Hogs and Internet

Once again a feral hog has torn up a portion of our backyard, the area between the septic system and the live oak. 

“Perhaps you should sprinkle the area with crushed red peppers,” I tell David, thinking that the hot flavor would be off-putting to a hog. 

David wants to look it up online.  What do other people do when hogs go after their grass?  But we haven’t had internet for a few days.  He canceled Zeecon because it was slow and sporadic, and our new provider has a cap on gigabytes per month.  We used a month’s worth in less than a week, and we don’t even stream.  Calling the provider, David asks for proof of our usage.  But it seems no record is kept. 

“Are you telling me that you have no way to prove that I actually used this much,” he asks, “when I’m telling you that I absolutely did not?”

His tone is calm and condescending, the way he speaks when he’s decided that he’s talking to an idiot.  Because he’s on speakerphone, I’m able to hear both sides of the conversation.  The man on the other end agrees with David that of course there should be some kind of record, but there isn’t.  This is the way the system works, he says, and he’s sorry that David’s unhappy.  So David tells him that he no longer wants to use their service, at which point he’s told that he’ll be charged three hundred dollars for breaking the contract. 

“But you broke the contract when you didn’t provide the service,” David says.  Once again the representative agrees that David has been treated unfairly.  But that doesn’t mean he won’t be charged the three hundred.

Fed up, David ends the call.  He calls three other providers in the area.  Two of them do not service our development, Capstone Ranch.  Another one says he’ll be over the next day to get it set up.  But he never shows.  After staying home most of the day, David calls and asks the man when he’s coming.

“We don’t operate in that area,” the guy says.

“I’ve been waiting all day.  You should have called and told me.”

“Zeecon comes out there,” the guy advises.  Zeecon.  The one David cancelled.  David thanks him and says good-bye. 

“I have a great plot for your new book,” he tells me.  “It’s about what happens when a person can’t get internet in the year 2016 and he goes crazy.”  He looks at me like he expects me to run and start on it right away.

“I’m working on something else right now,” I say.  He does have good ideas sometimes, but this isn’t one of them.  “Does anybody else have a hog problem?”

“Elton says hogs don’t bother him because of his dog.”

This is a sore point with me.  Elton’s dog wanders.  How can Elton claim he loves his dog when he doesn’t pen him?  Dogs have no sense.  They are not people.  They don’t understand what a car or truck can do to them.  One of these days Elton’s beautiful sweet dog is going to be found dead out on 401.  Stupid Elton.

“What we need,” David continues, “is a motion-activated dog barking device.  I could order it online if we had internet.”

“I’d rather not be disturbed by fake barking at three in the morning.  And when it comes on, what are you going to do—run outside and yell at the hog?”

“I’ll shoot it.”  He makes this claim, though we aren’t gun people. 

“And then we’d have a dead hog out there.” 

David calls Zeecon, who doesn’t hold a grudge.  They come out the next morning.  When it’s time for me to go to Mahjong, I go looking for David to let him know I’m leaving.  He’s out on the back deck, looking upward as the two guys mess with the antenna on the roof. 

“How’s it going?” I ask, carrying blind little Trip down the steps and carefully setting him in the grass to do his business.

“They’ve got no line of sight.  They’re reclaiming their antenna.”

“That can’t be right.  We had internet with them before.”  I follow his gaze.  Yep, they’re removing, not installing. 

“They changed tower locations.  They’re recommending Rise.”

Four hours later, when I get home from Mahjong, there’s a new antenna poking straight up from the highest point of our roof.  David comes out to meet me on the driveway, and we both look up at it.  It’s massive, dominating, completely disrupting the lines of our house.  The whole cul de sac is going to grumble.   

Wayne drives by, rolling to a stop when he sees the monstrosity.  He leans forward and gawks upward as we go out to the street to explain. 

“Are you having hog problems?” David asks.

“Oh yeah,” Wayne tells him.  “What I’ve done is put out mothballs.  I don’t know if it’ll work, but it can’t hurt.”

Mothballs.  Of course.  Much more repulsive than crushed red peppers. 

