Living dangerously

Don't ever think too hard about who has been there before you. It does you no good.

I walked out of the shower, towelling off, and sat down to check my email in my birthday suit. As I sat in the hotel chair, the thought struck me - how many OTHER people have done the same thing ? For that matter, what manner of OTHER things have those people done in this room ?

Of course, in a world populated by playboy bunnies and swimsuit models, this thought could have some appeal. In the context of my hotel room, my mind flashed back to some of the less desirable patrons that I'd seen at check-in. I could envision the room fluorescing under Grissom's magic blue light,

I'm not generally someone who gives a lot of thought to things like this. I don't paper my toilet seat to avoid contracting some nasty disease. I go way longer than the 5 second rule permits, and *gasp* I don't wash my hand every time I touch a door knob. For some reason, the slight stickness of the fabric on the chair gave me pause for concern this time.

I stood up.

Quickly.

Ah, kids.

I love my kids. I do.

Being a Dad can be so conflicting sometimes. On the one hand, you want to savour every last little nanosecond of your childs fascinating development from birth to adulthood. On the other hand, you just want them to GROW UP.

I get a trifle put out when people tell me that 'Oh, just you wait - it doesn't get any easier when they get older'. You've got to be f@$#ing kidding me. Don't get me wrong - I understand that preteens and teenagers can be a bit testy, but compared to a 2 and 4 year old ?

I'm clinging to the belief that there will come a time (soon, please Lord) that my kids can communicate without screaming, stay out of each others stuff, sleep later than we do, perform all of their own toilet duties, eat without throwing the food or screaming, listen to reasoned argument and so many more.

Don't you ever wish that kids came with a 'pause' button ?

Cork boat

Audio books are great. I occasionally have to drive for 3-4 hours to go down to my 'head office', and while it's a fairly nice drive it can get a bit tedious.

A good cup of coffee, a chocolatey snack and a good audio book on the iPod can make it feel like I'm putting my feet up and relaxing (don't worry, full concentration on the road at all times). What did I ever do before my beloved little iPod ? Greatest gadget ever invented in my opinion (except maybe for the TiVo).

Anyway, I just finished 'Cork Boat' by John Pollack. In brief, it's a true story of a guy who fulfills his childhood dream of constructing and sailing a boat entirely from wine corks. It takes him until he is 36, mind you.

It often boggles my mind when I read of stories like this - that someone has such an intensity of purpose in life that they'll go through all kinds of adversity to accomplish something that, to the rest of us workaday slobs, seems completely crazy.

Thusfar in my life, I can't think of anything that has possessed me with such passion and required an enormous personal struggle to achieve (with the minor exception of my ongoing home renovation, but that doesn't really count).

It begs the question - what will I look back on in the closing days of my life as my 'greatest achievement' ? Maybe that should be everyone's every day goal - to DO something that you'll be proud of as you shuffle off this mortal coil. I'm not suggesting a need to cure cancer, conquer a new planet or discover a new chemical element but something that you can look on with pride and say 'yep, I did that'.

Suggestions, anybody ?

Chim-chiminy

Yeah !

The Chimney Man is here. I've waited nigh on a year for his services. Announced by the clang of scaffold poles he arrived without warning at 7:30 this morning.

My chimney is a problem. It's probably the original, and it's in rough shape. In fact, if you stand in the garden *just so* and look up at the right angle, you can see daylight through it. Bits have routinely been falling off, and for the last two winters orange icicles have draped the side of my roof from water full of clay from the dissolving bricks.

So it is with great joy that I welcome Chimney Man.

Unlike England where everyone can lay a good course of bricks (except me), it's a skill here that isn't widely possessed. Probably has something to do with all of our houses being made out of wood. He's the one guy locally who knows one end of a hod from the other.

Still, now he's here. Now if it would just stop raining long enough for him to work.

Help me, I'm drowning

Whoever doesn't think that our climate is changing, please stand up.

Actually, better that the millions of people who read this don't do that all at once or it might throw the earth of its axis and cause some REAL trouble.

