Flashback

I sit down in the office this morning, half awake, no coffee in my hand, no breakfast on my table. As I gaze out the window without really focusing, a small movement between the blinds draws my eye, flicking like a dandelion seed trapped in the screen catching light then shadow in the slant of sun streaming through the window.

Awakened and intrigued, I force my eyes to focus. The furry mote resolves into a flurry legs delicately lifting warp from weft as if weaving. A tiny, translucent spider spinning a tiny, translucent web in the cells between the screen. Her legs tap and stutter like a teletype desperately ticking out a message that none will ever read. Like my wife's fingers clicking her needles as a blanket emerges from the center of a skein to warm a friend's the newest arrival.

She spins the thinnest, transparent silk like the finest fiber-optics flashing in the sun. Remains of old strands cling to the window like discarded fiberglass, giving it an illusion of age, crafting it a personality that is scratched or cracked or ready to shatter from the pressure of the light. Like a life that has been fractured and painstakingly pieced back together, nearly seamless, without ever falling from its frame. The way I feel some mornings.

Now she waits as I do, her at the center of her web for breakfast to become ensnared, me for the day's central appointment that will tangle me in web of emotions from which I have only recently broken free. Predator and prey, we contemplate each other like black and white circling each other's tail as the sun rises through the trees.

As I finish, the sun glints off my wedding ring, dispelling the flash of melancholy I know will return later in the day as I prepare to face a future woven eight months before.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Firelight

Firelight - a reading (on YouTube)

We keep the blinds mostly drawn in the dining room at night, just high enough for the cats to sit in the front window and look out. We lower them at dusk just enough to block the streetlight on the corner and the other lights our neighbor's burn throughout the night.

When I awoke this morning, the sun was still low and near the horizon. There was a haze to the east which was lit up in the softest shade of pink, like a rose petal fog that partially obscured the dawn. The sun slanting through the gap in the front window was flame orange, like you only see at dawn or dusk. It struck the legs of our furniture and lit them up as though drawing the fire hidden within the wood. The oak of the barstools glowed like amber beneath a polished finish, the cherry wood in the living room more like garnets. All from a narrow beam of light, maybe a foot high, walking its way from the back of the living room toward the base of the front window as each minute passed.

Ten minutes later, all of it was gone, the haze, the light, the fire. One day soon, it will no longer reappear. Some mornings it pays to rise with the first light of dawn.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Trash Migration

Trash Migration - a reading (on YouTube)

Here at the house, our trash gets collected twice each week, Monday and Thursday. While we're lucky if we put out one barrel once a week, our neighbors are much more prolific in their trash generation. Every Sunday and Wednesday, we are privileged to witness the rare trash migration that occurs next door.

It starts before dawn with us waking to find one trash can perched like a pillar at the edge of the curb. It stands as a lone sentry for most of the morning, a kind of bellwether guardian to ensure the remainder of the herd will be safe as they approach. One by one over the course of the next several hours, individual cans cluster around their leader until, by evening, three to four well-stuffed barrels have colonized the banks of the asphalt stream. Only then does the young, less contained trash of the herd, the miscellaneous boxes, bags and household detritus, feel safe enough to emerge from hiding and cling to the handles of their elders. Once weekly, they are joined by their low, squat cousins, the recycling bins, always arriving in pairs, usually after a heavy feeding. Some days, they bring snacks of bundled yard waste to see them through the long, dark night until collection the next morning.

Each week, they remain quite cautious. In my twenty years of observation, I've never seen the herd rush the curb en masse. Perhaps the subtropical heat holds them to a slower pace. Perhaps it's their natural shyness or an instinct for self-preservation against the packs of salvage scavengers and rogue recyclers that circle the neighborhood. Perhaps only one or two ever make the migration at all and breed at the curb in some unwitnessed mating ritual or asexual budding. I'm not sure we'll know unless we set up a scent-masked blind with a motion-sensing, night-vision camera to monitor their diurnal rhythms in this their natural habitat.

But we must be quick or by morning all we'll find are their empty carcasses. The grunting, grinding predator that roams the asphalt river is large and its appetite nearly insatiable.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Squirrel Conclave

Squirrel Conclave - a reading (on YouTube)

Yesterday, as I was looking out the office window, I saw the neighbor's cat go tearing across the front yard, chasing after something out of sight. One of our cats, on the bookshelf behind me, was suddenly very interested. So I went to another window, and sure enough, there was the neighbor's cat with a squirrel in his mouth. I headed for the door, hoping for a rescue, but by the time I got outside, the cat and squirrel were nowhere in sight. I looked around, but saw no sign. Once I got back to the driveway, I heard a squirrel in one of the front oaks screeching a warning like they do, only somewhat off-key. To me, it sounded mournful.

