Camino de Santiago, part II

And so we were officially on the Camino, with only 483 miles to go. This second day I, as well as dw, felt great -- and I continued problem free (mostly) for the rest of the walk (farther on dw started having problems with her feet).  The weather was ideal for crossing the Pyrenees -- cool, but not cold and enough sun and scattered clouds to make for pretty pictures. The pass isn't very high (a bit less than 5000 feet) but the canyons are deep and steep, and the Spanish side had a very steep descent.        This is called the Napoleon start, because Napoleon used this pass on the retreat from his Spanish misadventures, but it could just as well be called the Roland start because Roland died in several places on the Spanish side of the pass.

(Roland figures in many historical sites for the next 150 miles. He dies in a couple of places. He fights and slays Ferragut, the Moorish giant. He frees prisoners held by the Moors. He is a hero for the ages until the dastardly Moors cut him down. -- Several times. -- Naturally, he did none of it. He did fight the Basques who chopped the dauntless Roland to bits while they were kicking Charlemagne's butt.)

After the uphill, the trail descended a very steep path through a beautiful beech forest (shades of later on, dw started having troubles on the downhill) and we ended the second day at Roncevalles, a converted monastery, and one of the better albergues on the route.
      (the albergues were like youth hostels. They varied in size, the smallest would sleep 10, the largest, over a 100. Some were private, some were public. Some were one large room with bunk beds, some were cubicles with one or two bunk beds in each. Some had private rooms available. Almost all were mixed-sex, with little privacy but nearly everyone was discrete enough that the Camino isn't a 500 mile peep-show  --- it all worked surprisingly well.)

Most mornings, we would start before light, and at Roncevalles the albergue had a delightful wakeup alarm. As it happened I was awake early (5:30) and  I seemed to hear almost subliminal music, so quiet I thought it was my imagination, but it slowly increased in volume and by 6:00 it was clearly Gregorian Chants and loud enough (though not actually loud) that it worked as an alarm for the room.  The same thing happened at a different albergue several weeks later, but most often someone would just turn on the lights.

After Roncevalles and heading for Larrasoana we had the experience of "travel" derived from "travail" --- it rained. "It never rains -- , but girl don't they warn ya? It pours, man it pours." And that would be travel as travail as trouble, hardship, suffering. Well, maybe it wasn't that bad but it was a very heavy rain for several hours, and long sections of the trail were on slanting layers of rock -- it made for difficult walking and soaked feet as neither of us had water resistant shoes. Our ponchos worked well, and by the end of the day we were sort of dry (from the knees up), but it was good that it was a warmish rain and not a cold sleeting storm.

After that first storm, the weather was good for several days and then it started getting hot and the afternoons were consistently hot until we reached the mountains at the western end of the walk.

As we had already spent a night there, we skipped Pamplona and stayed in Cizur Menor. C.M. is distinguished by having two small medieval churches each on their own hill top. One seemed to be permanently closed, but dw and I wondered if in the past they shot fireworks at each other like those two Greek churches do in Vrodandos. If anyone had asked, I would have bought some bottle rockets and done my bit to start a tradition.

Each day we walked through several villages and in each we could predict where the path would go. Look for the church steeple (easy since it was always the tallest building and was usually on a hill) and you could be sure that the path would pass in front of the church. Except for the big city cathedrals nearly all of the churches on this end of the Camino were similar: A simple, fairly unadorned Romanesque stone box with a plain steeple. The few windows were usually narrow slits, glazed with mica. In some of the smallest villages, the churches were seemingly unused (except perhaps for weddings or funerals)
      Each village was similar (a grocery store -- called a "supermercado" -- dw and I didn't think they really understood the concept of a "supermarket" since the supermercados were about 10 feet by 10 feet square)  one or two bars/café/coffee shop -- stone buildings, some stuccoed, most not; an occasional wattle and daub building; narrow streets and a small plaza with a plain fountain -- usually the water was potable and we didn't need to carry much water.
      But each village was also subtly different enough that each day was interesting. Some places would have a section of a Roman road, or other Roman ruins. Few of the villages were happening places, but some were maintained and lived in, while others were largely abandoned with crumbling buildings, trees growing in the ruins and a stray dog or two sleeping in the shade -- they would look as if hope was lost  hundreds of years ago.

