My Year in Review

Last year I:

Almost went to Florida but ended up having a great time with family and friends in the Midwest

Graduated from College :)

Traveled around the UK with my eleven year old brother :D

Moved into my own apartment

Completed my first quilt (with a lot of help)

Started my first real job

Instituted weekly Rock Climbing

Climbed a two mountains

Joined a new Church (corresponding to my new location):

Hosted Thanksgiving

Made a stained glass window:

And finally attended a pretty great family reunion across the country:

May God Bless you in the coming year.

EDIT: I got my wisdom teeth out at the end of 2014 so I took that out

A Tale of two airports: Part 2

Readers of my last post will have astutely noticed that only one singular airport was mentioned, whereas the title promised two. Fear not, this chapter will have enough airports to satisfy even the most airport-hungry reader.

My two days in Dallas went well. The performance class was more hands on and interactive than I expected and while I did not experience a huge leap in work-place performance at least I was not as bored as I had feared. 

One greatly distressing event did occur during the time I spent in class. We were broken up into groups and told to create a system out of snap circuits that could produce both light and noise to alert a airplane pilot of danger. The light was quite easy. The sound production was a much more difficult task and we spent a great deal of time figuring out how the sound module worked. Triumphing over this adversity, we were able to produce a working system to our instructor. None of the other teams had sound working but one of them produced a system which caused a motor to rotate. They claimed that the noise of the motor rotating would alert the pilot. We objected on the grounds that any pilot would be liable to confuse the sound of the rotating motor with, say, the motor hurtling a plane and all its contents through the sky. The instructor, who was not an engineer, was unmoved by our entreaties and declared their system as the winner because it cost slightly less. This was a crushing blow to my competitive spirit and no amount HR rhetoric could heal such a wound.

Eventually the time of learning came to an end. During my time in that lauded place of learning I had made the acquaintance of a nice young woman from the Mexican branch of the company. Discovering that she did not have in her possession a rental car I offered to take her to the airport. Now those familiar with rental car companies will know the dire consequences of returning a car whose fuel gauge is not embracing the F. I therefore set out with the intention of paying a visit to a station of gas along the way. Unfortunately no visions of such a station appeared and before either of us knew it we had arrived at the airport.

Up until this point I had been relying on my faithful GPS, which, after becoming acclimated to its new surroundings, had proven a loyal support, much as Aaron and Hur to Moses. Unfortunately once we arrived in the airport the GPS grew confused and when I asked for directions to the nearest gas station it lead me falsely to the terminals. Apparently at DFW you have to PAY to enter the hallowed pick up and drop off stations and We left that place two dollars poorer, shaking its dust from our tires. After several more failed attempts, which included trying to find the directions on my companion's Spanish-speaking smart phone, we decided to head in the direction of the highway, hoping against hope that there would be a gas station nearby. Great was the rejoicing when one appeared and we finally were able to fill up on gas.

From there the rental return arena was easy to find. We cleared out the car and I paid for the rental, surrendering my keys to the nearest employee. The rental return area provides buses to transport travelers to their various terminals and I bid farewell to my erstwhile companion as she departed in the direction of Mexico or at least the direction of the terminal which housed the Mexican flights. Not being so fortunate in the knowledge of my terminal I decided the check in at the kiosk located above the renal car arena. 

I swiped my company credit card, which I had used to make the reservation, and waited for my ticket to appear. All the met my eyes was the helpful message: "We could not find any reservations associated with that card please enter your confirmation number". Several more tries yielded the same results. I decided that stronger measures were required and dug out my itinerary. However, when i entered the confirmation number all that was displayed was "not a valid confirmation number". I was horrified. I tried entering it again and again saw the message of doom. This second rejection led me to do what I should have done long ago: examine my itinerary. Wonder of wonders the airport listed for my return flight was not the airport I had used for all seven of my other flights to and from Dallas, but was the previously unthought-of "Love Field Airport".  My mind flashed back to a conversation with my father about there being another, smaller, airport in Dallas, remarkable to him because of certain momentous events that occurred there during his childhood (see below).  

It seemed that when I made the reservation I searched by "All Dallas Airports" instead of "DFW". However, knowing the origin of the problem did not help with finding a solution.  Now I am a plan person. Have I thought out what I would do if my parents tragically both died and I was left as the head of the family? Yes. When I do things do I have a plans A through at least F lined up? Also yes.  However, the possibility of actually going to the wrong airport had not, even in my wildest dream, occurred to me. For a moment panic surged through my veins. I had just returned my rental car, I needed to be across Dallas in less than an hour. These stone cold facts froze my heart. Wild thoughts of calling the company travel agency or attempting to get a new flight from DFW swirled and I feared that I would be trapped in Texas forever. 

