On holiday; Bolivia 1, Ecuador 2; Brazil 1, Venezuela 1

A satisfactory little vacation in Austin. I’ve done what I said I’d do, except I haven’t ridden the bus.

I’m about to finish reading my second book.

David took me to a good Colombian restaurant in East Austin, the seedy-but-gentrifying part of town. He lives in a much-nicer-but-also-gentrifying part of town. I gather there are other neighborhoods that leave his in the dust.

My legs are sore because yesterday I hiked through a stony, scrubby forest. I’m no birdwatcher, but I was delighted when a roadrunner crossed my path. It was an idyllic morning – except that the freeway traffic near the forest was very loud.

Back where Ana & David live, we did a little tour of the Halloween decorations.

Ada, my neice, is a chatterbox. She is keen to describe all the neighborhood calaveras (skulls). She tells us about Ellison, her imaginary older sister.

George, my nephew, likes to be read to and to dribble the soccer ball around the house.

We watched Ecuador play awfully against Bolivia. To our intense relief, Ecuador scored the winning goal in the last minute. Afterward, David and I listed four or five players whom we never want to see again. The commentator was a nice man from South Africa or maybe New Zealand who clearly knew little about South American soccer or soccer in general. By the end of the game, even he was remarking on how poor these players were, and David and I were warming up to him.

The other notable result was that Venezuela rescued a point in Brazil thanks to a late bicycle-kick goal. The Brazilians were very angry.

October’s poem

A dead racoon lay in the middle of our street, in front of our house. Someone put a traffic cone next to it to alert passing cars. The racoon remained there for many hours.

No city official collected the racoon.

Our next-door neighbors – jovial young men – held a memorial service for the racoon and buried it in their back yard. I applaud the sentiment but worry. Scent of racoon attracts more racoon.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It’s chilly in the house. Our brand-new furnace provided heat for two days. Then it quit.

Not that I’ll be affected much. Repairs have been comissioned, and meanwhile I’ll fly to Texas to visit David, Ana, Ada, George, and Russell (the dog). The forecast there is for temperatures in the 70s and 80s, F.

Ana & David have jobs, and Ada and George go to day-care, so I’ll have time to myself. I intend to walk, ride the bus, eat, and read – things I used to do when I was a bachelor. I’ve pared down my cargo to these texts:

• The Bible
• Daphne Du Maurier, Don’t Look Now: Stories (I’ll probably just read one or two longish ones)
• R. M. Dworkin, ed., The Philosophy of Law (probably just one or two articles)
• Dolores Hitchens, Sleep with Strangers (unless I finish it tonight)
• Alasdair MacIntyre, The Unconscious
• Ronald Hugh Morrieson, The Scarecrow

I’ll use the Internet to continue reading Macbeth.

So, in addition to Scripture: texts of criminality, deviance, and buried desire. My usual seasonal fare.

Ecuador and Bolivia will play in La Paz on Thursday. David and I will watch that game together.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

October’s poem is “October”:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost –

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(Robert Frost)

Milestones

Happy first birthday, a couple of days ago, to Ada – my niece, Ana’s & David’s daughter – in Austin, Texas. Several dozen guests in at least four countries held a bilingual party for her over streaming video. The (hired) guests of honor were some llamas who live in Iowa – Ada likes llamas.

I was reminded of this painting by the surrealist Carel Willink:

(Some of my relations are surely rolling their eyes; I showed them this painting right after the party.)

It’s nice that the party was themed according to Ada’s interests.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

My own interests have evolved considerably. I now enjoy watching videos of the Dallas, Texas, High Five Interchange – a network of stacked traffic bridges, the tallest of which reaches as high as a twelve-story building.

I also enjoy fatherhood. Today, Samuel and I played peek-a-boo, and I carried him around on my shoulders. He has been consistently saying Da-da-da and Da-dee the last two or three days. He also has been venturing off his floor mat and getting very dirty.

Samuel received compliments this weekend from my Aunt Ruth’s brother-in-law, who stopped by to leave some things for my parents (he’s about to retire to New Orleans). “You can tell just by looking in a child’s eyes whether he’s being raised well,” he said.

I was glad that Samuel and Karin & I passed that test.

