Past And Present

Day 59: Watching the rain fall through the office window, I knew that patience would bring no change to the intensity of the precipitation, so I slipped on my hat and jacket and resigned myself to getting wet as I walked the half-mile loop known as the Trail of the Shadows.

It was on the edge of this meadow that James Longmire and his family established a hotel and hot-spring baths in the days before Mount Rainier National Park came into being, and one cannot walk this trail today without feeling some connection to the past. John Muir may have stood in this same spot en route to the summit of Mount Rainier in 1888, gazing up to Eagle Peak, shrouded in clouds. Perhaps, standing here near the Travertine Mound, he may have formulated any one of the inspiring phrases he later penned, inspired by the beauty of the Pacific Northwest despite its whims of weather.

Today, rain notwithstanding, I walked in the footsteps of those pioneers and as always, thought of the lives they lived in this place I love. The scenes I looked out upon are little changed from what their eyes saw when first they came to this place; past and present only different windows in the house of time.

Scrumptious Black Bean Salad

Day 58: I have always been at a loss to figure out what to take to potlucks because I am a notoriously lazy cook except when it comes to baking. My idea of the perfect dinner requires one pot and five minutes of preparation time, and should feed you for at least three days, thereby eliminating the need to cook on more than three occasions per week. My potluck contributions tend to be such things as cookies, cupcakes or a sauerkraut salad which I love but no one else seems to want to try. Such being the case, I'm always on the lookout for alternatives, and discovered this one at a geocaching event at the end of the summer. I have since seen several variations of it and indeed, I've dressed up the original a little to suit my own tastes. I will be taking it to a "salad potluck" tonight (pizzas provided by the hosts), the occasion honoring our new Chief of Interpretation at Mount Rainier National Park, Ingrid Nixon (formerly of Denali).

A taste for cilantro is a must to properly enjoy this salad. Adjust the other spices according to your personal preferences.

2 15-ounce cans of small black beans, drained and rinsed
1 11-ounce can of Mexicorn
1 medium avocado, peeled and diced
2 Roma tomatoes, diced
4-5 green onions, sliced
1/2 cup coarsely chopped cilantro leaves
1 heaping tsp. minced garlic
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
1/8 tsp. ground cumin
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/3 cup lime juice
salt to taste

Combine vegetables in a large bowl, sprinkle with spices, add olive oil and lime juice and mix well. Add salt to taste. May be served immediately, but the salad holds well in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours.

If you cannot find Mexicorn (a Green Giant product), you may use any canned or frozen corn plus a small amount of diced bell peppers (red and/or green).

This delicious salad has now become my favorite contribution to any potluck! Enjoy!

Vermilion Zygo

Day 57: I always seem to neglect the common colors of Zygocactus in my collection in favor of the more showy and unusual varieties, but they are equally rewarding and a welcome sight in the grey months of November and December. This is one I describe as "vermilion," as opposed to the other mundane "cerise" species on the shelf (not currently fully open). Some varieties are natural mutations; others have been carefully engineered genetically, however, all have the same hot-pink stigma and a roughly-drawn pencil-line of the same color marks the white interior of the flower as if to remind us that the hereditary stock of all Christmas cacti was indeed a deep, rich pink (a color I can forgive in Nature, but nowhere else).

Dotting And Crossing

Day 56: This morning as I prepared to leave home to meet up with the facilitator who would be helping me submit proper documentation for my father's term in the Mukden Prisoner of War camp in the hopes of obtaining a Purple Heart for him posthumously, it occurred to me that there was one letter I had neglected to submit to anyone. I thought I'd take it along as a curiosity, if for no other reason. It turned out that that letter, written on watermarked White House stationery, still in its postmarked envelope, personalized to my father and signed by President Harry Truman was the one piece of supporting evidence I most needed. With all his military records in hand, I was informed by the facilitator that she had never seen anyone so well-prepared. After reviewing the papers, she put in a phone call to an official at the Military Order of the Purple Heart who told her, "You can't argue with a letter from the President!"

As we filled out forms, she told me that I would need to obtain a certified copy of Harry's letter, or alternately, I could entrust it to her and she would have a copy made at the County Auditor's office where it would also be recorded as an official document. I was nervous about handing it over, but in the interest of getting the process started, I did so. She informed me that without a doubt, my dad was eligible.

