Thoughts on Sparrows and Cameras

 

On our recent trip to North Carolina, we stopped at numerous rest areas along the I-95 corridor. At one I chose to hang out at the truck while Bobbi ran in. Above the sound of thousands of vehicles rushing by at 65, the constant chirping of what I thought was more than a few birds could be heard. With no trees or bushes near to hide the birds, I could not understand where the sound could be coming from. All the birds scavenging near the vehicles were busy and not mouthing off. They had morsels to find.

It took me a few minutes, but I finally located the source of the chirps. Parked under one of the now commonplace video monitors, I noticed the little sparrow hanging out just below the camera. It was in a constant state of agitation. Even as it flew down to a crowd of it's buddies gathered around what must have been a real find, it kept chirping. It would hang around the group hopping this way and that for a few moments all the while keeping up a constant banter. It would fly back to it's spot under the camera still yammering and chirping. It never let up the whole time we were at this rest area. The fact that it was noticeable over the roar of the nearby traffic meant it had to be shouting or the sparrow equivalent of shouting.

Certainly taking a picture of this sparrow has something to do with me remembering the encounter. But long before I downloaded the picture from my camera, I found myself thinking about it. When the conversation dwindles on a long road trip, we often have only our thoughts to keep us company. And I thought about that damn sparrow. Odd, the things that catch hold up there in my cranial void.

Various thoughts and considerations floated in and floated out. Some dealing with the bird and some dealing with the camera it chose to hang out under. Why was it chirping? What had I missed prior to our entry into it's world? Or was it just a sparrow not working with a full deck? And what of the camera? It's very presence indicates a resignation of sorts that human behaviour needs to be monitored. Why is that?

The idea that Nature will always look for ways to continue it's march no matter what came to mind. The concrete, brick and steel environment these birds lived in was not an intrusion to them, but an attraction. The rest area offered a place to find food and in many cases a home. Yet in building the rest area and the road that goes with it, many other creatures were put out and their world turned inside out. The feel good thing to do I guess is feel for the evicted creatures and not consider the benefits given to other creatures. I know Man's insistence on paving as much of his world as possible is not a good thing for us in the long haul, but I also know that no matter what we do, the planet will survive. It will outlast us. Maybe the sparrow was telling me this. "We will outlast you".

When video surveillance came on the scene, like many I found the idea deplorable. I still do, but now I ignore it for the most part. I am no longer surprised to find cameras almost everywhere I go. The serious camera at that rest area was no exception. But with miles to go before I could stop, I chewed on the idea of cameras, big brother, and the failings of human nature.

On the surface, a camera on every corner may seem a good idea. They are placed out there so that we may travel, eat, bank, and co-exist in peace. That is the stated intention anyway. What they end up being ultimately may be something entirely different. We are supposed to feel secure when in camera range. Like having someone watch as we get mugged and robbed is somehow better than having no one see the incident. I was mugged on camera in NYC at 3:30 AM behind a Burger King once. Having it on camera was of no use to me as I was still out the $20 bucks the guy stole and as far as I know, he was never caught.

So, if cameras pasted up everywhere do not make me feel safe, just what does their presence do for me. Not much. I find their presence a sad comment on what our society thinks of us. That we must be monitored at all times to make sure we toe some arbitrary line thought up by others. They do not stop the criminals, and more often than not, do not help after a crime is committed. But for the 99% of us who do no crime, they are constant reminders that we are not trusted.

An American Moving Adventure

I am sitting here at my own desk in front of my own computer on Sunday morning. I know now I am finally home. The church bells down to the Congo Church just fired off. Damn, what a comforting sound.

I sit and try to sort through the madness of the past 7 days. Frantic last minute preparations before we left to the resigned acceptance of a job that needed doing but wished we could watch someone else do it. Then the trip back with more than 10 pounds of shit in the rented 5 pound bucket. So many things were crammed into the last 7 days, I am now finding it difficult to find one thing that stands out.

