GRENDEL AND ME (0909)
Bernie Moore

I was talking to Grendel the other day, and the discussion was about the paucity of chipmunks and other cat sized game upon which he practices his combat skills.
“Do you remember the folk song about the missing flowers?” he queried.
“Where Have all the Flowers Gone?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s the one. How did it go?”
“Well. I think I can summarize it without subjecting your sensitive ears to my blaring basso.”
Where have all the flowers gone?... Girls have picked them every one…Where have all the young girls gone?... Taken husbands every one... Where have all the young men gone?... Gone for soldiers every one... Where have all the soldiers gone?... Gone to graveyards every one... Where have all the graveyards gone?... Covered with flowers every one. When will they ever learn?Pete Seeger
“Yeah, that’s the one.”“You know, it makes me wonder,” He pensed. (figure it out; it’s not in the dictionary.)“Where have all the chipmunks gone?”

I thought about it awhile. Our hunting trips have been barren for quite a while. It sort of reminded me of Beowulf when our hero tracks down the dragon that is about to destroy him. He comes upon a deserted castle with its cellars full of gold and treasures, taken over by the dragon when the last of its race succumbed in honorable combat. Honor was served but the race became extinct.The silent castle bore nothing but the sleeping dragon who was content with his treasures and would have remained so for eons had it not been for some fool servant who stole a bejeweled cup for his angry master. When the dragon found this bit of his treasure gone he began warring on Man, thus prompting the aging Beowulf to save his people one last time. They both won; they both lost, and monster and hero passed into mythical history.
All quests must end, and the ending too often is tragic, but some are just melancholy as in the case of the hero who outlives his need. Grendel has rid the neighborhood of cute little vermin, and he wanders his turf in search of his raison’d’etre, a pointless quest but to no avail, a Don Quixote without even a windmill to tilt at.
If there is a heroic quality in each of us it is in the pursuits of our youthful goals. The struggles, anxieties, and (if you please) the blood sweat and tears of our lives define who we are: some take on dragons, some the niches, small and large of what has to be done to create a viable society. There comes a time when you put down the sword or pass it on to a youth, full of dreams and aspirations.
I do not think Grendel is saddened by his success; he is actively vigilant, prowling on the end of a leash, searching under leaves, peering into dark crevasse, and scenting the air for opportunity. He remains diligent in spite of his barren landscape.
It is difficult to strive without adversaries, whatever form they take, but he does so not because of some learned value, but because he is hard wired to. Still, I have to admire his tenacity. He teaches by example.I dare say that whatever medals are due me from my life are all in; there will be no more. My days are filled with indulgences only dreamed of while I struggled through the decades. My chipmunks are gone. The race is won or lost; it really doesn’t matter any more. I feel like I’ve just finished a 10 k race, tired but elated from the exertion. When are we more alive then after a great effort?
At the end of a soirée we return to the house and he has a tuna or a salmon snack, (he detests chicken and other fowl) and then on to a well earned nap prefaced by a tongue washing and a good smooching from his page.
Life is good. What is sweeter than a hot bath and a well earned rest?

Grendel and Me

(September ’09) Bernie

Mug Shot

I was talking to Grendel the other day and we discussed our policy of not publishing during the dog days of summer, but as the discourse unfurled, and with the threat again of Uncle Norm abdicating, we decided to give it a doggone try. We discussed poetry, but August verse is just so much doggerel, so it’s back to prose.

So here we are with Grendel’s 11^th birthday just around the corner and mine not too far behind walking through the jungle: he with his karate black pajamas on and me in short sleeves and walking shorts. He is also wearing a Mark II Combat Harness with Seeing Eye Leash with which he drags me through the brambles. As if that weren’t enough it’s humid and the mosquitoes are starving. All you need is to have one skeeter land on you and the next twenty are imaginary, but just as troublesome.

There are stations where he prefers to sit while I stand there smacking my exposed skin while trying to pass the leash from hand to hand. He looks up at me and sighs. I’m making far too much noise for his stealthy reconnoitering.