After several minutes of panic a new plan asserted itself in my mind. Studying my itinerary I saw that it had been the intention of that lauded document for me to return my rental to Love Field. I thought that perhaps I could return to the personages of the rental establishment and beg for.... I mean... reclaim what once was mine. I retraced my steps and found myself standing very near the car I had so recently vacated. As I reached it, however, a man inserted himself into the driver's seat and a strict-looking female pilot with white hair tightly bound above her head sat down in the passenger side. I was tempted to fall to my knees and cry out as they sped away. Curbing that impulse and continuing with my mission I poured out my sorrows to the woman manning the desk. 

The rental employees were actually quite helpful. After hearing the tale of my woe they issued me a new rental contract free of charge and even included enough gas to get from there to Love Field. This act of benevolence gave me a ray of hope that I might be headed out of Dallas after all. As the rental employee printed my new contact I entered Love Field Airport into my GPS. Love Field and DFW appeared to be about half-an-hour apart and so there was still hope. I entered the car and saw an unfamiliar sight. This car boasted the gear stick on the left whereas my accustomed transmission appears on the right.  

It took several false attempts to get the car and drive and confusion as to why the gear stick was returning to the center, but soon enough I was off. Or at least I was driving toward the sharpened tire spikes, used by the rental companies to keep their cars within the bounds of their jurisdiction. I signaled a worker to let me out. Telling him I needed to return the car at Love Field. He helpfully informed me that I could return it at DFW, but seemed to understand once I informed him of the imminent departure of my flight. Once my way was cleared of spikes a stressful but fortunately traffic free drive commenced. I arrived at Love Field with a little time to spare, returned my rental car, printed my boarding passes and moved through security in record time. My flight had not left yet and I was able to return to New Hampshire in peace. 

I suppose this event should lead to the conclusion that it is time for me to begin reading instructions, not a strong point of mine. Or perhaps I could just follow this advice of this helpful article.

PS. My car, my actual car, not the rental featured in this story, was probably totaled on Sunday. Stay tuned for that exciting story and possibly more on living the car-free life in New Hampshire... in January.....

A Tale of Two Airports: Part 1

A few weeks ago the very generous company I work for, seeing as I was still young in my understanding of the corporate world, sent me to Dallas to be trained in the art of successful work performance. I dutifully scheduled my flight, rental car and hotel through their work-travel system and looked forward to a few days of relaxing plane rides, rental car shuttle trips, and learning how to perform in the work place.

Arriving at DFW's airport I was relived to be in possession of my brand new driver's license. Last time I had almost found myself stranded at the airport after being refused a rental car because of my temporary license. Apparently when you switch states you have to turn in your old license and are given a paper license for the interim. What they do not tell you about this paper license is that most reputable establishments do not consider it valid ID, including but not limited to the TSA, the Holiday Inn, the library, big brothers big sister and most unfortunately Avis rental cars. Fortunately the patron goddess of those who need rental cars was smiling that day and the manager made an exception to their policy against paper licenses. This day, however, I was ready for anything. I had even remembered, on the advice of my manager, to bring my very own GPS to avoid having to rent one.

I slipped into the rental car, feeling the sleek fabric of the seats and the alluring shine of the shimmering paint. After acclimating to the unfamiliar bowels of the car by figuring out how to plug in the GPS, turn on the radio, and, most importantly start the car, I turned on the GPS. Now my GPS is from the olden days when cave men were just starting to realize the virtues of simple machines such as the lever, so when it is turned on the expectant traveler must wait a full five minutes before they are graced with the screen prompting them to enter an address. Normally I will set out in the vague direction of my destination and hope that a helpful red light will give me the needed opportunity to enter my destination. However, on this occasion I felt that my knowledge of the surrounding area was too vague to trust and waited patiently for the powering up of the GPS. Unfortunately once the awaited event occurred all that the GPS could tell me was that it was performing the mysterious ceremony of "acquiring satellites". Feeling that the inside of a parking garage was not the ideal location for this ritual I dutifully backed my car out of its spot and proceeded to exit the garage. The guardians of the rental cars inspected my license and contract and allowed me to pass unchallenged.