There it is.  It freaks me out to think of a big ole hog rooting around in our backyard.  

Closer, it looks worse.  The grass doesn't look great this time of year, but still. . . 

From the back of the house.  At least now we have internet.  

From the front.  Huge.  

Waldos Triumphant

We have reasons to celebrate. 

For one thing, Sam and his girlfriend, Julia, visited from Beijing.  I haven’t seen Sam in over a year, but other than a different hairstyle, he’s still the wise and inspiring presence he’s always been.  I say inspiring because he makes people want to live up to their best.  It’s a gift.  He’s been busy getting his company up and running, and a couple of weeks ago Mantra had its official kick-off which triggered a huge number of orders and all sorts of favorable responses, including marriage proposals, requests for television appearances, and rumblings about an upcoming documentary.  The buy-one-give-one concept is new in China, and wealthier people in the city are enamored with the idea of providing eye exams and glasses to poor rural kids—especially as they’re purchasing a pair of really cool sunglasses for themselves.  Yay, Sam!  It was good to see both of them and I feel that Julia—British, works for GB’s embassy in Beijing—got a good idea of what Texas is all about. 

The next thing to be celebrated is that Curtis and Anna are now engaged.  This makes me happy, as the two of them are good for each other.  They share the same sense of humor and are mutually supportive.  I understand, from speaking with other mothers at this stage, that an upcoming wedding can be fraught with conflicts and petty concerns, but regarding these two, I feel a sense of peace.  We love Anna and are happy that she’s to be part of our family.  Yay, Curtis and Anna! 

And then, of course, there’s my personal triumph.  Old Buildings in North Texas is now on the shelves in Great Britain.  It’s obtainable in hardback from Amazon here in the states, and, though both the hardback and electronic versions are available on Amazon.co.uk, UK Amazon isn’t available in the US, so no kindle downloads here.  Oddly, the hardback is much cheaper here in the states, so it’s really no more expensive to order the hardback than it would be to get it electronically.  

The publishers have done a beautiful job.  The color scheme is teal, gold, and cream, quite eye-catching.  I have several copies and I’ve rearranged them around the house so that I can see one every time I enter a room.  I’m obnoxiously proud.  OBiNT’s success is in the hands of the readers now—and I’ll share a thought about that.

The other day an old friend asked me what the novel was about.  This is a reasonable question that I’ve come to expect.  I gave my friend the nutshell version—a cocaine addict returns to her hometown and, feeling confined, takes up exploring abandoned buildings as a hobby.  There’s more to it than this, of course, but during a verbal exchange this is about as much as the average attention span can absorb. 

As I related the simpled-down version, I could see her expression turning sour.  It wasn’t her thing.  She didn’t approve of a story about a cocaine addict.  She couldn’t imagine how so depressing a subject could be interesting or entertaining.  I wasn’t surprised by her reaction.  I’ve known her for years, and she simply doesn’t read.  Though it’s impossible for me to fathom, many people don’t.  

Despite her reaction, I have faith in the work.  I have, after all, been called, “a unique and astonishing new voice in fiction.”  My writing style is conversational, making it an easy read; it’s amusing, but not shallow.  I love Olivia, the main character, and will admit that she and I share the same dry sense of humor—and I think I’m pretty damned funny.  I cackle over my keyboard all the time.  My friends who’ve read Old Buildings in North Texas tell me that, as they progress through the narrative, they hear my voice in their heads.  Whoa.  That can’t be pleasant.  Try not to do that. 

As to the response to the book, people who know me will be more critical than strangers.  I don’t know why, but that’s the way it is.  And people who don’t know me will think they do, simply because I’m that convincing.  So let me be clear:  I am not a cocaine addict.  I do not smoke, though I sympathize with those who do.  I don’t venture into abandoned buildings.  And I don’t endorse secretiveness and stealing.  On the other hand, people who are good all the time are boring, while flawed characters are stimulating. 

And so, as Old Buildings takes flight, I request positive and supportive feedback.  A five-star rating, and especially a comment or review on Amazon would mean a lot to me. 

