When You're Hot You're Hot

Well, It's August and Nebraska, as well as other parts of the country, is baking. We are at or near one hundred degrees today and it will stay that way for the next week or more. Some parts of the state will get some thunderstorms to help cool things off a little, but the south central part of Nebraska is not scheduled for any rain.

Temperatures at the century mark are common during Southern California summers, and at this point someone might say, "Yeah, but in California it's a dry heat". Lemme tell you - It doesn't matter whether it's dry or humid, one hundred degrees is hot, hot, hot. People can die from inappropriate clothing and activities when it's that hot, no matter where you live. Thank God for air conditioning, right?

However, I do not complain about heat no matter the temperature, and I have not for over fifty years. Many friends have heard me tell the story of my younger years when I was in the army and stationed in Greenland. Yup, Sondrestromfjord, Greenland was host to a small army base. It is north of the arctic circle, which means for great lengths of time in the winter, the sun never rises - it is dark for weeks at a time. Conversely, in the summer there are many weeks when the sun never sets - it just travels in a never ending circle above our heads.

The picture above is yours truly in the summer of 1955 in Sondrestrom (Yes, I once weighed only 120 lbs). But it was the winter of 1955-56 that brought about the approach to hot summers that I use today. It was February of '56 and I had been working in the Headquarters office all "day" and when quitting time rolled around, I dressed up like "Nanook Of The North" and headed for the barracks to relax with my buddies. When I stepped up to the barracks door, the thermometer on the outside informed me that it was forty-two degrees below zero. I looked at that temperature, realized that I had not seen the sun in weeks, watched my breath crystallize instantly, and reflected that when I entered the barracks I would be required to drink a full glass of cold water before I would be allowed to have a cup of coffee (the thinking at the time was that the cold water would warm the teeth so that hot coffee would not crack ice cold tooth enamel).

At that moment, looking at the thermometer and realizing how I was living, I swore that when I returned to the United States I would never, ever, ever, complain about hot weather again. That was more than fifty years ago, and I stick to that pledge, even when today's forecast for Alma, Nebraska, is for temps to reach 102 with humidity you can water ski on. Ask me if it's hot and I will smile and say, "Yeah, it sure is". It is a statement of fact, not a complaint.

Of course those memories brought me several years ago to ask the question, "Who the hell is 'Nanook Of The North'?" I use that phrase because when I was a kid it was commonly used to describe someone living in extremely cold conditions. I thought maybe he was a character in a book or a movie. Thanks to the Google search engine, I discovered that "Nanook Of The North" was a 1923 silent film documentary of a Canadian Inuit with the name "Nanook". Most film historians credit it with being the first documentary ever put on film. The film-maker followed Nanook for a full year and let his film roll on all aspects of life for an arctic native.

After reading the search info, I went to one of my favorite places, Netflix, and did a search on the title just on the off chance that they would have it. Holy mackerel, they did. I ordered it, watched it and was enthralled with the movie. You want to know what a tough life is? Order that film and watch it. Want to know how many people and dogs you can stuff into an Inuit kayak? Order that film and watch it. Want to know how to build a clear ice window into your next igloo? Order that film and watch it.

I want to report one of those rare mornings we humans are occasionally gifted to live in. My oldest daughter, Eva Marie, and I went on our usual morning walk. At the half way point of 1.5 miles, we normally sit on a bench at an observation point while I wait for my arthritic left hip to quit screaming at me. The view of Harlan County Lake (which is 9 miles long - it ain't a small pond) was spectacular. As we sat, a young rabbit hopped out of the taller brush and began munching on some of the greenery around the bench area. He looked at us then apparently decided we did not represent a threat. He was not yet adult size and we may have been the first humans he had ever seen and so he did not know that our species is to be feared. He munched his way to within three feet of us and, while wary, went to work on some small flowers on the plants. He really liked the flowers, and picked them off one by one. We watched him for a good ten minutes, then decided it was time to hit the trail again. He was still there as we left. As I was thinking about what a rare moment that was, I chuckled and said, "He really likes those flowers, doesn't he?". She said, "Yeah. That's probably what happened to the jalapenos in my garden. The rabbit ate the flowers and so no peppers grew." I felt that she was silently thankful that her local garden snake had disposed of her local garden rabbit. It's the law of the jungle, I guess.

I still liked the little guy this morning.

Differences - Odds And Ends

Some things about life in rural Nebraska are strikingly different from my lifelong experiences in Los Angeles. They may seem like individually small things, but they add up to a lot of differences.

In Alma, Nebraska, most people buy a vehicle to fulfill a needed function. What a concept. In Southern California (as well as other places), people buy a car to make a statement to others about who they think they are. As nearly as I can tell, there is only one Hummer in all of Alma, and the owner doesn't drive it very often. It is usually in his garage. I haven't seen those expensive spinning wheel covers anywhere in Nebraska, which says good things about the people here.

There are lots of off road vehicles here, both SUVs and pickup trucks, and (wonder of wonders) they actually drive them off the roads. Many are perpetually dirty because they either kick up a lot of dust or drive through a lot of mud. In L.A., the only time they are off road is when the owner pulls into his paved driveway. The paint is always spotless and the chrome shines brilliantly. Yep, the cars here serve a purpose other than to make a statement about the owner's ego.

