We didn't manage to get holiday cards to our friends and family - or anyone else for that matter - but it doesn't mean we aren't thinking about y'all or that we don't wish everyone well. As an erstwhile e-card, we send our best wishes for 2013 with a short review of 2012 from the clever folks at JibJab entitled The End Is Near!
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Disenfranchised
I'll start with the punchline: Neither Tina nor I will be allowed to vote today in the most important Presidential election in years. How we came to this incredibly frustrating situation is slightly circuitous (no surprise there, given that election laws differ by jurisdiction) but worth explaining as another of many reasons we're exasperated with the East Coast.
For a several days Tina and I checked the PA Secretary of State's website to verify that we were registered. When we couldn't find ourselves we chalked it up to user error or the fact that we've moved three times in the 13 months we've lived in PA. So when I phoned their office yesterday expecting to be told which polling place I should use, I was more than a little surprised to learn that I am not registered, even though the Secretary of State's office was easily able to find me on the eligible voter rolls simply by using my name and birthdate. Problematically, registration can't be done online - only by completing and mailing a paper form, or at the DoT - and provisional ballots are only allowed if you're a registered voter. In any case the deadline for registering for today's election passed in mid-October.
When we exchanged our Idaho drivers licenses for Pennsylvania ones we each indicated we'd like to register to vote in the appropriate jurisdiction. As a side note, since PA enacted a highly contentious voter ID law earlier this year that's received heaps of mostly negative national publicity, it made sense that we'd be offered the opportunity to do so. Sometime later, the county where we lived at the time apparently mailed us a document asking that we confirm we actually lived at the address on our drivers license. {If the Secretary of State's office can find me just with a name and birthdate, why would a county need a separate physical piece of paper confirming my existence and address?!?} According to the Secretary of State's office we didn't return this magical document. Of course, we weren't aware we'd need to respond to the county (not the state!) in order to register to vote so we have no recollection of whether we returned it or not (I vaguely remember doing so, but seriously, how many forms do we fill out and how many pieces of mail are misrouted when you relocate?)
When we moved again, to Ardmore in April, we each changed our address with PennDoT online and chose the option to shift our voter registration accordingly. However, since the state didn't have us registered in the first place, the registration couldn't move with us.
Pennsylvania has once again made us feel unwelcome, this time by taking away one of the most basic US citizenship rights at the moment we most need to exercise it. The first time I've missed voting in a Presidential election since I was 18. Not because I'm apathetic, lazy, ignorant (OK, I might be some of those things from time to time, but not in this case) but because the state and local government's system of registering and managing voters has a big deep crack in it.
For a several days Tina and I checked the PA Secretary of State's website to verify that we were registered. When we couldn't find ourselves we chalked it up to user error or the fact that we've moved three times in the 13 months we've lived in PA. So when I phoned their office yesterday expecting to be told which polling place I should use, I was more than a little surprised to learn that I am not registered, even though the Secretary of State's office was easily able to find me on the eligible voter rolls simply by using my name and birthdate. Problematically, registration can't be done online - only by completing and mailing a paper form, or at the DoT - and provisional ballots are only allowed if you're a registered voter. In any case the deadline for registering for today's election passed in mid-October.
When we exchanged our Idaho drivers licenses for Pennsylvania ones we each indicated we'd like to register to vote in the appropriate jurisdiction. As a side note, since PA enacted a highly contentious voter ID law earlier this year that's received heaps of mostly negative national publicity, it made sense that we'd be offered the opportunity to do so. Sometime later, the county where we lived at the time apparently mailed us a document asking that we confirm we actually lived at the address on our drivers license. {If the Secretary of State's office can find me just with a name and birthdate, why would a county need a separate physical piece of paper confirming my existence and address?!?} According to the Secretary of State's office we didn't return this magical document. Of course, we weren't aware we'd need to respond to the county (not the state!) in order to register to vote so we have no recollection of whether we returned it or not (I vaguely remember doing so, but seriously, how many forms do we fill out and how many pieces of mail are misrouted when you relocate?)
When we moved again, to Ardmore in April, we each changed our address with PennDoT online and chose the option to shift our voter registration accordingly. However, since the state didn't have us registered in the first place, the registration couldn't move with us.
Pennsylvania has once again made us feel unwelcome, this time by taking away one of the most basic US citizenship rights at the moment we most need to exercise it. The first time I've missed voting in a Presidential election since I was 18. Not because I'm apathetic, lazy, ignorant (OK, I might be some of those things from time to time, but not in this case) but because the state and local government's system of registering and managing voters has a big deep crack in it.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Our First Hurricane
"Awww, isn't that sweet?"
Isn't that what your significant other (and insignificant others, for that matter) is supposed to think or say when you make note of a "first" in your relationship? Many guys depend on accruing "points" by remembering these types of things, to make up for our inevitable episodes of spectacular stupidity.
