Another Day In Paradise

May 9, 2014: 6:50 am
As I roll out of the feathers, I pause to clear out the cobwebs in my mind.  Next,

I run a quick systems check on my Swedish chassis.  The user advisory has been laid out: one cannot be too careful when operating vintage 1937 equipment.   Warranties are no longer in effect.

               Everything seems to be working as it did yesterday.  As I stand, I feel no pain, and I am well aware of date, time, and location.  Thank you, Lord.  Put this day in the "win" column.  Before heading to the bathroom for morning ablutions, I walk to the starboard side of the bed to give the Bride a buss on the cheek.  She is battling a cold, and despite the fact that we share the same bed, and breathe the same air, she insists on no lip-to-lip contact for its duration.  Go figure.

7:01 am

Chica paws at her crate in anticipation of her release to answer nature's call.  She regularly ignores the canine code of conduct, ie:  thou shalt not do one's business on home turf.  She turns a blind eye to the acres of green lawns and pasture that surround our house on the hill.  Hilario, our "2nd son" and gardener, playfully chides us by saying that he is going to start tacking on a poop-scoop surcharge to the monthly bill. While fetching the morning newspaper (now only 4 days of hard copy-3 days digital), the boss observes that his "White Shadow" has done the deed again.  With a grimace, the pooper-scooper tool is fetched.  There will be no-surcharges here, by gum.
7:15 am
The morning ritual continues.  This involves yours truly getting "down on all fours" to get as close to Chica's level as possible for two minutes-worth of "schmoozing".  This means all manner of belly scratching, head-rubbing, and nonsense-talking.  Then, of course, it's on to the same breakfast of which, year after year, she never tires.  The more hard and fast the routine that dogs have in their lives, the better they seem to like it.  Before the food is set before her, she performs her one and only "patented" trick: a four-legged pirouette.
7:22 am
The news in the morning paper is rather on the innocuous side.  Putin says he's withdrawing troops on Russia's border with Ukraine.  Drone surveillance says otherwise.  A tea-party candidate for Oregon senator is trying to buy her way into the ballot box in November.  Eight-tenths of an inch of rain were recorded yesterday in our local area.  One uplifting piece of news comes from the sports page.  My beloved San Francisco Giants have taken the measure of their arch-enemy, the Los Angeles Dodgers (aka: "Doggers"), 3-1!
8:35 am

