The Berries

I mark the passage of time now by how long it's been between posts. Not much has really happened since the last one which is why it's taken this long. I only post now to break the dry spell. Speaking of dry, I went to pick strawberries Saturday and the earth was parched. Time's been flying by so fast, it really hasn't occured to me that it's been a while since we've had a really good rain. Despite the heat and dust however berry picking proved to be much more fun than I would've thought.

We went to Pontious Berry and Herb Farm in White Heath. As the name implies berries aren't the only thing going at Pontious. In addition to a great herb garden they offer tomatoes, onions and sweet corn in season. The vegetables, berries and herbs are grown without the aid of pesticides but, as their website says, they are not a certified organic farm. They just try to adhere to organic growning methods. It's all u-pick and payment is on the honor system. You weigh your harvest yourself, write down how much picked and the price, and then drop the money in a wooden lock box. If you have to make change, there's a box for that too. It's all very granola.

The strawberries we picked were pretty puny due to the lack of water. Apparently their irrigation system went down right about the time the drought started. None the less, these were some of the sweetest tasting strawberries I've ever had. They tasted exactly like you imagine the flavor when someone says the word "strawberry". The lady running the place said pickins were slim as this was the end of the season but between Laurie and I we managed to pick about 3 lbs. Enough for one incredible strawberry pie with some berries left over for eating with ice cream.

We also harvested some of their basil and cilantro. We made pesto out of the basil last night. I've never eaten it fresh like that. It's nothing but fresh for this paisan from now on. After we got back from produce picking I changed the oil and filter on the motorcycle. The bike really did need the oil change. I wasn't just trying to assert manhood after berry picking. Besides when a man berry picks or harvest herbs it's called "foraging".

After dinner last night, we watched Born Into Brothels. This is a very difficult film to watch. For one its an unflinching look at one of the worst possible existences this planet has to offer. It also makes you feel like a total ass for complaining about perceived injustices like someone taking your parking spot or cold Big Macs. That said, it also showed that even in the darkest corners of the world, no matter how bitter their circumstances, kids still dream. That the value of a child's life trancends its "quality".

Finally, if any of you know someone who is looking for a nice, used airplane with a slightly hightime engine, but that's excpetionally clean, send them here. So far I've only received a couple of nibbles. It will be going up on Ebay this week as well. Kool Mo P wanted some info on the new plane, which I will offer when I take delivery of it on July 12. That should be quite an adventure. I will be flying up to Duluth to pick it up and receive three days transition training. Expect a detailed account along with pics here.

Hoosier Air

I am truly a blessed man. Not only do I have an airplane, but I have a wife that actually likes flying in it so much, that she is sometimes more eager to go for a flight than I am. Such was the case yesterday. As a few of you know we're selling the plane to make hangar space for a new one--a whole other story. She suggested we use the stellar weather to take 6897 Charlie on a tour of Indiana and post sales flyers at various airports. Believe it or not, I was actually a little reluctant because we'd just spent a couple of hours last weekend washing it should a couple of prospective buyers drop by for a closer look. But she REALLY wanted to go flying and a voice in my head finally piped up and yelled, "Hey moron! Do you know how many pilots would kill for a wife that begs them to fly?" So to honor my wife's wishes and out of respect for my fellow aviators in less ideal marital circumstances, I planned the flight.

Leg 1: KCMI (Champaign, IL) to KLAF (Lafeyette, IN)

KLAF's proper name is Purdue University Airport. It's right on the edge of campus. And I mean right on the edge. When you depart runway 5 you're just a few hundred feet above the quad. We departed Champaign about noon. Cleared on course, I elected to fly this leg at 3,500 feet. There was a little bit of an overcast plus I just like flying a little lower once in a while. You can see more details on the ground. As we bounced along in the light chop we scoped out cool little farm spreads, small town "rush hours", cow "ants" and all manner of springtime flora and fauna. Dialing in the ATIS (Air Terminal Information Service) for KLAF I caught a strange comment at the end of the weather recording "(something) activity around the airport, all quadrants." On the second time around the loop I made it out--"caution BIRD activity around the airport, all quadrants."

What kind of bird activity could possibly merit a mention in the weather recording? As we got closer I kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. It wasn't until I was on about 3 mile final for rwy 5 that I saw what they must have been talking about. Flying in the same direction, about 50 feet below and to the right of my flight path, was one of the biggest hawks I've ever seen. It reminded me of a time in California when I was flying along in an even smaller Cessna 150 and got an uncomfortably close look at a couple of vultures that happened to be circling at my altitude. I think it would've been a toss up in that case as to who would've still been flying if we'd hit. Considering the size of the tiny Cessna and the enormity of the birds, odds on the vultures wouldn't have been long. Thankfully, this encounter was nowhere near that close.

Things weren't very busy at KLAF either. When we landed only one plane was taxiing out to do a little pattern work. None the less, the fine folks at Lafeyette Aviation rolled out the red carpet for us. Two line guys came bounding out of the office to direct me to a parking spot right by the front door, chocked the wheels and asked us if we needed anything. Since we weren't buying any fuel, I had to pay a ramp fee of $8. Believe it or not, this really didn't bother me. Places like Lafeyette have limited ramp space and they have to pay the bills with fuel sales. It seems more than fair to me to pony up a little something if I'm going to be taking up space and not buying anything. Even if it's just for the 5 minutes it took us to use the john and hang up our flyer. What annoys me is when I hear some fat cat flying a half-a-million dollar twin that guzzles hundreds of gallons a flight bitching about ramp fees. As one of my old instructors used to say, "If the cost of flying bugs you, you probably shouldn't be flying."

After a quick potty break and posting our flyer on the lobby bulletin board we boarded the plane for our next sales call--KEYE: Eagle Creek Airport just north of Indianapolis International.

Leg 2: KLAF (Lafeyette, IN) to KEYE (Indianapolis, IN)

Indianapolis International is surrounded by about 4 or 5 sattelite airports that are all within about 20 nm of it. One of these, Eagle Creek, is right next to a dammed up lake on the NW side. The reason I decided to make it a part of the itenerary, despite the fact the local FBO also sold aircraft and probably wouldn't let me post my flyer, was because of a nearby restaraunt that received favorable pilot reviews on airnav.com. A little place called Rick's Boatyard. All the reviews talked about an outdoor patio with a fantastic view of the adjacent lake. I figured even if we didn't get anything to eat it would be worth checking out for future hundred-dollar hamburger trips.

