Archive for February, 2011

The Martians are us…

Feb 27

Posted by James Coon in Astronomy | 3 Comments

I have a somewhat serious refracting telescope—one that comes with a mount so heavy I have to pay neighborhood kids ten bucks to haul it out front for me. Refractors are good for looking at planets, but not so good for the pocketbook.

I prefer looking at planets. You can tell one in the sky because it doesn’t twinkle. However small, what you see up there is a disc, a shaft of light. One that comes through the atmosphere relatively undisturbed. But the nearest star is more than 7,000 times farther away than even distant Pluto; which is far, far away. Others are 7,000 times farther still. Or 700, 000,000. So no matter how big and bright, or powerfully magnified, even the closest  stars are just points of light that twinkle. Stars all look alike to me, just different colors.

Our nearby planets and their large satellites, however, are places. Places we can go if we want to. Places that may have evolved at least some form of primitive biology—which would provide an immeasurable insight into our own. Places that might harbor stores of water ice—providing oxygen to breathe, and fuel to travel even farther beyond. To be sure, you can’t fly there quite yet, but you can still visit these places, with even a good set of binoculars, as they put on their celestial Broadway show every night of the year.

Hogan’s Alley…

Feb 26

Posted by James Coon in Foster Labs | No Comments

As we walk around our neighborhood with a new foster lab, neighbors flock to meet the latest guy or gal. Kids fawn, ooh-ing and ahh-ing, and the lab gets more attention than is probably healthy. “You two must be saints,” someone pipes up. “I could never foster a lab,” adds another. “Don’t you want to adopt every one?” The answers are no, sure you could, and, sometimes it’s hard.

Our foster labs come from all walks of life, so to speak. Each breaks the mold of all the others who came before. If they’re lucky, they’ve been surrendered from a stable home, with never a bad day in their life. The unlucky ones have simply been left to the streets, competing for every scrap of food and place of warmth.

They often arrive confused and frightened; in need of more food, more exercise and more belly rubs. By offering safety, security and structure, we try to help them lose some baggage, learn some manners, and go on to their forever homes a little more confident and comfortable with themselves.

From the first, our job is to observe and evaluate. Our neighborhood is a veritable “Hogan’s Alley”. There’s squirrels and cats and sometimes bigger things foraging as we take our walks before dawn. Walkers, bikers, strollers, joggers, birds landing. Dogs being walked, others behind fences and gates, behind windows. Traffic along this street; lawnmowers and leaf-blowers down that one. Quite a test. Especially if you expect good behavior on a slack leash.

We do. We have to. Because a dog that behaves properly is a safe dog, a fun dog, a happy dog. Off, stay, go to place. Do not cross the threshold—in or out—without the release word. All important. Yet there is still time for fun and play. Fetch and tug. Bring it and leave it. Catch the treat. “Good dog.” Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“How can you bear to let them go?” is the fourth—often whispered—question. Again, sometimes it’s hard. But that is not our role. Ours is to offer comfort, continuity, and help our furry friends move just a little bit down the road from where they are, to where they can be. Until the day their new forever family knocks on our door—that one whose eyes light up, whose hearts reach, and whose lives will be brightened by their new friend. That is our role; that is our reward. Elsie, Dodge, Maui, Darby, Zoey, Bob, Rufus…each so indelible and unforgettable.

But they don’t have to live in our house, to live in our hearts.

Another world record…

Feb 24

Posted by James Coon in Around the House | No Comments

Repotting one of our big ferns out on the patio, I got down to the rocks at the bottom, and there was a walnut-sized snail in there. He’d probably crawled in when he was little enough to go through the weep holes, then grown too big to crawl back out. He seemed no worse for wear.

I went into the garage to get my trowel and potting mix, and when I came back he was doing a hubba-hubba up the inside wall. Stretching and dragging to beat all. I tell you, no snail’s pace for this fellow. He knew where he was going and he planned to get there. Still, it was hard not to squish him.

I decided to go in and make a sandwich. I’d give him that long. I made up something really good with Kathy’s lunch tuna and some sliced sourdough. Then I put it in the fridge for after. I got out the chips, a glass for my milk, and pulled open the back door.

Well, I never would have believed it. Now my little Gastropodian friend is over the top, down the other side, out and onto the cool cement, making a bee-line for my annuals. I can’t help but spare him; I said I would.

So I picked him up and dropped him over the back fence, into my mean neighbor’s garden.

Ain’t it always so?…

Feb 24

Posted by James Coon in Around the House | No Comments

I was doing up breakfast the other morning, when an egg that I’d foolishly neglected slowly began to roll off the countertop. Too late to catch, it was almost to the floor when I heeled-kicked it back into the air, hacky-sacked it a couple of times, ping-ponged it off the back-splash and rolled it down my arm and into the bowl with its fellows.

When it came time to crack the eggs for the pan, that yolk came out just as firmly intact as the others, of course.

Kathy came in to refill her coffee cup. “What are you making?” she asked.

I pulled a fork from the flatware drawer.

“Scrambled eggs,” I said.

Bet on it…

Feb 24

Posted by James Coon in On the Money | No Comments

They’ve got slot machines now that configure themselves to whatever denomination of coin you’d care to bet. Dollars, Half-dollars, quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies. Even real paper money, I suppose. That’s what led me to my system.

