If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about our service…
What is it these days with businesses wanting to know how they’re doing? No matter where you go, who you see, what form you fill in or school you attend, there’s always some nosy person sticking a form or link in your face, begging to ask how things went, what they did right, wrong, fair-to-middling, or other such intrusive questions that you really don’t think hard and long enough to answer.
Take the other day, for instance. I had to go to the doctor. Nothing fancy, just a routine body inspection to make sure the organs weren’t grinding and bits weren’t falling off. Even got my arm stuck with a flu shot. Afterwards, I’m handed a clipboard. “Could you please fill this out?” says the nurse. “They want all of our patients to, nowadays. You know, to rate the service.”
I nod and smile, believing this is my opportunity to explode about my 3:15 appointment actually occurring at 4:10. That’d be admitting failure and besides, they already know they’d be inviting a lot more than negative responses. And it isn’t enough that patients have to fill out a lengthy questionnaire about the myriad of ailments you didn’t have, might have had or just plain had (aren’t they supposed to know this already?). They’d like to drain whatever we’ve got left in our pocket-protected pens and finish off our opinions of what was supposed to be an already lengthy process to begin with (let’s face it: NO ONE goes to the doctor believing they’re going to be in there for any less than two hours).
Then there’s the oil change I had the other day. What’s so mind blowing about a routine procedure for your car? Apparently, the place where I took it wants to know what they could do better. I really have no idea – change the little reminder sticker to a “Hello, Kitty” stick-on that blankly stares at you to take your Chevy in at 48,000? That questionnaire came in the form of a request. “If you don’t mind, could you take five minutes and go to our website and rate our service? It’ll take less than five minutes.” Having other things to do, I simply didn’t get around to it. Today, I received a phone call on both my land line and cell reminding me to do fill in that questionnaire so they can serve me better. To really get me in trouble, they called my husband’s cell, too. I guess they think a woman isn’t capable of knowing harassment when she sees it.
Amazon’s great for relentless pressure to rate your product, too. Sure, it’s terrific for books and larger items, like washer-dryers. But do I really need to review the rubber wristband for my kid’s watch? He’s going to break it anyway in about two days, and I only ordered it because I got a few CDs and it was convenient. Yeah, I get them too from every single online order I get – shows up in my mailbox that’s devoted exclusively to receiving quasi-necessary but easily forgotten emails.
Gas stations, chain restaurants, clothes stores, the babysitter…all of them need to know what I think about them. Is self-esteem in that short of supply these days? Do we really need to be patted on the back or smacked in the face? Why?
Of course, we all know the answer: Leave. Me. Alone.
The truth is, if someone’s doing a good job, they should be told about it. Praised, even. Same goes for bad work – boy, they ought to hear about it. Voluntarily. But why go asking and asking and asking? Yeah, sure, they’re going to tell you it’s all about providing you with better service. But does it really? I haven’t noticed anyone rushing to get my doctor to see me any faster. My oil change predictably gets changed every 3000 miles and the car still runs just fine. My life hasn’t been altered because of any basic, essential or throwaway service I’ve received anywhere, and that’s including the places where I actually did fill in the survey.
Tell you what. I’d love to write a short story on the person who’s filled out one too many surveys. Imagine a corporate hack processing all of these forms. He gets that one-off where the questionee provides blunt, tasteless answers. The hack checks out the person and winds up in some kind of cyber netherworld wherein he desperately tries to fulfill requests and never, ever gets it straight. Or the woman who answers a request with snarky comments. She trips down a portal and every snippety comment she makes comes back to bite her. What kind of world would those people inhabit? Or take the classic stoning scene from Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery.” Instead of stones, the woman has thousands of anonymous hands shoving questionnaires in her face. Her inability to gauge billions of satisfying or unsettling performances, accompanied by a pen with a very short supply of ink, causes her hand to tremor, leading to an exploding brain and quite messy demise.
Now imagine you. There you are, paying the tab at Blammo Burger, when the chipper, youthful customer service assistant asks you if that cheese-onion-sausage-kale-acai-pilchard beef burger met your definition of yummy. How you gonna respond?
