On Ignorance And Apathy

In an Archemedian moment, I have risen, towel-clad, to attempt to convey what thoughts arose amidst the froth and foam.

It seems to be that each bit of knowledge, each key finding or mastered form of expertise that we accrue merely serves to illuminate what areas lie further out in the gloom, dimly glimpsed and of uncertain magnitude and complexity. And yet, so much of what we are sure we know, we really may not.
I thought often of how glorious and adept I would seem were I whisked back in time, like the heroes of A Conneticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court in Mark Twain's classic, or the even more revered The Time Machine by H.G. Wells. I could end disease, build skyscrapers, fly jet-powered craft to the amazement of those unlearned and properly worshipful natives...

But, really, could I? Could many of us?

Take the notion of the germ theory of disease. Easily proved, simply show someone the spiricles and other mutilegged wonders in a drop of water. Well, as soon as you build a microscope. Glass should be easy, that's just melted sand... and I'm sure someone around there would have a forge so I could make some kind of a frame and, oh, yes the tube of the microscope and... um. Err. Well, perhaps that's a bit complex. How about something simple, like bleach? Clean clothes, sterile bandages, and you just... umm. Mine it? Make it out of something and that other thing and some water?
Likewise most things we take for granted.
Steam power, refined metals, a stable ink for printing, paper to print things on, plastics - many of the simple and/or complex things that make up our daily existence have passed beyond our ken and ability to make for ourselves.
At best, any adventuring into the past would have simply seen me relegated to a teller of fanciful tales, if not actually being labeled as insane.

And yet, basic theories of gravitation were worked out by such simple timings as the human pulse or counted numbers while dropping objects... and the fact that the world was round could be proved by means no more advanced than digging two wells far, far apart, with an ordinary shovel, and then measuring where the sunlight fell at noon with regard to the mouth of each well on the same day.

Advances in science do not carry all of the accompanying developmental effort and understanding with them. There must be a process of discovery of the basic principles, exercising them, and then, with persistence, eventual mastery. Exploration into uncharted territory with the expectation that the miracle of GoreTex and the magic of Kevlar will save you frequently results in additional entries in the annals of Darwin, should you not actually be able to light a camp stove.

I remember having a man from NASA come to our elementary school when I was in the second grade. He had a piece of the material from which the astronauts' suits were made, and invited any of the teachers to try and cut it. This was suitably impressive, as it couldn't be marred or even deformed by an teacher bringing considerable force on them... and then, the man who had the ability to make things so sufficiently advance as to be magic told us about the most powerful words he knew.

They were, "I don't know."

He was in no way espousing ignorance as a thing to be proud of - profoundly, he showed us that the smartest man that we had seen was quite able to say that he didn't know everything, and to do so with no loss of face or shame. This was a watershed moment for me. There was, even then in the heights of hubris attained by reading my father's science fiction novels, certainty that I didn't know as much as I professed, let alone much about anything. And yet, that wasn't the point. It's very hard to determine what areas of growth and learning one has if pride and fear of admitting less than omniscience dictate that we not express any such lack.

Those that turn rocks over and marvel at the simple things found there, or the patterns of a fern, replicating ever smaller, or the grains and composition of a rock, or whence comes inspiration and altruism and the dare to ask the nature of diety are those that I love. And with this love of finding untrammeled paths comes the knowledge that we can explore and move and learn. And even more precious than those that have bravely ventured out into ignorance and returned with tales of fantastic new things are those that have done so and then encourage others to do the same.

I remember sitting down with my father after having asked what would happen if the earth suddenly stopped. He could have simply told me, but did not. With a series of questions and guidance, allowing me to progress past my own area of known forms and maths and into new territory. And so, with hesitating steps, scribbled calculations and encouragement, I was able to work out the rotational velocity of the earth. Heady wonderment followed, and queries about inertia, gravity and Newtonian concepts naturally followed, and some subtle enlightenment was gained.

Safely ensconced on the shoulders of giants, I still had little reach, but oh, what a view. I could borrow the surety that things could be reached given time, and that grew into the knowledge that I had the capacity to do so. I wonder how much of my resilience to despair is due to this concept being ingrained at an early age.

