CHRONICLES: Fire Houses, Radio, and Sick Trucks

The past few weeks have been crazy.  First off, Miss Cat has purchased Hagrid, the 2nd BattleWagon from me in hopes of having a Plan B to caravan around the country in.  Well, after driving it to her house, the next day, Hagrid died in the driveway and refused to start.  So that leaves us in a spot where we figure out what to do next.  Depending on what the damage is, it may be an easy fix, or it may be a deal where we find her the fifth BattleWagon and help her dreams come true.  Strife.

To make matters worse, Big Red, my new Jeep truck, has developed a rather significant oil leak, which may be a simple seal and cheap to fix, or it may be something big.  At any rate, hoping to err on the side of caution, it's going to stay parked until I can get the Hagrid situation sorted out for Miss Cat.  We have another vehicle at our disposal for family stuff, and Big Red can wait for the good service from the local mechanic.

The radio show has been mellow, and I'm hoping to ramp it up a little bit soon, get some people to co-host with me, play some good tunes, and laugh a little bit more.

The latest news is that I got to do a scavenger hunt at the fire station tonight.  I finally fulfilled one of my life-long goals and got on with the Ketchikan Volunteer Fire Department.  Tonight we had drill, and our assignment was to find various tools on the Engine, Ladder, and Rescue trucks,  It was pretty cool, and I learned a crap ton of stuff.  I'm excited to get going with all of this.

CHRONICLES: Changes and News

For the longest time, one if my fantasies has been to own three full-size Jeeps. Shortly after my oldest son passed away, one of my failed coping mechanisms was getting a 1977 Jeep Cherokee Chief. It was failed because it needed way too much work and I was not prepared for that. Even though my mind was all messed up, I still made a very wrong decision at the time.

My fantasy of three is like this:  One J10 pickup for work, hauling stuff, plowing snow, helping friends move, etc. One Cherokee Chief as an all around vehicle, for playing, commuting, groceries, soccer games, road trips, hikes, etc. Finally, a Wagoneer, to be tricked out with the big engine, power everything, DVD player, TVs, rims, and a sweet motor to make it rip down the road in a time that would rival a sports cat yet be elegant enough that if my wife and I wanted to go out to a fancy dinner or pick up some fancy guests, we'd have a vehicle to impress them.

As fate would have it, I've found the first of three. A really nice J10 down in Skagit, Washington showed yup on craigslist. I fell in love.

With some juggling, I lucked out and found a buyer for "Hagrid", BW-2, the van I picked up in Denver after the death of the first B-Dub. It's been a great vehicle, but it's usefulness is admittedly limited. In this time of family work, a van is just too big with not enough useful space. A pickup will take stuff to the dump, move furniture, get us around us the weather gets crappy, and will let me occasionally play in the mud.

So, shortly, I'll be posting pictures of the torch for Hagrid being passed on to a friend of mine, an adventurous young lady named Cat, who has been invited to contribute to this blog with the continuing adventures of the BattleWagon. I'll also post about the torch being lit for BW-4 when it gets here, a week from Sunday.

The adventure continues. Keep yours going, too.

CHRONICLES: The Blessings of Family

At the beginning of last week (showing my lack of certain attention to the blogging stuff), my Aunt Memo and Life-Mate Dave came up for a visit on their way north to Sitka, Juneau, Anchorage, and Denali.  They were in Ketchikan for a few days.  I managed to snag a few days off, with which I was able to take them to the Saxman Totem Park, Ward Lake, and Totem Bight.  All that tourist stuff aside, the best part was the nights we had them over, eating and drinking and spending the family time that we've made less accessible with our time up here in the Great Wet North.

One night, Lyss had made fish tacos with some cod that our neighbor Greg had caught the previous day.  That night, as we were leaving, Greg asked us if we wanted a big king salmon filet.  Dinner for the next night was planned.  Lyss baked it with some garlic, pepper, lemon juice, and olive oil.  It was spectacular.  But, as good as the food was, it wasn't as good as the time spent.

