Work Social Functions

My work had a half day social function at a local brew-pub where everyone was "strongly encouraged" to go.  I did not go.

I seem to be infected with some idiopathic melancholy torpor recently.  I guess that is a very verbose way of saying that I haven't been in the best of moods and for no reason.  I will chalk this up to nothing more than the ebb and flow of Midlife Malaise; likely just a local minima that will be gotten over quickly, or certainly no later than vacation which isn't too far off.

I'm not sure that hindsight brings clarity, or if it just brings a new wrong perspective, but I tried to think back on which years were overall good and which were overall bad.  That kind of binary categorization is impossible, so I created an arbitrary scale to do this.
I started it in high school - as the floor for how bad things could be.  There are many situations that could be worse than high school, but it still represents some kind of sub-basement for mental well-being.

There is a lot of noise in any given year, with some highs and some lows, but college was definitely a high point - potentially even artificially so.  Constantly on the steep side of the learning curve.  Always busy - trying to work and go to school full-time.  A lot of interesting friendships, even if some of them were short-lived and/or alcohol fueled.  No public shaming due to wearing the wrong shoes.  Even college-poverty wasn't too bad since there was a group catharsis in not having any money.

Graduation brought a somewhat painful job search, and eventual employment in a vocation relevant to my degree.  While this should have been even better than college, I was hired into a really, really bad situation.  "Oh, what have I gotten myself into."

I wasn't sure full employment could have gotten worse while still drawing a paycheck, but it did.  At this point, the fish started to finally see the water he was swimming in...

A change to a new job brought renewed hope that college wasn't wasted and was almost certainly worth the time, energy and money that went into it.

Things progressed along until the onset of Midlife Malaise.  Is this really it?  Thankfully, this drop in mental well-being isn't continuously permanant.
But this exercise does bring up an interesting point.  When talking about the midlife crisis, experts usually show a "U-Curve" with a minimum for life satisfaction somewhere around the late 40's to early 50's.  This may be right in aggregate, but for any one individual, there is a lot of noise - with life positives along with the negatives.  I suppose some of these can even happen simultaneously.  The low in the "U" may actually represent the depth and frequency of the low points in the noise.

More malaise can bring things down when it lasts beyond a certain amount of time.  The new house has overall been an improvement but was somewhat offset by the painful selling of the old house.  I sometimes wonder if I'm destined to live next to noisy people, or if everywhere just has noisy people?
I'm not sure if I'll still think this when I look back in a few years, but the last couple years have been fine.  Not great, but not bad either.
Still, adult life can get pretty monotonous.

While I would like to believe that life's dizzying highs and crushing lows appear to be smoothing out as I get older, it is probably dangerous to think that.  Involuntarily losing my job or being put in prison would probably be a new crushing low.  A financial windfall or falling ass-backwards into a perfect job could be a new dizzying high.  Outside of something like that, it does appear that life's highs and lows are smoothing out as I get older - and maybe that is where the midlife malaise begins to taper off.  Maybe.

Instead of going to the work social outing at the brew-pub, I sat forlornly at my desk and kept busy.  It isn't that my workload is so heinous that I couldn't afford the time to go, I just didn't want to, and I'm approaching a place in my life where that sometimes takes precedence.  Far too often, I have ended up trapped at these types of work functions talking with someone I really did not want to talk to or talking about a subject I really don't have any interest in talking about - sometimes both.  The conversations that I may want to have are nearly impossible with the threat of management around every corner; standing around without anything relevant to say is a near certainty.
The situation can also be very similar to the grocery store where I run into a casual acquaintance.  After the requisite banal pleasantries, we both return to picking out onions and mangos, inspecting them intently to avoid eye contact again - only to run into this same person in the potato chip aisle.  And the frozen food aisle...  When it happens the third time, I almost want to confront the situation and scream, "Look, one of us is going to have to finish grocery shopping another day because this continued interaction is just getting terrible for both of us."  Throw in enough brew-pub alcohol to be annoying, without enough for sufficient social lubrication and these things can just get painful.
While my life has no shortage of awkward interactions, I just don't see the need to purposefully put myself in those situations.  Yes, I'd rather just stay at work.