This eastern end of the Camino is largely wine country. A lot of vineyards with occasional dairy farms and truck farms. Occasionally the trail goes directly through a farm, passing between the house and barns, separating the out-buildings and animal pens. It's interesting and apparently the farmers are accustomed to it (after a thousand years I guess they would be) because I didn't notice any dirty looks directed at the peregrinos. And at each farm and frequently in between, the Camino, whether road or path, is used to drive livestock, so the trail is liberally strewn with manure. Somehow appropriate, since 2014 was the Eighth Centenary of St Francis of Assisi walking the Camino. Though I'm not sure his love for animals necessarily included walking through their dung.

WORD OF THE DAY: "oriflamme" -- The sacred banner of St. Denis, of red or orange red silk. Not to be smug or anything, but how many of you have your own sacred banner?

NATURAL HISTORY: According to the BBC, feeding garlic to cows will reduce their flatulence. Even reduced, I'm not sure garlic laden cow farts is such a good idea.

They are a bit late for the season, but JOKES OF THE DAY:  What is a schizophrenic's favorite Christmas song? --- "Do you hear what I hear?"
    
And: Merry Christmas to all the paranoids out there. Just remember, you are not alone. 

And so it goes. DJA



 

Camino de Santiago, part I

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Maybe not the worst of times. Although we were in France no one was likely to be beheaded, but I was tired the moment we stepped off the bus, and dw was going strong and got stronger as the day progressed. In any case at one o'clock we started walking from St. Jean Pied de Port, France,  on August 20th, my birthday.

The flight from Portland to Madrid was normal: Yin and Yang: bad to New York, and fine to Madrid (on the Madrid leg, we had a Van Johnson clone for a cabin steward). We got to Madrid early enough to do a little sight seeing, have a light breakfast and coffee, and buy a pre-paid cell phone. After wandering around a bit, we went to the Atocha train station, admired the enclosed tropical garden, found our gate, sat and had a moment of contentment until we thought we should get out our passports. (After the bombing of a few years ago, Atocha, and many other transport hubs and museums in Spain have airport like security). PANIC. dw didn't have her passport.

But we knew where it was: she used it at the phone store when we bought the cell phone. They took it, photocopied it, and forgot to give it back. Nothing underhanded and they had tried to call us -- twice. We heard the phone ring, it was on, but we thought it was just an ad (Buy More Time, Only E3.95). No one we wanted to talk with even knew we had a phone and certainly wouldn't be calling so of course we ignored the ring.

We only had 30 minutes before the train would leave. dw said she didn't really remember where the store was. I remembered and said I would go. dw pointed out (rightly) that she could run faster than I, so she would go, and off she went. Just outside the station, she saw a taxi and being clever hopped in: Indicating please hurry.
     When she got there, she asked him to wait (All in Spanish): "Wait, is that what you mean? Why do you want me to wait? Are you Sure?"
      "Yes, Yes, don't move, stop. Have a beer, coffee, churro,  whatever -- just don't leave!"
     She ran in, got the passport, thanked them for trying to call, and ran back to the taxi, waving the passport. And then the taxi driver understood the urgency so the ride back was exciting: through alleys, over sidewalks, banging aside garbage cans, scaring pedestrians, pushing other cars to get them to move, mowing down bushes and errant newsstands (in other words, normal Madrid driving)  -- he got his fee and a very nice tip. And she got back to the station with 10 minutes to spare.

And it was a good thing. The "big scary moment" of the trip was already over and done.

Next stop Pamplona where we spent the night. Again we wandered around a bit: walked part of the street where the bulls run -- a scary thought: it's narrow and slick -- (curiously, there's a burger place half-way along the run -- perhaps to further inspire the bulls -- "You might eat me later, but I'm going to get at least one of you suckers right now!") In the morning we took a bus from Pamplona to St. Jean, looked around St Jean a bit, bought some food (bread, cheese, cookies and peanuts) and started walking the Napoleon start.

      For the rest of the day, dw pranced along: mooed at cows, sang with the birds, talked with dogs, flirted with cats, smelled the flowers, and enjoyed the scenery; I slogged. I sweated profusely. I counted steps. I decided it wasn't my fault, my body was psychologically rebelling at being 71. I frequently stopped to take pictures. In short I suffered mightily, but bravely, and after a whole 7.5 miles we came to our first stop -- Orisson.

