Sometimes they do come true

It finally happened. Last weekend, I brought our new puppy home.

This was no mean feat. As some of you know, the entire process has been a lengthy one. After convincing Darling Wife that she wanted a Scottish Terrier... :)

....we had to save the money to buy one and take proper care of him. We also had to find a breeder we liked. This involved months of web searches, telephone calls, and letter writing. And when we did finally find one, we waited and waited, but her dog did not go into season. Then she recommended another breeder in Michigan who had puppies available.

So we had to start the process all over again with this breeder. Once we'd decided to take a puppy from this breeder, there was the issue of how to get him here to CA. We did not want to fly him by himself in cargo. That's a bit too much for a puppy to go through alone. Would you put a baby in a box and stick it into an airplane's cargo hold for hours? I don't think so. And while a puppy is not exactly a baby, in many ways it amounts to the same thing. So I decided to fly to MI and pick him up and bring him back with me in the cabin. However, flights to Grand Rapids, MI from central CA are not cheap. I ended up opting to fly to Chicago and crash with a friend for a few days instead. The flight was significantly cheaper, and my friend generously offered to play chauffeur to me and my new family member, picking me up at the airport while it was still dark and driving us around Lake Michigan in the wee hours during the middle of winter. Now, that's a good friend. But coordinating her schedule with mine and the breeder's proved even more difficult, and when we eventually worked it all out, it still meant me getting almost no sleep for three days, and all I saw of Chicago was my friend's apartment and one truly great pizza place.


But all's well that ends well, right? Fergus has been home with us for a week now, and he is proving himself to be all that we wished for. We've been having so much fun -and I had so much school work to catch up on- that this is the first chance I've had to sit down and share the good news. Who knows when I'll take the time again, but fear not; my blogging days may be fewer, but they aren't gone yet. And they won't all be about our adorable new pal.

The Law of Club and Fang

There is a beehive hanging in
the lower branches of a tree on campus, right in front of a classroom building on a main route. I noticed it one morning as I walked to work and was rather surprised that no one else seemed at all interested in it. It was a rather large stalactite with waxy combs pointing toward the ground and bees buzzing around in cliched activity. Weren't people afraid of being stung? But as I looked about, I guessed the students scurrying hither and thither were all too busy talking on their cell phones to notice this peculiar phenomenon in their midst. I stood alone in the crowd and watched it for several minutes more, certain that the campus facilities crew would locate it after a few days and remove it from my observation.

But as the days passed, the bees remained, and I began to suspect that they had gone unremarked. After all, the campus is really large, and the olive harvest was underway. The facilities crew couldn't be everywhere at once. I started to think I had a duty to report it. What if someone were stung? The location of the cluster made it only a matter of time before someone accidentally bumped it or purposefully behaved in some manner the bees would perceive as threatening, and then it would not be a matter of a single sting, it would be a massive defensive attack. And aren't some people seriously allergic to bee stings?

I didn't know what steps to take, so I searched the university's website for assistance and contacted the campus authority on bees and apiculture. He was happy to talk with me, but his response was not what I expected. He explained that it wasn't a beehive but an "open comb cluster," and it was likely the result of a late-season swarm. When a beehive becomes overpopulated, a new queen is born, and then the old queen takes a portion of the hive and attempts to relocate. This is called swarming. Scouts are dispatched to find a new home in a log or other protected space, while the remainder of the swarm clusters onto a temporary residence on a branch or side of a building. If the scouts are successful in time, the cluster moves into their new residence, and a new hive is formed. But if the scouts can't find a place or they take too long, the bees can't resist the urge to make combs and start producing honey, even in their unsuitable location. The result is an open comb cluster, and it means doom for the nascent colony.

The bee expert told me that the cluster would not have had time to produce enough food to see the bees through the winter and no beekeeper would want them because he would have to feed them all winter at great effort and expense. So, unless the cluster was actually bothering someone, nobody would trouble themselves with it. He went on to tell me that the open combs would leave the bees exposed to the wind, rain, and cold of winter until they starved to death or were eaten by birds.

So the bees remain in the tree, unnoticed and uncared for... except by me. Every time I pass, I see fewer and fewer of the insects clinging to the outside of the combs. Sometimes I search the ground beneath the cluster to see their small, shriveled bodies curled up in death. Why do I do it? I don't know. They're just bugs, right? And stupid bugs at that. They did this to themselves. Why didn't they find a better place to live? ...but I cannot stop. I cannot not look. And each day I scrutinize the tangled group remaining , desperately seeking movement from within the dark mass, and I say a little prayer for those that survive.