It's Good To Have Farmer Friends

Fall started this past week, but it sure doesn't feel like it.  Temperatures have been in a summer-like range of near 90F.  This is matched with a July humidity, bringing late afternoon pop-up rain and thunderstorms.  I think the air conditioner has run more in September than in August.  A heat wave is defined by dictionary.com as:  a prolonged period of abnormally hot weather - which seems to qualify.  The World Meteorological Organization has specified that a true heat wave must be at least five consecutive days where the maximum temperature exceeds the average by nine degrees.  So a finger-wagging meteorologist may point out that it isn't really a heat wave yet, but it has been steamy.  Al Gore says this is inconvenient as he continues to live a delightful 1% lifestyle.

It was seven years ago right now when the agreements were signed to buy my current house.  That day was hot as well, but it was a more typical late summer dry heat.  Among the things I didn't think too much about when I bought my house was the wadi running through the property.  Buying a house is fraught with unseen pitfalls.  Nothing will prepare someone for the reality of moving into a new place.  Real estate disclosures will be cloaked in words to minimize negatives while following the letter of the law.  Home inspectors make money on home sales - realtors will never recommend inspectors who honestly show all flaws resulting in more difficult home sales.  The home-selling industry is designed around making unlikely sales go through.  The buyer and seller are just along for the ride at some point.  But I have no complaints about my current house; nothing beyond a minor annoyance has reared its ugly head and after seven years, any issues at this point are mine and mine alone.
Over the last seven years, the wadi behind the house has slowly filled it.  My back yard is in a local low spot so it sees a fair amount of water.  When I moved in, the ditch was fairly deep and held  quite a bit of water.  Over that time, it has slowly filled in with silt and dirt.  This has been exasperated by drain tile that has failed.  From what I understand, there was a county project years ago which ran two drain tiles on either side of the wadi along its whole length (including far beyond my property line).  This drain tile has had multiple failures.  Two years ago, the result was a nearly year-round swamp.
"You don't know how lucky you are to live by a swamp."  Vic (Dan Aykroyd from the movie Neighbors)
I ended up digging a small trench from the fail drain tile to what remained of the wadi which deswampified the back yard, but created new minor issues as the wadi was largely flat.

In theory, I lease out the back part of my property for farming by a local farmer.  In practice, he has successfully traded capital improvements every year instead of actually paying me.  The actual dollar amount wouldn't be much so I'm OK with it, but the last two years he had issues doing what he said he would do.  This occasionally rankled me.  I asked him to dig out the wadi, not knowing if he was going to, but a few days ago he showed up with his backhoe, digging out a nice smooth trench.  I was thrilled.  This also gave me piles of dirt to fill in some low spots in my yard, especially where the dogs have dug to get at some critter.

I have been surprised how much water has infiltrated the wadi already given the lack of any real rain.  No doubt this is due to the failed drain tile.  It will be interesting to see what happens to this in the spring.

A secondary benefit of the return of the wadi is that I was able to bush-mow the property right up tot he edge of the ditch.  This will make it look better all winter and will help keep both weeds and vermin down.

A lot of the rural roads in the area are being repaired (and I use the term loosely) by chip seal.  I first encountered chip seal on my motorcycle road trip to Alaska and learned to live with it in the barely unfrozen North.  Locally though, they use a phenomenal amount of gravel compared to the scarcity mentality I saw in the Yukon.  There were piles and ridges of gravel several inches deep in some places.  I was almost home riding through the stuff with serious pucker-factor when a nearby neighbor started tail-gating me.  I'm not sure if she knew it was me or not, but it didn't help the situation much.  On a heavy motorcycle, recently layed chip seal might as well be a loose gravel road.  It might as well be a greased road.
Once swept up and hardened, chip seal isn't too bad, but I'll probably be going out of my way to avoid some of the worst roads, especially the ones that are lightly travelled where it may be weeks before excess gravel is swept up.

I guess even with the hot weather, the chip seal is a sign of the changing seasons.  Leaves are starting to fall.  Bean fields are becoming yellow.  Corn is dying.  Maybe fall is here?

Other People's Dirt

This past week was consumed by a funeral for a member of SO's family.  He had some health problems, but it was sudden.  This was the second death in the family this year.  While I heard it many times, I managed to go through the whole event without saying something like, "Nice to see you, wish it wasn't under these circumstances."  This is the funeral corollary to, "It is a good thing we have weather since most people couldn't start a conversation without it" - often attributed to Mark Twain.