As we approached KEYE from the northwest I caught sight of the lake about 15 miles out. The traffic pattern entry for the active runway took us right down the middle of the lake. Below us we saw all kinds of sailboats and pontoons plying the waters, and right there on the southeast corner of the lake Rick's Boathouse restaraunt that looked like it would be right at home in Miami. As we were to find out later, so did the owners. All the apparel they sold in their gift shop used the same font and colors as the Miami Vice logo. Cheesy? Supremely, but in a sort of tongue-in-cheek way. Then again, maybe Indy is like Baratslava--"Miami Vice. #1 new show!" Rick's was right across the road from the airport. Not even a 100 yard walk. It was just as reviewed. We found a spot on the lake side of the enormous patio overlooking the boat slips. In the middle of the patio was a good sized cabana bar that had all kinds of tasty looking libations on tap, but as pilot in command, I wouldn't be able to avail myself this visit. Needless to say I'll be back. Maybe on motorcycle. There were a lot of bike's in the parking lot (get those carbs cleaned Chicken).

After a brief respite of iced tea and live jazz we got up to head back to the airport. The waitress said the tea was on the house. Why, I have no idea. We dropped a generous tip and walked back across the road. Next stop was Bloomington, IN.

Leg 3: KEYE (Indianapolis, IN) to KBMG (Bloomington, IN)

Bloomington, Indiana--home of lily white basketball teams (under Knight anyway) and John Cougar. I don't care if he calls himself John Mellencamp now. He'll always be John Cougar to this American kid doin' the best that he can. Bloomington made the itenerary because it had a couple of FBOs that would be great places for posting flyers and one of the FBOs had Caddilac courtesy cars. I'll let you figure out which of those two factors weighed more heavily in my flight planning.

For this leg I filed an IFR flight plan which would provide us with positive radar coverage from takeoff to touchdown. Our course was going to take us right along the western edge of Indianapolis International. With all the traffic coming in and out of Indy, as well as the satellite airports, I simply don't have enough eyes in my head. I was going to need traffic reports. Plus, in today's day and age you really don't want to be operating around major urban areas without a constant link to ATC. That way if a Blackhawk appears off your wing you don't have to use hand gestures and can ask, "What seems to be the problem officer?" before the door gunner opens fire.

I filed for 6000 ft hoping it would put us up in the midst of the cool looking cumulus canyons that were sailing over us. Turns out they were up at about 7,000, but it was almost as cool to skim the bottoms. This leg, like the rest of them, took all of about 30 minutes. We were on the ground in Bloomington in no time. Which, by the way, has some fairly striking scenery for this part of the midwest. Lots of rolling, tree-covered hills. The airport is on a rise that kind of overlooks some of the smaller hills to the west. As the sun descended toward the horizon and the shadows got longer, it all looked very serene. Just like one of those daydreams of summer that I usually start experiencing about the 4th week in February.

We parked in front of Cook Aviation because they were the ones with the Caddie courtesy cars. Courtesy cars are free transportation that most FBOs lend transient pilots for an hour or two so they can run into town and get a bite to eat or something. That's right. Free. But as with most things that cost nothing, you usually get what you pay for. Courtesy cars are almost always an adventure. Some of the most memorable that I've driven have included a rusted out mid-60's pickup with a speedometer that didn't work, a giant white '70's station wagon that looked like it might have been a coroner's car in another life and I don't know how many retired police cars (probably the most common courtesy car at small municipal airports). You don't even have to leave your driver's license or cc number. I guess they figure no one would be dumb enough to steal a POS car and leave their airplane. But on very rare ocassions you'll be fortunate enough to land somewhere that offers some really nice wheels. Cook Aviation was just such a place.

While the line guy fueled the plane, Laurie and went into the office and asked if we could have the use of a courtesy car to grab a bite to eat. I'm not even sure if I was all that hungry, but I needed to have a plausible reason to ask for the car. As anticipated, the kindly office girl handed over the keys to a 2002 merlot De Ville. We're talking one of those big mamas you see dominating the parking lot at Hometown Buffet when there's an early-bird special. But because it was a DTS with alloy wheels and lower profile tires it looked more Tony Soprano than Lawerence Welk. Down the road a piece from the airport we found a great little Chinese take-out/dine-in place called Dragon. One of those places where your order's cooked fresh. I got the house special mein fun and Laurie opted for the Mu Shoo. Both entrees were fantastic and we had tons left over for lunch today.

I took my time cruising back to the airport. Partly because I was fighting a food coma and partly because I was really enjoying the Caddie. Back at the airport we hung our flyers and settled up with the office girl for the fuel. About the fuel, it was only $3/gal. I about fell over. Avgas is almost always a buck higher than auto gas, but I'd just managed to fill up for a mere .20 more than my fellow groundbound travelers. When you throw in the free use of the DTS I was probably coming out ahead. Man, was I having a great day. The only thing that could have made things more blissful was some guy handing me a suitcase full of cash for my plane. But ain't that America, you and me. Ain't that America, somethin' to see baby . . .

Leg 4: KBMG (Bloomington, IN) to KHUF (Terre Haute, IN)

We decided to stop at Hullman International Airport in Terre Haute because I thought it was a fairly busy general aviation airport and it wasn't entirely out of the way on our way back to Champaign. The airport is apparently named after the Hullman family that brought us all Clabber Girl Baking Powder. It boasts a sprawling terminal that, in it's postwar heyday, was probably every bit as busy as Champaign. At least that's what the photos on the wall seemed to indicate. On this particualar day, however, Hullman was dead. There were few signs of life. Even the Air Guard ramp looked deserted with a row of cold F-16s tied down and intakes covered, silently waiting for their next mission. I thought with all the gorgeous weather, the place would at least be hopping with student pilots in the pattern or something. The only activity was a couple line guys washing an airport police vehicle.

Inside the terminal it was similarly deserted, save for a couple of young ladies working the FBO counter. We located the "selling board", tacked up a flyer and, after another loo break, took off for home.

Leg 5: KHUF (Terra Haute, IN) to KCMI (Champaign, IL)

By now it was approaching 5:30 or 6 and we were headed NW right into the sun. With all possible eye protection deployed--sunglasses, check--tinted visors, check--I was still squintsville with a forward ground visibility of about 5 miles in haze. Time to call for a little radar coverage again. Terra Haute approach was kind enough to arrange for flight following all the way to Champaign. Oddly enough, despite the fabulous flying conditions, Laurie and I seemed to be part of only a handful of souls wandering the skies over east central Illinois. There was almost total silence on Terre Haute's frequency. It wasn't until we were handed off to Champaign approach that the radio calls seemed to pick up. Still, none of them seemed to be headed to Willard.

