My father and sister took the green fiberglass canoe; Porter, Nico and I the battered aluminum one.  The plan was to paddle and float 18 miles down the Delaware River from Buckingham access to Calicoon – or failing that, to quit at Hankins after 12 miles.  It was a gorgeous day and the river was high.  It was the day after the 4^th of July, but the river was running like it was early May.  A bald eagle flew low up along the river as we unloaded the canoes.  It was a misleadingly happy omen for a trip that was going to end in disaster.

The river wends among steep forested ridges.  Cedar waxwings flitted across from both shores.  Kingbirds and cliff swallows swept in after the flies and gnats.  Kingfishers clattered along in the treetops.  A young black bear casually watched us approach before lumbering off into the goldenrod and knotweed.  More eagles cruised above our heads along the river.  Greenly iridescent tree swallows and their gray, clumsy offspring skimmed the rippling river.  A hanging stream poured over the side of a ridge top and cascaded noisily down the gray cliff faces.

We picnicked upon some riverside rocks, and the boys climbed among the roots of pine trees exposed by erosion.

Normally, canoeing the river in July you have to be careful to avoid the rocks, but on this day we struck right for the roughest water because the current would carry us smoothly over rocks to the rapids beyond.  Porter grew more comfortable in the front, paddling and napping.  Nico watched mergansers and eagles and geese with my old Minolta binoculars.

It was the rapids just up from Hankins that did us in, though.  The deeper, right side of the river showed whitewater that was visible from two hundred yards, but we’d begun to take the river lightly.  The three adults didn’t even fasten on their life vests, a stupidity that could have cost a life or two.  The boys and I were a hundred feet behind Dad and Chris.  I watched as they plunged into one of the great pothole rapids and were completely upended, pitching sideways into the foam.  By the time I could see that there were two of them still clinging, sputtering to their capsized craft, Porter was yelling from the bow to stay to the right, and I had to focus on getting ourselves through the crashing water.  They were ahead, riding the rapids as best they could feet first, each with one hand on the canoe and the other still clutching their paddles.  In a long stretch of rapids, we caught up to them and they grabbed the gunwale of our canoe. 

I tried maneuvering us over to the shoreline, but with Chris and the upended canoe on my left side I couldn’t get any purchase with my stroke.  I yelled at them to let go of the green canoe, because I could feel the strength of the pull it exerted on us.  Chris did, but Dad either wouldn’t or couldn’t let it go.  He’d untangled is foot from where it had been trapped under the seat, but he was sinking in his jeans and heavy boots.  Then the swamped canoe was pulled back into the whitewater with Dad along with it.  As his grip broke on our craft our bow ground upon a large rock and our stern was whipped around into the full current.  

Now going swiftly backwards through the rapids I had lost sight of Dad, but saw the green canoe ahead of us.  Gunwales-first, it struck a rock and broke upon it, folding like cardboard with a tearing, crunching creak.  Our own canoe struck as well and was wrenched broadside.  As the canoe tipped I yelled at the boys, “We’re going into the water!”  I was spilled out into the chest deep water expecting the canoe to pivot and take us all with it, but we’d struck dead center and the current pinned it fast – pressing me against it as well.  Nico yelled, “The food bag!” as it was taken away.  Porter clung for a moment, but was swept under the submerged bow.  He bobbed up below in the rapids.   (He told me later, “I felt panic for a second.  But then I thought I’d better not.”) Then Nico was clinging to the uppermost gunwale and looking at me questioningly.  I told him to hang on tight.  Porter had a lifejacket, looked unharmed and could take care of himself.  I could see Dad making his way to shore in the large eddy that formed beyond these last rocks.  Chris had made it to shore upstream.

I told Nico to work his way over to me.  I thought that if I moved the canoe would shift.   He did, but stopped to say his leg was tangled with the stuff still tied in the struts.  And I had time to feel fear for the first time amid the chaos.  I told him to take his time and get untangled and he calmly did.  The canoe buckled, but the keel held creaking against the torrent.  My lifejacket for some reason was still there at hand and I buckled it on.  Dad and Porter both made it to shore.  Porter had even rescued the food bag.  Chris worked her way down to us.  There was only a 15-foot channel between us and the shore, but too much of the current shot through it.  

Despite having lost her shoes, Chris bravely launched across and got to the eddy that the stranded canoes were forming alongside our boulder.  She strapped on the last two flotation devices and Nico worked his way back along to her.  Finally he began to cry.  The two of them let the current take them away, bobbing like corks. (He said later to Chris, “You know I didn’t cry because I was sad.  I was crying from terror.”) 

Another pair of canoeist rode the rapids, choosing the shallower left side, but were swamped as well.  Laughing in relief, the two men swam off after their capsized canoe out in the calmer currents below.

