tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-197481682024-03-13T06:56:13.012-06:00canoelover's blog<br><br><br>just a way to put out some pictures and thoughts and stuff -- for other canoelovers, naturelovers, doglovers and blacksmithlovers. P.S. Kayaklovers welcome too!canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.comBlogger503125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-11762321366692834582010-01-13T21:36:00.002-06:002010-01-13T21:40:19.456-06:00The last blog post (here anyway)So I've done it...<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.canoelover.com">http://www.canoelover.com</a></div><div><br /></div><div>This will allow me more flexibility in posting stuff, and eventually it will be nicer looking.</div><div><br /></div><div>To quote Johnny Cash, "Look for me no more..."</div><div><br /></div><div>Or was it Jacob Marley. Or Hamlet's father's ghost.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, check out my other blog now. Nothing to see here. Move along now...</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted, as usual,</div><div><br /></div><div>Canoelover</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-69864612237047639552010-01-01T14:50:00.007-06:002010-01-01T15:48:57.515-06:00The Ice Chisel<div>I have a friend named Bear. Actually, I have two friends named Bear. I imagine I am in a small population, having two outdoor-loving brothers with an ursine appellation.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of my Bear friends lives up in Minneapolis, the <a href="http://www.ozarkoutdoors.net/">other</a> in the Ozarks. Both are paddlers. The Minneapolis Bear (M.B) likes winter trips to places like the <a href="http://www.canoecountry.com/images/gallery/winter.html">Boundary Waters</a>, where getting water in the winter is a matter of some work. You can take an auger but ice chisels are faster and unlikely to break. When given a choice, always take the simpler tool.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNGKQsY2CV3HLCXQ4rLRqdkB2sZl7ffLYE-BkbT5Y1ke4oB1j3y659kL9LWnMNrx0hb-RKQksQ7_mB8o58er5fvGKOm-VxXS2pvFHXB28LpGVZNEQRos4aMI_UnCqA29uVojDEfA/s1600-h/blacksmithchisel+018.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNGKQsY2CV3HLCXQ4rLRqdkB2sZl7ffLYE-BkbT5Y1ke4oB1j3y659kL9LWnMNrx0hb-RKQksQ7_mB8o58er5fvGKOm-VxXS2pvFHXB28LpGVZNEQRos4aMI_UnCqA29uVojDEfA/s400/blacksmithchisel+018.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421881301928507586" /></a><br /><div>A few months ago M.B. asked me to make him an ice chisel. He didn't want a wimpy sort of store-bought ice chisel. The ice is thick in the BWCA, and a wimpy chisel just makes you tired and grumpy. He wanted a chisel with some heft. I agreed to make one, it was an experiment of sorts, but would be relatively easy. The trick was to find a cutting edge that would hold up.<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN24UrjycPYD7N2MELt_Usx-fJbSWSa2gqJOPaLbeekcVqsNl-lz26jg9OATJnTLGxtqdx1Tsv34HINUSu6IU20uHLflrBl6gH8OpaAnqGislnBTDu05Dqza1E6cYYoXsDAgkQ1w/s1600-h/blacksmithchisel+024.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN24UrjycPYD7N2MELt_Usx-fJbSWSa2gqJOPaLbeekcVqsNl-lz26jg9OATJnTLGxtqdx1Tsv34HINUSu6IU20uHLflrBl6gH8OpaAnqGislnBTDu05Dqza1E6cYYoXsDAgkQ1w/s400/blacksmithchisel+024.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421880716540876482" /></a><div><br /></div><div>I needed a piece of spring steel, so I stopped in at <a href="http://local.yahoo.com/info-16783175-madison-spring-incorporated-monona">Madison Spring</a>, a heavy-duty user of spring steel. They're the ones who put leaf springs in cement trucks. I was going to buy a piece of steel but I just asked them for a little piece so I could put an edge on an ice chisel. He didn't say anything, he just sauntered to the back of the office and went out into the shop. A few minutes later he returned with a piece of spring, tossed it onto the metal topped counter and said "Here ya go. Merry Christmas." Despite his holiday greeting, he never cracked a smile. Not even a slight lift of one corner of his mouth.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovkh46qceiHoD5k_id2VBblXuSqrbW1-tPmx9t6LH7zbpdDmElm0wPnIbLvhxmlQVFMNzCDYbwitr1jum3sVODVOnwZAOQOwBQwwyr9eP5nl9APYvNLByFessgGgBu8jruHQ93g/s1600-h/blacksmithchisel+029.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovkh46qceiHoD5k_id2VBblXuSqrbW1-tPmx9t6LH7zbpdDmElm0wPnIbLvhxmlQVFMNzCDYbwitr1jum3sVODVOnwZAOQOwBQwwyr9eP5nl9APYvNLByFessgGgBu8jruHQ93g/s400/blacksmithchisel+029.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421880022885802994" /></a><br /><div>After cutting the spring steel to the proper width, I got out a big chunk of the mild stuff and started forging it into the proper dimensions (it was a little too wide and I wanted it to be a little bit thicker). It's fun to work with big stuff because it stays hot a long time, so your arm doesn't have a chance to rest. My hammer arm has weakened significantly, since I don't work big stuff as often these days. A 1000g <a href="http://www.centaurforge.com/Peddinghaus-1000-g-Swedish-Pattern-Hammer/productinfo/5044031000/">hammer</a> can give you a workout.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxvYf31oclhJ6mUJLqLzpJQSmFPCmNz1Y3u6QZ0taJm6WC5ToUXTLDJuzeA7M29dPNRbLpVnNXVcJ9Vmmh1mVKyBzb_kfdem0bPmPQuyE4ITeGUYrNMIfHdCHN3Y-ZECHyjU91A/s1600-h/blacksmithchisel+032.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxvYf31oclhJ6mUJLqLzpJQSmFPCmNz1Y3u6QZ0taJm6WC5ToUXTLDJuzeA7M29dPNRbLpVnNXVcJ9Vmmh1mVKyBzb_kfdem0bPmPQuyE4ITeGUYrNMIfHdCHN3Y-ZECHyjU91A/s400/blacksmithchisel+032.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421879715848060658" /></a><br /><div>I had to grind two bevels in both the spring and the mild steel so the weld would sit down in the notch and really tie things together. The mild steel makes long sparks...the spring looks like sparklers...it's really pretty.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9KIAJeNC2_HMWjYUML_8h4NocxQ2FnLtOqHReoVr3GzdL05p3-0ZqQZPfj5TI-tkTQAUDBsxBxNCfnMDgFbAxFwlqzrM1R182O_6CEW4AytXgkWLDxwo0HXUGrjTwPGtI9w4Qg/s1600-h/blacksmithchisel+033.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9KIAJeNC2_HMWjYUML_8h4NocxQ2FnLtOqHReoVr3GzdL05p3-0ZqQZPfj5TI-tkTQAUDBsxBxNCfnMDgFbAxFwlqzrM1R182O_6CEW4AytXgkWLDxwo0HXUGrjTwPGtI9w4Qg/s400/blacksmithchisel+033.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421879003010186194" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small; ">"Luke, I am your father."</span></div><div><br /></div><div>I am not a skilled welder. I don't suck, and my welds hold things together, but I am not one of those people who make bike frames, their perfect little semi-circles mocking my ham-fisted attempts. This would be a fun one to weld--big things. I turned the welder up to 11.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Eu2E50nRTXVZRMqV90m3wx6JDzGDFbY2Xxc4NsPA9X_lndO9YTGe5DAOhrIWmN1rvksmGlzgEeiMAjbFkGZ5f6DnYTxqGQ31aKfAJSp7gJ4V3HxRje_006l7sbahVjm608z4Dw/s1600-h/blacksmithchisel+043.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Eu2E50nRTXVZRMqV90m3wx6JDzGDFbY2Xxc4NsPA9X_lndO9YTGe5DAOhrIWmN1rvksmGlzgEeiMAjbFkGZ5f6DnYTxqGQ31aKfAJSp7gJ4V3HxRje_006l7sbahVjm608z4Dw/s400/blacksmithchisel+043.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421877951140175970" /></a><br /></div><div>I should have turned it up to 10.5. It was a little too hot, as you can see by the dishing at the end of the weld. No matter, another weld covers it. Then the grinding and forging begins. I really wanted a seamless transition between spring and mild steels, and I got pretty dang close.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xumBhLmjhrfStLgX_iteiJcvfoC1Q_6Ceb0b0lc7W8vPSfq42_POnY-fxNRIvp8wjIVf9fvHOF0CLjh73be4FFK61IEXDVwQOzKy6pEbKPsdwA8Y0f24oSJftPWhuOkI4w5S7w/s1600-h/blacksmithchisel+047.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xumBhLmjhrfStLgX_iteiJcvfoC1Q_6Ceb0b0lc7W8vPSfq42_POnY-fxNRIvp8wjIVf9fvHOF0CLjh73be4FFK61IEXDVwQOzKy6pEbKPsdwA8Y0f24oSJftPWhuOkI4w5S7w/s400/blacksmithchisel+047.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421877300637964546" /></a><br /></div><div>Here's the semi-final product, before tempering, buffing, and rubbing down with paste wax.</div><div><br /></div><div>The only problem is that M.B. has already left on his trip, and I am a dope for not finishing this last week. Then again, I work in retail. This is not our slowest time of year, so I have that excuse. I look forward to a report on how well it worked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div>Canoelover</div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-27435023559025107742009-12-27T17:30:00.017-06:002009-12-27T22:34:43.702-06:00Paddles and Hammers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_0dRGJE-6f7CldVIoAAEFEQIWeGKUSMbheSTelVi2dNVrJXsvY0RXrQEYiVjmp10Br2TDe0tRDjivLTuczmIONc-zefRPlO3RzBasGISyEdxTcx9FvrNW2YhevM0gHYn_FPmKA/s1600-h/OWL2009+080.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_0dRGJE-6f7CldVIoAAEFEQIWeGKUSMbheSTelVi2dNVrJXsvY0RXrQEYiVjmp10Br2TDe0tRDjivLTuczmIONc-zefRPlO3RzBasGISyEdxTcx9FvrNW2YhevM0gHYn_FPmKA/s400/OWL2009+080.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420080419406490194" /><br /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">My garage has a certain </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">ungarageness </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">to it. We haven't parked a car in it for over seven years. Half of the garage is a boathouse, the other half is a blacksmith's smithy.</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I've been blacksmithing for about a decade now, and it is now as much a part of my life as paddling. I certainly can't be faulted for not getting my recommended daily allowance of iron. I've thought a lot about why I am drawn to elemental activities; combinations of air, fire, water, and earth. Water is easy to explain. Fire, air and earth all combine to create a rich experience when I light up the forge.</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Needless to say, plastic never did that much for me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagc216LrC0EXVjCE9WBxR-d1EG9sVvcV17j3l3k_yp_T1Z6fq4Qky-jRrgti4O9IwCPlTFlmAKwmm-teJJOJ3tQeg8MehUmJ98nLBhIJxCYXZTPnb4m1Ka3cUu1waIpPrK2o3Hw/s400/bsmithing+020.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420072929567406866" /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Blacksmithing and canoeing have a lot of similarities. They are inherently simple activities with subtleties that can take years to master. With all the jigs and tools I use in forging, my hammers are my most valuable tools, with personalities and quirks all their own. The hammer is the most important tool in working with iron.</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><div style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGq0NItv7HChnFGG3xudOpr4e7T-BenJJuOxejscQ2MvYaKmidSK2n4v4Ulyxzd9dHGkFBXnCojLak7IsEkQMHHuKCikQYaJ6JtE9p9EREDsBnBQeU7L1OQ3BfM1D2GefR-bRFIg/s400/loonsecho-2+025.