Hard Work

We're both laboring here. I've slipped into a decent rhythm for living while I'm up here, from getting to work (on non-field days) between 8 and 9, working till about 5:30, heading to a local gym (signed up, though it probably would've been smarter for me to wait until payday...but anyway), having an espresso and reading (or talking to my little bengal) at the nearby coffee shop, and heading home. I try not to spend much time at the house because it's crowded now and someone is guaranteed to be watching TV at night, and with no place to escape to, I get little done.

It's at moments of idleness, like the afternoon letdowns I mentioned in the last post, that I feel the anxiety of separation the most, as well as moments of conversation, either via phone or e-mail, when I sense Katie's, and I feel responsible.

A quick tangent here. Last winter, after Katie had learned that she was pregnant, and we'd begun making plans to get married, I headed back out on the water for another stint on the survey boat. One of my coworkers had a way of offhandedly telling really horrifying stories (I still don't know if he was just oblivious, or really a manipulative jerk). As he and I talked over the pregnancy and Katie's and my plans to marry, he told me about his own child out of wedlock, and the rough relationship he had with the mother at the time, and her horrifically difficult pregnancy which incurred nearly $200,000 in medical bills--all billable to the US Government (I might add that he's a proud Texan who claims to resent federal overreach, but that's another matter) because the mother--later his wife--remained single. I was predictably terrified of the medical bill, the moral of the story being, "Don't get married if you can stay single and charge everything to the (evil) feds."

Of course I was scared that if Katie had any complications, I'd go bankrupt trying to pay for them, as my Blue Cross Blue Shield wouldn't cover her pre-existing condition, the pregnancy. In the heat of my panic I called her, as the boat steamed down a Louisiana canal toward the Gulf, to spill this story and to wonder aloud if getting married right away was really the best thing to do. I was fear-stricken and breathless as I hurtled through the story and my other worries, and the message Katie picked up from me was, pretty much, "I don't want to get married."

I began fearing that I'd overshot the mark when I heard her voice weaken and break on the other end, and then sob, "Don't you think I'm scared too?"

I wasn't aware yet of the fear I'd put in my fiancee--I thought I was telling her that maybe we should wait a few months. She thought I was telling her goodbye.

Then my phone went out of range, and our internet connection on the boat went down for two straight days, and Katie was left to think that I'd dumped her, child and all, and was moving on. Reality was otherwise, of course--I was just about as frantic to get back in touch with her as she was to hear from me, and finally, two days later, around 5:30 AM my time (Louisiana's an hour behind the east coast) the boat was near shore again, so I texted her, and we talked. We were both calmer, and I made her realize that I had no plans to leave her, I was only worried about timing. And she was reassured and told me (not for the last time!) to follow our collective heart and have faith that events would work themselves out around our decision. So we held to the choice to get married.

Katie and I haven't had that kind of breakdown of communication since I've been in Alaska (though I did kind of tick her off by overdrafting a checking account...twice). But her moving out here to join me is a decision of similar magnitude to our choice to marry immediately. We know we'll be back together eventually, and my coming to Palmer this summer was primarily a matter of securing an income to provide for the family. Last winter, I'd already promised her that I wanted to marry her, and (after all, we're pretty much all big boys and girls reading this blog) that there was the chance she might get pregnant anyhow. When she gave me the news (I'll eventually get there in the Pup & Ben history, but not for a little while), it was faster than I'd expected but nothing more than confirmation of what I wanted anyway. At first I looked upon the ritual of marriage slightly, but Katie's instincts were to make it a genuine celebration, and I'll always be glad we did.

Now, we both know that living apart is a temporary arrangement. Whether one or two months, or three or four or possibly more, we're not sure. But unlike the choice to get married, we have a clearer intelligence about what will happen, but our feelings (and I can say with certainty, mine) have been more mixed. There was no serious debate in my mind last winter about marrying Kate: it was only a matter of when. But I've been debating, fiercely, whether I want to bring my young wife and even younger baby (not to mention a timid and loving cat) out to this dark and frozen wilderness.

Katie's pretty bold and on top of that, extremely lonely, so she was up for it. We began making plans to rent or sell the condo, when my opposite feelings began speaking up. I've already held one real estate fire sale this summer, and it was a humiliating, infuriating experience which I never want to repeat, and I did it only because I needed to feed and shelter my wife. (I've learned to manage a lot of fury this year.) And if we move out here, at the onset of winter...we need to pack up our belongings in RI first, a few weeks' hard work at least...with my Rhode Island degree still unfinished, and not being sure, in any circumstances, how long we'd want to live so far from what we both think of as home. (And check a map--Anchorage is almost as far west of Seattle, as Seattle is from Providence, Rhode Island--it's as far when you count the northward part of the trip.) It was anguish thinking of uprooting the family and casting away the home we've made, for a future whose near-term is still unsure.

And the final aspect to this thinking and re-thinking: I might be working outside of Alaska this winter anyhow, either in the Gulf (boy, I hope not) or on one of the international ventures. Then Katie would be stuck...in Alaska...with pretty much no friends, and absolutely no family...where temperatures average 25 deg F (mild by Alaskan standards) and there are four hours of sort-of daylight.


Maybe we've watched a little too much House together, but I've seen some episodes where a mother goes crazy and somebody gets hurt. And if there's something that might push my lovely, high-strung bengal to go nuts, it's being stuck in a darkened icebox with nobody to talk to but an infant and a cat.

The point of this increasingly dismal post? We're fighting to create the least bad plan to navigate this separation while the economy prevents me from finding work closer to our home. I'm giving Alaska an honest try, and there's a lot to love about this magnificent state where the geology and the weather both display their extreme forms, but I and Kate are both weighing, every day, the pain of separation with the rest of the disruption a total move would cause.

There's just no simple answer and there are fleeting moments when I worry about our ability to communicate, thinned and frayed by such sparse contact as we have while I'm here. But those moments' fears are swept away by the emotion and humor of when we do recover ourselves, and come to an understanding of whatever the issue was, or one of us makes the other smile, which makes us both smile--and I know that our gift of easy communication with each other is intact.

