Observations

A Daughter’s Advice

As I got up early Sunday morning to make sure I got my walk in before church, a trip to the garage to get a new coffee creamer was accompanied by scampering. This wasn’t my scampering. Critters were sharing the garage space with me. One of them charged me while wielding a scythe, which I conveniently dodged. The gauntlet was thrown down. The second “Man v Rat” challenge had been issued.

After lunch and an annoying computer project, I made it to Home Depot. The glue traps were more expense than when the last challenge was issued, but it was still a tool I trusted. After tracking evidence (read this as rat feces) of the rat’s favorite haunts, I strategically placed the glue traps. I was careful to wear gloves to ensure I didn’t leave a nasal contamination on any of the traps.

I must have done a good job placing the traps. By dinner time, two rats were wrestling to escape one of my cleverly-placed traps. My wife said, “Deal with them in the morning.” My daughter’s text reply was, “It is cruel to let them suffer.” Since I wanted to avoid the issue, my wife’s words were much more palatable than my daughter’s.

When morning arrived, I waited several more hours before cleaning up the traps. When I first awoke, I noticed the garage had no sounds of rats attempting to escape a trap. I thought, “I know I didn’t do right by the rodents, but I will get it cleaned up soon.”

Imagine my surprise when the “captured” rodent trap had moved. I moved miscellaneous garage “furniture” to find the trap, which was not immediately visible. Following this shock, I found that one of the other traps had also moved locations. Dismissing the idea of a king rat seeking vengeance on those who would attack his subjects, I took a more logical approach. The trap behind the trash can had an actively mobile victim. The other trap had been flipped over and was now victimless. (e.g., the earlier captives had escaped)

I did what was necessary on the “active” trap and kicked myself for my laziness the night before. If I had taken my daughter’s advice, the garage would have had three fewer rats compared to just one. Now, wearing my homeowner hat, my ability to be “rodent” merciful is gone. Sorry to those vermin who find my remaining glue traps. Your end will be swift.

Walmart Drones On

Yes, that is a drone you are seeing. The left is what I pulled out of the sky while dodging sunshine. The right is what it looks like closeup.

Yes, the Walmart drone has come to my neighborhood. As I was in the backyard earlier this week, I heard this buzzing noise. As I look in the direction of the sound, I see the drone rising from the neighbor’s yard. As soon as it reaches the proper height, it heads North to the cage in the Walmart parking lot. I am unlikely to ever use it myself. Yet, it would be an interesting experience.

Burning My Face Off

The picture just looks like rosy cheeks. The cracking skin and uncharacteristic hat scream of something else. The evidence smells of advice from a dermatologist. And, yes, you would be on the right track.

After visiting the dermatologist for several years annually, the visits bore fruit last fall. (Not happily born, but it was present nonetheless.) There was a small spot on my shoulder that was easily and almost painlessly removed. Yes, it did hurt. It hurt my dream of living forever more. The cancer was one of many strong arguments that confirmed I won’t be on this planet forever.

So, when I had another dermatology appointment 6 months later (2 weeks ago), I was hopeful it would be a quick body scan followed by a thumbs up. It wasn’t a thumbs down, but it did have a “…maybe you should consider.” Apparently, I had some pre-cancerous “stuff” on my face. I could ride it out and see if any of it graduated to real cancer, or I could apply this cream for 5 days. Being a cautious guy, I took the “short-term pain for long-term gain” approach. I only have a few regrets:

  • My face feels like it is cracking when I scrunch it up. Nothing a little shiny Vaseline won’t help.
  • Fortunately, people will never say anything in public about your shiny face. But, I am convinced they notice the Vaseline glistening off your face.
  • I was told to apply the cream to my forehead, temples, and the top of my ears. These 3 were not the source of emotional trauma. The lateral cheeks are where the redness/sunburn leaped off my face and into the eyes of everyone I encountered. An incredibly humbling location was the corner of my nose to the corresponding corner of my lip. It was a bright red, and to fulfill the sunburn warning I was given, these locations thrived on peeling.
  • The hockey games we attended were low lighting, but I was still convinced every conversation had the other party’s eyes riveted to my scorched face. The Brahmas baseball hat could not cover my whole face. The experience was very reminiscent of going through puberty and the challenges of unexpected acne.
  • The hat I am wearing in the image is my Outback Hat. It may not be what they wear in Australia, but in my mind, this hat style is tied to that continent. This hat has become my new companion as I continue to take my walks and limit sun exposure.
  • The humorous explanation was, “My wife’s superpower is her X-ray vision. As she has gotten older, her superpowers sometimes ‘sneak out’ without her being able to control them. She accidentally irradiated my face. Fortunately, my eyes were closed when she did it.” (Yes, I have come up with better stories, but the skinburn lingers. I will be able to laugh more about it next week.)