I guess the trip is not "officially" over. We still have to dump Lis' stuff into the storage locker and return the trailer. Anything now would be anti climatic. The child has been spanked. We made it to North Carolina and back again. And as nice as UNC, Chapel Hill was, I hope to not return for quite awhile. At this point, my memories consist of heat, grunting furniture up or down stairs, and more heat. Mixed in, some moments of quiet and humor that knocked enough of the edge off to help us remain sane.

The Move

Packed up for trip South. The green tarp hides all the suitcases, boxes, pads and other moving goodies needed for the move. Naturally, a bike had to go. Just in case a chance to ride offered itself.


From stairwell of Lis' apartment. I got the trailer in that space on the first stab. With that damn Envoy on the left crowding the space the whole time. We are now ready to load.


Almost full. Some mattresses and last minute items brought the load 2 inches from the door. My bike and Lis' bikes plus some who cares if they get wet items had to go in the back of the Ranger. In the moving biz we used to call that "overflow". I spent almost one whole summer picking up other driver's "overflows" and delivering them to finish a move.

Freighted and ready to go! Notice the definite dip in the nose of the trailer. U-Haul says to pack 60% of the weight in front of the center line of the trailer. The tongue of the trailer should dip down slightly. I seemed to have been successful in meeting these U-Haul rules. The load traveled well. No side to side whipping and the rough roads seemed no worse than usual. The V-six engine held it's own. The truck impressed me. Especially given the amount of stuff I crammed into the 6x12 trailer. After some miles of experimenting, I found that 58mph was about the ideal speed for safe efficiency. Faster made the load seem unstable. Slower did not seem to make it feel better. I averaged around 15 miles to the gallon also. Better than expected.

Some Interludes

I did get to get out on my bike a few times in the mornings before the temps kicked in with the 100'F days we had while in North Carolina. I did not recognize this bird. It is not a Heron. It is not an Egret. I think it is a Crane of some kind. Regardless, it was a big bird. At least 3 feet tall.


Nothing more magnificent than a Magnolia tree in full bloom. They are awesome plants. This flower was on a tree over 45' high.

And of course a shot of my favorite riding partner. It was a pleasure for me to have Lis show me some of the nice bike paths she has had at her disposal these last 2 years.

The Welcoming Committee

My official 'Welcome Home" was by this cantankerous resident from the woods below my house. As I climbed the hill with the trailer in tow, I found him/her struggling to get across the road. Why? Who knows why a snapping turtle would want to cross the road. My guess is the marsh down the hill was the draw. Some delectable fat frogs were just waiting for this beauty to make a meal of them. And maybe laying eggs was in the plans also.


Snapper decided that having me come up on it was a good reason to stop in the middle of the road. And stay stopped. After some minutes of taking pictures and protecting it from being flattened, I decided to try and shoo it along it's way. Having none of it, Snapper here tried to take my toes out. What to do?

Ah, I figured it out. I had my two wheeler in the truck. I scooped it up and safely deposited it in the dirt next to the woods. Snapper hissed at me, looked around, and decided that this crisis was over and continued it's trek to stinkier climes.

Even though this Snapper is way smaller than the ones I used to mess with as a kid. I learned that size does not matter. A snapper will hurt you in an instant. They may be slow on their feet, but Mr. Man, do not, I repeat, do not place anything delicate and tender within a foot of the head. They will hurt you. Welcome Home Mike!

The Futon

Three years ago before my Lis' Senior year in college, she went shopping. Not the usual, "I need 20 new pairs of shoes and where did I see those sports bras on sale" type shopping. Lis was going to live in her first apartment. Kinda, well, pretty close to the real deal I guess. She scored one of the senior apartments with 3 other girls. Naturally she had to have a futon to cram into her 4 x 8 space everyone called "her room". I referred to it as "her closet".

Lis and my wife went futon shopping. I was spared the agony of the initial buying trip. They wisely left me home. As an ex-mover, I learned to hate specific types of furniture. Futons were definitely on the list. Or would have been had they been invented or popular back in the day when I grunted folk's furniture from the old home to the new one. 

