Because She-who-shall-not-be-named gave me a hard time about not posting anything but granola for nearly a month, here are some photos of our recent days.
The chalk drawings before the addition of potty words
Wishful thinking: Pahd Thai for dinner (that happened), playdate with Robbie next Saturday (we'll probably be at the beach...)
Snacktime on a bridge!
Master Young Raccoon was attempting to enter our garage when Chris spotted him
Julie and I won two (two!) awards at Chandra and Eric’s always highly anticipated and enjoyable Oscar party tonight.
I was the male winner of the award for best costume, with my interpretation of listless Oscar co-host James Franco’s interpretation of Aron Ralston, the guy who (spoiler alert!) cut off his arm after being trapped under a rock for a few days. And if you think that’s on the wrong side of tasteful, do I have to remind you of my Steve Irwin Halloween costume, donned just weeks after his unfortunate incident with the ray? Oy!
P.S. Don’t ask what’s in the Nalgene bottle.
Julie just missed with her spot-on Holly Golightly outfit (note Cat and cigarette holder), but she won the prize for most awards guessed correctly (14 out of 24). Cat is holding her trophy.
Aron Ralston and Holly Golightly at the Academy Awards, Feb 27, 2011
Dear Sylvan and Elena,
Tonight, I found out that two South Eugene High School seniors drowned when a sneaker wave caught them off-guard while they were walking down the coast in Yachats. They weren’t doing anything particularly risky, just walking with their friends, who tried desperately to save them.
I walked into each of your rooms, replacing blankets that had been tossed off and studying your sleeping faces. I realized that I won’t be able to protect you from any possible harm. You will grow, and I can teach you to try to make good decisions. But there are some things I won’t be able to protect you from—some things that I shouldn’t protect you from, if you’re going to grow up to be independent and capable. I will do my best. And I will kiss you every day we’re together.
Sadly, then I recognized the last name of one of the boys. I’d met him with his Mom, a fellow dancer who will have tears I can’t even begin to comprehend. He was gracious and smiling, just like his mother; and I know that, even though his life was cut tragically short, it was a good life, filled with love and laughter.
Every day, I will try to remember that a life filled with love and laughter is what I want for you.
Love,
Mom
For your viewing pleasure, our Christmas-y weekend:
Breakfast with Santa, run by the Eugene Downtown Lions Club. Well-organized, inexpensive, no lines for Santa pictures, cute elf hats on the Lions, crafters selling their wares: I wouldn’t go anywhere else for one-on-one time with Santa and Mrs. Claus (who is cute as a button, I might add; she thought the same of Elena). Please note the similarity to last year’s Claus photo (looks like I’ve become a better barber).
Breakfast with the Clauses, 2010
I am smiling.
Sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar
For the first time, we ventured to Coburg for the Christmas light parade, which started, inexplicably, at 7 p.m. on a school night. It’s dark at 5, so? Despite the screeching, chatty, sleepy Elena we had in the car on the way home, the parade was beautiful. We caravanned up with our Porter friends, who make any event 2.7 times as fun as it would have been otherwise. The parade started with a horse-drawn wagon pulling Santa. The horses were blanketed with lights, and each float and fire engine afterward shone with thousands of lights. People on the floats threw candy (in the dark, while the floats were driving by; again, is this such a good idea?), and someone came by handing out cute stuffed animals. Then, while the Porters stood in line for some photos with Santa, we headed home to put our sleepy munchkins to bed.
I took this photo from the wrong spot, but these little houses were adorably painted.
I know: we're gor-geous.
Despite our raingear, the rain actually held off for the entire parade, then started as soon as we piled into the car.
Merry Christmas! Joyful Solstice! Happy end-of-Hannukah!
Since the weather’s turned decidedly wintry, here’s a memory of the beautiful, clear days of fall.
The day started with potato donut holes; how could it be anything but perfect (or round and cinnamon-y, or fattening and heartburn-inducing, depending on your logic)? Our third fall excursion to Clear Lake included four Moms, four Dads, four sons, and four daughters. Each of the boys is three years older than his sister. Three of the boys are five, and one of the girls is [nearly] five. As the canoeists unloading their car next to us said, we were an REI dream excursion.
