Thunder of Wade

Eleven years ago, my friends and I started talking about a trip to Canada. I’d never gotten a passport, but there was time enough before our tentative plans to do that.   It turned out to be closer than I would have liked since I had to request a copy of my birth certificate from Illinois – and then submit that with my application. 

I tend to be a nervous person when it comes to paperwork – especially something as important as the passport – but I carefully worked my way through the forms and attached one of the worst photos I’ve ever had taken.  I’m pretty pale, but this one had me so washed out I could have blended into a snowbank. 

But, I did everything right and got the documents submitted – then began the long wait to get the actual document.  

By the time it arrived, we’d decided we weren’t going to go.  But, I figured it would be helpful later on and it was – I used it to get my driver’s license updated when the needed ‘extra ID’ to verify.

I stored the document in my lockbox and mostly forgot about it. 

Fast forward to last week when I was talking to a neighbor about…well… the state of things in the country and he mentioned that he and his wife applied for passports recently.  Just in case.

This prompted me to check on mine and unfortunately, it had expired in 2024.  Time flies, I guess.   While it’s no longer valid, it was close enough in time that I could still renew it – instead of having to start over.  

I looked into doing this online, but this required creating an account and that didn’t seem as safe as I would have liked. I opted to use the “form-filler” tool to generate a PDF and print out the application.   I went over it three times to make sure everything was correct before firing up the printer.   Again, nervous about making a mistake.

(This is the same reason I pay to have my very easy taxes done. I’m convinced I’ll make some kind of error and commit tax fraud and go to federal prison for 70 years. )

Last evening, I went to Walgreens to get a new photo taken.  The process was easy – if a little pricey – and I had my photos in hand at the right size in a few minutes.  There was also an option to have them emailed to me, but what I got was the un-cropped original photo.  I’ve taken selfies that were closer to regulation. Sigh.

Today, I wrote out the check, got out my old passport and headed to the post office to get everything mailed in – along with a check for $130.  Given the importance of the document as a citizen, that seemed pretty steep, but it was worth it to me. 

The clerk at the post office commented it was a “popular zip code recently”.    I guess lots of folks are thinking this is a good thing to have just now. 

So now I’m home with my receipts and time.  Provided nothing else goes awry in the federal government, I’ll have my new passport in 4-6 weeks.

It’s funny looking back at the old passport and the terrible photo.  I was a different person 11 years ago and a lot has changed in my life.  I’m actually pleased with the new photo – though Jim did ask if they let me see the photo before they printed it.  Which could have been taken as an insult, but I just thought it was funny. 

I don’t have any travel plans, but it will be nice to have that piece of mind.

Just, you know, in case.

Two of our friends had tickets to an Art Auction for charity – but were both sick and unable to go.  We were offered the tickets with promises of a good time and good food.  

Jim didn’t want to go at first.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, but decided that I should.  Politics had been getting us both down and it looked like the Department of Education was going to be shuttered – and what it meant for someone that worked in Higher Ed was to be determined, but likely bad.  I felt like going into hiding to wait for the worst, but thought that going out into the world was going to be good for me.

I talked Jim into it and the next day we arrived at the venue right on time – with a PDF of the transferred tickets queued up on my phone. 

Our names were on the nametags at the check in – along with our bid numbers.   Though, neither of us were really interested in buying any art.

We made a loop through the venue to check things out and decided on eating first, then checking out the art.   The first stop was the pasta bar where you picked your protein, veggies and the type of pasta – and the chefs cooked it made to order.  It was fun and delicious. 

We found a spot to eat at a standing table and had a nice conversation – with no politics.  Jim finished his meal first and I stayed at the table while he scoped out the desserts.

He came back with a plate of goodies and gave me directions for my own foraging. I actually gasped when I saw the table of desserts and loaded up a plate.  I also accidentally got coffee – the carafe was labeled “hot water”, but I just rolled with it 

We ate our dessert and talked about how we had been looking for people we might know and how we kept almost recognizing people.  We finished our dessert and went around to look at the art for auction. 

And it was…okay.  There were a few nice pieces – mostly the photography – and some that looked like they might have come from a basement.  This included a painting that was 80% frame.  

There was also a painting of a very caucasian-looking indigenous woman that reminded us both of “white Jesus”.  

As we made our way around the tables, I saw a woman that looked like a co-worker that I’d only ever met on Zoom. I approached her, asked if her name was Heather and it wasn’t.  I apologized and said she looked very familiar and she explained she worked at Luigi’s and got that a lot.  Which might have been a thing if I ate there frequently.