There were many pictures at the visitation and funeral.  And for the first time in a quite some time, I saw what I always presumed was the high school senior picture of the deceased.  I clearly remembering seeing this picture on one of my first visits to SO's home town and parent's house.  My impression at that time was that he looked impossibly old in that picture.  Only a few years removed from high school myself at that time, I thought my senior picture looked like an immature child in comparison.  I also barely saw the resemblance to him.

The dogs accompanied us on the trip to the funeral.  They add a lot of aggravation, but I hate kenneling them when they don't need to be and they offer a nice diversion.  I was mostly a piece of furniture at the visitation - sitting there taking up space as throngs of people that I did not know passed by.  A few glanced and nodded at me, as they would look at a couch and wonder about the utility of such an uncomfortable object.
"I am going to run back to let the dogs out for a few minutes."

We stayed at a friend of the family's house.  It was a nice house on a rural road.  It reminded me a lot of my own house.  Comfortable.  Imperfect.  It was extremely generous that the dogs were embraced there.  It was extremely generous that I was embraced there, but the chance of me peeing on the carpet was considerably lower.  Considering the beagles' happy, boring routine, having a place to risk taking two dogs was extremely hospitable in addition to just being able to stay there.
The dogs behaved wonderfully - not only at the house but through the entire few chaotic days.

Looking at the few houses I was in around the time of the funeral, I was struck how immune we can get to our own hovels.  I couldn't take my eyes off a few cracks in the walls; we all have some cracks in our walls.  Maybe because they were so noticeable, but maybe because my own house has very similar cracks.  I'm comfortable with a little bit of grubbiness.  There is definitely a line that doesn't want to be crossed, but being in a pristine house with almost nothing out of place and little evidence of anyone being alive is suffocating.  Sitting in a place like that is like sitting at a funeral visitation while knowing almost no one.

I ran out of topics for the few people I did know soon.  I am, quite frankly, not very interesting.  Funerals make for the most painful small talk.
I'm socially awkward, not socially inept.  There were a few social blunders that I'm quite sure I'll be perseverating on for a while.

At the other end of the scale from immaculate house is the dwelling that hasn't been touched outside of the bare minimum for decades.  I try not to judge.  Not everything has the same value to everyone.

I think we could sort of measure what’s important to us by what we bother to keep stored.

But staring at that high school picture of the deceased, I saw something different.  Maybe my original impression was different at that time since black and white photographs bring with them an aura of sentimentality.  Maybe it was due to my self impressions at the time - and now.  I'm now over twice the age of that snapshot in time.
The funeral further convinced me what I already knew - we all have a dangerously flawed self-perception.
Or maybe it is due to the realization that everyone is faking it almost every single day.  I looked around at some of the family members I barely know - so many of them look like they have it all together.  A black suit will do that to a person.  I know that many of them don't have it all together;  some of them likely barely have the pieces sewn together behind the smile, nice car and perfect hair.
One elderly grandmother family member said the bit of grey hair I had made me look distinguished.  I wonder if that was supposed to be a compliment?  At her age, I'm not sure intentions are quite so deliberate.

Life goes on.  Despite my bad choice of words, SO's aunt agreed with me.

Honor Flight (and some thoughts on volunteering)

I originally heard about Honor Flight from the PBS TV Show Our Ohio.  I used to watch this show somewhat regularly.  Our Ohio is still on TV, but it does not appear that any new episodes have been made in a long time.  Or at least every time I see it when flipping past, it is one I easily recognize as something I've previously seen.

I signed up to be a volunteer guardian for Honor Flight several years ago.  I knew there was a backlog and so I wasn't surprised when I didn't hear much for a long time.  Then there were a few contacts about needing guardians for upcoming flights, but they were for times when it wouldn't work out for me.  This was followed by a prolonged period of time when I assumed I must have been dropped from the list.  As it turned out, flights had nearly stopped due to a lack of funds.  It shouldn't be too surprising that programs like Honor Flight are in greater need of money than volunteers.