When I moved, I found that I needn’t have worried about the canoe pivoting off the rock.  It was pinned in place by thousands of pounds of force.  I heaved at it as best I could, but failed to budge it.  Kayakers and canoeists from Hankin’s campground had taken notice and come up the shore to help out.  3 men actually launched themselves through the channel to help me shift the craft off the rock.  One was nearly swept away, but I managed to catch his arm and pull him in.  It took the four of us about ten minutes of struggle to get it free. 

We finally walked the canoes down to where the others were waiting.  Nico was shivering. Dad was standing feeling nearly drowned and deathly serious.  Porter was shirtless and hatless and apparently unfazed, though he said he wasn’t going to do any more river canoeing.  The green canoe was torn stem to stern.  The metal canoe was buckled but useable. Both Nico and I laughed to find our hats still on our heads after all that. 

Later, when we’d made our ways back to the cottage, Nico took stock.  “I was the only one who didn’t lose anything.  Porter lost his gloves, Chris lost her shoes, Grandpa lost his glasses, Daddy lost his binoculars.  But I did get one thing,” he added.  “Hypothermia.”  

Good Solstice to Everyone!   

 

* * *

Nico's poem:

* * * * *

flowers, flowers, flowers

pretty flowers

happy flowers

delicate, worldwide infested flowers

living, edible, gloomy flowers

Those are just a few.

comforting flowers

scary flowers

insect eaters, educational, openhearted flowers

lively, yummy, amazing flowers

exotic flowers too!

everyday life flowers

living creatures flowers

And don't forget dangerous flowers.

last of all

Best of all

I like fun flowers!

* * * * * * 

The

Faces 

of 

Nico

When Nico had his long awaited Hayao Miyazaki filmfest-campout-sleepover the other night (I'm under strict gag-order not to blog about it, so don't ask me!) I noticed during the s'mores that the marshmallows were not the enormous blobules that recent evolution had created, but the more petite puffs of days gone by.

Apparently the s'mores had been struck by the ubiquitous grocery shrink-ray.  Commodity prices shot up last year at the same time people began rediscovering frugality, so companies have been disguising inflation by down-sizing portions.

On the one hand, there's something to be said for going back to the days of muffins that you could hold in one hand and marshmallows that fit easily into a human mouth.  I know that when we returned from Ireland in 2004, portion-bloat was one piece of our own reverse culture shock.

On the other hand, companies are shrinking down as sneakily as they can get away with and they certainly deserve a stern and disapproving look.  Here's a nice video from a lady who is not amused.

Three days until summer solstice and we're wearing sweaters and sweatshirts.  Nights in the 40's and cool days has the house temperature slipping toward 60 degrees at night.  The fuel tank's empty and the woodpile's wet, so it's just been easier to leave the down comforters on the beds and keep the sweaters handy.

Monica's getting depressed.

The New York Times had an article that casts doubt upon all the research which supposedly shows moderate drinking to be good for your health.  They finally seem to have noticed the fact that in all the years of breathless reporting on this topic, they've never presented an iota of data to support a causal relationship there.  There a correlation -- it's clear from a hundred studies that moderate drinkers are likely to be healthier than both heavy drinkers and teetotalers -- but not only is there no evidence of cause, there's not much in the way of plausible causal mechanism hypothesized that I've ever heard.

The problem is that the human mind abhors (an unexplained) correlation, and will quickly latch upon whatever plausible causal story presents itself.  Our cognitions lust after causalities and chains of this-then-that's.  (Journalists, of course, professionalize this -- spinning their stories  out of a nest of familiar themes and narratives that arrive to us as 95% soothing confirmation and 5% anxiety-inducing provocation -- but that's a thought for another post.)

When I hear any science report in the news, I'm contrarian enough to immediately run the proffered narrative through a couple of variations.  In this case, could it be that moderate drinking and health both come about from something else?  Of course.  It only takes a moment to imagine various scenarios.  Could it be that the previous reports have had it backwards and good health causes moderate drinking?  Or at least that poor health causes both alcohol abuse and abstinence?  The Times article hints that this might be the case -- that teetotalers may be unhealthy because unhealthy people give up alcohol -- and poor health can also lead to alcohol abuse.

In a great number of science articles and nearly all health articles, a few moments of questioning quickly discredits the original causal claim -- which is usually the main "claim" or message of the article.  What's left in the rubble is evidence for a correlation -- and a best-guess about cause.   Also worth noting is that the choice of explanatory narrative isn't driven by the evidence at hand, but by the writer's and audience's cognitive and cultural needs and desires.  That is, the choice about how to imagine the causality usually has more to do with confirming or less often (as in the case of the original alcohol reports) disconfirming people's pre-existing prejudices.  

But in any case, it's nice to see the Times finally stating the obvious.

Porter the trumpeter with his mates at school.  

Today was "lower school rising", when the kids symbolically cross a bridge from one grade to another.

Nico crossed from second grade to third -- and Porter moved out of the lower school altogether into 6th grade and middle school.

