Where Chester Lives

The fam and I spent Thanksgiving at the cabin, as per usual. I cooked the turkey and stuffing, while my mother-in-law took care of the sides. The bird turned out pretty good. I used this trick I learned from Cook's Illustrated, since I didn't have time to brine it (more on the time issue later this same post. Stay tuned!). I turned the bird upside-down in a pan and placed the breast meat on bags of ice for ~ an hour. This lowers the temp of the breast meat, meaning it will cook slower than the thigh/leg meat, which ultimately means that all the meat gets done at once, without drying out the turkey. This worked really good, and the bird turned out moist and del.icio.us.

So, the time issue. I spent the Wednesday before Thanksgiving trying to get our truck road-worthy. It's a good truck, but had some brake noise which didn't make me comfortable for a drive into the mountains. So, I remove the passenger-side front wheel and inspect. the noise = metal-on-metal braking. For those not in the know, this is NOT GOOD. However, it is recoverable since the brake rotors can be turned and smoothed out, which isn't that big of a deal. I put new pads on that side and move to the driver-side wheel. There was still some pad left, so the rotors were in good shape. However, as I start to compress the brake pistons (very carefully, as always) in order to install the new pads, brake fluid starts leaking around one of the pistons on this side. Fantastic. This is lovely. I compress it all the way, put in the new pads, and take it to Midas. I wait more than THREE HOURS for them to tell me that they have to keep the truck because they can't get the parts required (which, they said on the phone that they could get), and I am certainly not going to drive it to the mountains while it's leaking brake fluid. After all this, I have to be a Nazi about what we can and can't take to the mountains with us because of our new space limitations in the car. That means unpacking everyone's stuff and re-packing, leaving out absolute non-essentials. And if that doesn't sound like much, remember that there are THREE females in my household. At the beginning of the day, I had hoped to be at the cabin before dark. At the end of the day, we didn't get to leave for the cabin until after dark, and didn't get there until 8:30. I was tired and cranky, and on top of all of this, Teresa was incredibly sick. So, I didn't have time to brine the bird, or make a pecan pie, or the crescent rolls...you get the idea. Dinner turned out just fine, but it could have been SO MUCH MORE. Ah well, I'm the only one complaining.

Anyway, I am looking forward to going back to the cabin soon, when there is a bunch of snow on the ground. We haven't spent nearly enough time up there, especially since it is so easy to go. I am even considering purchasing a pair of snowmobiles to replace the machines that my father-in-law has that have achieved a "certain age." By that I mean they are so old that they no longer work, and aren't worth the money it would take to fix them, unless you were a collector. With his blessing (heh), I may put them on craigslist to see if anyone would buy them.

That about wraps that up. And the New Jersey trip? I won't speak of it. It is a memory too painful, too close in time, to relive. There aren't strong enough words in the English language to express my despair. Maybe I should learn Klingon.

It's funny how different you feel about travel when you are looking forward to your destination. Oh, don't get me wrong, all those things I said before still ring true. Ask me sometime about the Bacon and Cheese OmeletMonster. But my attitude is different. I get to see my wife today, and my daughters today, and my dogs today. Thank God.

So, tomorrow is the annual trek to the Sierra Buttes for Thanksgiving. This place reminds me of how wonderful childhood can be and, hopefully, is. There's a creek behind the cabin that pools and eddies in the blackberry brambles. Twig-and leaf boats set sail, dodging obstacles, swirling in the currents; their captains resisting the urge to reach down and correct course. Early morning walk through pine smell and ground mist, swirling your breath around the frost droplet that tugs and pulls that last tamarac leaf towards its end. Cold rushing water shaping its own passage through millenia-worn rocks. The over-enthusiastic neighbor dog Daisy, panting along after you, hoping for some attention. Steping indoors, the chill on ears and fingertips eased by the wood-fire stove.

And Thanksgiving. Oh my.

We don't just eat one meal on this day, oh no. The exercise of chopping firewood the day before has peaked the appetite, as well as the hours of cooking, and smelling the cooking. Sure, there is a big meal, but it fills the day as only a placeholder, a harbinger of the eating to come. Roast turkey with all the trimmings. a couple of hours later, turkey with orange-cranberry sauce on a leftover crescent roll. a slice of pecan pie. a spot of the leftover stuffing and gravy. A game of spoons, or dominos, or spades. Maybe watch a movie with the girls. A between-meal walk down the hill to the other houses, checking on the Carmen's cabin, stepping into their backyard to catch the view down the gorge towards the mountains on the other side of the river. You can smell the woodfires of all 110 residents.

I can't wait.

This has turned into an awful trip. One bad turn after another. Getting no help from the Mother Ship, either. I wish I was in a better mood, but I'm not. I'm edgy, a little bit snappy, and my sense of humor is ragged at best. Hmm. Ragged is one of those words that looks misspelt every time I look at it. As does misspell.

