I was correct to worry, but it turned out OK

     Nearly all of my church assignments have had to do with the young men.  I was Scoutmaster for about twelve years with one or another age group, and I get to count being Bishop of a congregation as well as the two missions served in South America.  I'm presently helping with the 16-18 year-old young men.

     So it was no huge surprise when in December I was asked to be the specialist for the encampment of the 12-18 year olds that took place last week.  We were lucky to have access to an old Boy Scout camp for the activity, one with very few facilities beyond fire rings and water spigots.  We decided to not risk poisoning them or their leaders with any of my cooking, and so the largest expense was the cost of renting eight port-a-johns to place around the camp.  Over a thousand dollars, in case you are planning the next backyard party and need eight of them.

     Since our church parted ways with the Scouts a couple of years ago, outdoor skills have atrophied among the youth, so we decided to spend a day in classes covering such basic stuff as knots, starting fires (a good thing or a bad thing, depending), 

first aid, and despite everything being based on GPS now, map and compass. 

     We also felt that returning the favor and doing some service at the camp would be good for the soul, so we spent a half-day cleaning ditches.  

     No good turn goes unpunished, of course, and I was one of several folks attacked by yellow jacket bees when we disturbed their ground nest. 

 

     The final full day was The Day of Manly Feats of Strength and Cunning.   This included such Manly Feats as crossing The Alligator Pit of Death (three cheap inflatable alligators and a big suspended rope to shinny across), Math Fight!, surviving The Water Balloon Firing Squad, figuring out What's Wrong With This Guy? and others.  

     The day ended with, among other things, an eight-vessel Canoe Race.  In my kayak, I represented a pylon around which they had to pass, and the rules didn't say I couldn't move.  A lot.

     The final event was Canoe Jousting.  

     It would have gone better if the padding on my jousting poles hadn't nearly fallen off when it became soaked, and if their canoe-maneuvering skills had been better.  Since no one has to learn how to drive a canoe nowadays, it took an agonizing amount of time for the adversaries to get turned around and come close enough to cause actual harm to each other.

     That said, almost everyone had a good time, and some even learned something.  It was a good experience for many of the young men and their leaders, and in the end was worth the effort.

     However, the months leading up to the event were tough on me, and I haven't sleep well in a while.  I'm afraid I may have to invoke Rule 69 next year if I'm asked to help again.  Rule 69 says that when you reach that age you don't have to do this stuff any more.  

     We hope that your encampments go as well and that the bees leave you alone.

Dave

Another trip, another rug

       She swore that the rug mania had resolved.  Yeah, right.

       As we've mentioned earlier, our second daughter and her husband and seven kids have lived in lots of distant places because of his work with the State Department.  They are presently finishing their fourth year in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, but will be moving to Nur Sultan, Kazakhstan in about six weeks.  Because of some weird State Dept. rule, they don't get a home visit this year, so we decided to go and see them.

      Can I say this?  Don't fly Jet Blue.  

     Not only did they delay our luggage by three days, but they were not nice about it.  And I quote:  "That is correct.  I am NOT going to help you on this situation.  Got it?"  Luckily, we had both packed an extra set of 'ropa interior' (un-mentionables) in our carry-on briefcases, and luckily Paula and Ashley are about the same size, and luckily Turkish Air was more helpful.  

      So, what do you do in an ancient and famous Silk Road city with a written history spanning 2,200 years, formerly part of the Soviet Union?  In Soviet times, it witnessed major growth and demographic changes due to forced deportations from throughout the USSR, so there are lots of ethnic strains there.  Much of Tashkent was destroyed in a major earthquake in 1966, but it was rebuilt as a "model Soviet city."  It was actually the fourth-largest city in the Soviet Union at that time, after Moscow, Leningrad (now once-again St. Petersburg) and Kyiv. 

     OK, so "model Soviet city" doesn't imply very much charm.  

     Since the 1990's, however, Tashkent has gotten significantly better.  It's the largest city in all of Central Asia, which still isn't saying a whole lot, with an estimated population of only about 2 million, seven hundred thousand.  