Our first albergue: Orisson, and it was a wonderful experience. First, there were no beds available, but there were four tents pitched in the back: Would one of them do? And yes, it would do because the alternatives were to backtrack three miles, or continue on to Roncevalles -- an additional 11 miles. The tent was very good: three man size, thick mattress covering the floor -- with sheets, blankets, and pillows provided.
     At dinner, the wine flowed like water.
     A continuing birthday party was going on (and had been for most of the day). After the birthday-boy was serenaded with "Happy Birthday" dw told our table that it was also my birthday, and I also got serenaded: "Happy Birthday" sung in English, German, Italian, Spanish, French, Basque and Polish -- it was a kick.
     At dinner we met, and mostly talked with, two Germans (40 or 50) -- Bernt and Ulrich -- we continued to run into each other for the next two weeks, and at the end in Santiago. And we talked a lot with two young Italian girls (15 or so), both named Sophia -- they were very nice  young people -- Walking with their families and just doing the first part of the walk. (We met them again in Los Arcos -- which was the end of their walk) --

It was an exceptional birthday day for me. No cake, but the second biggest celebration, and doubtless the most memorable birthday I ever expect to have.

BOOKS:  Living to Tell the Tale -- Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The first volume of his autobiography. If you're a fan of Marquez, this is required reading. Particularly interesting to me is how much of his fiction and fantasy was firmly based on people and locations in his (real) life. This volume stops when he proposed to his wife, and before he became internationally famous. Also -- Strange Pilgrims -- a collection of some of Marquez's short works.

NATURAL HISTORY: Giant desert tortoises can run as fast as one mph.

JOKE: A guy walks into a dentist's office and says: "You gotta help me doc, I think I'm a moth."
And the dentist says: "I can't help you I'm a dentist,  you need to see a psychiatrist."
The guy said: "I know, I already am."
"So what are doing here?" asked the dentist.
"Well," the guy said, "your light was on."      and so it goes.  

Why I'm Not Blogging

I fully intended to blog whenever I had a connection, but it's not going to happen. The connections are spotty (although today's is good) and only about one out of three locations is good enough. But mostly I won't be blogging because of time.

We walk all day, get a place to sleep, arrange for or buy food, wash clothes (by hand) socialize with fellow walkers and the day is largely over. Writing this blog takes time and I spend most of my writing time writing up my notes for the day. Alas, for those who are interested, there will be no extensive Camino blog until October.

One note of interest mostly to my friend Bob D.

Many years ago Bob and I traveled to South America to climb a mountain. I forgot to get a paperback to read, and at the very last second grabbed "The Letters of Flaubert". It was a very bad choice. This time I had a bit more time and decided I wanted something by Dumas who I haven't read in 30 years or more. No Dumas in the store I went to, but they did have "Scaramouche" (sp?) Certainly in the Dumas genre but alas, not of Dumas quality. I read the set-up, found the climax and read that. Gagged at the sappy ending and called it good. dw declined to try it.  And so it goes. DJA


 

PO'ed

I wrote a longer blog when we were in Pamplona -- the poor internet connection lost almost all of it. (the connection kept shutting off) I won't try to write another blog until I have a good connection. (this one is also poor -- one bar) --- I hope more a longer will follow, eventually --- I won't even try for pictures until I get home.  so it goes.  DJA

Cri De Guerre

---- ?Como estas, mis amigos? ---  I'm not going to embarrass myself or annoy readers by trying to write any more Spanish.  And this entry isn't a War Cry so much as a statement of intent: dw and I have committed ourselves to walk the Camino de Santiago. It's a 1000 year old pilgrimage, with several different routes, all converging on Santiago de Compostela in Galicia  (northwestern Spain). We're going to walk the French route (the most traveled way), a path that starts just inside France, crosses the Pyrenees, and 477 miles later ends in Santiago. In part, we're inspired by niece Hilary who did the walk a couple of years ago.

Saint James is the patron saint of Spain. Called James the Greater (he was bigger, or at least louder, than James the Lesser), he was martyred in the Holy Land by Herod Agrippa then his remains were taken in a stone boat (manned by angels) to NW Spain. Over the years he appeared a few times to help with ousting the Moors and was occasionally otherwise useful. After a few appearances by angels and the Virgin Mary the locals figured out where his uncorrupted body (albeit with severed head) and stone boat were buried. A great cathedral was raised, the Pilgrimage started, and now dw and I are going to walk the walk.

The very large majority of pilgrims walk the French route, but there are other routes -- The present French route is the last part of an older way that started in Canterbury England and passed through Paris. Other routes started in Rome (not Rome, Oregon), Poland, Seville, Barcelona, Lisbon, Toledo (not Toledo, Ohio) and a few other places.  Unfortunately we won't have the time to do much other than the walk. We hope to eke out enough time to visit Bilbao or northern Portugal but that seems pretty iffy. Being able to visit niece Hilary and family (presently in Sweden) is even more unlikely. Like most people we have more wants than means or time.

