As promised, but...

In the post below, I promised an explanation and I intend to deliver.

However, I have a writing class tonight in Seward. I have had two weeks in which to do the homework for it, and of course I jumped right to it and got it all done so I'd have two weeks free of homework pressure.

NOT!

I'm racing to get it done. It involves reading and commenting on three essays, plus working on pieces of my own.

Maybe tomorrow.

Diametrical Opposites or Close as Kin?

The photographs below, taken in Mazatlan, Mexico, are all related in a strange but exacting way.

Want to know how?

Stay tuned to this station. I'm writing the explanation as we speak.













































The four above made things like this possible.













The explanation is forthcoming.

Reminiscence

For Valentine's Day...

Beyond My Ken*

Would then that now I know,
need sorrow ever been?
Need loving tears been ever shed?
These things, beyond my ken.

The years do ease the hurt,
and hardened should I be.
but heart and mind so seldom meet,
that still I think of thee.

No day shall pass without
a loving thought of then,
when love was new and so unwise,
like now, beyond my ken.

ca. 1967

1962
(click to read message--and it was SO him!)

*ken: 1. range of vision 2. range of understanding

Top photo: 1963

Gullible's Gazette

Item 1:

Tribute.

A Marine called the Dennis Miller show today to pay tribute to a fallen comrade in Afghanistan. The Marine choked up, and after a moment of silence, Miller said:

“That’s the thing about sincere emotion, my friend. It doesn’t give you a glide path. It just drops in on you.” After a few more moments during which the Marine tried unsuccessfully to compose himself, Miller said that the Marine’s silence was a tribute to his comrade.

Item 2:

Fishing, Alaskan Style.

Eagles fishing along the Kenai River. The one wading in the icy cold Kenai River flew off before I could turn on the camera. Look closely between the two birch trees at the right, and the spruce tree. There’s a second eagle there. And, in the middle of the two birches, a magpie waits for scraps.

The swans are still hanging out by the Kenai River bridge. Couple days ago there were several fishermen in the water or ice fishing, but today’s rain must have discouraged them.

Item 3:

Size Matters.

See this pathetic rainy day picture?


Four miles away, and a couple hundred feet elevation rise, there's another world altogether.



Item 4:

Giving Credit Where It's Due?

Vice President Joe Biden, on the Larry King TV show, gave the Obama Administration credit for the success in Iraq.

Darned if he didn't forget to mention that that success was "inherited" from the Bush Administration....




Item 5:

Credit Where It is Due.

Greg Mortenson’s second book, Stones into Schools, is every bit as astonishing and inspiring as his first, Three Cups of Tea. Most of the events described take place in Pakistan and Afghanistan just before and after the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorists’ attacks on New York and the Pentagon, and after the horrendous earthquake on October of 2005. It concludes in the fall of 2009, when winter arrived to isolate the high country of Afghanistan for six months.

Mortenson, quoting Wohlid Khan, a veteran mujahadeen and tribal commander at the opening of another girls’ school in Afghanistan, wrote:

In our country, our people have suffered through three decades of war,and as you know many of our mujahadeen have died in these hills and mountains… We have fought hard and we have paid dearly.

A wise man from my home once told me that these mountains have seen far too much suffering and killing, and that each rock and every boulder you see represents a mujahadeen who died fighting either the Russians or the Taliban. Then the man went on to say that now that the fighting is finished, it is time to build a new era of peace—and the first step in that process is to take up the stones and start turning them into schools.”

This book, along with its predecessor, is a must-read for every American. It is reassuring to learnt that Mortenson's Three Cups of Tea is required reading by much of the military.

Aftershocks, Part Five, Where Storms are Born

Storms spawned in the Bering Sea are among the most malicious on earth. They whip themselves into frenzies, gulp moisture from the ocean, then head west to see what mischief they can create. Born of a semi-permanent low pressure area called the Aleutian low, these storms toss huge fishing boats about, throw spray and huge waves across them, and coat them with deadly ice that must be chopped away with axes before the vessels roll and sink.

The archipelago of islands called the Aleutian Chain that cups the Bering Sea in its arc is both the western-most and eastern-most land in the United States. The farthest islands would be in tomorrow were it not for a jog in the International Date Line.

The islands spread towards Russia, and within that arc the storms become tempests and gales. If there were such a thing as hurricanes that far north, then these winds certainly qualify, but assigning human names to the almost constant winter storms would be a monumental task. The active volcanoes of the Chain steam and erupt, as far beneath the islands the Pacific and North American tectonic plates wage war for supremacy.

Some say there is a devil-clone of the Bermuda Triangle in the Bering, a place where boats simply disappear with no calls of distress, taking their entire crews with them. It is the world’s most dangerous job, being a fisherman in the Bering Sea, and only the bravest or most foolish go after the rich stocks of fish and crab.

