I’m a First Generation…

American.

In the years leading up to the 1939 official start of WW II, my Grandfather Benjamin, (a jeweler in Vienna) shipped my mother and her two siblings ahead to New York City. Later on Bennie arrived minus his wife/my mother’s mother. The “why” behind this  event is and shall remain a Sambur family mystery. I’m positive it’s not a feel good story.

My father immigrated to New York in 1937. He said goodbye to his family in Poland. He never saw any of them alive again. 

When people ask me about all of this, I wave it off as “Holocaust Stuff.” 

Yet what is “Holocaust Stuff” to the progeny of the Holocaust survivors? 

It’s about immigration to another land with little more than memories, the clothes on your back and a piece of luggage. 

So it’s no stretch of the imagination to say, I posses an inordinate amount of empathy for immigrants. My parents ability to escape the run-or-die anti-Semitism in Nazi influenced Europe is the only reason I’m breathing air right now.

The world works in strange ways.

Recently I left Durango”s winter behind while seeking desert warmth and sunshine. I was on a nine hour 600 mile southwest mission. Currently I’ve been camping for over a week at Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. This desert jewel straddles the AZ/Mexico border. It’s a land of stately saguaros, extraterrestrial looking mountains and of course Organ Pipe cactuses. 

It’s also a region dominated by Border Patrol Officials driving 4X4 pickup trucks. On a 42 mile loop road I spotted eight Border Patrol units. I actually had a too-close encounter with one. The young male officer was barreling through a wash heading the wrong way on a one-way road. He shrugged sheepishly before he sped off once again. I have no idea what migrant phantoms  he was pursuing. No explanation was given. 

The National Park Service signs are atypical too.

While hiking the trails. I’ve discovered evidence of migrants heading in a northerly manner. A desert bleached shirt, hat and trousers. A blown out black garbage bag with empty plastic containers of surgery juice drinks, colas and salty snack food. I poke the remains with my shoe trying to extract a story from the litter. How many were there? What was their destination? What caused them to risk it all to come to a foreign land where they won’t find a “Welcome Wagon” to greet them? This is what I know, the decision to wander was probably made in desperation. Like my parents their options were few.

On an exploration drive I came upon The Great Wall of Racism. Inspired by a fat, finger pointing xenophobe with a flair for theatrics, it was something to behold. But not in a good way. The fifteen foot wall is mesmerizing and nauseating at the same time. It’s a severe gash across the desert. Like Trump, there’s absolutely nothing subtle about it. The Wall is an in-your-face “F—k You!” to our southern neighbors. A stark reminder of failed diplomacy and an off kilter foreign policy.

All this costly economic and ecological damage to prevent wannabe laborers who mow our lawns, clean our hotel rooms and pick our produce. Sure there’s a few bad apples lugging drugs. GASP! However, those smugglers  are severely limited to how much they can carry. (Most drugs enter the country through legal border crossings. Source USA Today, 1/19/2021) Besides, if Americans didn’t crave the contraband their would be no smuggling. Supply and Demand. Heck! The Loser who supposedly penned “The Art of the Deal” should understand this basic economic premise.

A justification for Homeland Security and our massive Military Might is the necessity of “Protecting our American Way of Life” 

However. America’s biggest threat already lies within our borders. The January 6th, 2020 attempted coup  orchestrated by Made in America White Terrorists  was an attack upon Democracy. Yet there are those (including 147 Republican Congressmen) who call these Rebels without a clue-Patriots. Trying to overthrow the Federal Government? Now THAT’S unAmerican! 

 Unfortunately Trump, the BIGLY LIE and his enablers and ring-kissers aren’t going away. (Just like Covid). Democracy is at risk. That’s  more frightening than migrants (mostly potential laborers) coming across our Borders. 

If my parents were still alive today they would agree. 

Visit Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. Take a hike and put yourselves in the shoes of the migrants. You might get a dose of empathy. 

“Tear Down This Wall! 

Ronald Reagan 

June 12, 1987

West Berlin

Here’s a few other posts pertaining to our Border:

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/07/we-will-build-wall.html

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2015/03/borderlands-national-park.html?m=0

For further reading:

The Devil’s Highway by Luis Alberto Urrea

14 Miles: Building the Border Wall by DW Gibson

Stay safe and healthy,

Jeff

The Nile…

 is more than a long rive in Africa. 

Recently I had a dose of Covid breakthrough de-nial. 

