BEAR BONES

Bearly Enough Gas

Published February 10, 2007 family , humor 0 Comments

At this point in our journey down the Alaskan Canadian highway we hadn’t had any trouble getting fuel . It was about 1 day out from the place where we had fixed our truck that we began to notice the gas stations were getting farther and farther apart. We checked on our maps and determined the next station was within a comfortable distance and we would make it there with a little more than a quarter of a tank left. (Travelers experience note: Always call ahead to make certain wilderness gas stations are still open)

Oh no! The gas station on our map was no more! It was closed for good! Checking our trusty road maps we located the next station. Knowing exactly how many miles per gallon we had been getting we estimated that we would run out of gas about 75 miles before we got to the next station. And that was using the spare can of gas that we had tied to the rear end of the truck. Oh no!

It was late at night. No one else was on the road. We kept watching the gas gauge move towards the E. We had never been this low on fuel. It was my turn to drive. Hubby was trying to sleep in the back at this point. He kept waking up and poking his head through that cab window to look at the gauge.

“Keep it steady, no accelerations or decelerations, ” he intoned for about the 20th time. I was too nervous to even respond. When he could no longer sleep he crawled through the window to sit up front with me. Then he began to explain about 55 being the optimal speed for gas conservation (for the 20th time as well). At this point I didn’t think it mattered because we were obviously running on prayers and fumes anyway.

All I could see was pitch black outside just beyond our head lights. I tried to keep a steady pressure on the accelerator and maintain that magical speed of 55. I could hear and feel the gravel on the road being thrown out to the sides of the truck. (In 1983 not all of the Alcan Highway was paved.) Suddenly 3 figures darted out into the road just ahead of us and I slammed on the brakes. The cats, (who were peeking through the cab window) tumbled forward into the floor of the truck. “Hey don’t slow down!” hollard my man! “Do you know how much more fuel we’ll use trying to get back up to 55?! In one movement he grabbed both cats and flung them through the window into the back of the truck with our daughter. I looked at him and said as calmly as I could, “If I had hit one of those bear cubs, I don’t think we’d be alive because that giant momma bear over there would rip our truck apart trying to get at us!” We both looked over to our left and saw the dark figures of momma brown bear and two baby cubs loping across the tundra. Praying slient thankyous, we both let out sighs of releif.

We resumed our fuel consumption. By our best estimates we should have run out of fuel 25 miles ago and still had 25 more to go. I kept glancing at the guage, and the speedometer. It was now well past the E. Had I seen it move? Twenty five miles later the truck was still running and it was 2 am as we pulled into the gas station. The lights were off and everyone was obviously asleep. We parked and turned the motor off.

The next morning after we had gotten a few hours sleep, we tried to start the truck. It wouldn’t. Appears we had used up the last of the fumes driving into the station. My man and the attendant pushed the truck over to the pumps and we filled up. We also called ahead to the next station.

"I Think I Can't, I Think I Can't....."

THE 9 YEAR MAP READING LESSON

Published February 4, 2007 cooking , family , food , health , humor , science 0 Comments

You too can learn what ever you don’t want to in just nine, count em, NINE years! All it takes is resistance for the first eight, and total submission for the 9nth. It’s not effortless but as they always say, “No Pain, No Gain!”

Thus began my hubby’s personal mission to teach me to read a map. “Sweetie Pie”, he’d say as he periodically would try to corner me for my geography tutorial, just sit down and relax! “I’ve got a nice assortment of yellow fluorescent markers, some fresh maps, and a compass. “Whoopie”, said I.

Ignoring me he would begin in a monotonous tone, “Now let’s begin by finding where we are on the map.” He would shove the map over to me and grin hopefully. “Well, I said,” where are we?” “You do it, he said encouragingly, ”Find where we are at.” Looking at the squiggly lines, I fought down a growing sense of panic and frustration. Turning the map so North was directly in front of my forehead and all the words were right side up, I sat and stared.

“Well?” “I’m LOOKING!” “Try over in this quadrant.” “Well that’s real helpful to people who know what quadrants are! Quadrants are sections of peoples bodies, I don’t see any cadavers on this map!” “Quadrants are sections on maps .” “Well that’s helpful,” I said, “does a map have veins and arteries too?” “I don’t think you are taking this thing seriously, ” he said looking rather hurt.

Looking him straight in the eye I said, “I fail to see why I should learn something that causes me this much stress. Learning should be fun! I have a private pilots license, a degree in psychology, and a degree in art. Why in the world should I do this thing that makes my brain hurt?” He stared at me with his mouth open.

“How on this earth did you pass the test for your pilots license if you didn’t learn to read a map?” “Easy, ” I said. “First, I faked it.” Second most maps for pilots aren’t covered with a bunch of squiggly lines crossing and criss crossing over each other. Third you only have to score 70 on that test and I got a 72. Two points overkill. I didn’t have to get every map question correct and by flipping a coin on the multiple choice ones I had a 50% chance of getting it right!” And lastly they got a little gadjet called a VOR at each airport so all I have to do is dial it in and they tell me which way to go.”