Just a few moments ago, I received a call from her. It is official. My father has been awarded both the Purple Heart and the Prisoner of War Medal. It remains only to dot a few i's and cross a few t's in the interest of keeping government databases coordinated as I wait for the physical medals to be sent to me.

I had a fantastic crew on this voyage, and can never hope to repay friends Ruth, Kevin, Patty and Alison, and the many contacts from various PoW organizations who have so generously donated their time and support as I pursued this award in my father's name. I expected this to be a process of many months, but it began on Veterans Day, only a little more than two weeks ago, and if not quite concluded yet, the outcome is guaranteed.

Blushing Zygo

Day 55: The slowest member of the family has finally caught up to its yellow, vermillion and picotee cousins. Defined as a "white" variety of Zygocactus, the richness of this plant's pink shade is a function of its environment. An abundance of light produces a deeper tint, as do warmer temperatures. I manage to keep mine at a pleasant "shell pink" stage by keeping it in a cool room, over to one side where a lace curtain filters the light of a south window for the better part of the day.

As my Zygos come into bloom, they are moved to a place of honor atop the hutch of my desk. There they remain until all but the last flowers have faded, gleefully shedding pollen on anything below them. I have to be careful to position them where they can't "dust" the computer keyboard, but I love having their colors dangle at the top of my field of vision. Zygocacti are easy to grow, easy to bring into flower. No home should be without a few!

The Best Laid Schemes

Day 54: Though the phrase, "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley" generally refers to matters taking an unpleasant turn, there are those occasions when the derailment of a plan is to the benefit of its originator. So it was today when I left home with a route carefully charted to take me on a two-mile hike through the prime lichen real estate of Charles L. Pack Experimental Forest. I wanted but a few photos, but to be on the safe side, I tucked an empty bag in my jacket pocket and hung a knife on my belt. I had intended to patrol the 1000 Rd., venturing off it onto the 1400 and then to return via the lower Hugo Peak trail; however, when I noticed mushrooms newly sprung up along the way, I said to myself, "A slight detour up to 6" (an interpretive marker) "wouldn't do any harm." In confirmation of my theoretical hopes, I found a savory handful of Chanterelles in an accustomed spot.

Now the plan suffered its greatest revision. Near the summit of Hugo Peak, a way trail has often provided me with those glorious, golden mushrooms. I had not intended to go up Hugo, but up Hugo I went. I found no more mushrooms on my way, but when I reached the top, the logical course of action was to continue following my usual hunter-gatherer's beat. Regrettably, that way too was fruitless as far as Chanterelles were concerned.

As I descended via the 1000 Rd., I remembered a lichen in the shadows where I hadn't been able to get a good shot earlier. In the hopes of sunlight, I doubled back over the 1400 and then at the point where I had forked off it to climb Hugo, I went down instead, covering even more new ground (new for the day, at least) and collecting more lichens in the camera. No more mushrooms were found to fill out the dinner menu. My scheme had certainly "gone agley," but the rewards were manifold. I had a lovely snack of fried mushrooms as soon as I got home, and I'd gotten some much-needed exercise by hiking six miles instead of two.

Autographed By The Beetles

Day 53: A short trail from Highway 7 leads west to East Creek (a fact which has given me some amusement) and although it is used extensively by people camping illegally in the nature area, it is nevertheless a great place to go birdwatching and lichen-hunting. It also features one of the best galleries of Beetle Art I have discovered outside Mount Rainier National Park.

The artists work in secret, completing their etchings beneath bark. Only rarely do they give sneak previews; generally, viewings only follow the demise of a tree and subsequent shedding of its thick outer layer. The talented artisans residing at East Creek prefer a canvas of Douglas Fir or Hemlock to that of Alder, and have a plentiful stock on which to create their designs. Age and moisture see to it that the display in the gallery is ever-changing. Although they do not sell their works, limited-edition reverse prints may be found below the originals.

Her Imperial Highness Skunk

Day 52: Undisputed Mistress of the House, Skunk is ten years old, arthritic and deaf as a stone, but is still a kitten at heart when the mood strikes her. We play a game called "Sitting on the cat." She walks in front of me, deliberately making spirals until I am almost dizzy, and then flattens out on the floor to wait for me to drop to my knees and squeeze her between them. Once I'm "sitting on the cat," my weight resting on her hindquarters, she sinks even lower, spreading out like a pat of butter as I stroke her from her head to the center of her back. If I try to get up before she's had enough, she follows me around and nips me on the leg.