 What is it with futons and kids in college? It has to be absolutely the most popular, first choice besides concrete block shelves for every American kid going after a college degree. It's as if a switch goes off when they hit college. The futon switch. Either that or Bob's Furniture and Mattresses R Us have figured out who to bribe to add some kind of hand out with each high school diploma. I can remember seeing the damn things being carted out of the dorms by the hundreds at the end of her Freshman year. Seeing their generally lightweight construction and poor shape after just one year of college, I decided that for the most part, they must be junk. I asked Lis what they were and she gave me one of the rolly eyed parents are such dopes look. "They are futons Dad. Jeez. I want one too." She was a hip sophomore after all. Not some dumb Freshman without a clue. 

 Bobbi Anne and Lis come home from futon shopping. They found one in Portland at some discount mattress place across from the Maine Mall. It was not in stock. They had to order it. A week later I am drafted to go pick it up. We get to the store and the clerk on duty looks at us like we have 3 heads when we ask for our futon. Awkward moments ensue as I begin steaming over finding out they sold it on us. But they can re-order. Never mind the Maine Mall is an hour drive from Acton. Never mind I hate the damn futons in the first place. This is the beginning of my hate-hate relationship with my little girl's first piece of furniture she picked out for herself. 

 I have now moved that damn futon 3 times and am about to cram it into yet one more moving vehicle. So far, I have taken it assembled and found a way to work it into the load. This time, I wanted my revenge. On the excuse that the trailer I rented may come up short on cubic feet for the cubic feet of stuff Lis has, I told her I was going to take it apart. She did not seem comfortable with the idea. Like it was some sort of magical machine that only "futon masters" duly licensed could take on. But she knew I was serious. That futon was coming apart. I was going to love every minute dinky piece I could break it down into. And that's what I did. With the exception of the mattress, I can pretty much fit the frame into a golf bag. Well a big golf bag maybe. 

 No more springing open just when I almost have it in it's spot in the truck. No more fighting it into an elevator or tight stairwell and then having it spring open. That futon is now under control. Unincorporated. Disassembled. Broken down to it's basic steel components. The evil has been unscrewed and freed to find some other piece of equipment to jinx. The futon will sit docile and behave on the way back to Maine. I have finally won. 

 The girls are at a AAA Baseball game tonight. I opted out. It's hot and I could really enjoy a few moments without one thing to do but relax. Watching a ball game just didn't do it for me. Besides Lis and Bobbi need some time alone to plan the next "Let's confound and befuddle Dad" escapade. 

 See Ya. .............

  Post Script - I had no computer available nor the energy to post this when it should have been. It is now up under it's original post date , but actually I'm being sneaky and posting it Saturday night right after we found our driveway and are now home safe. Hauling that trailer was quite the trip.

Getting Juices to Flow

I spend time away from this blog thinking of things to write about. Heading into work, raking or mowing, riding my bike are all moments when ideas pop into my head. I think,"Now that would be cool to write about. Yeah if I just had a piece of paper and a pencil to remind me of it later."

I never have the paper or the pencil handy. In truth, the activity that frees up my mind so it can stumble upon the great ideas is better left uninterrupted. Muscles engaged in mindless motion tend to work better if not interrupted. So I hope I will remember but know I most likely won't. I follow through with the plan at the moment and 5 minutes later that wonderful kerneled idea has disappeared.

Okay. I still made a promise to write something everyday if I could. A promise to myself I am trying to keep. So with the great idea wandering out there miles away after touching down for moment in my mind, I have to dig elsewhere for subject matter.

I have tried all sorts of things to finagle a post out of myself. Cruising Photobucket after punching in the first keyword that comes to mind into the search engine. I once concocted a whole post after looking at 40 thousand million pictures based on the word "thong". I can't remember if the piece was worth a second look or not.

