Please Sir, May I Have Some More?

Stick 'em up Copper!

Thug squirrels have taken over the park near my home.
The little hoodlums are in firm control of the northwest corner of the beautiful city park that I navigate whenever I walk to restaurants, coffee shops, the post office or the marina where I keep my boat.  These little clowns are worse than the Gambino family when it comes to demanding payoffs.  At first I was able to secure safe passage by merely piecing off the little bastards with bulk shell peanuts   purchased reasonably at Costco but now it takes an offering of quality shelled walnuts or almonds to insure safe passage through Squirrelville.

My wife had often told me that squirrels were among the smartest of all animals and I'm beginning to believe she was on to something.  They obviously recognize me on sight and have rightly deduced that I am an easy touch.  The minute my foot hits the sidewalk near their tree hideout they form a line as they rock back and forth on their haunches awaiting my patronage.  I must time each trip carefully to insure that the first recipients of my largess aren't finished with my tribute tidbits by the time I reach the final furry holdup artist.  It's a game of inches that sometimes finds me suddenly sprinting for the safety of the parking lot on the far side of the park.

All things considered these four-legged criminals are kind of fun to watch and are certainly more low maintenance than a dog or a cat.  Perhaps I'll just refer to them as my pets and congratulate myself on freedom from vet bills, fancy pet foods and the idea of having to share my bed with something that might have fleas.  They also have no "accidents" on the carpet.  I wonder how they feel about cashews and pistachios on their old pal Mr. Copper?
A trip to Costco anyone?

"Paulie Walnuts" 

 

A Grandson Learns About WW II

I have been on the road.  It is all part of my master plan not to hit the floor and sometimes it even works.

Last week was spent in New Orleans with grandson Dan and his parents.  Not only was the city looking better that it has in quite some time, the oysters, gumbo and other Bayou yummies were there to remind me of why I have loved visiting NOLA for years.  Of course the new number one attraction in the Crescent City is the National World War II Museum and its magnificent campus on Magazine street in the warehouse district.  I have been a member of the museum's Patriots Circle for years and love to show it off whenever the chance presents itself.  At age 7,  I thought it was a good time for Dan to learn at least a little about the sacrifice of his great grandparent's generation and why it's important.  In that respect the trip was an amazing success.  He spent the better part of three days learning about America's role in defeating Hitler and the Empire of Japan and, more importantly, why it was necessary to save the world.  The museum is a national treasure that, if not already, should be on your bucket list.  You'll be hooked from the Steven Spielberg/ Tom Hanks produced movie, "Beyond All Boundaries", right up to your trip through the Road to Tokyo pavilion.   Treat yourself to a look at: nationalww2museum.org. 

Dan plane spotting in New Orleans

Captain Dan on the bridge of an aircraft carrier mock up.

Dan and his pal FDR.

A picture for posterity.  Jackson's statue is coming down.

Beignets and beads in The Big Easy, always a necessity.

Sky Show

Springtime Delayed

Walt at his "job".

"Two pike, a bass and a couple of kokanee," replies Walt Maurice the old guy who fishes nearly every day off the pier at the seaplane base near my home.  Part of my daily walk includes a swing by Walt's usual spot just to check on how they're biting and his total so far.  I have no idea how old Walt is (probably younger than he looks) but he tells me that fishing is "his job" and he seldom misses a day.  He is a little more stooped this year and I notice there is now a gap where his front teeth used to be, no doubt his perpetual pipe smoking is the culprit.  He asks me about my wife and I give him the sad news.  He liked her.  Everyone did.  I envy his sense of purpose and resolve.  Gotta get some of that.

After what most locals call "the worst winter in thirty years", it is good to see the sun and feel some warmth for a change.  Spring, at least so far, has been cloudy, rainy and cool.  The leaves are just now filling the trees and my nose and eyes tell me that the pollen count is rising.  I guess it's fitting that a year so personally dark has been reflected in the weather.  A few sunny days and a bunch of chores   are good medicine.  Missing a wife of 48 years will take more than a little getting used to.  I still think that she is just away and due to return tomorrow or the next day  It's impossible yet to grasp the enormity of her absence.  I attempt to clean out closets and drawers but quit after feeble efforts.  Later, I think.  Maybe the next time the kids visit?  This is all new and I don't like it.