Unfortunately this airport was not designed for those who wished to idle their car while at the mercy of these mysterious satellites. Before I knew it I was on the highway, unsure if I as heading towards or away from my hotel. A desperate hunger clawed at my insides and the GPS showed no signs of completing its liturgy. The highway, on the other hand, began to show signs of splintering into a myriad of highways. I had a vague idea that Dallas was south and that a highway, named for our commander and chief of yester-year, would take me there. Unfortunately the signage available to me did not inform me of the direction this road was headed. I got on that highway anyway and began to search for an exit as a drowning man will scan the horizon for a life boat. Once I had finally found the longed-for exit I wrenched myself from the endless flow of traffic and parked myself at a station dedicated to the dispensing of gas. 

I left my GPS still acquiring in the hope that it would, perhaps, be ready to direct me when I returned. After sating my hunger with the purchase of chocolate milk and a small supply of food, I returned to the car. Unfortunately all of my hopes were for naught as the GPS continued to acquire. I attempted to search of "Holiday Inn" but the only results it was able to dredge up were located in the city from wince I had come, a mere two thousand miles away. The only recourse left to me also depended on these cursed beings, the satellites. I must pull out my cellular phone called someone with access to a wireless and lots of books. The first friend I thought to phone was Davis, but when he proved unavailable I quickly dialed the number of the home of my youth. Manning the switch board at that late hour was my still not-quite-yet Eagle Scout brother, Tim. 

After some fiddling with google maps and several miscommunication and complains about the economics paper he longed to be writing, he was able to direct me in the direction of my hotel. My GPS, after a mere forty five minutes was able to adjust to its new surrounding and direct me the rest of the way. On my arrival at the hotel I was asked for identification. Excited to show my new license I hurriedly opened my wallet only to find that the all-important license was not there. The hotel personal remembered me for my last visit to the lauded establishment and, after swiping my credit card a few times, let me pass. But the location of the identifying license gnawed at my mind and as soon as I had dropped off my baggage I hurried back to the car. Would I have to attempt the journey home without the comforting presence of photo identification? Minutes went by as I searched every nook and cranny for the missing card. It finally appeared, wedged firmly between the seat cushions, where it had fallen after its brief visit to the guardians of the rental car garage. My relief was so palpable that the young couple who appeared to be sleeping in the next-door car could, I am sure, feel it.

I fell asleep easily that night thankful that the stressful part of the trip was over. Little did I know what was to come.

Bereft of Chairs: a Tragedy

A few weeks back my young man, commonly referred to as Davis, made a change in his place of residence. This new abode was a mere two hours from my own apartment. As was natural I made plans to visit him on the first possible weekend. On hearing this news, the parents, moved to compassion by his need of furniture, offered him several tables. They described these possible tables to me and I relayed the descriptions to him. Photographic evidence was also submitted and a table selected. The family asked me if it would be acceptable for them to come up for dinner with us and to drop off the table at that time. I informed the family that it would be agreeable for them to come, as long as they we able to provide seating implements. They assured me that chairs were coming and I foolishly reposed in the confidence that everyone would have a place to sit. 

The morning of the visit dawned bright and beautiful. After a two hour drive, made brief by a librivox version of the Pickwick Papers, the fires of my love, and the lead which may or may not reside in my foot, I was reunited with Davis. We accompanied each other to a church and frolicked through his brand new apartment. It was then that he confided a fear to me. In his establishment it is customary to report the arrival of new furniture several days ahead of time and to reserve the special freight elevator. Davis had not warned these sentinels of the lobby until that very morning of the impending furniture, and while the young man at the desk had not seemed too concerned, Davis feared that the changing of the guard would mean a less friendly reception when the table actually arrived. We decided to hope for the best and continue bravely on.

 An abrupt halt to the happiness of the afternoon occurred when we faced an unexpected challenge: the ironing of pants. We were assisted in surmounting this by the fact that Davis' mother had convinced him to acquire an iron and ironing board. However, even the ownership of such useful objects could not overcome our inexperience in the field of ironing pants. Many have bemoaned the difficulty of choosing a working woman's wardrobe, but I find the wide array of choices allows me to avoid, as I would the plague (whether it be bubonic or pneumonic), any hint of required ironing. Davis, however, was not in such a happy position. The complexities of differentiating between a crease made by inexpert ironing and the all-important original crease brought us nearly to the point of despair. After the making of many rash vows involving the future consignment of his ironing to the dry cleaners, we were able to mold the pants into a presentable state. 

