MLK Day Holiday

It's hard to believe it's been four years since President Obama's first inauguration.  What a new beginning that was, after the Worst Ever.

Four years later we have near-universal health care, a re-dedication to necessary regulation of the reckless risk takers that are Wall Street MBAers, a much better acceptance of out-of-the "norm" characteristics in persons, a dead mass-murderer of Americans, lots of dead terrorists without any DP or real oversight except for one man's, and more confidence in the future.  Second terms are historically tough, though.

Tomorrow is the public swearing in as well as the Martin Luther King holiday,  I'm staying away from the District, crowded as it will be with out-of-towners.  On Friday I ran to the King Memorial on the Tidal Basin and walked through it in commemoration of Dr. King.

Tomorrow on the MLK Day holiday I will be at the Stray Cat Cafe (just down from the Lost Dog Cafe) at noon for lunch.  Hope you'll join me, Jimmy Johnny and/or Danny, and we can start catching up on the last six years of silence. 

An adolescent's bookshelf

When I was a boy growing up on Staten Island in the sixties, I voraciously read Ballantine War Books, pulp paperbacks with lurid covers detailing combat by World War II veterans, a conflict that wasn't all that far in the past then.  I recently re-read one of those paperbacks plucked off an adolescent boy's bookshelf from 45 years ago, its coarse pages yellowing and brittle but its slick cover just as vivid and vibrant as it was when I saw it on a book display case in a drug store and bought it for seventy-five cents.

Samurai! by Saburo Sakai (copyright 1957) is the memoir of Japan's leading surviving World War II ace, with 64 kills.  Mostly it is a paean to the superiority of the most outstanding fighter plane of the early Pacific War, the Mitsubishi Zero, a plane that easily outclassed all Allied fighter planes (except for perhaps the British Spitfire, but there weren't many of those in the theatre at the time) until the ominous arrival (for the Japanese) of the American Hellcat, a plane specifically designed to counter and better all of the Zero's superior traits.  Practically overnight the Japanese went from practically never losing an even dogfight to almost never winning any and they inexorably lost the war, so dependant was the Pacific conflict upon naval airpower.  The book details Sakai's many triumphant ariel battles early in the war, and his two love interests, and his later struggles in combat and grievous wounding when superior American fighter planes arrived.  Its cover, designed to attract the attention of a hero-worshipping boy, shows a painting of an American P-40 Warhawk (the famous "Flying Tiger" plane with the shark teeth painted on the cowling) engaging a Zero in combat.

Of my three sons, my middle child is (was?) most like me in that he loves (loved?) to read war books.  During the bitter divorce last decade, before his will was overborne and he stopped seeing me when he was 15, one of my proudest moments came when he called me to ask if he could come over to my house and take some war histories off my bookshelf to have and to read.  I dropped him off that night at his Mother's house with a large stack of World War II memoirs that he had picked out.

Those happy moments are but soft whispers way back in the furthest recesses of my mind now ten years later.  But today is his birthday and as is my custom on such days, I'm going to have lunch at noon at the Lost Dog Cafe in Westover in Arlington, Virginia, and maybe the birthday boy will show up.  In any case, I'm bringing his present along, a dog-eared paperback book entitled "Samurai!" by Saburo Sakai, bought by a 15-year old boy oh so long ago.

So Little Time

I got a Kindle for my 60th birthday last year, but it still sits in its box, unused.  I have a household full of unread books, bought for 25 cents at library sales, and the library is half a mile away.  What do I need another thing to put endless queues upon? 

On the subway platform and train each workday, while half of my fellow humans there are totally isolated within their cocoon of selfhood, their earbuds sealing off their eardrums and their eyes riveted upon the device mere inches in their palm so they don't have to hazard a glance at a fellow human being, I have an open book in my hand and I can be engrossed in the biting winter at Valley Forge (I'm reading First Salute by Barabara Tuchman) but still be able to glance at my fellow travelers and imagine or engage in interactions, even if only for safety's sake.  Things can take shape on public transit that you might want to think about beforehand as they unfold.