Her deafness came on rather suddenly as a result of medication she was given for an ear infection, and for six weeks or more, she suffered from a deep depression to the extent that I was afraid I was losing her. Now she's learned to respond to hand signs, but she still doesn't understand why she can't hear herself meow. Formerly, her voice was soft and sweet. Now it would peel paint. She tries to assure herself that she's being heard, just like a human who is losing their hearing speaks more loudly.

The Continuing Voyage

Day 51: Excerpt from a letter from the current Chair of the state's Veterans Legislative Coalition and Past National Commander of the Military Order of the Purple Heart:

"Five or six years ago, the Department of Defense expanded eligibility for the Purple Heart Medal to include Prisoners of War. Initially, the criteria included a requirement that the prisoner had to have been tortured or beaten. That req
uirement has since been eased. In my personal view that it was highly unlikely that a prisoner was not severely mistreated (sic), particularly by the Japanese, North Koreans or Vietnamese. At any rate, your father is no doubt eligible to receive the Purple Heart Medal posthumously."

Today I give thanks for Kevin and Ruth, who have seen to it that I had scans of several original documents which I have already submitted to the VA facilitator who referred my letter to the Chair.

Fully Adjusted Amaryllis

Day 50: After a busy morning, I wasn't ready to tackle a sewing project, so I started scouting around for my daily "blog shot" for 365 Caws. Most everything in the house has been photographed, you understand, so this isn't always the easiest task on a rainy day. Finally, my eye lighted on the Amaryllis I'd potted up last week. Now I had to admit that an Amaryllis which was not actively blooming wasn't exactly the most inspiring subject for a photograph and since I was looking for a fairly relaxing way to spend the rest of the day, I started poking around in PaintShopPro. One thing led to another and to another, and by the time I was done with the poor thing, even Gregor Mendel couldn't have decoded its photographic DNA sequences. I was originally going to call this "Fifteen Weird Things You Can Do With An Amaryllis," but I'm sure there were more than fifteen and I can only remember half a dozen. To enumerate what I recall: an in-camera sepiatone was converted to a halftone and then a brown-tinted texture was laid over the top of that. That layer was then tonemapped. A color version of the plant alone was cut out and trimmed, then layered onto the monochrome textured base at 35% opacity. A drop-shadow was added to the plant layer before merging, and then the whole thing got a light adjustment to contrast.

Some days, you just need to hang up all the worky-businessy stuff and just PLAY, savvy? Shot the whole afternoon in the head, but gee, it was fun!

It's What I Do

Day 49: Serious business was taking place as Kevin and I worked in tandem to standardize our Volunteer position description phraseology with a list of interests in one column and the advertised position titles from Volunteer.gov offering a third set of terms. It was a task we hadn't had time to address during the busy summer months and was badly in need of doing. We were in our second session and getting a little punchy. "Digital Photo Librarian," I read from a printout. "Di-gi-TAL photoli-BRAR-ian," Kevin sang back to me to the tune of "Marian, The Librarian" from "The Music Man." I riposted in a high, squeaky voice, "I love you madly, madly, madame librarian..." and higher and squeakier yet, "MAAAAARIAN!" Then, as I read off "Volunteer Program Assistant" and added "Me!" with a glow of pride, Kevin dutifully typed in, "Volunteer Program Assistant (me)" and pressed "enter."

"Smartarse!" I said, looking over his shoulder. He responded, "I don't think we're good for each other" with a laugh. Ah, but here's the secret: we get the job done, and we have fun doing it. There are days when the recalcitrant system has us both swearing, days when nothing wants to go right, or if it does, it's but a brief illusion because in the next second, the system will crash, but by and large, we enjoy our jobs and enjoy working together.

After inventorying the new fleece jackets for our volunteers today and discovering that the "small" size would easily fit a 200-pound man, I opened a file drawer where the shoulder patches are kept. In the bottom was a single belt buckle. I asked Kevin what you had to do to earn one since I'd never seen the item being worn. His reply was unexpected, "Do you want it?" Of course I said yes. He explained that although we don't do it now, they used to be given out to Volunteers some time ago.