Much of the remains of the afternoon were spent crafting the perfect sushi for the family's eagerly awaited arrival. As is always expected with the family, they called to let us know they would be half an hour late. Somehow we were able to persevere through the extra half-hour of time together. 

The phone call received from the aforementioned family, informing us of their presence in the parking lot was the catalyst for the moment of truth with the security guard. The friendly young man of the morning was replaced by a fearsome guard of darkness, who, after several not-so-friendly looks in our direction allowed us to bring up the requisite furniture. He made it clear that no furniture could be brought through the lobby and so I had Pop pull the car around to the loading dock while I sent the rest of the family to seek shelter in the lobby under the baleful gaze of the security guard. 

As the trunk of the car was opened I gasped in horror. The table I had imagined to be extendable was in fact little better than an end table with no possibility of extension. Not only that, but my chagrin was amplified by the sight of only two chairs. How could we, a family of six, eat at such a small table with only three real chairs? Fortunately the parents had foreseen that the table might be too small and had brought a second option. This second table could be extended, even to the point of accommodating all six of us.  But what was to be done about the chairs? This thought was constantly in my mind as we carefully carried the furniture in through the back entrance to avoid shocking any residents with the thought that furniture might be coming into their building. 

When we reached the apartment Pop immediately claimed the desk chair as his own. Isaiah, the youngest brother, likewise took himself to one of the caned chair brought by the parents. Mother seated herself upon a low college-dorm style chair which I had brought and I seated myself at the second chair brought by the parents. Timmy, the older of my two younger brothers, and Davis found themselves chairless in a chair forsaken world. They both coped with this discovery in their own way. Timmy by stacking two crates on top of each other and Davis by flipping over a trash can.

Isaiah shared with us his debates with his sixth grade social studies teacher including the exclamation that he should "play the prove-it card more often". We all groaned for her sake. Inwardly reflecting on what a nightmare he must be to have in class. Despite this, it is likely that his report card, like that of almost every student will bear the shining commendation "a pleasure to have in class". We also learned of the parents’ still unsuccessful battle to have him moved to the higher math class. For, in their prejudiced against outsiders, the school district had automatically placed him in the lower section of math, permanently harming his ability to take BC calculus seven years from now. 

As this fascinating discussion was taking place Davis' trash can was folding in upon itself and had to be replaced with a large cooler. Desert was crafted and served as Pop expounded on various memories of his years in middle-school. It was about this time that I began to feel a giving way of the seat of my chair and soon had to abandon it all together. The rest of desert I viewed from the floor, gazing longingly up at the impossible height of the table. 

Despite the setbacks of the day various goals had been duly achieved and Davis had, in fact, acquired a table and one functional chair, which, after the fate of the other chair, he was afraid to sit upon. The experience will, I am sure, bring us closer together and inspire us all to ensure that enough chairs a brought to family gathering in future.

The day I climbed a four-thousand-footer... by accident

On Saturday I went hiking in the White Mountains and it was quite an experience. I went with Abi who is from the Philippines. She's getting training at my office for a few months and, as we are the only female's under 50 in our group, we've been doing a few things together. Being women of extreme forethought and planning we googled trails the day before but, alas, the mental strain of a decision was too much. We printed out the trail descriptions page to feast our eyes upon in the car. 

The morning got off the a good start always excepting the part where I was the recipient of a phone call during the long and arduous walk to the car, my arms full of winter supplies. We decided on a seemly short and friendly trail called the "falling water trail". Among its manifold of attractions were numbered 3 waterfalls, 3 miles and a 3 hours round trip. Abi and I found this all very agreeable and the rest of the drive was spent admiring the brilliant fall colors of I-93.

The benevolent creators of I-93 placed a multitude of exits without numbers between the exits with numbers. This infused and small element of confusion into our morning ride as we struggled to figure out which exit between 34a and 34b we were looking for. Fortunately we were able to find our way to, and park at, the trail-head. The mountains, dark and menacing, loomed behind the brightly colored trees.

Being from the tropics Abi was not the proud owner of any winter clothing and I gallantly stepped into the breach, lending her my ski jacket, a scarf, and gloves. I wore my red peacoat and was likely judged by every hiker we encounters as they hurried past in their non pea coats acquired from high-end retailers specializing in clothing not meant for urban socialites.

We hiked along steadily through scenic autumn forest along the side of a lovely stream.

As the trail went on we began to wonder how to tell which waterfalls had been counted worthy to be numbered among the three. Being that we were walking along stream coming down a mountain, there was falling water all over the place, and differentiating between major league and minor league waterfalls was no easy task.