A few minutes later, another woman put her arm around me from behind and said, “Dan, it’s good to see you,” 

When I turned to look at her, she let me go and said – “oh, you’re not Dan. But you are wearing the same color jacket. “

(I’m assuming that Dan is also bald.)

Shortly after that, we ran into some that Jim did know – though she couldn’t stay and talk.  

Having reviewed all the art, we went back and sat down for a bit – and I decided to try the Mashed Potato Bar – served in a martini glass with a choice of toppings.  I picked mushrooms and bacon and it was so fancy I took a picture of it. Jim got some fruit and warned me to not get carried away.  I’ve been known to do that at a buffet. 

There was a program starting and it wasn’t really interesting to us.  We slipped out quietly into the cold night and headed home.

And it was, indeed, what we needed.  We had some great food, we were surrounded by art-minded people and so-so art, and were out in the world.

Rather than staying at home doom-scrolling.  

My department at work has a hybrid schedule and we’re not all in the office on all days.  I’m always the first one in and will unlock the office suite and then my own office.  I keep my door open as I’m working and only close it when I have a meeting/call scheduled.

But, I’m the only one.  Everyone else keeps their door closed – or nearly so – throughout the day.  I was worried that it was me and that I was too noisy, but even when I pay attention to being quiet, it’s still an office of closed doors.   Oddly, this also means that I don’t know when someone is working remotely or in the office.  

And it seems…lonely.    While I like the option of working from home part of the time, I start to struggle when it’s too many days in a row.  I feel disconnected.

So when I’m in the office and I don’t interact with anyone, it starts to feel like I’m alone there.  I usually make an excuse to go out onto campus – usually for snacks – even just to interact with someone and to see other people In Real Life.

I remember when we first went remote at the start of the pandemic.  It was novel at first to be able to roll out of bed and not have to go anywhere, but that got old pretty quickly and I started to get lonely.  I can be an introvert, but only for so long. 

I was somewhat relieved when we started working with a hybrid schedule of some days in the office and some days remote.  It helped to break up the work week and was a good balance to convenience and connection. 

How strange that we’re not interacting much even when the opportunity is there.  I guess that isolation bothers me more than my co-workers. 

So my door is open, even if I’m the only one.  And I’d be delighted to have you stop by.

I drink a lot of tea.

Like, a lot.

Several cups a day, usually green, never with sugar, preferably with some kind of fruit flavor.

One of my favorite gifts from a few years ago was a wooden tea organizer box.  Since I only ever bought tea that I liked, opening it meant I would always have a cup I enjoyed. 

I used to have a ritual for each cup – specific time in the microwave or boiling on the stove, specific time for brewing, and specific amount of sugar. 

Now, it’s about an unspecified wait until the water boils and then a vague amount of time to brew.  Usually longer than most people – I like a strong cup of tea. 

And it has become a kind of calming crutch – it’s hard to drink tea angrily. 

For this past Christmas, Jim got me an advent box of different kinds of teas. Plenty of green, but a mix of different types and flavors.  Even with my tea habit, I fell behind with each day having two tea bags and me not always being in the mood for something experimental. 

I saved all the ones I hadn’t tried before Christmas and have been trying more exotic flavors.  And…I’m apparently picky with my tea. 

I don’t like rooibos.  Or chai.  Or, forgive me Jean-Luc Picard, Earl Gray.  Even if served hot. 

I’ve made a valiant effort, but they just taste like different types of shoes.   Weird, I know.

So, I’ve made a pile for Jim to try and I’m keeping an eye out for more teas to try – and to refill my tea box 

And with each cup, I breathe in the steam and savor – for just a moment – a little bit of calm and a little bit of peace. 

I’ve been working on some origami projects this weekend.  Nothing I haven’t made before, but still requiring some concentration and detailed focus.

For all the precision and care that paper folding takes, the medium itself is imprecise.  The squares may not be perfect squares – even with machine cuts – and the thickness may not be uniform in a sheet or a pack.  Even the grain of the paper can change how it folds.

And the imperfections too small to see or even feel are then expressed in the folds. An edge may not quite line up or a crease may not be smooth.  

There will be gaps or overlaps of various sizes.

Sometimes, these will ruin a project.  If something is too far from square – and the design demands a square – it may not be salvageable.

But those times are rarer than you’d think.  

A missed crease can, with the right paper and a great deal of care, be “slid” into place as the crease rolls. Edges that don’t quite line up are usually ignored and gaps are just gaps.

I was working on a modular cube and the units had a bit of an overlap – that got hidden under a fold.  And the angles that weren’t quite 45 or 90 degrees seemed to cancel each out out as I put the units together.