That said, recognizing some "firsts" runs the risk of overreaching, like too narrowly focused sports stats. "He's the first left-handed batter with a last name that starts with L, born on the 4th of July in Georgia who's hit two home runs in the post-season off a cross-dressing pitcher from Albania!"
So it is I find myself this Sunday afternoon, feeling a strange sober casualness, quite literally in the calm before the storm. Hurricane Sandy, having made a believer in the ever-present and mostly unpredictable powers of Mother Nature of quite a few in the Caribbean, is bearing down on the mid-Atlantic. We've both seen some pretty notable "weather events" - tornadoes, snowstorms, even floods - but we've never been hugely negatively affected beyond the inconvenience of living without power and maybe running water for a few days. Ironically, we noted earlier today that as backpackers we love to go out of our way to have the opportunity to filter our water, eat freeze-dried food and sleep uncomfortably. Maybe that's why we aren't quite as freaked out as the flocks of Audi- and Lexus-drivers clogging the local supermarkets to buy the distilled water, organic fruits and free-range meats they apparently believe are the key to survival in the anarchic aftermath of the "Frankenstorm".
We have our water, we have plenty of nonperishable food (even, heaven forbid, freeze-dried backpacking meals), our storm windows are shut as tightly as this old house will allow, and our heat's turned up a notch to offset the damp cold outside. Tina's cooking up what will undoubtedly become a fantastic chicken dinner while I sip a glass of Douro and tap away on my laptop as we await the arrival of our first hurricane as a couple.
Isn't that sweet?
Isn't that what your significant other (and insignificant others, for that matter) is supposed to think or say when you make note of a "first" in your relationship? Many guys depend on accruing "points" by remembering these types of things, to make up for our inevitable episodes of spectacular stupidity.
That said, recognizing some "firsts" runs the risk of overreaching, like too narrowly focused sports stats. "He's the first left-handed batter with a last name that starts with L, born on the 4th of July in Georgia who's hit two home runs in the post-season off a cross-dressing pitcher from Albania!"
So it is I find myself this Sunday afternoon, feeling a strange sober casualness, quite literally in the calm before the storm. Hurricane Sandy, having made a believer in the ever-present and mostly unpredictable powers of Mother Nature of quite a few in the Caribbean, is bearing down on the mid-Atlantic. We've both seen some pretty notable "weather events" - tornadoes, snowstorms, even floods - but we've never been hugely negatively affected beyond the inconvenience of living without power and maybe running water for a few days. Ironically, we noted earlier today that as backpackers we love to go out of our way to have the opportunity to filter our water, eat freeze-dried food and sleep uncomfortably. Maybe that's why we aren't quite as freaked out as the flocks of Audi- and Lexus-drivers clogging the local supermarkets to buy the distilled water, organic fruits and free-range meats they apparently believe are the key to survival in the anarchic aftermath of the "Frankenstorm".
We have our water, we have plenty of nonperishable food (even, heaven forbid, freeze-dried backpacking meals), our storm windows are shut as tightly as this old house will allow, and our heat's turned up a notch to offset the damp cold outside. Tina's cooking up what will undoubtedly become a fantastic chicken dinner while I sip a glass of Douro and tap away on my laptop as we await the arrival of our first hurricane as a couple.
Isn't that sweet?
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
The Urban River Showdown
Back in the Spring I posted our thoughts comparing the Boise River Greenbelt to Philadelphia's Schuylkill River Trail. For those keeping score, the Greenbelt won. Frankly, wasn't even close. As a hot-weather continuation of that comparison, I give you: The Urban River Showdown.
Last weekend, in hopes of briefly escaping the brutal humidity and heat that seems to be a hallmark of the East Coast summer (How the heck did I tolerate this for the first 30+ years of my life?!? Didn't know any better, I guess.) Tina and I rented a hard-shell tandem kayak for a 6mi cruise down the Brandywine River.
The section that we kayaked of the Brandywine, which runs through southeastern PA and meets the Delaware River in Wilmington DE, is more like the section of the Boise from downtown to Eagle, which T and I ran several times with Fritz Hummel. Mostly forested, occasionally paralleled by trails and intersected by bridges, but not traversing a truly built-up urban area. The River itself, while less clean than the Boise, is more like it than not - averages probably 100 feet wide with a mostly rocky bottom, a few mostly gentle curves and "rapids."
Unfortunately for us, there's no dam regularly releasing into the Brandywine, so water levels were low - VERY low in many spots. We got plenty of opportunities to practice a trick Fritz taught us - raising our butts off the bottom of the boat so it didn't scrape. Even that didn't work several times and I was forced to drag the boat through ankle-deep water (and no, it wasn't that I was out of the channel on a bar - there WAS no channel). Too, the Brandywine's drop must be negligible, because the tube-floaters we saw were barely moving. The Brandywine reminded us more in many spots of a still pond than a flowing river.
