We gotta get out of this.....

(with apologies to the Animals and their song...)

VERSE ONE:

In this chilly old month at this place...

(Highest temp today.)

Where the septic system refuses to work...

(Ack, the manhole that hides all...)

Breaker tells me there ain't no use in trying...

(See the recalcitrant devil, fourth from the left)

And one thing I know is true....

(Uh-oh.)

I really don't want to mess with this stuff....



(Yuck-o!)


CHORUS:

We gotta get out of this month...

(snow, snow, everywhere.)

If it's the last thing that we do...

(Gigantic piles of it.)

'Cause I'm sure there's a better life...

(The last blooms of the Christmas cactus.)

For me and you....


VERSE TWO:

In this dirty old part of this place...

(Volcanic ash on my pretty little truck.)

Where Redoubt sends ash my way...

(oh, ugh, ick.)

People tell me there ain't no use in trying....

(Sticky, icky, coarse and gritty.)

To keep things clean and pretty...

And one thing I know is true...

I'm gonna die before my time is due...

CHORUS:

We gotta get out of this place...

If it's the last thing we ever do....

Pablo knows there's a better life....

For me and you.....

Oh, baby.....
(lullabye, and goodnight..... this is what a sleepy parrot looks like.)

more pix from 1964 earthquake

Before I put this disaster away for another year, I thought I'd post some more pictures from the 1964 Southcentral Alaska earthquake. Many of these I don't recognize, but I'll label the ones I can. This is a shot of some of the stores on the main street of Anchorage that sank into a fault. I think this photo might also be of the main street, Fourth Avenue.

No idea on this one.

Or this.

No go on this one, too.

Another shot of Fourth Avenue, where two or three blocks of businesses on the bnorth side of the street sank when the land gave way.

More destruction along L Street.

Same vicinity.

Ditto.

Same. That big sqaure thing is the toppled elevator shaft of the Four Seasons Apartment building. The rest of the newly constructed building is a pile of ribble on the ground around the shaft.

L Street again.

Unknown business.

This one is something that used to be in the Alaska Railroad yards.

I am pretty sure this scene is of what happened to the air control tower at Merill Field, an airport for small planes at the east end of Anchorage proper.

This photo shows fault lines and land sinking.

A small crevasse.

More L Street wreckage. Note the fault that sank between the white house and the beige building on the right. This was typical on the fault that roughly paralleled L Street. It varied in width, and ran for a number of blocks.

At the time, I lived in a small apartment on the second floor of an older home on Fifth Avenue between K and L Streets. The house sat right in the middle of the fault, and sank with the ground. Access to my apartment was by an exterior staircase, which was wrenched away from the building and clinging by nails that were partly pulled out. I had to climb those stairs and retrieve all my belongings, which consisted of a number of boxes of books. I have looked everywhere and cannot find a picture of the building. It was later moved intact to another location.

and I nominate....

....Another Inevitable

“In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

Familiar quotation, but author unknown. So, with the aid of my dear friend Google, I went searching for the name of the brilliant, somewhat cynical, person who first mouthed those immortal words. Lots of people credited “Unknown” with being the author. There were also a few nods to “Anonymous,” as well as “the fellow.” Those guys get lots of credit where it isn’t earned. Many others simply skirted the whole issue of attribution.

After due diligence, I found the answer right where I should have looked in the first place: Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. The author? None other than that rascally Renaissance man Benjamin Franklin. Should have known. The fact that so many didn’t know, and credited Unknown and Anonymous instead, serves to give credence to Ben’s adage, because while his words have survived a couple centuries and are familiar to many, though they are plagiarized endlessly in numerous variations and with uncountable additions and pretenders to be the third inevitable, his authorship is lost in oblivion and certainly not certain..

So, after the past few days, I find it incumbent upon myself to add my selection for the third inevitable: “You can never truly get away with anything.” The following recounting of the past ten days are the bona fides to support my selection.

But first, I must explain a theory I developed last winter. That’s last winter, as opposed to this winter, because here in Alaska it’s still winter. I was absent from home last winter so many times that winter went by with scarcely a notice. I went to Mexico. I went to Arizona. I spent the month of February house-sitting in Halibut Cove, which is in Alaska. I drove north into the heart of the Alaskan Interior to Fairbanks, Manley Hot Springs, Chena Hot Springs, and places in between. I think there were a few other times that I was away from home during the seven months we call winter (those being October through April), but I don’t remember them now.

All in all, I was home in Moose Pass only nine weeks total, with many breaks in between. I was also gone in May, but May is considered Springsummer, so that doesn’t count. After so many absences, so little snow shoveled, and so few days of below zero temperatures, I reached a startling observation: It doesn’t count as winter if you aren’t at home.

This winter, the one still in progress, is a different story. I stayed home until mid-January, when I once again drove to Homer and rode the mail boat over to Halibut Cove. This time, though, I was there almost nine weeks, and I considered that nine weeks of winter I missed because I wasn’t at home. Never mind that it snowed and froze and thawed and got cold in the cove. I wasn’t home and it didn’t count.