Eventually we reached this waterfall:

Our conviction that, here at last was a true waterfall, did nothing to alleviate our confusion. Was this number one two or three? Seeing this master waterfall, could any of the others truly be compared? Were there two more even larger ones? Burning with curiosity we persevered along the trail. 

About this time the trail began to alter its face. Up until now we had been traveling through a multi colored (but predominately orange) forest along the side of a picturesque stream. The changes engulfed us slowly, but soon the trees we passed had lost their diversity of color and were simply evergreens. Even more alarming, our trail and the stream ended their long standing relationship and parted ways. For a time we believed the breakup to be temporary. Perhaps they simply needed some space and would renew their passion in a matter of meters. We listened for the sound of some spectacular waterfall which would signal the joyful renewal of their connection. Alas, all that could be heard was the wind in the manifold evergreens encompassing us.

During this period we came upon two fellow wanders in this wilderness. A youthful couple, the male carrying a large pack, passed us. Now we had seen a number of our fellow man as we sojourned but all had been either possessed greater speed than our meager legs could afford us or were of the leisurely persuasion and were soon out of sight. This couple, however, was struggling under an unequal yoke, for the boyfriend had the attitude toward the hike which the lower classes might refer to as "gun-ho", while his partner labored forward under the weight of many complaints. Their pace (as with pretty much everyone who had made it thus far) was faster than ours, but they often took long rests for the sake of the female of the species. During these rests we would catch up and once again share the lonely trail will these companions. 

After the span of about two hours of total hiking had elapsed we saw an older hiking heading downwards. His face betrayed friendliness and experience; we risked soliciting his opinion on the distance remaining. He pulled out what, I am informed by my almost-eagle-scout brother, was a hiking watch and gave me the distance in yards. Now I don't know about all you super experienced hikers, but one of the little known facts about myself that I have never found myself using in those awkward get to know each other ice-breakers is the number of yards per hour I hike. He seemed to notice my blank look because he assured me it would be another half hour. He paused and looked at us again. Likely taking in the red peacoat and added "a good half hour". We thanked him and decided to continue on as it would be a shame to turn back only half an hour from the end. The couple also seemed to take heart at these tidings of great joy.

The next twenty minutes elapsed in much the same fashion and our hopes began to rise that we might be drawing near the summit. The boyfriend informed me that he had a strong feeling that we were almost there. I privately felt that anyone in possession of a hikometer was likely hiking much faster despite his apparently advanced age. About twenty minutes subsequent to our encounter with the elderly hiker we met two more hikers coming down. When questioned about the distance to the top they respond with "forty-five minutes".

"I can't keep on doing this for forty-five minutes." Cried the girlfriend in tones which bespoke despair.

"Yes you can, babe." Put in her significant other, helpfully.

"You should just go on without me. I'll follow at my own pace." Was her passionate appeal.

The lover was wise enough not to take her at her word and attempted to encourage her with the offer of a banana. She accepted in an aggravated tone and insisted on getting it out herself. Subsequent to the disappearance of the banana they set out again, though not quite, wing to wing and oar to oar.

Several minutes later she stopped again, breathing heavily, and repeated her appeal for him to leave her to the mountain lions. They decided to take a "long rest" by the roadside. We were never to see them again.

At this point the trail began to remind me of a quote from the Horse and his Boy:

"The road kept on getting to somewhere in the sense that it got to more and more trees, all dark and dripping, and to colder and colder air... strange, icy winds kept blowing the mist past him though they never blew it away."

Unfortunately we didn't get to meet Aslan at the top. The snow, actually, it was more like hail, became more pronounced at this stage and the snow covered trees reminded me again of Narnia. It became apparent, even to my darkened mind, that there would be no more waterfalls and that we were now climbing a real live mountain.

More and more downward headed hikers passed us, openly lamenting the cold and searing winds awaiting us at the summit, each with a different time estimate. Abi and I made a brief stop to gladden our hearts with the sustaining power of a sandwich, but rose again to make the final effort. The last bit was the steepest and the iciest, but with our unconquerable souls we persevered to the end.

I would say the summit looked like a winter wonderland but I feel that winter wonderlands have gentle breezes, just cold enough not to melt the snow. What we faced on the summit was shrieking winds which tore through our clothing and demanded an interest free loan of all the warmth in our bodies. I would probably classify it as a winter wasteland.

I mean, does this look like healthy well-adjusted snow to you? It's so wind-blown that it is sticking straight out.