Now I move on to Why Stuff Matters, my next novel, which will be on the shelves in the next six months, give or take.     

Sam and Julia gave me flowers to celebrate.  

An army.  I plan to save them to autograph at readings.  I'll send an autographed copy at cost (don't want to go broke!) to anyone not named Waldo who promises to write a review on Amazon.    

I made an advertising tableau of the sunglasses Sam gave me.  The lenses are polarized and mirrored.  I like mirrored lenses because people can't tell that I'm asleep.  

Here we are at Saltair, in Houston. Though the red eyes make us look possessed, we're really quite normal.  It was a great evening.   

Time and Effort

On Sunday morning we decide to go into Austin for a walk along the lake, and then brunch afterward.  Austin is an easy drive, forty-five minutes of pleasant hill country, and no traffic.  And in the city there are always interesting things to look at and do, but for some reason we don’t come in as often as we’d like. 

I park on Third and Congress, a few blocks from Lake Austin.  We walk past trendy shops, all closed on Sunday morning, to get to the walking trail, which stretches for miles in both directions, on both sides of the lake.  David had a hip replacement a couple of weeks ago, and I’m having a disc fusion next week, so we’re both sore and feeling sorry for ourselves.  Both athletes and fatties populate the trail.  The fatties only get out of their chairs when their partners make them.  We slip in between two other couples, joining the long queue of walkers and adjusting our pace.  I laugh and David asks, “What?”

“I wonder how long it’ll be before thinking about that stupid vest stops making me laugh.”

Then he laughs too.  The vest is hilarious. 

I’ll start with the silk:  Mossy green.  I got it in Cambodia a couple of years ago.  At the time I also bought a couple of yards of yellow, from which I made a lovely top—but it fell apart after only a couple of wearings, so I’m not talking about a durable weave.  And for this reason I didn’t want to invest a lot of time or effort into the green.  I ordered a vest pattern from Butterick, thinking foolishly that vests are always quick and easy, and they make a nice accessory.

Every pattern comes with a size chart and, sensible as always, I took my measurements and ordered accordingly.  While the retail world panders to customers’ egos by vanity sizing, patterns have remained true to their sizing for over a hundred and fifty years.  In a store I’m a ten, but as far as Butterick is concerned, I’m a fourteen, which is, frankly, more believable.    

The vest was far from easy.  With a hidden fly, complicated facings, and a zigzag hem, I was in a state of mossy confusion the whole time I was making it.  Every couple of hours, I’d go find David and say, “I cannot imagine how this thing’s going to look,” or “This vest is going swallow me.”

This is the longest walk David’s been on in several months, and his limp is becoming more pronounced.  Honestly, I can’t wait until he gets beyond this.  I have no patience with his stopping to stretch every few minutes.  Also, while people-watching in Austin is always entertaining, there’s construction going on all over the place.  We’ve taken detours over root-roughened terrain and, at times, have been instructed by orange cones to walk in the street.   

“Are you ready to turn around?” I ask.

“At the next bridge.” 

The bridge is broad, with benches, planters overflowing with green, and a generous view in both directions.  A man with a telescope invites us to come look at sunspots.   

“It’s fixed just right,” he says.  I hunch over, see the sunspots, and am unimpressed.  “You saw ’em?” he asks, excited.

“Yes.”

“Did you know that this is International Solar Sidewalk Sunday?” he asks.

“No, I didn’t know.”  And this does impress me.  That we should be walking on this very day, when people all over the world stand on sidewalks and talk to strangers about sunspots, seems wondrously serendipitous.   

David, too, looks at the sunspots, though he does a better job of pretending to be excited than I.  We continue to the other side of the bridge, inadvertently arriving at the dog park, which is smelly and chaotic, with dogs chasing each other, barking, flying into the water.  My little dog, Trip, would be scared to death of this place.  He’d be trembling in my arms, begging me with his blind eyes to take him to safety. 