Thoughts from Alaska

More thoughts from the Great Bright North, where darkness is finally coming before 11 PM (and we're losing daylight at more than 5 minutes/day at this point...you may not notice from one day to the next, but after a week or two, you really feel the difference). It's moved from summer--which is roughly the equivalent to New England's late spring, minus the rain--to fall. Right now, in late August, it's roughly like mid- to late October back in the northeast, my home.

I write that wistfully because I do long for it. Katie and I have been discussing--by phone, text and e-mail (and to a lesser extent, this blog)--what it's like for each of us while we're apart, and what plan makes the most sense. Of course money is a constant concern. Having this job hasn't eliminated our problems. It's a huge step in the right direction, but we're still fighting a slowly losing battle. My hope is to keep the steady loss slow enough that circumstances might change around us and we'll pull ahead. And--though my father the banker would cringe were he to read this--but financial trouble doesn't worry me all that much. We can survive, we'll be together, with little EJ, and cutting some losses, however small or big, in the long run will amount to nothing. I've never been one of the "I-want-to-earn-this-much" folks, of whom I met so many in college and at various jobs. Living a clean, comfortable life and keeping my family healthy and happy are my financial goals. My real career goals are intellectual. I want to use the geology and remote sensing I'm learning now to explore the Bronze and Iron Age trade routes of the Phoenicians--but that's not here and now in Alaska, so it won't be the topic of this post.

The occasional heartache of missing my wife and even the wombly growth of little EJ has me questioning myself pretty harshly at times. Estimating from what Katie tells me, I think she deals with feelings of loss, and all the worries which surround them, more consistently than I do (though that's for her to say in her blog entries, and she's already pointed out a flaw or two in my accounts of things ). I can immerse myself in studying Alaska, or in the fieldwork (so far limited to the Cook Inlet just outside of Anchorage harbor), for several hours at a time, or even just daydream while staring at the almost appalling mountains. (And I use the word "appalling" because huge vertical extents of rock have always excited something like fear in me, over the forces which shoved them up, and the almost menacing way they hang overhead when you're near them. Mountains impress me, deeply. The ocean is too fluid to inspire that fearful kind of admiration in me--unless it's a big storm, and I'm looking at a dark field of gray oncoming waves. And that's only happened once or twice.) And Katie's certainly devoted many hours, over many days, wholeheartedly to her counseling job this summer, so we've both faced challenging jobs.

But the sense I get from her, when she tells me about sitting by the phone waiting for my call (on one specific occasion, at least...and I'll admit, I kind of dropped the ball on that one), or letting our kitty cat Jasper provide his tiny, warm companionship, that she feels the ache of separation for longer stretches than I do. But when I feel it, it nearly buckles my knees. For some reason, I tend to feel worst in the middle of the afternoon, if I'm not busy at something. Perhaps I'm thinking of the old image of the day as a lifetime, with birth at dawn, youth in the morning, maturity at noon, age in the afternoon, old age in the evening, and death at nightfall. I look at the afternoon and I can imagine feeling time itself passing, with me inert, far from my family, for some indistinct and inadequate purpose. I'm aware only of the passage of time, and our separation. No ambition or plan or promise can overcome that sense. Right now, I have one response to it: put my head down and get to work.

Any story needs its touchstones, its moments of emotional recognition where the character reveals his or her kinship to you. Without that touchstone, without that emotional recognition, the characters would become wholly foreign, with no real relation to anyone in the audience, beyond empathy, and meaningless. The Iliad is studded with such moments, and the one in my mind now is the family scene of Hector, the Trojan hero, his wife Andromache, and their baby son Astyanax. Andromache begs Hector not to fight, and he knows the danger but feels responsibility toward Troy (he is the crown prince, after all), and as he puts his helmet on to ride out, Astyanax cries at the suddenly fearsome sight. The lines say nothing of Hector's heartbreak on frightening his child, but they don't need to.

Another--probably the most powerful and blinding in its sudden strength that I know of--is in the Odyssey, after Odysseus has made it home after nineteen years' wandering across the sea (which did include eighteen years sleeping with the goddess Circe on her island...probably not something he emphasized to Penelope). Odysseus and his son Telemachus have killed all the suitors, he's cleaned up the mess, confronted Penelope and convinced her that he's really Odysseus, her husband. They make love. I'll paraphrase the passage that follows, which turns the entire plot and imagery of the whole poem on its head, and suggests in a flash the entire second story, a whole other epic, untold: "So, as a sailor wrecked at sea and clinging to the few remaining planks of his destroyed craft, is swept ashore by the waves, feels again the solid ground beneath his feet and rejoices,...so Penelope felt, again in the arms of her long-missed husband."

More modestly, from a movie I enjoy quite a bit (though I hate watching tragedy), Dead Poets' Society (one of if not the best performance of Robin Williams in a film). Robin, the teacher, is in his room at night, working alone, when a student visits him. The student points to a small framed picture of a woman, sitting on the desk beside the light, and asks him who that is. The teacher smiles, demurs and switches the subject.

Kate's and my relationship is young enough, and even though I'm older

than she is, we're both young enough to enjoy looking forward toward what life may hold for us. So feelings of doubt and despair don't sit on my shoulder for long--their talons can't get a firm enough grip. And there are enough issues these days--from Katie's and my struggle to stay solvent, to the similar situations of millions of families across the country, to the civil war which it seems some conservatives are trying to start--that the modest and majestic love which she and I share shines like a beacon in the cloudy darkness of my mind.

I'm used to the clouds and the darkness, and the beacon is a welcome presence.

So our plans are changing, toward her coming out much sooner than later, probably in October--pretty much, once she's acclimated to caring for the baby, and it's safe to bring the infant on a trip. (And we will look into that.) I still have despairing thoughts about pulling Katie out here with me, after she's lived a somewhat rootless life for several years, and she's started making some genuine friends in Rhode Island, on top of being near family again. But she corrected me again today, as she's so often wont to do, when she said, "My roots are with you, not in Rhode Island."