He stared at me a long, long time. “Remind me, “he said,”to NEVER fly with you, it’s dangerous enough driving with you!” “Fine, ” I responded, ” But I’ve only gotten lost once and that didn’t count because I forgot to set my gyroscope every-time I landed. Besides power lines are fun to follow when your flying.” By this time he had his head resting on his maps. “Are we done? ” I asked.

“For now.” he moaned. “BUT, I’m putting this map up on the door so you can study it every time you go out.” “Sure go ahead,” I mumbled. Periodically when the map reading issue would come up I would rip the map down. He would follow me around the house with florescent markers and new maps thinking today would be the day he would make it click for me! I tolerated this reasonably well until the moon would exert its phase on my female body. Then I would turn into a horrible shrew, throwing anti orienteering tantrums worthy of any two year old. “You are MEAN! Why can’t you leave me ALONE! I have DOCUMENTATION about dyslexia! IT IS A REAL THING!” I ‘d rip down the map and he’d put it back up.

“Don’t feed me that junk,” he finally said. “I will not give up! You can fly a plane, then you CAN learn to read a map.” This went on periodically for 8 years. I felt like an old wild horse that someone was trying to break. I began to rethink my tactics. He obviously hadn’t learned what it said in the books about dyslexia. I had to show him first hand to convince him. Here was my new strategy. I would put forth a serious, concerted effort and spend whatever time it took with him, studying and trying to learn to read the map. Once he saw that something in my brain made this task impossible for me, he would give up on his own. It would make for fewer arguments anyway.

But a funny thing happened to me on the way to trying to convince him. In one year, I was reading that map. The lines no longer appeared to be just a tangled mass. I knew how to tell north, and south, east and west just from being outside and looking at the sun. I could orient myself by the stars! The man who would not give up on me glowed with pride at my accomplishment! I felt a new sense of power, of self esteem! I began to think there was nothing I couldn’t do or learn. There was no greater gift that he could have given me. Thank you Lord for my OC husband.

“Now”, he said “let me teach you how to make bread!”

“Aahhhhhhhggggggggg!”

Off Course

GEOGRAPHICLY IMPAIRED

Published February 2, 2007 family , humor 4 Comments

LIFE AND LIMERICK

In Pittsburgh I am now told

Blue Men are there to behold

Ambassadors for the City

Also helpful and pretty

You’ll never get lost or rolled!

Cathe

Apparently Pittsburgh has decided to help those of us who are directionally challenged. I wish they had these guys in Anchorage when I was first married. It would have saved me allot of grief. But then again maybe not.

One morning my new hubby asked me if I knew the way to the local lumbar yard. Informing him that I knew exactly where it was and had in fact been by there on many occasions, we jumped into the yellow pick up truck to buy needed job materials.

It was one of those cheerful Alaskan spring mornings and all was right with the world. We drove along happily chatting away. “turn right at the next light”, I said. Right turn executed we continued on. “Oh, turn left at this intersection.” Lumbering and bouncing along in our faithful truck we traveled for another full minute and I told him to turn right at the next stop sign. Then left at the next block and right at the next. “Now here is where it gets tricky”, I informed him. “At this intersection here turn left but then immediately get into the right lane and go one block where you’ll turn right again.”

By this time my spouse had ceased chatting with me and had a look of concerned curiosity on his face. Hmmm, he must be trying to memorize the route there. I had better not interrupt him. I sat back quietly and waited for the next turn. “There!”, I yelped, “turn left!” I had almost missed it. He kept glancing over at me and looking more and more curious.

“Are you sure….” he started to say and I interrupted him with, “Now turn right there!” “Honey”, he said in a very measured tone, “ummmm how many more turns is this going to take?”

“Ohhhhh, about 5 more, but I can’t quite remember though you can see the lumber yard from the next to last turn.”

As we completed the number of required turns, the lumber yard appeared in front of us. Grinning I said, “See? I told ya I knew the way!” He sat at the steering wheel staring out in front as if in deep thought. Then he said, “Sweetie, the lumber yard is only 10 minutes from our home and it just took us 45 minutes to get here with no traffic against us. Just how did you pick this particular route?” Hopping from the truck I proudly proclaimed that this was the public bus route.

“What?” he exclaimed. “Well sure,” I said. I’ve traveled this way for 6 years now. I know the route like the back of my hand.” “Don’t you ever use a map?” he asked incredulous. “OHHH NOOO! I Can’t read maps! I’m dyslexic.”

“What do you mean you can’t read a map? Anybody can read a map, you just have to put your mind to it. I can show you.” Looking him straight in the eye so I communicated my message clearly I said, “I can NOT read a map, I am dyslexic. I find other ways to get around, end of story.” “But..” “NO!” “I’m just saying that…” “NO!”

