May 14, 2004

• Another Trip to Wasilla
  My first
  stop yesterday was the waterhole, to fill some jugs for Greyfox. 
  Most of the fireweed in my yard is still at the edible stage, but most
  of  what I saw in the open sunny area around the spring had grown
  past the tender tasty stage into tough, bitter inedibility.  Trees
  in the background at left, on top of the bluff above the spring,
  illustrate at what stage the leafing-out process is now at this end of
  the Susitna Valley.

  Fireweed
  is best, fresh in salad or steamed briefly as you would asparagus, when
  it is still purple-red and before the leaves spread out.  I
  haven’t picked any yet this year.  It’s time to get out there and
  get started… now.

  The
  second stop was at one of my favorite photographic subjects, Lake
  Kashwitna, about 17 miles from home. 
  Last week there had still
  been some rafts of floating ice along the shady margins of the
  lake.  All the ice is gone now.  I must get out the
  fair-weather Fuji because I have UV filters and such for it, but not
  for this little Kodak.  The haze makes “Sleeping Lady”, Mount
  Susitna, in the background, kinda indistinct.  She was really
  shining yesterday, in direct sunlight beyond the cloud cover.

  The
  next three stops for flaggers in the construction zone,  and the
  wait for the pilot car, prove that winter is really over.  Some
  people around here who used to say that our two seasons were
  “mosquitoes and no mosquitoes,” now are saying they are winter and road
  construction.  This job has been moving northward at a rate of
  about 12 miles a year, for three years.  By about 2007 or ’08
  they’ll be tearing up the road in my part of the valley.

  The old army surplus ambulance at right is a vehicle I see on the road
  occasionally.  It must be based not far from here.  The
  vanity plates read “WRWAGN”.  I think it’s cool.  Note how
  much further along the tree-leafing process has come in this
  shot.  This is just south of Willow, about halfway between 
  here and Wasilla.

  These
  next two shots, from the rehab ranch where I volunteer as van driver,
  sorta got me in trouble, I guess.  After I’d shot them, a
  counselor stuck her head out the door and told me, “You can’t take
  pictures out there.”  My unspoken thought, of course, was, “I
  can’t, eh?  But I already did.”  I assured her that there
  were no people in my pics and she pulled her head back in.

  The
  sign on the building at right in the shot at left says,
  “acceptance.”  The picture at right is my favorite part of the
  ranch, the thrift shop, and that tree behind the store appears to be
  fully leafed-out, or close to it..  Yesterday I bought a basket, a
  cream-color corduroy REI shirt, a soup mug with big red hearts on it, a
  soft black cotton headscarf from India, and three packages of
  decorative package-wrapping ribbon, and had some pleasant conversation
  with two of the residents… not my favorite resident, but he noticed I
  was there and came over and stuck his head in the door for a quick
  hello.  The ranch hand who has captured my heart wasn’t around
  yesterday… and I MUST remember, I’m a married woman… don’t know his
  marital status, sexual preference or anything but his first name and
  the facts that he’s a dear man and a true hottie.

  
  At Felony Flats one of the denizens, a young man with develomental
  difficulties, was playing with his radio-controlled car.  One of
  the cats that Greyfox has been feeding stalked the toy car for a while.
  .
  .

  When the little car started chasing her, she ran and hid under a big car.
  .
  
  .

  Yesterday evening after Greyfox shut down his stand, as I waited
  outside his cabin for him to change clothes before the meeting, I
  witnessed one of the reasons that strip of cabins and flea market
  booths has come to be called Felony Flats.  It was so uncool, and
  so typical of things I was part of when I hung with bikers and speed
  freaks, that it nicely reinforced my commitment to staying clean and
  serene.

  Several of the people next door were having a difference of opinion,
  outdoors in public, at the tops of their voices.  The topic was
  whether or not a wholesale lot of some kind of drug they’d just
  purchased had been “stepped on” (adulterated), and if so, how much it
  had been and whether or not it would be cool to step on it (or step on
  it again) before they broke it down into smaller packages for resale.

  Inside
  the cabin, Greyfox didn’t catch the gist of the argument, but only
  heard the raised voices.  On our way to the meeting I related the
  text to him.  He said he wished he’d heard; he could have settled
  the argument.  He would have told them that of course the stuff
  had already been walked on and that they should not step on it more
  until they’d sold a first round to their regular customers.  Then
  step on it and sell the weaker stuff to the same jerks.  When they
  come back and complain, just tell them they’re screwed up, been using
  too much of the shit and developed a tolerance.  Duh!

  The
  Old Fart had asked me to bring my scissors in with me and give his
  beard a trim.  The insulation is no longer needed, now that
  winter’s over.  I got this pair of before and after shots.  I
  think he looks better after.  What do you think?

  I’m glad he has started letting me trim his beard regularly.  For
  a while that was a source of contention between us.  He had a
  preference for going to barbers.  He used to have a tendency to
  believe that something was worth more if it cost more, but he’s getting
  over that.  For a while, he used to try to rationalize it with
  some bullshit about how he felt bad making his wife work as his barber,
  too, but I convinced him that I’d rather sculpt his beard myself than
  live with the mess some of those barbers made of it.  After a
  particularly bad barbershop haircut and an uneven beard trim last year
  that I had to even out for him afterward, he’s now seeing it my
  way.  The hair is looking good now, grew out okay from that awful
  haircut and now (after months) has reached the “collar length” he told
  the barber he wanted.  It  won’t need trimming for a while.

  A week or so ago, I gave Doug a haircut and trimmed his beard.  I
  didn’t take any pics because he didn’t seem pleased with the
  idea.  However, this morning  when I got into my picture
  files I found the self-portrait below on the hard drive.

  

  That’s my boy.   He has his father’s receding hairline, only it
  hasn’t receded quite as far as Charley’s has.  Male pattern
  baldness is sexy, eh?  It’s a sign of high testosterone
  levels.  Before the trim the beard was forked, with one side much
  longer and thicker than the other.  It’s not much of a beard, but
  give it time.  It’s just getting started.
  

  • 3:55 pm
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