He then congratulated me on having finished my Ph.D. and told me that all of his children (or their spouses) had earned or were earning Ph.D.s. It was like the movie Conte d’été, in which the youths at the beach all have Ph.D.s.

Among the donations were four suitcases of books, which I raided. There were many Shuar grammars and a Shuar New Testament. There also was a Shuar blowgun. I didn’t take any of the Shuar paraphernalia. I did take an old copy of Locke’s Reasonableness of Christianity, which I’d cited in my dissertation.

There also was a tremendous wall hanging of llama wool. The fascination with llamas is certainly a familial one.

Closing credits (2018)

A rainy New Year’s Eve. Still, 2018 ends with more warmth than 2017 did.

This is my 120th entry of the year. I’ve written ten entries each month.

For providing material to discuss, I again thank Karin, Jasper, and Ziva; my tutees; my blood relations; and Brianna and other in-laws.

Additionally, this year, I acknowledge:

The poets.

Boca Juniors and River Plate.

The Mormons, who, until mid-October, were very friendly to Karin & me. They must have then given up trying to convert us.

Brett Kavanaugh.

My dissertation adviser for – so far – allowing various prolongments.

The St. Joseph River for declining to flood our apartment complex.

The city of Austin.

Maj Sjöwall & Per Wahlöö for authoring the Martin Beck mysteries.

Aimee-Ffion Edwards for acting in four of the best screenworks I viewed this year:

• Skins (a lewd TV soap opera about Bristol’s teens; not for the faint of heart);
• Detectorists (a gentle sitcom – featuring the excellent Toby Jones – about rural, amateur metal detectorists; quite suitable for the faint of heart);
• Luther (a quasi-fantastical crime show starring Idris Elba; for the great of heart); and
• Queen & Country (the long-overdue, surprisingly un-cynical, cinematic continuation of John Boorman’s Hope and Glory).

I also thank the moviemakers of 1996.

And I thank our new church, which welcomed Karin & me during a rather turbulent period. We watched over the two- and three-year-olds during many services. Starting in the spring, we also wrote, printed out, and folded each week’s bulletin. (Mercifully, that task will soon be performed by a new secretary.) The most rewarding event each week was the adults’ Sunday School class. For authoring that class’s discussion guides, I heartily thank the late John Stott.

Finally: thanks to everyone who offered money and prayers on our behalf. Please pray for me to complete my degree soon. Karin & I long to get out of this rut in which we’ve been living.

La final del mundo

Today, I went to Stephen’s apartment to watch the last game of the Copa Libertadores – which, this year, is called “La final del mundo” by the Argentinian press, since the participants are the two most popular Argentinian clubs, River Plate and Boca Juniors. Stephen & Edoarda arrived at the apartment exactly when I did, just before the scheduled kickoff time. They’d rushed over from Chicago, into which they’d flown from Austin, where they’d spent Thanksgiving.

Well, they needn’t have hurried. Like the previous game, this one was postponed. Some fans of River Plate had thrown rocks at Boca Juniors’s team bus, breaking a window. Allegedly, the glass had cut one of Boca’s players in the eye, and his injury had been aggravated by teargas that the police had discharged.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

And so we watched for two and half hours while the Argentinian broadcasters speculated whether the game would be played today or postponed until tomorrow.

The fans remained inside the stadium.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The air was thick with rumor. At first, Boca’s players were said to be eating steak sandwiches in their locker room, which suggested that they didn’t expect to play.

But then the kickoff was rescheduled for a slightly later hour. Fernando Gago and Carlos Tévez – Boca’s two most famous players – came out of the locker room to plead for a longer postponement.

The clubs’ presidents were said to be holding meetings with the presidents of FIFA and CONMEBOL (the South American footballing confederation). If they intended to postpone the game until the next day, why were they waiting so long to do so? Why were they allowing the fans to continue suffering inside the stadium?

Was Boca’s president urging River’s disqualification? Was he holding out for some lesser penalty, at least, such as a ban against River’s spectators?

It was suggested that the Boca player’s injury was less severe than the team was claiming. Yes, he’d been transferred to a clinic; yes, photos had been released of him wearing a gigantic bandage over one eye. Still, it was possible that he was feigning, as other players notoriously had done.