Time to head down the hill to meet with the delivery man from the shop where our church has had repairs and maintenance performed on its riding lawn-mower.  As I drive, I wonder and worry.  With  the exception of five Anglos, we are an all-Latino parish, and have been for years.  This writer is the last of the grey beards; the guy who tends to the work around the church when nobody else is available.  That means Monday through Friday.  When I am no longer able to carry the torch, who is going to be there to pick it up?  For today, everything worked out fine, but tomorrow?  God only knows.  The priest tells me, "Hal, you take too much on yourself!"  Right, Padre, but who else is there?  Ysidro?  (Inside joke:  At Holy Cross/Santa Cruz, there is nobody named "Ysidro")
9:05 am
"Rich", the deliveryman unloads the tractor, and since the skies have yet to rain, I make the decision to parade around the front lawn.  Before starting, I accidentally pour about 1/2 gallon of oil mix gasoline into the tank.  This is used for 2-cycle engines like weed-eaters and leaf-blowers; not tactors!  Panic-stricken, I call the shop, whereupon the foreman tells me that the tractor engine might belch some small, black clouds, but not to worry.  Today, one "oops-moment" will go undetected.
10:15 am
After having made about a dozen circuits of the lawn in the "front forty" of the church, the clouds opened  up.  As singer Kenny Rogers once sang, "You gotta know when to hold 'em; know when to fold 'em."   Skies are supposed to be clearing tomorrow afternoon. Hope springs eternal.  Maybe somebody not named "Ysidro" will show up during the day to finish the job.  The Y-guy cannot be counted on. 
11:20 am
This journal entry continues apace.  While trying to update and transfer materials from laptop to desktop computer, I am besieged by an irritating "RegCleanPro" popup which refuses to take "no" for an answer.  Purging it and all of its relatives from my hard drive doesn't seem to thwart this pesky beastie.  But the grace of persistence ultimately prevails. and one nemesis has been sent down the tube.
12:05 pm
There is no need of a time piece with Chica in the house.  Her internal clock tells her unerringly when the noon hour has arrived.  That is chow time.  It is one of several instances during the course of a day when she absolutely refuses to be ignored.  In situations where push comes to shove, she will push her paw against my ankle...repeatedly...until I cave into her persistence.  Chica is always fed before the boss prepares his sandwich of the day, which is accompanied by a Gatorade "chaser".   
12:20 pm                                                                                                                                          As Annie and I finish our noon-time repast, it is twenty minutes into our favorite news program on television.  Amazingly, there have been no private, body-function commercials, and therefore, no need to hit the mute button on the remote.  Will wonders never cease?!
12:57 pm                                                                                                                                     Back to the basement, and what passes for my office; or, what I regularly refer to as "The Dungeon". It is time to research and provide some questions for my weekly trivia contest on amateur radio.  Ostensibly, the 7:30 to 8:00 pm hour on a designated frequency is given over to emergency preparedness, and relaying of various pieces of relevant information, called "traffic".  There are usually between twenty and thirty operators who "check-in" to this network of a Friday.  Things invariably begin to lag, mid-way through the half-hour.  That is when I launch into my trivia questions to fill in the time, and restore a comfort level.  Hams hate "dead air" when nothing seems to be happening,  Some operators, during a stretch such as this,  Most seem to enjoy the departure from the regular business of the net.  Looking outside,  the sun has been playing hide and seek with the rain clouds all-morning long.  Now it's choosing to show itself once again.
5.09 pm                                                                                                                               Received a phone call from Fr. Roberto, our priest, who has his feet in two camps.  One of these is in Boring, the other in L.A.  Our guy is a political animal, very steeped in moves and counter-moves when it comes to matters in our diocese.  Once monthly, he flies to the sunny southland to touch base with his daughter and former parishoners.  But he always manages to make it back to Boring for mass on Sunday.  The majority of our chat time was spent discussing an upcoming meeting of five churches in the eastern reaches of our convocation; all of which have Latino constituencies.  He suspects that this will become a discussion of attrition.  Bottom line: one flock will be told that, because of financial necessity,  they have to "fold their tent", and merge with another parish.  In that case, both he and I won't hesitate to tell the bishop that "ain't necessarily so". 
7:15 pm
Trouble in Dungeon-Paradise.  In queuing up the transceiver and computer for the Friday night amateur radio net, I discovered to my dismay, that all my roster files for operators checking-in had been corrupted, and none could be coaxed into restoring themselves.  This resulted in the same process I started with, over fifteen years ago, to wit: doing all data in Neanderthal-ish long-hand. (They don't even teach penmanship in grade schools, these days!)  Then, as if that weren't enough adversity, almost all the early check-ins told me that there was a lot of "white noise" with my transmissions, making for a "rough copy". 