This morning, I look out the office window and see three small squirrels playing in the grass. Tentatively, they chase one another up one of the front oaks. Two more join them. The five of them run down and across the street. Another two cross from the neighbor's yard. Ok, that's seven squirrels. They chase each other up the neighbor's palm tree, and back down, still friendly. Then they sit in a three-by-three foot area, most up on their hind legs as if posing for a picture. Another crosses the street to join them, and, finally, two more. That makes a total of ten squirrels that I can see.

Uh, oh, this doesn't look good. I've never seen this many squirrels in one small space before. Maybe there's some sort of conclave going on. Maybe it's a mass migration. Maybe they think the neighborhood has gone downhill. Or maybe they're plotting revenge against the neighbor's cat. I'd better keep our own off the porch today, just in case.

Now, without ever seeing any squirrels cross back, I've got a normal compliment in the front yard again, eating the hibiscus flowers, drinking from the birdbath, romping in the oaks. All the ones across the street have vanished. One or two more cross, but by then the congregation has dispersed. The conclave is over. Maybe they've selected a new leader. Or elected a new pope. I don't see any white smoke. Just gray tails swishing in the breeze.

Ok, maybe I should go lie down. It's been a rather strange morning.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Der Panzer Toaster

Der Panzer Toaster - a reading (on YouTube)

On Saturday we went shopping for a new microwave to replace our 21 year-old model which had started to emit more and more of ozone each time we turned it on. While in Bed, Bath & Beyond, I contracted a serious case of techno-lust and felt compelled to check in on an old friend in the small appliance section, Der Panzer Toaster.

I spotted this beast a few years ago. It's a toaster-oven made by Krups, a name reminiscent of the German arms manufacturer during WWII, though an entirely different company as I understand it. This is one serious device. It has solid, German construction, blocky and heavy. It has digital controls, the high-tech communications package of toaster ovens. It has an ultra-modern, matte black, baked on stealth-style enamel coating. Behind the door it has six quartz heating elements, three top, three bottom, that draw more power than the average microwave oven, a whopping 1.6 kW. It has a Teflon coated drip-pan liner. It has enough room inside to swallow a frozen pizza or a house a bevy of Cornish game hens.

If you were to put this machine on treads, it would roam the counter at night and demand the surrender of other kitchen electronics, forcing the small appliances into forming alliances to oppose it. First, it would incorporate the coffee maker into its empire, which the Braun bean grinder would likely betray. Then, the crock pot, the bread machine and the blender would dig in, forming a ceramic, glass and steel Maginot Line. But they, too, would fall when it outflanked their defenses through the forest of oregano and basil in the spice countries. The garbage disposal would resist valiantly but soon shut down, leaving the dishwasher in an untenable position.

Emboldened, Der Panzer Toaster would cross the sink unopposed. One by one, it would conquer the mini-chopper, the hand mixer, and finally the stick blender. With the digital scale and the kitchen timer under siege, only the microwave could hold out on its own for long, and only because it occupies a separate island on a separate circuit breaker. Ultimately, even it would fail unless the refrigerator revoked its neutrality and brought its technological prowess to bear quickly, first by exploiting Der Panzer Toaster's one known weakness and coating the linoleum in a frozen, arctic tundra, followed by opening a second front across the channel to the butcher-block that houses the kitchen knives. Even then, it would be a long, hard slog to liberate the appliances that had fallen under Der Panzer Toaster's shadow. And who knows what cold war might ensue should the conventional oven decide to pursue an independent strategy and occupy its own client states.

As much as I admire that kind of innovative technological initiative, that's not the behavior I'm looking for in a small kitchen appliance. So I left it on the shelf, purring like a Bengal tiger as it dreamed of stainless steel, gourmet glory in someone else's kitchen.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Morgans 2, Ginger 1

Morgans 2, Ginger 1 - a reading (on YouTube)

And now, your sports update: In the final round of the best-of-three competition, the wild ginger in the Morgans' backyard has been eliminated from the tournament on aggregate, 2-1.

You may remember the quick growing vegetation scored an easy win in the first round of play by deploying an often seen but difficult to counter surprise "mold defense" effectively neutralizing half the Morgan team. With no substitutes available, they were forced to play shorthanded the remainder of the match. Wild ginger took a bit of a mauling, but nothing it couldn't recover from given time.

