Lazy Day

The boys and I went out and drowned a few worms today. We found a couple of shady spots, and it stayed breezy and cool all afternoon. Fishing was slow, but the boys caught several small bluegill. They also found a duck and her ducklings, all four of whom appeared unafraid and content to be observed at close range.

much peace,
tjb

Interlude

I left work on my bicycle on Wednesday, and decided to add just a couple miles to the ride home. I cut through Calvary Cemetery and out to 78th and Center, then turned into Pipal Park. There were picnic tables in the shade on the west side of the park, and I took a half an hour to sit in the shifting sun and shade, to drink in the breeze and too-sweet coffee, and to revel for a while in the winsome airs of Faulkner's honeysuckle.

much peace,
tjb

Out in the Field

"In a lily pond I lay
All upon a summer's day
Then I chased a dragonfly
All across an ancient sky ...."

(Vashti Bunyan)

Spent over two hours at Churchich Park working on baseball skills with the boys yesterday. I pitched some BP, practiced power position for throwing, and shagged fly balls and grounders at them. They were all in. I had to get pretty firm with them to get them to stop when it was time to go. 

A few weeks ago, they had a game wherein Will just could not get his bat on a pitch. It's coach pitch, which means each batter gets around 10 pitches. If he's unable to hit any, then he has to hit one off the tee. Will had to use the tee all three at bats. He was crushed. His swings just got weaker and more tentative each time up. Max was able to hit a pitch time, but his swing, too, was ugly and weak. They were both moving the bat tentatively, just hoping to intercept the ball, rather than swinging away.

So the following Tuesday, I pulled out an older, heavier bat, and started throwing BP. I wasn't going to push, but both boys were invested in improving. I've also never played a lick of baseball myself, so I wasn't sure if anything I could do would help much. Thankfully, the boys' work ethic and dad's dogged, if inexpert, instruction paid off. Max is now turning on pitches and pulling major rips up the third base line, and Will is finally letting the bat head fly and letting his quick hands do the work. I bought them a new bat ( and myself a cheap glove in self defense), and they are all in. When I pick them up now, it's, "Hey dad, can we hit right when we get there, I mean right away?" They're now excited to get up to bat, and they both had multiple good knocks in their last two games. Nothing breeds enthusiasm like a little success.

Here's the thing: it's just sports. I don't care if they end up playing or liking them, though I do think team activities are good for kids, and physical play is a necessity one way or the other. Ultimately, though, I don't care if they want to be baseball players, gymnasts, concert pianists, ballerinas or hairdressers. Whatever makes them happy.  The takeaway from the last three weeks, and what I find so satisfying as a father, is the persistence my sons showed in improving their skill and performance at a given activity. It's certainly more fun that my sons are dialed in to something that I think is fun as well, but that developing work ethic is going to serve them no matter what they decide to pursue.

much peace,

tjb

Quick Drive to the Snowline

My Dad's brother, Jim, died a few weeks back, and Dad and all us eight kids went out to Denver for services. Other folks have eulogized Uncle Jim much more capably than I could, so I'll just post a few photographs of Mike's and my morning drive up to Berthoud Pass.

much peace,
tjb

Back in Motion

I replaced my demolished bicycle a couple months ago, and have been bike commuting to work again. I've also been working in some longer rides: to Whole Foods and back now and then to resupply coffee, around town to meet friends for beers and coffee and just generally cruising around. It's good to be rolling with the earth again, struggling up hills and sweating my cute little Bavarian ass off. I like the rapid succession of scenery, and the sensation of packing mile after mile into these old legs.

I went on a couple of rides over Memorial Day weekend, one short (about 5.5 miles) with my boys on Sunday, and a longer one (about 30 miles) by myself on Monday. The boys had a great time on Sunday. Below is a stop for apples and rest at roughly the halfway point.

