piece of long-eared prey, but when I wasn't looking it disappeared. I think the tall-ones took it.

Then we went back into the moving-home, and when we got out we were at a place that had lots of other moving-homes. There were lots of other cats and dogs there but they were all inside or on strings held by other tall-ones! We couldn't go out very much, and after a while the tall-ones put us on the same strings and didn't let us outside without them holding the strings. Neither of us liked it at all and Sparrow even got out of it and hid several times! Once when I was in the moving-home I could hear flying-prey in the see-through room!

After a while, the tall-ones started letting us out a little after light-time and at dark time without the strings on. Some of the other tall-ones there had a cat in a tiny home of its own! There was a big open green close to our moving-home that had huge things that were like the deer at the river-home, but we weren't allowed in the place they were in. We also weren't allowed in the other moving-homes.

Then we left and went to somewhere that we weren't allowed out at all, and had lots of noises, and other moving-homes that looked different. Then we went to a place like the one with lots of other moving-homes, but it had a lake and we were allowed to go out without a string! We got to follow the tall ones on walks. Sometimes we went really far from home, and I didn't know where we were. I liked that place a lot! One time the tall-ones tried to get me on a big water-float, but I didn't want to.

Also, we went back to the river home for a little bit, but we weren't allowed in our old home. That was very confusing. 

I'm really happy that we got the moving-home and started living in it and moving around, and I enjoy exploring new places!

The End

Chasing Waterfalls and Shedding Past Promises

Tina wanted a shed.  This was important.  There were a lot of things to be put in a shed.  There used to be a shed in the back yard, when she and Ken moved in some 20 years ago, but it had rotted away. 

When we had supper at Chipotle with them almost 2 years ago, we told them our newly formed plan to travel the country with tools and help people out.  I believe they were the first ones we told.  They had looked at each other, “Oh!” Their eyebrows were up, “We have a shed,” Ken said.  “In the garage,” Tina said.  “That needs put together,” they said together, smiling big smiles.

“Yes,” we said, “That is the kind of project we would enjoy.”

“And …” Tina listed off about 5 other projects to be done.  “There’s also …” Ken listed another 5.

We told them it might be awhile before we got our plan rolling, but they were definitely on our list of stops, never suspecting they’d be our second.

They told us about their store.  It was moving.  A few years before, Ken and Tina quit their jobs and started a scrapbooking store called Café Crop.  Business had been scant.  The location was not good and the landlord was not cooperative.  They were just about to sign on a new location but it would be stepping out on faith.  It’d take everything they had.  For us it was great to see them doing something together.  Something life-consuming.  That was right where Bethany and I wanted to be; eyes glowing, scared to death.  It was inspiring.

We pulled up to their driveway 2 years later.  The pouring rain had just stopped, and there they were; waving and smiling.  Ken guided me in, we unhitched, and spent the evening reminiscing on the back lawn.  Ken got out his wiffle-balls and gave the kids a golf lesson.  That night we slept in the camper.

Tina had emailed us a week before to say moving the business and getting it running had occupied most of their time and the shed was still a project waiting to happen.  We were gung-ho to start in the morning.  Monday.

There was a good thunderstorm right before dawn.  The rain had quit by the time breakfast was over.  Tina went to work at Café Crop.  We staked off an 8’ x 12’ footprint of the shed and began removing the ground cover and bushes.  It was muddy work.  It began to rain again.  We looked like mud-wrestlers.  It began to pour and we could hardly stand up.  The clay in the soil was very slick.  We decided to wait for the rain to stop.  “Can we open up the shed kit, while we wait?” Bethany asked.

“Well … that might be hard,” Ken said, “why don’t you come look at it.”  We followed him to the garage and stood dripping with amazement in the doorway.  “That’s a corner of it, right there.” He pointed towards the bottom of a vast heaping of boxes, tools and equipment.  “We’d have to move the stuff off it,” he lamented.

“But,” said Bethany, walking back and forth in the 4 foot path cleared to the fridge, peering on tiptoe into the garage, “there’s nowhere to put it!”

“If it stops raining, we can move it to the driveway.” Ken suggested.

“Hang on.”  Bethany was still pacing.  Then with great formality she turned to Ken and said “Ken, may I have permission to organize your garage?”

“Sure,” said Ken, “go to town!”

“OK.” Said Bethany “Here’s what we’re going to do.  Open the awning on the camper.  All the big tools, mowers and blowers and anything that goes in the shed goes in the driveway under the awning …”  And so it began.  8 hours of hefting, consolidating, stacking, and shifting all under Bethany’s command.  By the time Tina came home, there were swept paths to every part of the garage and the shed lay fully and circumnavigably exposed.  Later in the week when Tina was hounding Ken to take out the garbage, he said “Sheesh!  You’re almost as bad a slave-driver as Bethany!”

That evening, it began to rain in earnest.  It rained all night.  By morning, it was thinning.  “We’ve got a nice lake in the yard!” Tina said brightly, as she left for work.

We went outside to look.  Sure enough, right where the shed was to go, stood a three to four inch lake.  “Hmmm,” I said, “this appears to be the low spot in the yard.”

“That would explain why the last shed rotted away,” Ken mused.  We considered building it up with gravel, but decided the water would still sit on the clay under the gravel.  We discussed drainage this way and that way for half an hour, before Ken, arms akimbo, said “Wait a minute!  I have an idea!  Now, this might sound crazy, but 18 years ago I promised Tina a pond … “ Bethany and I exchanged worried glances.  “I actually promised it in writing,” Ken confided.  “What if we dug a pond lower than the foundation, and the water could drain into it.”

 “Well,” I said slowly, “That WOULD give us the dirt to raise the shed foundation.”  We began to talk about what a pond would involve.  Bethany and I got some garden hose and made a pond shape in the grass.

