Of Garages And Gunboats

I think I'm going to let the magazine article rest without any further discussion or lotus-eater navel-gazing. It's a huge part of who I was, and shaped who I am. 'nuff said.

I've been spending a few hours a night in the Augean stables of my life... sadly, unlike Hercules, I can't divert a river through the garage. Something pleasant about a relatively brainless task at the end of the day, and knowing that Tammy will be able to park in the garage makes it worthwhile.

Spent an all-too-short weekend with Reese and Rich (see, Reese, you got listed first. Happy now?) over the Labor Day break. I discovered a heretofore unknown talent for capsizing jet skis and was able to pick the most obnoxious, unrideable trail in all of Utah to try and climb on my bike. We're going to have to go back to Sundance and ride the mountain... such a pretty corner of the world.

Back to work, more this weekend with any luck.

- Ryan

Something I've always carried inside

Paul found me in a magazine, immortalized on film at 17 years old, with good friends at a show. There's a lot I want to say about that time and place, but I'm still reveling in the feeling right now and don't want to try and interrupt for the sake of pinning one or two pieces down.

This is a time that we can live our dreams
and a time so pure, at least it seems
a simple life, a modest one
where money plays a minor role
and I pray and I'll try to keep this spirit inside me
as I start to grow old
this is an era of creativity
good music and good friends
and the dreams that we reach for
seem to be at the tips of our hands
and it's getting too late to appreciate
and it soon will be the past
but I'll still have these memories
but why can't they last
maybe they can
this is a time, this is a time we'll remember
this is a time with lots of hope
and very little fear
and a time where every move we make seems so sincere
but when the song is sung and the moment's gone
only you'll know all we've shared
and I hope that you can rekindle too
this same feeling in the air
This is a time we can remember

(Ray Cappo, Youth of Today)

Rocks. Why is it ALWAYS Rocks?

And it came to pass that there were in those days rocks. And it was pleasing unto those gathered into the hills that the rocks should be organized and placed in such a manner that there would be no biking upon the hills.
And it came to pass that there were those that were wroth that there were rocks on the hills, and they smote their bikes with other bikes and swore in their wrath that they would bike upon the rocks.
And it came to pass that many years later, the bones of those that rode upon the rocks were bleached and scattered by the sun and diverse beasts and the people that thought that they might just try to ride on the rocks a little bit when no one was looking were scared, yea, they verily hid themselves from the rocks.
And it came to pass that the rocks abode for a space of time, yea, many years passed and bikes were no longer made out of wood and could ride upon the rocks
And the Keepers of the Rocks saw this, and conspired among themselves to slay those that were riding upon the hills and verily, upon the rocks, and they then took all the oxygen away from that place so that the bikes were left riderless and abandoned.
And there arose a great wheezing in the land, and yea, many bikes were abandoned upon the hills and left to breed without supervision.
Thus endeth the first Book Of The Rocks With Bikes On Them. Let no man add unto it, yea, especially if he rideth the rocks that were found to be too hard, and besides, I'm tired and there may be mountain lions so we should turn back they're all idiots that go up there.

Bergen Peak, Evergreen, CO. Trailhead is at 7,800 feet above sea level, and the bloody peak is 1,980 feet higher than that, with great views, assuming that you can ride the 10 linear miles to get there while the rock fanatics pelt you with pamphlets espousing the Advantages of Being Smitten with Rocks. Try and fall over on the fanatics, as they're slightly softer than the rocks themselves.

With various adventures, mostly involving deer flies, the ride was a hair under four hours, up and back, and easily the hardest bloody trail I've ridden. Or walked while swearing at rocks. Tammy did it all too - she's turned into an amazing stamina factory, and frankly, has better balance and judgement while riding than I do. Those that have seen the X-rays understood this part already.

Freaking awesome day, though. Had lunch at a little Italian bistro at the foot of the peak, sitting outside and watching various stunned and anaerobic souls stumble back from the misery that comprised trying to summit. Being a total clydesdale and lacking grace, I'd managed to shear off some fairly important parts of the bike (strangely, not by falling on them) and so I have a new cassette and got my rear hub rebuilt for the second time. I swear, in my next life I'm coming back as a dwarf just for the sheer fun of not breaking everything I sit on.

