Week 26

Better late than never, they always say. . .  It was a busy 3-day weekend for us, but not a very social one for Independence Day.  Instead of hanging around for fireworks and barbecues, my wife and I decided to embark on a long-overdue wilderness adventure.  We initially planned on backpacking the 30-mile West Rim Trail along the edge of the 'Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania,'  but it was going to be hotter in the air-conditioner forsaken states of NY and PA than it was in Texas.  The idea of a 30-mile march through a black fly-infested sauna wasn't very appealing.

It turns out that the outfitters who provided shuttle service to the southern terminus of the trail (allowing hikers to trek back to their cars) also rent bikes for use on a different path.  We decided, instead of hiking along the upper edge of the canyon for three days, to cycle the Pine Creek Rail Trail.  Shady, long and flat, we could move along at a good clip and generate our own breeze along the bottom of the gorge.  We decided on going as far as their shuttles would provide service to return us to our cars (about 30 miles) they told us it should take all day.

We started pedaling around 10:00, stopping a few of times to snack, gawk at a bald eagle, or ogle at deer.  The highlight of the trip might have been our stop in Cedar Run Village, where the company store sells ice cream.  They have very generous scoops.  Grasshopper Pie rules!  It's like mint-chocolate chip/cookies and cream with fudge injected.

We rode on from there, and made it to the gas station where the shuttle was to pick us up.  It was 1:30.  The shuttle wasn't arriving until 4:45.  There's no cell phone service out there.  Luckily the gas station had some cool stuff to browse- it's sort of like a bait & tackle/souvenir shop/deli.  It was a long wait, but probably more comfortable there than it would have been out on the trail during the hottest part of the day- we would have been grilled.

The shuttle finally arrived about 5:00.  Our ride back to our car took almost an hour- the roads aren't nearly as direct as the trail.  On board the 16-passenger van was another picked-up passenger.  A stately upper-middle-aged man with a full head of impeccably groomed gray hair.  He was living in a hotel in PA and working in the oil and gas industry.  I got up the guts to introduce myself and catch his name, Larry, as we de-boarded the van.

I should have caught the name of our super cool driver as well, but he got away.  He was a slender young fellow with a surfer-dude accent.  He sounded sort of like Michaelangelo the Ninja Turtle.

The air was cooling off by the time we got back to the car, so we hunted down the West Rim trailhead and trekked a couple of miles in before finding a suitable campsite.  There we gathered wood, cooked a pasta-side for dinner, and spread our sleeping bags out on the forest floor.

It was time for dessert!  We had packed in the key ingredients for making s'mores.  It turned out that leaving those ingredients in our packs, in a black Honda Civic, on a blazing hot day, had been a bad idea.  The treats had just about made themselves.  The chocolate was molten and the marshmallows had formed one massive ultra-sticky puff- it may have even melded with the zip-lock bag.  We did the best we could, spreading marshmallow goo on grahams with a stick and then buttering them with the chocolate syrup.

After a good night's sleep under the stars,  we had breakfast- hot coffee and fruit bars smeared with peanut butter- then trekked back out of the woods.  The rest of the day was spent finding, then hiking another trail to the blue-ridge rocks, climbing around a bit there, hiking back out, and then searching desperately for a state park in the area where we could swindle a shower in the camping area.

I was determined to enjoy a nice dinner out in downtown Wellsboro before we drove home Sunday night, but we were both in desperate need of a shower.  The nice folks back at the outfitters suggested Twin Creeks Campground south of Wellsboro, so we drove about half an hour to take $3 showers.  Yes, they were worth it.  We had dinner at a nice Italian joint, then crossed the street and got tickets to Knight and Day at a little theater there.

We were exhausted by the time the movie was over, and drove on home, seeing a glittering of fireworks above hills and treelines here and there on our  way.

That's right, I only came away with one name last week.

Week 25

If you haven't heard of Freecycle, you should sign up soon.  The movement began as a conglomeration of Yahoo Groups with firm guidelines regarding membership (you had to be local to the group) and posting (formatting, the nature of your dealings, etc.)  If you have something laying around that you don't want, you list it as an 'offer,' and if someone else in the network wants it, they can arrange to pick it up- no money changes hands.  If there's something you would like to have, you can enter a "wanted" post, and some kind soul might just have an extra on hand they're willing to give you for nothing.  Freecycle is gradually graduating from Yahoo Groups to it's own centralized site at http://my.freecycle.org/ . 