Oh God, what’s it been…nearly three weeks? That’s what happens when you’re surrounded by utter turmoil. No, nothing horrible happened. Just a lot of stuff going on and on and on. Adding to that, I’ve VERY DETERMINED to finish my fifth rewrite of my book so that my agent can go out and sell it already. Yeesh! I get so caught up in trying to snip a bit here, swap out a word there, punch up this bit and calm that bit down that next thing you know, all this time has passed. The good news is that I’m getting there and hope to really end the rewrites SOON.
But in the meantime, I’ve taken a break here and there to clear my head and bleary eyes. Last Saturday night was one of those opportunities. I felt like watching a movie but as we flipped through our various overpaid channels, the only things worth watching was “Star Trek – The Search for Spock” and “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Okay, so we can pretty much quote all the lines in each movie. And hey, we could have downloaded something. Yeah, yeah, but that would’ve taken effort. In the end, we went with “RHPC.”
After all, it’s Science Fiction, right?
Who doesn’t have a story to tell about this film? Was it your first midnight show? Did you remember to carry all the accessories and toss/hurl/light at the right moments? Someone prompt you on the right times to say the right lines?
My first experience with this film was in some theatre in Manhattan…I have no idea which one. I’d like to say it was the Waverley, but I’m probably wrong. All I remember is my friends and I carried in a whole bunch of stuff, didn’t know what to do with it, fiddled around and wound up tossing things everywhere and squirting the water gun in the wrong direction at people who weren’t happy we did. Next time, I got it straight. Got everything cued up and made sure I was on the ball. After about the ninth or tenth time, I was a pro. And no, I didn’t go every Saturday night – just when it seemed like the right thing to do. See, you could go by yourself to one of these shows and no one’d notice or care. That’s the beauty of Manhattan – you do what you want and it’s cool, man.
I got to admit, Tim Curry looked really splendid in his getup as a Transylvanian Transvestite. The role suited him. And you know what? Barry Bostwick and Susan Sarandon did too. They’re all forever locked into their own time warp, playing one of their early roles over and over again, never aging, never breaking out in other roles, doomed to live in the same crazy environment until…until…it’s time to do the time warp again.
Once, I had the opportunity to see “The Rocky Horror Show,” the play upon which the film is based. My friend Carl just happened to get tickets for a midnight showing of it. See, twice a year, Broadway theaters put on performances for just their own – usually at or after midnight. Once all the theaters go dark, one stays open and puts on a performance for those who work the shows – cast, crew, house staff. Often the money raised at the door is given to a particular charity. Carl took me to one of these performances. We had fantastic seats (he knew someone, of course) and the narrator, the iconic Dick Cavett – stood about four inches away from us, reading his part. As we entered the theater, we received a bag of all the proper accessories to make the performance complete. Carl HAD NEVER SEEN THE MOVIE and so I had to go through the bag and let him in on when one uses the contents.
Oh God, what a great evening that was. I have to say it’s much better than watching the usual live performers who act out the movie in front of it…although there’s a lot to be said for them, too. As I hopped out of my cab at 3:00 am, I was awful glad I took the next day off from work (it was a Friday, anyway) and it seemed like I was in on something. A secret club, maybe.
Now, there’s a tribute to the 40th anniversary of the movie. YouTube had this posted from NBC’s “Today Show”:
It gives you the rundown of the 40 glorious years this movie’s been on screens throughout the world.
But perhaps the most important thing from the film is this: its underlying message. It’s a good one to carry around with you, no matter where you go or what you do.
I’ll admit I’m the first person who hates flying, but I do it anyway. That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the vessels that transport people from A to B. However, the winged method of transportation I’m talking about here are joyrides of a different kind – military style.
Yes, this past weekend Stewart Airport hosted the New York Air Show, a parade of the latest and vintage military aerial vehicles dating back to World War II. My husband, Andrew Chattaway, a photographer, shot all of the pictures you will see (except the one above – I did that). Andrew, me and our son Matt braved the heat and crowds of 15,000 people to get up close to classic planes and helicopters. I even had the chance to go inside a Chinook and sit in the pilot’s seat. Despite $3.00 bottles of water, parking about a two days’ journey away and standing the entire four hours we were there, we had a magnificent time.
Here, let me show you some of the sights of this fantastic show. And if anyone’s looking to do research for space vehicles, you’ll find plenty of inspiration here!
Credit: Andrew Chattaway
Credit: Andrew Chattaway
This is a beautiful example of a B-Class Bomber from World War II with its payload doors open.
