Warning: Disgusting Topic Ahead

I never thought I would say this: my septic system has brought me joy. Okay, admittedly the joy is roundabout and tinged with horrors from the past, but it is joy. I will be as succinct as possible.

Shortly after Richard moved to Hood River, our septic system failed. Welcome to the Northwest! Now, I don’t know of anyone who would call that a fun experience, but it was what it was. However, the solution was traumatic for me.

Wayno had spent years trying to make the yard presentable. In one fell septic-sweep, close to half of the yard that he cared for so tenderly was ripped to shreds. Stone walls were thrown to the side. Plants we killed. His peach tree was torn out by the roots: an unkind remembrance for a kind soul.

But we had a new septic system. And it worked. We got a letter from the Hood River County Health Department saying that our septic system was not up to code. They had allowed it to pass, because our other options were so astronomically unreasonable. But they cautioned us to treat it gently, little suggestion like, “Rather than have a ‘wash day’, do only one load of laundry a day. Install a low flow showerhead and make sure your toilet is not draining.” Totally reasonable suggestions, and we welcomed them.

For a while it was heaven. Then one wet, nasty spring day there was that telltale leakage in the yard. We called to have the septic tank pumped. Glenn was unoptimistic, you know, the heavy clay soil up here. And the plumber we called later said we were in deep doo-doo. (Pun intended.)

But, by summer it was fine. Then the next spring wasn’t quite as wet, but there was a little problem. And then the summer after that was fine, etc…. But this spring was bad. I could no longer ignore it. (Thank Richard’s badgering for that.)

So, “Where is the joy”, you are asking?

Our new septic technologist called. This is not the tree-falling, hill-moving, boulder-crushing travail that I envisioned. Mt. Hood is safe from the backhoe. It’s just that the septic system we had put in about ten years ago was put in really badly, less than a third of the drain field was functional. I’m sure the repair won’t be cheap, but I could dance in the streets when I compared it to the alternatives.

And yes, it is snowing again.

As Richard and I sit and watch the big white flakes drop from the sky and, mercifully, melt upon contact with the ground, we discuss possible locales for a summer vacation. My first idea was a 4 or 5 day trip to Montreal and Quebec City, Canada. We could enjoy some French culture at a moderate distance. Richard truly warmed to that idea.

My second suggestion was to go to one of the traditional, east coast gay resorts like Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, Fire Island, New York or Provincetown, Massachusetts. I thought it might be fun to have a “gay” vacation, something neither of us has ever done before. Richard was at best lukewarm to the idea.

My third suggestion left Richard colder than Iceland: Saco, Montana where Gertrude Crutchfield and Frank Vagg met and married. The town is steeped in our (okay, you’re going to have to close your eyes and pretend to see this) family history. Frank is sitting on the shelf, big as life. But it seems the Saco Hilton has closed, and Richard won’t lower himself to stay at a lesser brand.

Sometimes I think everyone is picking on me.

Now it's Michael Fry and T. Lewis with Over the Hedge.

Triangle Shirtwaist Fire

Don't go, Liz

It's too soon for you to leave!

Only in the New York Times

Yes, in this Sunday’s New York Times Magazine there was a wonderful article entitled “Starter Castles”. And yes, that is really what it was about. Buying your first castle.

There was humor in the article, but I think, deep down, they were serious. It had amazing pictures, titillating descriptions, awesome locations and (gasp) asking prices.

Who would have thought that for a cool million (and a super major heavy chunk of change), you could own your own castle in County Tipperary, Ireland. The building has been renovated to ‘a comfortable standard’. I think that translates to non-realtor English as ‘yes, they finally put in some plumbing.’

I’d be all over it, but they have this bench on the front lawn that is just so out of place. It kills the deal.

Stephan Pastis strikes again.

Where would Metropolis be without phonebooths? No! I am not old! I refuse to grow up!

It is the first day of spring.

Anyone want to explain the white stuff falling from the clouds?

!

I was informed today that only elderly people use exclamation points in written communications these days. Well, I’ll be hornswaggled! Whippersnappers don’t know how to use an exclamation point?!?!?! What in tarnation is the world coming to?!?!?!

The deep crevasses on my face and the gray, receding hair give my age away in real life, and now I have to be careful about my use of punctuation marks? Sorry, way too confusing!!!