Back to the vest, which has nothing at all to do with the garage.  We’re getting the garage remodeled, the reason for which eludes me; but apparently this particular garage floor and that space-saving shelving, have always been a dream of David’s.  The floor:  first, two men sanded, power-washed, and hit it with a shiny adhesive; then they sprinkled multi-colored chips, let it stand for a few days, sanded it again, and covered the whole thing with a layer of epoxy that made the whole neighborhood woozy.  Apparently this type of flooring is much coveted.  Many manly men have dropped by, whistled, admired, and made plans of their own. 

When I finished the vest, David was in the garage patching the drywall in preparation for the installation of the shelving, which will take place in a few days. 

“Are you ready for a laugh?” I ask, poking my head into the garage.

“What?” David looks up, sees me step on to the new floor wearing the vest, and laughs.  “You look like a munchkin.”

“I guess I’ll have it if I ever need a costume.”  I’m both horrified and despondent.  I ended up spending twenty hours making the thing, when it should’ve only taken four.  “It doesn’t look anything like the picture.  The picture looked cute.  This looks ridiculous.”

“If I were you, I’d write a letter of complaint.”  David is a letter-writer.  I am not.

And the memory of the vest is why we chuckle on the Lake Austin walking path.  When we’ve returned to our starting point, we head toward brunch.  True Food.  It’s all about organic.  I have a Greek salad with hummus, always a good choice.  David orders the best pancakes he’s ever put in his mouth.  I try a bite of his.  He’s right.  They’re wonderful.

“One hundred percent natural.”  He’s impressed that natural can also be tasty.

“Organic doesn’t mean it’s not fattening,” I say. 

“It must be healthy, though, because it’s natural.”

“Just keep telling yourself that.” 

He slathers on the natural butter, pours on the natural syrup.

A couple takes the booth next to us.

“Look,” I say.  “It’s Howard and Bernadette, from The Big Bang.”

“Wow.  It is.”

These two people have gone to a great deal of trouble to look like characters from a sitcom—over-sized buckle, hip-huggers, and bangs for him; the shellacked golden hair, glasses, and short-waisted dress for her.  They spent time and effort in order to look like a popular TV couple; I spent time and effort on an article of clothing I’ll never wear.  Which is more stupid? 

True Food, a trendy brunch spot.  The Bloody Mary was good.

View from the bridge.   

If there's a competition for the most beautiful garage floor, we'll win it for sure.  

This is what the vest is supposed to look like.  

What the what?  This thing is never leaving the closet.  

The Last Lodge

We catch the boat in Seward, a small town at the head of Resurrection Bay.  We’ve been looking forward to this portion of the trip where we’ll follow the dramatic fjords and perhaps catch sight of whales.  A boat this size disappeared about a year ago, and there was speculation, bordering on certainty, that it was taken out by a whale.  So, as I am understandably fearful, I share the story with my travel mates, who are unimpressed; they’re more concerned about throwing up than whale danger.  

This is the roughest sea I’ve ever traveled.  Up, up, up to the crest; then Slam! into the valley of the wave.  Repeat a billion times.  I don’t tend toward seasickness, so I sadistically enjoy every up and down of it while every one around me moans and turns green.  It is, however, disappointing that the heavy fog hinders fjord viewing. 

We arrive on a beach and are told that it’s an easy mile-long hike to the Kenai Fjords Glacier Lodge.  It’s on this short walk that disaster catches up with David—his hiking boot falls apart!  The sole, barely attached at the heel, flops all over the place.  Toes are exposed.  This couldn’t be more suitably timed, as, when we were packing, David informed me, in a rather pompous tone, that he’s had those boots longer than he’s known me.  Thirty-three years.  (Well, gee, David, we were going to Alaska.  Maybe you should have invested in a new pair.)  But all was not lost.  A woman gave him a tiny bungee string to hold the shoe together until we got to the lodge; and Dennis, a member of our tour group, offered the extra pair that he’d brought along, just in case they were needed.  Whew.  Misfortune overcome.  This is the sort of thing that seems inconsequential when it happens to someone else, but it’s a big deal when it happens to you.  Mortified that his gear fell apart, and sorrowful over the demise of one of his oldest belongings, David mourned the loss for a whole hour.  Then he perked up and got on with things, wearing someone else’s shoes. 