When my friends came back, I left the cove and drove home to Moose Pass, anxious to see how much the earth had tipped to allow sunshine into the valley where I live. By the way, because I’m surrounded by mountains, there is no direct sunshine from mid-November until mid-February. Then, in bits and spurts, our sun quota is lengthened as that orb clears peaks and ridgelines.

It was snowing and overcast when I got home. The next day, however, was nice and clear and sunny, and I was delighted that the sun had cleared the south mountain for all but a couple hours in late afternoon. A day later, Saturday, the sky became obscured and a half inch of snow fell before I went to bed. By Sunday morning there were at least sixteen inches of new snow, and the guy who plows my very long driveway made his first appearance since before I went to Halibut Cove.

He was back to finish up the next day because he’d only had time to make sure I could get in and out of the drive on Sunday. Wednesday I went to Anchorage to deliver the data for one of Ben’s inevitables—taxes—and to visit Costco for the first time in over two months. I drove home, almost a hundred miles, flirting with Ben’s other inevitable, in high winds, blowing snow, and obscured visibility. The worst weather was in my home valley, a flat-out snarling blizzard. It’s a good thing my bedroom is on the lee side of the house, or I wouldn’t have been able to sleep because of all the noise.

The next day found the snowplow guy in my driveway again. This was the day I also discovered that my entire septic system—drain pipe, sewer tank, and lift station—was frozen solid. I knew it because all the water that had been going down that drain pipe for a week was backing up into my house. I called the guy with the steam cleaner, and he got that problem fixed, but the lift station continues throwing the breaker for the pump. That problem remains to be deciphered, but by six o’clock, we were cold and wet and discouraged, and quit for the day.

Friday night it snowed again. Today the snowplow guy was back—for the fourth time this week.

I still think my theory is valid, that it doesn’t count as winter if you aren’t at home. But, the caveat to that is this: you can never truly get away with anything. I’m thinking of calling my friends in Halibut Cove and asking if I can come back until, say, the Fourth of July, maybe.



-30-

lasting images of disaster...

The following photos are from a private collection of pictures taken shortly after the 1964 earthquake in Southcentral Alaska. While images similar to these have been published, these pictures have never before been seen in print or online.

The photo below, as well as the many taken of the same structure, is an iconic image of the earthquake damage in Anchorage. This is the fairly new J.C Penney building on Fifth Avenue in Anchorage. The pre-fabricated concrete slabs that made up the exterior of the several story building peeled away during the quake, crashing to the sidewalk and street below. At least one casualty occurred as a slab crushed an occupied vehicle. This photo was taken several days after the quake, when cranes had been moved in and a safety wall built around the ruined structure.

Another damaged storefront.


N0 more Saturday afternoon matinees at this theater. The marquee now sits at the same level as the main street of Anchorage, Fourth Avenue, as do the rest of the buildings. This also is an iconic image of the damage in Anchorage.

This is a view of the same block, from the other direction. Notice that the fault took a big bite out of the street here. I was down in some of those buildings after the quake, just looking around.

Below is what was left of the Four Seasons apartment building at Ninth Ave. and L St. Construction had just been completed on this upscale building, and tenants were to move in soon. That's the elevator shaft still intact, while the rest of the building lies in ruins.

Fault lines ran crazily through Anchorage. Some buildings weren't damaged at all, though they ended up a number of feet below street level. The fresh gravel on the left appears to be emergency fill brought in to make the street passable.

On the other hand, some homes didn't fare too well. Note the sidewalk to the front porch suspended in air--nothing below it.

This is what happened to Government Hill School. It used to be all on the same level. The quake occurred near 5:30 on Good Friday afternoon. It was a school holiday, and most people were in their vehicles heading home after work. That is one of the reasons only thirteen people died in Anchorage, even thought the physical devastation was immense.

This is the front view of the Hillside apartments at 16th Avenue and H St. I had friends who lived in this building. The interior walls between apartments were concrete. When the walls began to crumble, a block fell into their new baby's crib, but missed the infant.

And here's the back side.

This is one of the two 14 story buildings in Anchorage. Notice the "X" cracks. This building is in use today. It has been known by various names, including the McKinley Apartments and the Denali Building, if memory serves correctly. After the quake it was purchased by an attorney named Neil Mackay and "enjoyed" a long run as the eyesore of the city. In recent years it was repaired and reopened as an apartment/office building.

It's sister building, located across the city proper on L Street, was quickly repaired and reinhabited. I had a girlfriend who rode out the quake in her tenth floor apartment as the building swayed back and forth. She said the water in the toilet was sloshing out of the bowl. This is one of the reasons I don't care for multi-story buildings and elevators.

These pictures don't begin to do justice to the devastation a five and a half minute earthquake reaching 9.2 moment magnitude can do. But, they might be enough to give me nightmares tonight. It's only been in the past few years that I don't jump out of bed and run during earthquakes. I do, however, still hold my breath....

(I've said it before, and I'll say it again. It is Gullible's self-appointed mission in life to raise doggerel from the literary gutter and make it an acceptable form of expression. I don't even dare call this poetry. I wrote this three years ago when I had just returned to writing after forty years. Maybe I should have waited a while longer.