I'm already swamped with books I haven't read that I'd love to get around to.  I have a bookshelf comprised of five twelve-foot long boards separated by cinder blocks in the basement that contains some of the books I have read.  Since age seventeen I have written down every book I have read, and a decade ago I digitalized the body of work by putting the list on a wordperfect document, by date and also by author, that I can search electronically or glance at the author lists.  All the unread books swim in the sea of clutter that is my house.

My friends who put their libraries on their Nooks and Kindles can't keep up with the additions to their endless queues they add to the back end of their device whenever they get bored and go off to Amazon for a few moments.  The unknown paramour is often more enticing than the steady tried and true immediately at hand.  So many books, so little time.

Crater Lake

Without a doubt the most stunning place I visted last year was Crater Lake in Oregon.  This magical place should be on everyone's Must-See list.

Last Year in Review

Now that 2012 is about gone, I find myself putting 2011 into better perspective. It turns out that last year was a good year.

I started out last year by getting back to running after a long layoff due to chronic tendinitis in my left ankle.  I participated in a walk-to-run program which kick-started my return to running.  I have Coach John to thank for showing me the path back.  I also started running at noon on the Mall with a workmate, and we slowly increased our pace from twelve-minute miles to ten-minute miles.  I also enjoyed an occasional lunch with my former mentor from oh-so many years ago, now retired from my agency.  He taught me practically everything I know, including how to enjoy a pizza with an egg upon it.

In February, as I have done for years, I had lunch at the Lost Dog Cafe in Westover at noon on the birthday of each of my estranged sons.  I continue to hold out hope that one or more of them will show in the future, because I love each of my children.  Hey Johnny, I'll be there next week at noon on your birthday.

In March I continued my comeback to running, enjoying the early Cherry Blossoms on noontime runs.  I was also able to post a sub-thirty 5K time in my first race in a year and a half, on the W&OD Trail a half mile from my house.

In April I participated in a tree planting day in my home town.  My volunteer crew planted five trees and dug six holes.  Can you believe that one homeowner waited until we had completely dug the hole at the marked spot on her lawn next to the tree the city dropped off days earlier before she came out of her house to tell us that she no longer wanted the free tree she had ordered?  We definitely were ninety-nine percenters as we dutifully filled the hole back in as this one-percenter disappeared back into her air-conditioned house.

In May I underwent hernia surgery but was able to finish a Memorial Day 3K fun run in under twenty minutes five days later.

In June I attended a minor league baseball game in Trenton.  Across Lamberton Street which fronts the ballpark was the Lamberton Liquors package store.

In July I traveled across the upper plains, touring Indian battlefields and visiting prominent features in the region like Devils Tower in Wyoming.

In August the DC area experienced a rare earthquake, which closed the Washington Monument due to structural cracks and it remains closed today.  At home the tall plastic toy figures lined up on the shelves in my children's bedroom tumbled over willy nilly, with several soldier and monster figures pitching onto the floor below.

In September I went down to North Carolina help my college roommate a buddy clean up after Hurricane Irene roared through his waterfront property.  The storm surge registered 9 feet high on his 12 foot house stilts so the valuables inside his residence were safe, but the outlying storage units were a sodden mess.  Here I am holding his family bible during the cleanup phase.  My buddy spent hours restoring this family heirloom with its priceless personal inscriptions, recordations and notations, basically slow-baking it.

In October I started occasionally taking my noontime runs through the Occupy Wall Street camps in DC, a movement I wholeheartedly supported.

In November I went to spend Thanksgiving with my sister and her family in Columbus.  We ran a race.

In December I was detailed to assist a regional office with a two-week trial in a southern city.  A finer bunch of line staff you could never hope to meet.  I got in some great early morning runs though very historic places like the Grassy Knoll, and I picked up some invaluable professional pointers by observing people at work.  I made several life-long friends, like Erez, Gary, Shereen and the others in this picture.

The year ended with a run on New Year's Day with a good friend who was coming back from major surgery.  He outpaced me badly that day on the C&O Canal Towpath, although I used as an excuse that I was wiped out by a Hot Yoga session an hour earlier.  I'm not a fan of Bikram Yoga for a number of reasons.  Unfortunately my friend underwent essentially the same major surgery six months later, and I pray that the surgery this time will do what the surgeons promised him and he will be running with me again soon.

