DC Spinster

I saw six movies at the theatre in 2018, two of them very excellent films.

There's a German pastry shop in Arlington that is a fun place to spend a half hour.

It has all kinds of marzipan creatures.

Bring a book of poetry and enjoy coffee, crumpets and company there.

This little piggy cried wee wee wee all the way home.

Last year I saw ten movies.  One I can't remember, but the others were, in loose order of how I liked them, these, although I might have the exact titles wrong:

Dunkirk.  A rousing, well-told spectacle about the British evacuation by boat lift of their surrounded army from the French mainland in 1940 during the fall of France.  It might have saved the world from the scourge of Nazism, although as Churchill drily noted, wars are not won by evacuations.

Darkest Hour.  Another Dunkirk era tale, this time focusing on the lonely struggle of Winston Churchill to keep Britain in the fight during their darkest hour of World War II, and thereby maybe saving the world from the scourge of Nazism, once America finally got in the fight a year and a half later.

Beauty and the Beast.  Yeah, a musical.  I got dragged to it under false pretenses but I liked it.

Hidden Figures.  A stirring (and true) tale of black women's fight against not only sexism but racism.

The Batman Leggo Movie.  We sneaked into it after another show.  It was funny.

Despicable Me 3.  We sneaked into it after another show.  It was funny.

Thor.  It was deadpan funny, inspiring, well-paced and well done.

A Monster Calls.  It was about a tree in the cemetery, is what I remember.  And fatherhood, I think.

Fist Fight.  It was dreadful and unwatchable, something about a beleaguered schoolteacher in a tough school.  We walked out after 20 minutes and snuck into another show.

Last week I went to Buckroe Beach in Hampton, Virginia for a trip to the shore.  My cousin Liz and her husband Bill from Colorado rented a cottage a block from the beach and invited me to stay for a few days.

It was good to see them, and I went into the water with their two little granddaughters, who are just learning how to swim.  The beach is actually on the Chesapeake Bay, near where its water merges with the Atlantic Ocean, so the water is warmer there than elsewhere in the region and the waves are less powerful although there is quite a current that flows through there.

I got in a two-mile run along the beach's boardwalk and watched the sunrise both days I was there.  On one run I fell in with Sherman, a man about my age, and had an interesting conversation with him about sharecropping; he was the son of a sharecropper in the region and he described this system of farming to me after he inquired if I had ever heard of sharecropping before (I had).

We went to tour nearby Fort Monroe one day, and saw the cell where Confederate president Jaff Davis was imprisoned after the War of the Rebellion.  After a couple of pleasant days at the beach I drove back home, much refreshed.

I got a Kindle for my 60th birthday last year, but it still sits in its box, unused.  I have a household full of unread books, bought for 25 cents at library sales, and the library is half a mile away.  What do I need another thing to put endless queues upon? 

On the subway platform and train each workday, while half of my fellow humans there are totally isolated within their cocoon of selfhood, their earbuds sealing off their eardrums and their eyes riveted upon the device mere inches in their palm so they don't have to hazard a glance at a fellow human being, I have an open book in my hand and I can be engrossed in the biting winter at Valley Forge (I'm reading First Salute by Barabara Tuchman) but still be able to glance at my fellow travelers and imagine or engage in interactions, even if only for safety's sake.  Things can take shape on public transit that you might want to think about beforehand as they unfold.

I'm already swamped with books I haven't read that I'd love to get around to.  I have a bookshelf comprised of five twelve-foot long boards separated by cinder blocks in the basement that contains some of the books I have read.  Since age seventeen I have written down every book I have read, and a decade ago I digitalized the body of work by putting the list on a wordperfect document, by date and also by author, that I can search electronically or glance at the author lists.  All the unread books swim in the sea of clutter that is my house.

My friends who put their libraries on their Nooks and Kindles can't keep up with the additions to their endless queues they add to the back end of their device whenever they get bored and go off to Amazon for a few moments.  The unknown paramour is often more enticing than the steady tried and true immediately at hand.  So many books, so little time.