I also made a wreath where the sheets of paper in the same pack weren’t the same thickness – nor were they all precisely square.  But as the final shape came together, the differences blended in.   The rough edges where the thickness of some of the sheets caused the paper to crack were visible and could be felt, but didn’t detract from the design.

And lastly, I made some roses.  While I like the look of these, the layers and layers of paper that get stacked up with the folds mean the bases don’t hold together well.  Even with glue, they will open up and flatten out.   The fix, I’ve found, is to use four binder clips to hold the base together, then dip them in water and let them dry – “training” the paper into a new shape. 

The water, though, will loosen the careful geometric folds into something a little loose, a little more random. And if the color bleeds a little from the water, even better. 

The end result is more natural and more organic than I could make by following the instructions the same way each time. 

All those imperfections and things outside of my control make each shape unique  – either adding to the beauty or simply too subtle to detract. 

There’s a balance there.  Precise folds and random factors. Of being careful and letting go.  Of taking pride in an accomplishment – and being mindful of the flaws. (That may not really be flaws at all.)

I’ve said before how lucky I am that this was the hobby that stuck with me.  And I was lucky again this weekend that I had projects that made me happy and turned out better than I expected.

Imperfect as they were.

The “Memories” function on Facebook can be a little hit or miss.  While it’s fun to sometimes see the jokes that Jim and I have shared, most of the memories that come up for me are my re-posted haikus.  I’ve pretty well saturated my timeline with those since I do one everyday.

Sometimes, the memories are…less than fun.

Since December, Facebook has been pushing the posts I made from 10 years ago – when I broke my elbow.

Or, as the ER doctor said, “obliterated”.

Since I was out shoveling the driveway again today I’ve clearly recovered, but it wasn’t a fun time. I was in a lot of pain before and after the surgery and while the physical therapy wasn’t too bad, the “rack” I had to use to stretch my arm out was awful. 

I never got my full range of motion back and when it is cold and damp out my elbow will ache.

On the bright side, my friends and family said many kind and encouraging things to me.  So, the memory itself isn’t great, but the comments are.

It’s odd how our minds work.  A picture, a phrase, even a date – and the full-technicolor stereo surround sound memory springs back into the mind’s-eye as though it was yesterday.

Instead of 10 years ago.

I didn’t re-share these memories – didn’t really want to dredge them back up though I know there would be new -equally kind – comments. 

Better to let this slip back into the past and be thankful that it wasn’t any worse. 

[Edit: I had a facebook memory come up that had this exact same title and very much the same content – from 12 years ago. I appear to be stuck in a rut and I’m not nearly as clever as I’d like to think I am.]

I had my window shades closed yesterday while I was working and when I was done for the day I saw that we’d had a lot of snow.  Like, a lot.

The day had ended on a frantic note at work – I was literally doing the jobs of three people who were out of the office – and I was still keyed up.    I didn’t have anywhere to go, but figured I should try to get caught up on the shoveling while I could – for when I did need to go somewhere.

I put on a scarf, a hat, a heavy coat, my heavy gloves and my boots – not in that order – and went to the garage for my trusty shovel.

I closed the garage door behind me and set to work.  

And, it wasn’t bad.  I don’t know of anyone that enjoys shoveling snow, but I usually don’t mind it.  The snow wasn’t too heavy, it wasn’t too cold, and the driveway really isn’t that big.  

I had a plan of sorts and worked my way down the drive, my mind pleasantly empty.   That’s the best part of a repetitive task like shoveling the drive, it frees up my head to think deep thoughts or none at all.

I started to lose the light as I finished up and concluded by spreading salt on the front steps – and the side steps of my 80 year old neighbor.  Another neighbor had cleared the driveway, but his blower couldn’t reach that area.

I put away my shovel and got some rest.

Today, I got an earlier start since it had snowed again last night.  It went quicker this time – there was less snow – and my head instead filled with ideas for haikus.  I had four of them in my head and no way to write them down, but managed to distill them into key words I could use to create them again later.

I had enough energy to brush off the cars, clear a longer path for my neighbor, and clear off the back patio at our house for the dogs.  

My back is a little sore and I’m a little tired.  And I’ll sleep well tonight.   But, I’ll be back at it again tomorrow if I need to.  

Clearing the driveway – and my head.

(If there was ever a post to be labeled “too much information”, it would be this one.)

We have a Menards (“Save Big Money at Menards!”) a few miles away, but there’s no quick route there and we usually go to Lowe’s if we need some home improvement supplies.  When we do go to Menards, I try to get the most random collection of purchases as possible – while still only buying things that I need.   That condition adds to the challenge – otherwise, it would be just a waste of money for a lark.