I feel there's a parallel here. Like my job and the wonderful relationship of friendship and cameraderie I share with Kevin as both boss and pal, that buckle is a real prize and pretty darned unique.

Here Be Dragons

Day 48: "Picotee." The word derives from the term "picot," describing small loops of thread deliberately placed along the borders of a piece of needlework (especially in crocheting or tatting). In plant varieties, it refers to a blossom of one color with a border of another, and was originally used to describe white carnations with pink or red trim. This picotee Zygocactus is one of my favorites (running a close second to the rarer yellow variety).

Call them "Christmas cacti" if you will, once they have adjusted to the cycle of light and dark outside the forced conditions of a nursery, Zygocacti are more likely to come into bloom around Thanksgiving in the Pacific Northwest. They will put on a second smaller flush of dragon-head blooms in January or February. These attractive plants withstand a fair amount of forgetful care and still reward their owners with plenty of showy color.

Bring Me That Horizon...

Day 47: Aye, them words be spoke by many a fine captain afore that young scallywag Jacky Sparrow made 'em known t' all th' world, but 'e gets all th' credit whilst rest o' us gets nary a line in a 'istory book. I be thinkin' ol' Ed'ard Teach prob'ly said 'em fust. 'E was a eddycated bloke an' prone t' turnin' phrases wi' th' tide by wot I 'ears. An' I be tellin' ye now that th' Black Blade (that be mese'f, Morgan Corbye) said 'em when fust she cast off in th' Winged Adventure. 'Twas a few years ago, that, an' I still be lookin' t' reach th' last one. 'Tis no sense in livin' wi'out adventure, no sense a-tall t' be settin' yer hindparts on a cushion fer th' rest o' yer days, not when there's a 'orizon ye've never charted. 'Tis me way o' thinkin' that someday I'll be gettin' but 'alfway there afore I keels over, but by the lord 'Arry, I means to be under full sail when it 'appens.

Song Of India

Day 46: As two friends and I continue to dig into my dad's history as a Prisoner of War, mysteries are unraveling. I have always wondered about the brassware my mother claimed he had brought back from India since as far as I knew, he'd never been there. I know now that he was hospitalized in Calcutta until his condition stabilized sufficiently for him to make the long sea-voyage back to the US. He must have regained enough strength to be allowed leave to walk the streets, or perhaps a vendor came to the hospital where he was staying. That is something I do not know, but at least the major piece in the puzzle has been put in place. This knowledge also goes far to explain my mother's love of Bells of Sarna, India prints and of course Ganesha, the elephant-headed son of Shiva and Parvati who helps those who need to overcome impossible obstacles. Circles within circles within circles, the story continues to unfold.

An Incredible Find

Day 45: As I was searching for something only peripherally related to my quest for a Purple Heart for my dad today, I discovered a large manila envelope I only vaguely remembered having seen before. It had a note on the outside in my mother's handwriting explaining what it contained, and I simply could not believe what I was reading. It held my father's "papers."

A year before my mother passed away, she moved in with me at my insistence. I brought all of her worldly goods here and stored the bulk of them in my garage, which literally packed the building from floor to ceiling with only a two-foot path around the periphery of the pile. When she died, I began disposing of her goods. I sold most of her books and belongings, and threw away great heaps of papers without giving them so much as a glance. However, the words on the outside of one envelope were sufficient to tell me that I probably wanted to keep it, if only as memorabilia. I did not look inside before putting it on a shelf, interleafed among other similar envelopes and soon forgotten.

In looking for other family information today, I pulled out everything, and there among filed manuscripts, tax statements, real estate papers and so on was a stack of original documents...original, I say!...pertaining to my father: his discharge papers, his Marine identification card, a certificate he received when he crossed the Equator, marriage license, a certified copy of his death certificate among the treasures. Most heart-wrenching to me was a photo of him in his hospital bed, taken only a few months before he passed away.

I cannot believe the good fortune which made me preserve that manila envelope and its contents, nor the fortuitous direction my search took me on this day. Treasure! And hidden all this time in plain view.

The Man I Remember

Day 44: As the search continues for the information required to obtain a Purple Heart for my father, I am digging through old albums and pulling out photos to check for dates and locations. As I browsed through one album, I noticed an image I'd glossed over a thousand times: my Dad riding his FarmAll tractor through the cornfield on our "ranch" (as my folks called our family farm). How could I have missed this all the times I've looked for pictures of that tractor? It's a small image, blown up here and tonemapped to bring out the faded colors, and according to my mom's inscription on the page where it appears with half a dozen others, it was taken in June of 1947.

