Adventure 463: The Story of George, Scooteney in the Evening, 39

March 31, 2018

Real time found George in a state of confused revelry, much like a jilted teen boy, except that he's a demented eighty-seven year old. No matter, the trials of unrequited love know no limit. He'd had a falling out with his sweetie, Vina. It turns out he dressed for church today, though it was Saturday. Vina made a comment about his dress, which first embarrassed him, then angered him. He retorted with a sharp reply. She left, offended. He wandered back to his room, and was pouting when I found him there. We'd enjoyed a nice two night visit to see the Sand Cranes with our friends, hoping that George could manage (Denial is such a willing companion). He really can't. He had a fifty percent record on pills this week, which is partly caused by his denial that he needs to take them. But he was quite chatty in his misery. He shared his feeling that he thinks he feels more strongly for Vina that she does for him. He mumbled something about being dissatisfied with Harvard Park. He asked yet again why he had to carry  around his permanent catheter. In short, he was a mess. He also shared that while he was grateful that Judy and I were doing "everything" for him, he didn't want to be a burden on anyone. I listened, re-explained his catheter situation, and even broached the subject that he may need more care than Judy and I can provide. I'm sure he didn't comprehend the conversation, but finally I suggested that he go up to Vina's room to talk with her since there was no solution to be found sulking in his own sorrow. He agreed, and when I left he was on his way. That left Judy and me to face our old friend, denial. We spent the afternoon looking at care units that offer the level of care George will need both in the immediate future and for the unforeseen days to come. The flat fact is that if we want any type of autonomy in the near term, George will have to be in a facility that offers at the very least assisted care and very likely some type of memory care and beyond.

Meanwhile, we spent time with our good buddies, the Ulmen's at Scooteney Reservoir watching the Sand Cranes. We shared the chill of dawn, the whisper of sunset, the honking of the birds, a few laughs, some good food, and genuine fondness. We're thankful for every minute. Our conclusion is  that George is certainly not the burden he worries about, and nothing beats sharing life with good friends. 

 After a day of feeding far and wide the cranes come swooping back to gather in the shallows.

 The birds, which live as long as twenty-two years, travel often in family groups.

 The group sizes vary, usually from two to several hundred. 

 They circle the shallows, ostensibly looking for a landing space, and land like big jets at a busy airport.

 By the time the sun sets fully, the birds are tucked in for the night.

 And while we may not be able to see them clearly, their honking joins to together in a loud chorus.

Adventure 462: Scooteney Reservoir Recreation Area

On the Road Again

Like Elizabeth Barrett Browning said, "The earth is crammed with heaven." We formed a small caravan of two rigs, ourselves and our friends, the Ulmens, and made our way to Othello, Washington to see the Sand Cranes. Every year, several thousand birds spend time in this area. That's where heaven gets crammed in. The birds spend the night safely gathered in a foot or so of water, away from any predators that otherwise might enjoy them as a feast. They gobble and gobble all night in a sort of melodious guttural warble. Near dawn, they take off en mass to spend the day munching on corn stubble. Near dusk, groups of various size return to the safety of the shallows. They spend a few weeks here, fattening themselves for their trek North. This particular group is but a fraction of the Sand Crane population. The main flock flows from the South up through Nebraska, some three hundred thousand birds or so. The Washington cousins represent, I'm guessing, about five percent of the entire gaggle. Often you'll see two birds flying together. They mate for life, and I can only imagine the translation of the bird chatter every night at the slough. after breakfast, Judy and I went into Othello to buy authentic Mexican food: tamales, salsa, rice, beans, and several other items Judy couldn't live without. The result will be an afternoon spent comforting ourselves with wholesome food. We'll wile away the hours until it's time to go over to the slough and watch the cranes land in the evening. It may be tempting to focus on the suffering of the world, the pain of our friends, or the fears caused by uncertainty, but it's just as easy to observe the majesty of creation, the beauty of nature, and the warmth of good friendships. In that light, it's easy to believe that life is good, especially today.

 Dave's metaphor for his cancer treatment is there's a surprise in every box.

