Monday, February 23, 2015

Sweltering Pants




















  For those few folks who follow this blog, as you know, I've not been very busy posting here lately. Sorry about that. I can't really explain it, I just haven't felt like writing. I don't know if it's depression setting in or what, but I just haven't had the energy or the desire. Hopefully that will be a passing phase. I was kind of keeping up on one blog periodically,but last time I checked it, it simply said, So Long. I guess the fellow who was writing it just didn't want to do it any more. It does take some effort. In any event, if I should ever decide to give up this blog, I'll try to give the readers a little notice so it won't be like going cold turkey, like when you're giving up smoking or something.
  Today I wanted to write about a piece of clothing that has been around for a number of years; what is commonly known in America as sweatpants. In England, New Zealand, and South Africa they're known as track bottoms. In Australia they're called tracky daks, not to be confused with our 37th president,Richard Nixon who was also known as Tricky Dick for some of the shenanigans he pulled while in office. Of course now, by comparison to our present man in office, he looks like a saint. Anyway, all that aside, I don't like the name "sweatpants". It conjures up images of some kind of medieval torture device. "So... you still won't talk eh? Well, we'll see about that! Igor! Throw this man into a pair of sweat pants until he spills his guts!" Actually, because of their loose design, they shed heat better than say, a pair of Levi's.If that's the case though, why are they called sweatpants?Don't you sweat in them?I have to say, even though they have become quite a popular item of clothing, I hate to see them worn out in public as an item of everyday dress. For one thing, they are very baggy in the legs giving the appearance of wearing a pair of potato sacks. Plus they offer no support whatsoever. There are several men in town who wear them on a regular basis, but I question whether they wear anything underneath. They are much more revealing than I want to see. If you're going to wear sweatpants outside of the home, at least put on a jock strap. It's kind of hard to have a serious conversation when one of the speakers is wearing a pair of sweatpants. Perhaps that's why most corporate offices require a little more formal attire for work. It would be kind of hard to pay attention to the speaker at a conference if he was dressed in a pair of tracky daks, with the goods swinging back and forth like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. Just for the record, I also am against the all too common and increasingly acceptable habit of wearing pajamas in public places. YUCK!  I was just sitting here thinking about what would happen if the good folks at Russel Athletics or some of the other makers of sweatpants teamed up with say, the people of Owens -Corning, the fiberglass
insulation manufacturers to come up with a special pair of sweatpants for folks who think that sweat pants are acceptable attire in public. They could market them as Itchies. At the very least it would be mildly entertaining to watch folks scratching themselves madly.  For years, from the time I was a teen-ager until just a few years ago, I slept in my underwear. I hated to be confined by pajamas. But lately I've been getting cold at night- part of the problem with getting older, probably poor circulation in my legs. Anyway, I've taken to wearing sweatpants at night. They are comfortable, and they do keep me warmer, but I still hate the name. They sound so crude. As a result, I call mine Sweltering Pants. It still conjures up images of hot, perspiration soaked clothing, but I like the name better. In the future though, I may refer to them as Tracky Daks, or Nixons for short.