Credit: Andrew Chattaway
Here’s a U.S. Marine Corps AV-88 Harrier. This bad boy’s totally cool feature is that it hovered over the runway for what seemed like ever, much to the crowd’s appreciation.
Credit: Andrew Chattaway
U.S. Army helicopter rescue demonstration, achieved in mere moments.
Credit: Andrew Chattaway
Geico Skytypers do an amazing job of scrolling trails and daredevil stunts
Credit: Andrew Chattaway
Old-fashioned stunt flying that made everyone, us included, hold our breath.
Credit: Andrew Chattaway
The U.S. Navy F-18 Super Hornet flies gracefully in just about any direction – straight, sideways or upside down.
Credit: Andrew Chattaway
Here’s a U.S. Air Force F-22 Raptor really showed everyone that it pretty much could do anything, including blast out our eardrums. It went past us at 700 miles per hour and left such a retort that my ear, blocked by my hands, banged anyway. Take a look at this thing – it really seems like some kind of alien attack vessel, you know, the kind that comes down by the millions from the mother ship hovering just above our atmosphere.
Credit: Andrew Chattaway
At the end of the show flew a top-of-the-line WWII fighter plane next to the F-22 Raptor. At first glance, it doesn’t seem like much of a comparison. Yet both flew proudly and with such grace, it really was a marvel to watch. The F-22 slowed to keep in time with its much older companion, but it didn’t take away from the fact that both protected our nation and allies.
Well, I hope Andrew’s photos inspire you to write some really good speculative sci-fi, military sci-fi, what your father did during the war (any) or present you with the opportunity just to marvel at some really incredible feats of aviation engineering. Enjoy!
I’ve been back for a week, yet I’m struggling to figure out what to write in this blog. I’ve so much to say about Pluto, the near miss up in the ISS and Ant-Man, but my thoughts keep drifting back to my recent vacation. So why not blog about that? It was, after all, the last subject of my blog.
Andrew and I took a trip that amounted to 4000+ miles/6437+ kilometers, driving through New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, all in 15 days. For those of you who are unfamiliar with such places, check it out on a map. Looks doable, right? That’s what we said. And sure, it is. However, possibilities always come with caveats and, in our case, ambition met with reality. Our car ate up the miles and burned through its recent oil change all in one journey, but it didn’t complain once.
I have to tell you, it was an AMAZING adventure that I hope to repeat…just not all at once. Be that as it may…
We started out one early morning and drove clear up to Maine in one shot – nine hours – and settled in Freeport, Maine, home of L.L. Bean and their grammatically incorrect sign, unless you really don’t want people kissing outside your store:
It’s a charming town, so we stayed overnight, shopped a bit at the 24-hour L.L. Bean, then continued on the next morning through the vast expanse that is Maine. Traveling along State Highway 9, we discovered its beauty – and its remoteness. Feeling hungry and needing a pit stop, there wasn’t a single place to pull over and eat. Sure, there were a few convenience stores with take-out menus, but no toilets. Luckily, we found a place just when our bladders and stomachs nearly gave up hope. About an hour and a half later we arrived at Lubec, where we crossed into Canada.
Up until relatively recently, Americans and Canadians had to show only a driver’s license to cross the border. Now, we need passports or an enhanced license, which contains much of the same information one has on its driver’s license embedded in it. But that doesn’t stop anyone from enjoying each other’s nation’s treasures.
Our goal was Campobello Island, where Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt had a summer cottage (a term I’ll use loosely) and also the location where he caught crippling polio that prevented him from walking for the rest of his life…but didn’t stop him from becoming the greatest American president ever.
From there, we took a tiny ferry across to Deer Island, and because the tide wasn’t going the right way, we missed the world’s largest natural whirlpool – looks like a sink draining. Another ferry put us into St. John, NB, and quite possibly the worst motel room we’ve ever had, ever. But it was only for one night and the drive to it was quite beautiful – saw a moose! – and then it was up to Moncton.
We eventually wound up at Confederation Bridge, a bridge so long it took three songs playing on the radio to keep us entertained while we crossed. It was totally cool, though. PEI is one of these magical places that you trip upon at some point in your life and swear you’re coming back. Lucy Maud Montgomery felt sufficiently inspired to write “Ann of Green Gables,” and we were lucky enough to stay across the street from the home that inspired her to write said book.
The next day, we rode horses on some Martian-red sand and hopped a ferry from PEI to Nova Scotia, just in time to celebrate Canada Day.