Winds were light so approach gave me my choice of runways. Our course was almost perfectly in line with runway 32, so picking was easy. As I exited the runway after landing I noticed Champaign's ramp was about as dead as Terre Haute's. Even the university planes were put away. I can only chalk it up to summer break. After shutting down, we wiped all the fresh bug kill off the leading edges of the cowl, wings and wheelpants. Just in case a prospective buyer, grasping one of our sales flyers, should come by for a look-see. After I put 9'er 7 Charlie away, I stood there in the still, sultry sunset air taking it all in. Laurie said, "This was the perfect day." No argument here, babe.

Everything In Moderation . . . Well, Not Everything

Sorry guys. I was fooling around with the blog the other day and turned on the comment moderation. It is off now. Please forgive the momentary lapse into censorship.

In other news I'm thinking about changing the template, so things may look a little different on your next visit. Or not.

I'm Coining a New Word

stereondipity (ster-ion-dip-it-ee): n. The chance synchronization of a person's driving actions with the music on the stereo. Most commonly occuring when a song ends at the precise moment the person comes to a stop in a parking space and just before they turn off the ignition. Also common when driving in the rain while listening to jazz or quickly accelerating away from an intersection precisely as a metal guitar solo begins. Usually accompanied by the sensation of being in a music video or movie montage. Most often occurs if the music on the stereo is particularly rockin' (i.e. Boston, Clutch, Bon Jovi).

Fire In the Hole

A couple of weeks ago I took a fishing trip with some guys up to the Northwoods of Wisconsin. Until this trip, the farthest north I'd ever been in Wisconsin was Milwaukee. It truly is a wild and wonderful slice of country. Temps were a good 10 degrees or so less than they are here, but the cool weather gave the air a crisp, clean quality that was invigorating. This crisp air, combined with the scent of pine trees and the hard blue water of Little St. Germain, made you feel like you were in a Hamms commercial. All that was missing was that dancing, beer swilling, cartoon bear.

The seven hour drive north was actually pretty easy going. It's a straight shot up 39 and 51. And while the scenery is mostly "cheddar" as you go up, it really starts to get Northwoodsy around Tomahawk. Clear lakes start flashing at you from between the forests of Czech pine and deer crossing cautions are everywhere. St. Germain, where our cabin was, was about as backwater as they come in these parts. It wasn't dirty by any means. In fact from the looks of the well-built school, firehouse and community center, it was clear tourist dollars provided a big enough tax base so the locals could keep things pretty inviting. The only truly Mayberry thing about it was that they rolled the sidewalks up at 8. If you wanted anything to eat after then, besides a Little Debbie snack from the local quicky mart, your options were to stock up on groceries during the day or head into Woodruff, about 10 miles away.

There were six of us and we split up into fishing parties of two while we were there. Moto and I, the least accomplished anglers of the lot, were put together. What we lacked in fishing accumen we made up for in style with our little pontoon boat that we rented to cruise around the lake in. Compared to the boats our companions were using, we had a party barge. It had two comfy captains chairs forward and a wide bench seat aft. It was also equipped with a rather capacious live well that didn't see a lot of fish the first day and a half, but came in quite handy later. It was really stable too. You could walk around without having to be careful of tipping over. And it had a Bimini top that could be quickly deployed in the event of rain or a lack of sunscreen. About all it didn't have was any serious horsepower, but the lake wasn't that big that it took very long to get anywhere. Anything more than a 45 outboard was probably overkill.

Friday morning everyone was up at 5 ready to tear into the local pike population. Moto and I were the first to hit the lake because we were the only ones with a boat on the resort dock. Mike and Jim had to trailer their rigs to the nearest landing about a mile away to put in. It was in the high 30's or low 40's on the lake, but we were giddy with anticipation so the cold really didn't bother us that much. We dropped anchor in one of the bays closest to the resort dock to start out.

I've only fished for Northern one other time in my life on a Canadian fishing trip. At that time it was mid to late July and we were knocking them out with all manner of crank baits, but primarily in-line spinners. The fish there were really aggressive. So, I figured they would be here too. Three hours later, it was clear that what worked in Canada wasn't working here. Plus, Little St. Germain is really shallow in parts and we were constantly getting spinners hung up in the weeds below the surface. Somewhat discouraged but not defeated we decided to start fishing a nearby spot for Walleye using jigs. Another hour or so passed with nothing more than a couple of nibbles. So we weighed anchor and motored to other parts of the lake.

Still certain that a pike was in the cards for me I talked Moto into going to points hither and yon on the lake, all to no avail. I commend him for his infinite patience. Long story short, the first day was a total wash. We had nothing to show for 11 hours of fishing except a slight sunburn and draggin' butts. We didn't even drink much of the beer we'd brought along. We were so intent on catching Pike that I think I had maybe two beers the entire time we were out. Now that's a failure of fishing trip my friends when you can't even manage to drink more than a couple of beers, let alone catch any fish.The mini pontoon was still cool though. In fact I doubt I could've lasted as long as I did if it wasn't for the party barge.

The next day I didn't even hear the alarm. I slept right through it. Turns out I wasn't the only one that was less than enthused about the prospect of getting skunked yet again by Little Saint. A quick look out my window revealed that Kellner's boat was still on its trailer. He hadn't even bothered to try and make the "morning bite" even though he was one of the privelaged few among us to have caught a Northern the day before. Instead everyone in the party had a nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, taters and toast. We all just relaxed and hit the lake about 10 or so.

Of course this was well after the morning prime time and a good six hours or so before evening prime time. Undeterred however, Moto and I explored the rest of the lake employing what tactics we knew in our efforts to catch the elusive Northern Pike. Elusive to us anyhow. Besides Mike, Mike's dad and Jim had each caught one but that was it. It wasn't until the rainstorm rolled in later that day that we discovered another much more bountiful target of opportunity--crappie. Turns out this time of year the tasty little buggers come into shore around evening and during storms. Everyone was catching a bunch from off the resort dock so Moto and I boarded the party barge and decided to head up shore from the dock a short way and fish the underwater ledge. Before it was all said and done I'd dropped 20 or so Crappie into our live well. I was finally fishing, baby.