I rode downtown the next day, then explored the technically closed road past Freedom Park to the Anchor Inn. The whole area is federal flood control land now, with no trespassing signs periodically posted. The Anchor Inn and stage are a total loss from the 2011 flooding, and all the old cabins and trailers sit empty, windows broken out and sides gutted for potential copper. As I rode down and back out, I was glad it was the middle of the day and not twilight. Quiet except for the calls of red-winged blackbirds and the hum of spring insects, the wrecked, abandoned buildings and piles of sandbags seemed like things out of a horror flick. Dim the lights and drain the color, and those yawning openings are where the zombies or cannibals would lie in wait. A couple of turkey vultures circled high overhead and, crazily, followed my progress along the degraded old road.


Freedom Park

...and the Anchor Inn and stage. I leaned in through a broken window to take the inside pics. I remember seeing the Wailers on that stage several years back. Now it's slowly folding down into the river.

...a few more from the trek into federal flood control...

I ended up riding all the way around the back of the airport on Lindbergh Plaza ...

... then back on the Riverfront Trail past Carter Lake and back through downtown before turning west for home. I did stop for an iced cuppa at the 16th Street Starbucks. Obligatory self portrait, with helmet hair, and a little the worse for wear:

much peace,

tjb

My Beloved Son, in Whom I Am Well Pleased

much peace,

tjb

So I'm a Cat Person Now

I generally hate cats. I don't like their smell, their features or their adorable little antics; and their freaky owners usually wig me out too.

 In this one case, however, I am 100% pro-cat. Pro-mountain lion, specifically. To be precise, I have become a die hard fan of the estimated 22 mountain lions that inhabit the state of Nebraska; the ones upon which the State of Nebraska has declared open season. In any conflict between hunter and cougar in Nebraska, I am absolutely and without reservation rooting for the big cat.

I don't have a problem with hunting. I think harvesting one's own meat is actually superior to purchasing corporate raised and slaughtered beef and pork at the supermarket. I also have no problem with killing a threatening animal (key word: threatening). Furthermore, I really don't have an issue with a farmer shooting a predator endangering his livestock.

Here's the thing, though. According to the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission there is not one documented case of a mountain lion attack on a human in Nebraska. Not one. Game and Parks has also been unable to definitively attribute any livestock deaths to mountain lions. I don't doubt that there have been farm animals killed by one of the big cats at some point since 1867, but the number is so few as to be statistically nonexistent, particularly since their virtual extermination in the state in the 1890s. Nobody is being attacked, and the current population of less then 30 cats is not a viable threat to people or livestock. In addition, Nebraska law already allowed for killing mountain lions that threaten people or attack or attempt to attack livestock. Given that we live in a Gun Lust red state, that allowance would be stretched as far as necessary for anyone who saw a cougar and, a la South Park, yelled, "It's comin' right at us, Ned!"

 Of course, safety, conservation and sense don't matter one bit to the dumb rednecks in this state, who would like nothing better than to power their ATVs with spotted owls, sandhill cranes and bald eagles. They just gots ta git thar shoot on when they're not gettin' liquored up watching other dumb rednecks turn left for three hours, or beating their wives when the Huskers lose (seriously, domestic violence rises measurably after a Husker loss). So who cares if mountain lions aren't a threat? Who cares if there's only 22 of them? Who cares if there's no use in shooting them? By Jesus Holy Christ, it's our goldurned right to shoot anything that moves, and we're gettin right tired of only pluggin' away at them deer and pheasant.

Our dumb, redneck, tobaccy-chawin' lawmakers, of course, agreed with their dumb, redneck, tobaccy-chawin' constituents, and they've opened two hunting seasons on a population of approximately 22 mountain lions. Sometimes it's embarrassing to be a Nebraskan.

So: I'm rooting for the underdog, or the under-cat in this case. If some dumb hick goof in his uber-cool wraparounds takes his gun and goes hunting for, to quote the World Herald, "... elusive and reclusive mountain lions ... ," I hope he finds them, and I hope the big cat wins. I hope the dumb redneck bastard gets caught looking the wrong way and gets his stupid redneck ass mauled.

Go Cats!

much peace, sort of,

tjb