Moreover – and what was considered to be most ominous – CONMEBOL’s officiating doctor had refused to confirm the severity of the injury. (It was noted, however, that this doctor wasn’t an ophthalmologist.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Finally, the presidents agreed to hold the game the next afternoon. The fans left the stadium.

The president of CONMEBOL praised the collegiality of the two club presidents. He disavowed knowledge of the injured player’s precise medical state.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It must be said that the main beneficiary of this scandal is CONMEBOL, which hopes to move the tourney’s final round away from the participants’ home stadiums and into neutral cities that would submit hosting bids.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Update, Sunday: The game has been postponed again. The presidents are to meet on Tuesday, at CONMEBOL’s headquarters in Paraguay, to negotiate further.

A visit to Indianapolis

Our anniversary is today. Karin & I were married two years ago.

On Saturday, we took a trip to Indianapolis. We stopped at the Dutch Café near Peru, Indiana, and ate several plates of food. This affected all the walking that we did at the Indianapolis Zoo.

It was a mediocre zoo on the whole. Some of the buildings were overly grand. They called attention to themselves rather than to the animals. The animals were minimally described by their placards, and many weren’t described at all. (I wistfully recalled the much humbler Austin Zoo, which gave heaps of information about each species, and, often, about an individual’s life history.)

Still, the zoo had four redeeming features:

(1) The parking lot design. Not all the lanes were parallel or perpendicular to each other. They seemed to be staggered diagonally.

(2) The elephants and rhinos. One male rhino, in particular, caused the ladies to blush.

(3) The suckling warthogs, whom Karin recorded:

(4) The pettable dog sharks. This, easily, was the best thing about the zoo. The sharks would swim around in a shallow tank. We visitors would reach in and pet them lightly with two fingers as they passed by. If a shark failed to receive a petting, it would make a u-turn and swim by again. The sharks seemed almost mammalian in their desire for affection. And their skins were wonderfully smooth; petting a shark felt like petting a loving, living hot dog.

Lest you worry that petting was forced upon the sharks, let me reassure you that there was a part of the tank where they could rest undisturbed.

Here’s a video from the Dodo about petting a somewhat larger shark:

Unfortunately, there was no traditional, farm-like petting section in the zoo. I guess the zoo could afford elephants but not goats.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Afterward, we drove around downtown Indianapolis and saw the state capitol building. Without especially going out of our way, we have now seen the capitol buildings of the following states:

Utah
Wisconsin
Texas
Indiana

On the way home, we stopped at Half Price Books in Carmel, the ritzy suburb. We were one week too early. Next weekend, for Memorial Day, a sale will be held.

Austin, or, rather, the Texas Hill Country, pt. 3: LBJ’s ranch

I wished to view something more “Texan” than the hipster city of Austin. And so, on Friday, Ana & David took Karin & me out into the Texas Hill Country. Our destination was the LBJ Ranch.

We drove through Dripping Springs and Johnson City, where LBJ grew up (and which was named after his cousin). That city is now a tourist town. We also passed some wineries. Onward!, I insisted. No wineries! Onward, to the ranch!

Admission to the ranch was free, but each of us was charged $3 to tour the house. Driving through the property, we saw the Pedernales River and large fields with handsome Hereford cattle. We also stopped at LBJ’s airplane hangar and viewed a short movie about the importance of the ranch to the Johnson family and the nation. LBJ spent about a quarter of his presidency on the ranch. He hosted politicians and foreign dignitaries there. (His Secret Servicemen were disguised as ranch hands.) We also listened to an airman tell stories about how LBJ would fly into the ranch at the government’s expense.

The house itself was rather plain. It had eight bedrooms, a swimming pool, and many, many phones and televisions. It was decorated in the Sixties’ style, with vinyl armchairs, lemon-yellow countertops, and popular books from the period. (I was reminded of the Missionary Church Dorm, in Quito.) The best thing in the house, however, was LBJ’s desk chair, made of spotted cowhide. Oh, how I longed to sit in that chair! Alas, it wasn’t permitted.

Austin, pt. 2: Russell and one other frisky, young dog (the goose hunter)

Karin & I are nearly back at home. I’m writing this on the train between Chicago and South Bend.