Our walks are shorter now; he has just about driven all the vermin from our unit. He goes to the former haunts of the displaced critters and sniffs around, but here is no action, no scent. He reaches down to his shoulder in an abandoned chipmunk’s hole but only half heartedly, almost as a bit of practice. Nothing. He stares at carpets of leaves and looks for the tell-tale shifting of twigs and debris that indicates a swale trough which mice flow. Nothing.

Occasionally a ladycat (Herein I note that cats do not have a pejorative word for the female of the species) will meander by and leave a bit of pee mail which he reads voraciously and then rubs his cheeks in. It’s what you gotta do if you don’ have a thumb-drive. Once done, he sues for leave to track her and offer his comfort, but, alas, I no can do.

While we are not yet into fall, when the world in New England turns on us, and summer forsakes us for other parts of the planet, we still are in a rapidly changing stretch. Children abandon the streets and fill their classrooms, gardeners are filling their arms, and the world is awash in zucchini, though native tomatoes have taken a beating.

It’s an enjoyable period for divers, though as the water is as warm as it’s going to get for a while. Some bold tropicals who heeded not their mothers will find themselves in water that chills faster than they can flee. Who knows? They may form a tougher breed that can survive the rigors of New England like those parakeets that have evolved on the light poles of Bridgeport. The water gets a little clearer, even at Fort Wetherill and vis is almost acceptable.

And of course the closing of summer brings on elections for Innerspace Explorers. The veteran officers are seeking relief. Too long have they been holding things together. It’s time to pass the leadership on to younger members with newer ideas and boundless energy. (OK mebbe not “boundless”.) In particular we need a new editor for the newsletter. It’s not a difficult job, but it does grab a little time at the end of the month. Our presidents are repeating terms, our treasurer has never been challenged, our webmonster has been so forever, our secretary is sometimes wearing two hats, our VPs are like the will’o’the wisps in the swamp. Or is that Wills’o’the wisp? “Ve need new bloohd! Please consider stepping up. We have been relying on the kindness of the elders for too long. Stand and deliver!

Grendel and Me (June ’09) Bernie Moore

Muskrat Rumble (apologies to Edward (kid) Ory)

I was talking to Grendel the other day; it was one of the better days in the low 80s and sunny. The kind I was beginning to think would never come again, but there it was and we were out on patrol, Grendel in his red combat harness dragging me along behind when suddenly (isn’t it always “suddenly”?) he espied a muskrat walking about our lower deck as if he owned the place.
This outrage put Grendel in a dither and he launched full tilt into a frontal enfilade of cat that sent his adversary scurrying under the neighbor’s deck, where with great strength and resolve I was able to hold him back with the John line that tethered us together.
Grendel was clawing and digging and trying to bring a violent lesson to this stupid interloper. I have told you in the past that Grendel is a sweet, affectionate, even smoochey kind of a cat, but he will not abide territorial incursions into his domain. Unless of course you are a fat stupid chipmunk or a plump juicy robin. Then he will welcome you with open arms, and I point out at this time he has not been declawed.
I was able to calm him down by assuring him that no creature in his right mind would infiltrate Grendel’s kingdom. I further speculated that the poor thing must have been mad with rabies, a condition that prudence would dictate we left alone and not risk ourselves.
“Let nature take its course,” I suggested.
“RRRRoooowww,” he mumbled, then, “phhhhhtt”. Which translated loosely sounds like a megapolis in Thailand. Which translated loosely is something we can’t print here.
Well, that was the end of it until a couple of days later some of the battalion of civil ground watch auxiliary ladies spotted the miserable wretch trying to scrounge up a snack by someone else’s deck. The drums beat incessantly and the forces of our civilization were called and traps were set out, and the perp was collared.
I approached him soon after his incarceration, so soon he was still munching on his apples. Content with such a splendid cusine he covered the remaining pieces with his body and cares little about my standing by him; however I thought it would be ill advised for me to attempt to share in his bounty.
Grendel was with me and since it was the neighbor’s deck he cared little more than a few casual sniffs, and turned and tugged the Jonline toward the scent of a succulent mole trail under the leaves.
I managed to get a better look at the muskrat and discovered he was really a woodchuck (groundhog). Well, what the hey; it was not a Muskrat Rumble after all, and this tale is quite pointless. By way of making it up to you I give you: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x17zto_kid-ory-muskrat-ramble_music
If your computer has sound and video enjoy the real “Muskrat Ramble” a great American classic touch of Dixieland. Be patient it takes a while to load.
By way of further recompense and since we have a woodchuck I can give you the answer to the eternal question about woodchucks. The answer is (opening the envelope) “None”. The word “woodchuck” is corruption of the word “wuchak”, a Narragansett Indian word which stands for this silly creature.