A few weeks ago another call went out for guardians and as the time would work well enough for me, I agreed to participate.  Training was to be held right after vacation and was listed as "optional," but I just could not see doing this without as much information as possible.  The training was on a rainy Monday, and it was more of an orientation than a training, but it did come with enough relevant information to be worth it.  I also learned that the vast majority of guardians were going with a close family member or friend.  Guardians such as myself who were helping a stranger were by far the minority.  The tentative schedule had me as a guardian for a WWII veteran.  There was some apprehension in the whole endeavor, having a significant responsibility for anyone, let alone someone why may need a lot of help, is a significant responsibility.

On the morning of the Honor Flight, and after going to bed as early as I could the previous evening, I got up a little before 1:30AM and got ready.  Heading toward the airport and the chartered flight to DC, I found it surreal that the bars were still open and hootin' and hollerin' from the previous evening.  It was raining very hard which made the early, dark drive slower than it should have been.

After parking and making my way to the airport, I entered a somewhat chaotic scene with a semblance of order under the surface.  After some uncomfortable searching, I met Mr. W, a WWII vet.  He was mostly wheelchair bound but mentally quite alert; quiet but friendly.  After some chatting with him and his daughter, she left as the swirl of activity ebbed and flowed  around us.  Soon enough, the call went out to board the flight.  We breezed through TSA which was a good thing as I couldn't imagine fully screening every passenger, especially with some of the limited mobility of many of them.

Mr. W sat right up front in first class, and I took one of the first guardian-appropriate seats near the back.  It happened to be an exit row, and the extra foot room was nice.  It takes a lot of time and coordination to board the plane, and this continued through the day every time the plane or bus was boarded or unboarded.  This meant a lot of waiting around, but it was never painful to do so.
The flight took off and headed east.  As the plane flew, a gorgeous sunrise took shape over the rain clouds below.

Once at Reagan Airport, we boarded three buses to bring everyone to the memorials.  Mr. W's bag was grabbed by someone else which caused me some angst.  I felt like I had already made a mistake (even though it wasn't anything I did or didn't do) and it was raining pretty good with a fairly miserable forecast so Mr. W's rain coat would probably be needed.  As it turned out, Mr. W's rain gear was not in his bag, but I didn't realize that until much later in the day.  His bag was located quickly enough, but was never used throughout the day.  I ended up carrying everything and gave Mr. W the rain coat I had brought.

Not many of the other guardians seemed as enthralled with this as I was, but having a police escort through the day has to be one of the unexpectedly coolest aspects of the day.  Not only did that allow us to get to our stops extremely quickly - and this was important given the schedule combined with typical Washington DC traffic - but rolling through stop signs and red lights with police sirens was just plain a hoot.  It has ruined me forever; I'll never be able to look at big city traffic the same.  Those police exhibited very little humor for drivers who did not yield to us.

Our first stop was Arlington National Cemetery.  This was one of the few places I didn't get to see when I was in DC in 2003.  The rows and rows of white grave stones was sobering.  The buses stopped near the Tomb of the Unknown, and everyone got out of the bus to heavy rain.  I was wearing a disposable poncho, and Mr. W had my rain coat; neither of these were adequate for the heavy, cold rain.  Seeing the soldier, without identified rank, guarding the tomb in heavy rain was even more impactful than it would have been on a bright sunny day - it somehow seemed fitting.  The rain did not make it very comfortable for any of the viewers of the changing of the guard, but all the veterans and guardians were stoic about the rainy weather, as they were through the entire day.

The next stop was the FDR memorial.  Most of the program seems correctly directed towards WWII veterans, and FDR is both a large memorial and has a component directed toward WWII.

The third stop was to the Air Force Memorial which is probably one of the most impressive ones in the city.  Like the Washington Memorial, it can be seen from a great distance away.  It was also our lunch stop, but the continued terrible weather meant almost everyone ate on the bus.  The constant rain was getting to be painful.

The fourth stop was to the Vietnam Memorial, Lincoln Memorial and Korean Memorial.  This was right near the National Mall and other monuments in the area, but they were not viewed directly.  It was probably the longest stop and the Vietnam Memorial is terrible for wheel chairs.  The walk to the actual Wall is partially on a section with very small pavers separated by significant spaces - it was far too easy to get "stuck" on this walkway with a wheel chair.  When rolling, the uneven surface was like a rickety Conestoga wagon.
One really neat thing was the presence of an attache from the Korean Embassy at the Korean War Memorial.  Korean veterans in our group were given medals and thanks as they walked through.