11.11.11

The planning has begun in earnest.

The plans are still somewhat fluid, but a big dinner with dancing afterwards planned for 11.11.11.

Fête du Bon Père will be celebrated on 11.13.11: as only a son of Bob Cornelison can celebrate the Fête du Bon Père. Hold onto your hosiery. I’ve been thinking we should change the name of Johnny Sauce to Bob Sauce. It seems fitting. I know, family traditions die hard, and I would adamantly object to changing the name of Mrs. McManus’ Cookies. So it is open to conversation.

Anyway, 11.11.11 is real. Be in Hood River, or be square!

THEY'RE BA-A-A-CK

GO JACKS!

Time Change! Time Change!

This is just a gentle reminder that the time will change tonight. We are going on (or coming off) Daylight Savings Time.

This may be confusing to some of you, but all you need to do is remember that simple saying, “Fall forward, Spring ….” I’m sorry, I meant, “Lean to the left, lean to the right, stand up, sit down, change the time.” I think I just made that up. How about, “Hope springs eternal, but fall more resembles ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’.” Going nowhere with this one, fast.

This would be much simpler if I understood what we were trying to do. In the dead of winter, I go to work in the dark and come home in the dark. In the heart of summer, I go to bed in the twilight and wake up at the dawn. The clock is only important in the middle of the night when I’m trying to determine how much more time I have to loll in bed. And at that point, accuracy isn’t critical, as my math is weak.

So, just do what I do. Set the clock forward or back, and be either two hours late or two hours early for you first appointment after the ‘great change’. It’s a hilarious ice breaker!

I love my bank!

Our monthly statement just arrived from the bank where we have our checking account. It is a new, more detailed version. Thank god I have a PHD from MIT or there would be no earthly chance that I could decipher their cryptic gibberish. The monthly task of balancing the checking account has morphed from a fifteen minute exercise in pure mathematical fun to a weekend long hysteria-inducing ritual that makes me pine to have a tooth or two pulled.

I gather the tools I need: a computer, an abacus, ten #2 pencils, a gallon of vodka, a sliderule, three jumbo erasers, a deck of tarot cards, a calculator, a yard stick and a gram of methamphetamines.

Okay, after the 16 hour ordeal, the checking account may not balance, in the most technical sense of the term, but frankly, it will be close enough.

With thanks to Brian Crane

If it weren't so real, it would be funny!

Happy Fat Tuesday

The training is excrutiating, but I'm pretty good at it! And what is that woman doing in the picture?

It’s an odd pleasure I take out of shoveling the driveway.

We had about a foot of snow last night: heavy, wet, nasty snow like only the northwest can deliver.

I popped out of bed at 4:45AM convinced that the couple of inches of snow on the ground when I went to bed was all I would have to deal with. I brewed coffee, grabbed my snow suite and met the frigid morning with more gusto than is fitting for a man of my age. I grabbed the ergonomically correct snow shovel sitting at the ready by the front door and immediately thought, “There is a lot of snow on the front porch. I could have sworn I shoveled it off just before I went to bed.” Ah, the joys of senility.

Then there was the branch of the Inn tree, laying prone on the walk. Seemed odd, but I shook it to free it from the snow. It didn’t pop back up. It will never pop back up again. It was snapped by the heavy snow. I toddled down to the basement to get the pruning saw and returned to perform an amputation. It was painful, but I only whimpered once. Okay, I whimpered twice, but it is not true that I sobbed for hours on the front walk. Then my ergonomically correct snow shovel and I cleared the path to the cars. It was really eerie. At times I was convinced that there was way more snow than I thought appropriate. But it was dark and I wasn’t really awake.

I returned to the kitchen and sucked down my first cup of coffee. It was now 6AM and time to start in earnest. With a little bit of wet snow, if I didn’t shovel, no one was getting out of the driveway, least of all me.

For the next three and a half hours, I shoveled snow. I cursed, I sweated, I thought thoughts that are totally inappropriate to put in print. But I finally cleared the driveway to the highway, the last ten feet through the berm was excruciating. I staggered back to the house slowly enough to watch not one, but two snowplows go by and recreate the berm I had just broken my back clearing. That is when I sobbed in the front walk.

I spent the day exhausted, barely able to function. It is all I can do to move my fingers to type. But I did it. I’m not as lame as everyone says!