Tides are insaaaaaane! Check out the below photo:
Now this is a low tide! Andrew’s in the lower right hand corner, crouching as he snaps a photo. That’ll give you some perspective on how empty the beach becomes after the water ebbs.
After Nova Scotia we drove north and headed to Newfoundland. We took the 8-hour ferry to Port-aux-Basques, giving me ample time to finish “The Caves of Steel” by Isaac Asimov, nap, eat and take artful selfies.
Hey, we were bored…
Newfoundland’s AMAZING. Nothing short of. However, take my advice – DO NOT plan to drive from Port-aux-Basques to St. John’s in one day. It’s something like 570 miles/913 km/12 hours in one go. Andrew and I are idiots. We said f*** it, let’s go. So we did. Along the way, we saw this:
…which led to this:
Yes, he boldly went where many moose dare to go – in the middle of the highway – and I was driving, but luckily he chose to run back into the woods and not total our car, but not before Andrew took his incriminating photo.
Because Newfoundland is packed with pristine beauty, we stopped frequently. Even took the time to nip into Terra Nova Provincial Park.
Finally, we came to St. John’s, saddle sore but relieved. Loved that city the moment I stepped into it, not because it was the end of the road (finally), but because it’s a happening town all lit up like an Easter basket under a Christmas tree.
However, we had a mission: icebergs. We were not disappointed.
There are no words to describe that iceberg that accurately conveys its size or majesty. That’s the ice field an iceberg leaves behind – just as dangerous as the iceberg itself. Later on our tour, Andrew and I were screeched – listened to a Newfie recite the history of the province, taught us a saying in Newfie tongue, we had to repeat said (incomprehensible) phrase, kiss a frozen cod and take a shot of rum. Afterwards, we received a certificate declaring us Screeched and honorary Newfoundlanders.
Alas, we turned around and headed back towards the ferry (another 13-hour drive) and over to Nova Scotia once more to enjoy Bras d’Or Lake and a coastal assortment of lighthouses, then a fun-filled evening in Halifax, only to have lunch in Moncton once again and depart Canada over a very friendly crossing at St. Stephen, New Brunswick to Calais, Maine. In fact, both towns are so close you see license plates from both New Brunswick and Maine in each town’s streets.
A quick stop in Bar Harbor, Maine and Sturbridge, Massachusetts over the next two days ended with our arrival at home.
It’s that time of year, in these parts of the world, at least, that one rises off of one’s bottom and seeks adventure, or a break from the routine, at least. This New York State person is headed out, way out, to the above pictured place. Can you guess where that might be?
Gas is relatively cheap now. Put that together with the American love of cars. The result? Pack it to the gills and set off somewhere that you’ve never been before. See, the advantage of a road trip is that you don’t have to juggle weights in suitcases to shove them in a 747’s cargo hold. You have the absolute freedom to take every single pair of pants you own, twenty pairs of shoes, all your T-shirts, most of your sweaters and about eighty percent of your socks and underwear. So what if the trunk won’t close – there’s no weight restriction!
Andrew and I decided we’d head off to Atlantic Canada: New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland. I’ve been to Canada a bunch of times, just not there. Andrew’s never set foot in the country. I happen to think it’s a fine place worth visiting over and over again. It is, after all, right next door.
As a kid, I dreamed of going to Nova Scotia after seeing such dramatic photos of the Bay of Fundy in a National Geographic magazine. Having grown up on the New Jersey shore, the Atlantic there seemed pretty tame, only eating up a relatively small chunk of the beach at high tide. Here, the beach either vanished entirely or the ocean disappeared. Wow! Years later, after Andrew and I married, he showed me the dramatic tides in Cornwall, England, where he’s from. That was pretty cool, but my curiosity about the Bay of Fundy never abated.
I trolled the Internet looking for cool places to visit and pretty soon, the itinerary filled up with New Brunswick – we’re crossing in Maine and I want to see Campobello Island (where President Roosevelt contracted polio and left him crippled). Then up to Nova Scotia, PEI and Newfoundland added spots in our must-see list. Tell you what, though, this website for Newfoundland won me over. It’s not like I didn’t want to see it, this quirky website made it impossible not to.