I'm surrounded by Lilliputian devices. Help. Help.

- Ryan

The Healing Power of PBJ

Things are starting to feel normal again. My shoulder really only bugs me when I'm brushing my teeth (the jiggle-jiggle-jiggle of the brushing motion propagates up my arm and feels really creepy when the bone floats free.) The road rash is down to the odd pink spot on my arm, and the fluid on the hip is slowly being absorbed. No sign of getting a tan yet, but there is hope.

Been a hard year, but I haven't given up yet. Nothing has been more than a speed bump when all is said and done, and I still have the 'wanna' feeling when I see my bike.
I rode 50+ miles total on Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, and felt great afterward. No shoulder aches, just the usual jello-legs and falling sound asleep with my arms over my head at 8:30 so that when I woke up a few hours later, I couldn't feel my hands.

Patty asked me to come up with a six-word memorial, and as much as I hate to write my own eulogy, I think this is as close to the mantra I try and follow as I can express succinctly:

Turn rocks over; never stop exploring.

Corollary: life is sweet. Play hard and find things to help maintain a child-like sense of amazement at all of the things that surround us.

I don't have a relentless thirst for knowledge in the sense that I'm driven to extremes when something piques my interest. However I do find that I'm happier when I understand the why.
I love things that enable us as humans (even if I never fully exploit the capabilities of said object myself.) Life is best experienced as a gestalt, all-encompassing event, not a series of compartmentalized and formalized happenings and periods. There is no 'kids as toddlers' phase in my head, it's all 'life.' No breaks, no sadness when an epoch ends - there is no epoch. It's all one big happy ball of being alive and having the best kids and wife and family and friends to share it with.

Understanding why Tammy loves me is the one exception... I'm content to let that remain a beautiful and perpetual mystery. I have to have a little wonder in my life.

- Ryan

Beware of the answers.

I'm late in getting this posted, mostly because there's a fear of self-aggrandizement in anything I write as an attempt to praise fathers and fatherhood.

I learned very early on that in school, if you asked a question, you'd get an answer at the lowest common denominator level. If you asked why the sky was blue, you'd be told 'it's because that's what your eyes see' which is a non-answer at best and misleading otherwise.
Now, if I went home and asked Dad, I'd get a short adventure into the land of wavelengths, an explanation of refraction and scattering of light, and maybe a touch of particle theory as the sprinkles on the cupcake of knowledge.

The latter was almost worse than the former, as I knew that I didn't understand it, but, unlike the educators that didn't seem to trust me with the straight dope, Dad did. He never dumbed it down, which made me feel that even if I didn't get it now, he knew I'd get it eventually.

Unfortunately, when Burke asks me why the sky is blue, I have to tell him that it's the reflection of the oceans as I never remember the right answer.

Somewhere along the line I seem to have inherited Dad's tolerance for pain. It's entirely possible that I was the reason he had such a high tolerance... I don't think I was all grace and beauty when handling hammers, tennis racquets, fireworks, anything thrown, any heavy machinery, cars, my own sweet self... I don't know that any baker's dozen guardian angels could have kept up with intercepting all of my randomness, but Dad did. Or at least knew how to stop the bleeding and/or fix the gaping holes in the ceiling.

It's traditional when accepting any major award to declare that you were lifted on the shoulders of giants and able to see beyond what had been done before (unless you're Murray Gell-Mann, in which case you announce that you were surrounded by dwarfs.) I haven't gotten any awards recently, other than the supreme ones... the love of my wife, the happiness of my children and the knowledge that the world is a lot more secure and we aren't lost or destined to be miserable as humans. Really, I guess those were things that were awarded to me, not that I earned, but I'm grateful nonetheless. It's good to have been raised (in both senses of the word) to see the things that matter, to see a life lived in accordance with the words spoken, and to feel hope and love as concrete items.

Nice work Dad.

