A Wandering, Wondering Jew

Sunday, March 15, 2020

Seeking Sanctuary in Virulent...

Times.

Back in the day when I was a firefighter, my life at times could be stressful.

A rough work shift might include:

Responding to a horrific accident where you really don’t want to see what happens when two speeding vehicles try to occupy the same space at the same time.

OR...

The occasional house fire where one of the occupants doesn’t make it out in time.

OR...

The wrestling match with a belligerent drunk.

OR...

The all-nighters where all the so-called emergency calls don’t add up to one emergency.

So... after leaving the fire station I required a Happy Home.

My 1902 Old Town Fort Collins abode was the relief valve from the working mode craziness. I kept my house obsessively clean and clutter free. I had family photos, posters and artwork which soothed me when I gazed upon them. There was an abundance of natural light. I lowered my blood pressure by puttering around in my flower and vegetable garden. Overall, the noise level was turned down low.

It was my sanctuary from a chaotic world.

Now we are all faced with an unseen enemy. The apparent solutions to the Covid-19 health crisis are closures and cancellations. We are being told to “social distance” ourselves from each other.

Ionically, social distancing comes naturally to me. One might say, I’ve been social distancing before it was cool. In any crowd setting, you’ll find me in the least occupied spots or on the periphery of the action. I’ve been known to turn a quick 180 degree in order to escape the masses. Being surrounded by people is not my position of comfort.

Here in Durango, I’ve discovered many social settings that lie within my comfort range. IE: volunteering at the Library or Durango’s Green Drinks. (A Happy Hour featuring people with a conservation minded passion.) Both have ceased operations for the time being.

So...like so many others I became proactive. I stocked up on food and non-perishable items. I purchased cases of IPAs. I checked out five books prior to the Library’s closure. My TV still works minus the March Madness Basketball. (That really hurts.) There will be heaps of hunkering down time.

This is why I’m heading back to sanctuary mode. I obsessively cleaned my townhouse. I organized what few items of clutter I had. The noise level is now set at a windless night in Death Valley National Park low.

So far, so good. Now I breathe a sigh of contentment when I close my front door to the possibility of pandemic. I’m alone with my books, I Pad, IPAs and weeks worth of comfort food. I’ve done a lot of wondering too.

When I heard President “Stable Genius” (he’s neither) pronounce the tiny troublemaker to be a “Foreign Virus,” I had to Fact Check this. Wadya know it. He finally told the truth. If you look at the Covid 19 virus under an electron microscope, you’ll notice itty bitty flags intertwined within the strands of malicious DNA. Not one would be “Old Glory.” Once again illegal immigrants are creating havoc within our Nation.

So...I have a proposal to assure America will never be caught with our Orange Comb Over down again. Let’s build a virus proof Wall! We will hire the best people to construct it. It will be beautiful. Best of all, we will make the virus pay for it!

Finally enjoy this “Daily Show” You Tube.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?fbclid=IwAR2Hn39_P_PuZ8vjjbP5PZsQW_CV4gQMNDd_S3rf1-Uo7hfTYR69HVhKW20&feature=youtu.be&v=VcEnG7qxnLY

On a more serious note.

Stay safe, sane and most of all healthy.

If you need advice on social distancing, feel free to reach out to me. I’m a subject matter expert. Plus I now have plenty of time to answer.

Jeff

Lastly a dating line of 2020.

Sunday, March 8, 2020

The Grim Reaper Strikes...

Again.

Some of you might recall the passing of Joe Scanlan. His was a slow death of finally succumbing to stage 4 cancer. His friends, family and even Joe were aware of his impending death. Yet when the great inevitable happened, it hurt and shocked all who knew him.

Here’s my tribute to Joe:

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/06/parting-is-nothing-but.html

A few days ago, the Angel of Death struck again. The ultimate unwanted guest appeared with the suddenness of a terrorist attack.

On an icy highway in Alaska, Paul the Pilot and his lovely daughter Lea were killed in a two vehicle head on collision. Paul was 66. Lea was 25.

Now his family and friends are left behind with more questions than answers. How can something like this befall two top tier people?

I can’t begin to fathom the misery Kiki (his wife), his remaining children and siblings are now going through. I can only write about what I am now feeling.

Paul the Pilot and I were an Odd Couple of friends.

Starting with looks. Paul was tall, light, handsome and dapper in dress. The complete opposite of me.

Paul had a optimistic demeanor. (My other nickname for him was Paul the Polly Andy). I’m a Woody Allen pessimist/realist.