My Dad, working the soil...that's how I remember him best. He grew up on a farm, and after he came back from the War, he returned to farming to supplement the family income. Even after he was moved to an office job for the military, he maintained a large vegetable garden, and I will always associate him with the sweet scent of rich soil and the feel of the air in harvest season. My love of FarmAll tractors stems from his insistence that they were the best machines money could buy. "Knee-high by the Fourth of July," he'd say of his corn crop, and this Father's Day photo shows the silage corn well on its way to fulfilling that requirement.

Zygo Yellow

Day 43: It seems like it was only a few days ago when I noticed the first signs of buds on the Zygocacti in my crafts room. They live back there all year, neglected and often droopy from lack of water, and yet they still reward me with lavish blooms beginning in the middle of November. My favorite is the yellow one. It's somewhat rare, which is to say you won't find them at your supermarket but some nurseries offer a limited few. I've given away so many starts from this one that it's still small and manageable.

Usually, I don't notice the buds until they are starting to swell, and sometimes not even then. After seeing little pips last week, I thought it would be longer before the flowers opened. Obviously, I was wrong. This beauty is now the guest of honor atop my hutch desk.

Steller's Jay, Cyanocitta Stelleri

Day 42: If you have been following my blog, perhaps you will understand why today I am falling back on something "safe," a place where I can ground myself. I take refuge in Nature when I am troubled, literally and figuratively, often going out for long hikes where I can escape the rest of the world and all things cease to exist except those which immediately surround me. I find strength in the mountain ridges, stability in the repetitive fall of my feet on the trail, harmony in tall trees and clouds, and I feel that the Earth herself, Gaia the mother, breathes her life into my spirit. The birds I so dearly love uplift me in their gathering, and their conversations distract me from the sentences of human speech.

An abundance of Steller's Jays and Spotted Towhees fill the branches of the contorted filbert today, and it occurred to me that my daily posts have neglected my favorite subjects for some time now. I had only to offer a salary of sunflower seed to have models knocking at the door. I did not need to leave home in search of emotional compass; it found me, and cussed me out for taking so long with breakfast.

Discoveries

Day 41: I am so overwhelmed. Dizzy, dazed, mind-boggled, confused, I suddenly break into tears, my chest heaving with deep sobs from an emotion I fail utterly to understand and cannot name. Since yesterday's posting, a flood of information regarding my dad's incarceration in a Manchurian Prisoner of War camp has come to light. With the help of new friends and old, I have made contact with someone intimately connected with the men who shared my father's imprisonment and their families. I have been directed to half a dozen websites where more information about the camp can be read. I've learned which ship transported my dad and have discovered yet another misspelling of his name. More possible contacts have come to light, more sources for data. I have learned frightening things, too. My father's captors had issued an order to "kill them all and leave no trace," and but for the liberating forces arriving when they did and the Japanese mistaking the parachutists for their own troops, my father might not have made it home.

So much fills my hours and my mind today that I cannot think clearly, and yet I want to thank the people who have been a part of these revelations. How can I express to you what is in my heart tonight? Ruth, Patty, Alison...meet the man you are helping me discover.

Prisoner Of War

Day 40: Recently, I came across a missing piece in the puzzle of my father's incarceration as a Prisoner of War. I knew that he had been in a camp in Manchuria which had been liberated by the Russians, but beyond that, I had no information until I stumbled across the word "Manchukuo" in some of my mother's paperwork. At the time, it did not occur to me to check on line to see what a search might yield, but today as I was thinking about my father in terms of being a veteran, I Googled the name and found an official website which listed him among the 280 officers who were imprisoned there. His name is misspelled on the roster as it is on the tag he wore, and I do not know if it is also misspelled on his military records, but at least now I have a starting point for further research.

According to the website, there were a number of unpleasant incidents involving the liberators, but the personal story which will remain strongest in my mind is of a big Russian who literally threw my emaciated father over his shoulder and took him somewhere for a good meal. My dad's diabetes was undiagnosed at the time, so he promptly collapsed in a coma as his blood sugar level spiked. He was among the men who were first evacuated by air, and he received immediate medical attention.