Bird Strike = 1.5 Hour Delay

When we were told a “bird strike” was delaying our flight, we didn’t know what that would translate into. Apparently, it involves a couple of guys exploring a minor dent on the cone. Then, they continue this incredible pace of moving relatively slowly while removing all of the screws on the front cone of the plane. Once they lift the cone and confirm the navigational equipment is intact, we can relax, knowing our flight will get to take off.

Of course, the same urgency is applied in reattaching the cone as in detaching it. The important thing is it did get done, and we did get to takeoff within a couple of hours of our original time. The plane absolutely won the bird collision this time.

The Oblivious Driver

As my wife and I took the “last eclipse of our lifetime” eve bike ride, we had to cross a heavily trafficked highway. I had hit the “cross” button while waiting for my wife to catch up. The left-turning traffic was taking full advantage of the yellow flashing arrow…and then the lights changed, and my wife and I owned the crosswalk.

The image is not entirely accurate, but it is representative. As our bikes navigated the abbreviated crosswalk, I admit to holding a glare longer than I should have. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but it may be one of the first times the driver seemed to show no guilt.

As far as the image goes, it is correct. The driver never looked up. The windshield? Yes, there was a windshield. The lack of one in the image might be me forgetting to mute my “super-heat” vision.

The Ninja Attorney

Earlier this week, my wife and I had an appointment to meet with an estate attorney to get all of our documents completed while we were still young and lucid. The attorney seemed very sane until she left her office to get a new notepad. While she was gone, my wife and I reviewed the walls for various awards she had won.

The awards were not for “Attorney of the Year” or for any of her volunteer efforts. The awards had titles like, “Ninja Winner with Special Weapons” and “#1 ranked in the World for Ninja Secret Weapons”. (I have changed the award names slightly to protect her identity from persistent Googlers.) When she came back into her office, a couple of simple questions launched her into a 10-minute tale of her awards. The story below is a modified version of our attorney’s story as interpreted by my incredibly adept “friend.”

Once upon a time, in the not-so-silent corridors of our home, my kids had embarked on a secret mission to transform themselves into Ninjas. Not just any garden-variety Ninjas, but the kind that could slice through the air silently and disappear into shadows with the ease of a ghost on a diet. Their dedication was as admirable as it was relentless. Meanwhile, their enthusiasm for my support hovered somewhere between “you’re barely trying” and “are you even our real dad?”

One day, caught between a flying nunchuck and a stealthy somersault, I ventured a timid, “What’s wrong?”

Their response was a ninja-star sharp critique of my life choices. “You’ve already made it as an attorney. All you do is exercise your brain muscles. You couldn’t be a Ninja like us,” they declared, as if the ability to draft a tight contract was nothing compared to wielding a katana in dim lighting.

Thus, inspired or perhaps shamed by their challenge, I embarked on my own covert operation: Operation Ninja Lawyer. My journey was no less fraught with peril than any ancient scroll might suggest. I dove into the mystical world of Ninja training, asking the all-important question, “How long until I can somersault over the coffee table without a trip to the ER?” The answer was a daunting “Two years at six hours per day,” a regimen that would make even the most dedicated couch potato weep.

Undeterred, I split my day into a rigorous schedule: three hours of Ninja training before work, then lawyering through the day, and ending with another three-hour session of becoming one with the shadow. My first tournament was a reality check wrapped in a humble pie—the competitive Ninja community was as welcoming as a cactus hug, with rules more complex than tax legislation.

Determined to not just participate but excel, I doubled down on my training, seeing my family less and substituting my bed for a mat more often than not. My office became a trophy gallery, a testament to broken bones and shattered expectations. My wife and kids watched this transformation with a mix of awe and concern, wondering if I was chasing shadows—literally.

The pinnacle of this saga unfolded during an interview with a fellow attorney, a kindred spirit who had turned her back on conventional parenting to pursue the elusive title of Ninja Queen in her age bracket. Her journey was marked by sacrifices and injuries, a relentless pursuit of a goal deemed “for the young and childless.”

When we shared stories of our unconventional lives—hers in the pursuit of Ninja mastery, ours in providing a haven for over 60 non-biological children—she admitted, “I couldn’t do that.”

And there it was. The perfect stalemate. She couldn’t fathom opening her home as we had, and I couldn’t imagine dedicating every waking moment to becoming a Ninja master. We were two sides of the same coin, each pursuing passions that defied conventional logic, yet bound by a mutual respect for the paths we chose not to take.

In the end, I learned that while I might not be the stealthiest Ninja in the dojo, I was mastering the art of balancing life’s various throwing stars. And perhaps, in the eyes of my children, I had earned a different kind of black belt—one in the art of trying, failing, and laughing at myself along the way.

Scorpion About

In my nearly 14 years in Texas, this is the first time I have seen a scorpion. Yesterday’s rain must have chased him out of his den. He looks ready to strike something..? There is nothing close by I would have wanted to eat. If I were the target, I would have easily squashed or delicately picked him up and chocolate-covered him at home.