“I just had another idea.”  We looked up.  Ken’s arms were akimbo.  “What if we made a waterfall with a stream that fed into the pond!  It could start there behind the shed and flow around this way!”

“Um, Ken,” I said tentatively, “We’re only going to be here till Saturday.  I don’t think we can get a pond, a waterfall AND a shed done by then.”

“You’d have to agree, though, that a waterfall and stream would look REALLY nice, and if I’m going to make a pond for Tina I want to do it right.  Because, see, what I’m really imagining is sitting over here and HEARING the splashing of water.”  I looked at Bethany and could see in her eyes that she thought it was CRAZY but that she was also half convinced.  The opportunity to play with rocks was a strong lure.

“Well,” I said, “If you’re ok with doing the shed yourself, I’m game to make a waterfall.”

Ken called Tina and told her the plan to make a pond with a splashing waterfall.  She says “OK,” Ken announced.

Ken and I mapped out the pond and stream with electric dog fence flags (did I mention they have poodles?)  We began to dig, while Bethany took her Vorpal Blade and began hacking underbrush out of what Tina called the Back 40.  Douglas and Fynn pitched in hauling tarps of weeds and breaking clods of clay.  Funny thing about clay is, the more that sticks to your shoes, the more sticks to your shoes.  Eventually we were digging in platforms too heavy to lift.  I opted to dig barefoot at this point which was pure delight to the toes. 

We dug down two feet and threw the clay in the lake/foundation.  The boys squished it flat.  The hole dug, Ken and I went to Lowes to get a liner, a pump, some hose and a wee impulse-buy fountain. 

By the time the liner was in and the pond filled, we’d missed Tuesday night bingo at Chick-fil-a, a tradition of Ken and Tina’s.  Instead, we sat on the patio enjoying a jar of Knoxville strawberry hooch to the tinkling of the wee fountain.

We’ve known Ken and Tina since way back.  Back in the days we frequented the same bible camps; back before any of us were married.  Back when love and theosophy swam unblinking wide-eyed circles in our pools of innocence.  Tina grew up near Bethany and they got along like sisters.  I was fast friends with Tina’s brother.  My brother was good friends with Ken.  My sister was BFF with Bethany’s sister.  When Ken and Tina began dating, their names became synonymous with “Moon-eyed couple,” and after a year or two it was “Couple-who-won’t-quit.”  As a 14-year-old I was fascinated.  I would splay my angst-ridden soul before each of them late into the nights, hoping their experience might gain me some foothold on the ladder of love. 

And here I was again nearly 25 years later, fascinated by their love language.  Ken was pleased as punch that he was finally fulfilling his pond promise, and Tina would not give him the satisfaction of her appreciation until she had a shed. 

Wednesday, we laid gravel on the foundation clay, and rolled it flat with a concrete roller the neighbor kindly offered.  Bethany and Ken went to get rock, while I made the stream bed and the boys chased each other around the yard with sticks they were supposedly bagging.  The cats wandered the neighborhood making friends.  We unloaded rocks, tested the stream and Ken and I left to get sand hogs for building up breached walls.  It was looking like the pump was a little too strong for the job. 

Thursday we drained the pond and cleaned it.  Some rocks we put in had muddied the water.  By afternoon we were testing the waterfall.  It was TERRIBLE.  The pump was too strong, water was coming out everywhere.  So we talked drainage this way and that way.  I thought we needed more stone for the waterfall. 

“Wait a minute.”  Ken’s elbows were out.  “I just had an idea!”  Our eyes were wide.  “If I bought a diverter we could split the line and regulate the flow to make the waterfall the right pressure.”

“And the second hose would go … back into the pond?” I asked hopefully.

“Over a SECOND waterfall, right here!” He pointed triumphantly.  I was about to say look, we don’t even know if we can build ONE working waterfall when Bethany jumped on board.

“That COULD work,” she looked at my worry, “We only need one flat stone.  It would be a small stream,” she assured me.

We spent the rest of the day cleaning stones, making sand hogs, and perfecting the flow of everything but the waterfall.  That night Bethany said to me “Ken has work away from the house till noon, and we need him to get the rest of the stone.  Let’s open the shed kit and see if we can get the base laid in the morning.  It will feel a lot better if we at least have the shed started before we leave.”  I whole-heartedly agreed.

So by noon on Friday we had the floor laid and the kids got to hammer nails.  Whee!  Ken returned pleasantly surprised, and we went out for stone.  He hadn’t been able to find a diverter.  By 6:00 pm we had stacked and restacked the waterfall many times to no avail.  It was a sloppy mess.

Ken had to take a load of grilled chicken to Café Crop and we sat down to eat some of the same.  It was really good.  We looked at going back to the waterfall.  Bethany looked like the waterfall was about to come out of her eyes.  She was spent.  I was out of ideas.  We prayed.  “Hey God, we really would like to be in Chicago for Father’s day.  Give us an idea for this waterfall, like, right now.”

We crouched by the waterfall.  Bethany lifted a stone, languidly, and set it back down.  I realized this one was on me to see through.  And then it came to me.  “OK.”  I said.  “Here’s what we’re going to do.  We’ll cut a big piece of liner, lift up the whole inner stone stack and wrap it from underneath till the liner comes above the top cascade stone, and all water exits towards the stream.”

And that was it.  I’m sure any fountain builder would look at me and say “Duh!”  Not only did it work to contain the water, we no longer needed a diverter, the pressure was fine.  With renewed energy we set to finishing by dark, when Tina came home.

Ken was bristling with excitement to show Tina the finished pond and waterfall.  Tina was bristly.  She spent 10 minutes in the kitchen talking to Bethany about her day while Ken opened and closed the patio door, saying “Can you hear that?”  Eventually we all filed outside.  Tina made a beeline for the Back 40 and began questioning Bethany about everything she’d removed.  Ken was nearly beside himself with impatience.   After another 10 minutes she sauntered over to the pond where Ken was basking in the babbling sound of the waterfall.  “What do you think?!”  Ken asked proudly. 

