Casita Klatsch

Adios, Tucson (otra vez)

The time has come once again to say goodbye for now to Tucson, my US friends and family, Mark, Zane and Martha.  It's odd leaving Mark and Zane behind in my old home, North America, and returning alone to my new(er) home in Australia.  Life has a way of leading us in opposite directions sometimes.  But then, I have often found that the journey back to common ground proves the most rewarding.

For all of us living in Casa Crazyhorse, it has been an eventful academic year, one full of surprises, discoveries, and accomplishments.  In a way, I feel it has been a year of intense learning, not only for my handsome, intelligent partner during this final year of his doctorate, but also for me in a way that is intangible and connected to the meaningfulness of life.  Sometimes the learning was fitful.  Sometimes it was pretty awful.  Occasionally it was transformative. Some people have one really big mid-life crisis.  I think I endure a limitless string of miniature crises, none of which is particularly train-stopping in nature, but all of which yield their own lessons.  I prefer it that way. 

As I return to Sydney, one year closer to the mid-century mark, one year more in love than ever, and one year prouder as a parent, I go with a light heart.  Although I realize that my aggregate time in Tucson is drawing to its terminal number, I know that I will be back, time and time again.  I have lived many places in my life.  And even though life gets more hectic and challenging to keep up with, I know what home is.  I have more than one.  And I prefer it that way.

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This brings Casita Klatsch to a temporary pause.  Please keep up with me on my original blog, The Banal Chew.  Thanks for reading, and I'll see you back here on CK in December.

Dad

I am currently in my home state of Arkansas.  I traveled here earlier this month to help tend to my sick father.  Because I am fortunate to have a day job that affords me a fair amount of transportability, I am able to camp out for a month at my old college pal's house in Fayetteville, a charming university burg that I will always consider my hometown, and use his broadband to log in my work hours. 

Each day, I travel multiple times between Alan's home in the center of Fayetteville, and my father's place in the rural outskirts, about 10 miles outside of town.  I don't mind.  It is a pleasant drive, and even if it were not, I would do it.  He's my dad, and as his eldest son, I feel a strong calling to offer my assistance as best I can.  Aside from that, I love him.  While we may not always have seen eye to eye on many things, he brought me up to be a well-mannered and respectful person with (I think) a kind heart and honorable soul, all of which are traits I have admired in him since childhood. 

Nearly every day, I go out to Dad's house to spend time with him.  Sometimes I shuttle him to his radiation therapy appointments, when he doesn't feel like driving himself.  Wednesdays are tough days for him, with radiation followed by 3 to 4 hours of chemotherapy.  His arthritis in his knees nearly debilitates him, but he marches on like a trooper.  It is difficult seeing Dad like this.  He has always been a strong man, a gentleman to a fault.  He was dashing in his earlier years, with a friendly charm that could carry  him through any situation.  It is no wonder he was a successful proprietor of the small grocery store and gas station that he owned while I was growing up. 

Even though we were light years apart with our social and political leanings, I have forever loved Dad, and although I always looked up to him as a man like no other, it took me a long time to realize the depth of my affection.  He is not perfect.  Despite his successes, he has often been plagued with failing hopes and harsh regret, and has more than once entered the dark cavern of clinical depression.  But he has always emerged with head high and spirit intact.  He is, quite simply, the most remarkable man I know.

I am now comfortably middle-aged, and he is approaching his septuagenarian decade.  With the benefit of some sharp hindsight, and although we don't talk about it much, we are both aware that those many years we spent in quiet disagreement and rank avoidance of each other were sadly wasted.  But the past is past, and we never discuss it.  We don't feel the need.  Over the past few years, we have come to get along like we never have before.  We have learned how to accept our differences, and we have taught each other a startling amount of acceptance along the way.  Yes, I have learned a lot from Dad.  Of that, there is no doubt.

I am proud to carry his name.  I am honored to be his son.  I am grateful to be here with him at this time.

He gave me an agave

 Last night, Erik spent three hours demonstrating his fine skills as a tattoo artist by assigning one to my back. 


I LOVE IT!

The design, shamelessly modeled on an old favicon from the University of Arizona library's website, is a tribute to my many years of study and work in the field of information science and medical informatics, as well as my life in the desert. 

I am thrilled with the way it turned out.  Yes, it hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was worth it.  Soon, Erik will transform the ugly, 30 year-old tattoo on my left hip into a beautiful, fossilized ginkgo leaf.  While I am not looking forward to the discomfort, I cannot wait to let him work his wonderful magic and make it something I can be proud of. 

Stay tuned!

Springtime for Sandy in Arizona

Spring in the desert is amazing.  I suppose it is everywhere, but when you're used to seeing brown (and some green) most of the year, the colors presented in flowers are astonishing.

Here are a few photos from around our house in Tucson.  Hopefully, I'll get to the desert itself and do some hiking.  I hear the desert wildflowers are out in force right now.

These popped up voluntarily in our front yard.  They are all over our neighborhood.

Desert bluebells

Poppies!

