Well, it’s February 29, 2024–the “leap day” in this “leap year.” And that gives rise to a question: why do we use the word “leap” in describing the calendar manipulation that happens every four years to account for the fact that the Earth doesn’t take precisely 365 days, and not a second more, to complete its lap around the Sun?
Here’s the problem, from my view: it’s the end of February, and no one really feels like “leaping” anywhere. “Leaping” contemplates springing ahead with force and enthusiasm and perhaps a bit of youthful hopefulness and exuberance–which is why the saying “look before you leap” came about. But at the end of February, most of us aren’t really brimming with qualities like enthusiasm and hopefulness and exuberance, are we? Instead, we’d prefer that the month would be over and it would be March, already–but instead we’re saddled with another day in February, and we’re not exactly “leaping” about it.
In short, “leap” is not only inapt, it’s kind of a slap in the face.
Why the use of “leap”? Here’s how the National Air and Space Museum explains it: “a common year is 52 weeks and 1 day long. That means that if your birthday were to occur on a Monday one year, the next year it should occur on a Tuesday. However, the addition of an extra day during a leap year means that your birthday now “leaps” over a day. Instead of your birthday occurring on a Tuesday as it would following a common year, during a leap year, your birthday “leaps” over Tuesday and will now occur on a Wednesday.”
So, it’s the days of the week that are “leaping,” not us. Well, I say the heck with that! I say we should come up with a more people-centric term that describes how this day affects human beings, not inanimate squares on a calendar.
I suggest that we use “prolong” rather than “leap,” as in “prolong the agony”–because that’s how we feel about adding another unwelcome day to an unwelcome month in an unwelcome time of year. So, happy Prolong Day! Let’s get through it, and get on to March.
At about 5:15 this morning, a siren went off in downtown Columbus. Its loud, droning wail, which sounded like I was one of the Eloi being summoned underground by the Morlocks in the movie The Time Machine, jolted me out of a sound sleep. After a moment to allow my sleep-befogged brain to assimilate what was happening, I realized that the sound was the local thunderstorm warning siren. A split second later, a piercing beep from my phone announced that a National Weather Service alert was confirming that the loud siren was, indeed, correct and a thunderstorm was on its way.
At this point, all hope of returning to peaceful sleep was lost. That’s too bad, because it’s actually pretty enjoyable to sleep as a storm rolls through at night, with the patter of wind-swept rain against the window and the rumble of distant thunder. I braced myself for another notice–perhaps an amber alert this time, to let me know that some senior who lives 100 miles away was last seen in a silver Toyota Camry with Indiana license plates–but this morning there would only be two nerve-jangling, sleep-interrupting notices.
Do we actually need all of these alerts? How much notice must one person endure in the modern world? And what is the risk that, like the boy who cried wolf, the liberal use of alerts just conditions us to ignore them? The thunderstorm that followed within a minute or two of the siren and the cellphone alert didn’t seem especially severe to this native Midwesterner. I’m not sure exactly what I was supposed to do in the few moments between receiving the notices and the arrival of the storm, but I seriously question how many Columbusites who were jangled into wakefulness by the alerts took appropriate action.
I’d suggest the authorities use a bit more discretion before triggering these early morning weather alerts.
In baseball, spring training is a time for discovery and learning. Hot shot prospects are evaluated, veterans recovering from injury gingerly try out their repaired arms and knees, and traded players and free agents work to fit into the lineups of their new teams.
For Cleveland Guardians fans, this spring also is a time for becoming acquainted with the team’s new manager, a fellow named Stephen Vogt. Vogt has the unenviable task of trying to fill the shoes of Terry Francona, a beloved manager whose deft handling of the team, and especially the bullpen, made the Guardians a perennial contender. Francona, who will be in the Hall of Fame one day, was that rarity in baseball: a manager who left on his own terms.
Terry Francona has a great sense of humor, so it’s good to know that Stephen Vogt shares that quality. It will be weird to see someone else in the dugout for the Guardians, but I have a lot of respect for the Guardians’ management, which thinks they’ve found the right guy to replace a legend. I hope they’re right, and I’ll be rooting for Vogt and the Guardians as they start a new chapter. Let’s just hope that he doesn’t end up living in a van, down by the river!
Normally I avoid having snack foods around the house, but sometimes you need to give yourself a treat. When I checked out to the snack aisle of our neighborhood grocer in search of something to try on a cold February weekend, the choices seemed to be overwhelming. Fortunately, my eye was caught by this bright red bag featuring Mama Zuma herself sporting a bandolier of peppers and hiking through a desert landscape of flaming saguaros–and suddenly my choice became easy.