Grendel and Me (April Fowlers ‘09)

Bernie Moore

I was talking to Grendel the other day, and he said, “The Ides of March are come.” Aye, Caesar, but not gone.” We do this little ritual every year motivated by a teasing short sleeve day that is as illusive as a will-o’-the-wisp. That first day of summer gladness is always a lie, and certainly followed by cold dank periods that plunge us back into winter’s cold embrace. But we love the lie, and so our spirits are buoyant, at least for the moment, and sometimes that’s enough.

I mentioned will-o’-the-wisp, and for some of the younger members who might be rusty on folklore I offer the following. (Grendel went to sleep under the coat I was trying to sew a patch on, so I have a few minutes on the keyboard.)

“Will-o’-the-wisp” has a perfectly logical scientific explanation that is a boring as numbers. Rather let’s turn to the northern isles of our ancestors and see through the mists of time the occurrence that haunts the night.

Ancient travelers, who passing swamps or bogs, often noticed unnatural nebulous lights in the near distance hovering just beyond clarity. Any fool who would leave the road to examine such phantasmagoric radiance in the gloaming would certainly risk getting lost or worse, disappearing altogether, but the darn thing was always just a few steps more; a fatal logic.

This fatal result of overcurious behavior (Hear that, Grendel?) led folks to speculate just what it was out there. And the story goes:

An Irish tippler, Drunk Will, having rung up a humongous pub bill was in danger of losing his hide, so he made a deal with the devil to pay the bill for the usual fare to be paid at the end of his natural life. When Old Scratch came to collect, Will tricked him into climbing a tree under which Will placed a cross keeping the Devil bound in the tree with no escape. The deal was renegotiated and Will was excused from Hell. In fact the Devil was glad to be rid of him. Obviously his wretched life disqualified him from admission to a more climatologically favorable abode and he found himself dead twixt heaven and hell for eternity. In a rare moment of compassion Ole Beelzebub did allow a small glowing coal for Will for comfort and warmth as he wandered the desolate bogs of the ancient isles and later New England. It is this glowing coal that travelers see in the misty distance and the fate that awaits those who seek things more clarified is determined by Will, not someone I would entrust my fate to. But I wander.

Getting back to the Ides, the moral is quite clear: “A warm day does not a summer make.” It’s not yet time to put away your dry suit. But if you haven’t had you life support gear refurbished yet there is still plenty of time. Run some Sink-the-stink through your BCD; check the straps on you fins; vis those bottles; see how badly that neoprene has shrunk (there’s still time to shop for a new one); clean the masks and check for cracks and suppleness (you should have a spare, anyway); Has you dive knife rusted to its sheath? Two each of: booties, gloves, fins, (&@#*&%)

While plunging back into the primordial soup is a bit premature we can still wander the earth and occasionally bask in Solas and warm our bones.