P.S. We're not going to take the kids back until they know Avogadro's Number and what it means. Hey kids, guess what you get to do instead of playing on your vacation! Physics! HOORAY!

- Ryan

The Sweet Smell After Rain

The weather has been beautiful, with the rare blue skies that you only find at altitude... sun, light winds in the evenings and the sounds of kids playing outside til dark. Glad to be alive, gimpy arm or not.

The kids are all out of school, end-of-year camping trips over and done for Burke and Lauren. Nothing but the slow brain-death of cartoons beckons, and cereal can now be eaten for three meals a day, or until the milk runs out.

I got a ride in last night, so I'm officially through feeling sorry for myself. I may try and elicit some pity backrubs now and again.

I'll post a few recent pictures when I boot back into Windows (haha, I'm posting this while running Linux, I'm geekier than you) and continue to putter along.

Life is sweet.

Bionic Man In Progress

I'm over my limit for surgeries this year, which means that I'm going to trust the doctor that told me to endure it for three weeks. Shoulder should be back to normal, or very close to it, at that point.
I'll have a cool moving bump on that side unless I opt to get it fixed. Playing 'Wait and See,' which is my all-time least-favorite game.

Worst part about being on the injured reserve list is that I was just on the cusp of getting FIT, and now I'm idle. I remember Tyler Hamilton riding in the Tour de France with a broken collarbone... I feel like a pansy.

That is, until I move my arm wrong, then I feel like a happy ground-level firework of pain.

Had a nice affirmation from the nurse in the ER, though - in pain and worried and all that, and still had a resting 66 pulse rate, which is not something I've had in 15 years.

Tammy's taking advantage of the time to ride daily, and is killing the hills and new trails they put in the neighborhood. Got a sweeeeeet picture of her bike covered in its own weight in mud one morning... she was one brave kiddo to wade through the sea of muck out there. Everything goes to horrible sticky mud when it rains due to the high clay content of the soil... she's lucky she didn't come home looking like a terracotta wife.

Back to work, lunch break rambling is over.

- Ryan

He Said, "The Sheriff is NEAR"

And, likewise, the end of another school year is nigh. Wish work got out for summer vacation.

Think I'm going to sulk about this for a while, then eat more Lucky Charms for dinner. That'll show them for being so mean to me.

Songs My Mother Never Taught Me

I wonder how my tastes would have differed in life if I hadn't been exposed to so much art as a child. Once over the illicit thrill of seeing nudes from the 1400's, I returned to the books my mom had accrued over the years to look at the technique, the brushstrokes, the carriage of the models... and despaired. Rembrandt was especially hard on a twelve-year-old, with his perfect skin tones, unreal lighting and chiaroscuro; fabrics that had heft, weave and draped around the forms elegantly. I couldn't duplicate that mastery.
Somewhere in there, Picasso started to make sense. He'd moved from the real to the insane, as it seemed to me at the time, and I reveled in his ability to paint from well beyond the normal event horizon. Granted, there was the sneaking suspicion that he'd been drinking his own paint, but, really, does it matter where lies the headwater of genius?

I'm no Picasso. I'm still really close to Calvin in terms of world outlook, and I don't mean the reformist. At some point I'm going to get busted for doodling dinosaurs eating middle management while in a meeting...

I was left free, ultimately, to find out who I was and what I liked. If that meant rejecting a lot of the strictures of conventional thought and wisdom, my mom let me do so, with the understanding that she was not going to provide a 'Get Out Of Consequences Free' card. This may have been the greatest gift ever given to me, as it let me become who I am. Having many viewpoints available while growing up, and the ability to discuss both sides of things with my parent(s) was a rare and beautiful thing, I realize now. I didn't paint the Sistine Chapel, and I didn't give anyone my ear as a touching and really creepy gesture, but I found my muse and my art and my eudaimonea all the same.
I credit being surrounded by things of worth and beauty with the emphasis on what really mattered for a lot of my stability in life now.

There is a long list of things that I've derived from my mother. And, to be fair, many of them stand out because Dad was right there with her, but Dad will have to wait a month for his anthem and tribute.