     Well, what DO you DO?!  Mostly, you play with the grandkids and enjoy time with their parents, who are doing a remarkable job of raising well-balanced kids who have only known strange places as home.  And you go to a waterpark for one of their birthdays.  Excuse me?  Waterpark?!  Yep, and it was one of three or four in the city, though clearly the nicest, and was called "Oasis Waterpark!"  No, that's not a translation, it was "Oasis Waterpark."  Period.  

     Not sure exactly when in its 2,200 years of written history Tashkent started building waterparks, but it was a lot of fun.  Somewhere along the line, my grandkids have picked up their mother's assertive character and when challenged by the lifeguards about being too young to use the highest water slides, they just pushed past and went for it.  The ten year old even wriggled free when one of them tried to physically impede him and he dove for the nearest and biggest slide.  

     The oldest granddaughters are, for better or worse, becoming cute.  When one of the lifeguards tried to slow them down on the water slide, he also asked for the oldest one's telephone number and invited her for a walk that evening.  She related this with a shiver of disgust, but I warned her it would not be the last time, and that she should take it as a compliment, even if her goals do not include marrying an Uzbek.  

     Within its borders, Uzbekistan includes several of the remarkable ancient Silk Road cities, the most well-known of which is Samarkand.  It was the headquarters of the great despotic ruler Emir Timur, or Tamerlane, who in his time conquered and ruled one of history's greatest empires, stretching from China to much of India and the Middle East and included eastern Europe.  It's once-magnificent architecture was subsequently sacked by succeeding despots, but is being restored.  

     Samarkand also has killer ice cream stands.  I know.  Again, not sure if they date to the time of Emir Timur, but he probably could have better pacified his conquered subjects by building more of them.  

     As you know, we're members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  Children are baptized at the age of eight, when they have at least a rudimentary understanding of the commitments that entails.  Our granddaughter Eleanor the Red(head) delayed her baptism several weeks so that we could attend.

OK, anything else to do in this ancient and fabled area of the world?  Well, there are puzzles.

And helping a granddaughter sew a dress,

and a birthday (observed) to be celebrated.

     And grandkids to tickle and read stories to, and turtles in the yard to be admired, and cheap/plentiful cherries to be consumed.  

     Among the monumental monuments to Soviet greatness left behind is the Tashkent TV Tower, stretching 1,230 feet into the sky.

    Somehow, our enthusiastic ten-year-old grandson learned that it included a rotating restaurant, a visit to which became one of the obsessions of his young life, and which goal was satisfied during our stay.

     OK, we only broke one of the goblets that the five-year-old is swinging around in the photo, and we avoided being asked to leave by the maitre d', though probably barely.  A dream fulfilled!

     Tashkent is located in an arid desert climate, its development made possible only by rivers coming from the Zeravshan and Pamir mountain ranges to its east.  It is one of only two countries in the world that are "double landlocked," meaning one has to pass through two other countries to reach the sea.  This lends it a fairly extreme climate, cold in the winter and quite hot in the summer.  That is probably why Emir Timur instituted the building of waterparks for his subjects.  And by the way, before you reach for Google, the other country is Liechtenstein. (Is that a country?)

     And that is why my daughter and her family bless the State Department for putting them up in a nice house with a backyard pool, where we spent a lot of time during our stay.  

(Note:  The picture appears slanted.  That is because Tashkent is on the other side of the globe.  You know, like tilted?  Duh.)

     Fine, now how about the rug in the title?  Having visited Ashley and Gang several times in the past, we have partially depleted Central Asia's supply of beautiful carpets.  Knowing that the only remaining places to put these treasures of workmanship were mostly outdoors or in the garage, Paula steeled herself to returning carpet-less.  However, she agreed to buy one for a friend and bring it back to the States for her, and so she went back and forth with texts including pictures of possible choices. 

     Then she remembered: my office had a bare floor!  Yee Hah!  Now it doesn't.