The lodge is stunning.  Nestled in a tidal lagoon, it overlooks Pederson Glacier.  The bay is a mirror dotted with floating mounds of white.  Otters are everywhere, cute with their playful eyes.  Right in front of the dock, a seal’s round head pops up, twinkling eyes visible, then disappears again.  It thinks it’s being sneaky.  We see you, seal. 

Of the three places we’ve stayed, this is the nicest.  The cabins are large and, thankfully, have bathrooms.  Most importantly, this lodge has a designated drying room, made arid by the hot wind from the generator.  As were the other lodges, the location is remote.  There is no garbage pick-up.  They produce their own power and process their own waste.  Every aspect is designed to leave only the tiniest footprint. 

Delicious food, charming guides, a nice wine bar, a surplus of equipment in excellent condition—these things are appreciated, but all fade when compared to the breathtaking scenery.  I’m sure there are other lodges like this in Alaska, where tourism thrives and the isolated pristine wilderness is the attraction; but in all my travels I have never seen a place as beautiful as this—the jagged gray mountains patched with glaciers that from a distance look insignificant, but grow to massive proportions upon proximate approach.  The water, ocean and glacier, the bluest blue.  Air so pure that it makes me dizzy.  Every once in a while, a great Boom!  A part of a glacier has broken off.  Echoes for miles.  Calving. 

We’re kayaking to the Aialik Glacier.  We don comical gear—rubber boots, rubber overalls, two rain jackets; and an oddly flared skirt over it all.  Plus lifejackets.  And then we tromp the mile to the shore, uncomfortable and looking ridiculous in the absurd skirts.  During our travels, we’ve combined and split away from other tour groups, and this activity is open to all who are staying at the lodge, but the only guests who’ve elected to come along are the people we started out with, the ones we’ve become quite close to.  One by one we squat into our places in the kayaks, encouraging one another and enjoying ourselves.  The skirt edge fits tightly over the rim of the seat; and this, we’re told, will keep us dry.  By this time, I know better.  To be in Alaska is to be wet. 

David and I aren’t experienced kayakers.  He sits in back, working the rudder as he rows, attempting to control where we go.  I’m in front, rowing hard, putting my shoulders into it.  But for some reason David can’t keep the bow going straight.  We go one way, then the other.  This body of water is still; no current, no waves.  Maybe the rudder’s broken.  As a group, we’re aiming toward a distant island, and the glacier beyond.  I’m putting all this effort into gliding forward, yet we’re zigzagging.  It’s a waste of energy.  So I decide that when we’re not heading where we should be, I’ll stop rowing. 

“You can’t keep a beat,” David complains, as though he’s doing everything right back there. 

“So says the scientist to the music major,” I tell him.  “I’m a human metronome.”

“We’re supposed to row in sync.”

“If you want me to row then keep this thing true.  It’s stupid to row in the wrong direction.” 

Out of sorts with one another, we continue our efforts in sulky silence.  For about three glorious minutes on the outgoing trip, we get it right—flawless, coordinated, advancing quickly in the right direction. 

And during this brief spell, I hear Dawn, in a neighboring kayak, say to her son—“Look at David and Jenny.  Cooperating, going forward smoothly.  Only when you’ve been married for years can you achieve that kind of harmony.”

Harmony.  Ha.  Sometimes something can look one way when it’s really not that way at all. 

We arrive at the base of the massive glacier.  With icebergs floating around us, everything is eerily still, silent, enchanted; time stops.  We cease rowing and talking, and simply gaze at the magnificence for fifteen minutes or so.  Then we complete the circle around the island and zigzag back to our starting point on the shore. 

A view of the glacier from the kayak.

Even the best hiking boots don't last forever.  

The view from the lodge.  Because of the fog, the glacier is barely visible.

View of the lodge from the end of the dock.  

On our last night at the lodge, Elias, our guide, asked us to meet for a "ceremony."  Knowing he was going to advise about tipping practices in Alaska, I teased by asking if it would be an awards ceremony.  He made this especially for me.