Monica's been the "class coordinator" for the 5th grade and this Wednesday was Beach Day.  She sent her account out to the parents:

"We had a great day at the beach.  We started off with some heavy drizzle but the kids all put on bathing suits and most went running into the water, some voluntarily, others not quite so.  None the less, there was no whining or crying and everyone seemed up for a good time.  A couple here and there would sit apart and discuss life topics.  An interesting segregation of gender took place until a few bold ones broke the barrier.  We were served a hot lunch of hot dogs and burgers (and veggie burgers too) which was welcome in the chill after swimming.  As we ate lunch, the sun struggled to come through and the dampness lessened and temperatures rose.  All were eager to enjoy the ice cream sundae fixings with only a few experiments on new toppings(promptly stopped in order to stop world hunger and waste of course!)  After lunch, gender segregation was no longer an issue and  great games of tag and some sort of capture the flag took place.  Balls, frisbees and a kite where played with. Parents and teachers were well entertained by our attractive lifeguard (We made sure not to distract from his duties of course!) After that, sand in all its glory became the focus.  Interesting digging, burying and building projects started to spring up everywhere with all sorts of collaboration taking place. Dry clothes soon became wet.  Then it was time to go.  I am sure all will sleep well tonight . . . It was a little frightening watching the hints of teenagerness but they are wonderful."

Had the stitches out. For those who asked, all the lab-pathology reports came back fine, the scar's a good six-incher from sideburn to Adam's apple, and the object itself was the size of a dove's egg (about an inch across). So now it's just a matter of patiently letting tissues re-knit.

For sixty-odd years the Swamp Yankees in Ashaway have been putting on a "Huck Finn Day" in the park.  

Fishing with bamboo poles in the pond, free burgers and hotdogs for the kids, water-balloon toss, obstacle course, games.

So I ventured out with a great white sail of a bandage on my face, and we met Charles, Patty and the girls by the carnival games.

Sometimes, when I've found myself hanging out with pagans or new-agers, I run up against some of the limits of my empathy.  One characteristic in particular that rubs me the wrong way is the new-agey interest in healing.  Some people become specialists in healing themselves from whatever tragedies and handicaps they are working on.  It's the very kernel of their identity.

Blech.  I hate healing.  First of all, I don't see that I have much role in it other than staying out of the way and not aggravating anything.  Second of all, it's just a drag.

So Monday morning, the surgeon removed the parotid gland from back of my left cheek, which had developed a benign tumor.  The assumption was that it was the "superficial" lobe that sits atop the main facial nerve, but once inside he discovered that, on the contrary, the nerve sat atop it all.  He had to spread the nerve in order to fish out the gland, which made the whole process more difficult and a bit more damaging.  

After 3 hours in surgery I woke all tubed up and with a great bandage upon the side of my face.  They had placed a draining tube in the side of my head and hooked me into a pump.  It would be an afternoon and night of dozing, contemplation, and peeing into a bottle every two hours.  I had a button to release a flow of morphine into the IV, but I didn't use it much, since my face was pretty much numb.

I might have been nauseous if I'd tried to read or watch the television, but I was just content to be idle and to put up with the nurses' regular interruptions.  Maybe there was more morphine than I thought.

Home and resting comfortably, with about 7 inches of souvenir needlework along the side of my face. It'll make a fine dueling scar. (I just won't tell people that it's a duel I lost with the medical establishment . . . )

The boys were at Pine Point at some jump-rope thing, so I took the two hours to walk the wetlands and woods of  Barn Island with my binoculars.  Redwinged blackbirds, barn swallows, osprey, white egrets, snowy egrets, yellowlegs, yellow warblers, yellowthroats . . . .  A cottontail nibbled in the shadows along the trail.  

A mink strutted out of the reeds five feet from the toe of my sandal.  A murdered field mouse dangled from its mouth.  It stared at me for a moment with its black and unreadable mink-eyes, then turned and slipped back the way it had come.

Porter made a bonfire in the fire circle -- filling a cardboard box with sticks and setting it alight.  It was a cool evening, but the aggressive spring mosquitos pushed me too close to the fire and smoke.  My naked ankles taunted and tempted them.  Porter methodically sharpened a maple stick to a trident of perfect tines, and he and Nico toasted marshmallows.  A woodcock whuttered rapidly by in the dimness with the cats in futile pursuit.

I stayed up late reading a novel, but was shaken out of it by a shrieking, snarling brawl in the climbing tree.  Two raccoons were fighting -- or at least one was.  The bigger one, making plaintive-sounding noises would approach the smaller angry one, which would attack, snarling, chittering and biting.  The big one would just push on, infuriating the other one even more.  It's the wrong time of year for raccoon courtship, so maybe it was a pair of males fighting - or tough love from a parent driving off a young-un.  Whatever it was, they made a shocking amount of noise and had the whole house up at 1 a.m.

Sun and springtime arriving . . . 

    Finally.