On a recent trip, my list included carpet rectangles for the stairs (to help the dogs have better traction), a couple of bundles of firewood, chicken noodle soup, pop tarts, dry erase markers, sidewalk salt, and dog treats.   

It didn’t feel quite random enough and I stopped by the clothing section to see if they had any neat hats. 

I can always use a new hat.

Instead of a hat, I found that they had men’s underwear for sale – and at a pretty good price too. 

I had a couple of pairs at home that had worn out and thought this would be a good – and novel – replacement.  Sidewalk salt, pop tarts, and underwear?  Delightfully random.

I picked up a package of briefs, black and navy, size large (36-38).  I’m at the lower end of that range, as will become clear in a bit, but didn’t want them too tight.

I headed to the checkout, got no reaction from the clerk who’s likely seen every combination of goods known to man, and I was on my way.

When I got home and unpacked my car, I tossed the new underwear in the wash. The worn out underwear got tossed in the trash.  (I suppose I could have used those for rags, but they were really worn though.)

And when the new briefs came up in rotation I noticed the fit was a little odd.  They seemed very tall for briefs and though they fit my waist pretty well, the leg holes seemed a bit…loose.

I wore them for a bit and then moved in apparently the wrong direction and I…well… fell out.

Or at least part of me did, through the leg holes.  The parts that the underwear is specifically intended to keep contained. 

I was by myself and quickly put things back where they belonged.    I thought it was an anomaly, but it kept happening.  And it got worse as the fabric of the leg holes relaxed. 

Pretty soon, it was if I wasn’t wearing any underwear for all the good they did me.   And it wasn’t just that one defective pair – it was all three.

I suppose they could still work to sleep in or for deeply lazy days when it’s okay to “let it all hang out”, but as day-to-day underwear they were a failure.  I should have gotten a smaller size or – to follow through on a really crazy idea – don’t buy underwear at the same place you can buy fireplace tools, floor tile, or fluorescent tube lights. 

Lesson learned, I guess.  

Excuse me while I…adjust.

I took myself for a walk today since I’d gotten caught up with all the “business” I needed to conduct on my day off.  It was a nice enough day and I needed to drop a bill off at the post office.  So, I guess there was more “business”, but at least it was on my terms.

Our neighborhood is a nice one, with quiet streets and well-kept houses.  I took a different way home than I usually do after one of these walks and went past a house that had a sign right at the street that said, “No turn around. No Trespassing.”

Which seemed a little harsh.  Sometimes turning around in a driveway is the best approach when someone is lost and it seemed odd to be upset about something like that.  The No Trespassing seemed a little extra harsh too. 

Maybe it was the font.

As I walked past the driveway I saw a sign further up the drive attached to a tree.  I stopped to look closer and saw that it said “You are now a trespasser” – to further hammer home their feelings, I guess – and it included a graphic.  

Of the view through a gun sight. 

I shook my head and continued my walk. 

So much anger and fear in that simple sign.   Something must have happened and now they are pushing everyone away.  And that isolationist and threatening approach means that no one will try to get close to them again – even with the kindest or most neutral intentions. 

It seemed dangerous and sad all at once.

And an anomoly in our nice neighborhood.

I was working from home recently when I got a visitor.  The doorbell had been ringing a lot that day – post office delivery, amazon delivery, furnace company, and the basement contractors – but this guy introduced himself as a former owner of the house.

I recognized the name – we used to get mail for him – and he explained that he’d had an insurance check sent to his old address by mistake and that someone else had cashed it.   He asked if I had seen anything like this.

I replied that we used to get mail for the many people that had lived here before we moved in, but that our regular postal carrier said that she now intercepts those and puts them back in the system.  It’s rare that we see anything anymore and the ones we do get  – other than catalogs – we just write “moved” on and put back in the box.

He was upset at himself, upset at the post office, and upset at the bank.  And upset at the insurance company who insisted on addressing all of this by mail – but also refused to update his address.  I didn’t really have an answer for him other than to check with the post office since the carrier seems to know a lot about what goes on in the neighborhood. 

He left to contact the insurance company again and I realized that I hadn’t given him my phone number or email address.   I found him on facebook – and confirmed it was the same guy since he had an old background picture of our current yard – and sent him a message.

He stopped by later in the day – having not seen my facebook message – and had realized the same thing I did.  He gave me his number and I gave him my email and number back.  I also told him to reach out to me if he needs me to write up a “we never saw the check” statement.

The check in question was for over $8,000 so I’m hoping he got it sorted out – but I haven’t heard back from him.

It was interesting to meet an “almost familiar” stranger. We had a history of sorts, but had never met.