On the back of the Oregon state quarter is Crater Lake.  Its placement there is well deserved.
Crater Lake is a caldera, a bowl formed when a volcano collapses in upon itself.  The basin formed filled up with rainwater and snow melt, the lake's only sources of water. 
Oregon and Washington are volcanic areas.  The explosion six millennium ago that triggered the formation of the lake was fifty times the force of the devastating explosion of Mount St. Helens in 1980.
It is a sacred place to Native Americans.  One legend has it that an Indian walked about the jagged wreckage of the open depression while it was still hot and before it started filling with water.  How cool would that have been? 

Crater Lake in Oregon.  Go there!

I took my summer vacation last month.  I went to the great northwest.

Why?  Because at my age I keep lists.

As in, states I have never been in.  That would be (as of early last month) Alaska, Hawaii, Idaho, Oregon and Washington,

Alaska and Hawaii are hard to get to, so they await another day.  But I put a big check mark on all of the lower 48 last month.

Oh, I also keep track of the baseball stadiums I have visited and I saw a game at Safeco Field (Mariners) in Seattle.  That's an out-of-the-way-place for an east coaster like me, but I got 'er done, so now my bucket list of current major league parks I have not seen a major league baseball game in has been reduced to two (new Yankee Stadium and new Florida Marlins Stadium).

The first day on the river was very short and very hard. We didn’t get on the water until 5:30 in the afternoon of Monday, May 3d, and then we only went three miles down river.

It took forever to get organized at J’s house in Montrose, to gather all the equipment and drive to the put-in place on the Dolores River at Gateway in Colorado. The day before, our hosts had ferried cars around so that there were vehicles were waiting for us at the take-out spot in Utah, four hours away by road. (Right: The Dolores River in Colorado.)

Everyone had a lot of stuff, packed into waterproof bags. I had two duffel-bag sized drybags myself.

Lashed into the boats were three 70-pound metal bins of refrigerated food, dry foodstuffs and liquids, plus four 20-gallon jerrycans of potable water weighing about 80 pounds each. There also were several large metal boxes containing kitchen items, a fold-up table, chairs, propane tanks, stoves, charcoal, tarps, the latrine and various other sundry stuff.

Everything had to be rigged onto the boat so it would stay no matter what. There is a saying on the river that came to be proven absolutely true on our trip: Dress to swim and rig to flip.

(Left: The boat I rode in with Jy, middle, captained by G, who oared from the back. The life vest I was wearing absolutely saved my life. Photo by B.) There are some descriptive terms on the river that also came to be proven true. The way was "bony" which meant there were a lot of the rocks exposed above the surface which made for a difficult passage, and the water was "skinny," meaning it was shallow and likely to hang up a boat.

There is a dam upriver of our put-in spot, and our two river men were dissatisfied with its release, reckoning the purposeful discharge from the dam was barely sufficient for us to progress downstream. The river flow was 1200 cfs, or cubic feet per second, and they wished it had been 2,000 cfs at least.

More water means less danger, apparently, because less rocks are exposed. This was all pretty esoteric to me.

Down river we went in the late afternoon, the leaky rubber pontoon boats taking on water constantly and losing air continuously. The boats were so laden, overladen, with all the gear and everyone’s stuff that they rode low in the water.

For an hour the trip was idyllic. The three boats paddled and oared on a broad calm river through a wide canyon with high hills and towering cliffs defining the nearby horizons.

Then we approached what the guidebook said was a difficult Class III rapids at a diversion dam. I didn’t know what a diversion dam was but a far off din of roaring water down river that steadily grew to thundering definition garnered my attention.

The river was calm though, because we were in the pooled up backwater of the diversion dam. Finally we could see a tiny line of leaping foam running across the broad water horizon, signifying the trouble spot.

We put in to shore and got out of boats to take a look. The sight was astonishing. (Left: The Diversion Dam. Photo by B.)

In Colorado, ranchers own the bottom of the rivers which run through their property and hence, they can indiscriminately disrupt the water flow of the river. Here the rancher had bulldozed huge boulders across the river during the summer, when the river flow is minimal, and created a diversion wall for the water so that it would flow into an artificial channel the rancher cut into one bank leading into his fields.

