Yesterday The Boundary Waters Catalog, 2012 Spring & Summer Edition (Piragis Northwords Co., Ely, MN), arrived. This morning there was an unsolicited email in the inbox from ReserveAmerica, which is the private contractor used by the National Forest Service to process applications for entry permits for the BWCAW/Superior National Forest.

BAM! I suspect my response was akin to that of a hard-core gardener and the arrival of that first seed catalog of the season and, in particular, if that would be the Jung seed catalog.

I was inclined to dig out a sierra cup, brew up a fresh pot of coffee, and sit right down to page through the catalog. I made due with a regular kitchen mug. (I did not want to create a stir with the spouse--attempting to explain the unexplainable--unless one has also been there.) I am not sure what it is with thwart bags and solo canoes, but I found myself lingering over the descriptions, the dimensions (8" x 16" x 3"), and weights (49 lb. in Royalex and 43 lb. Tuf. Flex).

I often wonder if there will be another canoe camping trip in my future. There will not be one this year. Maybe I should bring the AlumaCraft out of its longterm storage place in a back corner of the yard next to the compost pile of yard waste. I could clean off the grim that has accumulated over the past two winters (It has spent last two summers "on the bench" as well.), in anticipation of a daytime paddle on Chequamegon Bay during the upcoming summer months. I am thinking that just being prepared for such a possibility would refreshen the memories from previous trips. Those will have to do for now.

It may not yet be the tourist season, but the bear season appears to be upon us.

During my walk early this morning, I came across the dumpster next to the Headstart building tipped over and its contents strewn about. I am glad the culprit finished his rummaging before 6:00AM, so that I didn't have the occasion to interrupt his/her early breakfast. When I returned home, I removed the suet feeder, which had hung off the deck the past 4 or 5 months. In past years it has provided a late night snack for a bear. In recent years, our garbage cans have been kept in a small storage shed without incident. When they were kept outside, I found myself with the unwelcome task of picking up garbage before leaving for work--a task worth avoiding. Our next door neighbor has a dumpster, which continues to be raided on occasion in season. The most inconvenient part of these incidents is when the raiders decide to bring the goodies into our yard. They apparently prefer to picnic under the pine trees rather than enjoy their pickings sitting next to a smelly dumpster.

Is there a message in this post? There most certainly is. Don't smell like garbage and don't linger a long time in any one place. That probably is good advice for all of us any time of the year and in any number of circumstances.

After being out of town for a few of days over the weekend, we came home to a mixed bag of weather. Daytime temperatures are more normal, read: "colder," yet the bay is ice-free. The water has taken on a blue color so characteristic of summer, but I suspect that is due to the full sunlight of a rather cloudless sky than seasonal. There is also more green to the lawn, but a long way--I hope--from lawnmower length. The only moisture in the forecast is rain with the possibility of freezing rain. I have yet to put the snowblower into its summer storage location and to remove the lawnmower from its winter storage location. The weather forecast is not the basis for this decision. It is just that I am not so sure I am done with the former and soon to be in need of the latter.

Before leaving on our short trip out of town, I learned there are limits to the flexibility of the car antenna. The garage door decided to close part way as I was backing in and caught the antenna. The antenna was separated from its base. The repair involved a new base. Thanks to the internet, I was able to find detailed instructions on the removal of the interior dome light to access the screw, which secures the antenna base to the vehicle. The task went so smoothly this morning, that I took the time to vacuum the floor mats, which had managed to gather a visible sum of sand in our modest travels. What did I learn from that? Sometimes going to church is an untidy matter.

I did something today that I am quite certain I never did during any previous month of March; I raked much of the yard. Even the sole remaining snowbank at the end of the driveway gave way to the rake. It was the consistency of grits. (That imagery is out of deference to the recent southern primaries.) There have been years when Memorial Day weekend has found me dealing with the last of a snowbank in that particular location.

The temperature this afternoon is 75 degrees; there are three days of rain forecast for this coming week with temperatures in the 60's. I figured it was time to tend to the raking chore. The grass is greening up in places; dandelions are a lovely green in time for St. Patrick's Day; the irises and mystery lilies also show new growth. Raking after things have had a chance for break-out spring growth is more difficult and damaging.

The gutter and downspout was also cleaned. It is somewhat unusual for me to do that chore on a sunny day. I usually do it in the rain when the downspout is plugged and the gutter is running over.

I found four tennis balls in the yard left behind by Roxie, the neighborhood dog, who cruises the neighborhood looking for a "thrower" so that she can be a "retriever." I am convinced that she monitors the neighborhood for the sound of a lawnmower or a snowblower, in addition to simply being on the lookout for someone performing the silent version of these tasks. (She must be into March Madness, because she made no appearance this afternoon.) Roxie always brings her own ball or stick or quickly scarfs up something that will do. At times, her choices are clearly inadequate. On those occasions, I find a wood scrap that works. Now, I have four tennis balls with the winter grim washed off ready to go. I can't figure out how Roxie decides whether to leave the ball or stick behind or to take them with her, when I call it quits and she heads on down the street. There are times, when I have outlasted her, but those have been few. Yes, the city does have a leash law. Am I exposing myself to a charge of contributing to the delinquency of a dog by my participation in this behavior? If I should make the "News of the Weird," when the local "Court News" reports on my day in court as I defend myself in the face of such charges, I will report on the event in this blog. Do you think I will get house arrest to prevent me from going outside to play with Roxie should she be cruising the neighborhood for a partner?

As on most days, rumination results in more questions than answers.