Things I Got From Mom:

• My hairline.
• My tolerance and appreciation of classical music.
• My self-image as a happy kid (I remember sitting on the stairs when she told me my default state was 'happy', maybe at age 11? Whether it was true or not, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy)
• My love of art and beauty in the classical sense.
• My ability to draw.
• My sarcasm (it's a good thing.)
• My Eagle Scout award.
• Understanding how a good marriage works (again, Dad gets credit here too.)
• Knowing that women should be smart, capable, well-read and able to do anything they want.
• A letter every few days when I was overseas or otherwise away from home.
• A sense of 'home' to come back to when I was done being away.
• My ability to speak and write coherently when I can be bothered to do so.
• Some really cool cousins and relatives and grandparents. I felt planted deep while growing up, and it was nice to have a sense of place in the world.
• The ability to match my belt to my shoes and not look like I got dressed with the lights off.
• My near-magical ability to have my respiratory system slam shut when cats are near.
• Same as above, but with random pollen.
• My covetousness of really good lawnmowers
• The sure knowledge that putting a log on and having an entree will fix most problems
• A brother and sister that I count as my closest friends

Things I Did Not Get From Mom

• Any appreciation of opera ('Live from the Met' is illegal under the Geneva convention.)
• A desire to weed the garden.
• Being insistent that the kids eat their Brussels Sprouts.
• A desire to ever HAVE Brussels Sprouts.
• Anything to do with liver.
• My love of all music that you can dance to without wearing a powdered wig.
• Any sugar cereal for the first eighteen years of my life.

I'm sure a few more things will occur to me, so I'll come back and edit this as the day progresses.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

[ Edit: mom noted that it wasn't Brussels Sprouts. It was bean sprouts, and they're worse. ]

...let there be light.

Shhhh. Sleeping.

















Yes, she's covered in band-aids. She may even need some of them. We can't tell.

I found some really cool dragonfly lights for Tammy a while back, and the Chairman of the Decorating Committee moved them to drape over Sage's headboard. They are just bright enough to keep her happy and able to read in bed, but not quite so bright that she wants to get out of bed and play. Besides, we've been showing her pictures of monsters and pointing under her bed to help her understand that Getting Out Of Bed Is Not Good.

She was a good sport about it - I only got one heavy sigh and I can only imagine what weirdness the sound of the shutter introduced into her dreams.

Off to slay breakfast.

[update: When I was posting the picture, Tammy came up and said, "she looks dead." Lauren said the same thing a while later. So much for my ability to capture the delicate bloom and innocence of youth.]

- Ryan

I Dig Pain.

Henry Rollins once said, "I think about the meaning of pain. Pain is personal. It really belongs to the one feeling it. Probably the only thing that is your own. I like mine.”

I don't like mine yet, but I don't fear it like I used to. Too much of what we do to grow as humans requires pain as a gateway. To avoid it and expect progress and difference in our lives is, at best, folly.

Yes, this is going to turn into another biking story.

I met a friend after work to ride a trail that I'd heard of, but never explored myself. He'd ridden it several times this year, and lured me with tales of adventure, glory and heaving up a lung. I was skeptical, but you can't really argue or ride slower than a guy that has to use an asthma inhaler and still consider yourself manly.
The dadgum trail has two parts. The first has 1,343 vertical feet of climbing over 2.4 linear miles. Except the miles are not linear, they're UP and nothing currently available to science can accurately measure a rockfall. And the whole trail, basically, is God's gift to rocks and purgatory for guys on bikes.
The second half of the trail, or the 'nice scenic loop' was 884 feet of vertical gain and 733 of vertical loss. In other words, Not Level Ground.
Also, more rocks.

I ride very much like a paranoid father of four children (i.e., a complete chicken) when I don't know where the drop-offs to oblivion are on a new trail.
The fear of being afraid is stronger than the fear of the actual fall in me. Once I know where the things are that may cause me to pause, stop, get hung up and crash by losing momentum, then I can ride past them.
The power to do the thing comes by having done it.