 You got to get up early to see the heavens in action.

 If this guy can do it, you can too.

 Of course, the girls lead the way.

 The birds line the whole of the reservoir, but this end is preferred.

 Suddenly, they just lift off.

 They fly in a circle as if to warm up, or maybe to take bearings.

 And then they are off, flying away in every direction.

 Very often, it's just Mr. and Mrs. Crane.

 I've often thought it would be fun just to travel around looking for wonderful spots like this.

 Liz can't get enough, and she uses the binoculars to bring the experience close up.

Fresh tamales for lunch, Por Favor.

Adventure 461: Eulogy for a Friend

The Doctor at the Helm

"The Doctor", James Valentine, was laid to rest today with full military honors. He will be missed. At the rosary, our eldest brother John commented on Jim's generosity. At the funeral mass, his daughter, Tina, talked about his kindness. I want to speak to his constancy. Our acquaintance goes back to the early seventies. We both had similar interests in young Irish girls, although we did choose different sisters. Along with Roger Shute, Jim and I began the parade of Son-in-laws welcomed into the O'Brien family. We've all been bathed in family love since then. Jim chose a path as a young man that not only included a spot in the O'Brien photo album, but also included a stellar career in the military and a lifetime of service to others in his career as an Oral Surgeon. As for his constancy in my life, I must be excused if I mis-remember details or even make things up. I simply want to play forward the spirit of Jim's constant love for his country, his family, and his friends. Recently, I've come across a concept which is new to me in the way buying a used car is. It's not really new, but I've been slow to realize the idea. That idea is that the universe is constantly seeking me out to bath me with good will, and that good will comes in the form of relationships, compassion, and tenderness for all things. It's as Elizabeth Barrett Browning says, "The Earth is crammed with heaven." That's what I most feel when I think of Jim Valentine. He was a man who constantly spread a gentle good will, a man of honor, a man who you could count on. After our lives mingled in the early seventies, we began to intersect  at times directly connected to Jim's Army career. I clearly remember baby sitting my son Steve and Jim's daughter Tina when they were in their "crawling" years. I don't remember why or where Jim and Rita were, but I remember caring for the two pre-toddlers. There was time missed as well whenever Jim and Rita were out of country, or stationed somewhere distant, be it Beirut or Italy or El Paso or Ft. Lewis. We connected enough during the Ft. Lewis time for Rita to be Godmother to my daughter Elizabeth, and along the way I stood as Godfather for young Tim Valentine. And, of course, there were family  connections. In recent years, say the last twenty, after Jim retired from the military,  while he built his private practice in Spokane, he and I have been ship mates aboard two craft. We were part owners in a four way deal on a boat called the "Cat Bilu" and later, Jim and I shared ownership of the Eagle. I remember clearly, the day we bought the Eagle. Judy and I saw an ad in the paper. On a whim, we called Jim and Rita to see if they wanted to go for a ride to the lake. It turns out they were home, their schedule was free, and a couple of hours later we had agreed to buy a sailboat and a club membership on Lake Couer d' Alene. The date was April 15, 2000. It turned out that while Judy and Rita enjoyed the boat, it was really my and Jim's "Man Cave". We had many voyages. We did everything from practice sailing maneuvers to spend weekends on the boat. The voyages run together, but what stands out for me is that Jim was always there. He had my back. One sailing story should be mentioned because it speaks to Jim's poise under pressure, his steadfast courage, and his skill. We had spent the night in Harrison. On the way back the wind kicked up to over thirty-five miles an hour. It was the strongest wind we'd ever sailed in, and what's even more rare is that it was coming out of the North. We turned the corner at Rockwood Bay into the full face of the wind. Jim was at the helm and he held the boat into the wind as I scrambled up to the mast to reef the mainsail. Suddenly, a gust lifted my hat off my head. I reached to catch it, but snagged my glasses in the process. They flipped off into the water: "Shucks". We had no other issues after that. Once we got the boat properly set up for the conditons, we literally flew up the lake. It was the first and only time we were able to sail in a straight line north. We took turns on the helm, and both of us felt a sense of competence when we ended that voyage. I have many other memories that are washing over me at the moment, but the feeling I'm most encouraging in myself is the warmth of memories with my friend over the years. Like I told Rita upon hearing of Jim's death, "I'm glad, but I'm not happy." I'm also reminded of the words of Henri Nouwen who speaks of how beloved we all are. He says we should consider four words: Chosen, Blessed, Broken, and Given. I feel lucky to be chosen in friendship by Jim, I feel blessed to have known him, I admire his courage as he endured the brokenness of his failing body, and I welcome the chance to spread as much of Jim's love and constancy as I can to others. He would want it that way.