“It’s nice,” Tina said minimally.

This was certainly not the effusion Ken was hoping for.  He climbed on to the shed base “AND,” he spread his arms wide, “we have a shed floor!”

“Yes, but no shed,” Tina pointed out. 

“But … “ Ken was reeling.  This was so anticlimactic, it was ludicrous.  “Just listen to the waterfall!” he pleaded.  Bethany tried to help by pointing out some of the features and how we had made them.  Tina engaged her coolly, but it was clear she had taken a stance and was not going to be budged.  Ken came and stood by me.  His mind was in full gear.  He still had one card up his sleeve, if he played it right.  “Does anyone in your family like pancakes?” he asked innocently.

“Oh my, Yes!” I exclaimed.  “Bethany can’t eat gluten, but the rest of us can’t say no.”

“Well, there’s a Fireman’s pancake breakfast tomorrow morning I’d like to take you guys to.  We’d have to leave at like 6:30, but it’s all you can eat and they let you climb in the fire trucks.”

“Do they have sausage?”   Bethany abandoned her and Tina’s pond-side chat. 

“Oh, yes!” Tina joined.  “Stacks of it!”

“Why don’t we invite Lisa and Shaun?”  Ken suggested idly to Tina.

Lisa helps at Café Crop and has been invaluable to Ken and Tina.  Her husband Shaun is a veteran handyman with a lot of tools.  He helped build out the new Café.  I was told earlier in the week that he had offered some time ago to help Ken build the shed but I didn’t make the connection until I met him over pancakes the next morning.

Our plan was to go to Café Crop around 11:00 am and see Tina in her element, which we hadn’t gotten to do all week.  We were hoping maybe to try a Family Drawing with her, and get on the road by 3:00 pm.  As far as work was concerned, we were done, finished.  Kaput.

“How many pancakes?”  The unsmiling senior lady asked the man in line ahead of me.

“Three.”  She robotically moved the tongs to the mountain of pancakes.

“How many pancakes?”  She asked his daughter in the same monotone.

“Two, please.”  The tongs went for two.

“How many pancakes?”  She asked me flatly.

“Twenty,” I said.  The tongs moved automatically, then stopped. 

She gave me a big grin.  I was still chuckling over this small victory when Shaun joined me walking back to the table.

“S-so when do you want to s-start on the shed?”  Shaun had a slight stutter and eyes glowing with enthusiasm.  “I’ve got a truck f-full of tools.  I’ve got a n-nail gun.  I can start right after we eat.”  I suddenly realized how Ken had orchestrated this.  I smiled.

“Ken DID tell you we were leaving today?” I asked, sitting down by Bethany.

“What?  N-no!  What time are you leaving?”

“3 o-clock.”  Bethany’s horror-stricken face said she realized what we were discussing. 

“Well, we could g-get the walls up by then.”

I looked at Bethany.  Don’t-you-dare lasers were shooting from her eyes.  “We’ve also promised Tina we’d come to Café Crop at 11:00.”  I glanced at Ken who was studiously eating his pancakes. 

“We b-better get s-started soon then!” Shaun said, grinning.  Shaun’s drive to work had been hinted at before but facing it head-on I had no resistance.  I gave Bethany a pleading look.  She too was crumbling under Shaun’s confidence and excitement. 

“We HAVE to leave at 11:00,” she conceded.

After the kids toured the trucks, we headed back to Ken’s.

MAN could Shaun work!  The walls flew together and were ready to be put up by 11:00.  Bethany called Tina and put off our arrival till 1:00.  By 12:30, we had the walls up and were ready to start the roof.  I said, “You boys are on your own” to Ken and Shaun, and we headed off to Café Crop.

“I see you got the walls up!” Tina had received a text from Ken. 

“Yeah!”  We were exhausted and happy.

Now I don’t know much about scrapbooking, but from what I could tell, this was scrapbooking heaven.  One half of the store was dedicated to merchandise.  Hundreds of patterned paper stacks, rubber stamps of every kind, assortments of stickers, fringes, tassels, ribbons, buttons, and best of all baskets of found objects like scrabble tiles, sea shells, and small toys.  (Fynn picked out what looked like an old clasp and immediately had built an entire medieval costume in his mind.)

The other half of the store was spacious work tables surrounded by comfy chairs, a third of which were filled by ladies working on projects and chit-chatting animatedly.  The atmosphere was very conducive to creativity.  There was a side counter laid out with muffins and lunch meats and snacks, which we gladly dug into before setting up for family drawing.  Had I any mental energy left from a week of hard work I would have designed a drawing that incorporated some of the cool stuff from the store, but I opted to repeat an older drawing, modified slightly for our time constraints.  We had a great time. 

As we left, Tina let her composure melt, hugging us with tears streaming.  “Thanks guys!  You got more done in a week than we could have in a year!”  And that felt SO GOOD! 

We drove back to where Ken and Shaun had the rafters half installed, hooked up the camper, hugged Ken goodbye, hugged Shaun goodbye, and headed for one night alone together at a campsite with direct sewer hookup.  The next day we’d be in Chicago, where at least 5 people had projects waiting. 

Market Square Shuffle

The first time I went to Market Square to draw portraits, I made $101 bucks.  That was the day after the Chalk Walk and I haven't finished writing about it.  The second time I went to Market Square was after two weeks of rain on a Saturday.  The Farmer's Market was underway, and my grassy area was full of tents for the 200th anniversary of the Civil War.  I made my way to the main square and waited an hour for the vendors to pack up.  I chose a nice spot in the shade of a fenced tree, and set up. 

It wasn’t long before a large black man with a bellowing laugh engaged me in conversation.  I could tell by the way he scoped the square while he talked that he was hustling something.  Turns out he’s an artist named Shawn.  He showed me the Mother’s Day card he was selling prints of for $10 dollars.  It was nice.