Thoughts like that put me at ease, but she and I are both cursed worriers, and sometimes the worry overwhelms even the strongest assurances. This year for me has been, among other things, a test in mental and emotional flexibility, in keeping my composure while I feel I've lost almost all control over events in my life. I'm talking about being unemployed and searching for any income I could find--a state of affairs that left me ashamed, afraid and at times full of rage. Now that I have a means to bail out the boat, so to speak, even if slightly more slowly than the water's coming in, I at least have more control. But moving suddenly across the continent and so close to the Arctic Circle (about six degrees latitude away) was never in my career plan, and I alternate between happiness at the unexpected, refreshing opportunity, and despair at the hideous derailment which has befallen my school career. Depends on my mood, and right now it's rather on the better side--most likely because I'm writing.

I'm homespun enough that I like the idea of buying a rusty old Suburban for 500 bucks and rattling through the winter with it (there's a neat red one for sale here in Palmer, but the guy won't answer my e-mail). But I know that if I nest too earnestly, I'll forget the hopes and interests which led to my coming here in the first place, by however sidelong a means. I think a little of Plato's Academy, which he supposedly placed in a swamp outside of Athens--remote enough so the city was not a temptation, and an unhealthy enough location that the students were all a little ill and therefore not tempted to practice athletics or be vain: instead they focused on philosophy. So I've called the home I want to have with Kate here, our Athens in Alaska: our own little enclave of intelligence and imagination, resisting the temptation to limit our vision to the things immediately around us.

It helps that the Sox have positively gone into the toilet since I've come up here. I think the Fenway-style scoreboard I put on our fridge blackboard hasn't been updated since July, when the Sox were 5 1/2 up on the Yanks. As far as I'm concerned, I'll let the season end there. Until they're back in first again, anyway.

Alaska!

One small note...I've added my own name & e-mail to this blog, just to make it easier for folks to see who's writing. I think it'll be useful even for Kate and me, in years ahead, if we decide to take a look back at all the things we were writing so intently about earlier on in our marriage.

Right now I'm typing away in the small house owned by TerraSond on the East Cooper loop, more or less stranded here by lack of a car. TerraSond keeps this house as a dormitory for the transient workers--whether short-term hires, or folks imported from another office farther south for a specific project--and while free lodging is great, there are eight of us here right now, with anywhere from one to two company vehicles we can share. So if I want to do something simple like drive 10 miles down the road to Wasilla (yes, that Wasilla) and its great bookstore & coffee shop Pandemonium, with the astounding view and the carved salmon out front, I often can't. I'm a big fan of coffee shops--

they've sometimes helped determine my choice of where to live--so when I find a good one, I quickly become a regular. The kids at Pandemonium are already used to bringing me my double espresso.

But I'm not here to sit in coffee shops and sip beverages. I'm here to survey and make maps, either of the sea floor or the subsurface. TerraSond mostly does bathymetric mapping, the type of work you'll see in NOAA coastal charts for boating and shipping, but they also do land surveying and other types of submarine remote sensing. I like the company, and the work, and I am quickly learning to love the environment out here. Transferring my entire life to the icy northwest was something I'd never imagined doing, and now the prospect of doing just that gives me a bit of pause.

Katie, of course, is up for the challenge. Sub-freezing temperatures, twenty-hour nights, and living cut off by everything except phone and internet devices like this blog, is all outweighed by being together. I think she's felt the absence more acutely than I have, since I'm learning a new place and a new job, surrounded by new people--all the things you'd expect about being in a new place. Now working the upper cook Inlet near Anchorage isn't quite like hitting the high seas, but being on the water, surrounded by the Chugach and Kenai mountains to the south and west, and the distant, snowy Alaska Range to the north, is pretty impressive itself. I don't need to make lots of touristy visits on the weekends, when my workdays include views like that (and especially when I have no car of my own)! I do want to head to Glacier Bay for a few days at some point, and I'd love to spend some time around Denali. But I've heard so much about the bears around here that it gives me pause.

It depends on whom you ask, what methods you'll hear are best to deal with bears. The one point of agreement: make noise. A bad bear is a startled bear, so you want to give them plenty of warning, before they see you, that you're coming. I'm picturing a sort of hip gong, getting an aluminum saucepan and dangling a few cowbells on it, and hanging the whole shebang from my belt, to make a right nice clatter as I walk. But if one charges...Marta, the hydrographic survey chief and a decidedly crunchy person, advocates bear spray as better than guns. It's mace for bears, makes them miserable, and drives them off. (Though the scent later is an attractant for bears not sprayed in the face, I guess.) Another of the non-gun crew told me that it's all about dealing with the charge. Since most bear charges are bluffs, to make you run, you never run (you don't run from a charging dog either, since it makes you more vulnerable, so I can believe that). Instead, you stand your ground. If the bear doesn't break off its charge, what you do next depends on the species.

If it's a black bear, punch it in the nose. Since black bears are scavengers, and don't like to fight, you want to beat the crap out of it. So you just pound away at its face until it gives up and leaves. If it's a brown bear--and there's no separate species of grizzlies, they're just big brown bears--then you don't want to fight. Brown bears are fighters, so you don't want to try. That's the time to play dead. Since they don't like to eat things that are already dead, they'll probably just leave you alone and move on.

Now, I put about as much stock in that advice as you probably did right now reading it. Ask the guy at the gun counter of an outdoor sporting goods store, and he'll say that if you spray a bear with the Mace, the bear will lick it and keep on coming. And even if a brown bear is dumb enough to fall for the lying-down-like-you're-dead routine, he'll at least give you a couple of trial bites first. And the counter guy really won't have much of an idea on how you'd actually fight a black bear. No, the guy at the counter will tell you a gun's the way to go.

Shotguns work well, and they're cheaper than the others. Rifles cost a little more, and have the advantage of power, but they're a bit more cumbersome. Pistols can be very effective, but there are some problems. First, they're more than three times as expensive. A basic, light .357 magnum will cost you about a grand. (And they have a big kick. You need to hold it with both hands when you fire.) Plus, it takes more practice to aim a smaller gun. And, you need to buy one of the big-bore--a magnum. (Actually, the Indy lover in me doesn't mind the thought of carrying a piece. "After all, Marcus...you know what a careful fellow I am.")

So much for the bears.

