remember this

I am danger of turning into one of those retired school teachers who scold people for using "verbal" when they mean "oral."

Today, I was standing in line behind a guy with dreadlocks that Bob Marley would have envied. As he finished his transaction, he turned to me and asked: "Are you a veteran? Did you serve?" When I said I had, he nodded deferentially and said: "Thank you, man. I never did. I wish I had. But thank you."

I assume he took the time to show his gratitude because today is Memorial Day. But the day is not for those of us who served and survived. It is a day for those who made the ultimate sacrifice -- for those who died in their country's military service. The rest of us have Veterans Day on 11 November.

But I did not show my churlish side. I simply thanked him for stopping to wish me well. That type of civility is appreciated whenever it is offered -- especially in these days where every topic tends to be reduced to a cultural battle.

And this essay may not be an exception. Every time I write about veterans, at least one or two commenters feel compelled to deride the service of those who died by characterizing their deaths as senseless because the wars in which they fought were immoral.

That, of course, is a logical categorical error. The military personnel who go to war do not make the country's policy. They simply obey the orders given to them by the policymakers the American people elect. Soldiers go where their civilian bosses tell them to go. They may agree or disagree with the policy, but that is not their job.

And some die to protect the American ideals by which we strive to live. Sometimes, we fail to live up to those ideals. But that does not mean the ideals are wrong. We still fight for them.

Last night at the wedding I attended, two guests were introduced from the stage. One was retired from the Navy and had taught high school ROTC courses to the bride. I was the other -- introduced as an Air Force officer. The crowd was made up of Mexican-Americans who loudly honored our military service. A young man sitting at the ROTC instructor's table was entering the Marines this week.

I will tell you more about the wedding later in the week. But today is a day for the slain.

War is a terrible devourer of young lives. And, in almost all ways, war is senseless.

But lives lost in defense of this country are not senseless. 

I doubt many of President Biden's speeches will be long-remembered. But he struck the right chord yesterday in Delaware When he said:

And all of us who remain have a duty to renew our commitment to the fundamental values to our nation in their honor — the values that have inspired generation after generation to service and that so many have died to defend.    

I am certain that the guests at last night's wedding and the man who thanked me at the grocery store would join me in saying amen to that.

locked out of happiness

Google Maps lies.

Not really. I just thought I would try out a little bit of the irrational vindictive that passes for popular discourse these days.

I will stick with the more-accurate "Google Maps occasionally contributes to false impressions." More accurate, but less effective as click bait.

I am in Los Angeles for a wedding. Coincidentally, the last time I was in Anaheim three years ago was for a wedding -- at the Disneyland park (love is stronger than your conflicts).

Today's wedding will be at a different venue, but I accidentally booked myself into a Marriott on the southern border of Disneyland. I also neglected to note that this is Memorial Day weekend.

You do not need me to help you inmagine the mayhem that comes from mixing a three-day weekend with children hyped up on the cocaine of meeting Mickey or Cinderella. It is almost as if someone had re-opened Studio 54 and staffed it with manic Munchins.

Because I have absolutely no need to visit the park on this trip. I decided to do something I have wanted to do for years. 

I often hear parents bemoan the 50 or so miles they must have walked while visiting the park. I have no idea how scientific those assertions are, but I have always wanted to walk around the outside of the park just to see how far it is. (That, of course, has nothing to do with the long-suffering parents who trudge around inside the rectangle.)

Based on past experience, I would have estimated the circumference to be between 5 and 6 miles. And that would have well-suited my morning 5-mile walk.

Because my hotel is on Katella, the street that forms the southern boundary of the park, all I had to do was to cross the street and start my journey. I mention crossing the street because once I was on the Disneyland-side of the street, traffic signals were no longer a problem. I suspect that was a traffic design by the park's engineers to expedite the entry of bulging wallets into the park.

I had hoped to catch a glimpse of some of the park's attractions, but the landscapers have created sight barriers that any North Korean would immediately recognize. "There is a better world behind those trees, but we are not allowed to see it."

The first line of Disneyland's national anthem is "The happiest place on Earth." And I know that for some people it is.

I have lots of friends in my age range who have sent me notes how they wish they could be in Disneyland today. Of course, unless they live in California, they cannot visit the park until the middle of June. And even Californians are required to go through a vetting system before they are admitted.