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420064193742819746" /><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I own approximately two dozen canoe paddles. I just counted sixteen in the garage, physically verified by touching the top grip of each one as I moved down my rack. There are two hanging on the wall in my living room: functional paddles I choose not to use because of their historical or sentimental value. I'm sure that there are another half-dozen in my office, stashed behind the comfy chair in my office. Then there are few floating around out there...loaned to friends or temporarily forgotten in the back of the car.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The paddle, I believe, is as important to one's paddling experience as the canoe. Like a hammer to a blacksmith or a fly rod to an angler, it's your primary tool to </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">connect</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">. It doesn't matter how nice the canoe might be; if the paddle is garbage, your experience will reflect your choice. A bad hammer is worthless, except if you want to beat it into a really bad tomahawk for a neighbor kid. For the record, the kid told his mom and she was cool with it.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">So when non-paddlers see my rack of paddles, they always ask the same question: "Why do you need so many paddles?" My response is always the same: "Why do you need so many shoes?" You wouldn't go hiking in ballet slippers, and you probably wouldn't run in hiking boots or dance in Bean boots. They all have their function, and so do my paddles.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI3QQpUaGqxVooE7trDBDYU82uc1KOM1N_h2esxTLHsyL-y9i50qoFW5L6lfH1MkHbSocEGnYq0at4uoaxqRiFh42g1u9flIJnxVV74sKq2Ik-C1Tmg3-RfVXSG8jWEMCex803Pw/s400/loonsecho-2+031.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420070880219513026" /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I love my traditional paddles. They're mostly cherry, a Canadian bias: they use cherry up north, we Yankees lean towards ash. Not that I don't have ash traditionals, I have a few, plus a quilted maple, a birdseye maple, and a sassafras. They all are frequently used, and the ones I use the most are on their third of fourth coat of spar varnish. Their handles are polished smooth, not varnished but oiled, and my hand did the polishing over countless miles. When the water is deep, I lean toward traditionals.</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghhB10W1tVvpUHbT4ZCCe4asWBPdE2k1O0apLAKdVVLR_wLs3z9ZaohLStec2fNfX0ZJyJAjAxRHRZMITONTW21LcxSVOK5wV87JNGbK7ysSz8ssulpVTB55GMPWpET4QJrF1f5A/s400/P4300038_edited.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420070236632873218" /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I love my bent-shaft carbon paddles. At 13 ounces, they're almost too light (as if anything could be) and their stiffness transmits power to the water like a Porsche transmission. Their blades slice quietly into the water and emerge with barely a sound. My cadence is high and the canoe accelerates quickly. It's wonderful to race with a couple of light bent-shaft paddles.</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9CbIe7H9tdEfjSIv3yRrkrVqpSjtl_u6GngYtjbJHB-AX54UGTZaZRKQ7Auz5Zvh5n9dC5zu8c-IGHUrSpPpbsxBuYkI0MLJzDxlJO8XcLR8GE7q9F0dgRY7s-SKercYeahIqw/s1600-h/_DSC3671.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9CbIe7H9tdEfjSIv3yRrkrVqpSjtl_u6GngYtjbJHB-AX54UGTZaZRKQ7Auz5Zvh5n9dC5zu8c-IGHUrSpPpbsxBuYkI0MLJzDxlJO8XcLR8GE7q9F0dgRY7s-SKercYeahIqw/s400/_DSC3671.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420079484134956178" /></a><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I love my whitewater paddles. They're beefy, almost clumsy-looking, and when hung on the rack with the other paddles, they look like a bulldogs in a kennel of greyhounds. But like a bulldog, they're built for strength, not speed. Layers of fiberglass over thick wood blades inspire confidence, and you need not fear breaking one as you race down (or in this case, up) a Class II or III rapid. They sometimes seem to enjoy the carnage.</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxiGuXZMaKVKhIOxQ8tfcHwgK8Ezi3D7GTIou6DAA36OmkCJrlCWkGijKsrAMYOtJQiN0vSGFQW3V7zEZ57c64IB_Ne_qy07fwy8uFB4GJgkOwwn2re_NGAxD9UO1hFVGXsk68-g/s400/grant_river+019.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420065783090314226" /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">There's my Black Widow, which was the fruit of a collaboration between Rutabaga and Bending Branches. It's my favorite straight-shaft paddle you can buy off the shelf. It's perfect for an all-around paddle, even if I do say so myself (I designed the grip).</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The list could go on, but there's no need.</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Then there's the collection of paddles I've rescued from the edge of death, paddles that were destined for the dumpster. What a spokeshave, sandpaper, varnish and epoxy can do is almost miraculous. My kids' first paddles were such rescues. Starting with a big paddle with a split blade and work it down to the good wood will guarantee a fine kid's paddle that'll outlast two or three kids. I've passed along dozens of these rescues to friends and family, and it's fun to make something from what could have rotted in a landfill.</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I'm sure some of you have your special paddles and feel a special connection to them. It might seem strange to folks who don't paddle, but if you have one (or twenty) special paddles, allow me to most emphatically validate your feelings of affection. It's a canoe thing. If you get it, there's no need to explain. If you don't, no amount of explanation is sufficient.</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Respectfully submitted,</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Canoelover</span></div></div></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-83768635264404891582009-12-26T14:54:00.001-06:002009-12-26T14:54:43.633-06:00Still alive.......just nothing new to say.<div><br /></div><div>So I ain't saying it.</div><div><br /></div><div>More when I have more to say,</div><div><br /></div><div>Canoelover</div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-77601712600837025852009-12-13T16:06:00.008-06:002009-12-13T16:24:19.133-06:00The All-Seeing Eye<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVAqo6NWD93D8Yygov4vzg-tLTeCvVIsgEoG1YqrrrMmyBD-HxSD3kTQol5LiRrEAE-c9liJ5w4RQwjZNsDF9SiginSko0TewfUR8UOetE74o-IQUSRSSOIB7PweXECFz_xxidA/s400/arboretum_snowshoeing+107.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414846973572439058" /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The <a href="http://uwarboretum.org/">U.W. Arboretum</a> is a real treat for those of us living here. It's specially wonderful when we get a ton of snow. Or 18 inches. That's fine too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Walking through the woods tends to slow me down, especially on 'shoes. Skis tend to keep me moving to0 fast to really notice things like the All-Seeing Eye on a beech tree.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwz7lBXfLxg-iQ22rfA78eKeoK1jIuxIxtkW0VXUH3pXlrH3HW-xJF1hU1JIqNpuT87RrJUTqR8pDeYExCwyRczMQRvFilidyp7WwBk6zxUon1WQaujOCbfli20ptT8p0_Cisufw/s400/arboretum_snowshoeing+110.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414848195554140642" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJIlqhOhBP_Rw5cG1IqRSY_1SxShJ1JDCLYujfExVJYQ1J0BQfnURGK3F5FcAlb4O1t2PXkhKbbl2N8qUVwEGbNMmxkpfBRt1YlWcfe9oae_n9PnITUILycZkIPpozEHoy2Oamw/s400/all-seeing_eye.gif" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 311px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414849606201968706" /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Masons have infiltrated even the trees. Coincidence? I think not.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div> Canoelover</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwe7zPuqeJ2PxOvCX2wEFClpUlhrNtMikGaNXeMR-_mvPeIz2sb0guVHnwt8ndmn1l4d-4i4WxwY2o6O_hmr-cijFeSKi-WSxOZoJMy2Up7Q93IC0Dl1ZkiOlmWYTcT86MWu_I2Q/s400/arboretum_snowshoeing+138.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414846368907450882" />canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-24569014065123128362009-12-09T22:47:00.002-06:002009-12-09T23:00:48.107-06:00Sally<div><i>This happened fifteen years ago. I wanted to capture it before I forgot. As I wrote it I remembered a lot of the detail that I had lost. - DB</i></div><div><br /><hr width="320"><br /></div><div>"Excuse me, are you open?"</div><div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">A woman looked up from her black and white TV, looked at us with a mixture of surprise and bewilderment. She didn't speak. I spoke again.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"You're open, right?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She stood and smoothed her apron and managed to produce what could be considered a smile. "Yes, we're open." She indicated a table, and four of us sat down. The restaurant was empty.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She turned the TV down and walked over with four menus.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Slow night tonight?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"This is my last night here," she said without any hint of emotion, as if she were telling me my shoe was untied.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I was slow. "Where are you moving?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"I'm not. I'm closing my restaurant."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I was slower still. "Why?"<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"The rent is high...prices are...not too many customers..." Her voice trailed off, and I understood. I felt embarrassed, and should have kept my mouth shut.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"I give you a few minutes to look at the menu, okay?" She didn't wait for an answer and walked to the kitchen to busy herself with something so she wouldn't be around us.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I stared at my companions. They stared at me. No one said anything as we skimmed the menus, all of us distracted and a little stunned by the cold fact that we were going to be her last customers.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">After a few minutes she came back. "Do you know what you want?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Give us a few more minutes, please."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I fidgeted for a minute. "I'm sorry, I can't just sit here. Be right back."