Alaska is the land of mountains. The entire southern coast is a knotted mass of them, raised by the collisions of North America with small continents, and now the Pacific Ocean. I've yet to go far from Anchorage or the Cook Inlet, the most populated part of the state, and decidedly more temperate than the interior. (I'm looking forward to a winter average temp. of 25 F or so, as opposed to 0.) When I first touched down in Anchorage, it took me a while to find a cab, but by 9:30 I was safely en route to Palmer, and it was bright as day. (This was July 26.) The cab driver and I chatted on the drive up, and she pointed out the purple fireweed, in full bloom, and a sign that summer would soon be over--kind of Alaska's version of the cicada. As we passed one of ther bars, I was amazed that they were so full so early in the evening--and then I remembered that it was 10:30. By midnight the sky was still light, and I could walk outside and see clearly. I slept horribly that first night, maybe only an hour or two, and I was wide awake again by about 4:30. It was just too bright to sleep. I figured that one bad night, with its resulting fatigue, would let me sleep better the second night and on--and so it proved. It's still easy to stay up pretty late, but now, by mid-August, it gets legitimately dark by 11 PM.

I'm skipping stories about the jobs and the people, and I'll fill in some gaps as I go along. But there are two big impressions I want to describe right now. First, the mountains. They're on every side except the ocean, and they're steep, rocky, jagged and awesome. We're close enough to the ocean that lots of moisture-laden air comes wafting up the valley, and when it hits the mountains here and rises, the clouds form. So there are caps of clouds sitting on the peaks, and strands of mist floating along the slopes and over the ridges. The same mountain has so many outfits of cloud, shadow and sunlight, that it puts a woman to shame. I've missed a few opportunities for great photos out here, including the 747 taking off right over our boat (I hit the "off" switch instead of the zoom), and the Chugach ridge the other night from my Pandemonium office: lower part in shadow, the middle sheathed in clouds, the upper half with its peaks bathed in the orange light of sunset. They're an ongoing revelation of beauty.
Second is the change in the seasons. Night is growing noticeably, from nonexistent in July, to about six hours now. It grows quickly, and the weather is changing too. I arrived at the start of high summer: upper 60's and low 70's, mostly rainless, no more bugs. Monday morning, in Anchorage, I felt a crisp touch in the air, and for the first time, left my jacket on as we headed out on the water. Tuesday it was more humid and somewhat cool--my fingernails were slightly purple (no big deal but a sign that it's not warm). It's still shirt-and-pants weather, but the clouds sit lower on the mountains, rain is increasingly common, and the nights are dipping into the upper 40's. Summer lasted a little less than three weeks, and we're now moving quickly through autumn. I'm not sure when the birch leaves will turn, but judging by the weather and the daylight, it won't take long.

I do have a slightly ominous feeling about it, though that's largely assuaged by thoughts that Katie and little EJ might be joining me in the darkest part of the year. Without my local Red Sox cable channel and the video recorder I use to save my cartoons, I've gotten more efficient with my time, but that makes consolation, love and companionship all the more important. I don't love being back in dormitory-type conditions, especially when I have so few options outside of the house. The local library closes at 6 PM, Palmer's coffee shop Vagabond Blues (itself a great little place, and only a 5-min. walk away) closes at 8 PM, and only the bars are left. And that's a great choice for a clean, quiet, well-lit spot where I can geek it up for a few hours and not be disturbed. Sure.

So it will be good to have a home here--an overdue comfort, for both Kate and me.

A Few Corrections ...

Yes, I'm still alive and still very much pregnant! (Kate here, by the way. :-P)

So I've been meaning to chime in with my two cents on the on going Pup and Ben chapters Michael's added here to the blog recently. Now it seems like we've shared our cinema-like story nearly a hundred times already and it only felt appropriate to get it down in print finally, but unfortunately it doesn't have quite the same effect as the live version with my little side comments and what-about-this-and- what-about-that dialog! So, if only for our female readers, here's my feminine take on things:

Although Mike did take the initiative in making the first move (which any self-respecting man should) he was on my radar before I had even seen his face! Starbucks had become my regular hangout soon after moving to East Greenwich since the library had inconvenient hours and fire walls which inhibited me from roaming the internet freely and using my web cam to communicate with my fellow ASL-using friends. As a creature of habit I would usual go into the coffee shop around the same time in the afternoon, plop myself down in the same spot near the window and camp out there until sunset. Now in my line of vision in my spot by the window happened to be the employee board with little envelopes with each person's name on it ... which I've never asked Michael about, but I'm assuming was used like a mailbox system. Of course the name, Mike jumped out at me on day one. Now, if you don't already know, I've had a minor obsession with the name Mike, Michael, Mikey since I was a toddler. I named my first goldfish Mikey, and my favorite toy for years was a little construction worker figurine (with a Boston cap) who's name was also Mikey. Naturally as I matured I grew out of the "ey" thing but my love for the name Michael never left me and swore to myself that if I were to ever have a son I would name him Michael James (no joke) ... little did I know that was the name of my future husband instead!

Alright so after spotting the Mike envelope, his voice is what struck me next. I had come in one night, sat down and got down to business on my laptop when I couldn't help but overhear the conversation going on behind me. I heard his rich, yet lulling voice explaining the events that followed his mother's death, from redefining his relationship with his sisters to having to clean out and divide up (their own, and their mother's) belongings. The subject matter touched me of course, but even more so was his delivery of it ... articulate, calm, and heartfelt. The conversation concluded and who ever the woman he was speaking with (to this day he still can't recall) got up, hugged him, and as she left turned to say, "You take care now Michael". The name rang in my ears and I was dumb struck for a moment. I knew right then and there something significant was about to change in my life!