An Open Invite

Another year is about to slip away.  For my three children, I invite you to come have lunch with me at 12 noon on Tuesday, New Year's Day, January 1, 2013 at the Lost Dog Cafe in Westover (Arlington, VA).  We can start catching up on the last half-decade, a little bit at a time.  I love you Jimmy, Johnny and Danny.  I hope to see one or more of you there then!

The Little City, the little creature

My home town is called The Little City, a self-proclaimed title as it asserts its fierce independence within the welter of competing governmental entities within the Beltway.  It all has to do with its superior public school system, which props up property values even in hard times, and skyrockets property taxes even for persons without children like me to feed such extravagance.

It's a nice place to jog though, as the forty mile W&OD Trail, a paved over railroad bed, cuts right through the heart of the city, and its streets for the most part are spacious enough and not crushed with heavy traffic.  It also has a nice set of hills, such as the hill which I ran up this morning that goes up to the elementary school, a school I attended half a century ago.

The jog was unsatisfactory though.  First off I lost the five dollar bill I put in my pocket, a fact I discovered after I'd poured a cup of coffee at the 7-11 near my house to take back to my house at the conclusion of my little two mile outing.  The proprietor kindly let me take the coffee anyway, gratis.

A hundred yards and a few minutes before that I had run by a poor little dead cat lying forlornly in the gutter amidst the dirty damp leaves, run over by a car, fresh blood surrounding its head.  I decided to call Animal Control as soon as I got home to report it so they could come pick it up and perhaps alert the owners.  I thought it would be an unwelcome sight for its family to discover if they were out looking for it.

There was a city police cruiser at the restaurant right next to the 7-11 so I stopped in there first and waited respectfully for the officer inside to finish ordering his breakfast at the counter before I approached him.  I asked if the city had an Animal Control officer and he answered affirmatively. 

I explained the situation to him, gave an exact location (if you're going to report something, try to know exactly where it is, such as, "on the western curb line of West Street 200 feet north of the W&OD Trail").  I left to go get my coffee next door as he called it in.

When I went by again carrying my coffee he came out and asked me to call it in when I got home because the Animal Control officer wasn't on duty currently and dispatch would give me another number to call.  The poor guy had a breakfast waiting for him and I said, "Sure, I'll be home in a few minutes."

Below is as best as I can recreate the conversation I had a few minutes later, after calling the police department's non-emergency number just a few minutes ago.

"City of Falls Church, police department."

"Hi, I'd like to report a dead cat in the city limits that I ran by a few minutes ago when I was out jogging, so your Animal Control officer could go pick it up."

"A dead cat?"

"Yes, it was dead, it had been struck by a car obviously because there was fresh blood around its head, and I thought you could go pick it up and alert the owners.  It had a collar."

"Sir, we don't pick up dead animals.  Only live ones or injured ones so we could care for it."

"Well, I thought the Animal Control officer could go get it before the family found it and saw it lying in the gutter dead, covered in blood."

"Our Animal Warden is only part time."

"Well, Could I have his number?  I'll call it to report the cat's location."

"Sir, she is part time and not on duty at the current time." 

I took this as a No.  I was starting to regret this.  When will I ever learn not to bother with trying to report animal situations within city jurisdictions?

"Well, I'm not sure why the city registers animals then because it looked like it had a tag and you could notify the owners in case they're out looking for it."

(Slight exasperation.)  "Well, I can take down a description in case the owners call in.  What kind of a cat was it?"

"It was a tabby, a household cat." 

"What color was it?"

"Well, aren't all tabbies tan with black stripes?"  (I was wrong about this.)

"Tan with black stripes.  Okay, was it male or female?"

"I couldn't tell if it was male or female even if it was alive."  This was my attempt at humor.

"A neutered cat.  Okay, where was it?"

I gave the precise location, wondering if the dispatcher would even bother to write it down.

Poor little tabby, somebody's family member, lying dead in the gutter of The Little City.