     We returned after ten days with all of our original luggage and then some.  We're happy to be home, even though our jet-lagged brains think that we're still in the land of Emir Timur and his ice cream stands and waterparks.  It will wear off in a couple of days, but we will still have some of his rugs.

Dave & Paula

The Revenge of the Tree Rats!

     We previously reported the consideration of harvesting and consuming some of our local tree chickens in a desperate moment.   Unfortunately, we now suspect that a few of the fluffy little pine cone bandits might be able to read, an advantage they would hold over many of the human residents of our proud state.  

     This unnerving possibility was raised just the other day.  As you know from previous posts, Paula and I enjoy cycling and are presently putting in some miles in preparing for an adventure later this year (stay tuned for probably-snarked-out posts on THAT).  

     On a usually-pleasant downhill stretch, I heard Paula screech and when I fell back to see what was wrong, all she could say was, "A squirrel!  A squirrel!  It jumped out and hit my leg and almost knocked me over!!"

     This is not the first time that our fuzzy-tailed arboreal 'friends' have tried to sabotage cyclists.  Here is an example of a felled bicycle with a kamikaze tree rodent stuck in the front wheel.

     And another.

     At this point, we are pretty much convinced that the squirrels have found the internet address of this blog and are out for revenge upon us for suggesting that they might supplement our diet.  

     Unusual times call for unusual measures, such as 

or an airbag helmet, complete with the cute model, Paula says.

or even this, complete with the front Squirrel Guard™ which I am about to patent, by the way (don't even TRY to snipe me on this one!)

     We have considered calling for a truce in the confrontation, but through my binoculars I saw something that made me think that the rodents are in no mood.

     Stay tuned for further developments.  Meanwhile, if you are a local tree chicken reading this, we desire peace and are ready to offer peanuts as proof of our sincerity.  If they seem rancid and/or stale, that's Paula's fault and make sure you go for her bike and not mine.

David

Fixing leaky bladders

     OK, I admit, the headline was click bait.  I really did fix leaky bladders surgically, but I haven't done one of those operations since July 2011.  Now I'm plagued by another kind of leaky bladder.

     This is a (borrowed, stolen) diagram of a kitesurfing kite.  The leading edge is hollow, and the whole thing is given shape in part by inflatable bladders within it and the struts. 

     They are only inflated to about 7-8 pounds per square inch, so not a lot of pressure.  However, they are subject to all kinds of trauma.

     Though probably not a politically correct term, slamming a kite into the water is known as "tomahawking" the poor thing, and the sound it makes causes every head to turn and see who messed up this time.  

     Where my brother kites on the lower Potomac River, there have been forlorn kites in trees, a warning to those foolish enough to brave Mother Nature.  

     Add to that the 'foot cacti' found on the Outer Banks,

and the life of a kite bladder can be hard and short.

     Unfortunately, on our last outing in April to Hatteras, it became clear that my beloved 15-meter kite had suffered a slow leak.  This was not a happy moment.  You see, fixing a leaky bladder on a human is WAY simpler, and I'm close to serious.  You don't actually have to remove the human version, a lengthy and trick procedure on a kite.  The thing is skinny, about twenty feet long (OK, careful, I'm talking about the kite version, not the one in the person), and attached to all sorts of things, and that holds for both kind of bladders.

     And just like with the human version, the bladder is a bit delicate, and you have to make sure you're not making MORE holes while you're fixing the first one.  So, I scrubbed up, donned my surgical gown and gathered my instruments.  Meanwhile, the kite was already unconscious and ready for the procedure.

     Though Paula refused to mop my brow or even address me as "Dr. Henderson," things went well, and after longer than the person version took, I got the bladder out, found the hole, patched it and got everything back together again, which step is also necessary in the human procedure.

     I cautiously blew the kite back up, and was relieved that it held pressure.  Ready for the next "tomahawk" or cactus or whatever awful thing lies in its future.  

     We hope that your bladder isn't leaking, and if it is, that you can find someone to put a good patch on it.