I made no efforts to strike up a conversation with Mike, because honestly at that point romance was the furthest thing from my mind, and I wanted to keep it that way, at least for awhile. Our next encounter however lingered even more deeply than the first. The night Michael slipped me that on the house strawberry frappuccino I drove home almost in a daze. It had been a whirl wind night of emotions for me after having finally broken ties with someone that was long over due. The biggest feelings I experienced that night though were first, relief ... and second, much stronger, gratitude. I really could not believe that this guy had noticed that I perhaps needed a little something special, and delivered it ever so subtly. Now I must admit I HATE strawberry flavored ice cream, drinks, etc ... but I kept this precious frappuccino for a week moving it back and forth between the freezer and the fridge (neither could maintain the proper consistency) all the while being amazed at this man thoughtful, tender gesture! I had thanked him ever so briefly the night he'd given it to me I felt a more proper and deliberate thanks was in order the next time I saw him. The following weekend our eyes finally met and confirmed what our hearts already knew.

After that initial exchange Mike and I began "stalking each other" at Starbucks, only to keep missing one an other, until finally one Saturday evening I hit the jack pot as Mike was working that night!

As he got ready to leave about an hour before closing he came over to my table with his tousled hair, sporting his Dartmouth sweat shirt (my favorite to this day), squatted down next to me (*gasp* I felt like he was proposing already) and proceeded to ask me if I would be interested in having dinner with him. I must have kept my composure, but I'll admit to having the worst case of butterflies EVER! And, correction to his version, he actually did take down my name and number in one of his school note books!

It didn't take long for him to call, as I feared it might, but I missed it since I was out having dinner with my mom, sister, and two nieces. Now, it's important that I add that I had been dreading my 22nd birthday for months ... I HATE even numbers just about as much as I LOVE the name Michael, and on top of that I just felt like my own life had kind of flat lined with no particular direction in sight. The day was approaching whether I liked it or not though and my mom and sister where doing their best to keep my spirits up! Although I missed Mike's first call, he did leave a message inviting me to accompany him up to Boston to pick up a friend at the airport. This still makes me laugh because at the time the only vehicle Mike had was his little 2 seater convertible BMW, so unless he planned to stick his friend in the trunk his invitation would have backfired quite horribly had I accepted. Heading up to

Boston with a man I'd just met and who's last name I'd yet to find out was a little too wild for my taste though, after all he could have been an axe murderer for goodness sakes! The conclusion of his message indicated otherwise of course, with his closing line being something to the effect; "you're probably busy with your mom and sister right now though, and I can only envy the time they get to spend with you" ... Smooooooothe Pup! My sister and I giggled over that for the next 2 days ... but secretly I adored his romantic statement!

After my mom and sister had left on Sunday night I was doing some errands in East Greenwich and worked up the nerve to call him back. I pulled into (our) Starbucks parking lot and dialed ... you know how the rest of that played out.

The next day I decided I deserved a nice new dress for our up coming date so I went to the mall and found the perfect dress ... black, button up, with pleats down the front, sash around the waist, and tiny little poof at the shoulders! Conservative, yet fun and flirty all in one ... It was definitely my intention to make a statement with that dress, I knew if he didn't like IT he wouldn't like ME. I finished off the ensemble with some cute little red heels (made sure they weren't too tall though, didn't want to scare the guy off, ya know) and a simple beaded necklace to match! By the time I left the mall my dread of turning 22 was slowly starting to fade.

Tuesday arrived, and I don't recall much of the day, I think my thoughts were probably consumed by the excitement and uncertainty of spending some actual time with this Sutherland fellah! I was dressed and ready, perched at the dining room window in my grandmother's house as I awaited his arrival. There was a momentary pang of worry that he might actual stand me up when I looked at the clock and it was ten minutes past the time we'd agreed upon for him to pick me up. But the phone rang and he apologetically explained that he was on his way and would be there soon. He was, and when I opened the door to greet him my heart didn't do that cliche leap into your throat thing, but quite the opposite in fact ... it settled. His gaze fell upon me and I felt at home in his stare.

Michael's account of the actual date was pretty on target ... free flowing, romantic, fun ... and by far one of the best nights of my life! Before we knew it, it was nearly 1 am and I being the Ivory girl I am probably said something about needing to get home. Of course he was a gentleman and respected my request, gracing my lips with goodnight kiss. Thinking to myself that this date could not have gone any better, I headed for the door only for him to stop me and handed me a birthday gift! (I've learned this wasn't just a sweet over the top birthday gesture ... that's just how Michael is!) We said goodnight again, I went inside exhausted, elated, and in awe that there could be more ... I plopped down on the bed and proceeded to unwrap the multiple balls of tissue paper from the bag. Of course the teddy bear was a cute touch (and I held him tight during those many night when Mike was away in the Gulf), but what the

rest of the bag held meant more to me than I can even express. A small conch shell, two different colored star fish, and a sand dollar were the gems I unwrapped ... I laid them out in front of me and tears filled my eyes. In my move from the west coast I had left all of the beautiful, rare rocks and shells I'd collected behind, knowing it would be nearly impossible to get them all here in one piece. I had treasured those shells and leaving them left me with quite a heart ache. I found it so significant that his gifts to me were exactly what I'd left behind!

I went to bed that night, the happiest I'd ever been ... with no dreams left to dream, because they had already come true!

Pup & Ben, Part 4

It was a warm sunny evening, twilight not yet quite in the air, so I drove up to East Greenwich with the top down, not in any kind of panic, not really anxious at all, since Katie hadn't seemed upset when I said I was running late. I wasn't worried about the date, either. I knew, from how we'd spoken to each other so far, that we could have at least one fun evening together. At worst, there'd be no magic, and I'd go mopily back to serving coffee and studying geology. I was worried most that we'd get along, and I'd like her a lot, but she'd have cooled on me because of our age difference.

I arrived, a mere 20 minutes late, grabbed the rose off the passenger's seat, and walked up to the door.

Now one thing I haven't much dwelt on, but it was already important: Katie had explained why she was in Rhode Island, to take care of her grandmother Duggin, who was suffering from cancer (third time, in fact). It didn't take long for a general guess at the character of this woman to form in my head: small, delicate with age but still intense, somewhat severe. (As it's turned out, I overestimated the severity a bit...substitute that with a generous sense of humor.) But I had a slight bit of trepidation that Duggin might pose herself as Katie's guardian, and make the beginning of the evening a bit awkward, but no such thing. It was unfair to Duggin, thinking she might pull a stunt like that. No way did she want to interfere in Katie's date.