I hadn’t been feeling right.

Here were my symptoms:

1. Occasional dry cough and wet sneeze. This created instant social distancing and personal space.
   
2. Raspy voice. No,I don’t sound sexier.
3. Congestion  minus the green slime.
4. Incredible thirst. I’m drinking two gallons of water per day instead of one. 
5. Fatigue, but not enough to slow me down much.
6. Increased tinnitus. There’s an orchestra of clanging cymbals inside my head.
7. Chills 

 

At first I attributed these maladies to going from the dry warmth of Snobsdale back to Durango winter to toasty and humid Florida. All this motion within 72 hours. When I arrived in Florida to see brother Mike and sister-in-law Robin I was ill. (They both had breakthrough Covid and were past the contagious stage). 

In a day or two, I said to Mike, “I think I have Covid. There’s no allergens in the air and this isn’t acting like a typical cold.” 

Mike reassured me, “Jeff you would know it if it were Covid. It really hit us.”

After a sleepless night due to being nervous, very nervous the best brother in the world administered an at-home test for me. The results were negative. I was relieved but still felt unsure. No cold ever treated me this way.

The above symptoms continued. 

When I returned to Durango, I discovered four of my neighbors had come down with breakthrough Covid. Sort of like “Bang! Zoom! To the moon Moderna, Pfizer and J&J vaccines!” (Apologies to Ralph Kramden for the semi-quote.) The trifecta of vaccines were no match for the Oooooommmmmicrom variant. 

I happened upon Molly out walking her dogs. She’s a nurse, neighbor and one of the afflicted. 

I asked her what her symptoms for breakthrough Covid were. She nearly repeated all of mine including the unquenchable thirst. I told her about my negative Vid test. “The tests aren’t perfect for Omicron. There’s lots of false negatives.” 

BINGO! 

My breakthrough Covid hasn’t been debilitating. It’s been more annoying than anything . I’m now in Organ Pipe National Monument on the border of AZ/Mexico. I’m camping and hiking.I’m indulging in Happy Hour. I’m doing what I usually do. It’s been a hassle but it’s better than being attached to a ventilator in an ICU.

I’ll survive. 

Last photo: I’m not ready to be buzzard bait yet. Once again, I dodged the great inevitable.

I still trust the science behind the vaccines. The one thing we seem to be certain of is the uncertainty of Covid. Don’t be a long river in Africa. 

Our parents were right. Health is our greatest wealth. 

Jeff 

“Languishing” is a word…

 the New York Time bandies about when describing the current feelings of many Americans.

The psychologist and author Adam Grant provides an explanation:

Languishing is “the neglected middle child of mental health” and “the void between depression and flourishing — the absence of well-being.” He concluded: “By acknowledging that so many of us are languishing, we can start giving voice to quiet despair and lighting a path out of the void.”

Mr. Grant nails what some of us are experiencing as we stumble towards Earth’s third anniversary of Covid Freaking 19. 

Personally, I use a stronger word for what I’ve been dealing with since the latter part of 2021. I call it “malaise.” 

From the Merriam-Webster dictionary: “a slight or general feeling of not being healthy or happy.”

I’ve been “off” since November 2nd, right after the neighborhood “Pusher Party”. The days seemed too short and the nights too long. I questioned myself each and every date. “Is this the 5:30 time when I click on the coffee pot or the 5:30 time when I pop a top of an IPA?” I guess that’s to be expected when you’re averaging less than a handful of hours of sleep/night. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/11/you-dont-have-to-be-pusher.html

It didn’t help that my engagement calendar was mostly devoid of events to look forward to. (An appointment for a Subaru oil change isn’t socially  satisfying). I felt isolated, lonely and listless. Just like in the Covid lockdown days of 2020. No bueno. 

This past summer,I wrote about Covid hangover. In case you missed it: 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/10/the-covid-summer-of-not.html

I began counting down the days for a three week getaway to Snobsdale, AZ. (AKA Scottsdale). Well, I made it. It’s not that I’m in love with the fabulous shopping at the nearby Snobsdale Fashion Mall. I like it here for simple reasons. I’m outside more and hiking on ice-free trails. It’s been warm enough for flip flops, tank tops and baggy shorts. I’m catching up on my sleep. There’s hummingbirds, flowers and leaves on trees. I’ve seen lots of blockbuster holiday movies and have enjoyed a few Happy Hours with some old buddies. My time here flew by. I never once had to think is it 5:30 am or pm? For my mental health this was the right thing to do. 