In the event, we haven't been doing much besides living and training for the walk. Gathering what we're going to take (as little as possible). Figuring out the boot arrangements: My training boots have given me a huge selection of blisters. I wore them in the Arctic but thanks to arthritis, gout, bunion and a new knee I walk differently and those boots simply won't do. (I considered just encasing my foot in moleskin -- instead decided to toss the boots -- they were pretty worn anyway). Now I'm trying my Grand Canyon boots. dw is having trouble finding something comfortable. Her old pair would probably last the hike, but something new would be preferable. She's tried several pairs (bring them home, wear them around the house) and returned them as unsatisfactory.

So the training proceeds. I haven't bicycled very much, although I did a 40 mile ride two days ago (giving my blistered feet a rest). Mostly we're trying to walk everywhere. We wear boots and carry a pack and frequently use walking sticks. I don't know how much weight dw is carrying (n.b. -- dw: at least 50 lbs. ). I have some assorted stuff and a 20 pound sandbag which absorbs moisture from the air, getting heavier and heavier until after 15 miles that sandbag weighs 30 or 40 pounds or more. It's amazing.

I have come across a few interesting things: The Worlds Largest horn tweeter. It is well placed and suited to give Overlook residents a thrill.

Unfortunately, it's merely a wind tunnel for the Freightliner Truck factory. It would be much better were it part of a sound system that I could use to talk to bad drivers and other assorted miscreants.

Portland, sited between and around two rivers is well suited for houseboats and floating homes. Some are grand, others not so much. Although this particular floating home is modest it has ship to shore transportation (largely hidden behind the bridge pier) garbage service and heat. What more could you want?

NATURAL HISTORY:  Some types of rhododendron in the Himalayan area will grow as tall as 80 to 100 feet.

WORDS OF THE DAY:  Philosophunculist --- a petty or insignificant philosopher --- I know one of those. (That is unfounded, unkind and unfair -- but sort of funny and he'll never read this anyway.)  And: Cravateer --- a person employed to tie cravats or neckties. Along with his hair stylist, I think Donald Trump is pretentious enough to have a cravateer.

And so it goes. DJA

Sea And Sand, Sea And Sand Redux

To celebrate our anniversary, dw and I spent two nights at the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport. The owner of the hotel also owns Rimsky-Korsakoffee House, a coffee house known for conversation and classical music, and also known for being the location of our second date. And look where that date brought us.

The 100 year old hotel is directly on the beach, so close that when the 9 earthquake and accompanying tsunami hits, anyone in the hotel had better be a really good swimmer. Our room was the Hemingway Room --- each hotel room is decorated to reflect, and stocked with books from, a different author: Ken Kesey, Mark Twain, Shakespeare, Poe, etc. and the dining room is known as the Tables of Content. The top floor has a respectable library, a large selection of picture puzzles, board games and magazines -- coffee from an actual coffee maker and in the evening hot mulled wine. And anyone staying there needs to enjoy such things for there are no TVs or radios. No wifi -- although I imagine cell phones would work. In all, a very pleasant place to spend a few days.

Other than lolling around the library we didn't do much. Cruised the town, which occupied an hour or so. Walked to the Yaquina Head lighthouse (7 miles round trip), which occupied several hours. Had dinner (with Guinness, of course) at Nana's Irish Pub two blocks from the hotel  -- during that dinner, we were called "cute" -- not so unusual for dw, but a first for me, at least a first in the last 60 years. 
     Our waiter was a dead ringer for Robson Green, the English actor. After some verbal thrashing around between dw and I:
Me: "Doesn't our waiter look just like that actor guy you like so much?"
dw: "I'm gonna need more than that."
"You know, your boyfriend. That English guy in McCabe and Mrs. Robinson." 
Then a woman at a table next to ours said: "You mean Robson Green? I was thinking the same thing."
   And we chatted for a while about the actor and PBS and other things. Then the woman (who was with her father, grandfather, or antediluvian husband -- it wasn't clear) said: "You guys are so cute. You're talking and laughing and having fun. I see so many couples just sit there without talking or anything."
   The woman was pleasant, and the conversation was pleasant, but I was taken aback. When I conjure up a self-image, depending on my mood, assorted words come up -- generally positive or  complimentary, sometimes not -- but I have never thought of myself as "cute". And I've never thought of dw and I as a "cute" couple. We weren't offended, but we were surprised and actually sort of pleased.   

