Friday, February 03, 2006
The Year of the Pooch!
It is 4704 on the Chinese lunar calendar and the Year of the Dog. Up here in Alaska the canine is and always has been the king of the hill. Dog mushing is the official state sport and has its own racing circuit similar to Nascar. It is to Alaska as football is to Alabama. Jack London gloried man’s best friend with Buck in The Call of the Wild and with White Fang as well. Balto was the lead dog in the 1925 diphtheria serum run to Nome—an event later glorified in the form of the great Iditarod sled race. The event is so popular that restrictions must be placed on would be participants. Rookies in the Iditarod must first qualify in a less demanding preliminary race. Facing the whims of an unpredictable Arctic winter, the mushers take great care to train and equip their teams making sure that the huskies are properly attired in warm winter jackets, if the temp drops below forty below, before setting their paws on the frozen tundra. And for the amateurs no winter activity here would be complete without a dog-pulling contest.
In 1945 as World War II was coming to an end Tex Avery, one of the founding fathers of the cartoon industry, paid homage to Alaska and Robert Service with an animated version of the Shooting of Dan McGoo. The hero is the slow talking Droopy Dog who is busy playing a slot machine at the Malamute Saloon in Coldernell, Alaska. McGoo risks his life to rescue a lady named Lou from the clutches of the evil villain. Since then the silver screen, TV and the radio have featured hundreds and hundreds of canine capers. Alaskans still speak reverently of Yukon King—Sergeant Preston’s Alaskan Husky. The rest of the country had to make do with a wider variety of doggy heroes, such as Lassie, Rin-Tin-Tin, and General Grant in the Little Rascals and the unforgettable Toto in the Wizard of Oz. And for generation X there is Scooby Doo and the Flintstones’ Dino. And for the comic strip aficionados there is Marmaduke, Beauregard—Pogo’s friend, and Snoopy, who always seemed to be fighting the infamous Red Baron. The advertising world has a long track record of such famous pitchmen as Nipper for RCA, Spuds Mackenzie for Budweiser, Tige for Buster Brown Shoes and those talking Chihuahuas for Taco Bell. The music industry, not to be left behind, featured such lyrics as “Here, Yeller, Come back, Yeller!" “How Much Is That Hound Dog In The Winder?” and Elvis’ immortal “You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog!”
Ever since the Pilgrims set foot on this continent dogs have figured prominently. The Indians had a simple formula for teaching the Pilgrims how to farm. Drop the remnants of a dead fish in the ground for fertilizer. Cover with dirt. Drop in a few kernels of corn. Cover with dirt. Last but not least be sure and tie up one of the front legs of all the dogs to keep them from digging up the fertilizer.
Some of our presidents had quirky pets. Calvin Coolidge had a raccoon that he walked on a leash. Herbert Hoover had a possum. And just maybe that was where his presidency began to go down hill. When Richard Nixon felt put upon by the press, he gave a repentant speech while cuddling Checkers in his lap. LBJ had two beagles named Him and Her and when he picked Him up by the ears, his popularity with the American people shot down faster than you can say Vietnam. And when Bill Clinton had his Monica problem, he was quoted as saying,"If you want a friend in Washington, you need to get a dog.” And when we pause and remember our fallen astronauts, let’s not forget Laika who was launched into space aboard Sputnik 2 in 1957 by the Soviet Union. She was the first living creature to go where no man had gone before. Tragically there was no way to return Laika to earth so she died in space about a week after the launch. "
Two of the most famous dogs in the sporting universe are Uga at the University of Georgia and Reveille at Texas A&M University. Uga was invited to the Heisman Trophy Banquet along with Herschel Walker in 1982. Uga was wearing a black tie. No one remembers what Herschel was wearing. When Uga died in 1992 he was given posthumously the highest honor available to a mascot at the University—the Georgia varsity letter. At Texas A&M if Reveille is sleeping on a cadet’s bed, the lucky cadet must sleep on the floor. If she barks in the middle of a class—no matter what the professor might be doing—the class is dismissed immediately. Reveille is a five star general. The first female by the way to be so designated.