Throughout the day, many of the stops had military or civilian groups present to greet and salute the veterans.  This was really neat to see - this was a trip all about the veterans and at one point I commented to Mr. W that he had had more hand shakes on that day than I probably had in the previous 10 years.  Washington DC has a lot of active military about and at just about every stop, they took time to thank the visiting veterans.

The rain was once again very heavy at this fourth stop, and many of the veterans cut their viewing short to get out of the continued awful conditions.  Making things worse, it was an atypically cold day as well.  I'm not sure how the weather affected the overall impact of the day.

The final stop of the day was at the WWII memorial.  This was under construction during my 2003 visit so I was glad to be able to see it completed.  It really is a nicely thought out and pretty memorial.  Mr. W seemed to really like it and thankfully, the rain stopped, and it even warmed up a bit.  We were able to spend quite a bit of time walking through the memorial and taking some pictures.

After the WWII memorial, we were off to a volunteer dinner at a local fraternal organization hall.
One of the things I really liked about the Honor Flight was the constant activity.  There was some waiting when boarding and unboarding buses, but everyone was always doing something.  Flying volunteers takes up precious space for veterans, so everyone was needed.  This contrasts with many previous volunteer efforts I've been a part of.
In most of my previous volunteer events, there are 24 people with enough work for 14 - meaning busy work for too many people or, more likely, standing around feeling like tits on a bull.  Some of this is hard to avoid as experienced volunteers can do stuff faster than training volunteers that may not be around very long.  One-time volunteers end up being superfluous.  It is at the point where I would rather typically donate money over volunteer.  As evidenced by the time it took me to become a guardian on an Honor Flight, it seems that funding is in shorter supply than volunteers even for programs that use volunteers effectively.
This phenomenon was on display at the dinner.  I'm not denigrating the dinner, as it was generous, tasty and a good time, but there were clearly more volunteers than were needed.  Do not set down the fork, for a volunteer is likely to scoop it up instantly along with the plate!
To be fair though, volunteering often is partially for the volunteer as well as the voluntee (if that can be used as a word).  This makes sense when helping to instill ethics and life lessons to young people, but it can appear a little more desperate with adults.

Once dinner was over, we made our way back to the buses and headed, now without our police escort, to the airport.  Once again through TSA, we boarded the plane only to find out the plane had been overfueled.  Previously unknown to me, planes can not land with too much fuel due to weight concerns.  Everyone on the plane was tired and even though we had mostly dried out, the rain hadn't helped the mood much.  But everyone kept good spirits as we waited to have some fuel pumped out of the plane's fuel tanks.
Soon enough, we were in the air en route to home.

The welcome home was overwhelming.  There had to be at least 1000 people there giving a military-esque welcome to the veterans.  Bands were playing, military members were there, "pin-up" girls were there - although in some kind of a tribute to, rather than facsimile of WWII pin-ups.  I don't recall seeing that many tattoos on pin-ups from WWII.  Watching the reaction of the veterans was interesting.  A few were visibly moved by the huge welcoming, some showed frustration at the end of the long day.
I found Mr. W's family and we talked for a while.  Things at the end of the day were a little chaotic, so I wasn't sure if I had any final responsibilities and eventually made my way to my vehicle.

On my way home, I noticed the same bars were still open.  I found this a little sad.
Once at home, I quickly went to bed.  The next day was almost one of recovery after being awake more than 24 hours sandwiched between two nights with little sleep.

With a few days past to reflect, I was really impressed with the Honor Flight Program.  Most of the participants, both veterans and guardians, were uninitiated so there was the potential for anarchy and/or lots of grousing.  Thankfully, there was little of that and just about everyone I interacted with maintained a positive attitude.  It really was a privilege to be part of the flight and helping a WWII Vet see the memorials.
I've gone back and forth as to whether I would be a guardian again.  It was a great experience, but I can't help but wonder how much better it is for the veterans to do this with a family member or a close friend.  To be clear, guardians pay their own way so it isn't a great way to experience DC unless what one is looking for is to grossly overpay for a flight to Washington and then see only what others want to see.  But again, the program is for the veterans, not the guardians.  There probably are some veterans who do not have the support needed to see this with someone close - and for them it appears there is a significant back-log of waiting volunteers.  I'd almost see it as more valuable to help a veteran participate with a friend of or family member who may not have the means to be a guardian, but I'm at the same time not sure how to square that with using that same money to help more veterans see the memorials.  These things are never easy...