As I walked around the outside of the park, I started thinking about that "happiest place" claim. Even though I could not see any attractions, in several places I could hear the upbeat and cleverly-chosen music that is one of the park's atmospherics. It is almost like living your life to the soundtrack of Mulan.

Through the bushes, I occasionally saw mouse-eared children (and some adults pushing their way back across the Toyland border) jauntily walking along from one pleasure to the next. All at a price, of course.

All of the security surrounding the park is to ensure that anyone who wants to be in a happy place will need to part with a few dollars. A two-day ticket per person will set you back $290 (US).

That is not a complaint. Selling pleasure is what our culture does. And for some experiences, it comes at a premium. Especially when the experience itself is premium itself.

Somehow, I managed to avoid the lure of the lorelei, though. It helped that I am not Californian and that I will be attending a wedding in a couple of hours instead of searching for dark secrets in Cinderella's castle. There are those rumors concerning Snow White, you know.

Oh. I almost forgot. Google Maps. You now see how serious that hook was.

Google Maps gives the impression there is a pathway around the full perimeter of the park. It is a false impression, but it is one I drew myself. And I should have known better. 

The northeast side of the park is bordered by I-5. And freeways seldom serve the needs of walkers. When I got to the northeast corner of the park, I had to cross over the freeway and turn south on Harbor. Harbor then took me back across the freeway to the east side of the park, leaving a triangle like one of those odd loops in the Mississippi River that leaves parts of Kentucky stranded in Missouri.

And just how far is the perimeter walk?

I had severely over-estimated the distance. It is barely 3.5 miles. It was an interesting walk (which fathered an essay), but it was not sufficient to meet my morning walk requirement. 

I will give the walk (and perhaps Walt himself) credit that with one exception, traffic signals were not an impediment.

And for a walker who likes to keep up his pace, that makes it the happiest place on Earth to me.

kiss your table

The Virus season must be over -- or it is just another peculiar Oregon ritual that has slipped my notice over the last seventy years.

I met my chum Nancy (of the Nancy and Roy traveling companions club) for a chat today in Tumalo. We are both in the process of moving our mothers hither and yon, and decided to meet to swap tales.

We were greeted by a chalkboard that informed us in fussy-fonted penmanship that we were to kiss our table. Well, it told us to "please buss your table." But it is the same thing.

The doubled-s verb took me back to the early 1970s when federal courts ordered local school districts to bus children from one district to another. Newspaper editors were faced with a dilemma. What is the gerund form of "to bus" children?

"Busing" would violate all of the rules of English pronunciation (the few that have managed to survive our mongrel language). People would be prone to pronounce it as if it were spelled "boosing." Without an extra consonant after the vowel, the "U' would be long.

There was, of course, "bussing." But it had already been pressed into service for the act of smooching -- and, coincidentally related to today's topic, it was used for "bussing" tables.

The editors eventually decided on "busing" because the term was to have its own specific political meaning -- and the editors believed people would soon associate the spelling with one of the hot issues of the day. They were correct.

I always thought that was a cop-out. Probably because I was an advocate of "bussing" -- even though it already had two prior meanings.

And, so what? Words often have two or three extra jobs. Like an industrious single mother striving valiantly to make ends meet.

The list of homonyms is long. But you know the usual suspects: address, spring, tender, mean, match, pound. Some are distinguished by altering the accented syllable. But we all use them with a minimum of confusion.

And there are also plenty of them in Spanish. I remember the day a fellow student was stunned to discover that "tiempo" could mean either "time" or "weather." Our teacher then rattled off a number of verbs and nouns that were the verbal cousins of Romulus and Remus. She then pointed out that context would out the true meaning of the word. 

Homonyms are also the very essence of puns. Without those multiple-use words, all of the great jokes in English and Spanish would be -- well, just confusing.

I have not discounted the possibility that the spelling "error" on the chalkboard was meant to be ironic. After all, this is Oregon. And Bend. Where no conversation escapes being larded with subtext that would make Oscar Wilde wish he had not died so prematurely -- and so far away.

So, here is to bussing -- in all its forms.

 

A good pizza -- but not as good as the conversation.

a quick shot

It was just a quick shot.

I looked up and there it was. Almost a tropical cliché. Black palms against a pastel-tinted sunset. With a little imagination you could almost imagine shrimp sizzling on the grill while cicadas tuned up for the evening.