Memo is my dad's sister.  That side of my family is small.  I only have one cousin who I haven't spoken to for a number of years, since before Bart was in high school as I recall.  But when anyone comes to visit, it's a rare and special occasion.

After they left, I was fortunate enough to have the distraction of going to Sitka myself for a few days for work.  When I got back, I took Malcolm and Dash and went down to Herring Cove to watch the salmon run.  He was pretty impressed with the whole thing, although we were both disappointed we didn't see any bears.  Next time, maybe.

PROPHESY: An Unexpected Circumstance

It was sunny outside, yet still cool.  The leaves had begun their divorce from the branches, but the grass was still green, and the creek had not yet shrunken to a width that didn't require a bridge to cross it.

Dan needed to find his package, but we had no idea where the shipping place was.  All we had was a weird symbol, a logo of sorts.  It was an octagon, blue with many white lines crossing it in some sort of slanted geometric array, with a red A off-set on the upper right side.  Whatever place had this logo, I'm sure it would be across the creek where the make-shift docks are.  This town was small enough that the shipping and travelling terminal were easy to find and very close to each other.

As we crossed the creek and walked off the bridge, I peered through a window of the local coach offices and saw Dan's logo, so directed him that way and moved through the travelling terminal.

This terminal was a remarkable building, built from wood of the highest quality, yet it wasn't ornately done.  Simple planks of cherry and mahogany lined the walls of the structure, and round globes of light hung from chains from a flat ceiling that was open to the outside world in some places.  In effect, this was a quasi-indoor mall.

As I was taking my bearings, an older woman approached me and asked her if I could help her with something.  Since the purge of the old world, humanity's sentiment towards each other was a lot softer, so I offered to do what I could.  She led me through the terminal, out the south end, where a large warehouse existed.  It looked more cozy than a warehouse, and I realized that whoever owned it must have been exceedingly powerful in the area.  They had converted it to their home.

The woman took me inside, offered me a beer, and then explained her situation.  Apparently, the quality of drifter through these parts, drifters such as Dan and myself, wasn't a high quality.  Dan and I had been trekking for thousands of miles, though snowy mountains and over rough oceans, across dry deserts, to get here, and we were nowhere near our goal.  The local drifters were drunks, looters, thieves, a nuisance for the local attempt at law enforcement.  So when the woman told me that she wanted me to stay to marry her daughter, I had to stifle a laugh when I respectfully declined.  I understood the severity of their situation, but the idea... after everything that had happened in the past twenty years, it was a cozy translation into acceptance of failure, and that was something I wasn't willing to admit to myself yet.

PROPHESY: Hiding in the Shadows

It was dark, but fortunately for us, the moon was full, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Lucky considering where we live, one of the wettest places in what is left of the U.S. There must have been twenty of us in the building, but we didn't lie to ourselves:  this was no protection. No roof, no doors, not even glass in the windows. If the Taken found us, we'd be as good as Taken ourselves. They were everywhere, and the tension was just on the verge of pouring into the dark woods.

It finally broke when a lady and a little girl broke through the bushes. Apparently, they had found a way down to the beach, a drainage that was partially overgrown, despite it's recent installation. Such is life in the Alaskan rainforest.

We all took off, single file, quietly as we could, though for my own part, I was certain that everyone could heat my fearful heart beating out of my head. Once we got to the beach, the mission was clear: follow it south to the depot, and hope to God there was a van or a bus or something we could cram into. We needed to get away from the outbreak.

The Taken, or specifically, whatever caused them to be so, were vicious. The disease, whether it was vital or bacterial, nobody knew, spread quickly. The result was a being devoid of individuality, a being who could seemingly wordlessly "think their thoughts" into the mind of all the others. I know, it sounds crazy, but once one knows where you are, they all know. And then they all come looking for you. They want to take you.

We got to the depot, and hints of first light was staying to peek over the mountain. Morris, a guy I met in a bar and hadn't seen for years, challenged us. Apparently, they tried to take him, too.