I knocked on the door, and Katie opened it. She was as tall as ever, only now wearing a black dress, no sleeves and knee-length. I saw what I'd been waiting for since Saturday night: that beautiful smile which told me she was glad to see me. I knew right then that we'd have a great time. And I also felt one other thing...

I'm not one to look for omens. I go through the better part of my life matter-of-factly, and though I enjoy complaining as much as anybody, I know in the end that I generally create my own problems. I certainly never look for a sign as a rescue from something I feel too weak or unwilling to contend with. I think of omens in the same way as I do anything mystical, superstitious or mythical: they're portents only of what's in my own mind. It's not always a straightforward interpretation of what's in my mind, but even so.

That night, when Kate greeted me at the door, I felt just such an omen. We'd both worn black: she her dress, I my blazer. I took that to mean that we'd be together for the rest of our lives.

Not the kind of feeling you want to go projecting too much on a first date, of course. And I spooked myself a bit, thinking, Get a hold of yourself, Mike. Are you that desperate? I hope not. Have a single date first, before worrying about the rest of your life, jeez!

So I gave her the flower, and she smiled again, and I think she left it home in a vase (I honestly forget). I walked her out to the car, and she might have said something about the convertible (maybe we'd already been joking about it on the phone). She did mention that night, Duggin and her grandfather Poppa--he had always driven convertibles, and wanted to ride with the top down, but Duggin never agreed because it would ruin her hair.

(Kate and I have the same debate to this day. I let her win only when we're on our way to something fancy--otherwise, she has to tough it out.)

So she won that night (it was our first date, after all), and we drove up to the restaurant with the top up. I don't remember what we talked about. It was one of those times when conversation flows so easily that you don't remember it, you only remember the flow, and the ease. Evening had moved from pale to deeper blue by the time we reached the Grille, and we sat in the far corner, on the porch, overlooking the decaying revetments along the Blackstone River, decay made charming by the almost violet light, the calm movement of the water, and the orange light which surrounded Katie and me as we sat talking.

It took us a little while to order (something that's happened more than once since), because we were talking too much, but we finally did. There was only one part of the conversation which I recall distinctly, and that was when we talked about us. (Yes, we talked about us, on our first date. Bad sign, right?)

We'd been sitting in one of those musing, eyes downcast silences when I took her hands in mine, looked her in the eyes, and said, "I was afraid you'd just politely blow me off now, after you'd come to your senses about dating a guy so much older than you." And she looked right back in mine and said, "I was worried you'd lose interest in me, because you're older and have so much more experience."

No need to go into all that experience right now (and it's a good thing my sisters and college frat brothers can't post to this blog), but it was obvious that Kate and I find it easy to agree on things, because we tend to have similar reactions. I mean, our gut reactions were mirror images of each other--kind of pathetic, really.

That little exchange gave the night a delicate but important boost. We now knew that we were each focused on the other, and whatever else happened during the date wouldn't be a distraction (unlike bad dates, when you do nothing but hunt frantically for distractions until it's over...but no need to dwell on that here). We had dinner (I had steak, and I think she had chicken, but I'm not sure), and it was great. Sure, a gourmet cook can do at least as well at home, blah blah blah, I'm fine with that. But going to a nice restaurant is a statement by itself, and the ambiance and service define it as much as the food. And besides, Kate would've made any restaurant fantastic that evening.

Problem was, we'd met at 6:30, and were done eating by about 8:30. That's a little early to end a date, even with a slightly old-fashioned girl like Kate, especially when things were going so well. So I fell back on a little place I knew about, and residents of Providence do too: Prospect Park. It's a tiny little park with a big statue of Roger Williams in it, overlooking downtown from the ridge just above Brown. It's a hugely popular makeout spot for teenagers and college students. And it's not that I was going all 17-year-old on poor Katie. Sure, a quiet, secluded spot is great for a little intimacy, but we already had some great chemistry happening, and I didn't need any artificial boosts. Plain and simple: I like the view. I love city lights and panoramas. (About ten years ago, I took a summer class at UMass Boston, not a good school but an amazing location. Right on Boston Harbor, with a view of the Southeast Expressway from within the library that I'd just let mesmerize me after class. I'd take my book and papers up there, sit down, and maybe do a little studying but otherwise just stare at the headlights and taillights. Like streams of diamonds and rubies...) Anyway, I took Katie to this little park, and she got a glimpse of Providence, and we did snuggle up a bit, but there were too many teenagers sucking face there to make it worth staying, so we left.

So that took up about ten minutes. Not even nine o'clock yet, pretty lame performance by a host who was supposed to be showing the birthday girl, and a newcomer to the town no less, a good time. The old standby would've been to go to a bar and get hammered, but those days of mine are many years past and besides, Katie deserved something much more interesting. I'd seen the IMax theater looming over the downtown mall as we walked away, and suggested that we see what films were playing. Katie seemed up for that, so we headed on over.

Turned out that the only feature playing was Dark Knight, the extremely violent film about Batman fighting an unlaughing terrorist, the Joker. Asked her if she was up for it...and she was, so I bought the tickets.

Problem was, showtime was ten PM, which left us nearly an hour. What to do, what to do...well, down the hall was the adult playpen Dave & Buster's, the video arcade, pool hall, bar and restaurant. I've been there a number of times, and while I didn't feel like playing any stupid video games, pool was a definite possibility. (Besides, it meant that I'd get to watch her play, and I didn't mind that one bit.)

She was game, and we headed over and played. The good thing is, we both kind of stink, so it wasn't a blowout or anything. Though she might say differently...I do recall winning all three games, but I think she was winning the first, but scratched the 8-ball on her final shot and lost by default. Or something like that. I remember her protesting the result, but that's her problem.

After a few games, and a beer or two, we drifted back to the theater for the movie, which I'd seen already but she hadn't. Another great thing about Katie: she has about as much patience as I do for chick flicks. Neither of us like dull shoot-em-ups (well, I'll fall for the occasional Sly Stallone or Chuck Norris, but only when I'm tagging along with a group), but we're both Tarantino fans. (Devoted readers will know that I've talked about Kill Bill, and posted a few images from the films in this blog...we're both Kill Bill fans. I could see Katie and me doing a latin routine, maybe a samba or a paso, in the spirit of those films...though she might not enjoy dancing in a yellow leather jumpsuit very much. Maybe the idea's just a little too bizarre to work. You don't want to overtax a single dance with too much drama. We'll see...)