I like hot, spicy food, and red-hot habanero kettle-cooked potato chips were something I just had to try. Mama Zuma’s Revenge potato chips, made by the Route 11 Potato Chips Company, fit the bill very nicely. The chips had that nice, crispy, non-greasy kettle method crunch and were coated with a red, peppery dusting that produced a great fiery taste. The chips created some enjoyable lip burn, too–making an accompanying glass of cold water essential. With each handful of chips, your fingers were left with a residue of the pepper dusting that you needed to lick off, which produced a second helping of the heat and increased the residue left by your next handful. And like any good snack, once you started, you just couldn’t stop until the entire bowl was done.
Mama Zuma’s Revenge was most enjoyable, but also reaffirmed why the snack aisle is best left unvisited.
It was cold and windy in Columbus yesterday–a perfect day to stay inside and get in some binge-watching on the tube. But as I scrolled through various options, nothing really appealed to me. Finally, I saw The Lincoln Lawyer on Netflix. I normally avoid “legal” dramas like the plague, because there are inevitable eye-rolling moments that an actual lawyer is bound to spot–but I knew it was based on novels written by Michael Connelly, a writer I like, so I decided to give it a shot.
It was a good decision, I ripped through the first five episodes of season one last night, and I put the show squarely into the “binge-worthy” category. The lead character–a criminal defense lawyer named Mickey Haller who had an accident, becomes addicted to painkillers, gets clean, and then experiences a surprising development that changes his trajectory–is well played by Manuel Garcia-Rulfo. Haller does most of his work from the back seat of a variety of Lincoln vehicles as he moves from courtroom to courtroom, which is how the series gets its name.
What really makes a good binge-worthy show in my view, however, is whether you care at all about the characters surrounding the lead. Because Haller has a complicated life and clearly needs a support network, there are a lot of them–including two ex-wives (one of whom manages his law practice, while the other is a prosecutor), a teenage daughter, an investigator, and a driver who shuttles Haller around. My favorite is the driver, Izzy Letts, deftly played by Jazz Raycole, who is seen in the photo above. A former addict herself, she keeps an eye on her boss, makes sure he stays firmly on the wagon, and has the kind of issue-setting conversations with Mickey as they are driving that move the plot along.
And to my surprise, the legal issues are handled in ways that are reasonably close to reality, given the requirements of TV drama. Haller is jaded by his experience with the criminal justice system and the police, but his approach to the practice of law is in the ballpark and believable. I particularly liked an episode where Haller had to pick a jury and deal with a challenging client at the same time.
Two seasons of The Lincoln Lawyer are in the books, and are available for binge treatment. It’s nice to know I’ve got a good TV option as brutal February drags on.
They’re making good progress on the new restaurant that will be opening soon at the northwest corner of Gay and High Streets in downtown Columbus. The plywood barricades have been taken down, and they’ve started to add a few of the finishing touches, like nifty tilework at the Gay Street entrance and some of the signage.
As the tilework indicates, the restaurant is called Hank’s–specifically, Hank’s Lowcountry Seafood and Raw Bar. According to the Hank’s Columbus website, it’s the sister to a restaurant by the same name in Charleston, South Carolina, and it is aiming to open its doors this spring.
I’ve not been to Hank’s in Charleston, but I’m guessing the Hank’s Columbus will have a decidedly old school vibe. The tiled entrance has that feel, and the signage does, too–including some apparently conscious fading and running of the ink. Hank’s seems to be going for a prematurely aged look, as if the restaurant has been there for decades, rather than being the newest place in town. That’s an intriguing concept that makes me interested in trying Hank’s out once it opens up for customers.
You may not recognize just how many skills you have acquired over your lifetime. In modern parlance, they might be called “hacks.” They are the little techniques that we’ve mastered that allow us to easily perform certain tasks–techniques that make our lives a little bit easier.
The pillowcase tug is a good example. You use it when you’ve removed, washed, and dried the pillowcases, and then you’ve got to put the pillowcases back on the pillows. That’s not necessarily an easy or intuitive thing to do. You could use your hand to grab the pillow at one end and try to forcibly pull it (with your arm) into the pillowcase, but this approach is clumsy, and the pillow often gets twisted up in the process.