The privations my dad suffered while imprisoned exacerbated his condition, and he never reached his 40th birthday. I cannot help but wonder how the other prisoners in the same camp fare today. On this Veterans Day, my thoughts go out to them if they still live, and to their families.

Heater Hog

Day 39: It's cold. I would like to sit next to the heater, but that spot is already occupied, and around this house, it's "first come, first served." While I would never think of using the flagstone hearth as a pillow, Tip often rests his head there. Skunk goes all silly and rolls around in contortions as she scratches her back on the edge. Both cats are heater hogs, and there's nothing as happy as a warm cat, so who am I to disturb the status quo?

Panic: We Are Hanging Here...

Day 38: It was a chilly day at Longmire, and Kevin had been down in the unheated facilities at the Volunteer Campground taking photos of "daddy-long-legs" harvestman spiders during his lunch break. He was anxious to show me the results of his search, but when he returned to the office, he was unhappy. "My cell phone has quit working," he explained. "It says it has 19% battery, but I can't get it to display the pictures." I suggested that the low temperature might be affecting it even as he was placing it in the charger on the desk beside my computer. For a minute or so, it simply sat there displaying a black screen. Then a page of white text appeared which was obviously an error message of some sort. Kevin leaned closer to it so he could read the fine print, and I heard a sharp intake of breath. "What's THAT?" he said. "'Panic: we are hanging here.'"

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I said, "You gettin' secret messages from your spiders?" He took the phone out of the cradle and turned it to face me. I lowered my glasses, the better to see the tiny print. "Panic: we are hanging here," it said. Neither of us could quite believe what we were seeing.

As I pulled out my camera to document this oddly appropriate dispatch, another ranger stuck his head in the door and asked what was going on. "Kevin's getting messages from spiders," I said as Kevin held the phone up where Casey could see it. The thunk of chin on floor was audible. His eyes widened as he did a double-take, and then all three of us broke out laughing.

In the warm room, the phone soon recharged and Kevin was able to email the photos to himself so we could view them on the computer: clusters of harvestmen hanging together for protection against the cold.

Waiting For Starlight

Day 37: The deep, dark nights of winter are upon us, but a few stalwart souls are putting the lie to the myth that frogs only chirp in the spring. I hear them voicing their complaints from behind the foundation or from their hiding places under rocks and logs along the lakeshores. The tenor of their voices expresses a clear message of displeasure with the climate, and I wonder why they have not gone to bed beneath the protection of mud and leaf debris. It is too late in the season for these creatures to be about among the cattails and reeds, too cold for their physiologies; yet something drives them. Stay safe, my little friends, and tuck in close. Stay safe until spring's soft starlight draws you from your dens.

Loaner Vehicle And Free Dinner With Oil Change

Day 36: A mountain bike, an oil change and mushrooms...you might be able to connect two of those if you were inventive, but hooking all three together might take some work. As you may recall, I purchased a new car last spring. It was due for service, so I called the dealership this morning and asked them if they could squeeze me in. An afternoon appointment gave me time to do some shopping and photography, so I left immediately. When I finally reached the service desk, I was prepared to spend 45 minutes to an hour sitting in an uncomfortable chair, staring at something excruciatingly boring on a television screen. Boy, was I in for a surprise!

My service advisor was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, and I knew him to be a bicyclist. Out in one of the bays, I could see a hefty green mountain bike leaning up against the wall. "Josh," I said, "is that classy green machine yours?"

He assured me that it was, and then repeated an offer he had made to me at my last appointment (an offer I had declined). "You wanta go for a ride while your car's in the shop?" We'd discussed bikes and trails before. After a slight hesitation on my part, we went out to the bay and he lowered the seat so my feet would touch the pedals. The bike was tall enough that I could barely swing a leg over the bar. "It's got hydraulic disk brakes," he cautioned as he handed me his helmet. "Use a light touch or you'll go flying." Great...just what I needed to hear with new glasses on my nose and the camera slung around my neck!

But out I went, and man, what a ride! This bike made my own mountain bike feel like a bucket of bolts! I covered half a dozen miles on the trail behind the dealership before I finally decided I'd better get back before Josh thought I'd made off with his wheels.