I will often think back through my day and see if my damaged short term memory is showing a spark. Try to remember one thing that happened that made me mad, made me glad, or made me sad. Seems there is always something like that in any day. But usually the short term memory is short on spark and hard into hibernation mode. It doesn't like to get stressed out. It turns on for a few hours a day, but only during business hours.

Then there is the Photo Safari. I grab my camera and go outside, inside, or beside and find something to shoot and then write about. This has worked with mixed results. I often end up with 40 pictures of rocks, rotten blown down trees, fungus and ferns.

I am not above poaching from other blogs either. Someone will write a post about something and it will cause me to consider what my take might be. If I had not considered that idea before, writing about it can often give me a perspective I did not know I had.

All of this is fine and dandy. But I find that my best, or should I say, my favorite posts are the ones I never see coming. They are not sought out. They find me. I will sit down and stare at the empty "create" window for a few minutes and then some inner voice will take control of my fingers and I will begin to type.

I used to call this stream of consciousness writing. And at one time I am sure it was. But now I will spew it out. Just let it fly. Pound the keys until there ain't no more. Sit back, take a breath and tear back into it with my editor cap on. Sometimes I toss the whole mess. But sometimes, on a rare occasion I will polish it up into something I can send to the presses.

This post is another attempt at pre-scheduling a post so it will publish while I am trudging and fighting my way south to North Carolina to pack up my little girl and move her back to Maine. This post is not fresh, but frozen fresh and will hopefully thaw out on time to see the light of day on June 24. When you read this I will be hundreds of miles away and most likely muttering under my breath about the last bozo in a car who did some dumb ass four wheeler trick in front of me. Damn I hate driving on I-95.

I'll leave you with this interesting rendition of Alfred Hitchcock. His movies were never dull.

Balls with Big Shanks

I have many miles and many years of experience driving vehicles that bend in the middle. Over the road hauling 40,000 pounds of whatever to where ever. The quality of the equipment I used to haul this whatever depended on the company I drove for.

But one thing was consistent. The hitch system to hook up the power unit to the loaded trailer to be hauled. The trucking industry had long ago settled on standards that allowed a tractor made in PA to haul a trailer made in California. The fifth wheels( those circular flat pads with a V shaped slot on the back of tractors) were standard. As was the king pin standard(the little knob that hangs down from the underneath of the trailer and slides into the fifth wheel). I never gave a thought to whether or not my tractor could hook up to that trailer. I took it for granted.

Fast forward to here and now. Mike needs to find the right setup for his truck to tow a 2,000 pound trailer back from North Carolina to Maine. Mike has entered the world of trailer hitches, trailer hitch balls and receivers. I went into this not even considering it could get complicated. As usual, I was wrong. The world of hitches, balls ands receivers is a world of nuances and hard, do not blow it, fast rules to consider.

Trailer tongue weights. Gross trailer weight. What ball size to use. 1&7/8"? 2"? or be a real man and go for the 2&5/16" ball? What shank size fits what receiver, 3/4", 1", or something even bigger. Hitch extension. Hitch adaptors. And last but not least, the drop or rise needed in the hitch to mate just right with that little honey of a trailer you plan coupling with.

So many things to consider, I wish I had not even looked into it. Just gone with the hitch and ball I already had. But I visited the Internet. I decided to look into this. There is something to the idea of too much information when all it does is make you crazy because you cannot decide between a 3/4" shank on the ball or a 1" shank on the ball. Should I go with a 2" rise or a 3" drop in the hitch I pick?

Aaargh! I have been dealing with this off and on for 2 weeks now. And then the day before the day before we were to leave for North Carolina, I decide to do something about it. And I decided to do it after work leaving me a very small window of time in which to do it.