Seriously, don't drop me in that water
Eh, you'd never drop me in
Our independent daughter surprised us by allowing Chris to carry her for nearly the whole hike, so we finished the five mile loop in record time: almost a mile an hour! Our active but occasionally undermotivated son surprised us and walked the whole way. Not only that, but he finished the hike pointing out interesting mushrooms: “Mom, it’s a little weird bush made of fungi!†Yes, it helped that, after five years, I’ve finally learned the power of gummy bears and yogurt-covered raisins (both organic and shockingly expensive): “I’ll give you some hiking energy if you make it to that tree [walk another four minutes, catch up to the rest of the kids…]†Bribery? No, no. Motivation. I mean, come on, five miles is far. When was the last time you walked five miles?
The five-year-olds were subtly different from last year’s four-year-olds. They didn’t jostle for the lead hiking position this year. Mostly they noticed and ran and hopped and climbed and threw rocks in the water and hid and fished with creative poles. The two-year-olds ran and hopped and climbed, too, and also whined and napped and exerted their toddlerness. And the eight-year-old gave my son math problems to do in his head, although I think Sylvan thought he was talking about dragons.
Jumping
Fishin'
By the numbers:
No, no, that's not a birthmark; it's the Joker (both under the shirt and on her belly).
Diamond Peak, briefly.
Leslie, Wendy, and I on the summit of Diamond Peak
In case you were curious about the location, date, or elevation...
If you’ve been following along, you may remember that this is part of a set (not currently as pregnant as the first belly shot [and will never be again, thank goodness] and nowhere near as chiseled as the second). And, yes, those are thunderheads behind me. About 12 minutes after this photo was taken, I mumbled something like, “F&*#!” as I skittered down a snowfield, on the way off the ridge.
Ground squirrel asking for peanuts, in vain
Isn’t Leslie’s gaiter nicely in focus? This little guy liked her gaiter straps. He stood up for us, wondering how much chocolate he’d find in our packs if he gave all three of us patellar puncture wounds.
Summit Lake (mosquito heaven) and the ridge to the south, our exit route
We walked up on the snow, and you can see our tracks. This is my third time on the mountain in July, and the first time I’ve ever encountered snow on the walk in. We brought ice axes to glissade down the eastern side, but it’s steep, so we ridgewalked back down. I couldn’t have asked for a better pair of hiking buddies (tough, good conversationalists, not whiney, appreciative, good chocolate), but maybe next time Chris will join us to offer just enough testosterone to push me off the eastern slopes.
Boot-skiing down the southern snowfields
Still, we boot-skied down hundreds of feet of the southern side of Diamond Peak. Fun!
I don’t know what it is about this mountain, but I can’t think of a better way to spend my four-year Stroke-iversary.
My friend Chandra, with whom I spend far too little time, asked me to join her for a reconnaissance climb of Mt. Bailey, an old volcano north of Crater Lake. She’s leading a hike up Bailey in a few weeks, and I need to climb volcanoes – perfect fit!
We saw one great horned owl; one sign warning of a blue-green algae bloom in Diamond Lake; maybe one hairy woodpecker, just glanced through the trees; countless mountains in our 360 degree view from the summit, including the Three Sisters, Jefferson, Washington, Diamond Peak, Mount Scott, the remains of Mount Mazama, and also Mount McLoughlin, Mount Shasta, and probably Mount Ashland; lupine, paintbrush, pasqueflower, bleeding heart, blooming manzanita, mountain dandelion, tiny yellow mountain violets, their blooms the size of my thumbnail, and grouse whortleberry.
Chandra was bitten by 207 mosquitoes (okay, that’s a guess), and we were both driven nearly mad by many thousands of other bloodsuckers. She taught me about roadless areas and the poisoning of Diamond Lake. Last night, we saw oodles of stars from our tent’s skylight. We were awoken by many fishermen at 5 a.m., after they’d finally gone to bed at 11 p.m., following quite a bit of discussion about “franks.” I only threw one snowball at Chandra; I missed on purpose.
Here are a few photos from our trip:
Our first peek at Bailey from the trail. The summit is the bare area in the middle along the horizon.
Chandra not swatting at mosquitoes for a moment, with Diamond Lake and Mt. Thielsen beyond.
Looking through the summit ridge's window to Thielsen.