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I didn't go to the rest room, I stuck my head in the kitchen. "I know what we want. We want you to cook for us. Whatever you want to cook. Whatever you have in the refrigerator. We want that."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She stared at me. "But what do you want?" The concept was a strange one to her, but I insisted. "Whatever you want to cook, you cook. Your favorite things."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Okay," she said. "You like seafood?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Ma'am, I'll eat almost anything."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She smiled. "Okay."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I sat down with my friends. "She's cooking whatever she wants to, and we're going to eat it." </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">We sat there for a few more minutes. Small talk failed. You can't chat about trivial things at a funeral, and we were unintentional mourners.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I got up again. "Sorry, I can't sit here." Again.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I stuck my head in the kitchen. "Ma'am?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She turned and looked at me, not exactly surprised, but certainly curious, her eyebrows arched and eyes fixed on me. I believe she thought I was crazy.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">The words came out. "Can I cook with you?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"What?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Can I cook with you? I'm bored." What I didn't add was that I didn't want her to be alone in the kitchen while she cooked her last meal. This was to be a wake, not a funeral.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She sized me up. "You want to cook."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Yes, please."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"You know how to cook? Thai men they don't cook."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"I know a little, but I'd like to learn how you cook."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She stared again. Then she decided and started ordering me around like a drill sergeant.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Okay, you wash your hands. There's an apron behind the door."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I did as I was told.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Hi, my name is Darren."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"My name is Sally."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Thank you, Sally."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She shrugged. She was chopping cabbage and heating up a large, non-stick skillet. No wok. The kitchen was small and clean and cozy with two cooks, especially when one is twice the size of the other. Sally was short and the counters were low.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"You like seafood, right?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Yes, I do."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Good, there is a bag of scallops in the fridge. Do you know what scallops look like?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Yes."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"They are in a clear container. Bring them here."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She was already putting some curry paste of some sort in the big skillet. "Watch this. When a ring shows up around the outside of the paste, you add the scallops. Don't let it get too hot." She kept her steady chopping of vegetables: cabbage, eggplant, peppers, onions.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">Sally warmed up as we cooked together. I learned her husband was from Ogden, Utah, and she had five children, most of them out of the house, that her husband was a machinist who worked the graveyard shift.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Does your husband cook?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">Sally laughed for the first time. "Men do not cook in my family. In Thailand no men cook at all. Cooking is for women."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"No men cook?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She smiled again. "Not in my family."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">Sally tossed some garlic and onion into another skillet, added some vegetables and after a few seconds, asked me to pour the scallop mixture into that pan. She stirred the scallops and poured it onto a platter. "Take it out. You should eat some."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I took it out and dropped it at the table. My companions looked at me in my apron, and there were several lame jokes about being promoted, missing my true calling, getting in touch with my inner Thai. Sally yelled at me from the kitchen "Don't forget rice! In the cooker!" I dished up a big bowl of rice. It wasn't going to waste.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I popped a rice ball in my mouth, grabbed a spoonful of scallops and trotted back to the kitchen. "What's next?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">Sally smiled and almost laughed. "You go sit down and eat! They leave you nothing."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"It's okay, I'm having fun. What now?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Noodles." Sally was already working on the next dish I recognized as Pad Thai. I said so.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She laughed, and it was a beautiful laugh, almost a cackle. We were having fun now.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I don't remember what else we cooked, or what we talked about, but I do remember Sally becoming comfortable enough to tease me about my height, my cooking, my stupid jokes, my curiosity. I teased her about her height, her knife that was as big as she was, her inability to see over the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">As I brought dish after dish, my companions craned their necks to see what was going on in the kitchen. We were laughing and chatting; they were eating, graciously saving me a little bit of each dish.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">As we wound up the cooking lesson, Sally shooed me out of the kitchen. Apparently cleaning up was a one-person job. I ate my meal as Sally washed dishes. "How is the food?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Really good, Sally."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"If it taste bad it's your fault," she teased in a sing-song voice from behind the counter. I could see the top of her head and her eyes. They were smiling.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She finally came out and wiped her hands on her apron and sat in front of the TV again, watching some inane show, maintaining her distance as we finished our meal. Then she brought us the bill, and silently walked back to the kitchen.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">The bill was for $48.00. For four people, including drinks and at least five large dishes that would have been double that had we been downtown. No one spoke as the twenties were slipped quietly out of wallets. $100 on the table, next to the bill. No one wanted change, least of all me.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">As we shuffled in our seats to slide out and put on coats, she rose to take the bill and stopped at the sight of the little pile of twenties. "I get you change."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"No, that's your tip."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"No, that too much!"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"No, it's not. $50 for food, $10 for tip, and $40 for the cooking lesson."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">Sally took the bill and quickly turned away toward the cash register. We fussed with our jackets and she went back to the TV, her distraction from the pain that in an hour, she would close and lock the doors forever.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I walked over to Sally, reached down and took one of her hands, and she looked up at me. Her face was beautiful.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"Thank you, Sally. I had a lot of fun tonight, and I think I learned something."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">She smiled at me, patted my hand with her other and I suppressed the urge to pull her to her feet and embrace her, my new friend. Instead, I dropped her hand and walked back toward the door to join my companions. She called out to me as I stepped over the threshhold.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">"You be sure to try Thai cooking at home, okay?"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "></p><hr width="320"><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">The grand opening of a restaurant is a noisy affair, accompanied by fanfare, advertising, and snooty food critics noticing something bad about at least one thing so as to maintain their status as critics. The tablecloths are white and the décor is fresh, the menus crisp in their folders. It’s festive, like a baby shower.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">The closing of a restaurant is nothing like that. It just…<i>closes</i>. No fanfare, no “going out of business” signs. Who would want to eat at a restaurant that is advertising its failure to feed people? A closing restaurant is like a geriatric patient dying alone in a nursing home. No fanfare, just an ending.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">Still, I wouldn't trade my experience with Sally for a hundred grand openings.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">I never saw Sally again.</p><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div>Canoelover</div></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-87323915080102827092009-12-08T22:06:00.004-06:002009-12-08T22:23:12.712-06:00Snowy Shack<div style="text-align: left;">I love my Shack.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzygY0PsWFuAv9KVkLh-TWF0wbDXzAKoZImWU9bG0Qx7Pi7pmCodnl-sOUf5vLZG0wwcWkG_wGxialR4Hm_zE9zCDZ3Y7Yn3NhKVBU9B2gKCN8PBH7sHVLGsZ6PwvZHErNiFqd7A/s400/lightsonfort+017.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413084061405980162" /></div><div><br /></div><div>But I love my Shack even more when it is covered with snow, the stovepipe belching smoke, the heat of the wood stove penetrating my spine as I sit with my back to the fire, the webbing in my snowshoe rocker letting heat pass through without so much as a <i>by your leave</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I also love run-on sentences.