Wasting precious fuel in the pursuit of the perfect hitch setup, I hit some auto parts stores, then Mardens and finally Loew's 30 miles away. And I crammed the visits into a 2 hour time spread. In those two hours I looked at a mind boggling number of choices and options. Again like the Internet, too much information. But the screws were tightening. I had to make a decision. I bought some balls, a couple of hitches with varying drops, and to top it all off a couple of to go wrenches so I could actually install the equipment when I picked up the trailer. In this case I figured having more than I needed would cut the chances of an expensive "on the road" solution down to a minimum.

So wish me luck. Although it will be retroactive luck. For when you read this, I will already be in the Belly of the Beast I call the I-95 corrider. Be back Saturday if all the stars line up right.

Post Script - A minor milestone has been made I guess. This should be my 500th post. Only took me 3 1/2 years.

Don't Piss Off my Wife

Don't piss off my wife. I should get a T shirt silk screened with that emblazoned on the front. Wear it whenever we travel so that anyone in the service industry who comes into contact with her will be forewarned. The effects of our trip to UNC at Chapel Hill, NC are still being sorted out. Like waves from a stone tossed in the pond, ripples are now still hitting the shore.

I would not normally even mention the all too common inconveniences that are frequently dealt with when traveling. The run ins with rude people. The indifferent attitudes met on the way from here to there and back again. But I felt the urge to write about my wife's experience with one motel desk clerk if only because of the ripples that have now come home here to our pond in Maine.

Graduation weekend in the Chapel Hill area is a big deal for all the motels, hotels, campgrounds, vacant lots, and any other place that might have room for another family of a graduating senior. Reserving a room a year in advance is common. We did it and were glad we did. The double room rate of $199 with a 3 night minimum was hard to swallow. If we wanted to be close and not spend half our time trying to navigate the labyrinth of 6 lane suburban highways just to get to our daughter's apartment, then we knew a stiff fee would need to be paid. Paying up front months in advance to avoid the extra hassle made sense.

Our first 2 nights were uneventful. Check in happened as it should. The room was like every other room in every other hotel/motel from a big chain. Standard issue towels, comfortable beds and a TV that worked. We slept and showered there. That was about it.

On the second night Bobbi's brother and his wife stayed there so we could all be ready for the graduation madness that kicked off early on Sunday. Sunday was a whirlwind of activity that meant being up, fed, and ready to roll by 6:45 AM. So we do the graduation thing. 8 hours later, we return to the room to change into casual clothes, maybe catch a shower and then head out again for post grad celebrations.

The key card would not open the door. John, my brother in law, tried his. No go. Back downstairs and wait at the desk to get that straightened out. Back upstairs and into the room. 8 hours and the room still has not been cleaned. Dirty towels were all there was to use. So I am miffed but hey, who cares. Lis has a shower and towels at her apartment.

Bobbi on the other hand is not happy. She starts in about the extra money, the advance booking, the fact that 8 hours is way too long to wait for maid service. Squaring her shoulders, she turns around and heads for the stairs. John and I just look at each other and we smile. We both know that look. Bobbi is going to vent and someone is not going to have a good rest of the day.

We head to the car and Bobbi heads to the front desk. A few minutes later, she comes out and I know it has not gone well. "She gave me attitude. Can you believe that? Attitude! I don't need to pay $199 a night for attitude. I get it for free from you." And she glares at me.

So we finish our UNC visit and head home. The desk clerk really got under Bobbi's skin. The experience was rehashed more than once on the drive home. The day after we returned Bobbi fired off an email to the sales office of Holiday Inn Express. The itch just had to be scratched. She explained her displeasure in that business like no bull shit way of hers. Two hours later the owner of the Holiday Inn there called me wishing to speak to Bobbi.

Which gets me the long way to my point.

In this age of indifferent service costing exorbitant money, I have to say, the owner's quick response and real concern over her experience was a breath of fresh air. There are actually people in the service industry who do care how the service provided by them is perceived by the public who pays them for it. So just call this an "Atta Boy" to that Holiday Inn Express. You folks turned a dissatisfied guest into a fan. The rebate of one night's cost and a comp for a future night's stay was but icing on the cake. It was the response that really impressed us.