Audrey II   (No idea really, but I can't wait until that bud or seed pod or whatever opens up.)  NB: Homer says they're oriental poppies.

Agave or aloe

This one bloomed a few weeks ago, but the architecture of the former blossoms is fascinating.

Wee cactus flowers

Hello. My Name is Sandy.

Dear Blog,

First things first.  I am back.  Damn, there's lots to tell. 

I regret having put you on the rear burner for so long, but when you hear of some of my parochial goings-on, you might understand the crunch.  

In any event, I have returned.  In some ways, I am a changed man by the "transpirings" of the past month. I have learned a great deal about myself, and with the devotion and support of my partner and son, I have come to realize that middle-age ain't so bad.  You never stop learning.  You never stop trying.  You never stop crying.  And you never stop laughing.  Nope, not so bad at all. 

I know there challenges and hardships directly ahead of me, the foremost being the reality of an extremely ill father and the separation from partner and son (again) for months at a time.  There are also happy challenges, such as taking up the post of music director for a wonderful chamber choir in Sydney, about which you will hear much more in the near future.

During my retransition into the wonderful world of weblogging, I think it's fitting to return to my blog-roots and engage in some camera play. 

The gibbous moon of recent nights has provided ample opportunity to play with my Canon Ixus's shutter settings.  I am by no means a photographer, and to be honest, the manual makes my head spin.  Armed with very general principles in mind, I tend to futz with the settings and experiment.  The problem is that I usually don't remember what was effective or had any real artistic merit.  Serendipity as art.

While playing with the shutter settings, I set the camera with a 15" shutter and no flash, mounted it on my new bendy tripod and assumed a silly position by the pool.  Martha, intent on stealing the spotlight, came over and hammed for the camera.  I shooed her away, but the images still made their way through the lens, something  you don't notice until the Auto-Enhance feature is used to turn night into day. 

Now I know how hoaxes are constructed.

Hold Your Candy

Getting closer!

Meanwhile, enjoy the following. Yes, I harbor a secret love of alterno-glam pop. I posted this a while back. The video below comes very close to taking Alphabeat's place as my favorite in the genre.

Weight Watchers by Parallel Dance Ensemble

Mantra du jour (de la semaine, du mois....)

I will blog.  I will blog.  I will....

J'adore...

White Horse by Aussie singer, Scott Matthew. Oh, if I were in Sydney on the 28th to see him in concert.

Mid-November

I would apologize for the dearth of postings, but I am beginning to realize that I don't need to.  It's not like anything hangs in the balance really, depending on whether or not I scribe a pithy (or not) paragraph or two.  Anyway, life is doing one of its about-faces, and sooner or later things will settle.  In the meantime, why not take a moment to investigate this?  I think it has some merit.

Halloween, and other delights

Halloween in our neighborhood was a real dud, which completely surprised us, considering we were warned that we'd be deluged in this area.  I think we had 10 trick-or-treaters, the majority of whom I am sure were over 17.  My favorites were the recent single mothers with their infants in strollers.  Now that's scary.

No matter.  We had fun setting up.

Earlier in the week, we had a pumpkin carving fest. 

On Halloween day, the Offering of the Sacrificial Barbie Knock-offs took place, and the victims situated next to the front door for optimum effect. Let's make 'em cry!

But hardly anyone came.  But that's okay.  It wasn't about them.  It was a fun project to do as a family.

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In other news...

ho comprato una Vespa!

Spooky Pumpkin 2009

Ah yes, it's that time again...

We've just finished cleaning up after the Pumpkin Mutilation Party we just hosted.  (In case you're already scowling wondering, the seeds of the slain pumpkins were saved and roasted, and the innards were placed in a paper bag for deposition in a compost heap.)

This year we were also celebrating Patrick's birthday.  Happy Birthday, you handsome devil.

Patrick, disgruntled, displays his gift from Homer

It was also the celebration of Martha's birthday.  She's a year old now.

Homer deigns to give Martha a birthday hug (even though she's making his life an allergy hell at the moment)

Fueled with copious amounts of Sandy-made lasagna, Homer-made cake and various French-made wine, we all dug in and soon found ourselves elbow deep in pumpkin goo. 

Zane gets slimy wit' it

F.O. contemplates his next pumpkin strategy..

Getting the little pieces to pop out is half the battle.

Some started out with pre-drawn designs, but in the end, all pumpkins were done free-hand.  I think they're fantastic, each of them.

47

Yes.  Forty-[bleepin']-seven.  I can't believe it either.

Three things rescued this day from abject poverty of value:

1. my partner, who wished me a happy day when I arose at 5:15am to get ready for a work teleconference (sometimes the time difference really blows) and then treated me to breakfast afterward;
2. cupcakes handmade and delivered by Homer and chocolate-dipped strawberries sent by Rob;
3. and Facebook, on which I received countless happy-day messages from mates here and abroad.

Thank you, everyone.

Back from the Dead

After five weeks of bronchitis, or six--I lost count after a while, and nine days of diarrhea, a trip to the emergency room, a fistful of atomic antibiotics, and a fair amount of bedrest, I am tired and weak.  And behind.  But that's enough complaining.  I am back, and that's good enough for me.