I remember feeling the pit of my stomach drop away when I heard that Carl Sagan had died. My next thought was kind of a bleak wondering who would champion the pursuit of knowledge and especially wonder at the interweavings and beauty of our universe. I don't know that anyone has stepped up to fill that space, or that there will be ever be an exact fit into the void he left. I don't have his power to explain and make the very large and very small fit nearly into a very normal-sized head. I do share his wonder and the love of the interactivity of all things.

And in time, perhaps there will be another champion; the pursuit of understanding and knowledge will go on regardless. We can each step up and perhaps even do more than a famous personality could by being there for those around us and working through life together, pointing out the wonders to each other.

At the heart of such things is not the knowing of the answers outright, but of knowing the steps to take to find out for oneself, and the confidence that things can be, and will be, knowable.

I'll be frivolous and goofy next time.

- Ryan

What The Aftermath Of Fun May Look Like

Spent the day Saturday with the intent of clearing the garage enough to use the saw so that Tammy won't have to face a partially finished window seat... and true to form, ended up building a bike repair station instead.

I have no idea how she puts up with me.

Cleaned, poked, prodded, repaired... and replaced some extremely worn brake pads, and then got to ride through the river bottom to old town Castle Rock with my sweetheart. We puttered around, riding randomly on sidewalks as we waited for our favorite restaurant to open and talked about hats and gears and paint and all the stuff that makes up the random bliss that is our life together.
... and then we ate like kings while we jealously hovered over our bikes on the patio. So, sort of jealous kings with no armies or minions but with really divine crab claws and focaccia bread and free Coke refills.

And, Lo, it came to pass that after Saturday, it came to pass that it was Sunday, and yea, the trails did look exceeding tempting, yea, sore beautiful were the paths upon the mount. And we did dwell at home and did not tempt God nor his smiting by riding, and the rocks were wroth that there would be fewer people to bruise and rend.

But it was a close thing, and luckily Monday followed quickly thereafter.

Toiled merrily away all day today (yes, Monday) grousing about the fact that it snowed here this morning. Also, just to keep thing cheery, I sputtered and smoldered over the fact that the trails were going to be something like terra cotta soup and there was no way that I'd be able to ride. Made the day just fly by, really...
Thankfully, there were rogue servers that had to be 'rassled back into the corral and I stayed busy, but then, somehow, I ended up at home, and the clouds broke, and there were glimpses of blue amidst the lowering grey... and I am a weak, weak man. I rode.

The fruits of eight miles of slow pedaling, careful balancing (a foot put down in the primordial ooze would be swallowed to mid-shin, and not returned in a pristine fashion) are proudly displayed above.
Not pictured: much work with a stick clearing out my own weight in clay from the rear of the bike. Also not pictured: the fun of riding a mile, downhill, straight from the trail onto pavement with tires packed with mud. And then hitting 30 mph. Also also not pictured: the liberation of said mud in glorious arcs, earth set free from the surly bonds of gravity, and the pain of having that hit you smack in the forehead. Cars were giving me a nice thirty-foot bubble in which to be a dirt redistributionist, which just shows that nobody loves it when you try and commune with nature and traffic at the same time.

I love my bike. I love my wife more, but my wife loves me no matter what, and my bike only loves me when I'm pushing myself to be better.

We all need bikes.

-Ryan

Things I Have Eaten Today

A muffin.
A banana.
A lot of soda.
A CamelBack full of water.
A sandwich.

...and a LOT of my brother's dust.

Great, great day. Perfect singletrack, best company in the world (my wife, my kids and my brother) and one of the coolest resorts on the planet. Robert didn't make an appearance himself, but we think we heard him hollering, "GET OFF MY PROPERTY." That's how people say howdy in these parts.
Lauren took a pretty good hit, then got up and rode out the rest of the trail, as usual. Total TonkaBabe. Ashley did great, carving corners and eating roots like a pro. Burke knocked out a good ride with me and rode the ski lift round trip a ton, unafraid and fierce in his righteous pride.
Sage got a Tinkerbell playhouse to keep her happy while we rode, but ended up discovering the joys of feeding potentially disease-ridden marmots Oreos.
And, yes, Tammy made it out of the Sundance store without needing a sherpa to cart all of the awesome back to the truck. Plus whaling down the mountain like the World's Coolest Mom that she is.

Such a cool place.

I am tired and my bike is tired and my kids are tired and Rich is uncatchable on singletrack and is not tired (and on a rented bike, no less) so I'm going to go sit in the backyard and radiate happiness at the world.

And answer emails on my Blackberry.