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>My old Coleman lamp hisses and gives off a faint tangy odor that, while evocative of youthful camping trips, still says "Don't get too used to this smell." With a window cracked and a door left slightly ajar, I'm more concerned about falling asleep from the peaceful meditative state exacerbated by the smell of pine car siding than I am from carbon monoxide.<div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFO2v4ZkrN65IvMPradKiUNGNHI9_WBr-B6EF60crPgUC9AT_8a5XIUrIjBuq2padPzTJxoemmjWrv5GWP5bPt4IknMsy30mklm3idqIz-UUIW-NshOwr5Kp0VV016w2OGFXFs3Q/s400/lightsonfort+012.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413085598787922818" /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">Hanging Christmas lights on my Shack (and the Japanese Maple in front of it) started a few years ago, when I realized that I can actually look out my kitchen picture window and see my Shack in all her holiday glory. My house is decorated too, but that is for the neighbors across the street...I can't see them, except for the colors reflected onto the thick quilt of snow tucking the grass in for the winter.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Respectfully submitted,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Canoelover</div></div></div></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-53316006552645041312009-12-07T19:03:00.003-06:002009-12-07T19:12:26.128-06:00Errata<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4Nqty8px9NF1nlAswv9WY4TkfN6kmcF2kGoKtoa2Y7SG3X5FWXxeHv7aFGTZn8O5ybKNcNwkzDAQwEN8vvYv7v0I2tCZYiSUHZdkc4P08fzjBqwku0E6eiMYtL4__G7SI2NUiQ/s1600-h/moretipi+005.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4Nqty8px9NF1nlAswv9WY4TkfN6kmcF2kGoKtoa2Y7SG3X5FWXxeHv7aFGTZn8O5ybKNcNwkzDAQwEN8vvYv7v0I2tCZYiSUHZdkc4P08fzjBqwku0E6eiMYtL4__G7SI2NUiQ/s320/moretipi+005.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412666524016505874" /></a>I spoke too soon...Spring Valley Lodges is <b>not </b>out of business.<div><br /></div><div>They changed ownership, and some nasty domain squatter grabbed their URL. Squatters. And if we kill them <i>we </i>go to jail. And they call this justice?</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, the tipi looks pretty with snow on it, all buttoned down.</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,*</div><div><br /></div><div>Canoelover<br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*If you're a domain squatter, omit the respectfully. You're a parasite on virtual society, making money on someone else's misfortune. Piss off, lampreys.</span></div><div><br /></div></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-23877249490963755532009-12-03T19:20:00.004-06:002009-12-03T19:47:41.080-06:00Putting Up The Tipi<div style="text-align: left;">So a few years ago Ken, then our Events Director, approached me about purchasing a tipi. He explained that it would be cool to use at events.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Okay," said I. "How exactly would we use it?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Well, it would be a good attraction..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0lhM4mAes7OezwK-3x1WKWYDLmeD1q6V3dRdg3QnaAeX9AeEWcsjteU4QxXI5byYnRGKO-2ME6gMJTSQbMrJ0avYlJlHiY7iRO4v7Amrk12WzkZJ338aNvQNTaFITK2Kvjy69Q/s400/tipi+034.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411186188383308850" /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yeah, it's a good attraction. Tipis are lovely pieces of architecture. I love tipis. I had, many years ago, a little 12' tipi that lived in my backyard as an office of sorts. I loved the tipi. I loved building fires in it. I loved sleeping in it. We humans like round things.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiOI3fZRg_n6Nt_xOCH41i5CXbgzob-nHRJEXx2_NKpSGBa0ovHjHuvREzywTXWfMajZO7TXJXCqKn7i4CeKgkf3ix2b4wGqW51DVSZpySGVY7pZ6riyYyMI5G6IuYv1M1n-S7Q/s400/tipi+038.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411185928279324050" /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After a few years thought about this, I think Ken just wanted a really cool tipi. Irrespective of the validity of that sentiment, I'm glad we bought it. We put it up at the <a href="http://www.everyonepaddles.com/">Door County Sea Kayak Symposium</a>. We have put it up at <a href="http://www.canoecopia.com/">Canoecopia</a>. But frankly, it has spent more time in a Rubbermaid bin than is proper.</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8E667O6Tf4eA-LVRnJFH5KrCyKGqkJEaOFdp9kruv4sUsrDh3C4P_1CjFdBGjLB6w3bVH9H8LfogndCr_xAmjpZBXABT4fOVZz4LVVEU-9veljwL7xYBiaqk7DuE91vKnrB34Q/s400/tipi+037.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411184965554211874" /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So we decided to put it up on the back lot. Now the door is on, the liner is in (my battery died), and it looks beautiful.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">For reference, an 18' tipi is a pretty big tipi. Remember the whole area of a circle thing? Given a radius of 9', we're talking about 250 square feet. Our first apartment wasn't that big, I don't think. It's a cozy, organic structure and I miss my little one.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sadly, Spring Valley Lodges appears to be out of business. I may have to go elsewhere for my tipi needs.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Respectfully submitted,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Canoelover</div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-74939835200530421252009-11-29T20:32:00.003-06:002009-11-29T20:47:29.895-06:00Alchemy<div><blockquote style="text-align: center;">"That's not a knife...<i>this </i>is a knife." - Crocodile Dundee</blockquote></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIohTlOMdph4xWyNQElXNP-FNrAhCApRstAQmhB8nL8YEG1zhf93qBiesUP1UkJO0I7rLvjftKLvMBA1RCaRvIGULBPbHyELdg3d0RuDQl9Ax_I45RzL1J8wdpvzNRCAVHhN6DQ/s1600/Snapshot_20091129_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIohTlOMdph4xWyNQElXNP-FNrAhCApRstAQmhB8nL8YEG1zhf93qBiesUP1UkJO0I7rLvjftKLvMBA1RCaRvIGULBPbHyELdg3d0RuDQl9Ax_I45RzL1J8wdpvzNRCAVHhN6DQ/s400/Snapshot_20091129_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409719141211310034" /></a><div><br /></div><div>Today was a Baja Mermaids reunion at the homestead...Stephanie had her friends from the great Baja Mermaids trip of October over for food, drink, and knitting. The house being awash in estrogen, I retired to the Man Cave, the garage. Don't get me wrong, I love these women -- they're amazing -- I just didn't want to rain on their parade.</div><div><br /></div><div>I made something for Lissa (Chief Mermaid) to hold her collection of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operculum_(gastropod)">opercula</a>, a talisman particularly meaningful to her. Between heats for her little bowl, I torch cut a piece of spring steel, liberated from a dumpster behind a truck stop years ago. I made a little knife blank, and started the heating, pounding, grinding and filing process. I was astounded at the rapidity with which this one came together. Something clicked and the blade was rough-shaped and filed down within an hour.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had tempered the blade so it was ready for sharpening. I optimistically took a few passes over the edge with a ceramic sharpener. Ten strokes later, it shaved my forearm as neatly as a Bic razor.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's a certain magic to taking something from a dumpster and making it into something useful. Scientists from the Dark Ages would call it alchemy, the transformation of one element to another. It's all spring steel; now it's just useful, or at least it will be once it has a handle on it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now to find a home for it. I need another knife like I need another...another...er, sharp cutting implement.*</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div> Canoelover</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*I was going to say canoe, but I want to keep my options open, y'know.</span></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-17202323813509215142009-11-27T12:40:00.001-06:002009-11-27T12:40:40.465-06:00The Wisdom of Youth<div style="text-align: left;">It's the day after the day of giving thanks, and I slept in, went to the gym with my daughter and burned a few hundred calories, thereby reducing my deficit but not eliminating it. But it was good, since the bikes have TV so I got to watch <a href="http://www.mtv.com/shows/bully_beatdown/season_2/series.jhtml">Bully Beatdown</a> on MTV2. Since I don't have TV at home, it's a guilty pleasure.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But it's cold and bright and sunny, and we're going to cut a tree today. I highly recommend <a href="http://www.cedarcreektreefarm.com/">Cedar Creek Farm</a>, an organic (!) tree farm. No herbicides, and Bruce and Lisa are sweet people.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Once that's done, I am going to migrate to the garage for some metal work.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1hzEuH2bKFYyX-dw6n_YNpcC7Z9B7E-Tef_4d7MOiUKPuevOw8kfasE6CZkDZB9NwsseHVPMAsNdCmrNawOlziQPLueDSPWndaGEk3AdHPeaGLIxNWTr87oi3MUpPIa-Z7UeJWA/s400/bsmithing+014.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397814328890045394" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>A few weeks ago I had visitors. Misa and John-Pio, offspring of my friend / <i>brotha from anotha motha</i> Brad. The kids are both a very nice combination of smart and sweet-natured, and Misa nailed it from the second she saw a glowing red chunk of A36 steel heated up to 1500 degrees F.<br /><div><br /></div><div>"It looks like a Lava Glo-Stick."</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-hTbCEHkyclpYtkoUuh3GGaCof9HFOfaW4c0fqzMB1_-eRP_hhgZvHn7qPs8lyMAtHAkPLtFgtWOBW9QWvgOvA4YULXNA8AktKTmKzKEkArMBhQjEpT4aBp41uTDXN52kaeBFtg/s400/bsmithing+018.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397818379995389170" /></div><div><br /></div><div>And so it does, Misa.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today I think I'll make some more lava glow sticks. I have an idea I want to try -- braiding six strands of 1/4" round stock. If it works I'll be a genius. If it doesn't work, I'll have a few pounds of scrap.</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div> Canoelover</div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-59247023589651707542009-11-19T18:01:00.002-06:002009-11-19T18:08:49.429-06:00Bingo has left the building...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_vmGANka95so-iccnTmoWOm-LJvzLiDfdzaNJDjfnHcFVEBm4wkMK1Z5Xe7PNJvnSiJABE-cweBQ9UbrYso-6Ke6_dRC3joB_CnV8ANuaLe8gx_mXdMJ35eqRs9HwJucRUU21VQ/s1600-h/PA080002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_vmGANka95so-iccnTmoWOm-LJvzLiDfdzaNJDjfnHcFVEBm4wkMK1Z5Xe7PNJvnSiJABE-cweBQ9UbrYso-6Ke6_dRC3joB_CnV8ANuaLe8gx_mXdMJ35eqRs9HwJucRUU21VQ/s400/PA080002.