           What a blow to the old ego!  The clarion call of Clackamas County........ with a poor signal?!  Unheard of.....until this evening.  Switching from one antenna to the other avails nothing significant.  One ham friend tells me, on air, that it's not my problem, but one created by the atmosphere.  Thank you, sir.  Then, another ham chimes in that the atmospheric conditions have nothing to do with the case.  (The hissing sound I next heard was air escaping from my balloon.)  I chose to abide with my friend's diagnosis.
             The rest of the session went fairly well. There were twenty-six operators who checked in, and five of the fifteen questions were answered correctly. (There are no prizes, but think of the prestige!)    Looking ahead to next Friday, very few of life's mechanical and electrical problems are self-correcting.  It can be hoped that this data base crisis will be one.
9:00 pm
TV time in this house takes place in the family room; family consisting of the Bride, Chica, and yours truly.  Things proceed normally for the first hour.  Our doggie has chilled between my knees on the recliner, and  the Bride and I are engrossed in Grimm.  This series marks the one and only time when Annie regularly watches a program where a human morphs into something hideous.  She insisted on keeping a light on in the hall after watching Lon Chaney Jr. in "The Wolf Man" on a rented tv in the fall of '58; right after our wedding.  I am sure she would tell you that now, it's all due to "character development". 
10:00 pm
"Blue Bloods", the program which I point to all week long, is showing the opening sequence.   It is the on-going story of four generations of family; two of whom are actively involved in law-enforcement.  There is no on-screen violence; pretty much "after the fact" revelations of capital crimes. 
       "Danny", a hot-headed detective with a penchant for putting himself in tight scrapes" is the character that I gravitate toward. Grandpa Reagan is a retired police chief.  He customarily presides at the head of table for the weekly clan meal, which is always preceded by a blessing.  This one scene bonds family, and is, to this writer,  the most endearing and compelling of every Friday night's story. Will Chica give me a free pass, at least until the first commercials, before asserting herself?  Well, of course not. 
                     Naturally, it's  more than just the "I've got to go to the bathroom, Daddy."  Kids aren't the only ones to ply this ploy.  The exotic scents which didn't rate a second sniff during daylight hours now merit serious scrutiny.  Back in the den, N.Y.P.D. chief Frank (Tom Selleck) Reagan is undoubtedly finding son Danny in another vat of procedural hot water, while Chica is still scanning the territory;  no doubt thinking of ways to prolong her escapade.  This lack of focus (teacher word) on the task at hand prompts two tugs on the leash.  Awe, come on, doggie!  Two more tugs and she finally gets serious about the original objective....my (teacher) objective. But she still has one trump card left to play; the obligatory ball-toss from the family room to the hallway. Six or seven lobs later, Chica contentedly curls up on her pad; satisfied that she has played the boss like a violin, yet again.
                    Upon returning to the recliner, The Bride tolerantly and dutifully gives me a summation of what I've missed.  Fortunately, it was nothing flow-changing.  The familial gathering  sequence follows, one commercial-break later.  Danny has extricated himself from another mess,  Frank manages to stay above the political fray, and all is almost well with the world. However,  in tv series as in real life, there are no absolutes until the final episode.  It is the next item on the agenda, and that unresolved plot twist that propel us onward and upward.  I think.
11:05 pm
                 My "finny friends, piscine pals" are about to get their daily ration of frozen blood worms and daphnia.  Five minutes ago, all the inhabitants of my 29 gallon water world were docile and demure....if indeed those are apt descriptors of tropical fish emotion.  It could be that they are devious and were game-playing their provider.  But now that he is up-close-and-personal, there are a dozen pairs of pectoral fins, pressing on glass.  Gee guys,  you're
always so glad to see me!  What an ego-trip!
11:10 pm
Chica trundles down the hall with me to the bedroom for the last of our daily rituals.  While hoisting her up on the "feathers", I murmur sweet nothings in her ear, like how much of a winner she is in the eyes of her boss.  Then, after another round of bathroom ablutions,  it's another spate of scratches and pats for the doggie, during which the Bride repairs and prepares for sack-time.  This is Chica's clue to vacate the premisis,  which she does willingly.  During our walk down the hall to her crate, she is advised of what the morning will bring, and what excitement awaits her.  After ten years of one-way conversation, she listens, and doubtlessly intuits all the subtleties of meaning.
11:28
Late Night with Jimmy Fallon on the tube in our boudoir.  With tv parked on her night stand, I snuggle and buss The Bride on the cheek, while we watch Jimmy write his every-Friday "Thank You notes" to people both real and imaginary.  One particular note is written to people who wear "W.W.J.D." bracelets. Translation: "What Would Jesus Do?" He writes, "Thank you for wearing those bracelets while doing things that Jesus would  never do". This was a definite jab at Christian hypocrisy.  It fetches at least one and a half laughs out of his Boring audience.  
           The lights then go out, and another morning, afternoon, and evening are entered in the books. This writer's last waking words: "Love you, Babes."  The last waking thought:  Providence had smiled on this writer again; just as it had countless times before.  Just another day in paradise.