Today, Friday the 27th, is the 45th anniversary of the Great Alaskan Earthquake. It changed the lives of everyone who survived it. One hundred and thirty-one did not. Some of those victims were in Crescent City, Calif., who died when a tsunami arrived. At first listed at 8.6 on the Richter scale, the strength later was revised to 9.2 moment magnitude, which is a different and more accurate method of measuring earthquakes larger than 8 Richter.

So, here you are. Some doggerel from Gullible, who had feet and meter pounded into her soul in high school, and finds it hard to charge. I was hoping to find time to scan some earthquake slides and write a more personal reminiscence, however, today I continue to deal with a frozen septic system, and now, ash fallout from the erupting Mt. Redoubt. Life is never dull here at Muskeg Manor.)



March 27, 1964


It started so gently as earthquakes do,
Just a small vibration for a moment or two.
Then a bit of a shake and a jolt and a jar
As the earth's plates collided, near and far.

It got our attention right about then,
Was no longer a joke, as others had been.
Smiles were frozen, and eyes were wide,
Should we go out or stay inside?

My eyes met another's, we decided to run.
To hell with this; this wasn't fun!
What's going on? we asked one another.
Should we stay in the open, or look for cover?

I held to my car as it bounced all around
And then I heard that incredible sound.
It sounded like ruin, it sounded like thunder:
Turnagain homes being ripped all asunder.

The earth split and opened, never to close.
In places it sank, in places it rose.
It's the end of the world, I thought with fear,
What about those whom I held so dear?

Are they alive, are they safe and well?
And still roads buckled and more buildings fell.
It rocked, it jolted, it shook even stronger,
How can it? I thought. How can it last longer?

I prayed and I begged, my eyes started to fill,
A hand gripped my heart with a cold dreaded chill.
My courage, it drained, it started to give,
That's it, I thought. Not much longer to live...

Wait, I cried. This can’t be true!
We’re bullet-proof, aren’t we? Me and you?
We’re young and we’re healthy, we’ve years left to live,
We have love to share and friendship to give.


No! I protested. I'm just twenty-three.
I've only just started. Please don't take me!
I've too much to learn, too much to do!
And yet the earth shook, not nearly through.

Still it shook harder, four minutes or more,
More bridges crumbled, and homes by the score.
Waterside towns and villages tried,
But tsunamis razed them and many folk died.

Please let it stop, came a chorus of pleas.
Then slowly... but surely.... it started to ease.
We waited and watched, fearing to trust,
But rescue, salvation became then a must.

Back in my office, I looked with dread
At where I'd been sitting: I would have been dead
If I'd stayed in that spot just a moment longer,
As the violent cataclysm had grown even stronger.

Survivors came out of the rubble in shock,
While all around we began to take stock.
Friends opened their houses for others to share,
Arms were spread wide, showing their care.

KFQD returned to the air
In less than an hour and started to share
Messages long and messages small,
Telling of safety and comforting all.

The Salvation Army set up its stands,
Giving sandwiches out to hundreds of hands.
Salami and raisin bread landed in mine:
Oh, boy, this is good. This is just fine!

Many were spared because of the day,
It was Good Friday, a holiday.
Offices closed and schools were let out,
Many lives saved, without a doubt.

Nine point two they would tell us all later,
In North America none had been greater.
Across the land the damage wide-spread,
One hundred fourteen, the toll of the dead.

There's a bond that was formed 'tween those who were there,
A bond forged in terror, the mem'ry we share.
All of us thought: I knew I could die.
We know it's the truth, we know not a lie.

We who lived through it, can never forget
The day the earth shook, and today you can bet
Our hearts stop and tremble, eyes open wide:
All the better to find places to hide.....













.

Sometime today, I promise....

Barring other disasters (other than those I am dealing with currently) sometime today I will post some earthquake reminiscences. You know, that earthquake in 1964? The one that measured 9.2 mm? The one that almost killed me???? You haven't heard of it? Well, today's the 45th anniversary. I'll tell you about it later. I promise. Right now I'm dealing with a frozen sewer system and I'm getting pretty darned tired of playing in sh..!

Marking time with Exxon...

We mark time, we humans do. We celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, marriages, and holidays religious and secular. We note the changing of seasons and the passing of years. Many of us have dates we hold in our hearts, dates of private significance by which we measure the years of our lives. Then there are events which are not cause for world-wide celebration, perhaps not even noticed in our own country, but confined to a smaller region, one that gained or lost by their occurance.

This month of March is a time of both grand celebration and of pause in Alaska, more than any other month of the year. The 20th was the vernal equinox, the first official day of spring. Two days later, sixteen inches of snow fell, just to let us know that winter still reigns and real spring is a month or so away.

This week alone marks two dates that will never be forgotten by Alaskans, for today and on this Friday, Southcentral Alaska suffered disasters of stupendous proportions: a catastrophic oil spill and, on the 27th, a cataclysmic earthquake. So today, while Mt. Redoubt spews volcanic ash up to sixty thousand feet, I will tell you a story about one of those events.