You’d have to be pretty charming to sell them for 10 bucks, but he was.  He was very at ease and each time he let out a laugh, he’d study its ripple to the far ends of the square.  As we talked, a grungy girl of maybe 30 trudged past, loaded down with sooty bags.  “Hello,” she said.  I was looking at Shawn at the time and assumed she was talking to him.  I waited for him to respond.  “I said, HELLO!” she said indignantly.  I looked up.  She had stopped and was staring at me.  I thought, what’s this homeless girl with attitude want from ME?  Shawn kept his mouth shut.

“Hello,” I said guardedly.

“Unh!”  She turned in disgust and headed for the shade of the next fenced tree.  I watched, puzzled, as she plopped her bags down, keeping her back to me.

“That’s Foxy,” Shawn confided.  “She’s a spray paint artist.  She’s very, umm … temperamental.”

“Ohh.” Now I saw I was possibly in her regular spot and I had not responded to her attempt to be friendly.  Whoops.

Shawn wandered off and I began to draw a portrait of Bethany from my phone.  An older man, maybe 58, in a straw hat and dress shirt ambled up.  He watched me draw for a minute.  “You new here?”

“I was here 2 weeks ago.” I replied.

“I could tell,” he said, “I’ve not seen you before and I know everyone in this square.”  I kept drawing.

“Have you met Foxy over there?”  He nodded her way.  “She’s a good friend.  She has her ups and downs,” he made a roller coaster with his hand, “but she makes nice work.”

“I said Hi to her,” I allowed.

“And down there at the end of the square … that’s Harley.  The Magician.  He’s a friend of mine.  And over there …” he pointed, “that’s my buddy Hank.”

“You must spend a lot of time in the square,” I observed.

“That I do,” he said, pleased I was catching his drift.  “Truth be told, I do a little drawing myself.”

“Really?” I said.  I put my china marker down.  I could tell he wanted my full attention.

“That’s right.  Portraits, like you, only I do mine in pencil.”

“Oh, Yeah?”  I was remembering that event services said there were no portrait artists.  I was also realizing he was doing a territory dance.

“The name’s Doug.”  He stuck out his hand.  I shook it. “Yeah, I’ve been doing this for about 21 years now.  I haven’t set up yet this year.  I’ve had a bit of money come in and haven’t needed to.  But I normally sit at that table over there until about noon then move to that table to stay in the shade.”  As I turned to look, he took the opportunity to lean his bag against my easel leg and sat down in the customer chair.  This was an act of aggression.  I considered starting to draw him but sensed he’d find a way to sabotage it.  My best course was to keep playing nice.  “You had any problems with the police?”

“Not yet.” I said.  “I talked to a couple cops two weeks ago when I set up.  They didn’t seem to know what laws applied to me.”

“Well, I’m good friends with the sheriff…”

What followed was an hour of him giving me advice that was largely unnecessary and telling me stories that revolved around how well connected he was.  I had to pull out my “I worked in Times Square” card to take a bit of the wind out of his sails.  Eventually he left, and I went back to drawing my wife.

Within 10 minutes I felt a presence watching.  I looked up hoping for customer, only to find a balloon vendor rocking on his heels and grinning a practiced stage grin.  “Hello! I’m David and you’re new here!”  He stuck out his hand.  It was a welcome contrast, this straightforward communication.  I seized his hand. 

“I’m Michael!” I belted back. “And I am!”

“Well, that’s a firm handshake!  And you have a very professional setup!  AND you do very nice work!”

“Thank You!”  A flat wire basket hung from his neck at chest level, in which he kept his twisty balloons and a hand pump.  Several pre-twisted balloons and a sign were attached.

“Are you, sir, aware of the laws governing your table?”  He asked.

“This, my good man,” I retorted, “Is NOT a table.  It is an Easel.”

“Well put!  An Easel!”  He marveled.  “Good answer!  For you know, it is Illegal to set up a table without a permit.  That is why I,” he gestured to his basket, “carry my table with me.  I can see you are an articulate man,” he flattered. “Let me ask you this: How much do you charge for one of your portraits?”

“Nothing,” I smiled. “I ask only for a donation.”

“Another good answer!” he exclaimed.  “We are not allowed, as buskers, to SELL our wares.”

We proceeded to have a lengthy conversation concerning the laws of the square, in which he was very well versed.  His speech and approach were so like my Father’s, I found it quite enjoyable.  He told me stories of encounters with event services and the police.  His lawyer/girlfriend, Peggy, researched and provided printouts of the most current legislation.  He used to set up a balloon tent with a helium tank.  He also plays clarinet.  He used to bring drums and instruments in for the kids to play.  He’d play the clarinet while the kids played drums and had balloon sword battles.  I was delighted!  Then they changed the law to disallow tents for buskers.

While on this topic, Doug returned looking a little redder in the nose.  I could tell from his approach that he was seething with aggression.  He planted himself standing almost between David and I and folded his arms.  There was the slightest hesitation in David’s story but he went on “ – and so I removed my tent and I replaced it with a table.”

“Only an asshole would set up a tent,” Doug declared.

“That’s true!” David smiled in agreement, as if Doug meant breaking the law.

Vehemently Doug said “No!  YOU’RE an asshole!”

David took a step back, bowed his head and said “Thank you sir.”  Then stepping forward again, “I don’t believe we’ve met.  The name’s David.”   He stuck out his hand.

Doug took a step back, arms still crossed.  “I know You and you should know me, I saved you from getting punched in the face.” David looked at him for a second.  “Thank you,” He said sincerely.

Then turning back to me, he continued. “And then they changed the law to exclude tables.”