Ah, well, the price of being employed... I can be happy about that too.

- Ryan

Look Ma, No Fingers

While lacking that certain je ne sais quoi of pouring gas into a storm drain and then lighting it, causing seismographs in Ohio to wiggle madly and elephants in the zoo to think someone dropped a lightsaber... our experiments with flame and fury were, nonetheless, fun.

Rich graciously hosted us over the holiday, and the giant purple smoking holes in his lawn should fill in just fine. Eventually.

I hear the hammock in the back yard calling me. I must obey its summons.

- Ryan

Things My Bike Taught Me

If I ever publish a book, that's likely what I'd title it.

There's a state blissfully devoid of all the usual banalities that occurs when you've pushed your body hard for too long, and it begins requiring conscious thought to breathe. In that moment, thoughts and linkages come, sometimes strangely, and sometimes profoundly.

Case in point:

Bikes are like marriages. You can buy a low end bike from any given store, ride it, and it'll work. Leave it in the garage for a year, let sawdust build up on it and grease harden in the bearings and linkages... and it'll still ride about the same when you take it out.

A high-end bike takes more thought (and possibly debt) to obtain in the first place, and it will ride and work sublimely when you take it out. Leave in the garage for a year, and it'll do its level best to kill you on the trail. Shifters won't, brakes will, but at a volume to raise the dead, things will squeak and chatter... but give it a little maintenance every time before you ride, and the places it can take you are far beyond the reach of the lesser bikes. And with much less butt-hurty, too.

As for marriages... well, you get it.

And, as people keep telling me that I should write, I say this.

I am writing. No book would give me the pleasure of putting something out there for the world to see that chronicles the adventures of our family, that shows the small glories of growing up, or that allows me to express my love and appreciation to the people that matter most to me.

Now, should someone choose to pay me for this, I'm okay with double-dipping. We can have family adventures in a Mercedes just fine.

- Ryan

Tree, Apple. Apple, Tree.

I suppose that to God, to whom our behavior and course is much less of a mystery, we may seem to be more than just the static individuals that we see each day in the mirror.

Should time be manipulated so that we move through it less in a linear fashion, only able to recall dimly where we have been, we would perhaps be seen as thus:
Collections of desire and patterns of behavior, potentiality both realized and yet unfulfilled... hyper-kinetic children, myopic teenagers, young parents, and so on, through the latter part wherein we have seen all that life has to offer, all at once in a glorious tangle of human yarn.

This is how I've always seen my father.

He's always been older than me (again, hooray for the linear nature of time... would be awkward to have Dad just starting to date when I was looking forward to my mid-life crisis) and so has been the figure of wisdom, the place where the answers were kept, and the one that could solve the puzzles and show the way through the night when monsters lurked all-too-close.
And yet, with that, there was never a somber, joyless approach to being my personal Oracle and Hercules. I remember the 300 yard cross-canyon shot that dropped the buck... and the happy dance and whooping that followed it. I remember firecrackers smuggled from Wyoming and the how insanely happy we were as kids to witness the illicit thrill of watching orange juice cans rocket into the sky.
I remember the day, time and place when I was first complimented by one of my parents friends, and told "you have your dad's sense of humor."

There is no higher honor in my book. Although, having Grandma (his mom, no less) mistake me for my dad on the phone was a close second.

The sense of eagerness to go explore and the appreciation of something seen through new eyes or from a new vantage point hasn't changed as long as I've known him. The solidity and sense of self hasn't either. My mom often remarked that he was the most secure person she'd ever seen.
Then again, you'd have to be secure in yourself to wear that only-visible-hummingbirds-T-shirt with rainbow suspenders and camouflage pants in public... but, to be fair, he had a lot of grief to pay back to the three of us kids, too. Dad, you win, we give up, please, UNCLE.

I love the fact that dad chased (chases, really - he hasn't outgrown that, either) the fantastic and the sardonic as well as the pragmatic. The bookshelves in the basement outside of my room growing up shaped more of me than I think he knows. Asimov and Lienster, Vonnegut and Heinlein, Ambrose Bierce and Tolkien all took me far away from being a small bit player on an immense stage and let me peek behind the scenes of places unknown and unsullied by, well, let's be honest here, chores and homework. Still, the ability to close my eyes and send my thoughts out and amidst the universe is owed a great debt to being allowed free reign with subject matter that would have, in a 'normal' home, be considered beyond the reach of an eight-year-old. I have many of those books in front of me now, as it happens, and there's another generation ready to read them under the covers with a flashlight, assuming I can find and burn all the Twilight books first.