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400436991827561650" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bingo and Gussie, as pups.</span></i></div><div><br />After two weeks of rat hospice, Bingo, a.k.a. Rat 3.0, has passed on to the Great Exercise Wheel in the Sky. Ian hand-fed him for two weeks, and I'm sure that had something to do with Bingo refusing to give in...he just kept on living. We were all stunned.</div><div><br /></div><div>We dug a very nice grave in the backyard, right next to a Silver Maple Tree. We didn't so much dig as chop through roots the size of my forearm. Anyway, Bingo was laid to rest wrapped in a Rutabaga t-shirt with a nice bricked up tomb to keep the critters away.</div><div><br /></div><div>We all wish Bingo unlimited sunflower seeds, apple pieces, and chocolate chips.</div><div><br /><div>Rest in peace, my little friend.</div><div><br /></div><div>Canoelover</div></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-31445713506263548032009-11-18T19:29:00.005-06:002009-11-18T19:38:40.597-06:00Whitney comes home Sunday<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt6E9bYJTovKFQY1zFoQImBeiMD7IaK5EQDdyJgNuf7XNmgEj_Uq2u6uvfDGJwl1gKTmd26YP-am1asKm0vWEH6kFZE-COreC_AqDvj7sBZfLAyXAxcxaHtgW1tGYPMILsw8pyQw/s400/loonsecho-4+030.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405621998712356802" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I am a fortunate man.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xIur4wUA-D2IKfKYKhM1CVSbtLewf5yrsax6_mu6WE3fBQGo7mG7ik754HZLFPOrloCjo8xzGxkXzL5Nc40fRusYaN7pMUyPOpaVJhoaloKjubf6H2DQ5fLnVhZoYsrFhtCT4A/s400/loonsecho-4+008.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405622902770650546" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Just sayin'.</div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div>Canoelover</div></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-35185198881772536722009-11-15T20:43:00.009-06:002009-11-15T21:29:14.547-06:00My friend, Cordelia<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGOFkbhIC05ODTEeLU3Er6WS4OWMT8mj6wnk6KKTSk70nH3iP9IkFK7z6Hxf9zSTq5ApQvekCKNPBtClkZaU5GgQM8mg-9ZHHFDxEg8Ji_IBSxHmHjcyThP4KDEgtGCovqas9Sw/s400/cordelia1.gif" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404528824442641986" /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">"Cat" by Cordelia</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sitting through a <i>challenging </i>sermon can be excruciating. Note I prefer to use the word challenging rather than boring. It's just that sometimes you aren't in the mood to hear someone talk about what someone else wrote about some other person's experiences. For me, the good part about worship is hearing other people talk about how a specific topic affected their lives. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><i>Bad Example</i></b>: "Here's what some guy who has been dead for 300 years said about forgiveness." Blah blah blah, etc.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b>Good Example</b></i>: "I really struggled with forgiving my friend who betrayed my trust, but here's how I did it, and here are some things that might help you."</div><div><br /></div><div>That doesn't always happen. The good news is that I had my church bag, which contains a set of the scriptures (natch), but also has a note pad, pencils, and a few Dr. Seuss books. You see, if I'm bored, imagine how the three year-old sharing my pew feels about it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately, I was sharing a pew with Cordelia and family. Cordelia is one of my favorite people, despite our age differences. She was in the nursery when I was in the nursery as a teacher, and we both like to read and draw. So as the talk progressed, we caught each other's eye. I was already drawing, so she sneaked around her mom and plopped down next to me.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Her brother suggested I draw a cow. Cordelia nodded. So I produced this Cow/Dachshund cross with a three-teated mutant udder all jacked up on espresso.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVGVbRb1x-rIiW-p9OkX5YQi4WjoQORV9wp2TrJNIjY-6KVz9aSRVXFm8REbuUNEXl3d7-Dfio_ZBb-JL-TSEWS9ioExr486WoO9vdC8NFDGANS8Tc8u8hyphenhyphenSMMueqW0bFqTHveQ/s400/darrenscow.gif" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 284px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404529509665374626" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Dachshundmilchkine mit Espresso"</i> by Canoelover</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Cordelia was impressed, which is why I love little kids. They're easily impressed. Her brother, of course, noticed that the three-teater wasn't going to fly, but I told him that one was hiding behind one of the others. He didn't believe me, but I was the better entertainment option.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Cordelia mimed for me to give her the notepad (she is a quiet, respectful and reverent child). She worked on the creature below for quite some time, wanting to get the hair just right. Which is ironic. Since it's supposed to be me. And a cow.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Inside she wrote a cryptic message. Her brother translated it for me. "It says 'I love you.'" Cordelia looked at me and smiled.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Okay, so the neck is too long and she gave me a toupée worthy of Robert Goulet. But in my Spongebob Squarepants body Cordelia left me a sweet message.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Ld4VNc2TuwQ_XszyqB_7ek1SGe64znd9-H1AtaixriETCxucZkV4Rai53Mh_imTOEVRzvfHSUYcaNI_M6TW49yGJcCLiB-nBhtqP4imEOBc__IlBRoBtmDmjsRIkfbwt6ozTfA/s400/cordelia2.gif" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404528009680935666" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"I lof u" by Cordelia.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I lof Cordelia too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Respectfully submitted,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> Canoelover</div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-16711262625995718462009-11-13T09:04:00.005-06:002009-11-13T09:32:45.803-06:00Happy Friday the Thirteenth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJlAN78uN8cUt9LBg1RP4YE-Jhc6wcZ333x6a7VGsWehoDiKP66Q4RBsUpZ4DI3em9CuFRLTcassPqtac6UEpTPffCCr8DeDYO9nniapGdyF_2-pdzmjQX4cyl5tmcQ3Gqro3Lg/s1600-h/Untitled-1.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 329px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJlAN78uN8cUt9LBg1RP4YE-Jhc6wcZ333x6a7VGsWehoDiKP66Q4RBsUpZ4DI3em9CuFRLTcassPqtac6UEpTPffCCr8DeDYO9nniapGdyF_2-pdzmjQX4cyl5tmcQ3Gqro3Lg/s400/Untitled-1.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403609584066533186" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Canoelover, April 13, 1963. Note the drool.</span></i></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Once every 212.35 days, we have a Friday the Thirteenth.<br /><br />This means I have lived through and survived approximately 75 or so Friday the Thirteenths.<br /><br />The most important one, however, was the first one. I was born on April 13, 1962. Problem is I was supposed to be born sometime in June. As a result of arriving on stage before my cue, I weighed a whopping three pounds, six ounces. This was well over 40 years ago, when anything under five was considered a fairly hopeless cause.<br /><br />The odds the doctor gave my parents were as follows:<br /><blockquote>1) He has about a 25% chance of living 24 hours.</blockquote><blockquote>2) If he lives 24 hours, he has about a 50% chance of living a week.</blockquote><blockquote>3) If he lives a week, he'll probably keep living.</blockquote><blockquote>4) He'll have lung problems his whole life and might be blind.</blockquote><div><br /></div>I beat the odds. Never had a lung problem, and had 20/10 vision until my middle-aged eyes started their obstinate, quiet march toward reader glasses. I now weigh over 200 pounds (probably could stand to lose ten).</div><div><br /></div><div>I've had my share of challenges in the past 47 years, 7 months. Apparently none of them have registered as anything but pale in comparison to the first one...just surviving a week. If I can survive that one, chances are I can survive this one too.<br /><br />As Hans Solo said to C-3PO in the first Star Wars, "Never tell me the odds."<br /><br />Respectfully submitted,<br /><br />Canoelover<br /><br /></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-38938206125311193982009-11-11T21:36:00.007-06:002009-11-11T21:46:17.172-06:00Missing<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><i>Missing from canoelover's possession:</i></span></div><div><br /></div>One (1) iPod. No Red Hot Chili Peppers.<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGATjV0TyXNrgbVnYy0V1lBQyHu7Qyy2-RdS8s_xongGZ3fsU9HZey5FaKtt6oOay514I2d8D6CvuP6aR3nJu6VB0bGf1jVj8eN0oXsDxzS9jSeoNVltaI3FAfNOzvkOEHbaU_vQ/s1600-h/ipod.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 245px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGATjV0TyXNrgbVnYy0V1lBQyHu7Qyy2-RdS8s_xongGZ3fsU9HZey5FaKtt6oOay514I2d8D6CvuP6aR3nJu6VB0bGf1jVj8eN0oXsDxzS9jSeoNVltaI3FAfNOzvkOEHbaU_vQ/s400/ipod.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403056809557277170" /></a><br /><div>One (1) Olympus digital camera. More scratched up than this one.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KeXwUttiB9J_eKFSpizpZVLDDXSl6SCkNx9yXB_c0HCCBcNEaRmixUrlie3llWv_7aalpLlz1bVWCxhXsJBrCl9qE4b3CwrzSRlUX5n-NMtBBheLHs90Ib5lj36w0mTtXcAyRQ/s1600-h/olympus_tough_1030sw.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KeXwUttiB9J_eKFSpizpZVLDDXSl6SCkNx9yXB_c0HCCBcNEaRmixUrlie3llWv_7aalpLlz1bVWCxhXsJBrCl9qE4b3CwrzSRlUX5n-NMtBBheLHs90Ib5lj36w0mTtXcAyRQ/s400/olympus_tough_1030sw.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403056676063575586" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div>One (1) brain. Responds to...well...not sure about what it responds to.</div><div><br /></div><br /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjjye75Me1FWTKFJRVAA1WzugOCceeX7zJZkGnfhXbn9wbgFkG_arjHfIpM_vvrDT7pL2liN4kkIw1UbgJPru5HpAW2oLloj61ibO6o0r3Av0Rx4NP-cTqsNu1S89OpJPOL1r2Q/s400/anton_head.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 342px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403056552528962882" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">These items are not <i>lost</i>, per se. I just don't know where they are.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Respectfully submitted,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Canoelover, <i>sans cerveau</i></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-89529527524804013112009-11-10T22:09:00.005-06:002009-11-10T22:46:05.932-06:00Rails to Trails<div style="text-align: left;">Wife 1.1 celebrated her 45th birthday last Saturday. I gotta say she looks pretty dang good for 35. As a gift to her, Wisconsin gave her a 67 degree day, sunny with a few puffy clouds just for accent.