One Year when the Aggies were playing Rice at Rice Stadium the MOB, the Marching Rice Band, decided to play a musical tribute to Reveille. The musicians strutted here and there and suddenly a majestic formation materizlied on the fifty-yard line—a fire hydrant. The Aggie Corps took one look and sprang into action. They charged onto the field in a most unsportmanlike manner in hot pursuit of the MOB that seemed to have a premonition of this outcome and were already dashing madly to the secure confines of the dressing room that prudently was equipped with a strong lock. The Houston Police force finally sent paddy wagons to their rescue. As any GI can tell you, think twice before you sully a general—especially one that sports five stars. Although it may not be in Miss Manners’ guidebook, it is OK to take a President’s name in vain but it is never acceptable to speak ill of the President’s best friend—especially in The Year of the Dog.
It is 4704 on the Chinese lunar calendar and the Year of the Dog. Up here in Alaska the canine is and always has been the king of the hill. Dog mushing is the official state sport and has its own racing circuit similar to Nascar. It is to Alaska as football is to Alabama. Jack London gloried man’s best friend with Buck in The Call of the Wild and with White Fang as well. Balto was the lead dog in the 1925 diphtheria serum run to Nome—an event later glorified in the form of the great Iditarod sled race. The event is so popular that restrictions must be placed on would be participants. Rookies in the Iditarod must first qualify in a less demanding preliminary race. Facing the whims of an unpredictable Arctic winter, the mushers take great care to train and equip their teams making sure that the huskies are properly attired in warm winter jackets, if the temp drops below forty below, before setting their paws on the frozen tundra. And for the amateurs no winter activity here would be complete without a dog-pulling contest.
In 1945 as World War II was coming to an end Tex Avery, one of the founding fathers of the cartoon industry, paid homage to Alaska and Robert Service with an animated version of the Shooting of Dan McGoo. The hero is the slow talking Droopy Dog who is busy playing a slot machine at the Malamute Saloon in Coldernell, Alaska. McGoo risks his life to rescue a lady named Lou from the clutches of the evil villain. Since then the silver screen, TV and the radio have featured hundreds and hundreds of canine capers. Alaskans still speak reverently of Yukon King—Sergeant Preston’s Alaskan Husky. The rest of the country had to make do with a wider variety of doggy heroes, such as Lassie, Rin-Tin-Tin, and General Grant in the Little Rascals and the unforgettable Toto in the Wizard of Oz. And for generation X there is Scooby Doo and the Flintstones’ Dino. And for the comic strip aficionados there is Marmaduke, Beauregard—Pogo’s friend, and Snoopy, who always seemed to be fighting the infamous Red Baron. The advertising world has a long track record of such famous pitchmen as Nipper for RCA, Spuds Mackenzie for Budweiser, Tige for Buster Brown Shoes and those talking Chihuahuas for Taco Bell. The music industry, not to be left behind, featured such lyrics as “Here, Yeller, Come back, Yeller!" “How Much Is That Hound Dog In The Winder?” and Elvis’ immortal “You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog!”
Ever since the Pilgrims set foot on this continent dogs have figured prominently. The Indians had a simple formula for teaching the Pilgrims how to farm. Drop the remnants of a dead fish in the ground for fertilizer. Cover with dirt. Drop in a few kernels of corn. Cover with dirt. Last but not least be sure and tie up one of the front legs of all the dogs to keep them from digging up the fertilizer.
Some of our presidents had quirky pets. Calvin Coolidge had a raccoon that he walked on a leash. Herbert Hoover had a possum. And just maybe that was where his presidency began to go down hill. When Richard Nixon felt put upon by the press, he gave a repentant speech while cuddling Checkers in his lap. LBJ had two beagles named Him and Her and when he picked Him up by the ears, his popularity with the American people shot down faster than you can say Vietnam. And when Bill Clinton had his Monica problem, he was quoted as saying,"If you want a friend in Washington, you need to get a dog.” And when we pause and remember our fallen astronauts, let’s not forget Laika who was launched into space aboard Sputnik 2 in 1957 by the Soviet Union. She was the first living creature to go where no man had gone before. Tragically there was no way to return Laika to earth so she died in space about a week after the launch. "
Two of the most famous dogs in the sporting universe are Uga at the University of Georgia and Reveille at Texas A&M University. Uga was invited to the Heisman Trophy Banquet along with Herschel Walker in 1982. Uga was wearing a black tie. No one remembers what Herschel was wearing. When Uga died in 1992 he was given posthumously the highest honor available to a mascot at the University—the Georgia varsity letter. At Texas A&M if Reveille is sleeping on a cadet’s bed, the lucky cadet must sleep on the floor. If she barks in the middle of a class—no matter what the professor might be doing—the class is dismissed immediately. Reveille is a five star general. The first female by the way to be so designated.