Also fishing off the dock with us was a fella named Stan. Stan was a quintecential Chi-cah-goan and had been coming to Little Saint Germain for about 23 years. Stan had what I'll call a vocal depth perception problem. He used the same volume of voice for people standing right next to him that he might use for someone a good 100 yards away. His advice for catching Northern, while noisy, was simple. Just stick a chub on a hook, throw it out and wait. All day if necessary. You see, apparently at this time of year Pike are spawning and the females are laden with eggs. So they're really not interested in chasing a spinner bait down. They 're looking for easy pickin's like bait on a hook.

So, the next day Jim, Patrick, Mike and his dad went into town and bought a bunch of chubs while Moto and I tried one more time to find a Pike using other baits. That's the thing about fishing, there are so many variables in what makes the critters twitch--water temp, barometric pressure, cloud cover--it's really a matter of being in the right place at the right time. We were to see this firsthand later that day.

When we left the dock that morning, Stan had a pole in the water with a chub on a hook just waiting. When we came back 8 hours later, he was still there, fishless. Our plan for the evening was to relax a little then fry up the crappie we caught the day before. While we were waiting for Mike and his dad to return we decided to kill time on the dock drinking beer and catching more crappie. While we were at it, Jim threw a line out with a chub on it and just let it sit while he jigged for crappie. About 45 minutes later Jim let out a holler. Something had grabbed his line and was heading out to the middle of the lake with it. He dropped is crappie rod, grabbed the other one and yanked. "I got it! Whatever it is, it's a big one." About a minute later he'd managed to reel "It" into the shallows. It was a monster 30 in Northern. Megaphone Man started yelling "Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!" Between his yelling and sight of this big, beautiful fish almost within net's reach, my heart was racing.

I scrambled for a net and so did Patrick. We positioned ourselves on either side of the dock in case it tried to go under. It ended up coming to my side. I slipped the net over it's head and scooped it up. It was heavy and pissed. It started thrashing around in the net like a trapped gator. Scared to death it was going to flip back into the water I dropped it unceremoniously into the bottom of Jim's boat. We all just stood there staring at this really angry fish glaring back at us. I finaly calmed down enough to try and get the hook out. I'd heard stories about pike latching on to people's hands when they tried to retrieve their hooks so I was a little nervous. I guess it had finally resigned itself to it's fate because it didn't struggle at all while I retrieved the hook.

I picked it up in the net and hauled it over to the live well on my rental boat as Jim's live well simply wasn't big enough. Stan, the poor guy who'd been sitting on the dock all day without a bite, and had actually given us the advice on using the chubs, looked on with an amicable yet scarcely concealed envy. On a brighter note, Stan had a 28 in pike on his line not 15 minutes later, followed by yet another 29 in on his son-in-law's which I'm sure more than made up for having to watch some Johnny Come Lately take what should have been your fish.

Inspired by the big catches we all decided to skip dinner and keep fishing. Moto and I took our boat up shore a little ways to catch more crappie. Anytime we'd throw one in the live well with the pike there'd be a short pause then you'd hear the new guy swimming madly around the live well when it figured out what it's cell mate was. Lucky for the crappie confinement had ruined the pike's appetite and none were eaten prematurely. About three hours later we had the live well literally packed to the gills with one ginormous pike and about 25 or so very nervous crappie.

The day we were to drive home Moto and I cleaned the rest of our catch and added it to the community crappie catch. Jim was even kind enough to share his pike with everyone else. We each went home with about 3 to 5 lbs of fish filets each. I fried my share of the crappie up the other night for Mr. and Mrs. Train Guy. It made for quite a feast. I can't wait to go back up there next spring. This time I'm skipping the pike and going for the crappie. If I'd been fishing for nothing else the entire three days I was there I might've easily landed 60 or more by myself.

I'll leave you with a link to some pics from the trip on flickr. Now, where to go next? Bone fishing in the Keys anyone?

Immigration Song

I wanted to share a poem written by Ray Bradbury that appears in today's Wall Street Journal (see the link below). I've always admired Bradbury's clarity as a writer and it's good to see that at 85 he's still got it.

America: An Ode to Immigrants

Suddenly Sinatra

If you happen to see it in the bargain rack at the grocery store or Wal Mart, do yourself a favor and buy “Suddenly”. It’ll probably put you out no more than $5 and it’s easily more entertaining than most of what Hollywood’s pooped out this year. This 1954 thriller stars Frank Sinatra and Sterling Hayden. Hayden is probably best known for the role of Colonel Ripper—the mad Air Force commander in Dr. Strangelove that plunges the world into WWIII to prevent the commies from “sapping our precious bodily fluids”.

Here Hayden plays Sheriff Tod Shaw, constable of the sleepy town of Suddenly, CA. Sinatra, normally the hero in most of his films, plays against type as a psychopathic hired assassin sent to dispatch the President of the United States who’s train is making a quick stop in Suddenly. To do so he has to take a family hostage so he and his gang can use their house that sits on a hill overlooking the train station.

While the acting is typical of anything you’d see in the early 50’s, the plot and storyline is surprisingly tight. And the characters are all written to be rather intelligent. Not that I expected them to be stupid, just maybe a little more Leave It To Beaver. The writing’s actually more on par with an episode of 24, only more plausible.

I won’t say much more about the movie. I’m going to see if I can talk Martin into screening it at a crappy movie night. I will say this, though; it made me wish Sinatra had been cast as a bad guy more often.





  

Peanut Butter Therapy

For me one of life's greatest pleasures is peanut butter. On our way home from my bros, I announced to my wife I had a craving for ice cream. Turns out I was really craving peanut butter. We stopped at County Market where I sought out Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby which has peanut butter filled pretzels in it. Fortunately for my waistline, they were out. But spurred on by my love of peanut butter I decided to further explore the aisles and see what new and exciting things Big Snack (aren't all corporate cabals supposed to be "Big" now?) was doing with it.

First stop was the cereal aisle. Nothing new there. Same thing on the cookie aisle. On second thought, the Elves had created some kind of Tagalong knock off I'd never seen before, but that was probably just new to me. Despite the abundance of peanut butter flavored snacks, none of them caught my fancy. Mainly because I knew there was no real peanut butter in any of them. And most were too sweet for what I wanted tonight. Laurie, sensing my discontent, offered the novel suggestion that perhaps I should just have a peanut butter sandwich. We had a jar at home and I wouldn't have to spend a dime. Two butter-soaked, peanut butter-laden English muffins later and my Jones has been satisfied, which now frees me to think of other things. Or more accurately, my peanut butter preoccupation has been subdued enough to allow other things to pop into my head. Like Mel Gibson for instance.