I don't know that my day as part of the Honor Flight could be considered fun.  What I can conclude is that my day with Honor flight was a brutally long day, ferociously wet, and very rewarding.  I can only hope it was for all the veterans, especially Mr. W, as well.

Thoughts on the Total Solar Eclipse

I can never predict what moment will persevere in my memory.  On my way to Alaska nearly ten years ago I rode my motorcycle across the Teslin Bridge into the town of Teslin, Yukon Territory.  I vividly remember the long grated surface of the bridge, the gravel on the road after it, the gas station in the town of Teslin and the conversation with the man pulling a large trailer.  Why this sticks with me all these years later, and I can't clearly recall more recent and more momentous events is a mystery.
I think these small moments live on due to the perception of the entirety of the occurrence.  In addition to the physicality of the Teslin Bridge and the gravel, I also recall feeling almost in awe of the surroundings - how remote Teslin felt compared to anywhere else, how far I had come, how far I still had to go.

Closing in on two weeks after experiencing the total solar eclipse of 2017, the entire brief period of totality seems almost a blur.  But what I can still clearly see is that first instant after taking off my solar glasses and seeing the blocked out sun, seeing the solar corona.  On any normal day, I could use the thumb on my outstretched hand to dim the brightness of the sun or block the view of the moon, but during the eclipse, it seemed impossible to do this.  And yet, I was struck by how small the actual eclipse looked in the darkened sky.  All the pictures I had seen leading up to the eclipse were close-ups showing the amazement of the corona.  My own pictures also show little else.  What is missing is how small it looks.  I still question how something so small can simultaneously be so grand.

After staring at the eclipse for a few moments, I looked over at my camera which was already pointed at the sun since I was taking pictures through the partial eclipse.  I quickly grabbed a few photos and saw nothing in the images.  For all my preparations, I had forgotten to remove my solar filter.
Removing the solar filter, I successfully bracketed a few images.  I looked back at the eclipse, not wanting to spend too much time looking at it through an LCD camera screen.  I looked around at the foreign horizon.  Using practiced motion, I grabbed a few more images without looking at the camera - I could do this by touch since I knew exactly where the buttons were by that point.
It seemed irrational at the time, but I remember thinking that it was odd that something so visually divergent could happen without any noise.  The sun was so stunningly different, but the abrupt change happened without any noise at all.  It might have made more sense if it had come with a roar or a howl.
I glanced around again for a few moments, looking at the odd light and its effect on the objects immediately around me.  Turning back to the eclipsed sun, it was over.  The brightest, whitest sunlight I have ever seen instantly hurt my eyes.  They call it the diamond ring, but it should really be called eclipse pain.  In the shortest few minutes of my life, the eclipse was over.

The build-up to the eclipse was a big part of the event for me.  When I went to bed the night before, I had come to peace with the fact that cloud conditions would likely prevent any viewing of it.  I had rationalized that this was OK.  But it wasn't.  At least a year of planning had gone into this.  I'm sure there would have been group catharsis, but I wanted nothing other than to see the total solar eclipse.  I had to stretch out of my comfort zone a bit to make watching the eclipse under a perfectly cloudless sky surrounded by almost nothing a reality.  And maybe that helps to create memories that persevere - allowing them to occur outside of the easy.

I desperately want to again ride my motorcycle to Alaska, but part of me is also terrified to do so.  I don't want those brief vivid memories to be polluted by new ones that are less.  I can recall stopping in Kremling, Colorado for the night on my first time in the Rockies.  That also remains a very vivid memory.  I went through Kremling a few years later and saw it only as another in a series of picturesque Western towns.  I couldn't really see anything special about it on that second time through.  I can't begin to describe how depressing that is.
When I ride the Alaska Highway again some day, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of crossing the Teslin Bridge again.  The bridge might be the same, but the gravel will not be, and there is unlikely to be a conversation with a man pulling a large trailer.  It is exceedingly unlikely that he has any idea of how that conversation played a role in my memory of Teslin and of the Alaska Highway.  I sometimes wonder if I've ever been a part of other's snippets of memories.  Almost certainly.  We continue to pass unseen through small moments in other's lives.