All that to say, I put in a request for some 1-gallon glass jugs for a project of mine and a nice, older lady named Elizabeth responded.  She was from just south of us, across the border in the backwoods of PA.  We exchanged emails for several days trying to coordinate the logistics (she apparently only checks her inbox once a day.)  She was feeling under the weather, so she postponed delivery, but offered to bring them all the way up to Elmira.

So I stopped at a gas station on the fringe of the city and waited for 20 minutes on my way home from work on Friday.  Elizabeth, true to her word, showed up in her Escape.  She was a petite backwoods granny in a sun-dress with two of the longest sandy-grey pigtails I've ever seen in my life.  She seemed tough as nails and sweet has honey.  I accepted the goods, thanked her kindly, and we parted ways- as is the beauty of freecycle.

Earlier in the week I happened to meet a gentleman I thought I already knew.  A guy from sales, who I'd been dealing with off and on and I assumed to be a sales manager named Joe.  He came into my office and said such-and-such about a particular job I was working on.  I told him that the take-off was all screwed up and that the guy that took it off had emailed me explaining how he planned to fix it.  "I took it off." he said. . . . . It turns out that the guy I thought was Joe the sales manager, was actually Scott the estimator.  I played off that blunder pretty well, but that case of mistaken identity was quite a shocker.

Week 24

On Sunday after church we did the buffet thing.  Buffets have to be one of the greatest exercises in self-discipline to exist in the modern world.  It's a world of food- countless bins full of everything you can imagine from cold, crispy veggies at the salad bar, to steaming chicken Alfredo nestled right between the taco station and egg rolls.  Some of the bigger ones even boast a Meat Bar now- yes, I said a MEAT BAR manned by a professional flesh chopper ready to hack you off some finely roasted muscle at your bidding.

The establishments tend to charge you so that you'd have to eat 8 pounds of steak to get your money's worth, and I am a big fan of getting my money's worth.  My strategy is to usually start with the salad bar to give myself the illusion of a healthy meal- and to pad my gullet a bit.  By the time I drown all of that baby spinach, broccoli, and cauliflower in ranch dressing and bacon bits, the American Heart Association probably wouldn't approve.

Round two usually consists of meat and pasta, they really have options when it comes to cold pasta and potato salads that make you feel like you swallowed a cinder block.  By the time that plate's cleaned, my eyes are rolling back in my head as I purvey the acre of various cookies, brownies, soft-serve toppings, and more available at the dessert bar.  It takes both hands to get a cube of that heavy bread pudding onto my plate.  I cover it with ice-cream so my wife doesn't see it and get jealous.

With no crafty segue to connect my previous exercise in exaggeration to the two names that legitimize this post, over a hearty meal at the Old Country Buffet I had the privilege of meeting a couple named Bob and Alicia.  Nice folks, indeed!
 

Week 23

Okay, last week's extensive description of skull-loving Brian the boat-renter will have to take up the slack for this week's pitiful post.  On Sunday we were treated to lunch by Reverend Jon and at Beijing Garden- a nice place to get your China-food fix, by the way. I formally met their kiddos, which included William and Grace.  (Not named after the TV show Will & Grace). 

We all had fun scorching our wontons and eggrolls in the flame centered on the Pu-Pu platter.  Grace, missing several upper front teeth, said the tooth fairy had been giving her a fair shake.  William didn't say a whole lot, but seemed quite the gentleman.

Later in the week I finally ventured down the hallway of the sales department where I work and met a guy named Jim for the first time, a pretty nice guy- helpful for a salesman.

Week 22

It's been a really nice week.  I'm all about three-day work weeks and believe they should be decreed.  It would be great for our consumer-dependent economy with everyone having extra days to shop.  More jobs would be created since so many retail workers would have swing-shifts. . . . I need to write the president.

When we get one of those heavensent free days like Memorial day, resulting in a much-appreciated three-day weekend, I like to take the following Friday off as well.  Three days off, three on, three off- the perfect work-week.  The potential for overtime pay is blown out of the water by a holiday anyway, so get out of the office while it costs the least, I say!

On Memorial Day weekend we explored the Corning Glass Fest.  I was drooling all over myself at the opportunity to see someone blow a bubble with hot glob of molten sand.  It was just as cool as I expected; I want a furnace for my birthday.  We went shopping that weekend for new-home essentials like a grill and curtains, and hunted down the local disc-golf course for our first round in the Empire State.  I probably met several people, but not a single name stuck.