It then fell to me, whether I would continue conversing with David, tacitly agreeing the matter was settled and the interruption was over, or would I respect Doug’s misgivings as to David’s character and seek to delve deeper into the mystery of its origin.  I reasoned in myself that even if Doug’s assessment of David were true, his method of conveyance broke social protocol and made him appear to be the very thing he accused David of.  Our anger at others, more often than not, is directly proportionate to our intimacy with that very shortcoming in ourselves.  I concluded that David’s graciousness had netted my attention.  “So that’s when you started wearing your table?” I asked.

“It is!” David beamed.  “Now I carry everything with me and wander freely about the square.”

Doug stormed off in a trail of obscenities and entered the nearest bar.

“What do you suppose that was about?” David’s eyebrows were raised.

“I don’t know.  You handled it very nicely, though.”

“Why, thank you!”  He gave a little bow.

“Perhaps he felt that I was his territory since he spent an hour telling me, the nubie, the ropes of the square,” I suggested.

“Hmm … very insightful,” he mused.  “Perhaps.”  Then  he launched into the story of how 16 nails had been pounded into all 4 tires of his car while in a parking garage some years back and the culprit had turned out to be a bar owner who had recently gotten out of prison for laundering drug money for his brother.  (That bar right there, actually, where Doug had gone in.)  David didn’t know why the guy hated him, but he’d gotten a brand new set of tires out of it, from his insurance.  He said he has a strong personality and it sometimes has that effect on people.

While he talked he noticed my attention drifting to Foxy, who was explaining how hard and stressful being an artist could be to a glazey-eyed couple.  They kept nodding soberly. “That’s Foxy,”  David pointed with his chin.  “Steer clear of her.  She’s Manic.”  Well, everyone can agree on one thing, I thought.  “At least she’s out here making art,” I said.  

“Well, I should let you get back to drawing.  It’s been an unparalleled pleasure!”  David bowed and sauntered away.

I went back to drawing Bethany, but my phone was dying.  I was getting antsy.

Finally, around 7:00, two young black girls approached. “How much are your pictures?” one asked.

“They’re for a donation,” I said.

“We only have two dollars,” she mourned.

“Have a seat,” I commanded.

While I drew them, I felt a presence lurking.  I knew it was Doug without looking.  After a lot of throat clearing he leaned into my space and said “I’m gonna leave my bag here, I’ve gotta go to the market.”  He started to put it against my easel leg.  “You’ll be here for awhile, right?” 

I didn’t look up from drawing, but pointed.  “Not on the easel.   Put it against the fence.” I commanded.  He tried to say something else but I was really focused on the portrait.  He left.  I did a respectable job finishing and the girls were delighted.  Unfortunately I had pulled in no more business and was sitting idle when Doug returned.  He was fairly drunk.  I leaned against the fence to help him avoid using my chair.  He leaned beside me and offered me some corn liquor from a water bottle.  I declined.

“Sorry for embarrassing you, earlier.  It’s just that guy is a … well, he’s been really nasty to some good friends of mine.  The owner of this bar here.  He’s a really good friend.  He lets me draw in there late at night when the crowds out here die down.  That’s a good gig, you know, people are really generous in a bar, of course you can never draw for long because people keep buying you free drinks!”

“Well, what did he do to your friend?” I ask.

“It’s a long shtory,” he said, with a sidelong glance to see where my loyalties lay.  “Too long to tell,” he decided.

“Well, I gotta pack up and go home to my wife,” I said, realizing how much I was missing her.

“Will you be out tomorrow?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said flatly.  I packed and left.

As I carried my things past Foxy I glanced at her work.  It was painstakingly wrought.  Not the slick caliber of the NYC spray artists, but at least it was her own, not formulaic.  I thought, You go, girl, but I did not engage.

Chalk Softly

Things take time here in Knoxville, so I wasn’t surprised it took Event Services four days to call me back.  Lorraine, with whom I spoke, seemed somewhat taken aback when I answered.  This, upon reflection, was because the voice mail I had left was in my best southern drawl, very unlike the one speaking with her.  She told me no, I could not sell my portraits in Market Square downtown, but I could draw for donations, in which case I would be considered a “busker” and would not need a permit.  Buskers are welcome anywhere there is not an Event so long as foot traffic is unimpeded.  “It’s strange,” she said “we don’t have ANY portrait artists.”

“Maybe,” I suggested, “Artists don’t like to give their work away for free.”  This was not MY feeling, however, I was stoked.  The police, who directed me to Event Services, had led me to believe I wouldn’t be able to draw at all.  Drawing for donations is something I love.  It relieves the pressure of meeting expectations and places the value judgment of your artwork in the hands of your subject and their conscience.  You never know what you’re going to get, but what you get is always genuine.  And getting anything sure beats nothing.

The next day we packed a lunch, piled in the truck, and headed downtown for the Chalk Walk at Market Square.  We had been to a Chalk Walk in Raleigh, NC about a year ago and loved it.  This would be a great way to scope the ropes for setting up while enjoying a gorgeous day out looking at art. 

The sky was blue.  The dogwoods were blooming.  We had enough diesel to get there and back.  The shoestrings we ate for breakfast were sitting well.  We found the free parking garage and just as we were getting out of the truck, Bethany says “OH NO!”  She’s staring at her phone.

“What is it!?” the boys and I say in unison.

“They’re trying to take the storage fee out of the wrong bank account; the SAME ONE that bounced it four days ago!”  This was Bad News.  Bethany puts so much time and care into juggling our four accounts that something going wrong is nearly unimaginable.  Going wrong twice is a show-stopper.  It was that stomach-dropping horror when a deer leaps out and you can’t stop the car.  Time slowed down.  I tried to breathe in the green spring air, but it was sallow and thick with despair. Chalk Walk would be the funeral procession of our happiness.

Bethany was seething hot angry tears, staring at her phone and stamping her foot some fifteen feet away.  Douglas and I stared at each other wide-eyed and frozen until Fynn, blithely unaware that the world was ending, began asking trivial questions.  “What’s that pipe for?  How tall do you think most High Top vehicles are?  We’re a High Top, right, because we parked in the High Top parking?”