In round two the Morgans came in prepared and dug out the invasive weed's visible defense in a hard day's hacking and sawing. Though team Morgan tried to soften up team Ginger for the next match with their newly acquired striker, Roundup, the weedy herb shrugged off his spray of shots. But the Morgans held onto their early goal for an eventual, but not decisive victory.

In the weeks leading up to this final confrontation, both sides rested their key players. Team Ginger's training regimen included digging in under the six-inch gap between the chainlink and wood fencing bordering the pitch, possibly thinking it had found a home-field advantage having detected a weakness in the Morgans' previous attacks.

In round three both teams pulled out all the stops. Team Ginger hunkered down in a bunker defense, while team Morgan pondered their best strategy for an attack. The wild root deployed mildly effective carpenter ant midfield formation, followed by a quick counterattack from a ringer on loan from team Wolf Spider, sending half of team Morgan into her screaming wiggly dance (sometimes confused with her victory celebration). She toppled into the remaining Roundup, effectively sidelining him for the remainder of the game. By halftime, team Ginger had once again fended of countless shots from the Morgans' heavy-handed, ax-wielding strikers. Team Morgan seemed on the brink of collapse from exhaustion and the heat.

After what can only be described as an amazing motivational speech from their coach, team Morgan returned to the pitch reinvigorated and with a novel new strategy. Dropping back some 6000 years, they employed a formation that at first team Ginger didn't recognize but soon realized it couldn't counter unless team Morgan's fitness gave out once again in the noontime heat. But that was not to be. Hamstrung in its earlier attempt at digging in by the groundskeeper's overnight undercutting, the wild ginger could find little purchase on the pitch in the second half. Just before penalty kicks would have decided the final outcome, the Morgans' rediscovered formation (nicknamed "The Lever") finally carried the day.

Next up for team Morgan: a classic matchup with their cross-yard rival, team Sprinkler. This one promises to be a long, muddy slog of a campaign.

And that's your sports update.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Amazing Race: Wales

What a trip. In eight days, we took in 7 English castles, 3 Welsh castles, 3 abbeys/priories, 3 holy wells (dating pre-Christian), a medieval house, a Roman fort, a dark age dyke, 5 Neolithic sites, 4 waterfalls, a sea stack and bird watching outpost, a slate mine, a town with 38 bookstores and watched the Champion's League final in a crowed pub. We put 1000 miles on the rental car.

That's the short story. If you want the details, keep reading. Karen will be putting up a site at some point with pictures soon.

The trip started inauspiciously with a 2 hour delay leaving Tampa where they told us our connection would leave on time (and we might miss it). After a sprint through Newark (with no help or info from Continental even when we asked them) we found our flight to Manchester had also been delayed 2 hours. Then at Manchester, we found they had lost a bag, the one with all the maps, books, Karen's clothes and our hiking boots. The rental car company had no maps, so we had to wing it out of Manchester into Wales where we bought a map and figured out where we were. Oh, and it was raining, and windy, and cold. The whole time (not quite, but close). It rained every day we were there but the last Tuesday.

But things got much better. Karen's bag was delivered the next day. Most days, the weather cleared as we came to places we wanted to see if only to pour again when we were finished. Or the direction we chose would have the only clear weather of the day.

The place we stayed was run by the most wonderful woman from London whose work ethic is just completely amazing. She used to be a broker specializing in developing markets. Her level of energy and general cheeriness was unrivaled by anyone I've met. In a couple weeks she is going to shut down for her birthday to do a hike of the Welsh summits that exceed 3000 feet, something like 7 or 8 in a week. Should you ever find yourself in North Wales in need of accommodations, I can't recommend the place we stayed highly enough. It was an 1850's Victorian house very tastefully decorated. She had prime recommendations of where to eat and where to avoid. She knew the area and had great recommendations for what to add to our list of things to see. A perfect host. She offered us all kinds of help with our initial lost bag situation. By the end, we, too, must have made an impression as she said to her friends (who were pitying her for having Americans staying with her) that we weren't typical Americans, we were good ones. She also seemed impressed that we "got out and saw the country" rather than just the tourist spots.

The day we arrive (about 4 hours later than we thought) we walked the town and the rivers before collapsing for a fresh start.