 After Snobsdale my winter avoidance will continue. 

In a few days I’ll be in South Florida visiting the world’s  best brother and sister-in-law.  (AKA Mike and Robin). 

Then a short return to Durango for a Push Back Pizza Party. (Sanctuary Too will awake from hibernation.) Two days later, we all will be in Organ Pipe National Monument with a BUSY itinerary of hiking, reading, staring at desert scenery and drinking IPAs. In other words, working on my tan more than anything.

Followed by a few weeks in Death Valley National Park. By then, Durango’s daylight will be longer and the temperatures will be more moderate. Plus, I’m not too far away from desert camping. 

Soon, I’ll post my predictions on what the new year and beyond might bring. 

Here’s a preview. In the wee days of 2022,  all 329.5 million Americans will gather on the perimeter of our Great Nation. While holding hands in a continuous circle, we’ll all belt out a rousing rendition of Kumbaya. It’ll be the start of a Second Age of Enlightenment and the New Renaissance.

Well, not exactly.

Wishing you and yours a languishing-free New Year.

 

From Darkness a bit of Goodness

And charity.

As sure as the odds are of me popping a Happy Hour IPA, the US will surpass the million Covid related fatalities milestone in the near future. 

America’s Civil War was our last comparable infamous Death benchmark. Between the years 1861-1865,  620,000-750,000 Blue and Gray combatants were killed. (Most succumbed to disease rather than bullets or bombs). On November 3, 2021 the US Covid death count blew by that number in less than two years.

This is not something to be proud of. 

The US is now Numero Uno for Covid Deaths in the World. (Despite making up a mere 4.2% of Earth’s  inhabitants). Regrettably, many of these deaths were avoidable. Statistically speaking vaccines save lives. It’s mostly the unvaccinated and elderly who are ending up in the mortuaries. 

“Just since this summer, 150,000 unvaccinated Americans have needlessly lost their lives despite the widespread availability of vaccines,” Dr. Peter Hotez of the Baylor College of Medicine, in Houston. Source New York Times. 

So…the US will continue to stumble and stutter to the 1,000,000 mark.

Here’s what I’m proposing. People will make wagers on pretty much anything. How about a call the date of one million Covid deaths in the US?  

(This pool will make a charitable contribution to the hungry of La Plata county, CO.)

The rules are simple:

$5 entry fee/date.

Choose a date or a series of dates. 

In case of a tie, the betting pool will be split accordingly.

The “House” (that’s me) will subtract $1 per bet. Each and every George Washington note will be donated to the Durango Food Bank. In other words,  20% of your wager will go a worthwhile local charity. 

https://durangoareafoodbank.org/

The House (that’s me again) will accept cash, checks and PayPal. 

Contact me at: jeffsambur@gmail.com to place your bets and payment information.

My date is March 17th 2022. Saint Paddy’s Day.

Bets must be in no later than New Years Day 2022.

Feel free to forward this post to the other gamblers in your life. (More money means more donations to the DFB.)

I understand this is a dark post. I mean no disrespect to the victims of this seemingly endless pandemic. Some of the money will flow towards helping the hungry and the living of La Plata county. That’s how I’m justifying writing this.

On a personal note. I’ve become numb to the daily grind of Covid. 

Jennifer Nuzzo, an epidemiologist at Johns Hopkins University sums up my current feelings about the virus.

She was asked when the pandemic would end, she replied: “It doesn’t end. We just stop caring. Or we care a lot less.” She added, “I think for most people, it just fades into the background of their lives.”

Source Washington Post.

Stay healthy and safe out there. 

Jeff

“You don’t have to be a Pusher…

to attend a Pusher Party.”

This is how my neighborhood party invitation began. Here’s the rest of the invite.

“Hi Nice Neighbor,

I need HELP! That’s why you’re invited to the Pusher Party. I’m not big or strong enough to push my camper into the garage for hibernation season. 

When: Monday, November 1st at 5 pm

Savory hot veggie Minnesota Soup will be on hand plus garlic bread guaranteed to keep the vampires at bay. Bring a bowl, spoon and appetite. Cold IPAs will be available too.

Dogs can assist if they understand the “Mush!” Command. Owners will have to supply the puppies harnesses though.

Three or four more humans should overcome the laws of physics involved.