Dave

It's good to have a good brother

     My brother Mark is three years younger than I am, and we have an unfortunate sister trapped between us.  We had the usual love/dislike relationships growing up, and there were times when I was unkind to him, which I sorely regret.  He was usually better to me than I was to him.

     Mark came up with all sorts of lunatic stuff.  At one point in our childhood, he made a rule that if someone was hurt inadvertently while we were playing, someone else could say, "Laugh, my child!" and the injured party had to laugh, which usually set things back on track.

     He convinced our baby sister that there was a secret rail system in the attic by which we could be transported to the neighbor's house, but that she couldn't use it until she was six.  And on and on.

     Mark has always thought bigger than me.  I had a minibike, he had a Yamaha dirt bike.  I had the ratty old VW Beetle, he had the ratty old Triumph Spitfire.  I have five kids, he has eight.  I was an OB-GYN, he was an orthopaedic surgeon.  

     There has been somewhat of a fun arms race since we've grown up.  We had always ridden bikes, but he got a nice one in residency, so I had to find one also, and we've had some classic rides together since, and while I've done a lot of 'century' rides (100 miles), for a while he was doing 'double dimes,' meaning 200 miles at a throw.

     During residency in Philadelphia, Mark noticed someone windsurfing at a nearby park lake, and he had to do it.  That meant that I needed to figure it out also, and we had great fun windsurfing together for twenty-five years, all over the East Coast and even internationally.

     Scuba diving slipped in there somewhere, along with underwater photography.  

     We shared whitewater kayaking with our sons, and did many of the great and challenging rivers in the East, though again, he was always up for bigger stuff than I was.

     From what I've said, you could think that it was all fun stuff.  Mark has become a solid pillar in his community and the Church, and we have paralleled each other in many assignments and activities.  

     The latest chapter in the fun category has been kiteboarding, which we picked up at the end of windsurfing a dozen years ago or so.  We've had a lot of laughs doing that together, though as usual, Mark gets 25 foot jumps while I'm lucky to land fivers.  

     It's great having a good brother.  He's always someone I can bounce DIY engineering plans off of, or revel with about some new activity, or use as an excuse with my long-suffering wife; "Well, Amy let Mark do it!"  Doesn't always work, but it's worth a try.  

     I hope that your siblings are anywhere near as good as my kid brother.

David

Crazy ideas of (fairly) old guys

       When we lived on a 'gentleman's farm' in then-rural Fairfax County, Virginia, my parents raised lots of different animals, including goats, specifically milk-producing Saanens.

     Mom had a friend named Bob Black who raised Saanens also, and who owned a Piper Cub.  One day he noticed that our fields might make a decent runway.  He flew his plane in, and Mom charged him $5 instead of the $10/mo. tie-down fee at Manassas Airport.  

     OK, maybe not so flattering a picture (that's me in the middle, probably not destined for swim suit model), but that's the cub in the back field.

     A normal Cub only has a 65 horsepower engine and no starter, so when I was about seven years old, Bob taught me how to sit in the front seat, hold the toe brakes and operate the engine controls while he swung the propeller to start the thing.  That was terrifyingly cool, and although Bob never had a license and couldn't take anyone up (and was probably not to be trusted anyway) I became an airplane nut.

     When I was fifteen, my friend Lloyd Hill and I convinced our parents that we should get a job at the Warrenton-Fauquier airport and in a weak moment they said OK!  We would open the office of the Fixed Base Operator on Saturday mornings, and we were often the last ones to leave in the evening.  We fueled and washed airplanes, changed runway lights and of course cleaned the bathroom, but in the end, we both earned our Private Pilot license, mine when I had just turned seventeen, the legal limit.

     I flew some that summer, and a little in Utah when I went to college that fall, but less and less because of the cost.  When I returned from my two-year mission for the Church, I visited Lloyd in Florida, and one of my last logbook entries involved flying to one of the Keys with him.

     Then life intervened with college, marriage, medical school, residency, kids, private practice, etc., etc., etc. and when I brought the subject up once, Paula wisely put it back down; "You've got five little kids!  Are you nuts?!"