The first full day out, we took in Anglesey starting with Beaumaris castle, then to Penmon Priory with St. Seiriol's well and a 1000 bird dovecote. At lunch, I practiced some Welsh at a bakery (mm, lamb oggies) and made the woman's day, I think. Her face lit up when I said "Diolch" and asked how to pronounce some words. From there we went to Holy Head and the South Stack where we hung with some Royal Society for the Preservation of Birds people chatting and watching the nesting birds (in gale force winds), and saw a flower that only grows there, one of only 200 left. Talked a bit with a Welsh nationalist ("The dream still lives!"). From there, we took in a Neolithic hut circle and 2 burial chambers (Bodewyn and Bryn Celli Ddu), the latter of which had a henge on it before the locals wiped it out and erected a cairn in a stone age religious war. Those were out in BFE Wales. We were soaked and shivering by the time we crawled into the pub to catch a lamb dinner, a pint of Old Speckled Hen and the last half of Arsenal losing to Barcelona in the UEFA Champions League final before an enthusiastic crowd of mostly Arsenal supporters.

The next day we had all our equipment again (yeah!) and opted to stay more local to Betws-y-Coed after some porridge with our continental breakfast (mmm). We started with the Mt. Garmon burial mound just up the hills from where we stayed. On the way up, we got to escorted by the local sheep rancher's dog, who was quite playful before he was called home. The mound was impressive with 3 chambers, though open topped (only one we saw reconstructed and covered). From there we hiked out to Conwy Falls (quite nice) and Fairy Glen (an aptly named waterfall and gorge). From there we took in Dolwyddelan, a Welsh castle, positioned on a hill with quite a commanding view. From there we toured the Llechwedd slate mines (a hard day's pay in Victorian times) and finally Swallow Falls. That night was Welsh beef at a charming bistro in town, finished off with Welsh mead!

Day three we branched out to the Llyn where we heard the most Welsh (though Anglesey and the North were both full of Welsh speakers). We had been warned that the Llyn was full of Welsh National Front (think IRA without violence). They regularly pained out English signs and left only Welsh, as well as stole a few signs altogether. Though it was on Anglesey that we saw the large, painted wall with "English Colonists Out". We started with Harlech Castle (quite impressive, especially when considering it would have been lime-washed and a bright white on it's stone perch). Then to Cricieth, a Welsh castle. Then into the start of the maze of stolen signs to Pennarth Fawr, a medieval house and finally lost almost completely before a navigation roll got us to St. Cybi's Well (worth the hour in the near sign-less maze). On to St. Bueno's well (not much to see) and another adventure with the locals to find the Clynnog Dolmen and it's hundred cup circles. Always ask the old Welsh guy, he knows these things, checks your shoes and sends you across the right ranchers field. That night was venison and a rather good beer called Reverend James down the road from where we were staying.

As an aside, we were warned about the Welsh by nearly every English person we met, starting at British Immigration, where were told they wouldn't help us with much, especially pronunciation of the town names. One person summed it up by saying they were "bloody minded" (in the British sense of the term). What we saw was that if we made a small effort, they were more than friendly and helpful, including with pronunciation, especially if we mentioned we had actually read some Welsh history. Though when we saw them interacting with the English, they seemed to have a bit of a beaten down look, as though they were quite used to all the things said about them (as when one English girl said to her Welsh compatriot as we were discussing town names, "I'm going back to where they talk proper). The English on the other hand were also quite helpful, but wouldn't acknowledge you on the street with eye contact or a polite hello (because they have no G-D manners was what our half English, half German innkeeper said). Quite interesting their views of one another. They really only just seem to get along, at least in the north. I think many of the Welsh would rather be free of Britain (same as we found with many Scots in Scotland), though I'm not sure where that would lead. But they do have their own unique culture.

After a full English breakfast of sausage, bacon (Canadian style), eggs, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, Saturday was the big castles, Caernarfon and Conwy, . Both quite impressive. Caernarfon was better restored (and quite a treacherous, slick stair maze inside the walls that nearly broke my elbow), but Conwy showed more of the interior buildings and living conditions. The towns were no comparison: Caernarfon was more of a tourist town, Conwy more genuine. The medieval city walls in Conwy were still complete. The shops seemed quite nice, not selling the tourist tat of Caernarfon center. Then it was off the Caerhun, a Roman outpost you really must have ticked someone off to be stationed at in the day. While in general the country and sites were well marked and easy to find, this was one of the few that wasn't. I think we made the young ranchers day when we asked him if he knew where it was and he said, "you're standing on it." You could make out the land had been flattened (2000 years ago) and one side of the trench and dyke. He was kind enough to lead us to the church (the only thing there) where they had some information about the site, before tucking his puppy back under his arm and climbing back on his ATV to continue to his fields. The church itself (also called Caerhun, the only way we found it) dated back to the 1100's. Neat site. Commanding view of the river. Then we took in Aber Falls, an impressive 100 foot drop that was flowing quite nicely from all the rain. Then fish and chips and a pint in the pub in the town near the falls. Just what we needed.