Most of my best photographs (or, at least the photographs I like best) are quick shots. My people shots are far better if I do not indulge in the fussiness of framing and zooming. It is better if I take the advice of good photographers -- just take the shot.

And this photograph from last evening sums up my plans for the next week or so. I will be trading in coconut palms for views of the Cascades. For family reasons, I am heading off to Bend once again -- while fitting in a Los Angeles wedding.

If I turn off my writing machine on this trip, as I did two weeks ago, don't worry. I will eventually return.

After all, I am not done shooting those palms. 

power plays

One of the true pleasures in having solar power is that my CFE bills almost always bring good news.

Good news, that is, if you consider bills of 50 pesos for two months of electricity to be good news. And, I usually do.

I have now had my solar array at the house with no name for two years. Because the panels generate enough electricity (and more) to power my home, CFE (our local electricity provider) only charges me the connection fee for my two meters. Every two months, I have paid 42 pesos on one meter and 41 on the other.

Earlier this month, I noticed a comment on Facebook that CFE was now charging 50 pesos every two months for the connection fee. When my bills arrived over the weekend, I discovered that was true -- and has been since the start of 2021.

I had not really noticed the change because about 18 months ago, I deposited enough money in both accounts to let me not worry whether or not I was in town when the bills arrived. It would be rather embarrassing to have my power shut off over a 41-peso late payment.

It appears that my deposit on one of the accounts has been exhausted. With a credit from what remained in my account, I owe 38 pesos for the 50-peso connection fee. There was no surprise there. Thanks to Facebook.

But when I turned over the bill to see my usage history, I was surprised. During the months I relied solely on my solar array for power, the usage shows "0." That makes sense. But this is what I found surprising.

Apparently, last November I used more power than my panels generated. And I do not know why. That is the period when power usage drops at my house. The only increase in power at the house is in August through September when I turn on the air conditioning in my bedroom. Otherwise, the house has a rather steady usage.

What happened in October-November? I have no idea. And why is there no increased usage in the summer months when the air conditioning comes on?

I suppose all of that is academic. Whatever caused the spike in usage, it fell within my annual accumulation of credits. I was not charged for the excess power -- no matter how anomalous it is.

I am happy that I had the solar array installed. The only baffling experience has been my interface with CFE.

First, the promised cash paybacks were cancelled by the new Mexican government -- in a move that makes a lot of people wonder how Mexico is ever going to meet its Paris Accords commitments with its rather negative take on solar power. THe answer is that it isn't.

Then, it is the very odd bills I receive showing an increase in power when there should be a decrease shown and there is no increase shown in the summer when spikes obviously did take place.

Maybe this is the moral. As long as I am required to only pay my connection charge to CFE, all is well. What once was promised as cash simply disappears now at the end of the year. There is no sense in crying over spilt electricity at this point.

Do any of you who have solar power experience such oddities? Would you care to share your own speculative theories?

 

they're back

It is that time of year again.

The cicadas have started emerging from their underground root buffet and are making their final moult into adulthood. That means that the evenings will soon be filled with the sound of lovelorn males hoping to play house for an evening or two.

I found this guy (or gal, insects being next to impossible to sex) in my patio. He was on his own. At least at my house. When cicada season arrives, the stalks of my heliconia are usually studded with the discarded exoskeletons of cicada going through the metamorphosis that would qualify them to be the center of a quinceañera -- or any other debutante ball.

But one cicada does not a summer make. Nor does one cicada more cicadas make.

I found only one discarded husk on the heliconia stems. I suspect it once belonged to the cicada in the patio. The husk contains the remnants of the right front leg that looks as if it had been ripped off in the transformation.

So, the cicada is not only too early for the opening of the insect singles bar, he is destined to be nicknamed El Tunco. Not a propitious start to spreading his DNA.

I have been in the eastern United States when the 13- and 17-year cicadas emerge. Their love songs can be almost deafening.

That is not true of the Mexican cicadas. At least, in this area. Their hum is exactly what you would associate with warm, humid nights in the tropics. Combined with the persistent crook of the peepers, our evenings can be the stuff of nostalgic tales.

But, for that to happen, the lone hummer in my patio will require company. And, if we are patient, they will will arrive. Actually, they will arrive even if we are not patient. The insect world is oblivious to our human doings. I suspect most of them will want to be out of the ground before our rains start in a few weeks. 