In order to avoid unpleasant consequences including, but not limited to, hypothermia, frost bite, and death by cold wind, we took some quick pictures and hurried down the mountainside.  Now most people we saw descending had these special chains which attached to their shoes. Being bereft of such advanced equipment we utilized more old fashioned methods such as, slipping, sliding, and a lot of tree hugging. My level of environmentalism has greatly increased since the embracing of topiary saved me more than once from an emergency helicopter ride.

A little way down we came to a sign informing us that "shining rock" was only 0.1 miles away. Considering that we had been unable to see more than a few yards on the summit we decided to risk life and limb in the hope that the shining rock would furnish us with better views. I would say we made the right choice.

We decided to nourish ourselves with sandwich number two while perched on the shining rock. While we were eating Abi revealed that her husband had been concerned about her hiking and she had assured him that it was a family-friendly hike.... It is probably best for his mental health that he not see the winter wasteland.

The rest of the descent was mostly uneventful; we spewed the same probably-untrue estimates of time to the top, and definitely-true tales of the extreme cold which lurked there to credulous hikers following in our footsteps.

We emerged from the trees seven hours later. I have not been this excited to see a parking lot for a long time.

When we returned to the car and I reread the trail description.

"This trip goes only as far as the ledges, hanging on the edge of the deep ravine of Walker Brook. Going any further is for experts only. "

I supposed I should learn to read entire descriptions (just imagine what my GPA could have been had I always read the test questions). However it was heartening to hear that we survived a climb for "experts only". I looked it up afterwards and the mountain we climbed was called Little Haystack and it is 4700 ft. Alas, it does not count as one of New Hampshire's 48 four-thousand footers because it is too close to mt. Lincoln.

The Mystery of the Ukrianian Vase

Several weeks ago I returned from work on lovely Friday to find a slip in my mailbox. This slip informed me that the dutiful post man regretted not find me at home and requested my presence at the island of lost packages to receive a package which some one had addressed to me. Conscience of the great honor conferred upon me by this invitation I made haste to accept and the next day found me in possession of a surprisingly long and narrow package from Ukraine. which I was fairly convinced contained a teacup. The reason for this lurking suspicion was that I had signed up for a tea cup exchange and was eagerly awaiting that package. Once I had returned to the comfort of my own home the contents were revealed to me and before my waking eyes I saw, not a teacup, but a vase. A large wooden vase.

After some time spent wondering why I had been presented with a vase from the Ukraine I decided that perhaps my teacup exchange partner, being from Ukraine and perhaps not the best at English, had thought that she was signing up for a vase exchange or perhaps even a generic exchange (a resurgence of the barter economy perhaps). I came to this conclusion after using the skills gained from many hours spent under the careful tutelage of Agatha Christie to weigh the evidence. 

1.  The package was addressed to me specifically so it couldn't have been meant for the previous residents of my apartments
2. I don't know anyone in Ukraine or who could be in Ukraine
3. I had just moved so only family and a few friends had my address
4. I had not been known to express desires for vases Ukrainian or otherwise

Content with this explanation I spent the rest of the weekend in a state of mental peace not disturbed by any Ukrainian thoughts.

On Monday after work I drove to Boston to see Othello and did return until late. As I strolled happily to my mailbox I saw a worrying sight. A small, teacup sized, package sat on my mail box, addressed to me and not from Ukraine but from Tennessee. My spirits rose at the receipt of such a lovely package, yet I could not restrain some perturbation of spirits when I thought of the vase. From the fertile soil of my imagination sprung up many possibilities including ancient Ukrainian curses coming to rest upon my brand new apartment and Ukrainian drug lords breaking in that very night to reclaim the costly Ukrainian drugs stored in the vase.

Fortunately enough none of these extremities came to pass and I made an uneasy peace with the presence of the vase.  A corner of my mind, however, still wondered, perhaps would always wonder, where did the vase come from?

Several weeks later, on my birthday, I was speaking to my sister on the phone. She excitedly asked whether I had received my present.

"What present?" I asked, the light of understanding beginning to illuminate that corner of my mind which had never ceased to hope for an explanation.

"The Vase! Did yo not get it?" she cried with touching sisterly concern.

The vase now rests on my bookcase, unaware of the confusion and fear it had evoked in its new owner.

New England as the Leaves Change

This is where I live now!!!!!

 (that may hit me harder once winter arrives)

I bike a long this river to get to work and after returning from Dallas after a week the leaves have been transformed. I took a few pictures on the way home from work today.