     She must have picked up a brain-eating parasite in South America, because while we were there, she mused one day, "You know, I think I'd rather have you auger in flying when you're 75 than change your diapers when you're 90."  I wrote it down, but didn't actually make her sign it.

     Over the last year or so, the idea has entered my mind again, though for what reason I'm not sure.  

     Luckily, I know a guy.  One of my four close friends from back to Cub Scout days, almost 60 years ago is a fellow named Dave Nelson.  I had the honor of giving him his first flight in a small plane, although he had flown plenty commercially, his dad being head of operations for United Airlines at the (then) Washington DC airport and Dulles.  He liked it, did Air Force ROTC at BYU, and eventually ended up as one of the chief test pilots at Edwards AFB, with the most hours in the F-22, which was being developed at the time.  After retiring, he was hired by Lockheed and became the chief test pilot of the F-35, from which he retired about four years ago.  He has flown, as far as he can tell, seventy-seven different aircraft, and actually flew with Chuck Yeager.  Twice.

     For my 68th birthday (that many?!) Paula let me travel to Palmdale, California where Dave lives, and we went flying! 

     He turned out to be the best instructor I have ever worked with and he did a lot to tune me up and get me back on track legally.  With that good start, I've been doing some local flying here.  Again, the reason for all of this is unclear, but it feels like a good thing to do at the moment.  It has at least led me to study a lot, never a bad thing for an aging brain.  

     So, I guess the moral of the story is this - if you want to learn to fly, tell your mother she needs to get some goats.  Saanens, that is.

Dave

A large box of photographic slides

            It has fallen to me to go through my dad’s thousands of photographic slides and digitize the important ones.  They begin in the early 1940’s and end after the turn of the century.  After his death, I became the curator of the slides, as well as scrapbooks of prints.  Dad died at age 95, several years after my mother’s passing while Paula and I were in Peru, .  I had previously packed up the large collection and shipped them back to North Carolina, where they have stayed in the back of a closet for well over a decade.

            There are things that are apparent from the pictures.

            First, he had a good eye for, and found beauty in landscapes.  There are many examples of the discipline and it's clear that he appreciated natural wonders.  It saddened me to discard most of these pictures, but I knew that they wouldn’t mean much to future generations.  The colors in the slides are still glorious; many of them are now 75 years old.  If nothing else, they testify to the stability of the Kodachrome color process, especially in its early days.

            He also loved flowers.  It bothered me discarding literally hundreds of beautiful pictures of beautiful flowers, knowing how much he had enjoyed them.

            My father was an engineer, and valued precision.  His neat handwriting on the well-organized divisions of his slides testifies to this.

            Many of the pictures are of memorials and cemeteries.  It reminds me that the terrible Second World War was still a very recent and fresh memory when these slides were taken.

           He loved us kids.  Yeah, I'm the fat kid in the middle.  There were eventually six of us.

            He loved my mother.  I always knew it, but it is emphasized by how he framed her in his camera.  There are very few images that aren’t flattering to her.

            In keeping with Paula's and my desire to let things go, she persuaded me to finally let my father’s slide projector leave.  An hour or two before it was picked up by a photography enthusiast, I pulled off the worn cover of its box.  As always, I found it clean and in orderly condition (the fan and bulb still work), and I breathed in its aroma one last time.  It instantly brought back memories of sitting in the dark with my family as my dad went through favorite pictures of previous trips and Christmases and people we should remember, and we laughed at how funny we looked when we were younger.  You could feel the heat being blown off by the fan as my father opened boxes of slides and placed them in the spring-loaded tray.

            I’ve tried to pick out pictures that will mean something to future generations, and there are plenty of those.  I have stored them ‘in the cloud’ as well as on two hard drives; it has taken a lot of work to scan and organize them, but far more than that, they are important to the family as it branches out into the future.  They need to know more about this good man, and the pictures that he took will help them understand him better. 

            The hours that I have spent with them have done so for me.

David