The long daylight of Alaskan summers had three months yet to reach its peak, but on the evening of Thursday, March 23rd, 1989, it was still daylight as the off-duty crew boarded their vessel across the fjord from the town of Valdez, a place of such mountainous beauty it is called the Switzerland of Alaska. One of those men was the ship's master, a man with a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard who was known as Joeseph Hazelwood. Little did he or anyone else suspect that the captain's name was soon to become a household word--a name heaped in scorn and epithets, a man who would forever be maligned in the history books of Alaska.

At nine p.m., a harbor pilot guided the massive tanker through the Valdez narrows, then turned over command to Captain Hazelwood. With permission of the Coast Guard, he guided the tanker into the incoming transit lane, because the outgoing lane was studded with icebergs.

A short time later, Hazelwood left the bridge of his fully-loaded ship. Prior to its departure, more than 53 million gallons of heavy crude oil sucked from wells on the northern coast of the state had been pumped eight hundred miles through the Trans Alaska Oil pipeline and into the holds of the Exxon Valdez. Hazelwood, who reportedly was seen drinking in a local bar in Valdez before he boarded his ship, retired to his cabin, leaving the helm to the Third Mate and an Able Seaman. The ship was on autopilot and under the control of two men who had not been alloted their mandatory six hour break before beginning a twelve hour watch, and, it was later claimed, had excessive workloads.

Four minutes after midnight on the 24th,the Exxon Valdez struck Bligh Reef and impaled itself on the charted obstacle. In the days that followed, an estimated 10.8 million gallons of heavy crude oil gushed from the damaged tanker, forever altering the ecology and economy of Prince William Sound. Up to a half million seagulls, at least a thousand sea otters, three hundred seals, two hundred and fifty bald eagles, and twenty-two orcas died. In addition, billions of salmon and herring eggs were destroyed, and fisheries and villages in those waters were permanently affected.

While a substantial, if belated, clean-up effort was launched by Exxon, oil contamination can still be found on the beaches, though it is not visible at first glance. A lawsuit by those affected still stumbles through the court system. An Anchorage jury initially awarded $287 million in actual damages, and $5 billion in punitive damages. The punitive damages were equal to one year’s profits by Exxon in those days. After several trips through the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, and a couple to the U.S. Supreme Court, the punitive amount was reduced to $500 million last year, a pittance in contrast to record-breaking obscene profits by Exxon. Now, the oil giant is quibbling about whether or not it has to pay interest on that sum.

Lawsuits and drunken sailors aside, my own life changed drastically as a result of the oil spill. My husband and I had returned from working a solid year (seven days a week, twelve hours or more a day) on a construction job on remote Amchitka Island in the Aleutian Chain, that string of islands that beckons towards Siberia and would be in tomorrow were it not for a jog in the International Date Line

Soon after our return home to Moose Pass, my husband made an offer on a boat owned by Crowley Maritime, with plans to turn the small, shallow-draft tanker into a fish tender. Crowley accepted our offer, and we were about to send off the clinching down payment check when the Exxon Valdez hit Bligh Reef. The boat we were going to buy went on rental as a cleanup vessel that very day, while still docked in Long Beach, Calif., for $25,000 a day. I have to admit I was happy I was not going to spend my summers as a seasick cook/housekeeper on board that vessel as my husband motored it around collecting the catches of fishing boats and delivering them to a cannery.

Instead, we soon found ourselves the owners of some abandoned, dilapidated lake frontage property in downtown Moose Pass that consisted of a restaurant/bar/motel. Snow load had collapsed the roof of one wing of the motel, all the plumbing was frozen and broken, floors in the restaurant and bar were rotted out. We had no idea what to do with the buildings—tear them down, rebuild them, or wait for an epiphany. A business fifteen miles away offered to rent any rooms we could get livable to house its employees. We worked long hours, building walkways, replacing broken plumbing fixtures and pipes, cleaning, painting, and carpeting, and readied eight rooms.

Then a representative from Exxon arrived, offering to repair all the damage necessary to get the rest of the rooms livable. In exchange, they wanted to rent the rooms to house their Community Service personnel. This service provided workers for local businesses who were impacted by the oil spill and the subsequent clean-up activities. Many businesses lost regular employees to the clean-up because wages there were $16 an hour. Thus, Exxon imported workers for restaurants, motels, gas stations, shops, markets, and canneries to take those jobs.

First, Exxon asked us what we would charge. We offered $10 a bed per day. Exxon jumped at the opportunity, and even supplied the beds. At the same time, a bed in a basement room in Valdez was fetching a hundred dollars a night, and many other such “bargains” were common.

We treated Exxon right, and they in turn treated us right. After contractors submitted outrageous bids, we signed a contract to do the work ourselves. They reimbursed us every penny it cost to repair our facilities to house their community service people. That gave us the money to purchase the million dollars in liability insurance they required us to carry, as well as to do cosmetic work on the buildings, and refurbish and open the restaurant.