OK, while I wait for the tech support callback (it's a sev 1 issue, shouldn't take them long), I'm going to think about, and write about, something completely different.

COS (change of subject).

My father was the strongest person I know. I say "was" because he died several years ago. I'm not saying that to garner sympathy, it just is. My memories of him during childhood are vibrant, painted across my inner cortex.

You see, I would never say that my father was smart. He was no idiot, but he was the kind of guy who had to labor for his living. As a young child in Kentucky, this meant that work was often sparse to non-existent. During my very early years, he drifted from one construction job to the next, never making very much money and never being able to stay with one outfit for very long. This was no fault of his, he worked very hard and was a skilled heavy equipment operator. However, it wasn't like the housing booms of the recent years...underground work was sporadic at best, and he would be hired for one job, then spend several months on unemployment. He got tired of the uncertainty and his family's poverty, so he went to a trade school to be an electrician... I remember looking over his shoulder at electrical drawings, being fascinated by what he was studying. He would teach me things, like Ohm's law and how electricity would always seek the shortest path to ground. I was his helper on small side projects for various family/friends, using the needle-nose pliers to twist the wires together inside of junction boxes and electrical outlets, finishing them off with trafic-cone orange wire nuts...wiring up switches and light fixtures, running to the truck for more conduit, or the other toolbelt. I would hand him the tools, just like I did when he worked on the car or fixed the gate on the chicken pen.

"Son, hand me the side-cutters and the lineman's."

"Here you go, Dad."

You see, I loved my father, but it was more than that. I worshiped him, like many young boys do. I worked hard to emulate him. I wanted to be big like him, strong like him. I wanted to have big feet like him, to drive like him, to fix things like him.

My father was not perfect. He had his bad ways and bad days, and there was a mingling of fear in our relationship. However, I refuse to let that define my memory of him, and I won't tarnish the brightness of my recollections in order to justify some fault of my own. He did not earn that, nor does he deserve it.

He loved me, I loved him, and that was enough.

I miss you, Dad.

That's the sound of Duke.

Ah, one of my favorite times of year, sports-wise. You see, I'm a college hoops fan, specifically, Uni of Kentucky. And the season is beginning for most of the colleges. I've been watching the Terrapins (great mascot), the Red Storm (another great mascot), etc. So far, my Wildcats are 2-0. Of course, Miami (OH) and Mississippi Valley St. aren't exactly collegiate powerhouses. After checking espn.com, it seems that Big Blue is 0-0 and ranked #22. Ah well, they are a young team this year, without Rajon Rondo. Although, they have 2 guys over 7 feet tall. Wow. That's tall.

So...still in New Jersey. No longer raining, but the weather has gotten colder. Today should be a light work day, so I hope to go check out Washington's Headquarters. Big history buff, so that should be really cool. Probably go see a movie or something as well.

Still tired. last night was my best night's sleep, but still not like being home. I'm ready to go home.

Tired of this war, tired of fighting. Tired of this ship.

Current score. Unsettled digestive system 1, Coy 0.

What a night. Very little sleep, so the coffee/sugar:blood ratio in my body has to be raised to maintain any level of perceived prductivity.

Of course, in my sickened/weakened state at 2:30 a.m., I had this great idea for a blog entry. Said great idea has left the building, taking along its entourage of mildly amusing anecdotes and it's sparkly green jumpsuit of acerbic wit.

Okay. Deep breath.

As with anything that is under constant production, such as a blog, it takes on the form of a living organism. Organism's undergo change; sometimes rapidly, sometimes very slowly. Much of this has to do, I think, with the current growth cycle of the producer, in this case, me. In plain english, this means that the blog you are currently viewing is going to change over time, most definitely. In what ways? Who knows? If you keep reading this, maybe you will like it, maybe you won't. Blogs, done correctly, entertain and connect at a very human level. The best ones I read are viewfinders through someone else's looking glass. However, I face a quandary, and this isn't even a week old.

I find, as I type these entries, that there is a pull between what I want to say and what I should say. There is something inside of me that wants to be open and honest. As I examine that phrase, I find that "open" and "honest" are not equivalent terms. There is a balance I must strike between what is personal and private and what is safe for public consumption. And in that balance, I want to be honest. However, since I am being honest here, it's also about being entertaining. I want those who read this to want to come back and read it again. There is part of me that enjoys the spotlight, otherwise you wouldn't be reading this sentence. However, I know that there is a line I must walk. I have a massive responsibility as a father to daughters to "protect them from the bad guys." That is a very real thing for contemporary parents. I will not compromise that for entertainment. Also, there are aspects of the relationship I have with my wife that will not be divulged, simply because I love and respect her enough to maintain our curtain of privacy. Having said that, there is still plenty of room for honesty and entertainment.

And that, lady and gentleman, is your deep thought for the day. Now, I have actual work to do, RE: The Move.