Grendel and Me
(March Gladness) March ‘09

Bernie Moore

I was talking to Grendel the other day, and the topic was the long dark nights and the relentless cold. I swear the badass of Snowowl has become rather grandfatherly in his behavior and demeanor. His major workout consists of spreading himself carefully onto a patch of sun which stealthily steals across the rug. Its refusal to stay put is an annoying source of consternation for him.
Trying to break him out of his doldrums I proffered a twitchery piece of line. (Old sailors never use the term “string”) It danced enticingly before him, just out of his grasp, and all I got was a shift of glance and disgusted look.
“Look, Boo,” (A sometimes variant of his many nicknames.) as I dangled and danced the line before him.
“Mummph,” he replied as he settled his chin on the carpet raising a little tuft of dust. (Reminder: I gotta vacuum that carpet.)
He closed one eye, keeping one on me just in case I had some other mischief in mind. But soon that eye started to get heavy about the time the rest of him realized that the sun had moved on. This was a classic approach/avoidance conflict, and with a smirk I awaited his resolution..
On the one hand he wanted to be warmer so he could sleep with less effort expended. (Approach) But that meant he actually had to lift his dormant carcass and take two or three steps. (Avoidance)
So there we both were stretched out on the rug, vying for position in the sun when I started to think about what a desperate long winter this has been. January was colder than in years and that was matched with an incredible dump of snow. The only relief February gave us was brevity. My usual “spitting in the wind” gestures were excised; I fear age helped me make the decisions not to do the “Frozen Fin” or the “Ice Dive”. I promise myself to be stronger…soon.
Saturday is the sub mediocre Boston Scuba show with which Gerry and I will attempt to alleviate our cabins fever Don’t correct that, Norm- it’s ok. Later on the 14th of March, a day short of the ides, Eric is having the get- reacquainted-with your-gear session at his home- indoor pool there. This beats the hell out of Fort Wetherill (37) and New London (40). National Oceanic Data Center (NODC)
It feels good just to have gear in hand, even if you have to face the agony of trying on the shrunken wet suit after a lazy winter.(I can prove I’m getting younger by the baby fat I’ve girthed myself with over the winter.) Plenty of time to leisurely test (‘sblood! did that infinitive get split.) each piece of gear and take the critical stuff into the shop for the annual renewal. I’m guessing Eric and Rick can do a lot of that if you want the “professional” touch. To a certain young lady: “Get those regs serviced before I strangle you with them.”
For me it’s time to compete with Grendel for rug space so I can crawl around with my UW DSLR and take macro shots of the thingies the rug has captured over the winter. For myself I have decided to squeeze another year out of my trick knee; been pushing it in the Y pool regularly and hope the conditioning rejuvenates me enough to be a safer diver. As an early riser I leave you with the observation that at the sixes the sky has a gray stain. Helios is returning. Grendel would say good-bye but he’s…busy.

GRENDEL AND ME (January '09)

Bernie Moore

Zzzzzz...

I was talking to Grendel the other day, and he expressed disappointment that we have not dragged in a Christmas tree to watch in its final throes of decay and degradation.

“Boss,” he said, “I really miss the glitz of the tree.” Even though I’m basically colorblind, I do like the twinkling and sparkling. Reminds me of the gleam of a mousie’s eye trembling in a corner.”

“Your talking through your hat,” I replied, “There has never been a mouse in this house.”

“Just doing my job,” he smirked. He had me there. I know he’s active at night, else why does he sleep all day? Still, I’ve never seen any spare mouse parts rotting about.

“Not a creature was stirring, not even…you get the drift?” Continuing his smugness.

“Yes, yes, but still no tree. It’s too much work. Especially vacuuming broken ornaments under the tree.”

“Boss, I have no idea how that happens.”

How a cat can lie with a straight face!

By now his eyes were drooping and soon he was fast asleep, ass over teakettle.

Well there I was, thinking about Christmas and not all too happy about not being able to find the box of Christmas cards I bought to house the gift cards I dispatch every year, because I am one of the world’s worst gift selectors. You know the cards with scenes of Past Christmases that not one of us has ever known. Sleighs and fireplaces and ten room houses on no less than ten acres reminiscent of the time Sears and Roebuck and Industrialism and that bastard Dickens conspired to convert Christ’s birthday into the centerpiece of the gross national product.

My wife is frustrated about gifting me, as the scuba gear I have is carefully selected and then reselected as safety advances through our product inventory. The chances of her hitting on the perfect gift are remote. So I guess it is among many of us; if you’re not a diver, it’s hard to buy for a diver. So I guess it is with skydivers. Used chute; plenty of jumps left in this old baby. Opening bid $1. Of course there is the old
give me a list option, but I have always balked at that. There have been a few surprise gifts in my lifetime where someone got me what I didn’t even know I wanted. The sheer delight of someone else getting ahead of me in my own mind

is a rare and delicious experience. And even more so when you can pull it off on someone else.

Rare.

So rare. Like having a French Angelfish swim into your focal plane just as you snap the shutter leaving you with a full frame, sharp, head on portrait. Like finding a massive cancellation on a luxury dive cruise leaves you and three others the sole divers on a weeklong voyage. Like finding a dozen twenties in you dive bag, left over from the last trip.