One Year when the Aggies were playing Rice at Rice Stadium the MOB, the Marching Rice Band, decided to play a musical tribute to Reveille. The musicians strutted here and there and suddenly a majestic formation materizlied on the fifty-yard line—a fire hydrant. The Aggie Corps took one look and sprang into action. They charged onto the field in a most unsportmanlike manner in hot pursuit of the MOB that seemed to have a premonition of this outcome and were already dashing madly to the secure confines of the dressing room that prudently was equipped with a strong lock. The Houston Police force finally sent paddy wagons to their rescue. As any GI can tell you, think twice before you sully a general—especially one that sports five stars. Although it may not be in Miss Manners’ guidebook, it is OK to take a President’s name in vain but it is never acceptable to speak ill of the President’s best friend—especially in The Year of the Dog.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Right Between the Eyes!
Last Friday we visited Soldotna to see the state ice carving championships and to watch the Winter Games. The “Toss a Frozen Salmon” competition was very popular with contestants coming from five age categories. The Salmon Toss was not to be confused with the shot put. Form was mostly non-existent. Some merely grasped the fish with two mitten-covered hands and gave it a slight upward heave and seem entirely comfortable when the fish traveled all of two or three feet. One chap grabbed it by the tail, or what now passed for the tail since the salmon were beginning to show a lot of wear and tear, and swung it back and forth a few times before releasing the frozen slab. It would have been a lot easier if they had been chunking moon pies as they do every June in Shelbyville, Tennessee, in the Annual RC Cola -Moon Pie Festival.
Moon Pies and frozen salmon were about the only things we did not throw when I was growing up. My older brother preferred corncobs, especially corncobs that had been lying around in the horse lot, covered with you know what. Consequently, he found it a bit difficult to entice us into a “friendly,” little corn cob war. We much preferred green pine cones because our diminutive sizes and our equally diminutive target areas provided us with a distinct advantage in this war game. Our big brother was also at that awkward, clumsy age where he was not particularly well coordinated. Advantage kid brothers! One day our neighborhood was all in a tizzy because the Pittmans had just had their timber cut which meant there was a superabundance of green pine cones and plenty of places to hide and to strategically place our field hospitals. The boys divided into three or four factions and within minutes cones were flying in every which direction. Any hit was purely coincidental because everyone knew those things can really smart so a tactical war developed. A little head would bob up, take a quick look and heave a missile at any susceptible target and then drop back behind his cover—all this in the flash of an eye. One neighborhood ruffian got a little carried away. When a couple of stray shots sailed casually over his head, he popped up and began that childhood chorus “Nah! Nah! You missssssed…” and forgot how long it takes a Southerner to get his words out. He was a sitting target and took about five direct hits. It did not take him that long to head for home.
My friend Hoyt and I used to engage in green persimmon fights. Someone made a mistake of showing us how to spike a green persimmon with about a yard long springy stick and then draw it back over our shoulders and then whip it forward. The green fruit would sail through the air like a golf ball. We soon grew tired of whacking pine trees with our newly discovered weapons and then took a few trial shots at each other. We moved our arena to a couple of persimmon trees about thirty yards apart. Each of us scooted up a tree and found a branch just beckoning us like the serpent tempting Eve with forbidden fruit. Soon a green barrage was flying back and forth between the two trees. None of them carried much velocity because you need one hand to hold on to the tree and the other one with which to whip. Occasionally it was necessary to move to another branch when muntitions were depleted. Generally the other combatant took advantage of the lull in the action to scamper to another branch himself. Rarely did anyone get hit and then it was most likely on our pants. We both got lectures from our mothers for getting grass stains on our blue jeans.