We both turned to Fynn.  “Fynn, no.  This isn’t a good time to-“   THUMP!  Bethany was beside us again slapping the truck.  Matilda took it.

“There’s NOTHING we can do!  I BEGGED and got the fee waived LAST time.  They’re not going to wave it AGAIN!  I don’t even know WHY PayPal took it out of this account.  I RESET the defaults!  There’s NO STINKING WAY we can afford this!”

From some remote place, I heard my voice saying “I think we need to call the banks Right Now and see if there’s ANYthing to be done.  We’ll never enjoy this day unless we do.”

“Yeah. OK.” Bethany said, knowing she would be the one making the call, “But first we find a bench and we eat.”  We headed out of the garage in silence.  We made it half a block.

“Hey, Mom?”

“What, Fynn.”  Steel and Ice.

“Why does that sign say-“

“Fynn.”  I interrupted, “Don’t talk to Mom right now.  Walk with me."  We trudged uphill toward Market Square, the bright sunlight dimly penetrating our dark cloud.  I strode ahead, forcing Fynn to trot, as I quietly answered his continuous stream of questions.  I saw grass between buildings ahead.

“Why are we crossing the street?”

“Because there will be benches.” I pointed.  And there were.  We sat.  We prayed.  Bethany called PayPal.  We ate.  Bethany called Citibank.  I kept the boys occupied.  The grassy area was a nice little spot lined with benches, trees, and a few sculptures.  It just happened to be the one my sister had told me would be perfect for drawing portraits in.  Through the trees we could see people milling about the Chalk Walk.  After half an hour, Bethany resurfaced, triumphant.

“I didn’t realize that PayPal has a separate account for debits which is how storage is paid and that comes straight out of Citibank not 360 or TVA and the guy at Citi waived the fee but said this was the last time as long as we get the money in there by Tuesday which gives us three days but of course PayPal may have already taken out a fee and storage will likely slap us with a bounced check fee which means we’ll need to find 40 more from SOMEwhere to put in but for now the disaster won’t snowball, thank you God!”

Yes.  And thank you Bethany.  The sun was out.

Years ago, when we would hit hard times in Brooklyn, I would tell Bethany that she was overreacting.  These were merely circumstances.  Anger wasn’t going to fix anything.  This did a lot of good.  Like gasoline to fire.  The smoldering cloud of gloom would last for days, weeks, even months, and I would do anything to get away.  Hide.  I wasn’t going to let my Don’t-Worry-be-Happy get sucked into that vortex, so I would go to my studio or crawl in a bottle leaving her alone with the anger and despair.  It took me far too long to realize these were her Feelings, not enemies, and she needed me there feeling her feel her Feelings.  Not cringing or judging or attacking, just being there.

It’s hard.  It’s suffocating.  But, man, has it changed things.  I’ve learned that her anger was not because I’d saddled her with the financial responsibility but because the financial situation had gotten out of her control and there was nothing she could do about it.  “Ohhh…” you say, nodding sagely, “she’s got Control Issues …”  Shut Up.  She’s damn good at what she does and she already knows what her issues are.  I’ve also learned that what I thought was despair over our circumstances was despair that I would be remote and Absent.  Again.  That’s heart-rending.  But now I’m getting an inkling of where this could go.  The cords I’m not severing from my heart to hers go both ways, and the commitment I thought I was lacking from Bethany is now pouring into my heart through those same cords.  So, if she’s angry, I’m going to be there for every terrifying minute of it.

The Chalk Walk was a lot of chalk drawings, the more of which you looked at, the more you wanted to do one yourself.  At least that’s how Fynn and I were affected.  I really liked the shark one. 

This lady won last year …

This one was done by a grade-schooler ...

This girl did beautiful work. I don't know if she ever finished.

Beer on the moon!  This one looked even better once the sky was black, and full of stars.

Halfway through, Fynn pointed out the free-for-all section in the central plaza.  Lots of kids were drawing.  He began asking to go and draw about every three minutes.  “Let’s just look at everything first, and then we’ll see,” Bethany or I would respond.  As we were hot and the crowds were wearing down our patience, we moved through the second half faster and faster.

A table on the edge of the free-for-all area was selling t-shirts and boxes of chalk.  They also had a box of leftover chalks from those who had finished their drawings.  It wasn’t clear if these were for sale or free for the using, so we sent Fynn to ask, figuring he had the best chance of charming free ones from the lady.  Fynn returned with three chalks; white, lavender, and yellow.  “Dad, are you coming?”  Of course I was.

Douglas and Bethany chose to relax in the shade while Fynn and I found a spot he could draw.  “Dad, are you drawing?”  He asked hopefully.

“Well, are these all the colors you could get?”  Yellow, white, and lavender is a very limited palette, especially drawing with chalk.

“No, there’s a whole bunch in the box.”  Bless him.  He was only being polite, taking three.

“I’ll be back,” I said, and went and picked out one of every color I could find. 

We had fun.

View fullsize

View fullsize

Right before we left, the UT physics club had set up a table of things they had drug out of the lab and were doing demonstrations and soliciting donations.  What a bunch of geeks!  Douglas fell right to talking with them as if he wasn’t introverted at all, and Fynn nearly dove head first into the bowl of liquid nitrogen. They geeked hard for 15 minutes and even made donations from their own wallets as we left.  I looked around.  Tomorrow I would come back and I would work for donations.

Douglas pointed out in the truck that Fynn’s knife was the most potentially violent drawing in the whole Chalk Walk.  “At least there wasn’t blood on it,” I said, “Though the drawing of Galactus showed him destroying the earth.”

“Even that,” Bethany said, “didn’t evoke the same kind of danger.  There was a gentleness to everything there.”

“Yeah.” I said.  “It crossed my mind to have him draw some chopped carrots."