Anyway, Katie and I went to this flick along with a bunch of teenagers and college kids, looking like we were heading to see an opera at the Met. Everyone else was in shorts, Ts, minis and flip flops, and we're decked out in formal black, and I wasn't far from wearing a tux. But I bought a few Nestles Crunch (that and 100 Grand are my favorite candy bars...though there are quite a few others that come close) snacks, and I forget if she got anything, but we went in and enjoyed the flick. Katie didn't even cringe at some of the more grotesque scenes. We were both still pretty happy when we walked out of there, and we could laugh about how the date had taken a more or less 180-degree turn, from quiet and romantic, to kind of a noisy beer hall, to a really violent action flick. Each one of those could have been its own date, and we'd covered all three, and had an effortless date.

Safe to say I was willing to see her again.

It was after midnight and I was just a bit worried that we might find Duggin in a nightgown, slippers and hair net sitting at the kitchen table waiting for her to return. And it's just as safe to say, that I was underestimating old Dugs. She was sound asleep when we got back, trusting me to take care of Kate, and Kate to take care of herself. Now that's a grandma!

After I dropped Katie off at her door, I told her to wait just a second, went back to my trunk, and lifted out the little paper bag with the bear and the shells in it. "Happy birthday," I told her, and snatched one more kiss before we finally called it a night.

Only, I was five minutes down the road when I remembered that the card I'd signed in haste was still sitting in my trunk. Not great form to go back, especially so late, so I just texted her, apologizing for forgetting the card. No worries, she replied, the night was great enough that one little card wouldn't make a difference.

So the card would have to wait...not like I really needed a hook at this point, but it certainly couldn't hurt.

By the Way...

I don't bother to announce myself at the start of every post by now, but I think it's pretty easy to tell (especially for our regular readers) when it's me, Mike, as opposed to Katie, writing.

Anyhow, one thing we've both alluded to, but I'll make factual now: I'm in Alaska at the moment, working for an ocean science and mapping firm called TerraSond. They're based in Palmer, about an hour northeast of Anchorage, on the Matanuska River (in what's known as the Mat-Su valley, for the Matanuska and Susitna rivers). I flew up a week ago from Rhode Island, and I've been living at the company house, a tiny little cottage with eight beds in it, and while I'm in Palmer, will carry on so.

Yes, it is tough to feel sleepy when the sun's up until after 10 PM, and it barely gets dark.

There is a deeper debate going on between me and Kate right now, as to how viable a living this will be, me living a continent away for a month at a time while she's caring for our young baby. It's a serious set of circumstances, with work so scarce these days. TerraSond is a fine company and it may be we'll move to Alaska--but we're making no decisions anytime soon. At the lowest of levels, I'm glad to be making an income to support her and little EJ. Beyond that, I'm glad that I'm working with a good science company where I can do a lot of learning, about seafloor mapping and many other things besides. But I don't enjoy missing my little bengal, and I don't like leaving her alone, either.

She joked (lovingly, of course) over the phone about how Jasper tends to throw up when we're away. It seems that the memory of rejection and homelessness is that present for him. Katie obviously has a better intellectual grasp of what's going on, of why and how long I'll be gone, but there's one big thing in common: we miss each other, and we get anxious. (She more than I, especially since I'm the one in Alaska, and on the water.)

However, the lighter conclusion to this little update: as time and equipment allow (had some compatibility issues), I'm posting digital photos of the people I work with, my favorite local spots, and the mind-blowing natural surroundings up here. If you're on facebook and you're a digital friend of mine, you can see 'em.

Pup & Ben, Part 3: Prelude to a Date

The problem was meeting her again. So I decided to stake the place out--yes, the Starbucks where I actually worked. I knew she'd be back, but didn't know what night, and didn't feel like waiting. (Waiting is what I do worst.)

It was pretty easy. I went to a gym in that same town, and I had a built-in excuse to spend a few hours a day at a coffee shop: I'm a graduate student, and I always have reading to do! Besides, the coffee was free. So I'd show up around six, hang around until quarter to eight, and then leave. So that was Monday and Tuesday, and then I was busy Wednesday, and worked Thursday and Friday...but Saturday came along, and there she was again.

It was a slow night, fortunately, so once she was situated (with her drink, this time), I could move in. No ruses this time, no spying, no need for clever delay. I walked up, knelt down next to her (she was sitting, and I wanted her to feel in control by looking down at me), and asked her if she'd like to have dinner sometime.

Pretty simple, of course, but then, a simple approach usually works well. My thirty-eight years of experience living has told me, among other things, that being direct and forthright can be effective. (On the other hand, being intelligent and showing some self-possession is also pretty important. Add those together with a healthy measure of conviction, and you've got the raw ingredients for charisma. But I digress.)

She seemed impressed, and said yes.

Of course I hadn't brought anything to write with or on, but I managed to get her name--Kate, and even though I'm bad with names, I knew I wouldn't forget it--and number. Told her I'd call her sometime.

I kept working, but it became clear that she was just kind of hanging around, waiting for me to go. Hmm, well, why wait? I figured. So as I got ready to head out, I stopped by her table and asked if she might want to do something tonight, maybe grab a drink or an ice cream or something. I forget her excuse, probably something to do with being tired, but she blew me off. A bit too pushy and forward, I figured she was thinking of me.

Still, she smiled, so I moved on, and she followed me out. I walked to my little green Z and saw her getting into a--damn!--silver Jag. "I would've offered you a ride home, but plainly you don't need one!" I shouted across the parking lot. She said something indistinct back, and I drove off, just a bit frustrated.

Next day I called her, slightly after noon. She sounded glad to hear me, and we started chatting. Before too long, maybe after I'd dropped a TV or music reference, or talked about when I was in college, she asked: "How old are you?"

Um.