Thx in advance,

Jeff” 

With this neighborly 911 call for assistance, Sanctuary Too was docked into winter storage. 

Despite the lightheartedness of making a party out of a non-event, this simple act represents a verklempft moment (Yiddish for overcome with emotion) for me. 

 I named my Toyota Tundra and camper Sanctuary Too for a reason. In a world which seems to strive towards chaos, I’ve discovered campsites featuring silence, neighbors who are four-legged instead of two and sunrises/sunsets which leave me inwardly smiling. I can go days without speaking yet never feel lonely. While camping my life becomes simplified: eat, hike, read, write, drink IPAs then repeat. I sleep better too.

This temporary cessation of all the above makes me sad. But there’s another SAD going on inside of me. Seasonal Affective Disorder, AKA the “Winter Blues.” 

For those who are unfamiliar with this term, from the Mayo Clinic:

“Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is a type of depression that's related to changes in seasons — SAD begins and ends at about the same times every year. If you're like most people with SAD, your symptoms start in the fall and continue into the winter months, sapping your energy and making you feel moody.” 

Going back to my Syracuse, NY college days,  I began to notice a loss of energy and enthusiasm starting around Halloween. I felt “off.” The notorious winters of Upstate NY didn’t help either. The long nights, gray skies, cold and snow only exasperated my malaise. By around Saint Patty’s Day in March, I’d usually snap out of it. I’d begin to feel awake and rejuvenated at the same time.

 I had no explanation on why this yearly pattern happened to me. It wasn’t until the early 80’s while reading a newspaper, I noticed an article, “Maybe you are SAD for a reason?” It was an informative piece explaining SAD and it’s signs and symptoms. I clicked off the list. “Yes, that’s me. Yes, that’s me.” It was an OMG moment. “I’m not totally crazy! There’s a name for what I go through! I’m not alone!” 

According to the American Academy of Family Physicians 4-6 percent of our citizens suffer from SAD. (Lucky me). But there’s an easy remedy. A few mornings ago, I dusted off my light therapy gizmo. While most of my fellow Americans are asleep, I’m drinking coffee, reading the New York Times Morning Brief while soaking up the rays of my Happy Light. The half hour treatment fools my feeble mind into believing the days are longer. It smooths me out. 

Consider this a PSA on SAD.

Alas, long nights are only one facet of winter which I dislike. There’s the cold and snow too. To be honest, I fear winter. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/12/i-have-acute-chionophobia.html

By mid-January I’m hoping my neighbors and friends will participate in a “Pushback Party.” Of course, there will be Minnesota Soup and libations on hand. 

By then Sanctuary Too and I will be ready to fly south for the start of another camping season. 

Stay warm and be safe,

Cheers!

Jeff

If you are curious about what’s Minnesota Soup.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/01/minnesota-soup.html

Acuweather? Fahgettaboudit!

Punxsutawney Phil? Nothing more then a scamming, overweight and pampered groundhog.

The Weather Channel? This organization would go bankrupt if they were only paid for correct forecasts. 

So WW J, whom do you trust for the long term weather outlook? 

Glad you asked Dear Curious Reader. I consult Pika Predictions.

“You can observe a lot by just watching.” Yogi Berra.

This past summer I spent an inordinate amount of time hiking, camping and sleeping above tree line. In this realm of thin air, cooler temperatures and sparse vegetation you’ll find pikas. That is, if you know where to look. I do. 

But first! A thing or three about these mammal meteorologists. American Pikas are related to Bugs Bunny minus the long ears, fluffy tail and asking “What’s up? Doc!” They are heat weenies. Pikas will suffer when the temperatures approach 80 F. Hence they live at high attitudes. Unlike those sunbathing chubby marmots, pikas do not hibernate. That’s why marmots have the luxury of saying, “Pass the tanning butter, please.” Pikas are slaves to the seasons. There are no days off. During the brief snow free summers, they are collecting, stacking and storing grasses, weeds and wildflowers into their snug burrows. They are small, energetic and adorable. (Like me!) Between their farming gigs, they must be ever vigilant to the hawks, eagles, foxes, weasels, bobcats and unleashed dogs who might make an appetizer out of them. 

It ain’t easy being a Pika.  This is why they are my favorite mountain mammal. It ain’t easy being me either. 