Most of you have heard the following story before, but I find it difficult to write about cicadas without repeating it. When I was in Colombia with my Colombian cousin Patty, she told me one of the most fascinating cicada tales. Colombians believe that the cicadas are crickets who sing with joy, and when they cannot stand the pleasure anymore, they explode.

Now, those of us who have been handicapped by looking at everything in life through the constraints of the scientific method may scoff at that tale as being mere superstition, as if truth is based on facts. And that is a pity.

The poetry of the tale of the cricket that explodes with joy is far more interesting in capturing the manner in which people who enjoy life think about their surroundings. Given the choice between joy and the husk of a corpse, I will take the poetry of joy -- almost every day.

So far, I have heard no song from that alien-eyed cicada in my patio. Maybe he knows it is too early to start his aria. Or he may have flown off to find another early-emerging cicada. He can then sing until he explodes with joy.

May we all be so lucky. 
 

how much is this money worth?

It is one of my favorite lines from The Simpsons.

Well, it is one of the hundreds of lines from the masterly scriptwriters of The Simpsons that I call my favorites.

Mr. Burns, the town billionaire and eccentric octogenarian, is in the post office mailing a letter: "I'd like to send this letter to the Prussian Consulate in Siam by aeromail. Am I too late for the 4:30 auto-gyro?"

I thought of Mr. Burns the other day when my church buddy Darleen gave me three large denomination notes. Not that Darleen reminded me of Mr. Burns. She doesn't. But the situation did.

When she moved to this area of Mexico, one of her friends told her that she and her husband had visited Mexico years ago and that they had a lot of pesos. Since they were not going to be using them, Darleen was the beneficiary of what appeared on its face to be an act not only of altruism, but true sacrifice.

It was a total of 10,050 pesos. At today's exchange rate that would be 504 US dollars -- and change. A nice gift.

But the three bills are worth 500 greenbacks only if you live in the world of Mr. Burns. The rest of us have moved on -- as has the Bank of Mexico.

If you have really good eyes, you can see the issue date on the notes. The 50-peso note with the familiar stern, blue visage of Benito Juárez was issued in 1981. The two 5000-peso notes featuring the Niños Héroes (who died defending the Castle of Chapultepec -- and the honor of Mexico -- on 13 September 1847 during the Mexican-American War) were issued in 1984.

A lot of pesos have come out of ATMs since the early 1980s -- including a monetary devaluation in 1993 followed by a financial crisis in 1994-1995. Mexico is now on its fifth series of banknotes since the monetary children of the 1980s were printed.

As a result of the devaluation and subsequent issue of new banknotes, the value of the three old notes is officially -- zero. As a matter of legal tender. A collector may put a small value on them -- or those of us who see banknotes as a form of art can value them as something other than mere lucre. But they will not buy you a cup of coffee.

Mr. Burns had another observation for a similar situation: "Ooh, don't poo-poo a nickel, Lisa. A nickel will buy you a steak and kidney pie, a cup of coffee, a slice of cheesecake and a newsreel... with enough change left over to ride the trolley from Battery Park to the polo grounds."

Acquaintances who work in restaurants, hotels, and shops tell me that some unwary tourists still attempt to pass these outdated notes to pay their bills. Usually it is just a matter of the tourist not knowing he is part of a Mr. Burns skit.

I know of only one exchange that was larded with evil intent. A customer at a restaurant in San Patricio Melaque told a young waiter that the only bill he had was a 10,000-peso note. If the waiter would break it for him from the restaurant till, he would let the waiter keep 1000 pesos for himself. The note was issued in 1982.

That con may have worked in one of Mexico's wealthy tourist cities like San Miguel de Allende. But, in San Patricio Melaque, the cash in the till would have been far short of 10,000 pesos.

When the waiter took the note to the restaurant manager, the customer-cum-con man turned himself into Jesse Owens and ran off without his note -- or paying his bill.

But I am now the proud owner of notes that were printed when I was but a lad enjoying his 30s. There are so many possibilities. I can appreciate them as art. Or remember them as a gift from Darleen. --

Or I could take them down to the local post office and ask Julio: "I'd like to send this letter to the Prussian Consulate in Siam by aeromail. Am I too late for the 4:30 auto-gyro?" And see if I could squeeze any more humor out of the gag.

I doubt Mr. Burns will ever die.