I didn't rock the climbs, I didn't bomb the descents and we got passed by a lot of guys with suspiciously large trucker guts. Nice to find out that the definition of 'fitness' has nothing to do with actual shape after I've given up the good soda and junk food.

I also found that the urge to stop is enormous when multiplied by nervousness and fear over being someplace that may be over your head in terms of technical skill. Add in a dash of fatigue and a few thousand rocks and, well, it's not an easy or pretty victory over gravity. In most cases with anything technically difficult, slowing down will lead to a harder fall than trusting yourself and the bike and riding through it. Having a friend that's done it to show you that it can be done is priceless.

We saw a lot of folks turn around before the halfway point, and they all seemed pretty happy to have made it as far as they did. Makes me wonder if there isn't always something more, a set of skills and endurance out there further that someone else already has mastered; they see me and think, 'Yes, he made it halfway... maybe one day he'll reach the end and see what I've seen.'

My legs hurt. I have small red marks on my legs from the yucca plants I ran into. I have bonus red marks all over from rocks that kicked up from my front tire. I rode with most of my mouth numb from Novocaine. I managed, as I do every stinking time I ride, to push my chainring into my right calf and leave a giant greasemark and welt. My lungs burned and my legs felt half-numb on the climb up... almost at that point where the muscles just refuse to fire when the brain says GO.
I'm not saying this to give the impression that it was climb worthy of notice and to beg accolades for having done it. There were far too many riders of all skill levels, some with K-mart pig-iron bikes that were ahead of me for that to ring true.
But, I rode it. I didn't cave in and walk when I could have... and that means that the pain from pushing past mental barriers and the desire to stop may bear fruit. I'll be stronger tomorrow than I am today. It was ultimately as much of a reward as I decided I wanted.

Incidentally, I grinned like a monkey with the full run of a banana plantation on the way down. There are rewards to long climbs, and one of them is the descent. Remember the feeling when you'd see Bo and Luke Duke jump the General Lee over the creek and get away from the sheriff?

Yeah, it's better than that.

More Lies

Burke is trying desperately to finish Eragon before the weekend is over so he can watch the movie. Tammy bought it for him, but being a good mom, movie comes after some brain exercise.

Photographed in the moment by Tammy:

















I loved the poster filter in Photoshop so much that I left it in place. Click on it to enlarge it - really cool effect.

Burke also started his own blog, here.
Warning: for those with a low dragon tolerance... look elsewhere for your entertainment.

Lauren couldn't take it anymore, and she's got a blog up as well. Lauren's blog.

Time for dinner - cordon bleu and peas. I'm a well-kept man, I am.

- Ryan

Lies My Camera Told Me

I'm going to try and resist the temptation to turn this into a photography blog, but...
with new camera in hand, I don't think I'll be able to avoid it entirely.

















There's a lump under the blanket, giggling, but she didn't come out for the picture. Guess we'll have six more weeks of winter.



















We get phenomenal light coming in off the back of the house in the afternoon. I left this picture of Ashley untouched, other than cropping it a little.
Turns out that Photoshop doesn't have a 'hairdryer' filter, sadly...

I've been asked to take pictures of the prom queens as they primp, lacquer the walls of the bathroom with hairspray and suchlike... Ana and a group of her friends are going as whatever the opposite of stag is. Doe, I guess? Can you go doe to a date dance?

Update:

Shot a ton of pictures, girls looked great, but since I still feel the urge to be snarky about having to shoot a bunch of girly girl things, here's my version of the event.














Mwaaahahahaha.

- Ryan

punkrockacademyfightsong

Been a while since I've posted anything of significant content. I blame the encroachment of adulthood on a life otherwise unblemished by the intent to grow up.

There are a few like-minded folks here in the area that had been wanting to go out and pretend to be seventeen again, so we did. Caught a four-band-for-twelve-bucks show (says a lot about the caliber of the bands, I'm sure) a few weeks back. Great, great fun, other than being the old guys at the club... Most of us are follically challenged to one degree or another and have fought back by shaving our heads, so we looked like the poster children for the Aryan Nation. Oi Oi Oi.
The show, other than the opening act, was great. The opening band seemed to have lost the thread of of the master plan somewhere, leaving something like:

Step 1: Buy instruments
Step 2: Get booked at a club
Step 3: Act like goons on stage (does beer help? test theory!)
Step 4: ?
Step 5: Mansions, fast cars, nekkid girls; sacks of money

There's just something electric about seeing a band play live in a small club, close enough to see the emotion and belief in the songs. I love it.