I knew I was older than she was, by about ten years, I figured. She seemed very self-possessed, and very mature, simply by the fact that we could hold a conversation. (As opposed to my coworkers at Starbucks, the 18-to-22 crowd. I couldn't get past "How's it going?" with them. We were just in different worlds.) But suddenly, I was worried...what if she was even younger, or what if I seemed so much younger and more immature than my age? I figured that, after I answered, her response would tell me everything.

"I'm 38."

"Wow...." and a pause. I waited.

"How old are you?"

"21." Oh. I see...

"If I'm too old for you, you don't need to see me if you don't want."

"Well, my sisters each married men 16 years older than they are, so I guess it runs in the family."

Well, then. Guess I'm in the clear, for now at least?...

I don't remember what we said after that, except that we were on the phone for over an hour, and we did actually set a date and time for the date: Tuesday, September 23rd. "That's my birthday," she informed me.

Ah. Another challenge. I'd have to rise to the occasion, plainly.

Kate's mother and sister Cori were visiting, so we wrapped up and I went on my way, puzzling now over how to impress a woman I'd just met, by celebrating her birthday on our first date, but not overdoing it so as to freak her out.

I mean, we're talking about a serious balancing act here, you know what I mean? I think both males and females can appreciate that Kate had presented me with a nice, finely sharpened edge and told me to walk it.

That's what I intended to do.

My first thought was to go to Wickford, the cutesy little village down the street, and browse the boutiques for some cheap cute odds & ends. And that I did. Got a votive candle, a chintzy little candle holder, and some other stuff. I wasn't happy with it, but couldn't think of anything better that wouldn't be going too far (the conundrum). So, if nothing else, at least I had my back-up plan, the fallback option if I couldn't find a better gift.

As for the restaurant...not like I've ever been a womanizer with all kinds of methods. I'm not, and never have been. But one simple method I do have for a first date is, give the woman a choice. Pick a few restaurants, either by cuisine or level of fanciness, and let her decide.

Starbucks figures again here. I'd had to take this four-hour training class (involving sampling several different kinds of coffee--not bad at all) before starting as a barista, on the eastern side of Providence, overlooking the Blackstone River. The area was an office complex using several abandoned mill buildings. (I'd actually worked there, at a small TV network, for a temp job a few months earlier.) During one of our breaks I wandered around outside and saw this small, well-appointed brick house right on the river's edge, with the discreet painted sign "Waterman Grille". I peeked inside--shining wooden floors, elegant furniture, a long bank of windows overlooking the river. The menu looked inviting. I noted the restaurant as worth a visit.

Fast-forward to September 21--Waterman Grille was now my first choice. Second...well, as oppposed to something so isolated and elegant, I figured, the alternative would be different cuisine, something less formal, with lots of people around. There's a great Indian restaurant on Thayer Street, in the Brown University side of Providence, and not to mention, all of Thayer Street (a bit like South Street in Philly...maybe 1/10 or 1/20 of that). So I was halfway there...a good dinner choice, but a really ratty gift.

Monday came, and I called Kate again, to confirm plans (wanted to make sure she wasn't getting second thoughts), and run the restaurants by her. I told her about the two different places, one quiet, formal and elegant, the other a little raucous, casual and full of people. A pause from her, then: "Well...it is my birthday."

Okay then. Formal and elegant it would be.

So that was settled, and other than the small detail of my never having actually been to the Waterman Grille, so that I couldn't vouch for the food or the service, at least we had a plan. But the nicer restaurant definitely meant I needed to spruce up my gift.


I didn't lose any sleep over it that night--I was probably more worried about finding an actual job--but Tuesday was another matter. After the day's surveying (on the Bay, with Bryan and Chris, gathering data for our dissertations. They called me James Bond on account of the BMW), I headed home. I had now roughly an hour to get ready for my date. And still no gift.

Out of other ideas, I stopped at my favorite florist, Wickford Flowers. They've done me well on a number of occasions (and I'm not plugging these people. I just think I should mention the folks who've done a good job). I walked in and looked around, somewhat desperately. I needed two things: a gift and a flower. Or maybe flowers...a small bouquet, or just a single bud? A bouquet might be too much, but a single flower might be lonely...I was wrestling with this, and searching for something I could put in a bag and call a gift, when one of the women walked up to me and asked if I needed help.

Boy, did I ever.

I explained the situation to her: first date, just met, really wanted to impress her, the birthday. "Yeah, that's a toughie," she agreed.

She also agreed that a bouquet would be too much. It would have to be a single rose, but the next problem was color. Red was too cliche'. White wasn't romantic. Yellow means too many different things, depending on whom you ask. And pink...yuck. I'd have trouble bringing a pink rose to anybody. It's a step away from putting a pink carnation in the lapel of your gray polyester suitcoat for the high school dance. Better was called for.

"Hold on, let me see what we have out back," she said, and disappeared.

I kept looking around. A 4" tall teddy bear on the table, how fascinating. I turned back to the flowers and the woman walked out from the back, proudly carrying a long-stemmed rose, yellow at the base, brightening to orange at the tips.

"That's it," I said. Only one piece of the puzzle left.


She turned to the table and said, "You could give her this teddy bear, and put some of those shells in a gift bag with it," she suggested.

Hmm....kind of hokey, I guess, but definitely better than the crap I'd bought on Sunday. I figured I was on a roll having found the flower, so I went with it. Got a card, signed it right there as I paid, and asked one last bit of advice.

"So, how do I time all this? Do I give her the flower when I pick her up, or at the restaurant? And when do I give her the gift?"

"Hm...if I were you, I'd definitely give her the flower right away, when you're at her house. That way she doesn't need to carry it with her all night. And then wait to give her the gift until the end of the date, when you drop her off. That way she can open it up after you leave and think about you some more."

Now that's quality advice. I knew they'd come through for me.

Now, all I had to do was shower and change. Cleaned up, tossed on my outfit (decided to go with the black blazer, khaki slacks, green shirt and a sweet tie that had some orange in it, which actually kind of picked up the flower), and headed out the door.

Only...20 minutes late. Oops. Called her to apologize and say I'd be there soon, and...hoped no cops pulled me over en route. 20 minutes and counting...