One check in the Brandywine's column, though, was the water temperature, which was more like a swimming pool than the Boise typically is, especially in early summer. A couple of times when I floated or kayaked the Boise the water was painfully cold, which made for an interesting "frying pan or fire" choice - "do I stay in the sun, where it's 100+ degrees, or get in the water, where it's 50?..."
While it made for a pleasant day and perhaps isn't a fair comparison given the low water levels, Tina and I agree the Boise, either the "commercial" section east of town or the more "adventurous" section to the west, gets the decision this time.
Last weekend, in hopes of briefly escaping the brutal humidity and heat that seems to be a hallmark of the East Coast summer (How the heck did I tolerate this for the first 30+ years of my life?!? Didn't know any better, I guess.) Tina and I rented a hard-shell tandem kayak for a 6mi cruise down the Brandywine River.
The section that we kayaked of the Brandywine, which runs through southeastern PA and meets the Delaware River in Wilmington DE, is more like the section of the Boise from downtown to Eagle, which T and I ran several times with Fritz Hummel. Mostly forested, occasionally paralleled by trails and intersected by bridges, but not traversing a truly built-up urban area. The River itself, while less clean than the Boise, is more like it than not - averages probably 100 feet wide with a mostly rocky bottom, a few mostly gentle curves and "rapids."
Near the end of the float
Unfortunately for us, there's no dam regularly releasing into the Brandywine, so water levels were low - VERY low in many spots. We got plenty of opportunities to practice a trick Fritz taught us - raising our butts off the bottom of the boat so it didn't scrape. Even that didn't work several times and I was forced to drag the boat through ankle-deep water (and no, it wasn't that I was out of the channel on a bar - there WAS no channel). Too, the Brandywine's drop must be negligible, because the tube-floaters we saw were barely moving. The Brandywine reminded us more in many spots of a still pond than a flowing river.
One check in the Brandywine's column, though, was the water temperature, which was more like a swimming pool than the Boise typically is, especially in early summer. A couple of times when I floated or kayaked the Boise the water was painfully cold, which made for an interesting "frying pan or fire" choice - "do I stay in the sun, where it's 100+ degrees, or get in the water, where it's 50?..."
While it made for a pleasant day and perhaps isn't a fair comparison given the low water levels, Tina and I agree the Boise, either the "commercial" section east of town or the more "adventurous" section to the west, gets the decision this time.
Our first tandem trip: On the Boise River, 3 yrs ago today
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Humidity
Having lived in the West for over a dozen years, I found myself missing some things from earlier stages of my life: Certain foods (real grits, fried Krispy Kreme's, collards with ham, etc.), architectural styles common before 1930, friends (most of all). The one thing I never missed - not for a moment - was humidity.
Pennsylvania apparently doesn't often suffer from the levels of humidity to which I grew accustomed - didn't know any better - living in Ohio, Georgia, and Alabama. When I would visit those places, or more sultry locations like Mexico, after moving to Idaho, I'd mutter a curse at how I felt like I was wearing a wet blanket taken straight from a hot dryer.
Temps in our neighborhood reached nearly 90 today, with humidity around 80%. Tina, having acquiesced in her battle with the humid air for control of her hair, admitted that she appreciates its affects on her skin. She noted, though, that after having walked only a few blocks I had already sweated through the t-shirt I was wearing (Icebreaker merino wool, chosen especially for the occasion. If you aren't familiar with the all-season wonders of merino wool, I'll be happy to educate you). To put it very politely, I was uncomfortable.
Sitting on our little porch this evening, though, the dark and quiet was punctuated by the distant flash and thump of a fireworks display in an adjacent town. I felt an occasional breeze lift the dogwood leaves in our front yard and listened to the rattle of melting ice settling in my glass. I remembered sitting with my grandparents in their yard in rural northeast Georgia listening to a train approaching through the drone of the crickets; sitting on curbs outside stadiums after shows, eating PB&J sandwiches and chatting with my drum corps family; camping among and climbing the gritty limestone cliffs at Red River Gorge...
At night, I realized, humidity has a different personality - becomes a familiar and comfortable character, one I like to spend time with.
Pennsylvania apparently doesn't often suffer from the levels of humidity to which I grew accustomed - didn't know any better - living in Ohio, Georgia, and Alabama. When I would visit those places, or more sultry locations like Mexico, after moving to Idaho, I'd mutter a curse at how I felt like I was wearing a wet blanket taken straight from a hot dryer.