The two Coloradans explained that by partially diverting the river, the rancher thus saved the cost of electricity that running a pump from the river would entail. The problem was that the diversion dam made the river impassable at that point for our three small boats.

From the bank beside the artificial dam, we watched the water pouring over the obstacle in a tremendous torrent, hence the roar, and falling three feet or more into a series of holes in the water below the dam. There were jagged rocks strewn about everywhere on any potential landing points amidst the tortured water underneath the dam.

The two river men, who had never been on this stretch of river before, saw the obstacle as a problem to be solved, getting the boats over that dam. They discussed using this or that tongue of water flowing over and past the dam to shoot over the barrier rocks, and then the quick actions that would be necessary upon hitting the boiling water in the boulder field below the dam.

The leader of the paddle boat, T, nixed that talk entirely. "Portage," he said simply.

It was 7 o’clock and we needed to set up camp soon. If disaster overtook a boat at the dam site, it could be dark before we could effect a rescue for the boat and its occupants.

The vote was to unload the boats above the dam, cart (portage) the contents and the boats below the obstacle, and re-enter the water after rigging the boats again.

This is humping! It’s a lot of work, especially with a full load of crap such as we had.

The beauty in T’s suggestion was that we would have to unload the boats anyway, to make camp. Why not do it there, camp, and proceed below the hindrance on the morrow.

The two river men took it as a bit of a defeat, I think, saying they had never portaged before, but they bowed to the popular will. The banks were steep and also muddy and sucked at our shoes and caused us to slip and slide as we unloaded the three boats.

We cooked a dinner of bratwurst sausages in the dark and slept under the stars beside the deafening diversion dam on a ranch road running alongside the man-made water-bearing channel. We didn’t know if the land was public or private, but I suspect we were trespassing. (Left: Looking back at the diversion dam as we left the next day. Photo by B.)

The night was very clear and very cold, just at the freezing point. We had gone just three miles and I was worn out already.

Hmm, I'll have to think about Anonymous' comment in my last post.

Meanwhile, a friend related to me that she was reading a rollicking good book that repeatedly made her laugh out loud. I thought that sounded nice, to read a passage that made you burst out laughing.

I had such a moment today. I am reading Sherman: Fighting Prophet by Lloyd Lewis, copyright 1932. It's a fascinating book about a complex military man, an American hero (sorry Southerners).

Lewis describes General William Tecumseh Sherman when he was in his nervous, distracted phase early in the Civil War as he frenetically worked out his plans for command, when some people seriously considered him to be insane. Here's what made me laugh out loud on the subway when I read it:

Sherman was now entering upon that phase of his life when people would call him "queer." Absent-minded, [Kentucky legislator] Rousseau thought him as they stood at the railroad station near Maldraugh's Hill. Sherman, who was smoking incessantly, found that his cigar was no longer burning and asked a sergeant for a light. The soldier, who had just lit a fresh cigar, handed it to the general, who used it to kindle his own cheroot, then threw it into the dirt. Rousseau broke out laughing but Sherman remained preoccupied.

Isn't that a hoot? Isn't that gorgeous writing?

Or how about this passage:

Excoriating a reporter who had written that the general's manners were like those of a Pawnee Indian, Sherman was angered still further, a few days later, to read that the correspondent had apologized not to him, but to the Pawnee Indians.

Good stuff.

When I recently became president of my running club, due to my higher profile, the adverse reaction became pointed. Formerly, In my role as Programs Director for my running club, I took a lot of pictures because I liked to record the training programs I directed. You know, bands of indistinguishable runners loping down the Mall, that sort of thing.

For the past several years I have been using disposable cameras. I get the film developed and order a CD with electronic images on it. Although the results are not instantaneous, people tell me that film cameras actually take better pictures than digital cameras. But what do I know?