Driving habits are interesting, too. since there are no traffic lights in Alma, just the occasional stop sign, people keep a look out for cross traffic at all times in the neighborhood. When they see other cars two things happen that are remarkably different from L.A.: They show a lot driving courtesy to each other, often giving up their "right" to the right-of-way, and they always wave a greeting to each other. How nice that is. I wave at people I do not know and they smile at me in passing and wave back. In Los Angeles, what might be mistaken for an attempt to wave is really just a sloppy "one-fingered salute" followed by an arm extending out the window with the latest model Glock 9mm pumping bullet holes into the side of my car - proving once again that the City Of The Angels is a technology leader.

On a more curious note, there seem to be a lot more wives mowing lawns in Alma than husbands. Almost everyone here uses "riding" lawnmowers which certainly require less brute force to operate, nonetheless, It seems to me that when it comes time to get out in the sun and crank up the mower, it is the women, not the men, who get the job done. Hmmm. I don't have an explanation for that curiosity. If it were football season, the men might be inside watching the Nebraska Cornhuskers go at it with Oklahoma or Colorado, but since we are still one month from kickoff time that isn't the case. One day I saw a teenage boy come out of the house while his mom was mowing the lawn. He met a buddy from next door and they walked off down the block. Now, since I come from the "old school", I am a firm believer that every teenager should become intimately familiar with the feel of a lawnmower handle on weekends. The times, though, they are a-changin'.

Most homes here do not have garbage disposal units in the kitchen sink. ??? I don't know why, but it makes me recall the triangular rubber food scrap collector that used to sit in one corner of the sink when I was a kid in Lincoln Heights in east L.A. That's another of the old-timey things that have gone the way of glass milk bottles, ice-men, and Saturday serials at the local theater. I assume there are good reasons why disposals are not installed in sinks here, I just haven't found out what they are yet.

The local fishing gods smiled upon me and brought an end to my fish catching drought. Last night I enjoyed catfish (caught with my own rod and reel) in a yellow cornmeal batter with a touch of cayenne pepper. I had forgotten how good catfish could be.

Since I now have yellow cornmeal on hand, this morning I made myself cornmeal mush for breakfast. It took me back to my childhood again. My mother and her mother were both from Oklahoma, and since we lived with my grandmother for many years, I had lots of cornmeal mush for breakfast. Grandma would cook up a batch in a double boiler (do people use them any more?), and the leftover mush would go into the refrigerator. The next morning the now firm cornmeal dish would be sliced, fried lightly and served hot with syrup for breakfast. It was always a winner. And, yes, she also made grits for breakfast. Grandma also regularly cooked up things like fried green tomatoes and batter fried okra for dinner. Often, instead of mashed potatoes we would have boiled turnips with the evening meal. I haven't tasted turnips in over fifty years. It's not a vegetable I would want every day, but I just might have to track some down in a market and give 'em a try.

Isn't this an interesting world?

The Day that the rains came down

How many are old enough to remember the song. "The Day That The Rains Came Down", by Jane Morgan, from the sixties?

Kearney, Nebraska, is some 60 miles north of Alma, and this morning in a space of two to three hours it received over six inches of rain. The thing that makes that fact of interest to me is that I was in Kearney at the time. Kearney hosts the nearest Wal-Mart, Target, Wells Fargo Bank, and Burger King among others, so I find myself there from time to time. This morning was an adventure.

It was raining but not heavily when my youngest daughter and I entered a bank to do some business, which took about 45 minutes. We could hear rain pounding the roof while we were in there, and even though my car was parked directly in front of the bank and only 10 feet from the door, when we left we were drenched by the time we got inside the car.

Since the noon hour was fast approaching, we cautiously traversed a couple of fairly well flooded intersections to get to one of the local food places. Mama Nature continued to drown Kearney while we ate, and by the time we came out (this time with an umbrella that wasn't a whole lot of help), street flooding was the order of the day and any drying out we did in the restaurant was completely undone by a new soaking.

We headed back toward the highway that would take us back to Alma and found Kearney street traffic reduced to a crawl. Kearney is a good sized town of about 30,000 and its primary through street is four lanes and divided, but of course the lane nearest the curb was unusable because of flooding, so everybody drove in the left lane. Intersections were one step short of impassable. Four or five intersections in a row we saw at least two cars flooded out and stalled. We proceeded at a snail's pace so that we didn't create a wake that would throw water up into the engine compartment and force us to join those waiting in two to three feet of water for some help. We made it OK and got to higher ground safely, but not before I learned something about Nebraska drivers.

Take heart those of you who are decent, safe driving Californians, you are not alone in encounters with crazy people who drive. Nebraska also has its allotment of jerks and inconsiderate idiots who drive jacked up pickup trucks. While we were inching along carefully in the left lane so as to not stall out, we were passed on the right by a speeding pickup truck with those big wheels and no fear of stalling. He seemed to be enjoying kicking up a huge wake of water as he traveled, the wake rising about three to five feet in the air and absolutely swamping ordinary sedans (including mine) in the left lane. Other than blinding me for a few seconds with a flooded windshield, we suffered no ill effects except for my anger at that yayh0o and a desire to do him great bodily harm. There are times I wish I was young again and stood about six feet four inches and weighed 250 pounds. I would then take that pickup driver into a locked room and "explain" a few things to him. Perhaps a few lumps and some minor maiming would help him demonstrate more acceptable social behavior. Is it possible to "maim" someone just a little bit? Hmmm.

Normally I allow at least a full five minutes for those kind of thoughts to bounce around inside my skull before I clear them out as poison to the soul and move on to more productive uses for my brain cells, like, wow - only one more month until college football starts. On a later post, I'll try to describe what life is like in Nebraska Cornhusker territory for a guy with a UCLA Bruins license plate frame on his rear bumper.