Yesterday I read somewhere that Mel was using a press junket for his latest film, Apocalypto, to lay into Bush. He said Bush and his team were not unlike the corrupt Mayan rulers in his film, in that they used fear to retain power. What galled me about this statement was not that he was coming out against Bush, but that somehow Bush is the only one to have ever used fear as a lever. Don't get me wrong, I like Mel. A lot. But fear is to politicians what sex is to Madison Ave.

"If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to toss you out on the street without any food!" "If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to poison your water!" "If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to knock up your daughters and make them get back alley abortions!" Or the one that seems to evoke the greatest hysteria, "If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to make you go to church!"

No politician anywhere at anytime in history has won with the campaign slogan, "Everything's fine." That said, I might agree with Mel that Bush lied to us about WMDs. But if he did he was only trying to keep alive a lie that had been so very useful to the previous administration when it was looking to pitch a little fear in order to divert attention from trouble at home. Only Bush was apparently too dumb to realize that if you actually invaded Iraq, it would blow the whole con. Or was he?

I don't know. Frankly, and this will come as a source of great satisfaction to my Democrat friends, I don't know what to think of the guy anymore. He and the soon-t0-be minority Republican congress seem to have spent the last several years trying to out-Democrat Democrats. First there was the enormous prescription drug benefit that appears to be of little benefit. Then there was the knee jerk pledge of trillions of dollars to a sinking city. Say what you will about the "Bridge to Nowhere", at least it actually went to an island that will still be there in 50 years or so. Who can say the same for New Orleans? Between feckless leaders like Nagin and geology, I'm guessing it won't be long before we see another flooded bus yard. And finally, his most-recent suggestion that the National Guard patrol the border to make it look like he's doing something about illegal immigration. Not since Carter's rescue attempt of the hostages in Iran have I seen such a desperation move from the White House.

Clearly P J O'Rourke was right:

The Democrats are the party that says government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it.

Mmmm. Peanut butter.

Somewhere a Pike Just Shivered

That's right my fine finned friends, enjoy what little time you have left. I just went lure shopping and come Friday of next week you're going to be on the end of my line. Or you'll just sit there and do nothing because I had no frickin' clue whether or not I got the right tackle.

Moto gave me a list of lures for pike with cryptic names like "husky jerk", "twitchbait", "Shallow Raider" and my personal fave, the "Rattlin Rouge". Sounds more like the selection you usually find in the men's room vending machine at the local truck stop, don't it? I was only able to find a few of these with the names given in the list. Obviously they're proprietary to certain manufacturers and the off brands used other names. So, I tried to go from my memory of what we used when we fished for pike up in Canada about 4 years ago.

Another problem encountered was the size of the baits sold around here. Most everyone here fishes for pan fish and bass so they don't need big lures. Just about everything I was able to find was on the low end of what was recommended on the list. And why not? There aren't any pike around here anyway. About the only thing I was able to find suitable sizes of were the spoons and that's because there must be enough people around here that trout and salmon fish up in Lake Michigan.

Still, I hold out hope that one or two of the lures I blew a sizable chunk of cash on tonight comes through and I'm able to post a great picture of me and a monster northern when I return from the trip.

Shooting Under Par

Last Saturday I went to my first organized trap shoot. It was kind of like a putt-putt tournament played with .12 gauges. You go around to different stations and have to shoot clays that are released from different directions. One station releases them straight up, another rolls them across ground, another launches them from over your head and so on. It was for a good cause too. The proceeds from the tickets were for a 4-H chapter. Included in the ticket price was a tasty hog roast. It really doesn't get much more red state than guns and spit-roasted pork.

Participants were put into "squads" of 4 to 9 shooters. Our foursome consisted of Mike, Jeff, Joe and myself. This was fortunate for a couple of reasons, not the least of which was the fact Mike owned a Mule. For you non-ATV'ers out there a Mule looks like the result of a drunken liason between a Hummer and a golf cart. So instead of having to walk to each station, Joe and I got to ride. Which brings me to another thing--the sophistication of some of the equipment these guys were using.

Sure there was a lot of camouflage and orange hats, but many of these guys, including our shooting companions looked like they'd be right at home on an English hunt. They had fancy vests, nice shooting glasses and some of the most beautiful guns I've ever seen. And I mean aesthetically beautiful, not just beautiful to a gun enthusiast. A couple of guys even had hand carts like you'd use for golf bags only they were equipped with weatherproof gun cases.

There were 12 stations on this particular shoot. At each station you shot 8 to 10 clays. I mostly shot at mine. The clays were released in pairs so you had to take down two at a time. After about two stations it was crystal clear why pro trap shooters use over-under and semi-automatic shotguns. I think there was only one station where I was actually able to take down two clays at once. I'm not blaming it on the fact I was using a pump-action, but it did make acquiring the 2nd clay a little tougher. Still, even at that I was able to shoot 37 out of 100 which was way better than I expected to do. Ironically, Joe had the exact same score, but unfortunately it was not nearly as good as he expected to do. Having seen him shoot before, I know how good he can be.

What really got me though was the number of kids that were participating. I'm just glad none of them were in my group. Not because I was worried about safety, either. It's bad enough to shoot worse than any adult, but getting shown up by a junior Wyatt Earp would be too much to bear. Now I realize the idea of giving a kid a shotgun makes many people blanche, but there are few things on earth that engender self-confidence and discipline like learning to do something inherently dangerous in a safe and professional manner. Honestly. I would feel safer shooting side-by-side with a 12 year old who has been properly trained on how to handle a shotgun than riding shotgun with many adults I know.

More later . . .

Filler

This is one of those posts where I feel compelled to write something simply to keep things fresh, but in truth have nothing to say. So, let the weekend travelogue commence.

Since last Easter was spent with my family in Kentucky, this Easter was with Laurie’s up in Dyer. Now I realize that what I’m about to say may sound a bit off, but I actually feel very relaxed when I visit her folks. We really don’t do much but sit around and eat Donna’s cooking/baking and hang out with the nieces and nephews if they come over. None the less, I’m never bored. I just feel really at home.

Against our better judgment (and the HobbyZone manual’s ample warnings) her dad and I took his Firebird Commander out on Saturday. That’s one of the ways he and I bond now. I’ll bring down a Stryker or something and we’ll head to the local park to do some flying. We haven’t done a lot lately because he’s had to work just about every Saturday I’ve been there. So, we decided to make the most of his day off, even if it was a tad breezy.

