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.

It means the ministry is interfering at Hogwarts!

I flipped on the ole tele last night to catch some of the State of the Union address, and found that I had missed most of Dubbya's remarks about the economy. But I was just in time to hear him spout the same old sensationalist rhetoric about "the enemy" and its desire to destroy American freedom.

I got really mad. My first reaction was to shout at the TV. Then, I wanted to turn it off because I couldn't listen anymore.

But finally I realized that underneath all that [expletive deleted], there just might be something I wanted to know. Sometimes you just have to listen, even when you don't want to, because the price of ignorance is just too high.

Besides, there were some fun parts, like seeing Nancy Pelosi start flipping through a notebook with obvious boredom while Dubbya droned on about "successes", and seeing half the spectators refuse to stand up when he made what he obviously thought were strong statements about "staying the course" in the Mideast, especially the rather pathetic lies about community cooperation among Muslim sects in Iraq. It's not like anyone was going along with his...er... grandstanding. So, I guess it's nothing to get upset about. In fact, it's a little sad. Poor Bushy.

Well, maybe that's going a little too far.

Fine Craftsmanship

As some of you know, my bike was stolen while DW and I were on our extended camping trip last summer. At first, I felt a little lost and violated, but then I came to recognize that the thief may have done me a favor.

I've never been real picky when it comes to things like this. I just wanted something to get me from point A to point B as easily and inexpensively as possible. Now, that's not to say I was willing to take some piece of junk. Doing so would most likely not have achieved my goal. But I had no problem with buying a bike at Walmart for $75 rather than spend hundreds at a bike store. It was good enough for me, I thought.

The said stolen bike had fallen into this category, but almost from the first week of purchase, I had been dissatisfied with it. The back wheel possessed a decided wobble, which replacing the tire and even the rim did nothing to eliminate. Regardless what adjustments I made, the front wheel disk brake system would either not stop the bike or would rub and force me to fight the friction when I rode. The gears changed roughly and sometimes would not change at all. And the list goes on.

But since I did actually have a bike that worked, I would not allow myself to buy another. So when some person in Vancouver decided he or she liked my bike enough to cut the lock and make away with it, I was actually liberated in some ways.

This week, I broke down and visited some of the numerous bike shops in our small city. I had determined that if I was going to spend my hard-earned money, I might as well have something I liked. And after some browsing and talking with knowledgeable sales people, I purchased a rather expensive Trek street bike from one of the stores.

I have seldom been so happy with a purchase. This bike has an amazingly smooth ride, and it has everything I ever wanted on a bike. My commute to work is sheer joy now. I guess the old saying is true, you do get what you pay for.

Perspective

Last week I tried for the third time to quit working as a crossing guard. Not because I wanted to, but because I don't really have time for it. And for the third time, I listened to the supervisor's pleas and empty promises.

Consequently, I stood at a busy intersection this morning in the downpour, holding a stop sign and feeling the damp soak into my skin despite my Teflon-coated hiking boots and new waterproof parka. As I watched the drops fall from the bill of my cap, I thought, "This is miserable. Cold and miserable. Why am I doing this again?"

And then suddenly I remembered... I like rain.

It was like a switch was thrown in the cosmos, and all the world appeared before me with new dimension. The soft pitter, pat... pat, pat, pit of drops merging with the puddle at the curb was better than a symphony, their singular rhythm harmonizing with the larger movement. The gray sky both blotted out and reflected the landscape, like the cobblestones in that famous Caillebotte painting. And everywhere I looked, the moss on the tree trunks, the grass of the baseball diamond, the narcissus buds pushing through the soil, all reveled in the life-giving miracle that poured from the heavens.

And though I am not in tune with this celestial orchestra as much as I would like, I heard it again and recalled the beauty of the rain.

And He Shall Be Called...Fergus!

After much deliberation, we have decided to purchase the new canine addition to our family from the breeder in Michigan.

His name, which roughly translates to "First Choice" or "First Man" from the Gaelic, is a little inaccurate considering that he is not the product of our first breeder. However, my preference was always for a brindle (as opposed to pure black or wheaten), male Scottish Terrier, and he is that. Our original breeder's dogs are not brindled... or not much. So in some ways, he is more our first choice than our first choice of breeder could have produced.

He won't be old enough to fly for a few more weeks, so we won't bring him home until late February or early March. It will be hard to contain my enthusiasm until then, but there are preparations to be made in the meantime.