But at some point, someone demonstrated the pillowcase tug maneuver to you. You slip the pillow into the opening of the pillowcase, then grab the top sides of the pillowcase with both hands, place the pillow protruding out of the pillowcase under your chin, and give the pillowcase a firm tug. With each tug, the forces of gravity and friction work to gradually slide the pillow smoothly into the pillowcase. A few tugs, and voila! The pillow is in the pillowcase, and the chore is done.
Once you get the knack for doing the pillowcase tug, you’ll never forget how to do it. It’s like learning to ride a bicycle. And it’s just one of many little skills you’ve developed.
Congratulations! When you think about it, you’re a lot more accomplished than you probably realize.
I saw that William Post, widely recognized as the creator of Pop-Tarts, died recently at the ripe old age of 96. According to his obituary in Newsweek, in 1964 he was asked by the Kellogg’s Company to create a new product that could be made in a toaster. Within a few months he and his team came up with Pop-Tarts . . . and the kid breakfast world would never be the same.
Pop-Tarts were a staple in our household from the point Mom first brought a box home from the grocery store, which was probably shortly after they were introduced. (Our household tended to be a first mover when it came to new breakfast food options.) I liked the original unfrosted version–especially the strawberry variety, which the Newsweek article says was the original flavor–but my Pop-Tarts consumption really took off later, when frosted Pop-Tarts hit the market.
My favorite was the frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts. They came in a foil packet containing two of those rectangular pastry delights. I actually preferred them right out of the packet, without using the toaster. The delectable goodies had a hard icing crust that crunched and cracked when you took a bite, which provided a nice textural element to the whole frosted Pop-Tart experience. If you put them in the toaster, in contrast, the icing melted a bit, and you lost that. (You also risked taking a bite of superheated filling.) The stiff white icing coating was an excellent contrast to the rich, dark blueberry filling. Strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts were good, but a packet of two blueberry Pop-Tarts with a glass of cold milk made for a perfect post-high school snack.
Blueberry frosted Pop-Tarts entered the “forbidden foods” category, along with Frosted Flakes and Cap’n Crunch, when an adult metabolism made me start paying attention to my calorie intake, but the memories of the first bites of them live on. Thank you for the memories, Mr. Post!
When I was boarding my Southwest flight yesterday, I noticed one of the pilots just ahead of me. I could tell he was a pilot because, unlike the vast majority of the people in line, who were dressed like they were getting ready to grab a bag of Cheetos, stretch out of the sofa, and watch some late-night TV, the pilot was wearing his uniform: a starched white shirt with the standard epaulets on the shoulders, a necktie, black slacks, and well-shined shoes.
There has been a decided trend against the wearing of non-military uniforms in the U.S. over the past few decades. People working in service industries, such as milkmen and gas station attendants, used to wear specific uniforms as a matter of course, but those days are long gone. Outside of the military world, uniforms now seem to be limited to postal service workers and commercial airline pilots. And unlike your basic white-collar office workers, airline pilots never get to have a “casual Friday,” either.
Why have uniforms continued to prevail in the commercial airline world, when you don’t see them much in other places? Obviously, it’s a confidence-building device–you see a person wearing a pilot’s uniform and you automatically think they are capable of flying the plane and getting you to your destination safely.
I wonder: how would passengers react if they saw someone dressed like the guy in front of me on the jetway, wearing crocs, sweat pants, and a tattered shirt, heading to the cockpit?
On our visit to Big Bend National Park, I had to pay an entrance fee. The friendly ranger at the entrance station explained that, because I am officially a senior, I could buy a one-year pass or a lifetime pass. As is always the case with these choices, the one-year pass was cheaper in the short term, but the lifetime pass promised more long-term savings . . . if we actually use it to go to national parks and other federal facilities covered by the pass.
So, what to do? My past experience with lifetime memberships hasn’t exactly been stellar. I remember buying a lifetime membership to a video store in the ’80s, only to see it promptly go out of business, taking my “lifetime” membership fee with it. In this instance, though, you’d like to think that the National Park Service and the national park system will be around for a while–so the issue really is whether you would use your membership enough for it to make economic sense.
After a few moments of reflection, I decided to go for the lifetime pass option. I very much enjoy overseas travel, but I’ve also wanted to see more of America, and particularly its many national parks.