And so I found myself the reluctant owner/operator of a restaurant, bar, and a thirty-five room motel. My husband and I operated it for seven years, getting it on its feet with hard work, long hours, and the dedication that owner-operators can bring to a business. Each year we upgraded the facilities as we could afford it, putting all our income from other sources as well as borrowed money into the property. We sold it in 1996, and retired. This sale made it possible for me to have the financial resources to care for my husband during his final, seven year long illness.

So, my feelings towards Exxon are mixed. While there can be do doubt that the master of the Exxon Valdez was negligent and ultimately responsible for the oil spill, and Exxon itself for allowing a man with a known drinking problem to operate such a massive ship in a fragile environment, I don’t think Exxon was grossly malicious. Even though Exxon spent millions of dollars in fines and clean-up expenses, I think it should just pay the punitive award and get it over with—twenty years late. A few months ago, a portion of the award was paid to litigants.

I am proud that my husband and I did not take advantage of the giant oil company by demanding exorbitant fees for renting them rooms. I like being able hold my head up when I look at myself in the mirror. Ironically, my husband and I met while we both were working on construction of the Trans Alaska Oil Pipeline.

Recently, in a newly published book called "The Spill: Personal Stories from the Exxon Valdez Disaster" by Sharon Bushell, Hazelwood offered his apologies to the people of Alaska for the damages wrought by the oil spill, but with the caveat that he had been wrongly blamed for causing the disaster. As for the Exxon Valdez itself, it became a pariah in the shipping world, and as a direct result of the disaster, double-hulled vessels are being phased into use. The Coast Guard claims that while the disaster could not have been avoided had the Exxon Valdez been a double-hulled ship, the amount of oil disgorged might have been as little as forty percent of the 10.8 million gallons that eventually smeared the wildlife and beaches of the sound.

In early 2007, a NOAA study estimated that more than 26,000 gallons of oil remained in the sandy shoreline of Prince William Sound, declining slowly at perhaps four percent a year.

Friday, the 45th anniversary of the Great Alaskan Earthquake of 1964, I’ll tell you that story, and how it changed my life. Just remember: Alaska, It Ain't for Sissies.


Ripples of Death

The otter floats
on her back
as she eats.
She bumps
her nearby pup,
floating in sleep.

Bump.
I’m here.
Bump.
I will protect you
as you sleep.

Sleek, dark fur
smeared and grimy,
smothered in goo
sucked from the earth
eight hundred miles away.

I’m cold.
I cannot sleep.
The water takes my warmth,
replaces it with cold.

Bump.
I cannot protect you.
Bump.
I’m cold too.

Black, tarry crude oil,
(bump)
meant to fuel
a world
to places far and distant.
Death delivered
(bump)
on the rippling water
of Prince William Sound.

It's officially spring!!!

SURPRISE!


Sixteen inches of new light snow...


And out the driveway he goes, clearing only enough so I can get in and out. Tom's a busy, busy man today.
In the meantime, a flurry of common redpolls and--new to Mama Gullible's Black Oil Seed Cafe--a couple rosy finches flittered in for lunch. Note the rose-colored breast on the male redpoll, and the red cap on the females.







It didn't take long for word to get around the avian neighborhood that Mama Gullible's Cafe was open again after more than two months. The redpolls were joined by tiny pine siskins and the larger, splendidly colored pine grosbeaks. Somewhere in this scrum I spotted some formally-dressed black capped chickadees.

This is a pine siskin, with yellow stripes on his wings. I think. They look an awful lot alike sometimes.

This blurry lady is a female pine grosbeak. Her colors range from rusty-orange through olive.



And here's the beauty--the male pine grosbeak. All these birds stay all winter. I expect the nuthatches will be around soon, once they hear the cafe is open. Oh, yeah, and the Stellar's jays and magpies, too.

Nothing like a pile of new snow when you were yearning for spring, but it's sure nice to have the birds to watch. They emptied the feeder twice today, plus gobbled up the several handfuls of seeds I tossed on the snow around the feeder. I wish the optical zoom on this little camera allowed for better focus, but it doesn't.

you can't say we didn't warn you....

Three bridges needing replacement in an area near Moose Pass called Crown Point have 20 mph speed limits on them to reduce pounding. Heavy trucks are restricted to nighttime travel. Now, stop lights have been set up on this bridge over Trail River to turn the highway here into a one-lane road, and the lights are timed to allow only a couple cars to cross the bridge at a time.

Repairs and replacement of the wooden pilings under the bridges is scheduled for this summer. In the meantime, note the sign below:

And this one below is a perennial favorite. It's less than two miles from my home....

These signs almost make me want to turn around and go back home. Alaska: It Ain't for Sissies.

I'm on my way...

..preparing for re-entry into the real world. My hosts left Seattle early this morning and are right now crossing the waters of Kachemak Bay to their beautiful home in Halibut Cove. Weather permitting, I'll across the bay tomorrow, and then drive 130 miles to my home on the outskirts of Moose Pass.

Once there, I will retrieve Pablo the parrot from the parrot-sitter, and begin a several-day session of parrot de-briefing (mostly screams and growls and complaints) relative to my nine week absence from his every demand.

So, I'll be out of touch for a couple days.

Gully

and a happy...

