You know that old carpenter’s proverb, Measure twice, cut once? It’s a reminder to plan a project carefully and thoroughly so you don’t have to go back and fix a mistake later.
Too bad it’s not associated with planting trees.
“Babe, I screwed up with the cherry trees,” Tara informed me yesterday.
“Screwed up how?” I replied. “We contacted 811 before digging, avoided all underground utilities, watered after planting, and put up deer netting. Am I missing something?”
“Yeah,” she said. “There’s no way for vehicles to reach the backyard now.”
I’d never even considered that. Why would I? When it comes to parking, we have what can only be described as an abundance of riches. Two garages, a long-ass driveway, and a separate parking pad. There’s no shortage of options for parking our cars.
“There’s no shortage of options for parking our cars,” I pointed out.
My wife, however, wasn’t concerned with parking. She frequently maneuvers her pickup back there to deposit a full bed of compost or soil next to the garden. Plus, our septic tank is out back; state law requires having it pumped every three years, which means a professional has to pull a big ol’ truck with a giant rubber hose right up next to it. Then there’s the guy who delivered three face cords of wood last fall by—yep, you guessed it—driving his pickup into the yard.
Son of a biscuit!
Sadly, there’s only one solution: we need to dig up the cherry trees and replant them somewhere else. Despite the size of our property, there aren’t that many somewhere elses from which to choose. Much of the yard is shaded by tall trees, other than this weird area that resembles a crop circle, minus the crops, in the far corner. Obviously, the only logical explanation is aliens.
It gets a lot of sunshine, won’t obstruct vehicles, and is nowhere near any buried utilities. It’s really our only viable option, so I guess we’re busting out the shovels again this weekend.
These had better be the best damn cherries I’ve ever had. Just sayin’.
Amaze, amaze, amaze
How ’bout them astronauts?
Artemis II, it turns out, is exactly the emotional balm I needed. A salve for the wounds inflicted by our batshit crazy president. What a week, huh? Reliving the Challenger explosion and The Day After was giving me peak Gen X flashbacks.
With the constant parade of Trump bullshit assaulting my newsfeed on a daily basis, each new Truth Social post more rambling and deranged than the last, I found myself sinking into a pit of despair so deep, it felt like I’d never be able to claw my way out.
And then this happened.
More to the point, they happened.
And you know what? Suddenly, all this DJT chest-thumping bullshit faded into the background, nothing more than meaningless static. The Artemis II crew and their unbridled moon joy came along at exactly the right moment, just when I—hell, most of us, I reckon—needed them most. They are a generation removed from the stodgy square-jawed homogenous Apollo astronauts of yesteryear, unafraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves, sharing messages of faith and love for each other and for all of us. They represent the very best of humanity, proof that even in the deepest void of outer space, light prevails over darkness. Remarkably, they have restored my sense of hope.
So many remarkable moments to absorb, memories that will last a lifetime. Carroll Crater. Moon joy. Amaze, amaze, amaze. Floating Nutella. It’s been nothing short of remarkable.
Now we just need to get them home safely.
I was on the edge of my seat during the moon flyby on Monday, glued to the television the entire 40 minutes they were out of contact with Mission Control, a bundle of nerves the whole time. I imagine it’ll be the same tonight as they prepare to splash down in the Pacific Ocean.
Godspeed, Reid, Victor, Christina, and Jeremy.
PNW-Bound
I’m preparing for my own voyage next week. I won’t be anywhere near the dark side of the moon, but I’ll get to see the famous PDX airport carpet again. That’s something, anyway.
Oh, yeah. Family, too. The whole point of the trip. 🙂
I haven’t been back to the Pacific Northwest since pulling out of my parents’ driveway in Vancouver, WA, on June 22, 2018. I never imagined eight years would pass before I’d return, but a series of events, from COVID and Wisconsin to job-hopping and clingy cats, kept scuttling our travel plans.
But hey, what do you know, this time they stuck. I fly out of Milwaukee early Tuesday morning. Just me; Tara’s staying behind, as she has her own Nevada trip in July. I’m excited to see my family and revisit a few old haunts, though I dread the getting-there part. I don’t have a fear of flying; that would be silly. It’s more a fear of no-longer-flying. Hitting a flock of seagulls on takeoff, losing both engines at 35,000 feet, getting sucked out of the airplane after a door flies off mid-flight, that sort of thing.
Originally I’d planned to drive to avoid those potential catastrophes, but was forced to conclude that it would simply take too long. Three days getting there, another three days coming home. Plus the actual visit. I would have burned through all my PTO in one fell swoop. Given the price of gas these days, I’d have also burned through my retirement savings. So, like it or not, flying there was the smart move.
Perhaps sensing my discomfort and afraid I’d chicken out, my dad generously took care of all flight arrangements and even upgraded me to first class. Woo-hoo! I can freak out in style now!
It’s going to be a whirlwind five days. Pretty much every minute of my trip is booked, so I won’t have time to visit all the places and see all the people I’d hoped. There are a few essentials on my agenda, but mainly, it’s to celebrate my daughter Audrey’s birthday, see my son Rusty once more before he departs for Phoenix next month, check out my brother’s house in Oregon, and spend time with my parents.
And splurge on fried pickles, of course.
This will be my last blog post before leaving, but knowing me as well as I do (we’ve been besties my whole life), I’m pretty sure I’ll sneak in a post from the road.
Ciao for now!
Mark My Words 
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