In April of 2024, another total solar eclipse will cross the United states.  A lot can happen in seven years, but barring anything catastrophically momentous, I anticipate doing what I can to see it as well.  April is a less opportune time for an eclipse; nothing can be done about the weather.  I guess I can start to rationalize now that not seeing it won't be the end of the world - and it won't.
I am not likely to become an eclipse chaser, spending considerable time and money to view them whenever and wherever they occur.  But I understand now a little more why people pursue total solar eclipses with such vigor.

I'm not sure what will happen to my memories of the recent eclipse over time.  The strongest memory I have now, almost immediately after it is how short it seemed.  If it weren't for the time stamps on my images, I'm not sure I'd believe how long it actually lasted in the spot that I was standing.
And that first mental image of seeing the brilliant white solar eclipse against the deep, black sky is impossible to forget.  At least I hope it is.

Veterinarian Heal Thyself

It isn't the money.  It isn't the dog's age.  It isn't that I believe her age has been underestimated.  It isn't the time commitment.  It isn't the dog's overall health.  It isn't longevity versus quality of life.  It isn't the effects that the treatment might have on her.  It isn't her inability to tell me what she wants.  It isn't that she is an absolutely awesome dog.  It is everything.
After loosing my oldest dog a few months ago, my now-oldest has been diagnosed with cancer.  This is pretty devastating as I was anticipating her living as long as the last two did.  Even without cancer, that would be unlikely.

The veterinarian noticed a small growth during an annual check up.  The vet didn't seem too concerned, but suggested it be removed and tested just to be sure.  "Within the next few weeks."  Once I knew where it was, it bothered me and removal came sooner rather than later.
It was probably a good thing it was removed as the histology report stated it was a rather aggressive form of cancer.  I was shocked by this; I had anticipated it would be just another benign growth - all my dogs have had these to at least some extent.

My vet referred me to a veterinarian oncologist.  I made an appointment and took her to see the cancer doctor.  The oncologist laid out some of the options, and none of them sounded very good to me.  The best option would likely give her several additional months to live, with a high degree of variability.  It would not cure her, but it would not be impossible for her life to be extended by years.  Maybe.  But maybe it would do nothing.  Digging into this option told a very incomplete story.  There are few good controlled studies, and the studies that have been done have shown a lot of variability with some conflicting results.  While several months is a huge advancement to the medical profession in the face of a terminal diagnosis, it is small comfort in the big picture.  Quite frankly, this best option sounded like only a few steps removed from an uncontrolled medical experiment.  I guess that is why it is called a medical practice and not a medical certainty.  I wish I could say that cost was not a factor, but it was.
Questioning financial motivation of a pet's owner is easy.  Questioning the morality of spending tens of thousands of dollars on an aging pet when there are people without health care is easy too. Does anyone question the financial motives of the veterinarian and the clinic?  That nice new building is being paid for by someone though.  The vet is only there to help - right?
I was there with my dog to see the oncologist, but was feeling judged at some point through the conversation.

Surgery - what was already done and may be needed again is a treatment.  Our usual veterinarian was able to completely remove the tumor with some margins.  Success does not necessarily mean cure.
More judgement was seeping into the small examination room.

Radiation was not a good option on this type of cancer and would likely come with a significant reduction in the quality of life.
Chemotherapy, while well tolerated by most dogs has not historically been very effective on this type of cancer either.  "So would chemo be that much better than not treating at all?" after much discussion about that as an option.
"Not in my opinion," the Oncologist replied.
More judgement.

A veterinarian's job is to heal the patient.  A veterinarian's job is not to do nothing.  I've yet to meet a vet who I didn't believe was compassionate.  While personable and friendly, the oncologist was compassionate in the same perfunctory way that a vending machine is - there are all these options, all will be bad for me.
Maybe I'm judging the oncologist as well.

My dog was resting on the floor staring at the wall.  She didn't want cancer.  She didn't want aggressive or expensive treatments.  She wanted to be back in her familiar back yard.  She really just wanted to be at home on the sofa.

"We could start treatment today," the oncologist said.
But it was too much to think about right then.  There was too much information and not enough at the same time.  These decisions are never, ever easy; there is no help in making them.  I needed time to think.
The judgement was hanging thick in the silent room.

I looked away from the oncologist.  The freshly painted walls were done poorly; the judgement made it hard to see the small paint drips on the floor.