Long story short we quickly had the Commander blown about ½ mile downwind of us and couldn’t get it back. I finally gave up and simply let it come down in a field. We found it in perfect shape resting under one of those giant irrigation gantries. I had to walk a good 100 yards into the field to retrieve it, and the entire time I was listening for the sound of water flooding the pipes. Thankfully, the sprinklers had the day off too.

I told Larry not to say anything. That Laurie and her mother would never let us hear the end of it. We had the plane and it was in one piece. There was nothing to see here and nobody needed to know. He told them anyway. Now I can expect to get razzed every time we go flying. I can just hear it now, “So which one of you is going to fly and which is going to drive the retrieval truck?”

Sunday we went to church. It was my first time in the church since our wedding day. Larry, who is one of the elders there, told me they were thinking about moving to another location in a few years. It made me kinda sad to think about it. Not only is this the church where Laurie became my wife, but if I’m not mistaken it’s also the one in which she was baptized as a baby. Sure, God’s house is wherever He wants it, but that building is a landmark in my life. At the very least, I hope it never gets torn down should her family’s church find another home.

Sunday dinner was awesome. Since it was Larry’s birthday, I let him relax and I carved the ham. The electric knife they have is fantastic. Laurie says we have the exact same knife that we received as a wedding gift. I almost want to cook a turkey just so we can break it out. In addition to the delicious ham, there was corn, mashed taters, green been casserole with the Funyon-like crumbles on top and homemade beef and noodles. I washed it all down with Donna’s delectable iced tea then piled on with a nice sized piece of turtle cake with ice cream. I’m still feeling the effects tonight.

On the way home we drove through the backside of the super cell that blew threw yesterday. Didn’t see anything too scary, but the Saturn’s anti-skid was working overtime. Its tires are a tad worn so we were drifting a touch in some of the turns. I wasn’t driving real fast either. There was just a lot of standing water on the back roads we were on. We took a different route back than we usually do. It runs down 1 through Beecher and Grant Park, then heads west on 17 at Momence, paralleling the Kankakee River for a few miles. It’s actually sort of scenic and shortens the amount of time we have to spend I-57.

Oh man, I’m talking about travel routes. Clearly I’m becoming my father. I remember my father and his friends talking ad infinitum about the quickest way to Chicago or Louisville or Indy. As a child there are few worse things than having to sit at the table and listen to adults discuss the merits of the 465 bypass vs. taking 74 straight through to 65. I couldn’t fathom how boring adulthood was going to be if this was all there was going to be to talk about. Farts, girl cooties and King Kong were much more interesting. With the exception of girls having cooties, I maintain they still are.

Elia and Andy

I've always suspected Andy Griffith was far more gifted than his television show ever allowed him to let on. Sheriff Andy Taylor was nothing more than a straight man for the likes of Barney, Gomer and Floyd. But before being consumed by Mayberry, Griffith did a movie in 1957 called "A Face In the Crowd". In that film you will see what has to be one of the most fascinating and disturbing portrayals of an addict ever filmed. Griffith's character, Lonesome Rhodes (whose first name is Larry by the way) becomes addicted to fame, and ultimately the power that accompanies it. The support Griffith's performance gets from the likes of Patricia Neal and Walter Mathau doesn't hurt him either.

I watched "A Face . . . " a couple of nights ago. I'd say it's every bit as powerful as Network, Citizen Kane or the Manchurian Candidate. I'm not going to go into a detailed review, however, because 1.) Many others already have, 2.) I waited too long to sit down and write about it, so most of the initial gut impressions I had have faded some and 3.) I'm lazy. That said, I do recall thinking during several scenes, “This could be the greatest film I’ve ever seen.” The acting, writing, editing, cinematography--it was all woven together with near perfection. Excuse the gushing, but I think you get my point. I can't recommend it enough.

Besides wanting to see Andy Griffith play a dark character, the other reason I Netflixed the film was due to my recently acquired interest in Elia Kazan. Despite being one of the most gifted directors in the history of film, Kazan was, and is still, reviled by many (mostly nostalgic left wingers--i.e. Harvard sociology profs and aging hippies) for his role in the HUAC (House Un-American Activities Committee—i.e. McCarthy) hearings. By a stroke of luck, the behind-the-scenes documentary on the DVD goes into quite a bit of detail about that very topic. Based on what I learned there, the Cliff Notes version of Kazan’s story goes something like this.

He joined the Communist Party in the early 30's because he felt it was the best hope for real social justice. Somewhere about the late 30's, early 40's he began to hear about authors and artists in the Soviet Union being "liquidated" by Stalin. Here in the states, he and others began to come under attack by fellow communists for not marching in lock step to party ideology. He became disillusioned. While he always remained, in essence, a left-wing socialist at heart, he was deeply suspicious of the American Communist Party. When first called to testify before HUAC he pleaded the 5th. When he was called to testify a second time, he gave the names of 8 other communists.

Now, according to the documentary, lots of other directors and actors testified and gave names, but they managed to stay in the left's good graces. And every person Kazan named had already been fingered by previous witnesses. So how did he get on the receiving end of the kind of hard left hatred usually reserved for the likes of Karl Rove or Tom Delay? Apparently the day after he testified he took out a full page ad in the New York Times basically saying he was glad he testified and that it was every good American's duty to do so if they were called. According to one of the experts interviewed in the documentary, this was simply Kazan's attempt to prove to the rest of the country that you could be a member of the left and still be loyal to America. Obviously it backfired.

This hatred was passed down to the next generation of limousine leftists, most of whom were in diapers during the HUAC hearings, who dogmatically towed the party line. I remember the 1999 Oscar ceremony in which Kazan received a Lifetime Achievement award. Several of these next gen limo lefties, like Sarandon and Nolte, vowed to protest his award by refusing to stand and/or applaud when he received it. And they stayed true to their word. As I recall, when Kazan came on stage to receive his award the camera panned to them sitting legs and arms crossed tightly with petulant looks on their faces. As if their blind hatred and pointless grand standing in the shadow of a truly great filmmaker hadn't made them look small enough already, they actually had to pout on live TV.

But back to the movie . . . if you fancy yourself a lover of great films, you have to see A Face In the Crowd. I just wish I'd seen it before I made such a big deal about The World's Fastest Indian. I feel like a guy who just screamed to everyone, "Hey, check out that cool strip mall!" right before he sees the Grand Canyon.