Cinder saddle, rock wall, talus slopes, then easy walk to summit.
Mount Bailey across Diamond Lake. I found this photo at a thrift store. It looks like it might have been taken a little earlier in the season than now - maybe May or June.
Our friends Chandra and Eric host an Oscar party every year. They encourage us to dress up, and they even take red carpet photos. This means I get an excuse to wear my tuxedo at least once a year. Here’s a photo of Steve, Eric, and your humble scribe, looking pretty suave.
I'm well dressed, but I have a little face coming out of the back of my head.
I happened to mention to a few friends that our family had acquired a new vehicle, and one, who is a bit farther into middle age than I and who makes his living as an Analyst, posed an inquiry.
A mini-van or an SUV? Welcome to America!
I, attempting to clarify, replied with a link to my previous weblog entry, complete with photo:
It’s a van van. https://www.tovis.com/weblog/?p=1153
He replied with some Analysis. Trying to be helpful and explanatory, of course.
Nice ride. And Dude, it’s a mini-van. A mini-van has unibody construction, front wheel drive, coil springs, an automatic transmission, a “family” seating configuration and, usually, a V6 engine between 2.5 and 4.0 L. A van is really a truck. It has body on frame construction, rear wheel drive, often leaf springs in the back, and various seating, transmission, and engine configurations based on application. If I bought a mini-van, it would be like yours and it would still be a mini-van.
Well, you see, my lovely wife, my better and prettier half, Julita, light of my life, fire of my loins, does not like minivans. She has no truck, if I may be so bold, with minivans. She despises them. They call out to her, but she scorns them, declaiming her Kahlil Gibran, who once wrote:
[The minivan] stands at the turn in the road and calls upon us publicly, but we consider it false and despise its adherents.
So of course, I, being a truthful and honest and communicative husband, forwarded The Analyst’s message on to my wife, saying, yea verily:
These are the people I call my friends.
She set me straight:
That man is NOT your friend.
I, being one to protect my friends, and also my NOT-friends, because I do so love them all, forwarded her correction to The Analyst, with the following preface:
For future reference. Best not to use the “M” word around the wife if you value your intact body.
The Analyst, for his part, cut out the middle-man (your humble scribe) and replied to both of us with a rambling message about a medicated woman, a spade, a Subaru, and something called a “Johnson unit” (I didn’t ask).
I used to work with a woman who got very upset when I called her Subaru a station-wagon. After a stay in the Johnson unit and a long battle to stabilize her meds, she’s back at work and feeling fine.
Anyway, welcome to middle age. Denial of conformity is an important part of feeling that one, and one’s family, is “special.” So its not a mini-van. It is a special vehicle for special, gifted non-conformist people.
[T.A.]
P.S. In my professional life, I’ve had countless run-ins with people who got pissed at me for calling a spade a spade. The trick, as in the present case, is to have unarguable data.
I think this chapter is complete, but I still say he should keep his mouth shut around the loin-firer.
Sylvan as train on the boat ramp. Note the neon green kayak in the background. What a gorgeous place to be in a boat on a fall day.
Thanks to Chandra, we found our favorite fall destination three years ago. We ventured back to Clear Lake this year with two other families, both with 4-year-old sons and 1-year-old daughters (well, one’s 11 months).
The girls
The boys
We last visited two years ago, when Sylvan was half as old as he is now. He was a good hiker then, insisting on walking so much that we nearly ended our hike by headlamp. This time, he wasn’t nearly as gung ho, but he did walk four of the five and a half miles, really hitting his stride with about two miles to go. And the other two little guys walked even more than that. Even Elena walked a bit; we were so far behind the other two families due to our little boy dawdler (it wasn’t exploring, Grammas; it was dawdling) that I just let Elena walk for a while. She appreciated not being in the backpack; her brother, on the other hand, still likes being in the backpack.
For your viewing pleasure, a re-enactment:
Are you kidding? That water's 38 degrees. 2007.
I might hold a grudge this time. 2009.
Someone's not afraid of a little cold water. So unafraid that I had to pull her away kicking and screaming. Literally (and I know what that means).
"Mommy, I'm a big-horned cow."
Some natural history notes:
This samara left a yellow "shadow" on the leaf behind.