Wings in Spring and Springy Wings

I hate to admit it, but we’re stuck.  I’m reminded of my graduation ceremony.  We had a fairly large high school and could afford to rent a flock of doves to be released as the symbol of the graduate’s flight into the Real World.  The time came when we all sat, diplomas in hand, and the string was pulled.  The cover slid off the cage and the flock burst up into the sky in a glorious cloud, circling once over our heads as if to include us in their new-found freedom.  The band struck up a triumphant tune and the cloud winged a bee-line to the end of the football field and roosted in the boughs of a large maple tree.

And after our caps were cast, our classmates clasped, the tubas entombed, and our robes removed, we walked to our cars looking back at those birds, like Poe’s raven, tenaciously grasping their branches of maple, unmoving.

Our current circumstances place us firmly in the roosting class.  We’ve come to the end of our funds before achieving complete mobility.  Our numerous trickle-income schemes take time to produce, and our local employment search has, to date, yielded leads but no fruit.  Our Hosts, though ever so kind, have been in a similar boat since before we arrived.  There are four main obstacles to getting out alive.  The first is registering and paying taxes on the camper, the next is repairs for Matilda (a new alternator and shock bushings), the third is buying food to eat and fourth is gas to go.  There are a lot of other bills and needs but those 4 things will get us to the next paying job.  And so I am casting the net further afield. 

We have somewhat to offer from a distance.  I will draw black and white portraits from photos for $25 a person, oil pastel portraits (color) for $75 a person, and painted portraits for $300 a person (you know Mother’s Day IS coming soon).  Bethany is awesome at making websites and editing stuff.  Any other commissions or ideas are very welcome. 

The spring peepers are just emerging here in Tennessee as winter’s last hurrah echoes in the hills.  We may be immobile but our spirits soar like kites in this warm March wind.  Douglas turned 13 and had a flying dream last night.  The crocuses and chives are pushing up and I’ve reached 50 rotary pushups in the morning.  Fynn and I are practicing the boogie-woogie on guitar + cello and he’s found a neighborhood homeschooling friend 13 hours younger than him. 

Our family exercises are improving and I swear Bethany is looking younger.  Douglas’s venus fly trap is sprouting flowers and his upper lip is sprouting black velvet.  We’re finding ways to work on Keren and Bobby’s house with what resources are available and I’m very pleased to discover a hair dryer and patience removes the decals from the camper.  Those trickle-income schemes I mentioned are growing into something tangible, maybe something even practical.  How do you feel about online Art Lessons geared around the Family Drawing model? Well, they’re coming!

All our dreams are intact and undiminished, the culmination of which is … What?  No, we're not going to stop with just a mountainside cob village!  There must be BIRDWINGS!  Human Powered, 35-foot, High Tension, Flapping Birdwings!   Of course, we’ll need a mountainside to take off from and as they say – “It takes a village to raise a child … on BIRDWINGS!”

“Sure,” you say, “That’s a nice juvenile fantasy, but it’s been tried and proven impossible.  Man does not possess the muscle strength nor the lightness of bone structure to sustain flight with wings.  Why, his pectoral muscles alone would need to be the size of car tires and even then he’d do no better than a turkey.”

“Yes,“  I answer, “but consider this: what size of -”

“Also,” you interrupt, “Leonardo DaVinci tried it with leg power and it still wasn’t enough.  And if he couldn’t do it, do you really think you’re going to be able to?”

“Well, actually, my design incorporates the use of –“

“Plus,”  you continue, “Science has come such a long way since DaVinci that surely SOMEbody would have found a way by now.”

I am silent now, biting my tongue, which tastes bitter.  I stare awhile at your implacable cat-that-ate-the-canary smile then open my mouth …

“Actually,” you say, ”I saw this YouTube video where a Dutch guy made a pair of wings with flapping motors controlled by Nintendo Wii paddles that amplified his arm movements.  He had one video of him flying with it, but a lot of experts said the whole thing was a hoax.”

“Aaaaaaaargh!!” I say.

“What?” you ask.

“Those wings, even if they ARE real, are NOT human powered, they’re human controlled!  Flapping wings HAVE to be mechanical, NOT motorized!”

“Why?”

“Because everyone says it’s impossible!”  I seem to be shouting a lot.

“But …” you seem genuinely puzzled, “It IS impossible.”

“Not if” I have my head in my hands, “You make the wings large enough to render the person’s weight negligible or even complementary to a balanced system of tension. “ I say quietly.

“How big would that be?”

“About 35 feet, is my guess.”

“How on Earth,”  you demand,  ”are you going to Flap wings that big?!”

“That’s where the tension comes in,”` I brighten, “In my design, force is only applied at the top of the stroke and the bottom of the stroke and tension does the rest of the work.  Imagine holding a 3-foot tightly coiled spring horizontally by the center.”

“OK,” You are imagining.

“OK. When you move your arm up and down, what happens?”

“The spring bends and my skin gets pinched in the coils.”

“Ok, ok.  Imagine it’s a thin 8-foot dowel of wood.  What happens?”

“Hmm …” you muse.  “The ends begin bouncing up and down.”

“Exactly!”  I’m getting excited now, “And if you keep a steady rhythm you only have to move an increment at the top and bottom of the stroke and the bouncing ends flap harder and harder.  The tension of the bent stick stores the energy expended and uses it in the opposite stroke!”

“My imaginary stick just snapped in half,” you lament.

“Very Funny” I say dryly.  “Now watch this video on YouTube to see what I’m doing with this principle.  I’ve not gotten far, but it’s a good start.”

“Ok,” you say, and you do.

“This,” I say when you return, “Is my dream hatching!”

“You’re going to need feathers,” you reply…

climbing past my prime

There's a thing or two in Bethany's last post I wanted to touch on.  But before I do I will tell you about my first attempt to remove the tree limb that Fynn posted about.  As a kid growing up in the woods I was a very motivated tree climber, usually in competition or emulation of my older siblings.  In my eagerness to be as adept as they, I often swallowed my fear of heights and took risks that on my own I would have stayed well-enough away from.  Fortunately for my brothers and sisters I was never hurt, for they would have been held responsible. 