Disorientation

It is February, right? I hear tales from my sister, sister-in-law, and friends that contain mysterious phrases like "negative seven" and "wind chill factor," and I know that I once had some concept of their meaning. There was a time in my life when I even told such tales. But as I struggle to recall the sensations, the memories associated with them remain shrouded in the mists of "what was long ago," and I can't exactly bring them into focus. They are blurred at the edges of reality like a dream.

Yesterday, Darling Wife and I went hiking. We strolled through green pastures like the ones you see on the "California Happy Cows" commercials, climbed alongside a bubbling creek, and emerged atop a windswept hill covered with sage and scrub oak. The temperature was a pleasant 67 degrees Fahrenheit, and the scorching rays of the California sun brought the sweat out on both of us. It was lovely.

But I kept thinking that it was somehow unnatural. My mind asked, "Should it be this wonderfully springlike, almost summerlike, in early February?" And something from the depths of my soul answered, "Certainly not!" But it was; there could be no mistaking my senses. I know that were we to travel a short distance into the mountains, we would discover ourselves in the midst of freezing temperatures and several feet of snow. But that radical dichotomy merely reinforces the perception of strangeness.

After living here for two and a half years, I am no longer in tune with the chorus of winter wails I hear from my distant loved ones, but I am also certainly off beat with the rhythm here. Of course, I enjoyed the experience immensely... but I can't shake the eerie feeling that I am somehow off the edge of the map.

The Other Cheek

I've always had a sort of personality disorder that flares up when I consider certain issues. One part of me is hard line conservative, seeing things in black&white and thinking people should just act RIGHT! (And of course, "right" is always clear and obvious.) But another part of me is aware that societal "rules" are arbitrary and often illogical; we hold to them merely for stability, which should not always be the highest object of social action. This second part of me prefers to defend people's right to self-expression and self-determination. It is adept at observing and thinking about things rather than dismissing them out of hand.

This internal polarity has often caused me immense inner conflict. Usually, my first reaction is the conservative, judgmental one, but then what I like to think of as my more reasonable side takes over and I step back to re-examine the matter with a more scientific approach. I try to see the ramifications of the behavior and decide objectively what to think about the issue, attempting to see what the goal is and how effective the behavior is at achieving that goal. Most of time I end up with a sort of compromise, a position that acknowledges that while things don't necessarily have to be the black&white way, completely destroying established behavioral rules of a society is seldom desirable either. A good balance and some common sense is often the path I prefer.

Today as I stood at my crossing-guard intersection, I noted for the dozenth time that I see more male underwear in ten minutes of work than one can find in an Undergear catalog. As I'm sure you know, the fashionable way of wearing jeans among today's high school boys is at least three inches below the waist, and many of them have no compunction about displaying their entire back side. They waddle vulgarly like a baby with a full diaper, and many of them have to hold their waistband to keep their pants from plummeting to their ankles. There was a time when this style was limited to certain groups or subgroups, but it is widely popular among all groups today. (Although the "skinny jean" has made some inroads.)

As soon as I made the observation, my two sides were at war. The conservative portion of my psyche shook its head in disgust, thinking, "How can their parents let them go out of the house that way?" and "Why do they even bother wearing pants at all? It's not like they are covering up anything." Then my rational side kicked in with "Well, of course, it wouldn't really matter if they didn't wear pants. There is nothing innately 'indecent' about the body. It is merely a societal taboo that says it's so. Besides, it's not like these boys are actually displaying their bodies. They are, in fact, covered up. Is there any substantial, inherent difference between a pair of boxer shorts and a pair of swimming trunks, other than a slight level of thickness? It is only the idea that underwear should be worn under other garments that makes their appearance seem inappropriate... and exciting. Today's youth are pushing this boundary and challenging its legitimacy, which is more or less the job of the young, isn't it? Who is it really hurting, anyway? Stop being such an old fogey!"

But as one skinny young man of about fifteen rode past me, both cheeks and a crevice clearly visible in their entirety through his thin, white briefs or boxer briefs, I wasn't sure I wanted to side with my "rational" side. Sometimes, I think the boundary needs to push back.

Context

It's funny that at the ocean, seagulls are an awful nuisance. They try to steal my food; they rummage through unattended bags; they squawk obnoxiously; and, most disgustingly, they defecate on everything. I despise them!

But anytime I encounter a seagull elsewhere, their raucous calls and soaring wings press memories upon me of warm afternoons passed lounging at Owen Park on the Vineyard, whale-watching adventures on my first visits to Boston, or one of the best days I ever spent when DW and I visited the Harbor Islands. Sometimes, I swear I can smell the sea. All brought to me by the cry of a seaside pest, heard far ashore.

Context is a curious thing.