Temps in our neighborhood reached nearly 90 today, with humidity around 80%. Tina, having acquiesced in her battle with the humid air for control of her hair, admitted that she appreciates its affects on her skin. She noted, though, that after having walked only a few blocks I had already sweated through the t-shirt I was wearing (Icebreaker merino wool, chosen especially for the occasion. If you aren't familiar with the all-season wonders of merino wool, I'll be happy to educate you). To put it very politely, I was uncomfortable.
haze over Philly
Sitting on our little porch this evening, though, the dark and quiet was punctuated by the distant flash and thump of a fireworks display in an adjacent town. I felt an occasional breeze lift the dogwood leaves in our front yard and listened to the rattle of melting ice settling in my glass. I remembered sitting with my grandparents in their yard in rural northeast Georgia listening to a train approaching through the drone of the crickets; sitting on curbs outside stadiums after shows, eating PB&J sandwiches and chatting with my drum corps family; camping among and climbing the gritty limestone cliffs at Red River Gorge...
At night, I realized, humidity has a different personality - becomes a familiar and comfortable character, one I like to spend time with.
Out With The Old, In With The Not-so-old
Seven weeks ago Tina and I bid farewell to our 1995 Toyota 4Runner. It'd seen us through thick and thin over the half-dozen years I owned it; sporting nearly 170,000 miles, it shuttled me on numerous climbing, and backpacking trips, days of kayaking and cycling, and it was the dogs home away from home. The power windows worked only intermittently, the seats were shredded, the manual transmission slipped, and there was a permanent layer of Sawtooth's trail dust and climbing chalk on the inside. It was my "Rig".
The Rig met an untimely end at an intersection near here, when I made a left turn in front of an oncoming sedan. In my defense, neither Tina or I saw it until it was on top of us. We weren't injured in the collision - in fact, the dogs, who were standing in the back at the time, were barely knocked off their feet. The accident seemed like nothing more than amusement park bumper cars - the other driver hit us square on the passenger rear tire, which sent The Rig spinning clockwise as though the front end was anchored and sent the impacted tire bouncing down a side street.
So, six weeks ago Tina and I became the proud owners of a 2007 Toyota 4Runner - charcoal gray, automatic, power everything, clean. Way too comfortable, powerful, and tidy to be the rightful heir to The Rig. Seriously, if you have to worry about scratching the truck or getting it dirty, and without the "feel" of a manual shifter and 4-wheel drive, would you consider taking it into the Upper Hell Roaring trailhead?!?
There may be hope yet that I can break it in. As one small step in its indoctrination, I've begun to put my brand on it.
The Rig met an untimely end at an intersection near here, when I made a left turn in front of an oncoming sedan. In my defense, neither Tina or I saw it until it was on top of us. We weren't injured in the collision - in fact, the dogs, who were standing in the back at the time, were barely knocked off their feet. The accident seemed like nothing more than amusement park bumper cars - the other driver hit us square on the passenger rear tire, which sent The Rig spinning clockwise as though the front end was anchored and sent the impacted tire bouncing down a side street.
So, six weeks ago Tina and I became the proud owners of a 2007 Toyota 4Runner - charcoal gray, automatic, power everything, clean. Way too comfortable, powerful, and tidy to be the rightful heir to The Rig. Seriously, if you have to worry about scratching the truck or getting it dirty, and without the "feel" of a manual shifter and 4-wheel drive, would you consider taking it into the Upper Hell Roaring trailhead?!?
There may be hope yet that I can break it in. As one small step in its indoctrination, I've begun to put my brand on it.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Sticker Madness
People here seem to have a real thing for those oval stickers
you'd see denoting autos registered in various European countries.
Herewith, a brief sampling of stickers we've seen recently.
A significant number seem to be collected at vacation spots, like
the Jersey Shore.
Avalon NJ
Sea Isle City,
NJ
Stone Harbor
NJ
Outer Banks NC
Chincoteague
Island / Assateague (it had you wondering for a second, didn't it?)
These little ovals are apparently the
mid-Atlantic replacement for those silly "my kid was student of the day at
XYZ Elementary" bumper stickers you see elsewhere.
Bishop Shanahan HS
Penn Valley
Elementary
Wayne
Elementary School
Drexel
University
Even respected military academies aren't
immune.
Virginia
Military Institute
Some people have to show off both their
kids' school AND their vacation spot.
Rosemont School of the Holy Child;
Wildwood Crest NJ
There are
stickers that commemorate artistic organizations...
Gilbert & Sullivan Festivals
PA Renaissance
Fair
Residents of certain cities and states
feel obliged to put one on...
Narberth PA
(next neighborhood over from us)
Vermont
We even saw a car
with the real thing...
Unless you are,
in fact, an orthodontist, would you really want a sticker on your car?
Reading
Orthodontic Group
Finally, I must
admit I'm guilty of slapping one on my truck, too. Friends from Boise will
recognize it...
Idaho Mountain
Touring
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