Some people within the club, who don't like my style, have taken this as further proof of what a cretin I am, still using last century's technology. It's not that they saw my preference as quaint, they were genuinely offended by it. Instead of being bemused when I use tried and true instead of cutting edge, they are outraged. These are much younger folks, less tolerant, who have no use for old fogeys who still mail checks or carry a cell without a camera or Internet capability on it.

I actually had a digital camera which I bought for $500 four years ago. I had a friend show me how to use it. It was simple to operate, really. I'll tell you one thing though. I'd rather lose or ruin a $6 disposable camera than a $500 one.

And I'll tell you another thing. I think digital cameras promote two things. One is that no shots are ever reduced to a "picture" anymore that can be shown to a friend, sent to Grandma or put in an album. It only exists, unseen, within someone's hard drive forever once it gets offloaded there. The other is what I call snapping diarrhea. Every little thing is shot, with no thought about framing the picture or relevancy.

So for a few weeks I've been using the digital camera. Mostly I take running shots. If I get ahead of the running crowd and open the camera, wait for it to get ready to shoot, which takes about five seconds (no point & shoot with this thing), and then click the shutter, it'll take a picture, in about another two seconds. In other words, I shoot the shot that will "appear" in two seconds, not the scene that is actually before me.

I learned to take head on shots, not side shots. And anything but a dead-head-on shot was blurry anyway. What I have is a $500 landscape camera. It's worthless for running shots.

I have learned a few things. My camera is worthless. It's 3 Mega pixels, and the standard now is 12. The photo card that came with it was 286 MB and cost me $85, back then. It took about 20 pictures and then filled up. So I got to buy another more "modern" card with 2 GB for $30.

My battery, which lasts about two years, dies after about five shots. I went to Best Buy to purchase a new one. Uh, they don't carry it anymore. 2005 hardware is all on the scrap heap. I special ordered it for $20. The salesman pointedly showed me a $99 Kodak with the aforesaid 12 Mega pixels. I think the implication was for me to throw out this $500 four-year old implement.

This is progress, right? At my house I have an entire shelf dedicated to charging units, for my Garmin, my laptop, my cellphone, my camera. None of the chargers will charge anything else. No attachment will fit into anything else. Wires and plugs everywhere.

I recently was at a super thrift store, perusing the clutter on the camera shelf. I bought an Olympus 35MM automatic advance date recording zoom lense camera for $4.99 and a Nikon 35MM automatic advance date recording zoom lense camera for $4.99. I used to pay $250 for cameras like that and yes, I know how to operate them even without the manual, which of course wasn't around. Two 123 batteries later ($13.59) and they are operating just fine. They take much better running shots and landscape shots than practically any digital camera I could buy.

I can wait for my special order digital battery to come in.

I was working late but it was still light outside. The phone rang. I answered, and it was a colleague on the street below who had just left work, on her cell phone.

"Peter, there’s a race going on. It’s going by our building right now. Look out your window."

From my third floor office, I looked down at Massachusetts Avenue, two blocks from Union Station. A swarm of runners was proceeding, amoeba like, towards my building down the sidewalks on both sides of the street, and some runners were cutting across the roadway in traffic. Other runners were stopping and starting as if they were looking for something. Odd sounds reached me through my sealed window. I swear I heard, "Talley ho!"

"Oh, that’s a hash house harrier run."

"What?"

"A hash house harrier run. They’re crazy people who get together in the evenings to run, and they follow flour trails that eventually lead somewhere after about six miles, usually a drinking establishment. Then they proceed to get plastered."

"What?"

"Well, that was the short version. They’re known to be drinkers with a running problem. They form clubs worldwide and meet after work to follow a trail that somebody else has left earlier, filled with false starts, to some eventual objective."

"I’ve never heard of it before."

I heard "Are you?" drift up from the street.

"Google ‘Hash House Harriers’ and you'll see. There are probably 25 clubs in the DC area. When they come through an area, they look really strange to bystanders, running and stopping, fanning out, backtracking, following tiny flour spots on the sidewalk. When they get on the scent, they call out to each other to follow them. It’s like a fox hunt on two legs instead of on horses."

"What? Why are some runners running fast, and others are just jogging along?"

