When the Cat is Away . . .

My in-laws do not travel well. The two hour drive to our house is insurmountable. I understand this. They are older, they have never liked driving. The last time they were down we had to send a car to bring them to Stu's Eagle ceremony. Still, Pat would like them to at least see the new house.

Instead, this weekend, we were visited by the next best thing, her siblings. OK, maybe 'we' is a bit incorrect as I left the country to stay in a foreign jail rather than hang with the in-laws. Well, I didn't leave the country because they were coming but it worked out.



Besides, I always said that hell would freeze over before they visited. Instead, we were visited by the next best thing, a tornado. I leave the country for one day and both a tornado and my in-laws arrive in town.

Fortunately, we suffered only minor damage before both left town. There may be some permanent scarring - at least to Pat's psyche. She spent the evening in the basement huddled with Stu while the wicked witch of the east did her skyward twirl. All the while Pat was bemoaning a lack of adequate flashlight batteries. Of course we were bound to run low when one refills the six flashlights located within six feet of her side of the bed. Yes, that is six flashlights in one room. There are more flashlights and the occasional candle in the other rooms. Combined we could replace a light stanchion in Fenway Park for a few minutes.



I include a picture of the six flashlights if only to reveal a subtle difference between husband and wife. Included for comparison is my camping flashlight (attached to the knife). I carry a larger flashlight as well when I camp but I can't remember ever using it - the smaller light being so much more convenient. In that way I am the anti-Pat. Of course it will take more than a tornado to get Pat camping.

Eh? Canada?

I just returned from my fifth trip to Ottawa with the Boy Scouts. Our troop goes on one of three major trips every year; Ottawa, Washington DC and Gettysburg. Each provides a great experience but Ottawa provided some of my fondest memories over the years.

Ottawa brought an appreciation for architecture into the troop. You're dealing with 11 to 18 year old boys full of testosterone and without a matriarch to guide them. The timing of our trip to Ottawa coincides with the start of warm weather, the Fringe Festival and the preparations for Canada. The city's spirits are high and the dresses are short. Among our older scouts language became rather coarse. We were on the edge of becoming the ugly Americans and corrupting the younger scouts. But how to control them? We talked, we lectured, we threatened. But, they are boys and testosterone driven. Finally we suggested that as an alternative they admire and discuss the local architecture. We asked them to look at the park and pointed out a nice structure that was finely built. One replied that all they saw was 'a good looking girl'. Slowly it dawned and instead of crass comments architectural terms were substituted and our assault of the Canadian ears ceased. That is until one less adept senior scout told another to "look at the ass on that building". Oh well.

A thirsty scout asked an adult where to get water on Parliament Hill to fill his water bottle. Having just arrived after a short walk the adult asked if he had dunk all his water. The scout said no. The adult asked why the water bottle was empty. The scout was confused by the question. So the adult tried again and asked why he brought an empty water bottle along with him. The scout pointed out that he was told to bring a water bottle but no one told him to fill it.

Then there was the time we were the first guests of the new American Embassy. The ambassador himself, just returning from the newly designated Nunavet territory above the Arctic Circle came in and addressed our group. He eagerly told the scouts about embassy duties and the variety of events he attends. Having completed the speech he asked for questions. Up went several hands. He carefully selected one of the younger scouts who promptly informed the ambassador that he had just farted and then asked the ambassador if he knew where the bathroom was.

Hey there

I apologize for not writing recently. The job search has been a heavy load lately and I promised to keep this light. A recent trip to Ottawa refreshed my spirit and literary muse.

How to be Nice

I decided that I would grill Pat’s long requested sword fish and scallop dinner. OK, maybe she didn’t request sword fish and scallops but the grilled fish request had come often and with increased vigor. However sword fish and scallops is part of a limited list of acceptable fish to me. And, I was being nice.

The rain started right after I turned on the grill.

On the way into the house I was splattered by those robin egg sized rain drops that portend a summer storm but by the time I was in the kitchen the grill was being pinged by an onslaught of hail. I could see the hail dance atop the sizzling drill and disappear in a puff of steam.

I could also see the ice lined bowl containing the swordfish and scallops. A demanding combination that was unforgiving about tardiness and premature warming.

Still, Pat looked at me rather quizzically as I grabbed the scallop’s grilling pan and a raincoat and proceeded to head outside for the essential preheating. “Wait and it shall pass,” she instructed.

Still I headed outside in my rain resistant (not rain proof) coat, threw the pan on the fire and returned drenched. Maybe waiting a few minutes wasn’t a bad choice after all.

After ten minutes of careful observation we determined that the rain was letting up so I grabbed the fish and went outside. No sooner had I dropped the fish on the grill than the skies opened up again.

I was committed, or at least I should have been.

Every time I opened the grill the thermometer dropped precipitously. Scallops, which require constant turning, alternated being shielded by the grill cover and being doused with the cold rain. The serving platter sat inverted on the grill shelf, waiting for the fish to be done and a quick flip before receiving its burden

Pat laughed at me and waved through the windows of her dry and comfortable shelter. I had no choice but to laugh between my impatient peeks at the all too slow cooking food.

At last the fish was declared done; the decision based equally on both culinary and self preservation requirements.

I sat soggily at the table eating a well prepared meal. Somewhere between the first and last scallop the sun came out and lit the glistening grass in it warm rays.

Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be nice.