Gently, I assured him we were on his side, still free, and he, in turn, told me he had a surprise for me. He led us to a small garage way up on a gravel hill. A both stained to slide the giant door open. A cloud of must flooded my nose, but the sight if one of my oldest and dearest friends almost erased any fear of death.

Morris had come through. He had found and rescued the BattleWagon.

CHRONICLES/THOUGHTS: About Violence

As you probably know by know, on July 20th, a few days ago, there was a terrible tragedy that happened in my home state of Colorado.  A man walked into a movie theater and opened fire, killing 12 people and wounding 58 more.  Many questions have come up since then, concerns that gun control laws aren't strict enough, or the converse, that not enough people are carrying firearms for self defense.  I've had conversations about whether or not the death penalty should be considered for the suspect, or if he'll be considered some degree of insane and locked in a rubber room for years without a trial, as is the case with the man who wounded Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and killed, what was it, nine other people?

Then, there's the reaction.  You see some of the most uplifting things in times like this.  You see the President of the United States speaking at a memorial service.  You see professional athletes and entertainers visiting the surviving wounded and the grieving loved ones.  You see communities and and arts communities with otherwise little in common banding together to diagnose and digest what exactly just happened to all of them, together, without discrimination or judgement.

Unfortunately, there's a bad apple that ruins it for everyone.  I understand this bad apple, but I don't necessarily agree with it, and here's where I share my thoughts.

Earlier today, while perusing some of the standard news blogs and social networking sites, I came across a picture of the suspect's head PhotoShopped onto one of those targets that marksmen use, the ones that look like people.  And while I can't help by sympathize and even mostly agree with the idea that, had someone in that theater had a legal concealed weapon that they went through a permit process to receive, there may have been less death, that short time has passed.  The instant of whether or not they were able to protect themselves has passed.  It's over.  It's done.  We grieve.  And with that, there's a celebration of sorts in calling for the suspect's death.  Not a death in terms of justice as far as the system is designed to accommodate, but a death in the slightly-better-than-the-suspect's-mindset-in-the-first-place-but-not-really terms.  In other words, those who seek revenge instead of justice are no better than those who committed the crime in the first place.  Yes, this guy, if proven to be so, was a bastard.  Does he deserve to die for what he did?  I defer to the court and the jury's judgement in that case.  However, will his death be one I celebrate?  I don't think so.  I think it's a cold and dark place people go to when they decide that anyone's death is worth celebrating.  I'm not referring to those people who celebrate the lives of their loved ones when they pass away.  I'm referring to the people who are so consumed by hatred, anger, and fear that they almost find a joy in seeing others suffer.

Don't be that person.  Raise the bar for yourself if you haven't already.  Death for death's sake is a horrible thing, and when, despite everything you may have lost, you stoop to that level, the level that's only marginally above how these things get started in the first place.

CHRONICLE: Long Day After a Long Week

Today has been a catch up day for me. I took Malcolm to our daycare lady for a few hours. Then I did a dump run for us and Lyss's boss. I came home, ate a quick bite (grilled cheese with ham or turkey- hard to tell what it was), and grabbed a load of laundry. When this is all finished up, I'm going to grab Malcolm and go home to do done more house work. At least I won't be stuck wearing one pair of pants and undershirts to work this coming week.

Dash has been my companion through all of this, and while I ferrel guilty for boring him, I'm very grateful that he's been here, loyal and sweet. I guess that's the advantage of dogs over cats. All they want to do is love on you when they can. Cats want you to live on them.

Otherwise, we're planning a trip to Wally's cabin tomorrow night. We're going to try to see if this solar flare that happened yesterday generates an aurora worth staying up for. Lyss and I caught one the other night, and it was pretty magnificent, even if relatively minor. The most remarkable part for me was that it actually moves as fast as they show on TV. I always thought they played it back with time lapse to make it more dramatic. Pretty cool.

Here's Dash for you guys, looking happy as always.