See it . . . World's Fastest Indian

This movie is mostly for those who love turning wrench, the smell of gasoline and oil and that peculiar sensation of speed only experienced on the back of a motorcycle. There's no real drama or deep message other than maybe, "Follow your dreams." It's basically about the allure of unbridled speed and the lengths some of us are willing to go to achieve it.

I'd never heard of Burt Munro before I saw a trailer for this film, so I have no idea what he was really like. By most standards his story should have merited nothing more than a made-for-TV movie or a segment in a "History of Motorcycle Racing" special on the Speed Channel. But, as usual, Anthony Hopkins infuses this character with so much humanity and life that you can't help but love the guy by the end of the movie. Actually, it is Sir Anthony's performance plus the exhilarating camera work that elevates it to big screen material.

Even if you're not a motorcycle freak, you'll probably find it plenty exciting. I know during many of the scenes where Munro is pushing his machine to its limits, Laurie was gripping my arm like a vice. Such was the power of the cinematography. You really feel like you're on the back of this oil-streaked, fire-breathing antique with him.

I'm just glad (and Laurie more so) that we didn't ride the Suzuki to the movie. I would've wanted to really wring it out on the way home.

Take That Larry

Once again Chicago has dictated politics for the entire state. For those who’ve ever wondered why we need an electoral college, this is why. If it wasn’t for the electoral college, or more precisely the additional value it gives flyover country, we would have presidents elected almost exclusively by the metroplexes and for the metroplexes. Of course on the brighter side it would spare us the agony of having to listen to ivy league blue bloods, fresh from a week at Martha’s Vineyard with their mistress, opining about “Midwestern values” at a Waffle House in Topeka.

But back to Illinois—I don’t know who I’m going to vote for now. I’m seriously considering voting for Blogojevich. At least he cops to being a Democrat. Dame Judy is a rino (Rebublican In Name Only—what’d you think I meant?). Plus, in all honesty, I can't complain about the job Rodney’s been doing. Sure he’s been implicated in pay-to-play political shenanigans, but who hasn’t? And he hasn’t raised taxes and fees nearly as much as I thought he would. I was also impressed when he stood up to state employee unions and instituted much needed cost reductions. And even if he does end up jacking my taxes sky high, it won’t make me nearly as mad as if Judy did. That’s what democrats do and they don’t pretend they won’t, except on very rare occasions when they think their base isn’t listening.

Enough about politics. Let’s talk home improvements. Our place is really shaping up nice. I took a small foray into electrical work this morning and installed some halogen lamps under the kitchen cabinets. Now we have some much needed light on the counter tops as well as a little warmer ambiance. Laurie batted clean up by neatly concealing and securing the exposed wiring. It looks really good. Expect to be shown this masterpiece of amateur craftsmanship should you visit in the next week or so.

Take That Judy

Think you know everything you need to know about civic duty? Marry a social studies teacher. After some gentle coaxing by Mrs. Stephens I went and voted in my first primary election yesterday. She would've joined me, but she hasn't been able to register yet. Afterwards I was really glad I did. Turns out in addition to choosing which candidate I wanted to run for my party, there was a ballot initiative on the back. If you think ballot initiatives don't matter, buy a house. In any case I was able to give my vote against Judy "vote for me because I'm a professional politician" Barr-Topinka.

While I was there I ran into my condo association's president. She was one of the polling place volunteers. She said quite a few of the folks from our association turned out to vote. This wasn't a huge surprise since many of them are retired and could have easily made the time do so. By the same token, I suppose this is why many of the polling place volunteers were old enough to be my grandparents. Honestly though, it took all of 5 minutes to complete the ballot so really anyone could make the time to do it. On the way out I asked for three of the "I Voted" stickers as a joke (you know, "vote early, vote often"). About half way to the car I decided no one south of Cook County would get it, so I tossed them.

I haven't checked the results yet this morning, so I don't know if my vote might've made a difference or not. At the very least I won't be one of those people moaning about the choices on the ballot come election time. Even if my guy didn't get the nomination, I was able in some small way to let the guy or gal that did know I wasn't impressed.

Picture Pages

As promised (or threatened, depending on your point of view) links to the rest of the honeymoon travel pics.

The Stay in Portland

The Stay in Rangely

On the Way to Portland

On the Way Home

Return to Normalcy

Our 15 minutes is finally over. Actually I think we managed to milk another 30 or so with the little lunch everyone threw for us upon our return. Thanks again guys. We're still reeling from everyone's genorosity and good will. It's certainly helped soften the blow of having to resume reality. Getting to curl up with my wife every night hasn't hurt either. If that last little sentiment was too sweet for you, just keep reading. The espresso's next.

As successful as I've been at avoiding political discussions on here of late, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bring the streak to a crashing halt due to a couple of statements I heard this week that have really stuck in my craw. The first, while stated in jest, still compels me to comment. "Who needs freedom of speech when you have free healthcare?" Later someone responded, with more sincerity, "I'd be happy with at least one of those right now." Now I'm not going to address the assertion that we have no freedom of speech in this country. I don't think it's debateable. We have it. No, we don't have freedom to speak without the possibility of consequences. Nor do we have the right to be heard--except maybe when Unlce Kasim calls from Yemen on the NSA party line. Could it be better? I wouldn't know. We've got it as good or better than it's ever been in the course of human history, so please spare me the hysterical parallels of the Bush administered U.S. with fascist regimes. Ironically the only people I ever hear talking about fascism and tyranny are those who are free to. Those who actually live under oppression can't. Well crap. I went and addressed it anyway.

But back to healthcare vs. speech--let's say, for argument's sake, that we only had our choice between free healthcare and free speech. Which would people choose? I know I'd choose free speech, but then I'm healthy save for a slight paunch that seems to be growing about my midsection. But there is ample evidence to suggest that thousands, possibly millions of people besides myself would rather have free speech than free healthcare. I'm betting 100% of Cubans who braved shark infested waters in row boats to escape to Florida prefer free speech to free healthcare. Likewise I'd bet good money that 100% of the people who were shot or captured trying to get over the Berlin Wall prefered free speech to free healthcare. And the list goes on; Soviet defectors, Chinese immigrants (actually China is switching to a more market based healthcare system now), and North Korean peasants. Unfortunately nearly all of that last group can't be reached for comment at the moment, so I don't know for sure. Of course if anecdotal evidence from some who have escaped Kim Jong Il's healthcare utopia is true, seeking medical treatment in North Korea could land you in an observation chamber at a nearby chemical weapons testing facility.