Don't get me wrong, I missed most of the points and explanations and hard science in the classic SciFi that dad had amassed... but only on first read. Once I asked dad, I got the explanation and knowledge that some of the SciFi was really more fact than fiction. Pretty cool thing to discover that your dreams aren't out of reach, and in fact, have blueprints drawn up somewhere. Which brings up another crucial point.

Dad does not hide behind 'magic' for an explanation. Want to know why the Earth doesn't rotate any faster than it does? Want to know what color shows in the flame when aluminum is finally coerced to burn? Want to know where your lap goes when you sit down? Want to know what happens when you put a grenade inside an anthill?
Dad knows all these things, and may even know where Hoffa is. You'll have to pay him to get that, though. And you'd better be ready to handle the answer. Some things are predicated on tiers of knowledge, and mere surface curiosity will leave you with far too much answer and not enough comprehension.
Not for nothing did Solomon write, "With all thy getting, get understanding." Dad understands how things work, and has been the World's Smartest Tour Guide, at our sides for years, indefatigable.

It isn't all roses with dad, though. There's the uncomfortable fact that you know that he's smarter than you are, so any given game of Scrabble isn't likely to end well. The fact that he cheats just makes it worse.
Worser yet, he has a VERY good idea of what your potential is... so coasting in life and not expected to be called on it is a pipe dream.

You can't succinctly render the parts of fatherhood into a comprehensive whole... and I doubt very much that you could even do so with an infinite amount of time. Too much of it is in the wordless radiance of a small boy feeling loved and treasured even after making a hash of things. Took me a while to realize the linkages than spanned the miles and the years: of friendship, love, shared life-voyager appreciation and (hopefully) pride in how all his work is turning out.

Still wish he'd assigned the no-body-fat genes to me instead of Rich, but you can't have everything.

Dad, happy Father's Day. We'll have the kids call you every half hour starting at midnight to make sure you really, really enjoy it.

- Ryan

I Wanted An Alligator But All I Got Was This Lousy Duck

Still in the process of converting the pictures from RAW... having too much fun to stop and mess around with post-processing nonsense.

Absolutely, insanely good here. Weather has been around 80-82 every day, occasional showers and also, occasional monsoon-level deck-clearing downpours, but they've been short in duration and get the bugs off the windshield.

Oh, yes, we're in Florida. I kinda miss the hectic fun of my projects at work, but I think I can suffer through withdrawals in the penthouse suite that my brother got for us.

More in a bit, have to go play now.

- Ryan

What's Purple, Has Four Arms, And A Pouch Full Of Milkshakes?

We drove through Vail at nine at night in our quest to escape Denver before the coming storm reduced us all to cannabilism. I don't want to die, stranded in my home, to have my well-fed family emerge without me, blinking and wan, after the snow has melted.

It was a brisk fourteen degrees, with ice forming on the windshield and yahoos a-plenty on the road in rear-wheel drive sedans with bald tires... On top of which, it was snowing about four inches an hour and drifting three times that. We passed them, in the median, if necessary, to make sure any subsequent dumb happened a long way behind us.

We played games with Sage to improve her mind on the way over.

"Sage, what's yellow with brown spots and has four legs and a loooooong neck and likes to eat leaves?

"ummmm, a zebra? "

"No, it's not a zebra. What else could it be?"

"A duck."

"...no, it's not a duck. It's really tall."
"Uncle Richy?"
"No."
"EYEBALLS"
"Yes, you're very clever, it was 'eyeballs.' Go back to sleep."

No mention of a helicopter was made, so we're at least semi-hallucination free. Some of you will understand this.

Grand Junction was a balmy thirty-five, and it hit a high of fifty degrees at two in the morning, pulling into the motel in Moab.

I turned off at what I thought was the Cisco exit that drops you down the river canyon, and instead ended up on a road with tumbleweeds growing through the asphalt and several pygmy buffaloes scurried away as we approached. We ran away before the ghosts of forlorn drifters and ex-convicts could infest the truck and made it safely back on to I-70.

No lukachooki adventures resulted. Only dad can do those.

