Grendel & Me 2/10

GRENDEL AND ME (2/10)

 

Accepting the honor of Diver of the Year Grendel uses his cheek glands to scent his trophy.  

I was talking to Grendel the other day upon presenting him with the sterling and crystal love cup for “Diverse of the Year”, and I must confess that he was as diverse as any recipient that has ever been so awarded. I knew it would be as helpless to explain why we give awards like this to each other as it would be to explain to Gulliver why Lilliputians gave each other bits of colored string for athletic prowess. However, he has never been an ingrate, so he accepted the empty bowl with grace.

By now you already know his reaction, so I might take a moment to reflect on why last month was devoid of any articles of our antics.

As you know I elected to get a gnu gnee, a decision fraught with the confidence that it was a minor gnuisance quickly dispatched without breaking stride. As you might have observed at the January meeting it was none of the above. It was, in fact still is, a lot more than expected. You’ve all heard the nurse say, “You may feel a little pinch.” Yeah, right.

Thus I thought I might recall some of the process for you, should you have to make a similar decision. At some point in the narrative drugs were introduced, but I assure you my observations are astute and as real as anything I have heretofore narrated in this Chautauqua previously.

Let’s begin this in the shower at 0400 where I scrub myself with some vile pink liquid soap that smells of unburied death, and follow it up with a drive to a hospital affiliated with a university to remain unnamed. For company there was my driver/wife who is not keen on being subjected to other living things at this hour. She was as quiet as a cobra and just as venomous. I was as quiet as a mouse for a different reason.

My next memory is of being in some kind of tent with cloth walls and women swarming around me mostly looking for places to stick needles. See, “You may feel a little pinch” above. The one that sticks in mind was trying to stuff a knitting needle sized hypodermic into a vein she suspected was just under the skin. She kept poking at it and I swear the little thing was squirming under the dermis trying to avoid being skewered like a barbecued sausage.

But, alas, she finally lanced it, and before she could do anything, it shook itself loose and started hemorrhage subcutaneously until a large spot appeared just below the skin looking a lot like the continent of Australia. Upon closer examination my eyes gaped at a perfect rendition of Mary mother of… I postponed any mention of this earlier, as I feared some overzealous Ebayer might have designs on a quick profit at my expense whereupon I could loose some skin or worse a treasured appendage.

“Gee”, sayeth the phlebotomist or hippopotamus or whatever she was, “I’ll have to find another vein.”

“Nay, quoth I, “You’ll have to find another nurse. Don’t touch me again.” A brave stand I thought at the time.

Meanwhile, another hippopotamus managed to secure another vein on my other arm and I started to feel a little woozy, a loss of blood thought or maybe I’ve been slipped a mickey and started to worry about waking on a slow freighter bound for Shanghi.

This fear of being Shanghied was reinforced by the feeling of traveling feet first, like a luge, until I struggled toward the light only to find myself in a room crowded with hitech equipment and a bunch of terrorists dressed in light green robes and masks and head gear. They stood around with their gloved hands perched up like waiting vultures. I remember being tied down with my arms straight out like I was on a cross. This isn’t going well was my final thought, as I sank rapidly into a twisting vortex.

Well, all’s well that ends well, as my next observation was of my rescuers hustling me into a hospital room, but that’s another story.

Meanwhile Grendel walked across a warm sunbeam and collapsed on the rug for an instant snooze as I might think some readers have done by now.

GRENDEL AND ME (1109)
Bernie Moore

I hate cute kits.

I was talking to Grendel the other day. We were on a recon patrol and he chanced upon a delicious pheromone enhanced bush. He sampled it rapturously with his mouth open (cats have a “Jacobson’s organ” in the roof of their mouths specially designed for such information. I may have incorrectly referred to it as a “Cooper’s gland in a previous post.) He stood frozen for a while as the delights of the encounter enveloped him.

“Boss, you ought to smell this pXXXX.”

Hereupon I had to correct his political.

“You can’t use that word in polite company.”

“You’re polite company?”

“Irrelevant” You know this conversation may be recorded for quality control and customer service.”

“You humans abuse language. Why can’t you just say what you mean? “

“Because there are some who say what is acceptable and what is not.

“Another thing,” quoth he, “You humans use language to hurt each other. Why, if you want to hurt somebody, not just wrack their faces with your claws?”

At which point he looked at my recently manicured (self) fingernails and sighed, “Never mind. Still, we use language to warn others so they don’t get hurt. If they don’t heed the warning then the consequence is on them. And we also use musical language to serenade our… now what am I supposed to say here?”

“Well, I have heard that humans that run dating services for amorous felines call the ladies Queens.”

“Queens? That’s rich. Especially when you consider what those pimps call female dogs.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” I replied sternly, pulling his leash away from the bush as he fell into a funk of brooding silence.

But it got me thinking about odors; and especially the ones of fall. There was a faint scent of crushed dried leaves about which stirred memories of long ago autumnal rituals. The sounds and smells of another era.

When fall meant falling leaves and the sound of the rakes that herded them to the side of the road where we burned them. Sometimes we created mountainous ranges the length of our property and started the fire on one end and coaxed it to the other with the rake. For safety, there was the garden hose, rubber of course, and no recollection of ensuing disasters. Let’s face it; fire is fun, and we loved the rituals that nurtured it to our own ends.

Sometimes the burning leaves had a pissy smell to them, but I don’t remember whether it was while they were burning or just rotting.

Sometimes in early the morning stillness I could smell the labors of a distant raker, way out of earshot, but within range of the drifting currents of air.

Today it’s quite a different story. The smells come from the roaring exhausts of powerful internal combustion engines mounted on the backs of hardy young men blowing leaves at hurricane force. When all the leaves have been herded streetside a behemoth juggernaut lumbers up the street wailing like thousand Banshees, sucking up everything into a two foot maw.

The days of sitting on front porches in the evening watching the neighbors go by is so archaic we don’t have front porches any more; besides the neighbors go by so fast you can only recognize the vehicle not the people in it.

Though much is gained; much is lost. I wouldn’t mind a fall’s afternoon scraping leaves into a pile and the ceremony of burning. Though Grendel’s sense of smell is 14 times greater than mine I don’t think he gains that much. Besides he will never know the scent of a reef. Life has its compensations, eh, Teddy?

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.