Amchitka Island lies near the most southern portion of that arc, the Bering Sea to its north, the Pacific Ocean on its southern flank. Most of the island is low-lying rolling tundra. Only at the extreme northeastern end are there mountains that block the hellacious winds. At the southern end, there is nothing to stop the winds and they wreak havoc with the pitiful structures of mankind.

Hiding from those storms in the structures remaining on the island is a terrifying, life-threatening ordeal. How do I know?

I’ve been there and lived through two of them.

The world War II era hanger where the heavy equipment repair shop was housed.

During the first, in October of 1987, I was working night shift in a WWII-era hanger, where heavy equipment was repaired. Though engineers had inspected the hanger, and required metal brackets installed for reinforcement, the rule was that we had to abandon the building once winds reaching a sustained 63mph. So, instead of riding out the storm in a building that had been standing for almost half a century, and hiding under a welder’s table with a three-inch thick steel plate for a top, we were required to return to the ATCO units that served as our camp.

One of our 100 x foot-foot supply barges in Valdez. ATCO camp units are loaded on the top layer. Each sleeper unit had four small bedrooms, approximately 10 x 10 each.

ATCO units are like trailer houses. Thin-walled, thin-roofed, able to withstand frequent transport to varying locations by barge or truck, but vulnerable to wind and heavy snow load. Our camp consisted of two rows of ATCO sleeping units facing each other, with a narrow plywood hallway and roof joining the two rows.

Wire rope ( braided steel cable) was stretched over the units, and were anchored into the ground on each side. When ferocious storms were forecast, the largest heavy equipment available was brought into camp and parked on the windward side for safety.

During that first storm I was in the aircraft control tower at camp, watching the anemometer needle jerk higher and higher. Many, many gusts above 63 mph were measured before the needle stuck above that mark for more than a minute. Then I returned to the hanger shop and delivered the news that we had to go back to camp.

Our ATCO camp on Amchitka, in decent weather.

While my day shift roommate slept with the help of ear plus and eye shades, I leaned against the wall of our room and tried to read. The wind, which came directly at our room, battered the wall constantly, and as the storm gained in strength, I found it impossible to focus on the printed page because of the shaking. Finally, I turned off the light and lay in the darkness, imagining the window next to my bed imploding.

The next morning the hanger stood, another storm survived.

The second storm came during the winter. My husband and I had been invited to dinner, along with a few others, at the US Fish and Wildlife officer’s cabin, located on a pond just over a small hill from camp and the hanger. The drive took less than three minutes. It was snowing when we left camp. By the time we reached the cabin, there was no question about being able to return, and when another truck load of guests arrived, we had to go out to the road and guide them in. We all spent the night at the cabin. We were able to reach the project manager by radio, and let him know where we were, how many of us, and our names.

The US Fish and Wildlife protection officer's cabin, where we took refuge from a winter blizzard. Obviously, this picture wasn't taken during that storm.

The next morning, a rubber-tracked vehicle rescued us and returned us to camp. Then the digging out began.

Here are some photos taken the next day.

A row of parked vehicles next to camp.


The control tower and rec room, the day after the blizzard.

Snowed-in vehicles. Mine was the black and brown one at the right.


Snowed-in entrance to camp trailers.

A snow drift between the offices and other units.
Same view, earlier in the day.
Digging out the vehicles. A window was open a sliver during the blizzard, and the cab was half full of snow.


The WWII-era chapel during another, more gentle snowfall.
This concludes my five-part series of Aftershocks.

A Perfect Right Brain Day

Today I
let the muse run free,
wrote by the side of the highway,
in the parking lot at Costco,
in the hospital waiting room,
in my own living room.

Today I
hugged my friends from out of town,
took them to lunch at a nostalgic old bar,
told stories of yore to distract them from their worries,
and watched them remember.

Today I
wrote a note to a friend,
gave him a gift,
told him I missed him,
wished he were still alive.

Today I
waved at the Dahl sheep
on the side of the highway,
saw a hundred white swans,
laughed at a bore tide only inches high.

Today I
sang songs from “La Mancha”
all the way home,
watched “Grey’s Anatomy”
with journal in hand,
discovered the commercials
were far too short.

Today I
flew,
soared,
sailed,
imagined.

Christ, how I loved it.

(No, my muse hasn't returned. I wrote this a couple years ago. If anyone sees the AWOL dickens, please tell her she's missed greatly and needed urgently.)

A Lousy Left Brain Day

Today I

couldn’t write for beans

and the keyboard was dyslexic.

Today I

read a cooled-off story.

It stank like five day old fish.

Today I

read Dana Stabenow’s new mystery

and marveled at the complex plot.

Today I

wondered why I couldn’t think

of a simple plot, much less a complex one.

Today I

asked the muse to come out and play

but she failed to respond.

Today I

wallowed in dismay at my limitations

embarrassed that I ever thought I could write.

Today I

stayed out of the kitchen

because I couldn’t stand the heat.

Christ, how I hated it.