Apathetic Machinations

I like to read the newspaper with my breakfast. It's something I wasn't able to do for years because academic pursuits kept me up long into the night so that I was unable or unwilling to rise thirty minutes early for the news. But now I cherish this time to sit quietly, catch up on the happenings of civilization, and prepare myself for the day.

The problem is that my city doesn't have a morning paper. The Sacramento Bee and the San Francisco Chronicle are both available to me, but I don't take either one because I don't live in Sacramento or San Francisco. In addition to national and international news, I like to keep abreast of my own neighborhood. A local paper is great for that. It helps me feel like I am part of the community. And our paper, which has a long and distinguished history, generally picks up most of the key stories from the news services as well, so I am not left out of the bigger picture. Unfortunately, this paper is an afternoon paper, a fact I have lamented frequently. It is already a day behind, and I have already become familiar with most of the major news stories when I sit down to the paper the next morning.

However, yesterday I had cause to be happy about the paper's distribution time. I trotted out to the driveway at around 6:00 pm to collect the paper and read on the front page that Bill Clinton would be speaking on campus that very night. I had heard nothing of this prior to this headline because the campaign stop was apparently a last-minute decision for Clinton. Had I not had an afternoon paper, I would certainly have missed it entirely.

I hurried in to tell DW about it, and we decided to go hear the former president speak. In addition to wanting to see him in his own right, he was stumping for his wife, and with the CA primary rapidly approaching, we were eager to hear what he had to say about her.

The event was scheduled for 9:00, and the doors for the venue, which is within sight of our house, were slated to open at 8:15. We departed at 7:00 and felt sure that even though there would certainly be a long line, we would be able to get in.

We were wrong. I've never seen a line this long. We walked, and we walked... and we walked, but the linear feet of people was unbelievable. It circled around the building, the adjacent soccer field, the campus recreation center, and lined the sidewalk along the street behind. It was apparent to us pretty quickly that we would not be admitted. The venue could not possibly hold this many people. And they were still streaming in.

Most of them were students, and I found myself surprised and excited that so many of them had turned out. Sure Clinton is a celebrity, and that's cool and all. But this was thousands upon thousands of students. It was cold and incredibly windy. Some of them had been waiting for hours... or four hours, as I read today. "Wow! This is great!" I thought. "They care. They actually care enough to overcome their self-centeredness, break out of their apathetic cynicism to show up and engage in our political process, even though it is uncomfortable and inconvenient."

But then, as we kept walking by them, I began to notice that they were just having a grand ole time. This was an enormous party for them. Everyone was there; they were laughing and horse-playing, talking on their cell phones, and being incredibly moronic. In other words, this was not a divergence from normal college student activity. They were really there because it was something to do in a city that doesn't offer them much. It was an excuse to congregate and act crazy, and they could pretend that they were being responsible, informed citizens at the same time. It was a win-win for them.

It will be interesting to see if even half of them care enough to vote by the time the election actually comes in November.

Some Awakings are Greater than Others

In front of my house, I have noticed the crocuses, hyacinths, and daffodils emerging from their year-long slumber. Their tender green blades have always been a source of delight for me. They let me know that mother nature is casting aside the thick blanket of winter slumber and preparing to burst forth in the glorious array of her youth. Oh, to be sure, I enjoy the beauty of winter as well. But it is a quiet beauty of muffled sounds and monochromatic landscapes. It is a time to rest the mind along with the ear and the eye. The earth will have gained strength during this rest, and the reward will be the bright blushes and soft sprouts of spring renewal. Life and color will return to the world, and a flurry of activity will accompany it.

But here in CA, that winter pause does not come. Fall and winter spell the return of life-giving rains to the parched land of the Valley. The green of the trees never fades, but it wearies and darkens during the long, hot summer months and is quickened to new boldness with the arrival of autumn. In winter, even the sidewalks wear robes of emerald.

Consequently, the emergence of theses harbingers of spring in my garden, these former sources of such joy, now signals something else to me.

The fog clung to my mustache and beard as I walked to work this morning. Cold and unpleasant, it, too, contained the unmistakably earthy aroma of spring. This same moisture accumulates slowly on the leaves of trees and the branches of shrubs until it plummets suddenly to pockmark the ground around their trunks like a tiny, wet meteor shower. The already damp soil greedily drinks up the offerings as if it is all too aware that the drought will come too soon.