-------------------------------------------------

A couple of weeks later RD and I (names are changed to shield the guilty) took a day trip to climb at Smith Rocks in central Oregon. The trip wasn't a complete failure, I led one climb and RD led zero climbs. And I was as slow on the trail and as timid on the climb as I've ever been. The weather was fine, if a bit hot, and the day was lovely -- the fields, grasslands and forests were still green. The mountains were snow covered. Everything about the day was great -- except for the climbing.

     Rescue litter in the climbing area. I considered lying down in it, hoping that some kind souls would pick me up and carry me.

     As I arrived back to the car from the climb, RD's phone rang: A Damsel In Distress!! After some talking and cursing and sighing it seemed that said damsel had lost her car keys someplace in about  100,000 acres of sand at Cannon Beach. Could we help? Said Damsel in Distress couldn't locate a rental car anywhere on the northern coast. The key was one of those with a chip that can't be duplicated except at the dealer --- and the nearest dealer was in Portland. (more cursing and sighing). Oh! Alas, alack the day.
   I admit, I didn't immediately leap to the rescue. Driving to Cannon Beach after the drive to Smith meant nearly a 400 mile drive for the day (on top of the strenuous, if dismal, climbing session). But I volunteered to drive RD to the beach. (he had a second set of keys for the Cannon Beach strandee) After several more phone conversations (more cursing and sighing) we agreed to ride to the rescue as soon as possible.
   We stopped in Portland, picked up some clean clothes and picked up dw who decided to come with us and continued on to the beach. (to be a bit clearer, the stranded maiden is RD's wife and certainly -- at the time -- a Damsel In Distress but not actually a maiden -- I assume)
   In the meantime, the Damsel in Distress had snagged a very nice suite in a motel, again directly on the beach, and again a very poor place to be when the Big One hits. So in the end the four of us had what turned out to be a very pleasant evening.
   RD and Damsel in Distress left early the next morning (things to do and people to see) and dw and I slept in a bit -- had coffee in front of the room's big ocean view window and watched a couple of fishing boats and a whale spouting. The fishing boats didn't actually spout although the whale certainly did.

Then dw and I had a leisurely drive home, completing our beach, and beach redux.

BOOKS: Scipio Africanus, Greater Than Napoleon (B.H. Liddell Hart) For most of the book, Hart explains and analyses  Scipio's victories over Hannibal and Hasdrubal (Hannibal's brother).
    (Scipio: Roman, Hannibal: Carthaginian --- the Punic wars, 235 B.C.E.)
(N.B. from dw: "snore")
   The early chapters are interesting and well written. Hart discusses the politics of the time, as well as the battles.  In the last chapter Hart compares Scipio to Napoleon and Alexander and Caesar and assorted other generals old and new. That part, the compare and contrast -- who cares?  But the bulk of the book is well worth reading.
   Scipio seems to have an assortment of pronunciations:
   "Sip'-e-o" -- I don't like this variation. I think it makes him sound like a tosspot.
   "Sheep'-e-o" -- I don't like this one either. Scipio took names and kicked butt, there wasn't much sheep-like about him.
    "Skip'-e-o" My preference. I think of Scipio happily larking about, slaughtering people, sinking ships, etc. Just sort of skipping around committing mayhem -- The guy you want on your side.
   On the subject of names, what parent would name a poor baby "Hasdrubal"? It sounds like he usually had a load in his pants, or like a tropical disease that causes water retention.

WORD OF THE DAY: Onolatry --- Worship of the donkey or ass. In the past I would have thought such a word was completely unneeded, but with the rise of The Tea Party I can understand it's utility.

NATURAL HISTORY: The quaking aspen has a double hinge arrangement on the stem of each leaf. -- Two sections of the stem are flattened at 90 degrees to each other. That hinge arrangement is what causes the distinctive shimmering effect when wind hits the trees. I have no idea what the evolutionary advantage is for this kind of leaf. (Oh, baby! I love your shimmer! I'd pollenate you any day!)

And so it goes. DJA

Dead Things, Hairballs, And Angels

Tuesday I was occupied with two of my very favorite things, holding a book and insuring that the couch didn't start floating around, when dw came up and said we needed to do something.

 "I am doing something." I said, using the book to gesture at the couch.

  "We need to do something besides being a lay-about. We can go for a drive or a walk or a bike ride."