</div><div><br /></div><div>May I offer you a reminder, gentle reader, than just a <a href="http://canoelover.blogspot.com/2009/10/tenth-annual-order-of-wisconsin-river.html">few weeks ago</a>, we froze our collective heinies off. Snow and wind. Hoarfrost on every conceivable surface.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Weather vagaries such as this are what make Wisconsin, for me anyway, a special place. Just as you can know no bitter without tasting the sweet, one cannot really appreciate a perfect day without experience a fair number of imperfect ones. Enough of the sermon already.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wife 1.1 wanted to be outside on her birthday. This is because:</div><div><ol><li>She's SuperWife 1.1, outdoor goddess and companion.</li><li>Normally her birthday is celebrated watching it rain, the outside temperature hovering around 34 to 35 degrees, with the full knowledge that if it were just a few degrees colder, we've have a really good snow pack to get things going. Instead, it all goes down the storm drain.</li></ol></div><div>But this year...this year the weather was perfect. If I were a pretentious English major who believed the world revolved around Robert Browning, I'd write about the gentle zephyrs that caressed the trees and carried the song of the lark through the wooded glade, where it mingled with the melodious song of the brooklet. Thankfully for both of us, I'm not.</div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgighoA5aj_I05E1mLdLEnsR8GIqXcK9ExbfbP4Q9i_6LVQkuk_KqyMqY8PORU8bMRPFFsNHSrj4NzYs_1v7QoOLVbapAigHYWPPquS01_rkawxthGHg2DDy3SMUEZXlJHhrhpLeA/s400/Fall_Misc+021.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402695996673165314" /><div><br /></div><div>We decided to try a new Rails to Trails bike path, the Glacial Drumlin Trail. I will not explain what a drumlin is, that's what Wikipedia is for. But it is a lovely trail starting just east of Madison and going almost all the way to Milwaukee. For no discernible reason we usually head south or west, but Wife 1.1 wanted something new. The Glacial Drumlin it was.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's really nice. More open and sunny than some of the other paths we frequent, it was the perfect path for one of the last days of the year where biking could happen in shorts and a light wool jersey. Soon the studded tires come out. I hate that part.</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy Birthday, Wife 1.1. May we have another 45 together. Actuarially the odds are against that, but stranger things have and will continue to happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div>Canoelover </div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-22780106229976869872009-11-09T07:47:00.005-06:002009-11-09T08:30:03.039-06:00Bungling along...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxLaXqN88T_JjV9tL6oAV-vDtzuAJb4fJBr_iHgRVyYIsJYqZ1oTH9N9ha0CpWmJjhyphenhyphen3UGZXRE19vrwEL6h77ByUEDz_vq0bNudYoZdTkFW4p249GWzryFap_Z1IbZ86HcCYNoQ/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 113px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxLaXqN88T_JjV9tL6oAV-vDtzuAJb4fJBr_iHgRVyYIsJYqZ1oTH9N9ha0CpWmJjhyphenhyphen3UGZXRE19vrwEL6h77ByUEDz_vq0bNudYoZdTkFW4p249GWzryFap_Z1IbZ86HcCYNoQ/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402101377947705074" /></a><blockquote style="text-align: center;">"<i>Ignorance and bungling with love are better<br />than wisdom and skill without.</i>" -Thoreau</blockquote><blockquote style="text-align: left;"></blockquote><div><br /></div>Thoreau has always intrigued me, and at the same time I often feel H.D. is a tremendous buzzkill. He always finds the beauty in nature and the foolishness in humanity.<div><br /></div><div>I think this rather idealistic. I have found both beauty in nature and foolishness in humanity, but at the same time, I have found nature to be somewhat harsh and unforgiving at times, and I have found the best of all possible in human beings.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the other hand (can you sense ambiguity here?), I am often comforted by nature and disappointed by humanity.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am wrestling with a problem. I am an avowed and chronic bungler. I am a mistake waiting to happen. I do dumb things and find myself thinking, "What were you thinking?" The answer usually is that I was thinking about doing what's best, but with a limited set of data.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I am an astute bungler, and I dabble in ignorance on the side.</div><div><br /></div><div>My Saving Grace is that I love. Sometimes like Othello, who loved not wisely but too well. But most of the time, I try to do the best I can with what tools were given me and the few I picked up on the way to the game.</div><div><br /></div><div>I struggle. I fail. I pick myself up again, fail, and pick myself up again. I am getting very strong from picking myself up. I am also learning how better to fall. I am a Black Belt in psychological Aikido.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is a tough time of year for me. I have a pretty severe case of <a href="https://health.google.com/health/ref/Seasonal+affective+disorder">Seasonal Affective Disorder</a>, which has a stupid acronym. I use lots of giant lights and do all that stuff what is supposed to help, but I really need is to live in Patagonia half the year and in Alaska the other half. That's not my style, nor is it in my budget. I am firmly rooted in 43°4′N 89°24′W.</div><div><br /></div><div>I usually don't write much when my energy is low or when the darkness kicks my butt, because I don't think anyone needs to read about how difficult life is with seasonal depression. But I also don't want my words to be misrepresenting the Canoelover Life. It ain't all dragonflies and paddling gear.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are times like this when I sit and ponder the wondrous life I have; fantastic Wife 1.1, great Kids 1.0 and 2.0, Dog 2.0, etc. I have House 2.0, and have now lived in this home longer than any place I have ever lived. My home is my taproot, and we share it a lot with others. Friends enrich my life beyond my wildest expectations.</div><div><br /></div><div>So welcome, friends, to the Canoelover of November. Five more weeks to Solstice and then, once the corner is turned, on we go to light and love. I'm looking forward to it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div>Canoelover</div></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-41893691728885790512009-11-02T08:46:00.003-06:002009-11-02T08:57:38.969-06:00The Sunshine of the Night<div style="text-align: left;">There are few things that are more aggravating than writing a detailed blog post about the Coleman lantern and having it get sucked into the black hole that is cyberspace. It was a pretty good post. Trust me, it was excruciatingly detailed and had a lot of history about the evolution of the Coleman lantern.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The good news is that now I have done my first edit, and it'll be a lot shorter and probably more interesting. Buh-bye, unnecessary details.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The facts of the matter are these:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><ol><li>We own three Coleman lanterns that we know of: a 5155 (propane), a 288 (white gas), and a 220F (see #4) .</li><li>There may be a fourth. We're not sure.</li><li>Some of them are newer and without personality, which means they start quickly, don't flare up and make sooty black smoke, and are utterly boring. But good.</li><li>One of them is a 1969 220F, a common enough lantern to be noncollectable unless they are in the original box with the original documentation. Then the Japanese buy them for $250.00. The Japanese are weird about vintage gear.</li></ol></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiw6ndDTtGkUBhxPzyku8k2Yv3B2Wlr1E4iCm_YjZ5wowS8lrWmkwQsIkuMjLfaBfgPsu62NN5kncQ0SKV4E-0PixenI8T5SSKO-IhrqCQ-JGupgRRqHReObzrwtSus1CSyqw07A/s400/220f_228F.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 368px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399516583053750274" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div>Which brings me to the meat of the former post...what to do about the 220F. It is temperamental, flaring up when you start it unless you futz with it, like a second violin who likes to be the last person playing the tuning A during warm-ups.* <div><br /></div><div>Once the 220F is fired up and settles down, it works okay. A little bit dimmer than its newer cousin, our 288, but there's nothing inherently <i>wrong </i>with it. It just isn't quite <i>right</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOmt6nPNGynDSqAyLEucjGOQ_FTN76yYfY3MHO2Hm6zDKqaHQ1EGKYtgXVNu-k-wQtKdnrjgCrUVnMjYu1UtlFVZkTMjQqRrxvdeU89TBn2zlP7ptgdf9BeFBBlga7GFqi1_YVog/s400/coleman_lanterns+003.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399504734515445010" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-size:small;">The 220F in question</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div>A few blocks from the shop is an old-school Coleman camper dealer with all the parts necessary to rebuild the 220F. It might cost me ten bucks to buy a new generator and get her all overhauled and rebuilt. Which would be fun for me because I like <a href="http://canoelover.blogspot.com/2009/03/svea-123.html" target="_blank">futzing with old gear</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the same time, it's probably a waste of ten bucks because it's still running fine, just a little rough. If it were a V8 it would be missing on one cylinder occasionally when down-shifting. You might get to it, you might not.</div><div><br /></div><div>While contemplating this small dilemma, I got all profound and stuff. It happens to me at the weirdest times, like while polishing the glass of the 220F when a flare-up blackened the top of it with nasty greasy soot.</div><div><br /></div><div>My realization is that I am a lot like this 220F. I am not temperamental and I don't flare up, but I am sure I am not running at 100%, physically <i>or </i>spiritually.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxu5xpsdzwrs3tT3UF8sT8iQmBBCenSOQ9qYniT7FyRohw7L3mS9WZ8mUi1dq6_rLBLlG8AGaTJEOK4qGqaTUKI07EUJsbbv6G0sU5p4qJNDRCBGBzMeisi2NlsCcxDPwCJ-P5XA/s400/coleman_lanterns+011.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399504138298769410" /></div><div style="text-align: left;">For years, maybe a century, the Coleman by-line has been <i>The Sunshine of the Night</i>. The average user won't see it since they put it on the bottom of the lanterns, and I bet 99.44% of the users never turn the lantern over other than to check the model number should you need a replacement part. But there it is, along with the old Coleman logo. To quote Bruce Hornsby, "<i>That's just the way it is...some thing should never change</i>."