St. Paddy's day to you....

from O'Gullible, Gerri the Cat, and Pablo the orange-eyed Green Amazon parrot who is really ticked off at me for being gone two months....

and the winner is...

THE PIONEER WOMAN! Congratulations, many congratulations, go to Ree at The Pioneer Woman blog. Today the Bloggies announced the winners and Ree won in three categories: best photography, best designed, and best weblog of the year. Here's the site for all the winners:


http://2009.bloggies.com/

She also was nominated for best food, humor, and writing. Should have taken those too, in my opinion. A link to her site is over on the left where I invite you to visit with my friends.

for what ails you...

Bailouts have your nerves in knots? One hundred and sixty-five million dollars (in taxpayer money) for bonuses to AIG execs who drove their company into poverty eating away at your stomach lining? Are your retirement account and stock portfolio mere shadows of their former selves? Feel like you're a basket case?








If you feel the need to stretch out and relax, follow along as Gerri the Cat demonstrates several relaxing yoga positions guaranteed to have you feeling soothed and slinky again.

First, you must warm up. This is essential to prevent damage to your muscles. A wood stove cranking out those BTUs is the preferred method, but in lieu of a wood stove, a forced air heating vent will do quite nicely.



Make sure you’re warm all over, then start to stretch those muscles. Gently, though. No need to rush through this. Remember, the desired result is relaxation.











Let's begin with a salute to the sun.






Forward arm stretches will keep those underarms from resembling bat wings in the future.






Note the neck is stretched back as the arm is extended. Think jowls, or no jowls…





A pink pillow works well with this exercise, the backward spine curl. This position is designed to strengthen the abs and lats. Keep that pink pillow handy, as you’ll need it later.







Now, it’s important to cool down with some gentle stretching. Toe touches work well to accomplish this.







After completing each of these exercises 1000 times each, you should be fully relaxed and ready for a refreshing cat nap on the pink pillow.


No hair balls on the carpet, please.

(Okay, okay. I haven't seen another human in a month. It's just me and Gerri here in Paradise. My house-sitting gig will come to an end later this week. I suppose it's time. I must get my income tax return done because the government needs the money for the "talent" at AIG!

Inhale to the count of three. Exhale to the count of five. Repeat until you no longer see red. In this case, looking at the world through rose-colored glasses has a whole new meaning.)

Escaping Haute Couture

My sojourn here in Halibut Cove is drawing to a close. Should all go well, my hosts, whose house, cat and boat I have been tending in their absence, will board an airplane headed north to Alaska sometime the middle of next week. Weather permitting, because water travel is necessary to leave my temporary abode, I should arrive at my own domicile by next weekend.

I’m sure it’ll take a couple days before I readjust to life on the outskirts of Moose Pass. After all, I will have been in the cove for nine weeks by that time. I will collect Pablo the Parrot from the parrot-sitter, and he will scream at me for a few days, telling me exactly what he thinks about my long absence. Then, slowly but surely, his desire for a good head scratching will win out and we will bond once again, with only an occasional reminder of my misdeed.

While I’ve been here, I’ve had plenty of time to catch up on various writing projects sporadically-in-progress. I wanted to have a manuscript substantially completed before I left. I hoped to have a number of new stories written, and ideas for more. Instead, my muse has been conspicuous by her almost total absence. I haven’t touched the much hoped-for manuscript. My past visits here usually resulted in numerous stories, but this time I can think of only a couple that warrant saving.

This missing muse syndrome is something I brought with me, not something that started here. All of this means I have had way too much time to spend with the television, and that means I have noticed something that ordinarily would have slipped right on past me with no regard. That thing? WHAT IN THE HECK HAS HAPPENED TO MEN’S FASHION?

Let me explain. I live in the country. Haute couture here is selecting the Moose Pass annual summer solstice souvenir tee shirt color that best compliments the winning design for that year. High fashion is a new Carhart jacket with black quilted lining, not blanket lining. Or, fleece jackets that don’t pill. While we have progressed, thanks to technology, from the ubiquitous white vapor-sealed bunny boots to lighter-weight cold-weather footwear, those military surplus Mickey Mouse boots are still the boot of choice when conditions are tough. With or without laces.

I suppose there are a few men who have suits and ties, but there really aren’t many occasions to wear them in Moose Pass. But the men on TV? It’s not only that their ties are wide enough to do double-duty as bibs, but what’s with the striped suit jackets? They all look like gangsters. Really. Gangsters from the forties.

Once in a while a TV guy will wear a jacket with muted stripes, and I guess those are okay, but most of them have, well, vertical prison stripes in a contrasting color. And I’m seeing lots of checkered ties. Do you remember what happens when striped and checkered fabrics are telecast? They don’t hold still. They jitter and jerk and jump. They shimmy and shake and shout. In general, they make me nauseous.

So, I’m looking forward to being home and having less time to spend with the TV. Back to where denim jeans and tee shirts are the appropriate dress code. Besides, having been away for nine weeks means winter is almost over, so pretty soon I can get out the Spandex strategically-padded bicycle shorts and the gloves with no fingers and the bright lime safety jacket and the black brain bucket with the cool stripes on it.

a walk at low tide...