Paul was a gifted Renaissance man. He could sing, play the guitar, create kitchen cuisine, was extremely smart, fly airplanes and was versed in the art of home improvement projects. I hike, read, drink IPAs, watch sports, go to movies, write blogs and make green chili. That’s about it.

Paul was a gregarious extrovert. He needed people like I require open, empty space devoid of humans. He’d veer toward a crowd, while I’d slink away.

Paul moved to Durango years before I did. Paul lived a frenetic and busy life here. Occasionally, we’d meet for Happy Hour.

Paul (like me) was a story teller. He spoke In a dramatic emphatic manner. He once related an account concerning his Grandfather. Paul’s story was triggered by a blog I penned about the Manzanar Japanese Interment Camp in the Owens Valley of California.

For the background please read:

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/03/manzanar-revisited.html

Apparently Grandad lived in an agricultural region of CA. Many of Grandad’s neighbors were Japanese American farmers. Three months after Pearl Harbor, FDR issued Executive Order 9066, resulting in the forced relocation of approximately 112,000 people whose eyes and last names were a bit different than White Folks. Grandad’s neighbors were ordered to take what they could carry and leave the rest behind.

Farmers own tractors, planters and plows. There’s lots of expensive specialized equipment. All this gear is necessary to sustain a farmer’s livelihood.

A few Whites tried to take advantage of the Japanese by offering rock bottom prices for their well maintained equipment. That’s a low blow to citizens who were having their Constitutional Rights yanked out from under them. Boo Hiss!

Grandad approached his soon to be exiled neighbors. The dialogue has been lost in history, but it went along these lines.

“Folks! We are neighbors. One day you will be allowed to return to your farms. For now bring your equipment onto my property. You may store it all here. I’ll watch over it and keep it safe. When the War ends, you will be back in business.”

And that’s what the Japanese American farmers did.

Whenever Paul and I were in between conversations, I’d blurt out, “I love that story about your Grandfather! I wish I got the chance to meet him! The world needs more people like your Grandad!”

In the parlance of Yiddish, Paul’s Grandad was a mensch. From the “Joys of Yiddish.”

“a "mensch" is "someone to admire and emulate, someone of noble character.”

Grandad Mattson's genes were passed down to Paul. He too was a mensch. Paul was a good guy.

I’ll miss him.

RIP Paul and Lea.

Lastly a blog I once wrote about backpacking with Paul.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2015/07/hiking-with-viking.html

Make the most of your days. No one knows what’s lurking around the corner.

Thursday, March 5, 2020

Lepidopterists Collectors need not...

Apply.

While I was in Snowbird mode in Snobsdale, AZ, I had one highlight there which didn’t involve IPAs. On a dreary, drizzly Christmas Eve Day, I visited the Butterfly Wonderland.

After paying my senior discount entry fee, volunteers ushered both young and old guests toward a Monarch Butterfly (Danaus plexippus) infomercial. There in a cozy theater, we were shown a film about the incredible and complicated life cycle of the iconic Monarch. The documentary offered up lots of knowledge and colorful pictures about those fluttering migrants and their addiction to the lowly milkweed plant.

It’s really pretty simple. No milkweeds. No Monarchs. Who knew?

Why is that? Jeffy?

I’ll tell you why, Grasshopper. Adult female Monarchs will only lay their eggs on milkweeds. Eventually the emerging Monarch caterpillars will feast upon the milkweed’s green grub. Monarchs require milkweeds for the species to survive. They are the ultimate picky eaters.

Unfortunately, both plant and the beautiful benign butterfly aren’t doing so well.

From the US Fish and Wildlife Service:

The loss of milkweed in agricultural fields is a major cause of decline in monarchs, though there are other factors contributing to the decline in milkweed availability. Herbicide application and increased mowing in roadside ditches and agricultural margins is eradicating milkweed habitat even more from rural areas.

The film’s finale suggested all is not lost!

Does the sight of a Monarch in a drunken flight pattern bring a smile to your kisser?

If the answer is yes, then you can help save the Monarchs.

Here’s how. Plant milkweed. In fact, I will provide seed packets to the first twenty righteous Monarch saviors. Since there’s no free lunch or seed packets, there’s a quiz.

A) Will you follow the directions on the seed packet to optimize seed germination? This requires a refrigerator, one paper towel, water and a ziplock bag. Plus thirty days.

B) Will you find a sunny location to plant the milkweed wannabes?