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So while I am not exactly running a peak efficiency, I still put out a decent amount of light. I might have a small hole in one of my mantles, but otherwise I am quite sound. I feel accepted by the Larger Light, doing my small part to bring some Sunshine to the night that is the world today. We need more lights, and if they sputter and smoke a little bit, that's just the way it is.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At the same time, for ten bucks I can fix this old lantern, 40 years old and still kicking. In some ways I am sorry it is not a 1962 model like me, but then the metaphor would be too much, even for a guy who never met a <i>phor </i>he didn't like.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So what would it take to make my light a little brighter? Should I invest the time and resources to gain that extra few candlepower that might illuminate a dark corner in someone's life, or do I content myself with <i>pretty bright</i>?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have never been one for stasis. I like moving forward. I like growing and refining myself, not necessarily because Larger Light won't accept me as I am, but because it's what makes life interesting and enjoyable and challenging. It's the same reason my friend <a href="http://highinfatuation.com/" target="_blank">Steph</a> jumps off cliffs wearing a wing suit. She is interested in pushing herself to accomplish new things, even though she could easily rest on her pile of Base Gear and have accomplished more than most of us will in a lifetime.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I am in the continual process of rebuilding myself. So it stands to reason might want to stop in at Jerry's Camping and grab a rebuild kit for the 220F. I think it would be good for both of us. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Some things should never change...that's just the way it is...but don't you believe it.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Respectfully submitted,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Canoelover</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">*It doesn't matter, second violin. We won't hear you anyway.</span></i></div></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-820312084410270112009-10-31T07:38:00.003-06:002009-10-31T07:49:11.410-06:00Happy Samhain!It is a wonderful thing to wake up next to your best friend, even if her hair looks like Medusa. Half a can of hairspray can make big hair very scary, especially if you go to bed late. When Wife 1.1 lay down on the bed, her hair crinkled. It sounded like cellophane, which made us laugh, since there are people who actually do this on purpose.<div><br /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1pnZcfDOTuMTyYK4GDXvsIVH4X_ayxpnWlvLD7G0D5nVo7I9ABzZA3pft2rmQ36lMcKWq3_-TBXmunZSLKtm4ZcYzJEiIlmqN5-Xm8YnBvhkhjq2WWQg3us-6fqK4qfrdYA7e7Q/s400/superwoman+004.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398758642759134674" /><div><br /></div><div>But last night...I was married to Supergirl. Actually, Wife 1.1 prefers Superwoman, as Supergirl, to quote Wife 1.1, "implies a certain lack of experience." I did not ask.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am not really a Halloween guy. I also think people who spell Halloween <i>Hallowe'en</i> are halloweenies. </div><div><br /></div><div>Digging my Celtic roots,</div><div><br /></div><div> Canoelover</div><div><br /></div></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-48523133002193994542009-10-27T20:26:00.006-06:002009-10-27T21:37:28.773-06:00Araneus diadematus a.k.a. "Agatha"<div style="text-align: left;">It was an eagle-eyed Canoelover Jr. who first spotted her. She had built a lovely web between our downspout and a juniper a full six feet away. The strands of silk that connected the downspout to the juniper were thick and cable-like, and the web was lovely, symmetrical and a work of art, despite the repairs needed after an evening of collecting moths.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Autumn I often put my little camper trailer in our driveway, pop it up, plug it in, and get busy writing orders I wouldn't be able to write in the office. The Shack is awesome but sometimes I want to be on my portable screen porch and have power too. So I set up the trailer and in twenty minutes I'm working away via remote link to the office.</div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVM0t7tkMGWBzFc7EkzSvI_23D7_bWFFiCuYmuI9VZq-BPuuF6qdeo3foeFvR94adAHyjRNWInHa6R-deS44uMisbzSJ8utsJAUn5hP4RMGAyzdqKyZuKdPSy5gNQmwynjaC-7ww/s400/araneus+marmoreus+012.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 294px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397473950043144770" /><div><br /></div><div>I put the dog blanket on the smaller of the two beds and Gracie will spend some time sleeping while I work, but one can never have too many pets. Agatha was hiding under a leaf, maybe four feet from where I was sitting. In my peripheral vision I could see her, front legs resting lightly on a couple of key threads that would allow her to pick up the smallest vibration. Once in a while out of the corner of my eye I'd see a little jump, and Agatha would be on that juicy little fly like a pro wrestler dropping off a corner post onto another pro wrestler. Except with Agatha, it was real.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Agatha is (they winter over so she's probably still alive) an <i>Araneus diadematus</i>, a lovely name for a lovely arachnid. Commonly named a Cross Spider (easy to see why), I prefer my own name for her: Bejeweled Orbweaver. Agatha looks like she's covered in diadems, and to be honest these pictures don't do her justice. Her coloring was much more vibrant but the light was flat.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxjM3t4RU6mDhVJQ1Q_52llHVfBtLsDHMEhw470cDKAd7W3GbLjhfYcelgQg3UNz1K9WanlAuzF8x6Nd8UCLQE351xy33Wx3rI8wBktcAzUIXJfBHNmEJ61qaDePisABur5WMfQ/s1600-h/araneus+marmoreus+021.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxjM3t4RU6mDhVJQ1Q_52llHVfBtLsDHMEhw470cDKAd7W3GbLjhfYcelgQg3UNz1K9WanlAuzF8x6Nd8UCLQE351xy33Wx3rI8wBktcAzUIXJfBHNmEJ61qaDePisABur5WMfQ/s400/araneus+marmoreus+021.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397472242695313746" /></a><br /></div><div>I think they're beautiful. I am supported by David Hume, who stated that "beauty in things exists merely in the mind which contemplates them." Or to quote Benjamin Franklin (a.k.a. Poor Richard), "Beauty, like supreme dominion, is but supported by opinion."</div><div><br /></div><div>You don't have to think Arachnids are beautiful, but if you can suspend whatever cultural biases that were inflicted upon your psyche at an early age, I promise you're going to enjoy a great many more beautiful things.</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div> Canoelover</div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-71700555079398593362009-10-26T19:39:00.003-06:002009-10-26T19:42:53.993-06:00A Kindred Spirit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hUVqQ5OcErDQ14QeZ5cnZ5-ik_ocbvPPDziAYRTY_cq7vFamQk1UW_uA8M7311XmiZBkgSwrOZYHSGX740-i-O2eh7CJmhrFlv7h_M3IH5_nbbeGuhgBIlaL57hrNeW-119bRg/s1600-h/stuff+001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hUVqQ5OcErDQ14QeZ5cnZ5-ik_ocbvPPDziAYRTY_cq7vFamQk1UW_uA8M7311XmiZBkgSwrOZYHSGX740-i-O2eh7CJmhrFlv7h_M3IH5_nbbeGuhgBIlaL57hrNeW-119bRg/s400/stuff+001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397089200727517234" /></a><br />I don't know who this is. But I like him/her already.<div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div> Canoelover</div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-80382786248672029802009-10-24T15:54:00.007-06:002009-10-24T16:39:33.023-06:00The Shack<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_Ezv0e03DbCffp_WhGyXZgmJ3DpkbspijPd8o_wuqZBIg5eGMvbUWh6FH0jwkxsxCgOrYlsMJylu0nt6cBj4WHm0JrpEQhB533bNURqjiwTikLCUlNS_743YaQytqXDDdjFKfA/s400/theshackinfall+003.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396288727399628162" /><div style="text-align: left;">This is my office.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>It's not the office I work in the most, but I am working in it right now. Okay, not <i>right </i>now, but I am writing, and this is, without a doubt, my favorite place to move ideas from brain waves to</div><div> words.</div><div><br /></div><div>The wood stove is creaking, its first fire of the year burning out the cobwebs and the little bit of creosote that has accumulated in the stovepipe. I threw some chunks of hickory into it, a mistake because hickory burns so hot that I usually only use it in the winter. It's only in the 40s outside and the door is open so I don't roast.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I did fall cleaning today, washing the windows (three times on the outside, twice on the inside) until they are almost invisible. The screens have been vacuumed and safely stowed behind the dry sink, and there's more light in here than there has been in months. The sun is lower and clears the eaves. The pine carsiding glows like burnished gold.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I sucked up a few hundred fly husks, sucked dry by the house spiders who often live in the windows during the summer. I let 'em stay, they eat the stray mosquitoes that blunder in and then go to the light. I guess going to the light is a bad idea for skeeters too.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>My little oak table is now clean and ready for the laptop, a connection provided by Verizon's wireless. Amazing that I can sit here in the gas light, heated by wood, the ticking of my alarm clock, and the only modern noise is the fan on my laptop.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I just adjusted the damper on the stovepipe to allow a single puff of smoke into the room. The pine was never varnished, so when it gets some heat from the stove it starts to smell a little like a sawmill in here, and the only thing to do is to add a puff of hickory smoke. The Shack is a censor, releasing perfume to the faithful Shack Dwellers. In this case, me.</div><div><br /></div><hr width="350" height="1"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">This is my first time using The Shack since last winter. The summer occupants are usually road reps who need a place to crash as they pass through. A lot of friends have been out here these past six or seven months, but not me. Now, as the seasons change, it becomes mine again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Outside you'd find half a dozen large elm logs, felled by the power company because a) they were dead and b) they were leaning the wrong way, i.e., toward the power lines. Through an act of intervention, the arborists were more than happy to leave everything exactly where it fell. This means firing up the chainsaw, a lovely beast given to me by my brother-in-law when he no longer needed it. It also means I can cut it to 15" lengths, perfect for my little stove.