I was going to call this entry “Austin, pt. 2: Sux By Southwest,” but Mary (or some other commenter with the moniker “Me”) is impatient to read about Russell, and so I’ll discuss him instead. During our visit, Russell was unfailingly sweet and playful as a host. Also, he refrained from chewing up the travel cushions that we left lying around the apartment, which showed impressive maturity. He certainly is being raised better than Karin & I are raising Jasper and Ziva (though he has the behavioral advantage of being a dog).

It was pitiable to leave him in Ana’s & David’s apartment for many hours each day, but that’s what we had to do.

On Thursday, we went downtown to look at the capitol building from afar and to get lunch from a typical Austin food truck. This second quest was quite an ordeal. Because of the hipster festival, we had to pay $20 to park in a faraway garage. Then we walked several miles through downtown, past shoppers and festival-goers, and when we arrived at the food truck, we paid $52 for a three-person lunch. The festival itself wasn’t especially vibrant; Karin & I were in Chicago for one hour this afternoon, and the St. Patrick’s Day revelers there put SXSW to shame.

We finished our tour of downtown Austin by walking a few more miles on a lakeside trail. David pointed to some kayakers who had their dogs with them. “This is what Austinites aspire to,” he said. I was reminded of the good people of South Bend. Then one of the kayakers’ dogs jumped into the water and started to paddle toward a flock of geese. The birds were wise to him and kept out of his reach.

At the end of the day, Ana joined us and we hiked several more stony miles on a different trail. Finally, we came to a small, clear pool, into which Karin dipped her feet. This made her want to use the hot tub at the apartment complex. So, that night, we did: I bobbed up and down while Karin swam a few dozen tiny laps.

While all of this was going on, Austin made the national news because package bombs were killing people there. We were so busy with our activities, we didn’t learn about the bombings until this morning, in the airport.

Austin, pt. 1: the outskirts

Though I’d known that Austin was hilly, I hadn’t expected so much of it to look like a gently undulating sea of trees – green trees mixed with scrubby, gray ones, sloshing over an occasionally exposed bed of brown-red soil.

David says the climate is Mediterranean, and I suppose that’s right. The air has been dry, the skies have been clear, and the temperature’s been in the fifties and sixties, Fahrenheit (in the summer, it’ll rise into the hundreds).

The buildings in Austin are incredible. Not beautiful: just very new, comfortable, and expensive-looking. Viewing them from the freeway, and now and then from regular city streets, I can tell that I’ll never be able to afford to live – or to work – in them.

Ana’s & David’s apartment near the edge of town is small but spiffy. Across the road is a private school that one of George W. Bush’s daughters used to attend.

We stayed near the outskirts yesterday (no downtown; no hipsters). David and Karin & I visited the zoo, all of whose animals had been “rescued.” My favorite animal was a gigantic Yorkshire hog named Babe. It was elderly and cancerous.

Then, we took a short hike to look out over the Pedernales River.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

In the evening, Ana joined us and we set out for the town of Marble Falls. We intended to visit the town’s cascadian namesake, as well as its state park and its legendary café, the Blue Bonnet, which is known for having a “wall of pies.”

We drove for an hour. When we reached the town, we found a pretty little lake and a city park, but no state park or falls. We asked Google to direct us. Finally, we came to a bit of cemented land with a distinctive topology of curved ramps and trenches, among which loitered some helmeted youths.

A sign proclaimed: “Marble Falls Skate Park.” Skate park, not state park. So much for that destination.

Next, we tried to visit the falls. This time, Google took us to the entrance of a gated residential area. A guard came out to meet us. We told her that Google had brought us there to see the falls. “Yes,” she said, “Google does do that. Unfortunately, the falls were covered over many years ago, when the dam was built.” (In 1951, we later learned.)

There remained the Blue Bonnet Café to visit. This, at least, existed, and regular diners already were queueing up to go inside. But our wait wasn’t long, our food wasn’t bad, and, afterward, we certainly ate a lot of pie.

In the spirit of a so-so movie from 1997 …

That is, Titanic …

No, Jasper and Ziva, you must stay at home.

I just realized that in Titanic, the vessel crashes and the hero dies. I hope that that doesn’t happen to us during the vacation.