So how do the mushrooms figure into this tale? Quite surprisingly, as a matter of fact. I found a nice cluster of Shaggymanes in good condition, and me without a sack or bag to my name! I rode back with them in my belt pouch, the satchel which serves as my equivalent of a purse. Shaggy Soup was the main feature of the menu tonight!

Here Be Dragons

Day 35: When I was still in high school, my best friend and I used to enjoy nosing around in antique shops and pawn shops to see what kind of treasures they held. Occasionally, one or the other of us would find something we couldn't resist, either for ourselves or to give as a gift. One of the best centers for this type of shopping was Seattle's Pike Place Market, and since we shared an apartment on Capitol Hill, we also shopped for fresh produce and meats there. At least once a month, we would walk down the hill empty-handed, and then struggle back up with a burden of bags, both of us too thrifty to take the bus and at my insistence that we would benefit from the exercise.

On one particular occasion, this anitque ivory ring caught my eye (trade in ivory was not regarded unfavorably in those days). Upon closer examination, I saw that it bore a price tag which made me cringe, so I deftly put it back in the case and started calculating how long it would take me to pinch enough pennies together to purchase it. The philosophy was one which I live by even today: if it's still there when you've saved up the money, you were destined to have the item. If not, you have a decent start on savings for something else. As it turned out, the dragon was still nestled in his bed when I returned a month or six weeks later. I forked over a substantial wad of green and walked away with him on my hand. In less than a week, I had managed to break one of his whiskers off, so I decided then and there that I would only wear him on special occasions.

You Can Lead A Stump To Water...

Day 34: With hydroelectric dams and reservoirs surrounding me, stumps of all sorts and sizes are easy to find. I love walking along the lakeshore when the water levels are low, making new acquaintances in almost every bay and coulee. So many of them look like strange beasts, or sometimes even familiar ones, and oftentimes will present an entirely different aspect when viewed from the opposite side. This fellow looked for all the world like a baby elephant when I got 'round him, a long trunk projecting out over the water, his whiskers no longer in evidence and his stance somewhat less graceful. We passed the time of day, and it is likely that I shall not see him again after the reservoir is brought back to capacity next summer; I am glad our paths crossed upon this day.

Down Among The Cannibals

Day 33 (bonus): It has been said of Morgan Corbye that she went a little mad during the period when she found herself among the peoples of a remote island archipelago, but on this point, the debate is no more clear than that of chicken and egg. Driven to an act of desperation when very young, no doubt her mind was already somewhat unsettled. Her years of service aboard the Compass Rose surely proved difficult as she strove to maintain her masquerade as a common seaman (albeit a young one) while at the same time, her secret adoration of the ship's Captain warred with her emotional control. If aware of her feelings toward him, Capt. Service never sought the advantage a lesser being might have pressed. For all that he was a pirate of the first water, he was a man of honor insofar as widows, orphans and the like were concerned, and although he was hard-tempered with his crew at times, he never punished a man for an honest mistake. The code by which he governed those under his command and his kindness to the disadvantaged also became the signal principle by which Morgan Corbye presides to this day. "I'll be havin' no truck with them as 'urts stray cats an' kiddies," she says with a gesture to the two moggies who share her cabin.

Alternate Persona

Day 33: Meet yet another of the chronicler's alternate personas, Masaka. I won't attempt to delude you. I don't do this well, although I do it fairly often as a way to stay in shape over the winter when other forms of exercise are denied me by weather, and I can already hear you thinking, "So why do you need a costume?" The answer to that is that sometimes someone can talk me into performing if and only if they bribe me with good food, nice company and a promise not to laugh. Plus, I like costumes as most of you already know well, and a belly-dance outfit gives me a chance to show off those wonderful silver treasures I've gleaned as a pirate. Who knows? It might even provide an opportunity to gather a few more spoils. I mean, think about it. What better way to weasel your way into the privacy of a captain's cabin than by offering entertainment no man long at sea could resist? Who would ever suspect a delicate and feminine dancer of being the infamous Black Blade?

Choice

Day 32: Warning: the following editorial may raise the dander of certain members of my audience. It is not intended to be provocatve, but rather thought-provoking, and it is not my intention to open a debate with my readers, merely to express a personal viewpoint which they may not have otherwise considered.