When I sat down to share this photo album with you, about the walk I took the other day when the tide was very, very low, I Googled "tides," thinking I would find a simple explanation of the physics of tides for you. What I found were words like "syzygy, amphidromic point, and lunation," and Isaac Newton's theory of tides. Yes, the same Isaac Newton who had an epiphany when he got hit on the head by a falling apple.

So, I decided you can accept my explanation, which is that we live on a big ball of water that sloshes back and forth all the time, or you can go to Wikipedia and muddle through that maze. What I really wanted to know was why we sometimes have minus tides? They make for great razor clam digging, but what causes them? Then I got distracted by things that usually are under water, taking photos, and decided I didn't care.

First though, I had to get to the beach from this spot. This is the home of friends in Halibut Cove, who are Outside. "Outside" is a term for anywhere out of Alaska, but most generally the rest of the states in the U.S.A. They're gone and I'm house-sitting, and opening the door for Gerri the cat in their absence.

At high tide, all this gravel is underwater.

Here's something I found on my way to the beach. It's patterns intrigued me.

Sorry about the focus of this picture. Kinda makes me nauseaous to look at it. I included it to show you how stubbornly things cling to life here. It's clinging to the soil right at the high tide mark, and I'm pretty sure the lower part of that trunk is underwater then.


This dead spruce tree really caught my imagination. Those curved limbs look they're asking for a hug, don't they? Almost like the skelton of a huge whale...

From my vantage point on the beach, this is a shot of what I see from the front deck. Notice that gravel bar stretching across the water? At low tide, boats can't get from one part of the cove to the other because of this bar as well as a narrow neck that goes dry.

A pair of mallards enjoying the sun...

Loved the patterns in this bedrock.

Another view from the beach.

Here's a photo of the same area at high tide on a different day. The gravel bar is covered and navigable.

Took this one at eight o'clock tonight during a minus 2.9 low tide. Yes, that's the moon.

This is the upper end of the bight, uncovered during these extreme low tides.

This is the boat I'm looking after. It's resting on the oceanbed right now because of the minus tide.

And just for the heck of it, here's a nautical picture I took more than thirty years ago. Something about it appeals to me.

Caution: the next six months may be harmful to your health...

My chances of having a heart attack went up five per cent today, thanks to Ben Franklin. Old Ben did a lot of things for us and this country, for which we are thankful. He was quite instrumental in the process of America declaring its independence from the British Empire, as well as teaching us that flying kites in electrical storms can be electrifying.

However, a new study from Sweden indicates that another of Ben’s ideas is harmful to my health. Yours, too. While Ben was whiling away his time courting the ladies of France, he apparently had a few spare moments to dream up a way to have more evening time to further pursue his interests. He came up with the simple idea of starting the day an hour earlier, thus having an hour more daylight for his evening pursuits. This idea came to be known as Daylight Saving Time.

You’ll note there’s no “s” on the end of “Saving.” This is the correct grammatical spelling of the word, and if you must know the actual reason, it’s that “saving” in this use is a verbal participle (or adjective) and modifies time. Well, you asked.

Once upon a time, Alaska had four different time zones: Pacific, Yukon, Alaska, and Bering. In 1983, all of Alaska but the western-most Aleutians combined into a new zone called Alaska. The Aleutians and Hawaii were in a new zone called Hawaii-Aleutian. If memory serves correctly, this new time zone idea had a lot to do in defusing one of the reasons for moving the capital from Juneau closer to the population centers of the state. With the combining of three time zones into one, Juneau slipped back an hour, and Anchorage-Fairbanks moved ahead an hour, making them all the Alaska time zone.

As for how it affects me and where I live, high noon is now at two in the afternoon. That’s because we moved an hour forward in the consolidation of the time zones, then another hour forward for DST. It does, however, make for some delightful summer evenings. I recall the first trip I made outside Alaska, when I was nineteen, to the Seattle area. The whole idea of being able to walk around in the evening without a sweater or jacket was quite the novelty. Now, thanks to the miracle of time (zone) travel, it’s common to go sleeveless in the evening, and I am completely out of the habit of taking a jacket with me., which is why I've had to add to my wardrobe several times when caught late in Anchorage.

There’s no such thing as a regular time for the countries of the world to “spring ahead” or “fall back.” Each country does it or not, according to their own decisions. Even in the U.S. states can opt out, as do Hawaii and Arizona.

Arizona doesn’t care to join the rest of the nation. I guess during the summer they don’t need an extra hour of searing heat. However, the Navajo Nation there that spreads into three different states, does observe DST. Completely surrounded by the Navajo Nation is the Hopi Reservation in Arizona. It doesn’t observe DST.

Well, I suppose if the countries of the world can’t decide on something like Daylight Saving Time, how can we possibly agree to stop killing each other.

Which brings me back to Ben Franklin. That Swedish study shows heart attacks increase by five per cent when we “spring forward” each March, and decreases by the same amount in October when we “fall back.” Just one more thing to worry about. It’s hard enough remembering which way they mean when they say “forward” and “back.”