The only thing I could be sure of was that my dog was not judging either one of us.

"The cold compassion of bartenders, he came to see, was like that of priests:  universal rather than personal, with charity for all and malice toward almost none.  Firmly situated … between sacrament and communicant, they commanded rather than earned love, trust, dependence." - John Crowley

Dog Days

I don't believe any of the houses I grew up in had air conditioning.  A few of the apartment's I lived in during and after college had it, but I wasn't in those long enough for that to become the norm.
Admittedly, in Michigan where I grew up there are more cool nights than there is in a place like Tillman's Corner, Alabama, but summer's heat could still be oppressive with its evil friend humidity.  My parents always said the best thing to do was to put a fan in the window at night, either blowing cool air in, or warm air out overnight.  I always wanted the thing directly cooling me off.

We're in the midst of the dog days of summer.
dictionary.com defines the Dog Days as:
"The sultry part of the summer, supposed to occur during the period that Sirius, the Dog Star, rises at the same time as the sun: now often reckoned from July 3 to August 11."  Sultry...  Reckoned...
I've always been partial to the definition from the William Armstrong's Sounder, even if it is incorrect:
"the heat is so bad the dogs go mad"
I'm not sure if she's mad, but my dog clearly lets me know when the walk gets too long during the dog days.  She knows where the shady spots are along the road and what to do when she gets there.

This past week has had a brutal combination of heat and humidity.  Lows overnight were around 70.  And while highs were only around 90, humidity was almost tropical in nature with dew points above 70 degrees at time.  The hot and humid days can be ugly, but the nights can be near hateful - I'm reminded of the first few years after moving to Southern Ohio.  If my memory is correct, I moved into my house in February, with the huge opposing furnace heating and drying the air.  As that first winter transitioned to spring to summer, the area showed what we were in for.  The dog days of summer were unpleasant.  Getting home after work to a house that never felt like it dried out.  My parent's counsel to use fans in the windows was augmented by fans blowing over the bed.  The house sat in a holler, so humidity would often pool in the slightly cooler, lower air.  The effect was cooler soupy air was pushed around overnight only to be turned into hot soupy air during the day.  Overnight thunderstorms would bring a separate set of problems.
I tried to remain stoic about it, "I've never had air conditioning."
"Well, how was sleeping last night?" Janet asks, smugly.
I didn't admit it, but it was miserable.  At that time, I probably could have afforded a window air conditioner, but it would have been a stretch.  And I wasn't sure how much additional cost would come with actually using it.

Eventually, Bill gave me his old air conditioner as he got his central system fixed as preparation for selling his house.  This was an enormous window unit - thankfully the house had large windows.  It was loud and shaky and it seemed to want to give up overnight, but the slightly cooler and drier air it created in the evening allowed sleep to come less fitfully on most nights.  For some reason, paper wasps loved to make nests in that window air conditioner.
That free unit was eventually replaced with a far more efficient window air conditioner upstairs and a second larger unit downstairs.  I've always hated window air conditioners though.  No matter how well they are secured, much of the construction of modern units is plastic and they seem a desperately weak security risk.  In my case, the risk was probably minimal for the second floor, but despite doing what I could to secure it, the ground floor always made me nervous.  And since getting really good sealing around a window air conditioner isn't easy, I always assumed it was a convenient entry point for bugs as well as burglars.
At some point, discomfort and anxiety made getting central air conditioning a better solution.  Quite frankly, it didn't cost all that much and by getting a heat pump it helped with winter bills as well.  But as the house was well over 100 years old, with several retrofits from what was likely the original fireplace and coal furnace heating system, all cold air returns (that did anything) were on the first floor.  Some cooling reached the second story helped by a fan at the top of the stairs.  But a window unit was still needed upstairs might have been helpful on the worst days.  I didn't know it at the time, but I was only able to enjoy the central air conditioning for a couple years until I ended up moving.

I'd like to believe I'm not soft, but I'm quite sure returning to a lack of air conditioning would be painful.  Childhood tolerance is long gone.  Still, not only have I lived for most of my life without air conditioning, but people have for millennia.  If there was a drastic change in circumstances, I could try to resurrect the stoic tolerance of my ancestry.
As Mark Chesnutt sang in  1990:
"These old dog days of summer
Lord, I'll be glad when they're gone..."