Our weather is just not right. We moved here to the small country place because the big suburban place was getting too crowded and too oppressive. Summer there was often a marathon slog of mind numbingly hot days where you sweat standing still and the night was as hot as the day (how DO people in Atlanta survive).

The trade off was that we got a hard winter here and spent six months of the year digging foot upon foot of snow off of the sidewalk and wearing half of the clothes in your closet in one go just to stay warm.

Now it's JUST NOT FAIR that we also have to deal with the same heat and sticky weather that we used to have before we moved. Maybe it's the 'little black cloud' syndrome - it's following us.

Yesterday I completed my NWCG Wildland Firefighter course. Briefly, this is the basic qualification that allows me to go fight those big western wildfires (or any wildland fire for that matter). For anyone who isn't familiar with wildfires, it's where lots of trees, brush and grass catch fire. They can often get very big, and require thousands of people to put out. Not with water mind you. With DIGGING.

So, we're out there in the woods yesterday. Temperature - 85 degrees, Relative Humidity - 95-100%. Imagine now that you're wearing long pants (fireproof), t-shirt, long sleeve shirt (fireproof), helmet (plastic) and backpack (heavy) and are carrying some kind of amped up garden tool with which to whack at the soil.

Now go at it for a couple of hours digging what amounts to a long wide scratch in the dirt - up hill and down dale (or steep dropoff). I can't remember the last time I worked so hard. I can't even find an adjective to describe how hard this is. Maybe just think about the last time you dug over the garden with a fork and add in all the other elements mentioned above and multiply by 10.

You'd think that breathing air at 100% humidity would be like breathing underwater, and it ain't far off.

So much fun !

Of course, out West it's never much more than 25% humidity, but still. On Western crews you dig line for 12-16 hours a day and go day after day. I thought I was in good shape (I run). I now have a whole new appreciation for Wildland Firefighting, and realize that I have a long way to go.

So, if you live out West - the next time you see a firefighter in snazzy green pants and a yellow shirt, give them a hug. On second thoughts, they'll probably stink and be covered in soot, dirt and shit so maybe just a warm thankyou instead.

I'm gonna be rich

I read the other day about this wonderful new product called Spray On Mud, for those too lazy to go and find a puddle to drive through.

Vermont has an entire season named after the goopy stuff*, so we're in no short supply. I'm thinking of marketing it as 'slap on mud' and selling it mail order in buckets to those not fortunate enough to live somewhere with access to the real stuff.

I'd imagine if you live in, say, New York, then plastering your Range Rover with some authentic Green Mountain mud could add some real caché.

Maybe I should think about opening a franchise so that people can drive through and get their ride all messy. A car 'splosh' maybe ? With girls in bikinis it could be just like mud wrestling.

Remember where you heard it first.




*Mud Season: the messy bit after the snow melts but before the spring comes. Vermont's so called 'fifth season'.

I love our babysitter

We have a new sitter. For anyone who isn't a parent, it's hard to understand how important it is to have a good babysitter. I can't speak for everyone, but for my wife and I, getting out sans kids is not just nice, it's critical. I think investing in your relationship, maintaining it and each other is just as important as anything else you can do for your child.

Our new sitter kicks butt. The kids love her. They listen to her. She even cleans up the mess of toys at the end of the day and gets them to bed on time.

Life is good.

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On a sad and odd note, I went to a town meeting last night. A man stood up to make an impassioned comment regarding a road construction project here in town, sat back down in his seat and promptly had a heart attack. A few of us rushed to his aid, giving CPR, calling for the ambulance etc. I don't know if he made it. Let's hope. You think that you'll never need CPR, never see someone have a heart attack. You just might. I cannot imagine for a second how I'd feel if it was someone I knew and loved.

Life can be hard.

Taking the plunge

After 13 years living as an Englishman abroad, I've finally decided to take the plunge and apply for citizenship.