Our visit to Big Bend certainly reinforced that decision. We stayed in one of the rooms at the Chisos Mountain Lodge. The rooms are not filled with frills–ours didn’t have a TV set or internet, for example–but you don’t really go to a national park to watch TV or use the internet in your hotel room, do you? The lodge was in an absolutely beautiful setting, and everyone we encountered, guests included, was incredibly friendly and seemed happy to be there. We enjoyed the fresh air, the rugged natural charms of the Chisos Basin, and some great hikes and exercise, too. I would definitely go back to Big Bend, but it also made me interested in going to some other national parks as well.
So, I’m a lifetime member. National parks, here we come!
Built in 1886, when west Texas must have been a pretty wild place indeed, the Presidio County Courthouse is one of the landmarks in Marfa. It is a beautiful, graceful structure built of native stone, and the bell tower can be seen for miles, thanks to the flat surrounding countryside. I regretted that the courthouse was closed, because I imagine the courtrooms are beautiful, too, and I would have liked to see them.
When we were walking around Marfa yesterday the wind was playing games with the passing cirrus clouds, shredding them into ever-finer wisps, like wood shavings overhead, until they vanished from sight. I liked the combination of the thin, curly clouds, the deep blue sky, the peach-colored courthouse, and the sparse green of the courthouse lawn.
Yesterday Richard and I were returning from a walk around Marfa at about 4:30 p.m. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon. There wasn’t much traffic or many people out on the streets.
Just after we crossed the railroad tracks that run through the middle of town we heard a commotion coming from one of the streets we were approaching. Suddenly a group of riderless horses and at least one mule (we think) came galloping down that street, took a sharp right onto our street, and went clattering by. They were magnificent to see, but were unattended and unpursued, by cowboys or anyone else.
At first we thought it might be some kind of event, but it clearly wasn’t. The horses swerved through an area dotted with agave plants, then stopped by the railroad tracks and gathered together, where no one paid them any attention and I took the picture above. Fortunately, no train was approaching and no cars were coming in either direction.
We had no idea what to do in these circumstances, so we moseyed along back to our hotel. When the passed by the same spot a half hour later, the small herd was gone. It apparently was just another day in west Texas.
Our second hike at Big Bend National Park was the Lost Mine Trail. Named for a legend of a lost mine supposedly discovered by the Spaniards somewhere in the Chisos Mountains, the trail is one of the most popular ones in the park. The trailhead is also located quite close to the Chisos Mountains Lodge and the Chisos Basin campground. If you want to be sure of getting a parking space, plan to arrive early.
The Lost Mine Trail is one of the oldest trails in the park. In fact, it’s even older than the national park itself. The trail was created by the Civilian Conservation Corps, one of President Roosevelt’s New Deal programs that gave young men the opportunity to get paying work building roads and trails. The CCC established the Lost Mine trail in the ’30s, and Big Bend did not become a national park until 1944.
The Lost Mine Trail heads up the side of Lost Mine Peak, taking the hiker upward through a series of switchbacks. You can tell it is an older trail, because logs and in some cases stones have been worked into the trail as you climb the hill, creating a staircase effect. It must have been backbreaking work for the young men of the CCC, who labored exclusively with hand tools and human muscle power. They did a darned good job, because the trail has held up very well and is easy to follow. But be forewarned: there are a lot of steps. After you tackle the Lost Mine Trail, you won’t need to hit the stairstepper for a while.
Eventually you reach the top of the peak, and here is where the trail really gets interesting. You can follow the spine of the mountain for hundreds of yards. If you look carefully at the photograph above, you”ll see tiny figures in the far distance, following the path from one rock outcropping to another. The trail takes you past desert foliage and stunted, twisted trees, often requiring you to scramble over sheer rocks.
As you move along the crest of the mountain, you get a panoramic view in every direction–including down. If you peer over some of the rocks making up the mountaintop you’ll see dizzying drops of hundreds of feet to another rocky ledge, and the valley floor still farther below. The Lost Mine Trail involves more than a thousand feet in elevation changes, and when you reach the top of Lost Mine Peak you can see for dozens of miles. The most distant locations have a characteristic blue shade, as seen in the photograph below and in other photographs taken from the top of the mountain.
On the day of our hike, it was cool and overcast as we started our hike, but we warmed up as we climbed, and eventually a big patch of blue sky emerged to the east while it remained cloud-covered to the west. It felt good when the sun broke through the cloud cover, and the sun’s brightness helped to illuminate the colors and sharpen some of the ruggedness of the rock formations on the mountaintop.