No trip is complete without a reading list. It’s going to be time for me to catch up on my classic sci-fi and I’m bringing along a selection of Asimov, Bradbury and one or two others to read, mostly on that 8-hour ferry ride between New Sydney, NS and Newfoundland. Andrew’s reading “Existence” by David Brin and “The Martian” by Andy Weir. I fully intend to abscond with both at some point.
But for now, as we set out on our epic adventure, I might just stare out the window and enjoy the sites on our own fair planet. Or look up and see my favorite constellations in different places. Cross fingers, there could be an aurora – sunspot activity’s been kicking up. I’m hoping to find enough wi-fi sites to do a few postings. And who knows? Maybe I’ll see one of those icebergs drifting by.
Wow. I can’t believe it’s been two weeks since I’ve actually written anything. Just goes to show you how quickly time flies when you aren’t paying any attention to it…and maybe should.
Truth is, I’ve been doing a lot of writing on my second novel and I got stuck in a loop – bad one. Knew what I wanted to write, but somehow, the words just refused to form. I have a wide screen display hooked up to my laptop. On the left is the outline and on the right is the actual first draft. The whole idea about leaving the outline up on the screen is to refer to it. And boy, did I ever. And still, nothing refused to come. Inspiration took a vacation, leaving me with no indication of blossoming imagination leading to elation.
Okay, I’ll knock off the rhymes. See? It’s wasting time, but fun. How many words can you come up with that flow well with “inspiration,” eh?
I wondered what could I possibly be missing? Over and over I read my outline and it seemed great. Nice plot development, character growth, trail of crumbs leading on the reader, no saggy middle, a great ending and bridge to the third novel in the four-novel series. And yet, my brain stuck like an ancient bug in amber.
So I did what any self-respecting writer would do: eat chocolate. That took about 30 seconds. Then I straightened up my desk. Two, three minutes. Got a cup of tea, pet the cat, spoke to several members of my household, went through my email, stared out the window. Still no good. Brain…dead.
All right, all right, I said to myself, what’s the problem. Part of it is, I’m a research whore. I can’t stop myself. If I need to find out how pins are made, often I’ll go back as far as the mine where the ore was extracted to create said pin. Will it help the plot to dig so deeply into whatever I need? Probably not, but one can never be too sure. I have a comprehensive notebook filled with details of all sorts. There’s a manila file chock-filled with info printed out. Articles saved on line. Sites bookmarked. All this so I make sure my characters speak with authority, even if they’re in the future and all this research will be ancient history.
Trouble is, none of this helped me stick a few sentences together and I was no further along in my writing.
ARGH!
Usually my husband’s good to bounce around ideas. We had a very good, very long chat about plot devices that might work. Lots of them had real potential. Hammering them out in my head, they all sounded better than great. But then, facing that blank screen?
ARGH!
“You know what,” my sister Gwen said, “what you mentioned, the plot devices that you and Andrew came up with, that is, are good. Really are. But they’re separate pieces. You need that simple elixir that’s going to drag the whole plot along.” Thing is, I thought I had that aspect hammered and nailed down tight. In a way, I did, but not fleshed out enough to make the whole series sing.
And then the helpful hint came that changed everything: Dorothy.
You know, as in “The Wizard of Oz.”
What was that one thing Dorothy wanted most of all, so much that she was willing to drag a cast of weirdos, witches, a wayward wizard and commit murder twice?
She wanted to go home.
That’s it. That simple.
Apply one good think to my lead character and…ah HA! Out it came, the shining star, the exploding microwave…my elixir.
And what a breakthrough! Suddenly, my mind won’t shut off. The words pour out of my fingers as they glide across the keyboard. All I do now, it seems, is come up with exactly what I want to say and get it out. No more stuck, no dead imagination, I’m going all guns blazing and seem to be making up for lost time.
Now, please excuse me while I get back to writing…
Yes, I know it’s a bit hazy, but look! There’s books behind me, a sure sign of a literary radio program. And if any of you have the inclination, you can follow this link to the actual show: http://livestream.com/accounts/3269343/events/4004757. It’s an archive of the webcast. At the very least, you get to see what I look like, or part of me, anyway, since my head was tilted towards our host. Hey, you get a fabulous view of my hair. Occasionally, my profile pops out, and there’s a bit where my entire face is visible.