But the days are getting shorter. And darkness is creeping up inexorably, and I fear it will overwhelm us and drive us into oblivion where we will perish and stiffen for all the ages. This is serious business. We must bring back the light. So let us light fires, and candles, and lights, and dance and sing through the darkness. Make revelry and hope we are amusing enough to please the powers of darkness, so that we may be kept around for another season, another year.

Do not go gentle into that good night…

Rage, rage against the dying light

Thomas

And the triviality of gifts will pale to the joy of longer days and the promise of warmth. If there is one thing that New Englanders are, we’re long on optimism. The darkest day is temporary and only lasts but a single night. This piece is being clicked out on the eve of that day with the full knowledge that things will get better the day after tomorrow. With a foot of snow on the ground and another promised for tomorrow I am going to lug the golf clubs in for cleaning, have my regs serviced, check the hoses, the bladder on my BCD, change the battery in the dive computer, check the bottles for vis dates, so I’ll be ready when the first opportunity shows itself, and hope the wetsuit doesn’t shrink too much over the winter. Somehow a piece of dive gear in the hand in January is comforting; the offices of husbandry reassuring.

I have again sworn off going to Boston Sea Rovers and Beneath the Sea, but I know I will yield and head for them when the bell rings. Got to see the shiny new gear, the old faces, and the pics and videos that fuel the appetite, and make an appointment or two to paradise. With a little luck the air fares may go down.

Ah, that man’s reach should exceed his grasp,

Else what’s a heaven for.

Browning

Grendel and Me (October/November '08)

Bernie

Pink is not my color

I was talking to Grendel the other day; it was on the occasion of his finally forgiving me for sending him to “kitty camp” during my annual west coast tour. I made it abundantly clear how glad I was to see him again, as I genuinely did miss him a lot. Pets that rehabitate empty nests can do that to you.
“Boss,” he said, “you call it “kitty camp” (cute) or, boarding but the fact of the matter is I was in a cage like a common dog, and I might add in the company of common dogs. You know how they always bark! And when they are not barking they whimper and whine. I can do the time, Boss, but those pesky pooches, smaller than me, are disgusting.
With much smooching and stroking he was pacified, and I was happy to be with him again. Our reunion was gratifying to say the least.
I have often heard that coming home is often the best part of a trip and I will not quarrel with that; I have thought it too many times myself. This year coming home was more than that cozy feeling you get when exhausted you plop again into your own bed.
This year I returned to my high school’s 50-year reunion. Few things can bore a spouse more than such an affair. Few events will get better spousal attention than a class reunion. High school reunions are full of former sweethearts, and that, dear reader, is why spouses so seldom miss them. (50 years)
That aside there was the shock of non-recognition. The astonishment of seeing faces, that in memory are as clear as any photograph, so changed they seemed strangers. Perhaps it was the look of astonishment on their faces that threw me off.
Things went well, and we reminisced about our adventures especially about fleeing and outwitting the cops, though I might add, if caught, the consequence would have been little more than a good scolding and a threat to call our parents which in itself was enough calm our lust for illicit adventures.
I miss them already, or rather I miss who they were: young and without the burden of the years, as we vainly tried to pretend we still were who we then were.
Our Christmas party is coming up in a couple of weeks. It is our annual reunion, and even on an annual tick there will be changes of loss. Whether from health or circumstance, faces will fade into the past. A job moves one of us away, a bad foot, an ear problem, or just the stubbornness of piling up too many years. Which is why I put such urgency into my 1st Annual Birthday Dive. Whatever else this nasty winter will bring, it, cannot stop me from having dived into my 70s, albeit by only a handful of hours. Thank you Kevin and Linsley and Julie. Your being there meant so much to me.
I had better swerve away from this melancholia; it is not fitting in the darkest hour of our year to dwell on what the festivities are designed to comfort us against. We will gather to reassure ourselves that spring will come and summer and the light and warmth under which we thrive.
Assemble us in the warmth of each other’s company and celebrate the coming of the light. Laughter and libations lighten the libido. (sorry) Let the trek to summer begin. Be of good cheer. Rotate your tires. Change the batteries in…