During the first night at the motel, I slept soundly through the storm that had Tammy at the window, making sure the truck hadn't become a spectacularly heavy kite. Lot to be said for fatigue overcoming the smell of strange pillows and bed built for people shorter than 5'6".
Tammy was ever so pleased to find that I'd forgotten to pack her suitcase when we started unpacking the truck the next morning. She showed her delight at wearing the same socks and suchlike by hitting me vigorously about the face and neck until I was very sorry. Luckily, her dad pulled some strings with a courier agency and we got it overnighted to Grand Junction. Hooray for clean skivvies.

...and, it's still snowing here. First time in thirty years that I've ever seen it snow in Moab. Beautiful, but strange, like the first time you saw RuPaul.

Hey Look, Snew!

It done made winter here agin.

Sage was out running in little circles on the lawn when I got home from the store, covered in snow, lank hair and wet-little-girl smell (it smells like cinnamon and hugs.)
Lauren took a more measured approach and just frolicked briefly in a photogenic manner before retreating to warmer climes.

Moab in two weeks, a true return to earlier days when we'd go... and freeze to death in a land shaped by baking heat. Mom, I hope you know how much we're giving up for you here. Just seems so wrong to walk amidst hoodoos and arches while wearing mittens instead of shorts and a thick coating of deer flies.

Party last night with friends, learned many fine Spanish words and managed not to accidentally blurt any of the ones that I already knew... not so appropriate for mixed company.
Party today for Burke's friend and the one-year party for the kiddo next door.

Not sure what happened that we're suddenly not hermits anymore, but never fear, we'll go turtle as soon as possible.


... and yes, still snowing.

- Ryan

Weebles Wobble, But They Don't Fall Down

Therefore, by process of elimination, I know I am not a Weeble.

Made wheat bread from scratch this week, courtesy of Tammy's new grinder, and it was simpler than I thought and kinda fun. House smelled awesome from the baking.

Dinner is ready, I am tired and I keep hauling my camera around with me everywhere and never see anything that I want a picture of, so this is going to be a short post.

And boring. More when my muse isn't on strike.

- Ryan

Three Seconds of Glory

The Bomber made its debut to great fanfare and zgomot... who knew that there was word in Romanian to perfectly describe the sound of thirty cub scouts in a gym?
A dual-car track was in place instead of the quad-car tracks of my Pinewood Derby days, so it was a bring-a-lunch-and-a-book affair while waiting for them to sort through all the pairings. I suspect Ralph had a hand in the track we had as kids, looking back... there must be some rule that enforces the prescence of at least one cabinet maker in any given group of Cub Scouts. Sure enough, we had some suspiciously hacksaw-free cars there today. I'd like to think that we have Scouts capable of triple coats of laquer and automotive-grade paint sanding, but the limits of credulity are sorely pressed after seeing the amount of nasal excavation that goes on when the higher thought processes shut down for any length of time in that demographic.

One track would effortlessly catapult cars into the waiting crowd and the other ran silky smooth into the catch box. There was outright panic when boys found out that they were up on the bad side. The officials let everyone run twice on each side before averaging the times, so it worked out.
Well... unless you were sitting close to the launch point on the bad side, that is. The signal to start the race was usually followed by the small-coconut sound of a car hitting a soon-to-be-sad spectator.

First time I've ever seen timers that would measure to three decimal places, but as every car ran between 2.9 second and 3.15, they needed it. Also, this was the first time I've ever seen Excel calculate the winner of a car race. Insert your own pun on 'mean' here.

Burke drew up the plans himself, and we stayed pretty true to it, other than not being able to find a 1:25 scale .50 cal. He did the paint, sanding, layout and project management. I'm proud of him - he did great, and even more so for doing so well on his first try.

Off to transfer the wee one to her bed so that any leakage that occurs due to her falling asleep at 7:30 happens somewhere other than the couch.

- Ryan

Publish Post

What Fun May Look Like

Some folks are gluttons for punishment, I'm apparently one for mud.

Now, to be fair, that is a miraculous form of punishment indeed, as it seems to violate laws of physics and reason as it covers me and all that I hold dear... at least I didn't fill my chain up with it like I did last ride. Don't ask.
Those caked-on barnacles anchored firmly to the bike are not, in fact, the full glory of a truly globby afternoon. Those are just the roots of the stalactites. The rest of it came off at about 30 mph and hit me in the head and face on the ride back home from the trailhead. I suspect that aliens arriving with no foreknowledge would consider the clay-heavy mud here less of a substance and more of a catalyst, permanently changing the host and never to be fully exorcised.