The Old Man and the Park Bench

(At a recent dinner with my wife’s family, I kept the conversation going at our table with a variety of stories. I stumbled across the word “raconteur”. This posting just helps to capture my affection for the word.)

Eleanor had always loved the bustle of Central Park, but even the familiar clamor felt different today. Pausing on the pebbled path, she surveyed the scene – a symphony of dog walkers, pretzel vendors, and the rhythmic thud of joggers marking their miles. Her gaze settled on a worn, wooden bench and the old man who occupied it. He was slight but spry, a mischievous glint in his watery blue eyes.

“Gorgeous day, wouldn’t you say?” The old man’s voice was surprisingly strong, with a hint of a long-faded Irish lilt.

“It is!” Eleanor responded, a smile warming her lips.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, already patting the spot next to him.

“Not at all,” said Eleanor, settling down.

For a moment they both watched the world go by. Then, the old man chuckled, a sound like dried leaves rustling in a gentle breeze.

“You ever stop to think about the stories out here?” he asked. “Each person, a whole book in ’emselves. I bet I could tell you somethin’ ’bout every one of ’em.”

Eleanor’s curiosity was piqued. “Like what?”

The man’s eyes sparkled. He pointed to a young couple strolling along. “See them? Sweethearts. But look closer – he’s tense, knuckles white gripping that coffee. She’s forcing a smile. Bet you a fiver there was an argument this morning.”

He shifted, gesturing to a harried woman, phone squawking. “That one? Corporate climber, late, about to get chewed out by her boss. See how her briefcase is clutched tight, like a shield?”

The observations kept flowing, some silly, others surprisingly pointed. Eleanor laughed, then gasped as he accurately predicted the trajectory of a wayward frisbee.

“How do you do that?” she asked.

“Ah, lassie, just a knack, and a lifetime of watching people. Makes you a bit of a raconteur, I suppose.” He winked.

The word struck a chord with Eleanor. “A raconteur? A storyteller?”

“That’s the one. It’s more than telling tales, though. See, a good raconteur doesn’t just spin a yarn. They make you see the world a little different. Find the extraordinary in the ordinary.”

The sun dipped below the treeline, casting long shadows.

“I must be off,” Eleanor said regretfully. “It’s been…illuminating.”

“The pleasure was mine.” The old man tipped an invisible hat.

As Eleanor walked away, she thought of the young couple, the stressed woman, and wondered about their hidden dramas. The park, once just a backdrop, now hummed with invisible narratives. Her heart felt lighter, and she smiled. The old raconteur had given her a most unusual gift.

The Coons Go On An Adventure

While my photography doesn’t give evidence of it, a mother and 4 kits were involved in this siting.

My “whimsical friend” described the raccoon mating cycle like this:

During the whimsical season of summer, raccoons embark upon their enchanting mating rituals. These cunning creatures engage in romantic escapades from mid to late summer. Ah, the dance of love!

And behold, the magical outcome of their passionate encounters! After a gestation period ranging from a swift sixty to seventy-four days, a joyous event unfolds. The raccoon family welcomes the arrival of their delightful cubs, up to four in number. Oh, the adorable offspring that grace the world!

As the days pass and the sun gently caresses the earth, the baby raccoons undergo a wondrous transformation. Their curious minds awaken, and their eager eyes and ears open wide, revealing the wonders of their surroundings. This enchanting sight typically occurs around eighteen to twenty-four days after their birth.

With each passing moment, the young raccoons grow stronger and more adventurous. They embark upon their own playful journeys, discovering the realm around them. In a mere span of four to six weeks, these remarkable creatures find their footing and embark on their first steps, exploring the world with their tiny paws. Oh, the marvel of nature’s progression!

Thus, we witness the circle of life unfolding in the raccoon kingdom. From the fervent mating season to the birth of their precious kits and the swift development of these young ones, the raccoons teach us the beauty of growth and the wonder of life’s ever-changing tapestry.

Good Morning…uh

Many days when I take my walk, I find I am the people I bump into are my first non-family contacts of the day. Today I was reassured when someone else confirmed this dilemma also poses problems for them.

Mid-afternoon today, I “shifted” (i.e. the left side of the sidewalk) into the passing lane as I prepared to pass a lady walking her dog. I gave the customary, “On your left” warning.

She responded back with the popular, “Good morning…uh, I mean, good afternoon.”

I replied, “Don’t worry. I do it too. Have a great day!”

Phone conversations don’t seem to clear the first “good morning” of the day. It seems many of us have a “good morning” queued up. If we don’t get the opportunity to use it in the morning, it is still lurking and waiting to come out. It matters not if it is morning, late afternoon or evening. It is waiting patiently for your first attempt at being social. Whether you consciously realize its presence or not, it is going to fight a battle with your lips to be the first social thing to emerge from your mouth.

This is a PSA. The problem is real. If you are fortunate enough to not lose control of your mouth with this greeting, you likely have other places where your body and mind are not in sync. You can expect the “good morning” crowd to show you grace at that time, too. Thank you.