 The shards of the Eagle, fond memories nonetheless.

 The ad that started it all.

Adventure 461: The Story of George, An Era Past, 38

March 26, 2018

Real time found George healthy, but a bit confused about the act of peeing. He's begun to complain about his permanent catheter. He seems not to understand why it's necessary, nor does he remember the 8,760 time he self-cathertized over the past four years. This is problematic in the sense that he may, in a fit of irrational rage, try again to pull the thing out. Understated, that would not be good. Adding to the uncertainty is just how much cognitive power he has left. On the positive side, he dresses and bathes himself. He's still ambulatory with the walker, and he's hovering at about 78.5% per week in terms of remembering his pills. He's eating pretty well, drinking about half the water he should, and he's avoiding sweets better than ever. He and Vina are still active. So, the bottom line is that he requires monitoring, but with that he should be able to abide this life for some time--baring any illness or the return of an infection. Oh, and his hip hurts. We're trying to see if Dr. Mueller will poke him with a cortisone shot, which may help. So, all in all, he's doing well, and we're hoping for continued grace.

As for me, I'm in the midst of spiritual upheaval. It's just another example of the universe seeking me out in ways that provide care and connection. In this case, it comes as an observance of the end of an era. Both the boats and a friend are defunct. My friend, ship mate, brother-in-law, and partner died last week. He died the same day Sam and his crew demolished the Eagle. It's as if a strong and cruel hand reached down and tore several pages from my experience, leaving just the shreds and tears. Except that even the shreds of the pages have left words of love. Clearly, the connections Jim and I shared were enhanced by our time together on the boat. We had both idle chats and deep seated discussions on everything from our emotional ruptures to our most sublime realizations. I'll miss him. I'll miss the boat, but I'll remember the healing breath of the wind over my shoulder every time i see a sail full bitten on the wind.

 Using a basket strapping technique, the expert crane operator set the Eagle down like a mother laying her child to rest.

 Even in this sad repose, she's showing her elegant lines.

 Vina made this stuffed animal for George.

Adventure 460: The Story of George, The Eagles is Dead-Long Live Frac, 37

Real time finds George doing better every day. He's on a pill remembering streak, his mobility is good, his spirits are high, and we're hopeful he'll be in a good enough groove to let us travel this summer to Little Eden. Hope is good.

Dad and Mom, 1950

On another note, an era is dead. We watched the awesome spectacle of the crane operator lifting her up onto the barge. The operator has been operating this huge "old school" friction crane on the lake for almost forty years. He's good. He made a difficult task look like child's play. In his hands that machine picked the boat up like she was a toy (She was just a toy, you know.) and so easily set her down, keel first in such a way that she leaned gently on her side for the ride down lake to her final resting place. Tomorrow, she'll be crushed up with a giant clam shell crusher. Her remains will be trucked to the land fill, save the keel. She'll be recycled by a foundry in town. We had a good run with her over nearly twenty years. Judy and I figured from the log entries that we were on her every four and one half of the available days during each of the nineteen five month seasons we had her. We had some good times, many fun sails, a few exciting moments, one phantasmagorical moment when the mini-toornado spun us 360 like the giant hand of God playing with us like a kid spinning a top, and course we cared for her, maintained her, worried about her, and enjoyed her. She was a good chapter in our lives. Hopefully, we'll be blessed with more chapters, and to that I say "Long Live Frac!"