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgbsOcswy4e24HW12CkOhdQyWJwmlTn-L_5_wwi9x7PdjElVJ2wDkfc2tqGIDwgPxRTjBK-alSY8iHU2B0WAbY3iKKeKk9xR75mWQpOTZnWYlh2xA5Wrk58ugBu0XxyyivtLD4Q/s400/theshackinfall+018.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396297687041637586" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The alarm clock is ticking 120 bpm. One loud click, one soft click, as the escape mechanism ticks, then tocks. I like the sound, it reminds me of laying on a pew in church, my grandfather's arm around me, my head laying on his arm, my ear against his watch, trying to hear the soft tick. Then quartz watches came out and ruined it for everyone.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't even own a watch, I own a wrist computer. Barometer. Compass. Altimeter. Stopwatch. It doesn't tick. It doesn't tock. It makes no sound at all, unless I tell it to beep sometimes. On the hour, when the barometric pressure drops too fast, etc.</div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDySed2kFS5-v4jjhDil9GE5RiK6QAImOlhkTKfrA3kZgmmRClzbMIhrVkbQFm8OdIKlVbBo5_6nPb2LtDSR1IX2ZgA8W7dkqTzGqspgGt9GOw-VXKrpIJokAgpXYKqAs69F_DgA/s400/theshackinfall+011.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396294215481958626" /><div><br /></div><div>The temperature at the ridgepole is 103 degrees. This is good, as one of the cedar shingles was damaged by a limb a few years ago, and a small leak has developed. Once I get the area dried out (probably tonight), I can climb up and re-shingle that area. Working with cedar beats working with asphalt shingles any day ending in <i>y</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have to turn the gas light up another notch. It's getting darker.</div><div><br /></div><div>Better get back to my real work.</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div align="left"> Canoelover</div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-46358454771291075682009-10-20T12:29:00.005-06:002009-10-20T17:02:42.875-06:00How Cute is Your Baby?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk9H1FgsBR8-ZckB-SdQj8ZcLLPuArrnqsuk1D18aAG_pC2k2CYJtpfybTMq8jH9ziXmpw2RwXqFvXUs792OjfYytsZ85M4VpkwTEnety_buywytOTSXUd_yEJmaeplbyGimbUdQ/s1600-h/stuff+009.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk9H1FgsBR8-ZckB-SdQj8ZcLLPuArrnqsuk1D18aAG_pC2k2CYJtpfybTMq8jH9ziXmpw2RwXqFvXUs792OjfYytsZ85M4VpkwTEnety_buywytOTSXUd_yEJmaeplbyGimbUdQ/s400/stuff+009.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394743742407355042" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">The Row.</span></i></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Added a few more boats to Canoelover's Row in the warehouse this morning. Time to keep the winter boats around and shuffle everything else off to hibernate.</div><div><br /></div><div>So yes, I own a fair number (okay, obscene number) of canoes and kayaks. Then again, a plumber has a dozen pipe wrenches, a conductor more than one baton. My guess is that most elite runners have more than one pair of shoes and running shorts, more than one pair of socks. It's my business, it's my life.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Methinks my Canoelover doth protest too much.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, well, I'm just sayin'.</div><div><br /></div><div>Obviously, the boats that live in my row are excellent boats. Not a stinker in the bunch of them. Just ask me, I'll tell you. The problem is that I may be somewhat biased. After all, I chose them.</div><div><br /></div><div>I really don't have much ego invested in having "good boats." I just like what I like, but after a few decades paddling I think I'm pretty good at evaluating which hulls are well-designed (most of them, honestly) and which ones were cranked out by someone who knew that canoes and kayaks need two pointy ends.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which brings me to the topic of on-line reviews.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgciZy3O548aaEZhrCsMBXrwcWHRZVBuGgTeQ6AkmDS9rR_lY1YnG3aftRujmTC5GMMFWgxNpRPVJnhOzgAp5lVUL2vUMwYoYPPhEyCd4I97KI4X55cE1n6br2gw8brlC9nUujpmg/s1600-h/ad_chevy_chevette_red_black_1984+(2).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgciZy3O548aaEZhrCsMBXrwcWHRZVBuGgTeQ6AkmDS9rR_lY1YnG3aftRujmTC5GMMFWgxNpRPVJnhOzgAp5lVUL2vUMwYoYPPhEyCd4I97KI4X55cE1n6br2gw8brlC9nUujpmg/s400/ad_chevy_chevette_red_black_1984+(2).jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394746559253548642" /></a><br /></div><div>Let me just say I hate them. Not because the people who review the boats are not qualified to do so...some of them are, most are not because they lack a frame of reference. I'd venture a guess that I've paddled between 200 and 300 different hulls in my lifetime. A person who has only driven a 1984 Chevrolet Chevette is hardly qualified to talk about how well their car compares to other cars. For the record, we had a red 1984 Chevette. We called it the Shove It. Worst car I've ever owned, ever ever ever. The good news: it cost $5K new. Without A/C.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Canoelover's Internet Maxim Number 4 </i>states that if you provide a forum for people to provide feedback, they will, and <i>CI</i><i>M #4a</i> states that the more frequent the feedback, the less the person leaving the feedback actually knows about anything, period.</div><div><br /></div><div>Internet bulletin boards tend to attract people who want to be important, or worse, want to be helpful. I recently sold a boat of a friend to a friend, acting as intermediary as Friend A was out of the country for a year and Friend B wanted a boat for her granddaughter. Friend B was stoked to get a sweet little solo canoe for her grandkids (they all paddle).</div><div><br /></div><div>She made the tactical error of telling everyone on a canoe bulletin board that she had purchased this boat for her granddaughter. Immediately a fellow board member (let's call him Troll A) jumped on her, telling her that her boat was inappropriate for his granddaughter and would possibly endanger her life. She responded that she had purchased this little canoe via yours truly and she trusted my judgement.</div><div><br /></div><div>His response: "I stand by my statement."</div><div><br /></div><div>Excellent.</div><div><br /></div><div>Turns out I was right, Troll A was wrong, and Friend B's granddaughter is loving her little boat. Troll A didn't apologize, really. He just made some reference to the fact that sometimes people are lucky that things work out.</div><div><br /></div><div>The problem is that Trolls B through Z(10)<sup>23</sup> <span>will all have opinions, and most all of them will be based on limited experience. How are you as a reader to know who's credible and who is a pompous ass? Credentials don't work because anyone can claim to be a canoe designer. There's no degree for canoe or kayak design. The best designers I know probably didn't go to college.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>With so much ego invested in their choices of boats, they tend to be very, very biased toward what they own. Worse yet, a pair of them will engage in a sort of <i>asinus asinum fricat</i> sort of behavior that drives me insane (when I allow myself to be attached to that sort of thing, which is less and less common as I stay off these boards).</div><div><br /></div>These are the people who usually give a Coleman Ram-X canoe 9/10 in a review. Because they have one, and these reviews are like asking a person "Please rate the attractiveness of your baby." You can't say 10/10 because people will think you're unbiased or have never seen another baby so there's no point of reference.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNU1JYNRYdFj7buPyyf5QWN7SJouzTon9V0AFJIIYmOtw5JYop63SrFtpfuMJg-FMqhTjz1OlUPTjrOac3My0DKc1BOEov_ShiT9BcwZww5v5soMRAGBEGuR2l-mjNqylhH3kxCw/s1600-h/whyatt-ugly-baby-cartoon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNU1JYNRYdFj7buPyyf5QWN7SJouzTon9V0AFJIIYmOtw5JYop63SrFtpfuMJg-FMqhTjz1OlUPTjrOac3My0DKc1BOEov_ShiT9BcwZww5v5soMRAGBEGuR2l-mjNqylhH3kxCw/s400/whyatt-ugly-baby-cartoon.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394755912546413282" /></a><div><br /></div><div>If you challenge them, remember you're saying "Dude, your baby is double-bag ugly." You have to expect them to justify how the fiberglass canoe their scout troop built in 1974 is the best canoe ever. The best answer is (and please practice saying this with me):</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Of course it is, you're spot on as usual."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>For the record, a Coleman canoe floats. There ends its virtues.</div><div><br /></div><div>Note this phenomenon is by no means limited to paddlesports. Substitute climbing harness, backpack, digital camera, camp stove or PDA and you'll find the same dogmatic chumps. Please shun them like the life-sucking vampires they are. They will draw you in. Just repeat the mantra listed above. It's like throwing salt on a slug.</div><div><br /></div><div>Respectfully submitted,</div><div><br /></div><div> Canoelover</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19748168.post-79365792902200068172009-10-11T23:30:00.004-06:002009-10-11T23:37:24.725-06:00Playing Around<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEL0U3GoXVvTo4pFtMPtfNJAISGFgcwPaypBpw3_yoOYn2OfJV5yPXbDV6A8n9cY_vgW8bm4lkhxjFyJVkXcTFpq_dB-hXmb29chgXFDmOijNmjeimp-sVMHxEfeo1CfPkfSiJnw/s1600-h/OWL2009+081.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEL0U3GoXVvTo4pFtMPtfNJAISGFgcwPaypBpw3_yoOYn2OfJV5yPXbDV6A8n9cY_vgW8bm4lkhxjFyJVkXcTFpq_dB-hXmb29chgXFDmOijNmjeimp-sVMHxEfeo1CfPkfSiJnw/s400/OWL2009+081.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391583084456900882" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Playtime, Wisconsin River.</span></i></div><blockquote>“The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. <i>He hardly knows which is which</i>.</blockquote><blockquote>"He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he's always doing both.”</blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> - James Mitchner</blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Amen, Mr. Mitchner.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Respectfully submitted,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Canoelover</span></div>canoeloverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862326219429307936noreply@blogger.com1