I have this notion of morning therapy.  For as long as I can remember, I have made sure that I take the time to engage in something just for me, before I begin the workday.  (Or school day, if you want to go back that far.  As it's my birthday very soon, I have no desire to, but go ahead.) 

My morning ritual, to which I am very happy to return in better health, is pretty simple. Get up at least a half-hour before anyone else in the house.  Void the bladder, wash the face, check the wrinkles.  Stagger to kitchen, drink water, make coffee (a ritual of its own), and head outside.  In the limitless expanse of our backyard, I do things like sweeping the patio, checking the pool and gathering dogtoys.  

The pool wearing its winter cap

Mostly, however, I potter around with my Coffee-From-Hell mug, checking out the plant life and watering as needed.  I'm not a true gardener, but my rural Southern roots are surprising sometimes.  I like to play in the earth.  Having said that, I am mindful of the fact that we live in the desert and limit my play to that with drought-tolerant plants, or reserving those that need a bit more water either to pots or very small spaces.   The trees were already here, and I do what I need to to keep them healthy on as little water as possible.

One of these days I'll have the time to research what type of tree this is.  (Anyone care to save me the suspense?)

I have plans for this little piece of concrete-locked earth.  Zinnias.  Lots and lots of zinnias.

Baby zinnias (which you could see better if there weren't so many dead olive leaves)

More babies on the way, of many kinds.  (The previous tenants left a small greenhouse behind.  They're nice guys.  I have met them before and am pretty sure they will be happy that it's getting some use until they come to collect it.)

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In other news, I am singing a bit this weekend.  If you're local and up for some interesting choral music, jump here for more details.

Vroom II

Motorcycle "boot camp" rocked, although it came at a cost.  Over three days, I and four other inmates spent 11 hours in a classroom jointly reading and discussing the Motorcycle Safety Foundation's rider manual, and another 11 hours sitting on banged-up, overheating Honda Nighthawks in the blazing sun while our very competent instructors went meticulously through 17 riding exercises with us.  And at Sunday noon, having passed the knowledge and skills tests, with motorcycle rider license in hand (or at least with the requisite paperwork to take to Large Marge at the MVD), I lugged my sweaty hump back to Casa Crazyhorse and collapsed in a moist heap. 

A few hours later, I was in pain.  I am not referring to the pain brought on by fatigue from using a variety of muscles to remain upright on the motorbike.  This was pain of the gastro sort.  When the discomfort began, I wrote it off to the fast-food delights I had quickly taken in during our short break between the morning and afternoon sessions on Saturday.  It had been ages since I'd eaten a burger and fries at Carl's Jr, and I figured my system wasn't used to it.  But then the gastro pain increased, as did the borborygmi loud enough to hear in Benson.  (Grossed out now?  Well, that's what you get for reading the blog of a medical lexicographer.)

By midnight, I wanted to vomit.  But I couldn't.  I seldom can.

Now, after spending the whole day in bed nursing a bloated abdomen, I am fairly certain I know what it is:  I have ingested some kind of bacterium or fungus, and it has turned my lower GI tract into a toxic waste facility.

How do I know this?  Because the memory of the black-mold-covered spigot on the giant Gatorade urn they had for us at the motorcycle range came to me at some point in the night. During the two days on the range, blinded by thirst, and with the heat, sunglasses and helmet distorting my vision, I gulped down cup after cup of the stuff before I noticed the mold on Sunday morning.  (See, Mark.  I'm really not a card-carrying mysophobe.  If I were, I would have seen it immediately.  I probably wouldn't even have touched the urn.) 

When I called this to the attention of my classmates, they chuckled in horror.  And they kept drinking it.  I wonder if any of them is in the same shape today.  Wait, what's that distant rumble?

I know I got the motorcycle license just to ride our scooter to rehearsals, but now I want a bike.  Especially this one.  I think dropping a lot of cash on the course, subjecting myself to the its grueling nature, and sitting through this stomach bug for however long it takes for my immune system to blow it away, are justification for saving up for one.  And yes, Mom, I'll be careful.

Happy Birthday, Homer

We hosted a birthday gathering for Homer on Saturday.  I think Homer had a good time, despite some wicked allergy problems. 

The temps aren't climbing as high these days, which means we were able to enjoy the backyard without roasting. 

I volunteered to bake the cake.  I love a good challenge, and considering Homer is the Cake King, the challenge was certainly on. 

F.O. puts together his famous homemade ice cream

Homer requested a yellow cake with chocolate frosting.  After some searching, I decided on a basic yellow cake recipe from The Well-Decorated Cake and creamy chocolate icing from Bon Appetit. 

 

A trip to the second-hand store solved the problem of not having an electric mixer.

Fresh from the oven, the cakes don't look too glamorous. 

But they clean up well.  

Like any self-respecting birthday cake, it stayed hidden from the birthday boy's sight in the cake cover I got at the second-hand shoppe.  Just like Grandma's!

And the moment arrived.

Homer blows

Richard

Homer and some of his fellow revelers