Authority Zero in full roar.



There were a trio of delightful Daughters Of The Sons Of The Trailer Park in front of us at the show. They'd apparently decided in early childhood that beer and Ho-Ho's constituted, in spite of all contradictory experience, a valid diet. They also thought that enough beer would be in the bloodstreams of all and sundry so that no one would care about the fact that they... had really great personalities.
I've never seen a mosh pit empty out so fast when they waddled in. No safe place to push off of them, nothing you'd want to touch, and no penicillin wipes handy in case you accidentally made contact.



Top photo is mine, bottom one was just too good not to include. Note the face being made directly behind Moshzilla. Classic.

I'll try and post the story of the 40-mile weekend, the best food ever and the If You See It, You Can Puke On It tale of one girl's fight to cover everything in the house with yuck. Tomorrow, barring real work or good weather.

Bike has dibs on my free time, capice?

- Ryan

Landmines

One nice thing about having my own laptop is that I can finally keep all my music with me, in digital form. One not-so-nice thing is sharing a music library with three other iPod users in the house.

We have substantially differing musical tastes, which means that when I'm rocking along (that's pronounced 'rawkin' to you neophytes) I randomly hit the song equivalent of a surprised and angry buffalo in the headlights. Brake, spin, end up in the ditch...

(Yes, girls, your music is bad. As in cukka-poo. Once you're adults, you'll realize how smart your dad is and how his musical tastes are impeccable and the only true path to audio nirvana.)

No, mom, my musical tastes haven't changed significantly, I just have less tolerance for poor musicianship and poor recordings. Thankfully, there's still plenty of shouty music with which I can annoy you and dad when we move back into your basement. With all four kids and the dog. And maybe a pony.

Mantra

I suppose I should be emulating Samuel Coleridge and writing my own opiate-induced epic poem before the good stuff wears off... but my muse doesn't work in that way. Vicodin has completely failed to invoke Kublai Khan, pleasure domes or, really, anything. Unless I shouldn't be able to hear colors.

I can't tell.

As for my muse, she's asleep. After working her usual wonders with the kids and taking care of me as I tried to form words and gum some eggs for dinner, she's all funned out and is sleeping the sleep of the just.

I tried to find my inner island of peace and sanctuary during some rather un-fun dental work today, and I completely failed. The immediacy and proximity of the surgical instruments, and the method in which they were being employed to exact payment for past sins... it jarred me back, all too aware of what was going on.
The only image that I could focus on that would stay through all of the noise and pain was Tammy. Not surprising, as she's always been there for me through the chaos, mess and insanity of my everyday life.

Here's to good women with endless patience, beauty and the ability to cope with it all, with astounding grace and love.

I'm running out of pillars to put under her.

...brainnsss...

Pinkeye? Not so much. Kids just got back from the pediatrician, and it's looking like adenovirus.

I'll clean the post up later and add a some real content, but you should realize it's all just an excuse to post this picture. Be kind to us as we lurch and stumble up the street, eating stray dogs and whatever else our decaying synapses identify as needed sustenance.



On an even scarier note... we measured Sage last night. My childhood pediatrician had a neat trick - you measure height at 2 1/2 years old, then double it to predict the adult height. It worked within an inch of my height, and was about dead on for my brother and sister.

Using this, Ashley's due to hit somewhere around 5'10", Burke should be about 6'0", Lauren may reach 6'2".

...and Sage, you ask? She's a meter tall as of yesterday, two days before her un-birthday. Rrrraaaawwwwwrrrrr STOMP STOMP STOMP CRUSH.

- Ryan

...it burnss us, Preciousss

Sage looked a little goopy around the eyes last night, and sure enough, we all woke up to this. Sometimes, it's really okay NOT to share...