Here’s some of my observations; i saw packs of  Pikas darting around in a frenetic, over-caffeinated state. Oftentimes those fur balls had green vegetation clenched in between their teeth. The Pikas were on a mission. They were telling me in a silent way, “OY! Jeffy! We are working our tuchases off (butts in Yiddish) so we can nosh (eat) in this upcoming meshuggenah (crazy) early winter. We’re sorry to be kvetching (complaining). 

But since you’re a Landsman (fellow Member of the Tribe) we’ll take a break from harvesting

to tell a joke. Jeffy! Do you know what’s a Jewish American’s Princess’ favorite winter wine is? “I wanna go to Miami!”

The Pikas spoke but are their predictions correct? Last year, our fall continued dreamily into December. Maybe I needed a second or third opinion before I quickly booked a VRBO this winter in Snobsdale, AZ. 

So I continued to observe and watch. 

In mid August I spied a pair of badgers. Their fur coats were heavy and thick, they waddled away instead of ran. 

By mid-September hummingbirds went missing from my feeders. My favorite birds must have caught a southern tailwind to Mexico. By now they are drinking a sugary form of Corona beer at some south of the border beach. 

In Durango, by mid-September our daytime highs dropped from 80’s to 60’s. There was no temperature decade of the 70’s. By the end of the month, the San Juan Mountains had a measurable amount of snow. Starting in mid-October Durango will endure a cold snap with nighttime lows in the 20’s. 

That diverse group of animals called this. We are in for an early winter. This is why I’m writing this post from the Utah desert. I’m not ready to come in out of cold…yet.

Stay warm and keep those home fires burning.

Jeff 

The Covid Summer of Not…

Quite Right.

When the  trifectas of Covid vaccines were made available in early 2020,  I White Man jumped to score mine. I received the two Moderna fixes in Cortez, CO. I gladly made the 100 mile RT drive to get jabbed. Hell, at that point I would’ve driven to eastern Kansas. I wanted out of Covid isolation. I desired a return to my old self. Being a Sociable Hermit instead of a 24/7 Covid Hermit.

I then sat back with a satisfied and protected grin waiting for my fellow Americans to climb on board the Vaccination Train. Well, that didn’t happen. As of this posting merely 55% of Americans are fully vaccinated. (Source CDC.) The US recently surpassed the 700,000 deaths due to Covid benchmark. This is not something to be proud of. 

Of course I had an opinion about this: 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/05/a-country-of-contrarians.html

As summer approached, I started out with high expectations of an increase in human contact. (After the shutdown of 2020,  that bar was set extremely low.) I made phone calls, sent texts and emails to acquaintances, possible dates and volunteer organizations as a form of reaching out. The reply rate was seriously underwhelming, as in mostly no reply. Neighborly talk of happy hours and dinners at brewpubs, remained just that. Talk.

Was this the result of Covid’s social distancing hangover? Maybe. Maybe not.

I’m a sensitive guy who deplores being ignored. After going through a period of feeling lonely again. I woke, took a sip of coffee and gazed at the rising sun and thought, “There’s no place I’d rather be than in Durango, Colorado on a sunny summer’s day. I’ll load Sanctuary Too (my truck and camper) for a high country hike and camp out.” My motto became, “Tis better to be alone outside in a pretty place, than to sit at home alone.” So that’s how I spent my summer. I slept more often in Sanctuary Too than in my bedroom in Durango. I chose campsites seven miles away and three thousand feet higher than my nearest neighbors. The sunsets and sunrises were  magnificent. 

For above tree line social encounters, I did a handful of gigs as a Colorado Trail Angel. I’m pretty sure I appreciated the act of giving more than the hungry hikers appreciated the PB&J sandwiches I provided. Here’s the blog:

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/08/its-830-in-morning-and-youve.html

Now as the days are perceptually getting shorter and cooler, I’ll set off and venture West behind the Zion Curtain of Utah.

There’s so many places to explore, so little time.

Which brings this post back to Durango and Covid. 

It’s been over two years since I gave up the “Homeless by Choice” lifestyle and settled down in Southwest  Colorado. In that time I’ve become quite fond of the vibe, energy and easy going nature of this small city of 19,000. It’s been a great fit for me despite a pandemic which,  I’ll just say it. Socially Sucks. 

But as much as I love Durango, I love the surrounding areas even more. Mountains, deserts

and the canyons in between. It’s all right here. Location. Location. Location.

Cheers and stay safe out there,

Jeff