Walking, biking, boating, visiting with old friends on the phone and new ones made here in this new place on a beautiful lake in the north of Idaho is good but I often feel as if I'm merely going through the motions.  Time.  It will take time.  Everyone says so.  

Meanwhile I embrace a late Spring and hope that some warmth on my face and the promise of new life will help me make sense of it all or, at least, as much sense as I can handle.  The late Ted Geisel's brilliant observation echoes in my head, "don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened."  I know he's right but am not able to buy in as yet.  Time.  I need time.

  

"And her heart burst like the stars do in the end, and she fell to her knees.  But the whole world looked to her in awe.  She lit the whole universe with her fire for a moment.  In the end she was as beautiful as that starburst falling from the sky and her heart didn't ache anymore." --Akshay Vasee

She's Gone...

Linda Copper

April 13, 1948--April 17, 2017

Beautiful inside and out, a great wife, wonderful mother, grandmother and a friend to be counted on.  She never knew a stranger.  

Hospice

The weeds of cancer have overtaken the garden of my wife's bone marrow.  We have fought this ugly and deceitful disease with every available therapy and after more than four years this emperor of all maladies is just days away from claiming one more unique and beautiful person.  Linda is mostly quiet now as she looks out over the lake we call home.  Her eyes still dance just as they did when we met almost fifty years ago.  I think I'll miss that the most.

Ireland Explained

Ireland:  Welcome American suckers!

Ireland is like Disneyland only drunker.  On this St. Patrick's Day, let me explain.

Many years ago when Ireland ran out of potatoes, large numbers of the O' Haras, Murphys, Ryans and other Micks hightailed it to the United States where there was food, lite beer, TV, Celtics and Red Sox games not to mention many like minded red-faced alcoholics (see Germans).  The remaining Irish citizens, too lazy to fish, distracted themselves by either fighting or getting drunk.  You are, of course, familiar with the old Irish conundrum: Get drunk and fight? Or, fight and get drunk?  The situation was dire.  Not only were most Irish citizens too blitzed to find their car keys, they also suffered with an economy that held little in the way of good paying quality jobs.  No longer was it enough to be either a mud farmer or a sheep rapist.  Those days were gone.

One day some inebriated wag in the Irish tourist bureau latched on to the idea of tourism as a key to reviving the fortunes of the Old Sod.  Why not play up the whole St. Patrick's Day claptrap about a guy driving snakes from the Emerald Isle?  Punch up the leprechaun b.s. too and throw in rumors of a pot of gold and all that jazz.  You see, word had reached Ireland that most of the folks who had split for the U.S. when spuds became scarce could not stop bragging about their former homeland and loved to cry in their lager about wanting to go back.  "Let's lure them back with cheap tours and superior booze," was the rallying cry.  A national turnaround had begun.

Bill O'Copper, typical ugly American and distant relative.

And so it came to pass that Ireland became the absolute best place on the planet to find drunken boisterous Americans.  Head for Dublin, Cork, Killarney or any of those oh so lovely old cities and you'll see tons of fat Americans in tank tops and Bermuda shorts loudly proclaiming their Irish heritage as they stagger from pub to pub.  

If you don't drink, an Irish tour can be an amazing bargain.  Not only can you scarf all the delicious chowder and the abundant fruit of the sea that the locals discovered once they learned to bait a hook, but you will never pick up a check thanks to all your drunken pals saying, "I got this."  My wife, Linda, and I did this very thing about seven years ago with several other great Americans who also make vague claim to Irish identity.  (My grandmother's name was Ruby Ryan and I used to drink...a LOT.)

I do believe we made money on the trip.  Everybody else was pretty well impaired--especially after the Guinness tour--and more than happy to pick up every soggy check.  Good times!  

Another tour of the Emerald Isle in the future?  Nah, but I will have another bowl of those Lucky Charms.  Murphy is buying.

Linda and me looking at yet one more old pile of Irish bricks.

Something for the fitness freaks

"It's amazin' Seamus, you can eat the stuff you pull out of the water!"