Three days of dim-lit brain numbing drudgery. . . .

Another three-day WeEkEnD!!!

We thought long and hard about how to spend our free time, options ranging from staying at home and continuing to get our 90%-unpacked items in order, to a 3-night backpacking/canoe trip in the Adirondacks.  We finally decided to put off the safari, and take a local day-trip by canoe down the Chemung River, which literally runs through our backyard.  There's a website called Friends of the Chemung River Watershed, there it recommends adventurers call 'On the River Canoe and Kyak Rentals' if they are in need of a boat.  That I did, on Friday morning and, despite the short notice, the owner was happy to rent us a boat.

We dropped off my truck at the Grove Street boat ramp in Elmira and then took the car to On The River, which is really the riverside house of a very personable redneck named Brian.  Brian was tall, scruffy, and skinny as a bean-pole but muscular.  His gristle was covered with a tanned hide, decorated by flaming devil-head tattoos and skulls, along with a few obscure green smudges.  His yard didn't contain a 20-year-old Cadillac up on blocks, but it had almost every other aspect of stereotypical redneck lore, including a hand-crafted deer stand in an oak tree.  The "business" consisted of one of those trailers that looks like scaffolding on wheels with two canoes, and three kayaks.

I've rarely seen anyone as into skull-candy as Brian.  There was what looked like a real human skull on a pole in the yard with a bandana tied around it's cranium.  The valve stem caps on every wheel of his rusted-out  little pickup were silver skulls with red eyes.  I helped Brian load the canoe onto the frame attached to the back of his truck, then we all three piled into the cab.  My wife taking care to keep her knee clear of the gearshift as we squeaked out of the front yard.

I asked Brian if he could ever hear couples yelling at each other from the river as they approached the end of their float trip.  "Yep," he replied, "That's why we call them divorce boats."

Brian dropped us off at a landing he called 'the turkey farm' because, he said, there used to be one there.  We got out of the truck, unloaded the boat, and signed our rights away- then realized I didn't have cash to pay the man.  Our lunch was the only collateral I could have offered, and a canoe trip with a hungry wife would have been suicidal, so I didn't offer.  'I've got yer car," he said, and told us we could pay after the trip.

Our trip down the river went off without a hitch, other than sore rumps and sunburn knees.  There were only a few places where the water moved fast enough to make the ride exciting, and then it was exciting only because the water was so shallow that rocks would unexpectedly crack our tail-bones.  Most of the trip was like paddling across a pond.  In places, a pond that cattle had been drinking from- riddled with yellow foam.  The Chemung doesn't exactly sparkle.  The highlight of our trip was sighting a bald eagle  perched majestically in a towering fir tree near where the tree-lined slopes met the water.  We even spotted its huge nest in a dead tree not far away.

We only stopped once, for lunch, eating tuna salad with our fingertips since we forgot to bring bread.  But by that time maple leaves would have tasted pretty darn good.  It wasn't much farther before we arrived at Brian's house and our trip ended.  We were greeted at the water's edge by Brian and a more plump version of him with a bushy biker's goatee and a bandanna tied around his head.  He turned out to be Brian's brother John.

Brian was surprised to see us after only three hours, having told us that the trip would likely take about six.  I guess we're better paddlers than he presumed.  I stayed behind and chatted with the good 'ol boys while my wife made a run to the nearest ATM so we could pay up.  I meant to ask Brian what all of the skull-decor signified.  No one would be able to assume his style of they met him in a business suit and talked to him for six hours.  Unfortunately I didn't get that far.  We may go back and rent kayaks from him sometime just to see if we prefer them to canoes, maybe then I'll pop that question.

 

Week 21

My first new acquaintance of the week was encountered on Thursday.  Fresh meat showed up at rugby practice.  A young, short, barrel-shaped fellow named Chris, who has some experience and is deceptively fast on his feet.

We've finally moved all of our stuff from the little furnished upstairs apartment to the house we'll be renting.  On Saturday I was standing in the front yard, knee-deep in dandelion stems and weeds,  wondering if I should invest in a push-mower or a brush-hog when Daisy, our Border Collie, darted after the neighbors' little smush-faced Boston Terrier (who probably looks a lot like Daisy would if I shaved her.)  I ran over to get her, just as she was christening the strangers' yard with a land mine.  The gracious upper-middle-aged lady of the house had almost as much wet paint on her pants, shirt, and hands as the house did.  She got up and greeted me with a sticky handshake, so I met Susanna.