Sunday we bit off more than we should have with a long drive (with the first of the two flipped cars) down to Hay-on-Wye, the town with 38 used bookstores. I could have crawled through there all day. Found a couple interesting books with 3 more on medieval warfare I would have bought had they not already been a bit musty. If you have a book you can't find, this is the place. Got a bit of help at the tourist information center with my Welsh pronunciation (in the friendliest way). Then we started the arduous climb up onto the bluffs overlooking the town toward Llanthony priory. On the way up, a guy on his way down with a rack-line of debris halfway up his door warned us about a bit of water on the road ahead. Must have been a flash flood (it was pouring off and on all that day) as we only had water up about a foot. The drive was worth it both for the startling view of the Wye valley from the top, and for the Benedictine priory nestled in the valley on the other side. This was where our most astounding weather break. As we munched a cold lunch in the car, the weather broke and we got the only half hour of sun that day to tour the priory before it came down again. Timing is everything. Quite an impressive ruin. It was compared to Tintern Abbey, only without the commercial tourism surrounding it. Pretty much the area was as it was 800 years earlier. Well worth the drive. From there, we nosed around Offa's Dyke on the way home (with the second flipped car), though you could just barely make out where it had been. Still, an impressive 177 mile feat of brute engineering for the 9th or 10th century. Really shows how much the Saxons and the Welsh didn't get along (still don't seem to much from what I could tell). No real dinner that night as we wanted to get back before dark with all the rain and accidents.

By Monday, we were quite drained (mostly me with the cold I thought was bordering on walking pneumonia), so we opted to stick closer to town. We did some shopping, took in a nice lunch at another place our hostess recommended and just wandered about the town. We did take in a Valle Crucis Abbey that afternoon, which was somewhat nearby. Another beautiful ruin this time Cistercian, the white monks, (state sponsored theft as the keeper called the dissolution of the monasteries). That day it was quite cold, rainy and blowing (temps around 40 when we were there). They had a number of medieval grave markers on display as well as an impressive rosette window carved out of stone still standing in the wall of the nave. Then another pub meal and a new local brew (new that day) from Conwy.

Tuesday, we had to start making our way back toward England after picking up lunch in town (mmm, more lamb oggies), taking in castles at Denbigh (what a commanding view), Rhuddlan (built for shear intimidation), Flint (low, squat and meant to be look impenetrable) and finally Ewloe, a Welsh ambush castle hidden away in a vale nested among the trees. I think of all the castles we saw, it was the most startling as you had no clue The CADW (preservers of Welsh historic monuments) have their act together. Not only could we pick up a 7 day pass that got us entry into all the castles and sites that charged (not all did) for big discount for what we saw. Wish we'd found out about it the first day. They also have quite nice books that were relatively inexpensive for each place (that I invested heavily in, filling my briefcase to my shoulder's carrying capacity on the trip home).

Then it was a slow drive back to Manchester (by then Karen had picked up my cold) where we got quite lost in the airport desperately searching for the rental car return before getting help from a quite friendly cabby who drew us a map (we were in the middle of the airport grounds at the time with it's numerous roundabouts. Laugh if you will). But it did the trick. The hotel was quite nice. That night was Atlantic salmon (from the wrong side) in the hotel restaurant. Very tasty even on the other side.

And an early, mostly eventless flight home (except almost got held by British security because Continental didn't mark our passports as having been screened. Fortunately the man who screened us vouched for us at the gate), to be greeted by our own terse and surly immigration and customs people (as opposed to the quite polite, friendly, and helpful British ones). As the sign at Immigration says: The face of the nation. Quite a contrast. Our bags got X-rayed by Dept. of Ag as we said we'd been on a ranch and in contact with livestock (?!), though they didn't ask anything about that, only whether we had any food (other than the honey we declared). When we got home, we found a slip saying TSA had searched our bags as well. Nothing missing, no damage, no problem. At least they let us know. Must be my swarthy passport photo.

That's it in a (rather wordy) nutshell. A fabulous trip, quite an adventure even for the rough spots. Nothing that stopped us or even slowed us down much. Even for all the running around, we never felt we didn't have enough time at any one place. Of course, we didn't get to see everything we wanted. Just means we have to go back. We had a blast and would do it all again, rough spots and all.

But the cats are glad we're home, even if we didn't bring any of the numerous lambs we saw for them to play with.

© 2006 Edward P. Morgan III