Honestly, it's not based on a particular 'Pride in the USA' thing, but more on a pragmatic desire to be a fully involved citizen. Not being able to vote is a bit of a pisser, moreso for local matters than for national elections (though, for the record I would NOT have voted for Bush). I pay taxes, and I'd like to be able to participate in my community by voting for people to hold positions that have a real bearing on my life here in Smalltown. It boggles my mind that a law abiding, tax paying, legal permanent resident can't vote. It would seem to go against the whole 'Taxation without representation' thing that got this country started in the first place.

The real motivating factor behind all of this sudden desire for American Citizenship is the ability to apply for a Federal (government) Firefighting job. I'll be working for Uncle Sam.

I'm taking a course right now that will give me the qualification necessary to join Wildland Fire crews anywhere in the country, but only if I am ALSO a US Citizen. So after all this time not being able to find a good reason, here it is. Of course, it'll be a while before the missus gives me the required permission to abandon my family for weeks at a time to go play with big fire in the woods, but I can start off small and dream big.

If I had to give up my British passport to do this, It would be a VERY hard decision. Not that I think I'll ever move home (after 13 years, I still call England 'home'), but somehow not having that passport would make me feel less English - and that is very important to me.

I'm hoping that the process will not be too hard - better than getting a Green Card, that is. I'll let you know my progress. In the meantime, I'm off to study up on my English Language and 'Civics' for the test.

Little man

My little boy turns 2 today. His accomplishments thus far in his short little life include:

-Being able to say the word 'Fuck' with impunity wherever he is (this includes church, shopping) since he can't pronounce the 'TR' sound. Even funnier when he shouts 'Daddy ! Big Fuck !'
-Removing all of his pajamas in bed and lying naked, playing with his bits (that's my boy !)
-Learning to say 'Hi Pretty Lady' to unknown women while out with Daddy (though, to be honest, they're not all that pretty sometimes)
-Learning to whack his sister back when she bonks him on the head with a toy.
-Removing a light bulb from a table lamp (look Daddy, light !), and putting one of the lights (when turned ON) from the Christmas Tree in his mouth.
-Having been twice to the Emergency Room.
-Playing the harmonica (or at least making noise with it and filling the thing full of spit - 'Daddy turn ?', er, no thanks).

Cupcakes and balloons for the lad today. No beer just yet - he'll have to be at least 3 before THAT happens (what do you think I am, an irresponsible parent ?).

Wet thighs

Inspiration strikes you in the most uncommon ways sometimes. Sitting poised at my keyboard, ready to launch into a witty and compelling missive, I spill my Latte into my lap.

Now, it being summer (or what we call summer around here) I am wearing shorts. My legs are now covered in warm milky coffee. My ass is sticking to the chair, and I smell like Colombia's finest espresso roast.

What bothers me most about this episode is not having to clean up the floor, or my chair or even my shorts (the missus, God bless her, takes care of things in the laundry department). It's the remorseful feeling I have for losing my coffee.

My morning Latte is a ritual each day. I take a trip to the Smalltown Coffee Shop, gossip with the owner and patrons, a short trip home and then settle in for a day of hard, hard work. Losing my Latte throws me completely off balance. I don't know if I can carry on.

The other man's is always greener.

What is it with Grass? Such a seemingly prolific organism that can be so simple, and yet such a pain in the bum.

Last year I was fortunate enough to start with something of a 'clean slate' in the garden department. Renovations to our house had left the back garden looking like the Somme, and after some work with heavy equipment and many truckloads of new topsoil we had an empty, brown space.

Eschewing seeding in favor of an 'insta-lawn', I press ganged my Mother (here on Holiday) in to helping me lay several hundred square feet of perfect green (sod is a funny word, isn’t it ?). For the first time in my life, I owned a lawn that was flat, uniformly green and had no dead spots, brown spots, lumpy spots or squirrel holes.

This year, now that 'Summer' is finally here (it comes late in the Frozen North) I'm back to mowing and caring for my green. Only now, it had bald spots.

Why is it that everywhere you DON'T want grass to grow - it will? Prolifically. Yet here I give it all my nurturing, time and attention and it fails me. Maybe I should just ignore it, though I'd worry about losing the kids in the tall grass and all those snakes and things.

Somehow, shoveling snow was easier.