Sunday, February 8, 2015

A Little Talk With God


   In my bedroom I have a picture that I've had for a number of years, ever since my days when I was was managing L. Kane Store. I first ran across it on the cover of a Guidepost magazine. I can't remember the title. The  caption says, in case you can't read it- Thou shalt guide me with thy counsel and afterward receive me to glory. I love this picture and the scripture that goes with it. My problem is that I've become used to seeing it there hanging on the wall every day. I don't pay much attention to it or the scripture anymore, which is of course, not a good thing. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a tendency to see the negative in almost any situation. I complain a lot. I'm very much a pessimist. I wish I wasn't. It's not a fun way to be. I can take a perfectly good day that someone else may be having and turn it into an unpleasant experience. By the time they get done talking to me they're going to wish they'd stayed in bed. I've been on a roll lately. I'm exceptionally distressed by the direction that the country seems to be heading. I feel like we are without leadership in a complex and increasingly dangerous world. Add to that the more immediate problems facing the state with low oil prices, interference from the federal government involving state resources, and policies from the supreme court involving native sovereignty as well as the local politics that impact those of us in Hoonah, and I've got a full blown mad-on. My son happened to call yesterday. I  hadn't spoken to him for several weeks and unfortunately I spent the majority of the conversation complaining about how crappy things were in this country. I'm certain he was happy to get off the phone just to get away from all the negative garbage I was spewing. Hell, I wanted to get away from me. As has been my habit this winter, after I go to bed I spend some time with a book before I turn off the lights. When I finally finished reading, I turned to shut off the light and glanced at the picture on the wall. I figured I had blown it so bad that any prayer I might offer would seem insincere and perhaps not even be received. I can't recall the exact thing I said to God, but something to the effect that perhaps I wasn't worthy of the sacrifice that Christ had made for me. Immediately, I heard Jesus tell me, "you were worth it to me." That is sobering. It tells me that no one is beyond redemption. God knew long before I was ever even born how I would be, and because he knew, and because of his great love, he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. We have great worth to God. He may have been speaking to me last night, but the message is for everyone. You are worth the price he paid for you.  You are precious and you are loved. There is little else that I can say. I hope that in the coming days when we feel overwhelmed by events, or our actions are less than stellar, when our attitudes leave much to be desired that we will remember that even with all of our faults, God felt like we were worth the sacrifice he had to make.

Monday, February 2, 2015

Out at the Cannery




















  For most of the month of January we had rain. In my almost thirty eight years here, I've never experienced such a winter as this. Frankly, I was delighted that it was rain instead of snow, but honestly, waking up every day to the sound of pounding rain and the gloomy skies overhead was getting pretty consarned depressing. Yesterday the day dawned bright and sunny, and although much cooler than it had been, it was a welcome reprieve. After church I had almost no choice but to go on a walk out to the cannery. I took Jen and the dog with me. Usually Rigby likes to walk into the woods and sniff all the different smells. Jennifer on the other hand, never stops to smell the tracks on the ground. I'm kind of glad.Yesterday though, he was reluctant to get too far into the walk. He took a dump early on and, feeling that he had done his duty, started turning around trying to get back to the truck. We kept pulling him against his will to keep going forward. He would run ten or twelve steps and then make a 180 degree turn and start pulling with all his might in order to force his will upon us. It was a real battle of wills. He somehow reached deep into his reserves and took another crap, and at that point there was no way he was going to go anywhere but back to the truck.When he plants his legs apart and lowers his head, you almost need a come-a-long to get him to move. I suppose I could have taken off his leash and let him run for home, but his little black body, in stark contrast to the sparse snow we have,would have been like a dinner bell for any eagles perched  in the overhanging trees. While it was certainly a temptation at that moment, I was sure that later I would regret my decision. Plus, what would we do with the remaining dog food and rawhide treats that were at the house if he weren't there to imbibe?  I suppose I could adjust my diet a little, but the idea wasn't overly appealing. I ended up  taking him home and coming back out by myself. Much less stressful.
 While it was very beautiful out, as I've mentioned in past blogs, on sunny days here, frequently the wind kicks up. Yesterday was no exception. There was a pretty good northwesterly blowing. Inside the woods it was almost unnoticeable, but out in the clearing it was brutal. Even so, there were two very brave or very stupid souls who launched their kayaks and were paddling against the wind in the bay. I'm not sure what possesses people to carry out such acts, but perhaps its a case of cabin fever. Being stuck inside for weeks at a time, only leaving for work or groceries can really play havoc with your mind. You look out the window and see sun, and you immediately think, it must be warm out. It looks so inviting. It's only after you've exposed your body to elements that would make Nanook of the North shiver that you realize that looks are deceiving.  Nonetheless, I enjoyed my little jaunt yesterday, and even made it back home in time to watch the super bowl. I'm not much of a sports fan, but I don't really care for the way Tom Brady acts- too pompous for me, so naturally I'm rooting for the Seahawks. Of course you know the outcome. Go figure.