It was quite an honor to be asked to participate in “Authors in the Round,” hosted by Karen Kenney Smith of Three Worlds Press. Gwen Jones (my sister), Allison Merritt and me were the featured speakers on this program. Gwen writes Women’s Fiction, Allison writes historical/paranormal/fantasy romances and I write science fiction (of course!). It was a lovely evening at this wonderful place named Murray Grove Retreat and Renewal Center in Lanoka Harbor, New Jersey, about a stone’s throw from the Atlantic Ocean.
Karen led us three writers through the writing process, including what made us sit down in front of a computer, let loose our imaginations and string words together like a pearl necklace. What’s weird for me is I never gave much thought to where all my ideas come from and how I managed to squeeze them out into coherent sentences. Talk about putting oneself out there: I even had to read some of the stuff I wrote. I might not be the best person to do that, but I sure had fun acting out one of my main characters. You can hear me talk about my work somewhere in the first 45 minutes, and again towards the very end. Gwen also reads from her work, too – from “Wanted: Wife” and a slam fiction piece for which she wrote. Allison speaks about her latest work, a Viking romance, although, unfortunately, I forgot the title, but it’s on the video.
Take note, fellow bloggers: I mentioned a few of you. I’ve selected a few followers with whom I’ve had some dialogue over writing and such. Wonder who you might be? Well, you can either go to 1:16:00 (approximate) on the link and hear my actual voice speak your names, or you can cheat and let me tell you: Hugh’s News and Views, D.R. Sylvester/Writes and Responsibilities, One Lazy Robot/AntVincino and The Editor’s Journal (I’m sorry I misspoke; I said “The Ladies Journal” instead). I wish I had time to mention all of my followers, for whom I’m very grateful!
So sit back, relax, watch the show and let me know what you think!
Say, if any of you are bored, happen to be nearby and want to participate in an internet radio show, come join me and my sister Gwen Jones LIVE in the studio! This broadcast will also be available online following the show. I can’t seem to get the below flyer to cooperate, but if you click on it, you can get it to enlarge so it’s legible.
Yours truly indicating future site of Starfleet Academy
Okay, so they haven’t even broken ground yet, much less found Vulcans with whom to work, but right behind me is the spot where, in 2161, The United Federation of Planets is going to set up shop and create a Starfleet Academy.
And just exactly what was I doing in San Francisco? Not casing out potential academy spots, for the future or other purposes. No, I accompanied my husband on a business trip and then we had ourselves a much-needed break.
Gretchen and Andrew obscuring an otherwise excellent view of San Francisco, sporting bike helmets
Andrew’s superior officer in command, a wonderfully generous and kind person, offered to guide us out-of-towners on a bike ride from Fisherman’s Wharf to Sausalito, a distance of roughly 8-10 miles, or 13-16 kilometers. As you can see, it was a gorgeous day, a bit breezy perhaps but fine enough to hop aboard our trusty rented bikes and fly like the wind over the Golden Gate Bridge.
Did I mention wind? At some points in the trip, gale-worthy gusts puffed up our jackets and nearly knocked us loose from our seats, but that only added to the excitement. As I chugged up the occasional hills leading to the bike-riding side of the GGB, I reminded myself that my endeavor paled in comparison to those future cadets intrepidly charging forward on into space. Tucked away in the back of my mind lurked the possibility of THE ONE, you know, that ginormous earth-sinking quake just waiting for the right moment to unleash its wrath. You laugh? My first trip to California (Los Angeles, that time) was punctuated by a 6.0 earthquake, forever imprinting in my mind it could happen again.
Shoving that nasty thought away, I turned onto the bike lane and wheeled my way across this legendary span. About halfway across, I turned my head and noticed the Pacific shimmer in the afternoon sun, and a fog bank in the distance waiting to spread across the bay and city. Sky, cloud and sea blended into an undulating band of grey matter converging on the horizon. Hmm, I thought. What mysterious being, event, alien ship or malady is concealed behind that? Will it strike now? Or have the decency to wait until I make it across before it generates wholesale terror?
For me, what’s also kind of remarkable about cycling next to the Pacific is that I grew up on the Atlantic – literally – at a seaside town in New Jersey. I’m used to seeing sunrises instead of sunsets over the ocean. That, and it’s a border, the west end of the continental United States, and beyond it lie countless islands, some states, territories and other nations, until it reaches Asia and Australia, among other places. It’s a bit humbling to regard the Pacific in those terms, but if I were on a spaceship, it’d be pretty meaningless in terms of distance. Earthbound me thought it was pretty cool, though.