I met Susanna's husband, Jerry, shortly after, as we were letting the dogs play in the yard.  We struck up a conversation and before long Jerry was introducing me to his Snapper push mower in the shed behind his house.  Hallelujah!  He kindly told me I could borrow it until I get one of my own. 

Today, Sunday, I took him up on the offer.  I don't think I've used a push-mower since I was 13 or 14.  I mowed yards for money all through my high-school years, but was blessed to have access to my dad's Murray riding mower.  Jerry's Snapper isn't one of those mowers that conveniently blasts clippings all over the street, sending rocks through windows, and turning fire-ant mounds into smoke bombs.  No, his mower shoots everything into a small canvas bag that fills up every three feet when you're pushing through the 18"-deep Caesar salad that was my neglected lawn.  Think of a vacuum cleaner crossed with a food processor.

With the mower's deck at the highest setting possible, I ground my way across the top of the vegetation.  The bag would fill up, the mower would choke.  I'd have to go dump it and then reach down a plastic chute to grab handfulls of the hot, damp, stinging cake of crabgrass pulp that clogged the tube.  Don't get me wrong, the mower worked great considering what it was up against.  I hope to keep the turf in check now that we'll be living there. 

Over the last few weeks, since the owner turned over the keys, it seems like we've been doing a lot of things that should have been paid for by the last tenant's deposit- like cleaning the nasty oven and replacing the pans on the stovetop, painting three rooms (probably more to come.)  I would like to re-attach the door to the little screened-in porch in the backyard, insulate the garage so it could be used year-round as a shop, and maybe put some raised beds in the back to grow some back-yard produce. 

The problem is, I haven't even signed a lease yet.  After paying the security deposit and the first month's rent with a money-order, the owner said he'd have the lease ready for us to sign by the end of the week, and gave us the keys.  He was even kind enough to get the utilities turned on in his name.  But it's been three weeks and still no lease.  I called and left a message, no reply yet.  Now we're completely moved in, I'm in the process of getting things like internet set up- 12 month contract sort of things (I'm writing this from a Panera Bread with free wi-fi today.)  I know that the owner has had the property listed to sell, as well as to rent.  I'm not going to invest in a lawn-mower if the house could be sold out from under us within a matter of months.  Hopefully we'll be able to sign something for a little peace of mind soon.

Week 20

It was a pretty good week, all things considered, though the ratio of people met to names retained was pretty pitiful.  On Sunday the church we've been visiting here was finishing up what they call their yearly 'Conference.'  It's sort of like a review of the past year combined with a business meeting and a worship service.  A group of Samoans with ties to the church had driven all the way to NY from Tacoma, Washington with their worship/dance troupe.  Before the service on Sunday I had a chance to meet the huge Samoan man that played keyboard for their group.  His name was Fatu (Fatoo? Phattoo? Phat-2? . . . not sure. . .) and he works for a shipping company.

Now the Samoans are a big and beautiful people.  Almost all of them were notably well-rounded.  We had a chance to see why.  On the Friday night before they'd held a Samoan pig roast- two whole pigs stuffed with chickens were cooked in pits over hot rocks.  There were plenty of leftovers and everyone was invited to help finish off the food after the Sunday Service.  I couldn't resist tasting a little Polynesian BBQ.

It was over lunch that we met Jessie and his wife Leann.  Jessie is the worship leader and son of the Bishop (what they call the preacher there).  He is to Fatu as a pencil is to a Coke can.  It's been a long time since I've seen someone overflow with joy like Jessie when he's doing his job.  We are looking forward to getting to know that couple better.

I also met an older guy- tall and thin with frizzy gray hair named Harry.  He's lived in Alaska- you know that makes someone cool automatically.  How many people can say they've actually lived in Alaska?  Not many!  I also met a sweet lady named Marja- I think. . . her name sounding something like a mix between Margie and Marsha and I couldn't quite pin it down.

Fast forward through a horribly busy work week. . . . On Saturday we pack up and leave for Rochester to join the rest of my team at the rugby tournament.  It was there that I met a considerable number of people who's names I could have (and a few that I should have) retained, but nothing is coming back to me now.  That's that for this week!