Please refer to our house as 'Barad-dûr' in all future correspondence. Thank you.

Wheel-side down.

I was able to ride after work, finally got my wheels back in the dirt and out and away from pavement, debris and noise.

There's no adequate way to explain the feeling of despair that sets in as you madly flail at the pedals, hoping against hope that the endorphins will kick in soon. The approach to the mesa trail that is my daily escape is several miles of gradual uphill, winding between prairie dog colonies and cactus, scrub oak and rock.
Then, as unwelcome as underwear for Christmas, there is several hundred yards of steep scree, gravel and watermelon-sized rocks on the final, and steepest hill... I try and ride the hill clean
(no stopping to rest, push, or occasionally, throw up) and usually end up just shy of the dry heaves and with a heart rate somewhere around 'hummingbird.' Yes, I do this for fun.
Once you get past thinking too much and reach the state of mind where you no longer have to consciously direct your breathing, your arms, your legs... there's a powerful moment where you lose the little voice behind your eyes that constantly natters away, and there is just gestalt existence. If you can maintain that between-thought state, there's no arrangement of mere words that will convey the sense of flow, of reading the curves and leaning in, pushing against the earth itself... and feeling it kick away beneath you, leaving you free to float for a moment before gravity catches you.

Somewhere in the rush and flow, everything that has weighted me down throughout the day is... gone. Sweat isn't generally thought of being an aid to gaining perspective on life, nor is dirt, and yet, they are my catalyst.

The only thing that makes a good ride sweeter is looking back and seeing Tammy and the kids stretched out in a train of happy noise and tumult. It's proof that the very best things in life are not diluted when shared among family and friends, only multiplied.

Life is awfully sweet.

- Ryan

Worth my weight in plastic eggs

And, Lo, there were chocolate bunnies in those days, and they waxed strong except in direct sunlight or when they were left where Sage could find them. And those that ate of the head without first eating of the body were cursed unto the fifth generation, and smitten with Easter grass until they were very nearly sore.

Tammy made crepes for Easter breakfast, and yea, verily, they were full of awesome. Well, once you added the fruit and pudding and cream and sprinkles and jam and made what is technically known as a 'ball,' anyway.

Ana introduced us to the fine Eastern European sport of egg fighting, in which you hold your egg and either hit someone else's, or they hit yours. Symbolic of the... the... the fearsome egg-wielding Cthulhu enthusiasts that used to smite the unbelievers' eggs with other eggs, I guess.
Twas great fun until Ashley had her Grandmaster of Egg-Fu medals taken away after the Olympic Committee caught her using a plastic egg. Tammy then trumped that by using an already-shelled egg for maximum rubbery impact. Soooo glad that the fridge no longer smells like a sulfur-emitting volcanic vent...

I learned a valuable lesson: never, ever attempt to explain the digital mapping of a waveform as an analogue for how truth is passed on. It may take counseling and/or a few hits with a mallet to get those poor kids in my class to be able to blink normally again.

The happiest times in my life are the simplest, such as the daily wind-down, late in the evening. It's when Tammy and I just talk about... whatever. The kids come through and either ask for kisses or hugs and wander off to bed (sometimes eight or nine times in Sage's case, who also, as a bonus, occasionally begins vacuuming at 11:00 pm.)
Nice to have everything that matters to me safe and warm and accounted for, hatches battened down and all dreaming of the next big adventure.

- Ryan

...all this and puppet stew

Things are close to normal again after a chaotic February.

I'm fully recovered from surgery and enjoying my new life as a woman even more than I thought possible. The kids are looking forward to spring break and hyper as little crack monkeys on... um, crack.

Tammy is beautiful like a thousand sunrises.

Ana's around here somewhere, but likely on Skype and not paying attention to us.

We're going to try and figure out the formatting and graphics angle to the blog, so if you log in and immediately start a grand mal seizure, Tammy says it's my fault.

- Rhino

Patience, more coming

Just getting this blog started - give me a few weeks for meaningful content.

- Ryan