It would be so much easier to understand if they just say we lose an hour of sleep in the spring, and get it back in the fall. But, no, that’ll never happen. Way too easy to understand.

weathering the storm...

This flotilla of Barrow's Goldeneye diving ducks has taken refuge in the semi-sheltered bight below the front deck of where I am staying. As cold winds toss the rest of the cove into rough whitecapped waves, these ducks have chosen to ride out the storm together. Pointed into the wind, they are fighting a double whammy here, as low tide sucks water swiftly from the bight.



Most of these ducks appear to have their heads turned backwards to escape the biting wind. Males are the ones with white bodies.

more moods of Halibut Cove...

Living with a Bifurcated Brain

I was working on something the other day, combining two separate but related poems into one piece. It needed a title that described a whole as having two separate and identifiable parts, when that big ol’ word “bifurcated” popped up and introduced itself.

I had no idea that word was even in my cranial Rolodex, which is how I picture the memory banks in my head. Were you privy to those inner workings, you’d understand if you considered how a Rolodex works with its spinning, and little cards flapping around. Anyway, up jumped “bifurcated.” Big word, that “bifurcated.” Ten letters, four syllables. Five dollar word if I’ve ever heard one, not that I have any understanding of why words are assigned monetary values.

I checked Webster’s for the meaning of “bifurcate,” and it was perfect: “to divide into two branches or parts.” Add a “d” to indicate the deed was done, and I had the right word. I was describing the brain of a writer, or this writer, anyway.

I’m sure you’ve heard of that right brain, left brain thing, which is that the right brain is the creative side and the left brain is the logical, analytical side of the mind. When artists of all ilks create, they are said to be using the right side of the brain. Left brainers are CPAs, attorneys, mathematicians, and so on.

So I went online and found a couple tests to determine the predominant side of my brain. The first quiz was primarily for painters, which I am not, unless it meant painting my house, but the results said I was slightly right brained. Another determined I was predominantly left brained. I could see that coming because it had a bunch of questions about organizing and I am type of person that arranges spice jars alphabetically. I like things in my house to be neat and orderly.

My desk, however, where I write, belies that craving for order. It is a mess. I call it Katrina’s home page. Ditto with the computer. It’s a good thing I discovered the “search” function in Word because some of my stuff would be forever MIA. Lately I’ve had occasion to use it frequently.

I’ve been thinking about that word “bifurcated” ever since it reintroduced itself. Why is it that a word so obscure (to me), one I’m sure I’ve never used before, was there when I needed it, and other words that I use all the time have a wicked habit of hiding in the dusty catacombs of my cranial cortex? I mean, “bifurcated” was right there holding a sign that read “pick me, pick me.” No other word even attempted to vie for the honored slot in the title.

I’ve never said, “Let’s bifurcate this list of chores,” or “I’m going to bifurcate this story into two acts.” Never. Nor anything along the lines of, “Let’s order one dessert and bifurcate it.”

So here I am, wondering about the mysterious workings of the mind in an aspiring writer. I don’t usually refer to myself as using my right brain. I think of it as the place where my muse lives, when she’s not AWOL as she frequently lives. At those times, I have no idea where she goes, and believe me, I’ve searched and used every trick I know of to lure her from her secret lair. Sometimes I think she hides in my bedside alarm clock and has the alarm set for two a.m., because that’s when she most often kicks me out of bed to take dictation.

Not too long ago. Beth, a friend of mine who blogs at Switched at Birth, wrote about tossing and turning all night as her muse was giving birth to a story about her elderly neighbor who had bagged an elderly deer. I understood exactly what she was going through, those streamers of words criss-crossing through the brain, the pressure of pent-up thoughts seeking release, the fear that thoughts would be forever lost in the morning. Those are the moments we yearn for, a muse with a full head of steam, well-oiled pistons pounding, and throttle wide open.

"Throttle." Another perfect word, though not with the same monetary value. It describes the function of left brain in writers. It ain’t a pretty picture, either. Some people refer to it as the inner critic. I call it an offspring of a female dog, and other canine-related words of description.

Its function, that “throttle,” is to stymie the creative process, to run the whole train off the tracks, metaphorically speaking. The left brain is what sends the muse cowering, presses the “delete” button on the keyboard, relegates brilliant writing to some far off corner where the search function is required to locate it in better times. And worse. Worse is what it does to the writer. No more confidence, no more thoughts of query letters to editors, no joy in Mudville, mighty Writer has struck out.

What would happen if we could bifurcate the left brain? Would its powers be lessened by being divided, or would they be strengthened as in two-against-one?

Well, I took that afore-mentioned combined piece of those two poems, one about a right brain day and the other about a left brain day, and submitted it as an online writing class assignment. The instructor wrote back that I soared with the right brain part, but wanted me to delete the left brained part. She wanted me to bifurcate the whole, leaving only the right brained poem. I thought the left brained poem contained some pretty good writing. It accurately described how a writer feels when the left brain is ascendant.

I suppose that’s why she didn’t like it. I could tell she’d been there.



March 1, 2009

the many moods of Halibut Cove...

...and more tomorrow...