The other burr in my saddle comes courtesy of Judy Barr Topinka. For those who may not know, Ms. Topinka (IL's Republican State Treasurer) is seeking her party's nomination for governor. In response to the charge that she's too much of an insider to have the people's good at heart she replied, "Who would you rather have inside the governor's mansion? You wouldn't take your car to be fixed by a plumber? Why wouldn't you hire someone who knows the ropes of government?" Admittedly this is paraphrased but the gist was that she was qualified precisely because she was an insider.

First of all, I'm sick of hearing the mechanic analogy. I've heard more than one politician besides Ms. Topinka use it whenever term limits are brought up. But, what really bugs me is the notion that somehow a politician's primary job is to be in touch with the machiavellian world of political process than it is to be in touch with the process of life out here. No Judy, I don't want someone who's been assimilated into the political machine. I would very much prefer to have a governor or congressman that has spent the last 10 years or more of their life trying to make ends meet like me and who still has a memory of what it's like to be subject to the laws and regulations that insiders foist on the rest of us. I would very much prefer all congress people to be neophytes that haven't figured out how to "work" the system and still suffer from the naive notion that the poeple who elected them are their primary business. You see Judy, nearly all mechanics still drive cars, that's why I trust them. You haven't been a citizen for decades.

And that's all I have to say about that. I will be posting links to more pics from the trip very soon. I just need to do some doctorin' on them and they'll be ready. Stand by.

No Sleep Till Niagra

Before I begin, a note of gratitude (which he will never see) goes to Trooper Haskins of the New York State Police. For "being a man about it" and owning up to the fact I was in fact speeding, he reduced the charge on my citation to that of "disobeying a traffic sign" vs. an actual speeding ticket. His generosity is most appreciated. Of course I haven't seen what the fine for disobeying a traffic sign in NY is, so my gratitude may be premature. Still, Tropper Haskins seemed genuine so I'm going to trust he truly has cut me some slack.

We drove our asses off today. We left Rangeley, ME at 9 a.m. and just pulled into Niagra Falls, NY about 1 hour ago--10:30 p.m. Let me just say that going out Maine's backdoor, while affording us vistas of staggering beauty, was a royal pain in the ass. Especially if you're trying to get somewhere fast. Really, there is no way to get anywhere fast if you're coming down from the mountains of Maine headed west. There are few if any interstates running east to west until you descend into upstate New York.

We threaded our way through the Rangeley Lake region of Maine, across the White Mountains of New Hampshire, down the border of N.H. and Vermont on US 91 and across the extreme southern portion of syrup country into Albany, NY. And that was just to get to I-90. That alone took us until about 3:30 p.m. As I said, the drive was through the most amazing country I've seen this side of the Rockies, but it was at a speed that seemed covered wagon-esque.

The conditions of the roads along this route limit speeds to 40 or 45. And this has nothing to do with weather. The asphalt is buckled from the temperature extremes yielding a ride not unlike that of what I imagine a covered wagon might have felt like. Even with the stunning scenery the ride got really old after about three or four hours. I never thought I'd be so happy to see an interstate in my life.

New Hampshire was by far the worst. Considering they have no sales tax (or income tax?) it's little wonder why. As conservative as I'm often accused of being, I still believe in tapping the public for at least enough money to keep the roads from jarring your teeth out. Of course, N.H.'s motto is "Live Free or Die". It should be "Live Free or Die From Bleeding To Death After You've Bitten Your Tounge Off Driving to Grandma's."

Vermont, as evidenced by the comparitively smooth ride we enjoyed, does have some sort of public levy to care for the roads. And the state is every bit as quaint as the Newhart Show implied. We stopped at The Royal Diner in Brattleboro, VT for lunch. This culinary shangri la in the middle of maple land had an eclectic menu that included a garlic cheese black angus burger, homemade baked ziti, whole belly fried clams, lasagna and a wide variety of shakes, sundaes and malts crafted with ice cream made on site. I've never had a harder time deciding what to order.

Another reason our trip took a little longer than it might have was due to the detour we took to visit Oswego, NY--my birthplace. Mom had me there while dad was on a S.A.C. base in Thailand. She was staying with her parents at the time. Later she and I moved to Illinois when I was about 6 mos. old to stay with dad's folks until he got back, so I have no recollection of Oswego. Unfortunately it was dark by the time Laurie and I pulled into town and we were both wiped. All we had time to for was a quick recon of the spot where I entered the world--the aptly named Oswego Hospital. I really wish I could've seen the city in the daytime. Oswego sits on the southern shore of Lake Ontario and boasts a fairly good sized commercial port. It has to be beautiful. But since we needed to get to Niagra, we couldn't stick around. I have every intention of flying back soon and exploring it more thoroughly.

Sack time. We've got 10 more hours on the road to go. At least to get to Dyer, IN and the inlaws. We probably won't get home until Sunday. As wonderful as these two weeks have been, I can say without reservation, I can't wait.

Wedding Pics

You may or may not have found your way to these from the link in my previous post, but just in case here's the direct route.

Today we head into Portland, ME for a couple of nights. Portland is practically home away from home for me and I'm excited to show Mrs. Stephens around.We'll be staying at the Eastland Park Hotel which has a rooftop bar with a commanding 360-degree view of the city, Casco Bay and the islands. Portland also happens to be the hometown of Bob and Liz. They're the ones who gave us the 4-days in their timeshare cabin up in Rangely. We'll probably hang with them some when we're not exploring the Old Port or Back Bay.

In other news I've been having trouble remembering what day of the week it is. This has been a great vacation.

Bye, Bye Beantown

The trek continues. Tonight we're in Wells, Maine doing laundry. Really it's nicer than it sounds. Laurie booked us in a nice little condo with a view of the salt marshes and the sea beyond. It was snowing huge flakes just a second ago. I imagine we'll have a nice little dusting when we wake up tomorrow.

Boston was great. We became intimately familiar with the T--Boston's subway/trolley system. Among the highpoints was a visit to the North End, a visit to the North Church and a great time out with Laurie's old pal, Mark. This was the guy who's going to MIT. He and his girlfriend took us out to a hole-in-the-wall mexican place that made a killer magarita. Afterward we got some hot drinks and he showed us around MIT's campus, which incidentally is amazing. We hope to go back sometime in the spring or summer and check it out again.

Other than that, I really don't feel like writing much more. I'll let this link to a flickr set fill in some of the blanks.