I walked into the store determined he was not going to stress me out trying to teach me an impossible task. He walked into the same store determined that with a little TLC and some patience he could teach me. Little did we both know that this event would take on a life all its’ own, constantly lurking at the back of our relationship and nipping at the heels of our contentment. Next blog be ready for : The 9 Year Long Map Reading Lesson!

DING Round 1

FIRST FIGHT

Published January 30, 2007 cooking , family , food , health , humor 3 Comments

(OF LIFE AND LIMERICK)

sighed a maiden both tender and true

I’ve done plenty of dreaming of you

for I’m in the habit

of eating welsh rarebit

and there’s no telling what I will do!

author unknown

I remember watching an old Andy Griffeth show where he said, “What looks like fighten to some folks is waltzen to others.” The following is a description of a beautiful ballet performed by a newly married couple.

We wasted no time starting the work on that 3rd member of our family brood. Our marriage had come complete with two 5 year old girls. One from his side and one from mine. Ahhhh but now the “bean in the pot” would help to blend the flavours of this newly mixed family stew!

Two months into the pregnancy I was quite content because I hadn’t yet thrown up and all appeared to be going well health wise. We were tight financially, (still) and I accepted all food donations where ever they came from. Since we lived in Alaska, naturally some one had extra moose liver on hand. I loved liver! Wouldn’t my frugal and thrifty hubby be proud!

“I hate liver.”, he said trying not to grimace. Distraught over the realization that I was not going to impress him and suddenly awash in pregnancy hormones, I couldn’t stop the rush of tears that welled up in my eyes. My lips trembled. “You.. you hav’nt had liver the (sniff) way I make it!” I said.

“Sweetie Pie,” (he always starts any disagreement with this phrase) “my mother has prepared liver as many ways as there are in this universe and it still makes me throw up!” My lower lip twitched and another tear worthy of an alligator slid down my cheek. He groaned. “Honey Bun,” (now I knew there was no convincing him because he had used the second pre argument phrase) “when my grandmother invited me over for supper with the rest of my family, she served the best tasting liver I’ve ever had in my life and I still had to spit it out into my napkin! It makes me sick!”

I looked at the free package of meat that represented to me, a stretching of my grocery money and turned around slowly. More slowly than usual because the speed at which one turns when one is pouting is directly proportional to how much sympathy one generates. It is a carefully orchestrated maneuver. Just as my body was at a 3/4 turn from my beloved I let go with a barely audible sob. This strategy would never have worked 5 years later but he was new to the game as was I and well, this skirmish was mine!

He agreed to try MY liver! Happily I began preparations for the best liver meal he had ever eaten in his life. When I had finished cooking this, not only would he LOVE liver, he would beg me to prepare it this way at least once a week! I was so going to impress my man!

As we sat down at the table I failed to notice the slight green tinge around his face. He forced a week smile. No problem though. All that reluctance would change as soon as he tasted this gourmet fair. I served him a heaping plate full of steamy liver strauganoff. I sat and waited. He stared at his plate with knife in one hand and fork in the other. Trying to set a good example for him I sliced and stabbed a fork full of the delicacy. “Mmmmmm”, I murmured and cast hopeful eyes in his direction.

Five minutes had gone by and he was still slicing his liver. The chunks had begun about the size of good beef stew size meat pieces and now he had reduced each morsel to a sliver. “Sweetie Pie”, I said. (oh no! Now I had used the SP word!) “Why haven’t you even tasted your meal yet?” The green tinge had crept a little further up his face. He ever so slowly lifted that fork of shredded meat to his mouth. Actually placing it in his mouth he began to chew, and chew and chew. He finally came up for air and downed his entire glass of milk. Clearing his throat he said, “That was absolutely the best liver I have ever eaten and I still don’t like liver! That tasted exactly like my grandmothers! “

If he had looked closely into my eyes at that moment he would have seen one phrase in each eye that read, “web page unavailable right now”. Regaining my internal composure, I contemplated his words. I had invented this recipe! No one else had it! What did he mean just like his grandmothers?! Not wanting to appear to start an argument I sat there festering and feeding a growing resentment while he headed rather rapidly I thought, to the bathroom. Well I sighed, no accounting for some peoples tastes and pretended not to care while I cleaned the kitchen.

That evening there came an unexpected knock at the door. Grinning from ear to ear my best friends’ husband dropped off a huge wrapped package of moose liver. He jumped into his car waving a friendly goodbye. Hubby sat in the living room staring at the unwanted but free groceries and leaned his head back on the couch while muttering something under his breath. I stared at the unmanna like package wrapped in its’ fresh butcher block paper.

“Well”, I said with nervous laughter, “this is frozen through completely so there’s no need to cook it right now. It’ll take a while to thaw so I’ll just place it in this giant Pyrex measuring cup and let it thaw out in the fridge for a few days.” “Wonderful”, was the only thing he said. Half of me was angry but the other half was really worried about his green pallor. I placed the liver filled Pyrex cup in the refrigerator and decided to sleep on it. It being my resentment.