When I was in graduate school my younger brother and I both came home for the Christmas holidays. It snowed! It was like manna from Heaven. It was everywhere! Even at that age it is hard to turn down a good snowball fight, especially when it provides a golden opportunity to compute the velocity and trajectories of that mysterious white matter now blanketing the front yard. We were both outside hunkered down behind our cars with a large stack of snowballs beside us. My older brother unexpectedly drove up and without making the requisite survey of the situation at hand grabbed a hand full of snow and hurled it at us. He was dumbfounded when he was pelted right and left with an unending barrage of white matter. Figuring that he had bitten off more than he could chew, he made a mad dash to the front door. Mother, who suddenly had become aware of a commotion in her front yard, headed for the door to put a stop to our little game. As she opened the door my brother dashed inside. Mother popped her head outside with her finger pointed in the air to give added emphasis to what she was about to say. Hoping to get my brother with a big one, I had let one fly as he was approaching the door. Yep! It hit my mother right between the eyes. My mother was completely speechless for perhaps the first time in her life. I don’t know if she saw it coming or not. I only know what I saw—my entire life flashing before my eyes. The war of the roses was over. It would be many years before I would ever throw another snowball.
Last Friday we visited Soldotna to see the state ice carving championships and to watch the Winter Games. The “Toss a Frozen Salmon” competition was very popular with contestants coming from five age categories. The Salmon Toss was not to be confused with the shot put. Form was mostly non-existent. Some merely grasped the fish with two mitten-covered hands and gave it a slight upward heave and seem entirely comfortable when the fish traveled all of two or three feet. One chap grabbed it by the tail, or what now passed for the tail since the salmon were beginning to show a lot of wear and tear, and swung it back and forth a few times before releasing the frozen slab. It would have been a lot easier if they had been chunking moon pies as they do every June in Shelbyville, Tennessee, in the Annual RC Cola -Moon Pie Festival.
Moon Pies and frozen salmon were about the only things we did not throw when I was growing up. My older brother preferred corncobs, especially corncobs that had been lying around in the horse lot, covered with you know what. Consequently, he found it a bit difficult to entice us into a “friendly,” little corn cob war. We much preferred green pine cones because our diminutive sizes and our equally diminutive target areas provided us with a distinct advantage in this war game. Our big brother was also at that awkward, clumsy age where he was not particularly well coordinated. Advantage kid brothers! One day our neighborhood was all in a tizzy because the Pittmans had just had their timber cut which meant there was a superabundance of green pine cones and plenty of places to hide and to strategically place our field hospitals. The boys divided into three or four factions and within minutes cones were flying in every which direction. Any hit was purely coincidental because everyone knew those things can really smart so a tactical war developed. A little head would bob up, take a quick look and heave a missile at any susceptible target and then drop back behind his cover—all this in the flash of an eye. One neighborhood ruffian got a little carried away. When a couple of stray shots sailed casually over his head, he popped up and began that childhood chorus “Nah! Nah! You missssssed…” and forgot how long it takes a Southerner to get his words out. He was a sitting target and took about five direct hits. It did not take him that long to head for home.
My friend Hoyt and I used to engage in green persimmon fights. Someone made a mistake of showing us how to spike a green persimmon with about a yard long springy stick and then draw it back over our shoulders and then whip it forward. The green fruit would sail through the air like a golf ball. We soon grew tired of whacking pine trees with our newly discovered weapons and then took a few trial shots at each other. We moved our arena to a couple of persimmon trees about thirty yards apart. Each of us scooted up a tree and found a branch just beckoning us like the serpent tempting Eve with forbidden fruit. Soon a green barrage was flying back and forth between the two trees. None of them carried much velocity because you need one hand to hold on to the tree and the other one with which to whip. Occasionally it was necessary to move to another branch when muntitions were depleted. Generally the other combatant took advantage of the lull in the action to scamper to another branch himself. Rarely did anyone get hit and then it was most likely on our pants. We both got lectures from our mothers for getting grass stains on our blue jeans.