Neither a walk nor a bike ride was truly compatible with a book and a couch so I opted for the drive. After all, since dw would be driving, I could still read and a reclining car seat is similar to a couch. The couch itself might ding up the walls or scare the cat but that rarely happens and we haven't  had an actual cat for several years.

   "OK, where do you want to go?"

And as it happened I knew exactly where I wanted to go: Mt. Angel Abbey in Mt. Angel (the town) to visit the museum and see the giant porcine hairball. --- Supposedly the biggest pig hairball in the world. dw was skeptical but willing, as long as we also visited the Wooden Shoe Tulip Farm in Woodburn.

Following inane Google directions (to the Wooden Shoe) we drove 99E to Woodburn. The traffic treated us gently and it was a more interesting drive than the freeway would have been, but Google's directions were logically impaired.  The tulip farm was still in preparation for it's yearly tulip viewings. They were setting up booths and tents. Play equipment for the kiddies. Elevated viewing stands --- in full swing they put on quite an act. And the tulips are pretty. Thursday the flowers were only starting to bloom (there was one swatch of red) with the other colors being spotty and spread around, but in a week or so I think it will be spectacular. We looked at some of the sights and dw bought several bunches of flowers to bring home.

On to Mt. Angel. We had lunch at Der Glockenspiel. (dw: sausage dog, me: sausage and spaetzle) and we each had a Warsteiner Dunkel dark beer. It was very good, although I thought the portions were skimpy for the price. (note: with a splat of bratwurst and mustard we fell off the vegetarian wagon) And afterwards we walked around a bit. Watched the glockenspiel do it's thing (it doesn't compare with the European classic ones but it's not too bad), walked by the Drunken German bar but didn't go in, looked at the (turned off) fountain with the little boy and girl dancing. (It's rather saccharine but well done. dw looked and said the little girl was showing some panties. I would have taken a picture, but I didn't want to be taken for a pervert.)  And finally drove to the Abbey to see The Worlds Largest Pig Hairball.

The Mount Angel Abbey Museum has a small, but world class eccentric, collection of stuff. As advertised a football sized pig hairball, set beside four smaller (pool ball sized) hairballs -- one is cut in half so you can appreciate that it really is a hairball. Next to the balls are two stuffed calves, one with four extra legs, the other with two extras. They are as bizarre as they sound. Also collected and displayed:   Some expected pictures of previous abbots. / An assortment of liturgical vestments. / A model of a sailing ship. / A collection of minerals and rocks. / Assorted Indian and Pacifica native art work. / Some rosaries. / Old farm tools / Arrow heads and other Indian relics. /  A box of pebbles from Jerusalem / some "Bird-Skin Art" -- ? -- / Some fossils / A replica of Christ's Crown of Thorns. / In short, a whole bunch of stuff.

And the largest collection is the "Larry Epping Wildlife Exhibit". Larry was an early graduate of the Abbey college. He made good, made a lot of money, and spent much  of his life going around shooting things. Killing them and stuffing them. At some point he probably thought: "All these dead things are so cool, I'm going to share them with the world." so he donated them to the Abbey Museum (I'm guessing they came with a large pot of money) On exhibit is one or more samples of every large mammal (predator and prey) native to North America.  (Really odd: a bald eagle and a golden eagle and a screech owl.  I have no clue as to how they get away with that) 

The Museum is a great example of what used to be known as a "Wonder Room" -- a room with a bunch of odd things that caught some body's interest.

After, we drove to Silverton, got gas (for the car) and walked around until we found an example of another world class one of a kind:  (This is a real parking meter, however only a few are left)

And we looked at the shrine for Bobby, A Great Collie --- the real source of the "Lassie Come Home" book, movie and TV series.

And then we

 came home. I for one was entirely satisfied by the Great Swine
Hairball.

(N.B. dw, while editing this entry, said: "Oh, I forgot about the stuffed animals."
"Good lord," I said, "How could you forget all of that?"
"I think I was overwhelmed by the hairball." --- fair enough --- )

 My Word of the Day: Truncate --- to be sure, not an unusual word. To shorten, or cut off the top. A word we all ran into in math --- a truncated pyramid, or cone, or triangle --- My question is: did the Guillotine truncate Robespierre and Saint-Just -- If anyone deserved to be truncated, those two did.

What does a quantum duck say? ---- "Quark, quark"

So a priest, a buxom blond and a rabbi walked into a bar. The bartender said: "What is this, some kind of a joke?"

Natural History Lesson of the Day: Mourning doves are the pinheads of the bird world.