I am arguably one of the most apolitical beings on the planet, although I do hold strong opinions on matters of ecological importance and access to public lands. Indeed, I seldom know what is taking place in the political scene until it has come and gone, leaving me to deal with the consequences as they touch me on a personal level. That said, I vote in every election, despite the fact that I do not feel my nickel counts for much when stacked against the enormity of dollars which go into the process of selecting candidates whose names have been unknown to me until they appeared in print in the Voters' Pamphlets delivered in my mail. The issues which concern me never make those pages.

I read the pros and cons of each amendment, initiative and resolution, and diligently plow through the legalese of the full text so that I may be as informed as I might be without having been misled by proponents or opponents of one side or the other, and then I make my choice. Often as not, it seems to me that I am being asked what type of onion I want on my hamburger without the slightest consideration for the fact that I might not want onions at all.

H2SO4

Day 31: Sheep are wonderful creatures. Depending on the variety, they may provide you with wool or meat, or in the case of certain crossbreeds, both. I kept Romney-Suffolk and/or Romney/Corriedale crosses in the years that I raised them, generally shearing twice before turning them into lamb-burger. I was particularly fond of the Corriedale fleeces which fell in locks about five inches long. Rather than let the hides go to waste, I read up on tanning "hair-on," and decided to try it. I had ready access to sulphuric acid. My husband bought it by the gallon to use in etching glass and in his jewelry work. The process was messy, tedious and time-consuming, but the results were rewarding: soft, silky sheepskins to throw over the backs of chairs.

When I moved here over twenty years ago, I was down to two sheep. I brought them with me, intending to keep them for another six months before having them butchered out. Unfortunately, my health took a downturn right at the time I should have been processing the hides, so I asked the butcher to discard them. I gave up sheep-farming at that point, and tucked my tanning supplies away in the back of a cupboard in the garage. Every now and then when I pull the shop vac out, I am reminded of an old "Little Willie" poem:

Little Willie's dead and gone,
Of him, we'll hear no more.
What Willie thought was H2O
Was H2SO4.

I really need to neutralize this stuff and dispose of it properly!

Biography Of A Pirate: Morgan Corbye

Day 30: Little is known about Morgan Corbye's early years other than from the abbreviated log entries of infamous Capt. Edgar Service who discovered a twelve-year old stowaway among his cargo shortly before offloading a freight of illicit goods at Tortuga. Emaciated and filthy, the feisty girl caught his fancy when she nearly succeeded in making good on a threat to "have yer gizzard on a marlinespike" as she took on a man twice her size and five times her age despite her poor physical condition. Service placed her under his protection, garbed her as a common sailor and kept her in his employ for several years aboard the Compass Rose until the ship foundered in an unseasonal storm. Capt. Service went down with his vessel and from various sources, we know that only a few hands made it to shore, Morgan Corbye among them, if not perhaps literally in proximity to them.

Her history again becomes vague at this point with only rumours to describe how she came into possession of the Winged Adventure, stories ranging from the ridiculous (that she was possessed by the spirit of Edward Teach and commanded by enchantments) to the sublime (that she gained the helm upon singlehandedly subduing its crew of a dozen at knife-point). Based upon personal acquaintance with Capt. Corbye, your historian is inclined to believe the latter, although it is impossible to verify with many of the former crew no longer among the living; the Captain herself claims only five put up serious resistance.

It is worth mentioning that Morgan Corbye is a singular individual, although not in a genetic sense. She is the identical twin to notorious scoundrel Kat (Katherine) Corbye, called by some the "Dread Pirate Corbye" just as Morgan is referred to as the "Black Blade." It does not sit well with either woman that there are two "Captains Corbye" on the waves, both of similar infamy and prowess. Indeed, exploits attributed to one sister may be those executed by the other, a factor which contributes to the inaccuracy of the colorful histories which surround both women. It is well documented that Kat Corbye obtained her command of the Grey Raven by dispatching its captain at the same time that her sister was serving her apprenticeship under Capt. Service. Morgan Corbye benefited from the guidance of a superior while Kat Corbye had no such tutor in the ways of command.

Throughout the years of her career, Morgan Corbye has commanded but one ship, the Winged Adventure. A few of her original crew remain staunchly loyal, the remainder having fallen to the various forms of attrition incumbent with acts of piracy. She exhibits a fondness for knives and the lash, but applies neither injudiciously, and may often be found in her cabin, at work with the same marlinespike with which she menaced Capt. Service those many years ago.