We continued to work our way west along the top of the Lost Mine Peak ridgeline, enjoying some spectacular views and some stunning rock formations. There weren’t any park rangers up there to tell you where to go and where not to go. Hikers were expected to behave appropriately and take due care–which is pretty refreshing when you think about it. You could go as close to the end as you dared, but we didn’t see anyone taking any stupid risks. To the contrary, our fellow hikers on the Lost Mine Trail seemed extremely respectful of the potential perils of the Lost Mine Peak.
We decided we would continue along the peak until we reached the end. We watched our footing and moved along deliberately, mindful of not getting too close to any of the edges. The views were incredible, and it was worth every step.
As we approached the end of the trail and the sun peeked through the cloud cover, the colors became more noticeable. I particularly liked the almost fluorescent green lichen growing on the side of one of the rock faces, as shown in the photograph below.
When we reached the end of the trail, we found some smooth rocks that provided some good natural seating. We plopped down, took a few swigs of water, and enjoyed an energy bar or two as we took some careful looks around at the magnificent western scenery, the craggy rock formations, the mountains in the distance, and the valley far below. If felt like we were sitting on top of the world.
One of the interesting things about the Lost Mine Peak is that the rocks making up the mountaintop have different colors. The predominant rock color was a ruddy red, but at the end of the trail the red was framed by an almost chalky white vein of rock. The red and white color made a nice contrast with the green of the desert plants in the valley and on a neighboring mountainside.
As we got up from our seats on the rocks on the top of Lost Mine Peak and headed back down the trail, we noticed the sunshine highlighting the pastel colors of the rocks on the neighboring peak to our right, as seen in the photograph below. We saw subtle yellows and greens, beiges and tans, as if the hues had been carefully mixed by a master painter on a colossal palette. It was an absolutely beautiful sight–one that happened to be just one of many on a really wonderful trail. I give the Lost Mine Trail very high marks indeed.
We saw many birds at Big Bend National Park. No surprise there: the park ranger explained that the park is smack dab in the middle of the north-south flight path of migratory birds and is visited by hundreds of different species.
A number of different species visited the Chisos Basin campground, where Richard, Julianne, Russell, and Betty were camping. Our favorites were the Mexican Jays shown below, with their brilliant blue feathers and fearless exploration of our eating area. If you want to see birds at Big Bend, have a picnic, or scatter a few bread crumbs.
One our first afternoon in Big Bend National Park, we checked out the Santa Elena Canyon trail. It’s a popular and very memorable hike for a number of reasons.
The Santa Elena Canyon trail is literally at the end of the road. A short boardwalk leads you to a body of water that is part of the Rio Grande River. That’s the river you see in the photo below. The river winds through a steep canyon, and the trail takes you part of the way.
Photos really don’t adequately capture the scale of the rock formations you encounter at the Santa Elena Canyon trail. They are immense, stupendous, monumental sheer cliffs that rise abruptly out of the dry west Texas landscape and thrust directly upward until they seem to touch the sky.
The trail hugs the perimeter of the right side of the cliff, shown above. You cross a dry river bed, scramble up to the foot of the cliffside, then starts heading upward to a trail that follows the river. To the left of the river the rock escarpment towers over you and heads off into the distance, as shown in the photo below. Julianne said, aptly, that the rock formation looks as huge and forbidding at the Wall in Game of Thrones. That gives you a good sense of the scale of the rock formation.
Once you get on the trail, you follow some switchbacks up the cliffside. The trail then runs along the end of the cliffside, with some steep drops down to the river, as seen in the photo below. The trail isn’t incredibly wide, and don’t expect to find any protective fencing; Big Bend National Park isn’t that kind of place. If heights trouble you, this might not be the right trail. I’m not freaked out by heights, but I kept to the inside lane, just the same.
Eventually the trail reaches wider spots along the cliffside, and drops down to the river level. You’ll see some gigantic rocks that have fallen off the cliffside, as shown in the photo below. The rocks are huge and are almost geometric in shape, as if they’ve been mined. The plants you see in the photo below grow along the river and are about six feet tall.
The trail ends at a small beach, seen to the right of the photo below. The cliffside on the left shows layer after layer of different kinds of rock in different colors. On our hike, there was not a breath of wind, and the water’s surface was as smooth and reflective as glass.
I took the photo below at the end of the trail, looking back. The two people give you a sense of the height of the cliffs. At this point of the trail, it was absolutely silent, and even our fellow hikers weren’t chatting. The immensity and grandeur of the place just filled you with awe, and a desire to try to take in and remember the feeling of looking skyward at those cliffs towering above. A respectful quiet seemed appropriate for the moment.
Webner House 