"The fit runners, or FRB’s, try to find the true flour trail and follow it, and everyone else hangs around until they do, or else they look for it themselves. The path is littered with false trails and dead-ends."

"It sounds like fun. Why don’t you do it?"

"Checking!" came through the window. Runners were milling around below me.

"I have done it, twice. They’re all crazy though. All they do is talk and drink afterwards."

"They’re having so much fun! Can you see them talking and laughing? They’re all so young. I’d love to do it too but I don’t see anyone my age."

My thought bubble said, "You don’t even run." What I said was, "You have to go to the suburbs to find people in their 30s and 40s who do it, but they’re out there. This could be the White House Hash Harriers, leaving from Union Station, all in their 20s."

I dimly heard someone shout, "On-on!" Like a dozing dog springing to life upon hearing someone on the porch, the horde of harriers turned as one to the sound. They all streamed away towards it and in a flash they were gone!

A strange bunch.

I bought a bike. For forty dollars. It came with a lifetime service contract.

I signed up for Smart Bike DC for a forty dollar annual fee. As my brother the economist says, it's grossly underpriced. With my access card, I can go to any of ten bike racks scattered about the core downtown DC area and take out a bike for free for up to three hours. I have to return it to any of the bike racks before its appointed time. And if I lose a bike, or it gets stolen from me, it's $550.

The hours of operation are 6 am to 10 pm. I can go here and check on the availability of bikes at any particular rack or, equally important, whether I can drop one off there. Sure there are lots of rules (the contract was eight pages, mostly liability stuff. I think it said I am gonna die on a bike and it's not the city's fault) but basically it's that simple.

The possibilities are boundless. I can go bike riding on a weekend on the C&O Canal with my girlfriend. She hates it that I don't have a bike. Well, now I do. For three hours anyway.

That 2.5 mile jog to and from my monthly noontime Tidal Basin 3K each way? I can pick up a Smart Bike on the way, bike there, run the race and bike back.

If I leave work at 9 pm and don't want to transfer from the Red Line to the Orange Line on the Metro (if I miss connections it can be a 35 minute wait), I can pick up a Smart Bike by walking to Judiciary Square on the Red Line (a 5 minute walk) and bike over to Metro Center (a 25 minute walk) on the Orange Line where I can drop the bike off.

That is, until I get killed. I had my first adventure yesterday. (The Program is one week old.) I walked to Judiciary Square at 6:30 pm, excited about the prospect of getting a bike to ride over to Metro Center. Hmm, no bikes, the rack was empty. Grumbling, I walked over to Gallery Place, still on the Red Line. There were six bikes there. Feeling like a child stealing a candy bar, I took a bike and rode the 3-speed contraption the eight further blocks to Metro Center.

It's illegal to ride on the sidewalks in the core downtown area. There were at least half a dozen idling double parked cars that I went by along the way, some with drivers on cell phones (they're as dangerous as drunk drivers) and some were taxis (they're deadly in this town). All waiting to do something impetuous as soon as I rode by like get underway suddenly or throw their door open or whip into a U-turn. With the ubiquitous downtown construction, there were little roadway bottlenecks all over the place for li'l ol' me to squeeze through on my bike. And me stop for red lights? Faghedaboudit.

I made it. It's a fabulous program, borrowed from a Paris model, and unique to this country so far. I love it already. But, we need more bikes, Mayor Fenty!

After we repulsed the pirates on the Colorado River on the sixth day of our eight-day raft trip through the Grand Canyon, we celebrated by jumping into the river--from a cliff.

Lindsay showed us how to do it. (Left: This is how you leap off a cliff into the Colorado River. "Aaaaa Hoooo!" Slim Pickens.)

One of the school administrators went next. She liked it so much she did it again. And I think she did it again. And again. Woot. (Right: Thumbing her nose at danger.)

Here's the other school administrator taking the plunge. Tell me, could you ever imagine your school principal engaging in this kind of behavior? (Left: "Hey, what about Major Kong?" James Earl Jones.)





It was a long way down, but no one chickened out. (Right: It was at least 20 feet down into the river. Woo hoo!)