Considering how fast the Enterprise will need to travel in order to traverse the wide expanse of space, I made good time across the bridge. In fact, I fairly whizzed across, compared to the nearly standstill traffic (there’s no such thing as rush hour here – it’s all blocked up, all the time). Then up ahead I noticed a sign: YOUR SPEED – 13 MPH. Me? Going 13 miles per hour? WOW! I’m a rocket ship racing into space!
All too soon, the span ended and we turned down a sharp switchback hill leading to the road that would take us into Sausalito. Now I was charging ever close to the future Starfleet Academy – I’d go right past it! Closing my eyes for just a second, I’d be crossing the paths of the places where Spock, Kirk, Scotty, Uhura, Sulu, Bones, Chekov and the rest got their start.
Finally, we pulled into Sausalito, a ritzy town housing rich, famous and other personalities. It’s not exactly my taste, but I’d manage it if forced to move there. All of us gathered in a group, parked our bikes and celebrated our tour’s end by heading right to the nearest cafe and downing glasses of cool beers or chilled California Chardonnays (and oh! They’re like sipping a slice of heaven). After, we headed back to San Francisco, ready for dinner and an evening of fun, all the while recounting what an amazing day it had been for such an adventure – all right here on Earth.
February 2 is a big day for a small creature. Lots of pressure rests upon the back of the above pictured groundhog. And yes, while he’s enjoying the lovely spring weather in the tree in our backyard, a lot depends upon his interpretation of when that season arrives.
Since it’s really not fair to pin the entire nation’s forecast on one groundhog, many locations throughout the United States and Canada have their own local weather hog. Their names usually reflect their hometowns, such as Punxutawney Phil (from Punxutawney, PA, where the movie Groundhog Day was set), or Staten Island Chuck (from Staten Island, NY), Balzac Billy (from Balzac, Alberta), Queen Charlotte (from Charlotte, NC) or Winnipeg Willow (from Winnipeg, Manitoba).
If it’s a cloudy day and the groundhog doesn’t see his shadow, it’s an early spring. Should that sun be blazing away in the sky, well, that’s enough to discourage any groundhog from enjoying the weather and so our rotund rodent friend retreats to the burrow. Counterintuitive? Yeah, I think so. I mean, why would anyone beat a quick exit from the sun unless they forgot their sunscreen?
Since I’m in the Hudson Valley, I generally take my predictions from Staten Island Chuck. I seem to remember there being a closer chuck, but I didn’t happen to hear what his prediction might be for spring, so I’m sticking with SIC. Seems that he called for an early spring and went back inside. Or maybe he was a bit reticent in making any sort of prediction. You see, last year New York City Mayor Bill DeBlasio was invited to participate in the ceremony and held up the woodchuck/groundhog for the first time. Upon holding said animal, it wriggled from his grasp, fell, and died a few weeks later. This year? Bill watched.
But really, I’d have to say I agree with what SIC predicted. It seems like we’re on a Monday snowstorm schedule. For the past few weeks, we’ve had snow, and just enough to close the schools and prevent me and Andrew from driving to work (but not from our desks at home). It refuses to snow on the weekends, or if it does, it’s on Sunday evening when we’re attentively watching Downton Abbey. The last thing I’m wondering is how I’m going to get to work, it’s how anyone finds Mary so fascinating when she’s got to be the least passionate, sex-craving person on the planet, and yet she attracts men in droves (it’s the money, surely).
I digress.
There is no weather science behind the groundhog, nor do they receive any special instruction from their elders that bestows upon them all the magical powers they’ll need to tell us to go get more salt for the driveway and gas for the snowblower. It all came from a European tradition involving a badger. Pennsylvania Germans began their tradition here in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with the first recorded prediction noted in 1841 from Morgantown, PA (he didn’t say what the groundhog thought about the weather, but I’m sure it wasn’t positive).
As far as I can tell, I’ve not seen any official recognition by the National Weather Service regarding the predictions of any of this nation’s groundhog prognosticating teams. Given the nature of some of their recent predictions, however, one might think they’ve consulted Staten Island Chuck to see what his take on those clouds moving in from the south and east mean.
I’m going with SIC’s prediction for now: six more weeks. After all, we’re expecting 6-12 inches come Sunday into Tuesday.
Moon, Stars and Beyond 