I recently finished reading Walter Isaacson's biography of Benjamin Franklin. Once again I was made aware of how far different the historical facts can be from the popular contemporary self-serving narratives that are put forward by those claiming some sort of historical mantle for their particular stances. In my estimation, a good biography must provide sufficient historical context so that the life being recounted can be reasonably understood as either a product of his/her time, or as a visionary ahead of his/her time, or a mix of both.

Ben Franklin never married. At age 24, he entered into a lifelong relationship with Deborah Read which lasted until her death some 40 years later. She bore him two children, only one of whom survived to adulthood. She also cared for Franklin's illegitimate son from another relationship, who was born shortly before they began to live together. The author speculated that the reason for not marrying was to avoid a possible charge of bigamy on Ms. Read's part. She had been married previously; her husband abandoned her. If she would have married Franklin only to have her husband return, she would have exposed herself to a charge of bigamy, which would potentially have had serious legal consequences--lashes and imprisonment. A curious distinction was therefore made, which was met with apparent acceptance or at least tolerance by the community and the couple's business and political associates.

Most folks will acknowledge that many of the actors in 18th century US history were Deists in addition to Christians representing a variety of denominations. Deists can hardly be considered Christians, if belief in the divinity of Christ is an essential criteria for being identified as Christian. So if Deists played such a central role in this country's formation, does not the claim to the title of a Christian nation ring false? Someone suggested that a minister be retained to give an invocation or prayer at the start of each session of the Continental Congress. The majority in attendance rejected the idea feeling that it might give the wrong message to the larger public or that it held little promise that it would improve the caliber of the discourse or move forward the business at hand.

By the way, Franklin's illegitimate son became the governor of New Jersey prior to the Revolutionary War, and the older of his two illegitimate grandsons had a career as a Philadelphia printer and publisher prior to his untimely death in his late 20's.

I suspect that if we read more history and were genuinely open to its content, we would be much more tolerant of our contemporaries.

Despite several days of musings and a very deliberate effort to make sense of the whatever, yesterday's post in the reread presents evidence of the need for either some additional sleep-on-it time or a talented copy editor. I tried to make a distinction where there appears to be no basis for such a distinction in the original. That leaves me with "all is pretty much the same thing"--dreams, promises, lies, and shards of broken dreams. Where does that leave me? I am left with the realization that what at any given time seems like "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth" may be little more than today's overwhelmingly cloudy intellectual and emotional state of my internal affairs.

What time is it? Time to put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. Repeat as needed.

Retirement is a lot like moving. One can find himself going through a collection of things, which simply accumulated over a period of time and, which reflected little or no conscious decision to be preserved. I found that I collected a bunch of stuff--newspaper articles (In today's world, these were often printed copies of articles from newspapers or journals read on-line, rather than clippings as in the old days.), feeble attempts to organize my thoughts on some pertinent topic of the day by putting them on paper, and handwritten musings, which must have struck me as meaningful at the time. In recent days, I was going through stuff that had been boxed up for the move from the office to home. My intent was to throw out the unwanted and to repack the remaining and thereby arrive at a place with less volume and a more tidy packaging of that which remained.

I found the following written on a post-it note.

DREAMS ARE SIMPLY PROMISES MADE TO ONESELF. 

I DIDN'T KNOW THIS, WHEN I WAS IN MY 20'S.

Connected in some way were these words also on the same note:

AT MY AGE--SOMETIMES--ALL I HAVE TO LIVE ON

SEEMS TO BE LIES

AND THAT BEATS THE HELL OUT OF THE SHARDS OF

DREAMS AND PROMISES.

In the several days since finding and rereading these words, I find myself often reflecting on then trying to recall where I may have been when they came to mind and seemed so pertinent. The note is dated May 5, 2011; the date does not provide any helpful hint.  In my reflection, I often find my thoughts travelling on a route, which becomes increasingly melancholy. I suspect it is a condition that is associated with age and an activity, which can be described as musing.  

If dreams are promises made to oneself, then each of us is responsible for making those dreams/promises come true. If life has taught me anything, it is that the really good stuff doesn't just happen. Where do the lies comes from? From broken dreams/false promises? These could be those instances where I didn't make the necessary effort to see the dream through to fruition, or where I made promises with little intent to follow through, or where I fully expected someone else to do the hard work of making my dreams come true or of keeping my promises.

What are the respective roles for dreams and promises in the seventh decade of life and beyond? Maybe I need to travel further down that melancholy road and trust that the path will open up into a certain brightness.

We met with the tax preparer this afternoon to sign the necessary form and to write the check for the cost of the man's services so that our income taxes can be filed electronically. As usual the standard deduction works for us. I guess that means we are living below our means or that our means are low. If that is the case, why does the hard copy of our tax return (federal and state) total 41 pages? For me, that is reason enough to pay someone to do this job for me. My primary reason is peace of mind. Still it is only one tenth the length of Mitt Romney's tax return. My income does not have the same 1:10 ratio when compared to Mr. Romney's. Do you think that if he were to become president, he would make that happen. I probably ought to stifle my cynicism. I could afford a couple of  '57 Cadillacs for my wife to drive. There would be little advantage to leaving one at our second home, because someone else still owns the place. She could park one on one side of the street and the other on the opposite side of the street. Her choice of car in a given situation would depend upon which direction she intended to go upon leaving the house. Should these cars be the same, contrasting, or complimentary colors? What about vanity license plates? There is also the multiple car discount to be considered when pricing insurance. The entire matter may add another 10 pages to my next tax return.