We found her like this on March 4. She sank in less than an hour the night before.

 The metal strut that looks here like a hand on a prop shaft was struck perfectly, and in such a way as to knock a six by six hole into the boat,  by a "deadhead" or floating log. The chances are so remote, it was like winning the negative lottery. But fortunately, we found the "Pros from Dover".

 This is Kenny, diver and all-around Mr. Fixit.

 A final glance just for the memories.

Almost as a religious ritual, Leticia and Justin were able to salvage many things of value.

 For example, they took the winches, the wheel, the sails, the ropes,  the mast, and a bunch of other things. She was a good old girl, so it's fitting that she should still be of value.

 This man, Tom,  is an incredibly skilled crane operator.

 Equipment such as this accounts for the cost of the operation.

 Sam, the boss, watches as a job well done is accomplished.

 And there she goes. resting like a baby.

 Mark, my friend and very superior mechanic at the helm.

Among our favorite trips was a sail to Harrison.

And so many other good memories, such as our buddies, the Ulmen's smooching at sunset.

 And of course, nothing was better than "skiing" behind the Eagle.

Adventure 459: The Story of George, The Eagle, 36

George doing a little fixit work

Real  time finds George well this morning. He'd taken his morning pills and was enjoying breakfast when we arrived. I showed him the photos of the Eagle being raised, but I'm not sure how much information he processed. Nonetheless, he looked good.

On our adventures, Judy and I always give thanks for traveling mercies. We're grateful when we're allowed to traverse from Point A to Point B. We're grateful once again. The raising of the Eagle, handled masterfully by Sam and his crew, proceeded to a successful point yesterday. So in this story, Point A was a survey dive; Point B was the staging; Point C was the raising. So far, our blessings have included no extra damage to property, no injuries or deaths, and a successful securing of the boat. Stage D, the next phase, will involve cutting the mast up into pieces right where she lays next to the shore. Stage E will involve moving the boat across open water to a public dock where Sam will use another very expensive piece of equipment to lift the Eagle onto a trailer. Stage F will find the Eagle on the trailer in Sam's boat yard where she will be cut up and thrown into a very large dumpster. The final stage will be writing the check. Hopefully, the insurance will pay the full $25,000. That is yet to be determined, but the boat sank, it appears, when something very hard ( a submersed log) battered the bottom of the boat until it crushed the strut holding the prop shaft. Much like a hammer hitting a nail, the strut was pushed through the bottom of the boat. She sank in under an hour after the puncture. So, we're hoping that's something a guy buys insurance for. At any rate, I'm predicting that the entire operation will cost somewhere around forty thousand. Sam's crew works at a rate of $1300/hr. The have two over full days in so far. Yesterday, the worked twelve hours, which numbs out at $15,600 for the day. They are worth every penny. I couldn't be more happy with their performance. It was astounding to watch them solve the real world problem when the boat twisted and became caught under the dock. I mean stuff happens. The handled it professionally, and as I said, no one died, no one got hurt, nothing more was damaged, so life is good, especially today.

 On the initial raising, the boat twisted and became lodged under the dock.

 Kenny, one of the crew-a diver and an all-around man, is helping to right the boat.

 Jared, the youngest, is a highly trusted member of the crew, even though as low man he does most of the "gofer" work.

 After adjusting the air in the bags, and freeing the boat from the dock, she began to raise.

 At one point, Jake, the head diver, had to add another air bag to tip the boat.

 That's dollar bills flowing into the lake at 35,000 gallons an hour.

 At this point, Sam and Jake are inside the boat determining the cause of the leak.

 The interior was a greasy mess, The oil from the engine had coated everything in a gray slime.

 Even as a still shot, you can see the water flowing through the hole in the hull.

 More muck.

 Near the end of the day, Sam decided the safest spot for boat security would be close to the shore, so we all helped to move her to the beach.

 Sam used the bow of the jet boat to jam the Eagles keel into the rocks.

Without the pumps, the water flowed in, so by the time I left, the Eagle's bow was heading for the bottom. Rest well, old girl. You didn't deserve such an ignominious ending.