The worst I can remember was racing my brother Nathan to the tops of two parallel pine trees behind our house.  I don't remember who got there first but I do remember being breathtakingly above the peak of the house with my feet on two bendy branches, and my little-kid fingers completely circling the skinny trunk.  It was terrifying and awesome!  I looked across at my brother maybe 12 feet away.  We grinned at each other.  Then very carefully he balanced, putting both arms out like wings.  "Look. No hands."  Well.  That was very cool. 

He quickly got hold of the tree again, and I was already positioning my feet to get the best balance.  To his credit, I believe he said "Don't try that!" but I was already putting my arms out.  "Look!" I said proudly, "No hands!", and then I fell.  Backwards.  Thankfully, Douglas Fir trees have a lot of flexible branches, and what I at first assumed was a freefall to my death turned out only to be a giant Paddy-Whack to having the wind pounded out of me. 

By the time Nathan climbed down and ran and brought my mom, my first breath was almost possible.  Nathan did get in trouble for that but the psychological effects were more punishing.  He was scared of heights for years.  My fear lasted a few weeks, I was too much of a show-off to let that get in the way. 

My desperation for recognition certainly kept me fit.  I was one of a handful who could climb the sailors rope to the top of the gymnasium.  I held the chin-up record for a year and learned to climb a tree with no branches, if my arms could reach around it.  Which brings me back to the subject at hand: it had rained for at least a week, here in Tennessee, and I had been gritting my teeth to get at cutting down this tree branch.  So when a grey twilight of no rain presented itself, I took action. 

The branch itself was as thick around as the trunk, but not so thick that a long reciprocating saw blade couldn't span it.  Keren and Bobby had no ladder, but my plan was simple: put the saw below the branch, shimmee 15 ft up the tree with an extension cord and holler for Bethany (whom I hadn't told the plan in my hurry to get it done before dark).  Bethany would tie the saw to the cord and I would hoist it up, plug it in, send the other end down to be plugged and begin sawing, while Bethany pulled the rope. 

I set up, put the cord around my neck and went to the base of the tree on the downhill side.  Hmmm ... this side added about 3 feet to the climb and was surrounded by thorny holly-like bushes.  No matter, I had a lot of determination built up from being stuck inside for a week.  Plus the tree was covered in ivy which should improve my grip, right?  I wrapped my arms around and made like a little dog on a big man's leg.  Shimmee, Shimmee, shimmee.  Pant, pant, pant, shimmee, shimmee.  This was hard goin.  The ivy was still pretty wet from the rain and maybe I should have worn sneakers instead of my dress shoes.  Shimmee shimmee shimmee shimmee.  I was about halfway to that branch and really starting to tire!  I paused.  This was much easier 20 years ago.  Maybe the tree was too fat?  I must look ridiculous to the neighbors, halfway up, just clinging here.  I should give up.  No!  I must go on!  I've got to be able to reach that small branch!

I mustered my strength and poured on the adrenalin, shimmee shimmee, shimmee, scrabble, scrabble, shimmee, shimmee, scrabble.  Did I mention it was 32 degrees out?  What with the wet ivy and the cold, my fingers had gone numb.  Shimmee, scrabble, scrabble, scrabble, shimmee, shimmee, if I could just get my knee 3 inches higher (scrabble, scrabble, slip, shimmee, shimmee,) I could put it on that little branch, (scrabble, slip, shimmee shimmee scrabble) and give my groin muscles a rest from having to grip this slip shimmee shimmee ivy.  And I'd be within 2 feet of reaching the scrabble slip big branch shimmee shimmee slip shimmee shimmee.  Just 3 more inches shimmee shimmee just one more inch slip shimmee slip shimmee shimmee just 3 more inches ... it was at this point my body ran entirely out of shimmee and my fingers out of scrabble.  That was it.  All gone.  Arms and legs frozen in a position of defeat, I slowly slid down all 15 feet of my progress, to the thorns, and staggered away from the tree, hoping this was only a momentary lapse in my prime. 

As the stars of overexertion finished waltzing about the ballroom of my eyes, I found myself staring at the piled fence the boys and I had torn out a week before, and a plan came to me.  I would cut up 2x4's and screw them to the tree as steps, just as soon as I could walk again. 

Bethany mentioned taking a "shortcut" at the Ijams park, and she used the words "nearly vertical."  I assure you, this was no exaggeration.  Twenty years ago this was exactly the kind of climbing I reveled in.  Steep and rocky, but not unnavigable, yet fraught with real heart-pounding peril.  And there was Douglas, blazing a trail with his rock climbing skills, but more than that, with his very own bag of confidence.  There was Fynn, just like I was years ago, willing to try anything his brother could do.  There was Bethany, exhilarated to be off the beaten path, making our own way through a challenge.  I found myself in the strange position of Worry Wart at the back of the pack.  A catcher in the Rye.  A Father of kids on a dangerous path.  It wasn't a "Bad" feeling, it was a "Dad" feeling.  My first impulse was to abort the whole climb, but how could I extinguish all that eagerness?  My next impulse was to climb ahead and scout a path of safety but by this time Douglas was already doing that.  Lastly I realized trusting Douglas to lead in a situation of actual danger was what we both needed.  And he was marvelous.  We reached the top with only one minor slip of Fynn's left foot and new confidence for everyone.  We celebrated by splitting a pack of Reese's peanut butter cups, and bush whacked our way out of the bramble. 

Bethany suggested I might tell the story of the neighbor in the towel, but that tale of comic delight has turned tragic, and I'm leery of putting too much to paper, for fear of being disrespectful.  I will give it a shot, but that's enough post for now.