Finally replaced the stock lens on the camera and I've started to despair at ever doing anything but deepening my ignorance. Got some fun shots with it tonight, but haven't figured out how to dial the sharpness in without losing the natural-light shooting ability. Ah, well, good weekend project.

Speaking of which, the Pinewood Derby is coming up for Burke, and the Bomber is almost ready. Yes, it has real (stolen from a model airplane) bombs that will be glued to it. However, since it's painted in camouflage, you won't be able to see it. With any luck, it will also weigh three pounds and get me a royal stinkeye from the weigh-in judge. Max weight is a whopping 5 oz for those of you not in the know... and you can't use CO2 cartridges or Estes rocket engines either, as it turns out. No fun at all.

Off to bed to catch up with my loving wife, who wisely gave up on listening to me cuss at the camera and how-to websites an hour ago.

- Ryan

Godspeed and Farewell.

But I woke up this morning with a piece of past caught in my throat

and then I choked

I...
I guess I've learned the taste of days that will always burn.
I...
I guess I've learned if it's in the corner of my eye I can't always turn

~ Rites of Spring, 'For Want Of'


Don't ask, I'm not going to talk about it now.

- Ryan

...Did He Say "Raccoon Trap?"

Another week of avoiding work in the basement has gone by quite nicely. The dadgum main room is usable (and highly used) now so the urge to move everyone and everything back out to sand and seal the floor just isn't there for me. Or Tammy. Or the kids.

Got the tonneau cover back on the truck, which guarantees a call within the next few days to go help someone move something... and I'll have to take it off again. Never fails.

Maxwell's demon may very well be a real and quantifiable Spirit of Perversity. And he apparently lives under my sink.

Rode again today (a real ride, not an 'I got on the bike just to keep the streak alive' thing) and verified that I still, in fact, hate being cold. At least the skies have been incredibly clear, so much that you can see Long's Peak to the North and Pike's Peak to the south. Beauty can do a fair amount of distracting, but just not enough for me to not notice that my knees were turning blue.
Still mud-and-snow (Snud? Mow?) on the trail which means that you can pick any one of the following options when coming up on a stretch of goo:
a) Come to a complete stop, but with no hope of ever getting enough traction to start again. You'll have to walk the bike home.
b) Keep pedaling in a straight line and come out of the mud safely, but pointed in a completely random direction. This turns into step a) at this point.
c) Attempt to keep pedaling and turn with the trail. This will result in the stepping-on-a-wet-bar-of-soap effect with both wheels and you'll fall over. If you're lucky, you'll land on one of the softer stumps or fluffier rocks before going to step a).
When things start going iffy on the trail, I have a tendency to look for the softest possible bail spot, and frankly, it'd be a lot easier if we had more fat kids here, standing by as nature's pillows. There are just never enough fat kids to go around. Maybe Obama will fix that imbalance.
Or fix mine. Either way.

Speaking of yesterday, we made it 16 years without Tammy killing me in my sleep. I'm not sure what the 16th anniversary present is supposed to be, but hopefully it was either the 'Your Own Pack Of Gum That You Don't Have To Share With The Kids' or 'Boots That Were Really Really On Sale' anniversary.
She's entirely too good for me, but I'm not letting go of her just to see if she'll come to her senses. I must be some sort of raccoon trap like the one in Where The Red Fern Grows (go read it) for her.
We had a blast looking at model homes and dreaming about upgrades (or, in my case, dreaming about being DONE with upgrades.) We took Sage out with us in the morning and, surprise, didn't get knifed during breakfast at the biker joint. Dinner was at Union Bistro here in town, and impeccably presented, delicious and with my sweetheart. Great days.

Dub

Back on the bike.

Found that while a series of 50+ degree days does melt the snow in the sidewalks, it does not guarantee a mud-free trail. Every shadowed corner was a magical journey to the land of primordial sludge... hence Tammy asking sometime later, "why is there mud in the kitchen?"

The basement is coming along - still have to sand and seal the floors, finish the windowseat and put up the desk and cabinets in the office, but that's small beer compared to the work already (and thankfully) done. Should have pictures up shortly.

Burke made it through his baptism in one shot, even though the water was, shall we say, brisk?
Great day.

Back to work - more to come, assuming no supervillans ascertain my secret identity and begin stealing my mail.

- Ryan