March’s poem

This month’s poem is titled “Attempted Assassination of the Queen.” I thought of waiting to post it until the Ides of March. On that day, however, I’ll be in Austin, Texas, and I expect I’ll want to write about eating barbequed steaks or about attending SXSW or other things of that nature.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

God prosper long our noble Queen,
And long may she reign!
Maclean he tried to shoot her,
But it was all in vain.

For God He turned the ball aside
Maclean aimed at her head;
And he felt very angry
Because he didn’t shoot her dead.

There’s a divinity that hedges a king,
And so it does seem,
And my opinion is, it has hedged
Our most gracious Queen.

Maclean must be a madman,
Which is obvious to be seen,
Or else he wouldn’t have tried to shoot
Our most beloved Queen.

Victoria is a good Queen,
Which all her subjects know,
And for that God has protected her
From all her deadly foes.

She is noble and generous,
Her subjects must confess;
There hasn’t been her equal
Since the days of good Queen Bess.

Long may she be spared to roam
Among the bonnie Highland floral,
And spend many a happy day
In the palace of Balmoral.

Because she is very kind
To the old women there,
And allows them bread, tea, and sugar,
And each one to get a share.

And when they know of her coming,
Their hearts feel overjoy’d,
Because, in general, she finds work
For men that’s unemploy’d.

And she also gives the gipsies money
While at Balmoral, I’ve been told,
And, mind ye, seldom silver,
But very often gold.

I hope God will protect her
By night and by day,
At home and abroad,
When she’s far away.

May He be as a hedge around her,
As He’s been all along,
And let her live and die in peace
Is the end of my song.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(William McGonagall)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Our versifier was hardly the sole insane poet devoted to the Queen (though perhaps he was one of the more benign ones). This Wikipedia article tells of the events upon which his poem was based:

On 2 March 1882, Roderick Maclean, a disgruntled poet apparently offended by Victoria’s refusal to accept one of his poems, shot at the Queen as her carriage left Windsor railway station. Two schoolboys from Eton College struck him with their umbrellas until he was hustled away by a policeman. Victoria was outraged when he was found not guilty by reason of insanity, but was so pleased by the many expressions of loyalty after the attack that she said it was “worth being shot at – to see how much one is loved.”

The article describes several other attempts to murder Queen Victoria. In one incident worthy of a Law and Order episode, the Queen allowed herself to be used as “bait” to help to catch the perpetrator:

On 29 May 1842, Victoria was riding in a carriage along The Mall, London, when John Francis aimed a pistol at her but the gun did not fire; he escaped. The following day, Victoria drove the same route, though faster and with a greater escort, in a deliberate attempt to provoke Francis to take a second aim and catch him in the act. As expected, Francis shot at her, but he was seized by plainclothes policemen, and convicted of high treason.

For his crime, Francis was transported to Australia. He died at a ripe old age in Melbourne, which is in the state of … Victoria.

The routines of beasts

If ever I use the toilet in the night, little Ziva follows me to my bed for a good petting. Last night, I didn’t use the toilet. Ziva showed up anyway, at 5:00 a.m., and so I gave her a thorough petting (I’m being trained for fatherhood, I tell myself).

At 6:00, I was still awake. I went to the living room to watch YouTube. I watched this nice video about the classic Scottish movie, Local Hero.

Ziva and Jasper ran around the living room, wrecking the décor. They often do this in the early hours.

Q: Why is it perilous to go into the jungle between 3:00 and 4:00 in the afternoon?

A: That’s when the elephants are jumping out of the trees.

Q: Why is the crab the flattest of God’s creatures?

A: The crab went into the jungle between 3:00 and 4:00 in the afternoon.

Karin was surprised by my early rising (she usually gets out of bed first). Tonight I’ll be too tired to go to the laundromat, I told her. But no, Karin won’t let me weasel out of going to the laundromat. Our clothes-washing routine is set in stone.

Ana & David have acquired a dog named Russell. Mary and I confer: Where would Russell stay if he were brought to Indiana? The options are meager. Because of our own pets, neither Mary nor I could admit Russell as a guest.

Our fear is that Russell won’t be brought at all. We’ll only get to see our nephew if we go to visit him in Austin (Ana & David are quitting Houston to live in the Texas capital). And then, what would our pets do?