When I was in graduate school my younger brother and I both came home for the Christmas holidays. It snowed! It was like manna from Heaven. It was everywhere! Even at that age it is hard to turn down a good snowball fight, especially when it provides a golden opportunity to compute the velocity and trajectories of that mysterious white matter now blanketing the front yard. We were both outside hunkered down behind our cars with a large stack of snowballs beside us. My older brother unexpectedly drove up and without making the requisite survey of the situation at hand grabbed a hand full of snow and hurled it at us. He was dumbfounded when he was pelted right and left with an unending barrage of white matter. Figuring that he had bitten off more than he could chew, he made a mad dash to the front door. Mother, who suddenly had become aware of a commotion in her front yard, headed for the door to put a stop to our little game. As she opened the door my brother dashed inside. Mother popped her head outside with her finger pointed in the air to give added emphasis to what she was about to say. Hoping to get my brother with a big one, I had let one fly as he was approaching the door. Yep! It hit my mother right between the eyes. My mother was completely speechless for perhaps the first time in her life. I don’t know if she saw it coming or not. I only know what I saw—my entire life flashing before my eyes. The war of the roses was over. It would be many years before I would ever throw another snowball.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Monsters Under the Bed!
We all have trouble falling asleep at times unless we really want to stay awake. The other night we were trying to stay awake long enough to see the Northern Lights, but our eyes kept getting sleepier and sleepier. Then I started recalling times when one just could not go to sleep out of fear. Especially when one starts thinking about monster under the bed.
We were visiting friends in Littleton, Colorado, and our two youngest were going to sleep in Matthew’s room down in the basement. It was touch and go there for a while because Matt had a small pet boa constrictor that he kept in a cage there. The kids found it rather squeamish whenever anyone fed Mr. Boa a mouse. It was just too much to watch so they would beat a hasty, and I do meant hasty, retreat whenever his dinner was served. One night as they prepared to go to bed they sensed that something was not right—a common tactic when one of them did not wish to go to bed. They searched the room diligently until they spotted what was amiss. The door to the cage was open and the snake was nowhere to be seen. No matter how small the snake was, there was no way two kids were going to sleep in that room with a boa on the prowl—even though he was probably just under the bed sleeping off his dinner.
Many years later we were back home and everyone had gone to bed. Kathy was sleeping comfortably in her bedroom, which had a sliding glass door that opened onto the deck. She suddenly heard an incessant meowing at the door. She knew that if she were going to sleep any that night, she would have to put a stop to it. So she got up in the dark and slid the door open, as she was prone to do, so that Frisky could come inside. Something pounced on the bed and started purring—very happy to be inside. As Kathy started to drift back off into sleep, she suddenly heard the pitter patter of small feet scurrying across her floor. She startled awake and then let out a scream. Frisky had brought her a present, but in her haste to find a warm spot on the bed had turned the present loose and the mysterious present was busy moving about the room in the dark. Kathy turned on her bedside lamp and slowly started to scour the room to locate her present. Seeing nothing, she threw the cat to the floor to see if it could locate the missing prey. No dice! She then nervously but cautiously put one foot on the floor and then leaped back against the wall. She gradually worked up her courage and from her remote vantage point peered beneath the bed. She spotted something small and dark hunkered down beneath her bed. She took Frisky and shoved her beneath the bed. This prompted the mole to move, and Frisky seized her precious present. However, Frisky would not come out from under the bed. Whereupon Kathy took her broom to chase the cat and prey from beneath the bed. Not quite grasping the situation, Frisky dropped the mole and shot out from under the bed. The vigil was repeated several times until the cat and mole both appeared simultaneously and were both shown the door. After thirty minutes or so, Kathy once again heard an incessant meowing at her door. We all heard a loud voice saying “Frisky! You can forget it! You are not getting back inside!”
When our kids were four, eight and twelve we were at their grandmother’s house for a family thanksgiving dinner. After eating way too much the adults were congregated in the kitchen engaged in a series of lively conversations while the living room had been abandoned to the small fry. Finding themselves deprived of any adult supervision the kids decided to watch something they knew they were not supposed to watch—a vampire movie, Salem’s Lot. As the kitchen conversations were starting to wind down, there was a massive explosion of kids from the living room as the little ones frantically identified parents and grabbed onto their legs as if their lives now depended on it. They were all scared out of their minds. We silenced the TV and decided that under the circumstances, the best thing we could do would be to call it a night and head home. Even back in the confines of their own home the three kids were still edgy—very edgy. Anytime we tried to turn around we stumbled over one or two of them. Since it was already very late, we suggested that they all go to bed. None of them professed to be the least bit sleepy. Surprise! Surprise! After midnight rolled past and they were still not sleepy, we realized that we had a real crisis on our hands. After pondering various solutions to a tricky problem, I hit upon the answer to our prayers. “What are vampires afraid of?” I made a mad dash to my workshop, picked up some thin pieces of scrap and grabbed my stapler. Wham! Wham! Wham! I emerged triumphantly carrying three large crosses. I gave one to each child and they headed for their respective bedrooms—suddenly all very sleepy. They slept with those crosses for the next year.