While I’m winning, which is most of the time, I bet dollars, with multiple coins and pay lines. If things start to dry up I move down to 50¢; and then, if things continue to dry up, 25¢. Whatever it takes to stay in the game. I just lay low until my next streak comes around. Sometimes I get to a dime, but rarely.

So wouldn’t you know that the last time Kathy and I were up at Circus Circus, she walks by with a tray full of dollar tokens and asks how well my hundred bucks is holding out. I tell her I’m not down to pennies yet. Ha, ha. I pull the handle as she strolls away toward the video poker.

Okay, so I wasn’t quite telling it straight. But, hey, the system is an up and down thing. And strictly speaking, you don’t have to admit you’re down to pennies if you’ve still got 12¢ left.

An illuminating thought…

Feb 24

Posted by James Coon in Neighborhood News | No Comments

The guy across the street has exactly the same kind of yard lights as I do. I never noticed that before. You can’t get those any more. That means if I ever need parts, well…ha, ha, ha…I’m just kidding of course.

Maybe I should go over there and share the joke with him. Or maybe not. You never know who you can trust these days.

Crossed wires…

Feb 24

Posted by James Coon in Around the House | No Comments

“Why’d you get off the phone so quickly with Dave?” Kathy wanted to know. “I thought you guys wanted to discuss your get-together on Saturday?”

“We do…” I explained patiently, “but he said he was planning to call me later.”

“And?…”

“And…how can he call me if I’m still on the phone with him?”

Some people are so obtuse.

I miss them both…

Feb 23

Posted by James Coon in Neighborhood News | No Comments

Rex and Bud were already in their eighties the day we all stood together in Bud’s deep back yard. They’d been neighbors and friends for almost fifty years. Theirs were the first two houses built on of our street.

So okay, now we’re standing there, scrutinizing the huge tree that’s way in the back corner of Bud’s lot. Some kind of spruce or pine thing. It’s dying—even I can see that. Probably dangerous. If it fell in some odd direction, it could certainly endanger life and, well…limb. Rex and Bud nod without speaking.

Now it turns out that the still-strapping Rex was, at one time, something of a formidable lumberjack—if he said so himself. He offered to cut the thing down. His eyes glinted once more at his forty-foot adversary, and he pinched them down a bit. He said it would land right there. He pointed.

Bud studied on the idea. I shut up. Over there was the tree. Over here was his best friend who drank to much, slept too much, and watched too many game shows because he thought he’d lost his purpose in life. Bud silently weighed things. Weighed fifty years of trust. Weighed Rex’s beaming face. He weighed me not at all. Then he said okay.

Rex pounded off and returned with a bunch of large, rusty wedges; a couple of pry things; and a double-edged axe that looked like Paul Bunyan might have used it. Once more he took the measure of his opponent, then marched over and began attacking the trunk. Moments passed, as he gradually loosened and came alive to his task, swinging high and free, as though he were thirty again; whacking and wedging, wedging and whacking. Maybe two wedgings in a row once a while.

Then he stepped back and looked over his handiwork; looked up into the thick bower of branches. He considered things one more time, then whacked one of the wedges in another inch, side-kicked the stump, and—oh, my Lord!—the whole thing began to topple. Crack!! Gaaaaa!!… …Whomphhh!! …It’s down.

To be fair, it landed about five feet to the right, on top of the camelias. Rex shrugged it off as being a consequence of atmospheric conditions. Then we spent the afternoon chopping up the remains, piling them up; before going around to the front porch for a drink in the fading sun. Bud and I had Coors from the can. Rex had a whiskey sour.

And that’s as true a story as you’ll ever get from me.

Street sensibility…

Feb 23

Posted by James Coon in Family Ties | No Comments

Whether you care or not—and I know you don’t—it seems that there’s only one street in Santee, CA: Cuyamaca Street.

Everything Great Auntie Ann directs us to down here is either on Cuyamaca, or off Cuyamaca. It’s just past Cuyamaca. Or somewhere around where Cuyamaca used to be before they put in the bypass. There’s also a “North” and “South” Cuyamaca. That’s important to know, she says. She lives on Mission Gorge, which is far busier and more heavily traveled—but she never mentions that.

Who are those guys, anyway? The Cuyamacas? Mafia Dons? Mortgage modification specialists? Hedge fund managers? Is this an Indian tribe?…

If so, just forget I brought it up. I don’t need any more people suing me.

Help is on the way…

Feb 22

Posted by James Coon in Family Ties | No Comments

Great Auntie wears one of those emergency alert pendants, to use if she falls or otherwise needs help. Kathy keenly noticed a blinky light on the control unit, and called the company to see what’s up.

They never heard of Great Auntie. They’ve been sucking thirty-some bucks out her checking account every month for two years, and never heard of her. The company was sold, you see, and this and that, and blah blah, and maybe it’s their sister company that’s doing the monitoring. These guys never heard of Great Auntie.

Okay. Give us their number. They don’t have it. It’s their sister company that maybe does the monitoring—while they concentrate on siphoning the accounts of people they never heard of—and they don’t have the number. Cool. Thanks.

Okay, here’s the plan: One, you push the pendant button and see who calls back for a confirmation of the emergency. Then you take down the pertinent contact information for future use. Or maybe…two, you push the button and nobody calls back. In either case, three, you cancel the automatic deduction for the monitoring.

If you stop paying they can stomp and shout from dawn to dusk, and try to stop the monitoring service. But they don’t have the number. And apparently, they don’t have Great Auntie’s either.