We all have trouble falling asleep at times unless we really want to stay awake. The other night we were trying to stay awake long enough to see the Northern Lights, but our eyes kept getting sleepier and sleepier. Then I started recalling times when one just could not go to sleep out of fear. Especially when one starts thinking about monster under the bed.
We were visiting friends in Littleton, Colorado, and our two youngest were going to sleep in Matthew’s room down in the basement. It was touch and go there for a while because Matt had a small pet boa constrictor that he kept in a cage there. The kids found it rather squeamish whenever anyone fed Mr. Boa a mouse. It was just too much to watch so they would beat a hasty, and I do meant hasty, retreat whenever his dinner was served. One night as they prepared to go to bed they sensed that something was not right—a common tactic when one of them did not wish to go to bed. They searched the room diligently until they spotted what was amiss. The door to the cage was open and the snake was nowhere to be seen. No matter how small the snake was, there was no way two kids were going to sleep in that room with a boa on the prowl—even though he was probably just under the bed sleeping off his dinner.
Many years later we were back home and everyone had gone to bed. Kathy was sleeping comfortably in her bedroom, which had a sliding glass door that opened onto the deck. She suddenly heard an incessant meowing at the door. She knew that if she were going to sleep any that night, she would have to put a stop to it. So she got up in the dark and slid the door open, as she was prone to do, so that Frisky could come inside. Something pounced on the bed and started purring—very happy to be inside. As Kathy started to drift back off into sleep, she suddenly heard the pitter patter of small feet scurrying across her floor. She startled awake and then let out a scream. Frisky had brought her a present, but in her haste to find a warm spot on the bed had turned the present loose and the mysterious present was busy moving about the room in the dark. Kathy turned on her bedside lamp and slowly started to scour the room to locate her present. Seeing nothing, she threw the cat to the floor to see if it could locate the missing prey. No dice! She then nervously but cautiously put one foot on the floor and then leaped back against the wall. She gradually worked up her courage and from her remote vantage point peered beneath the bed. She spotted something small and dark hunkered down beneath her bed. She took Frisky and shoved her beneath the bed. This prompted the mole to move, and Frisky seized her precious present. However, Frisky would not come out from under the bed. Whereupon Kathy took her broom to chase the cat and prey from beneath the bed. Not quite grasping the situation, Frisky dropped the mole and shot out from under the bed. The vigil was repeated several times until the cat and mole both appeared simultaneously and were both shown the door. After thirty minutes or so, Kathy once again heard an incessant meowing at her door. We all heard a loud voice saying “Frisky! You can forget it! You are not getting back inside!”
When our kids were four, eight and twelve we were at their grandmother’s house for a family thanksgiving dinner. After eating way too much the adults were congregated in the kitchen engaged in a series of lively conversations while the living room had been abandoned to the small fry. Finding themselves deprived of any adult supervision the kids decided to watch something they knew they were not supposed to watch—a vampire movie, Salem’s Lot. As the kitchen conversations were starting to wind down, there was a massive explosion of kids from the living room as the little ones frantically identified parents and grabbed onto their legs as if their lives now depended on it. They were all scared out of their minds. We silenced the TV and decided that under the circumstances, the best thing we could do would be to call it a night and head home. Even back in the confines of their own home the three kids were still edgy—very edgy. Anytime we tried to turn around we stumbled over one or two of them. Since it was already very late, we suggested that they all go to bed. None of them professed to be the least bit sleepy. Surprise! Surprise! After midnight rolled past and they were still not sleepy, we realized that we had a real crisis on our hands. After pondering various solutions to a tricky problem, I hit upon the answer to our prayers. “What are vampires afraid of?” I made a mad dash to my workshop, picked up some thin pieces of scrap and grabbed my stapler. Wham! Wham! Wham! I emerged triumphantly carrying three large crosses. I gave one to each child and they headed for their respective bedrooms—suddenly all very sleepy. They slept with those crosses for the next year.
