Something remarkable happened to the family living next door. The woman went into the hospital on Sunday evening and on Monday morning a surgeon reached into her abdomen and pulled out a brand new American. Mother and child are doing well.
By the time that child reaches the age where he cares about such things, these troubled present days of ugly political behavior will be only paragraphs in history books. Paragraphs that delineate what can go wrong when those who cherish democracy are complacent. When those same folks make the mistake of assuming that you have triumphed over wickedness once and for all because you have beaten it back one time.
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For some reason Nathan Hale came to mind this morning. He may have been America’s first spy. I rarely think of him, which is a pity, because there is much to learn from his example.
He was caught on his first mission, however, and hanged shortly thereafter. Nathan was only twenty-one years old at the time of his death.
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“On the morning of his execution,” continued the officer, “my station was near the fatal spot, and I requested the Provost Marshal to permit the prisoner to sit in my marquee, while he was making the necessary preparations. Captain Hale entered: he was calm, and bore himself with gentle dignity, in the consciousness of rectitude and high intentions. He asked for writing materials, which I furnished him: he wrote two letters, one to his mother and one to a brother officer. He was shortly after summoned to the gallows. But a few persons were around him, yet his characteristic dying words were remembered. He said, ‘I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country.'”
Captain John Montresor
There is not unanimity of opinions about whether he said exactly those words, but after this long stretch of time I doubt whether anyone cares but some historians. The lessons to be taken of courage, sacrifice, and dedication to country would not be altered by the transposition of a few vowels and consonants.
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Robin and I have just finished watching the series “Endeavour” on PBS, and thoroughly enjoyed it, in spite of the fact that it was at times more than a bit talky and occasionally preposterous. Now while the word “preposterous ” might seem harsh, I like to have a bit of it in anything I watch, since dry reality is so tawdry and boring these days.
The series covers several years in the life of a young policeman whose private life is that of an opera-loving loner. It is as much about relationships as it is about criminal activity. He has a mentor, a reputation for being prickly as well as a brilliant crime-solver, and yet somehow fails to hear Robin and I call out repeatedly “That’s the girl for you, fool!”
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The temperature reading stood at 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and I believed it. Our younger cat, Willow, chose this stressful day to change her habits and remain outdoors all the livelong day, instead of sleeping on a cool chair in our bedroom. Of course our anxiety levels rose as the number of hours added up, until nearly six PM, when she made her appearance.
We pictured her gasping in a ditch, drowned in the irrigation canal that runs behind our home, or gobbled up by any number of large creatures, including coyotes, mountain lions, and the Yeti.
But all our concerns were for nought, she is in fine shape, and for all we know, may enjoy getting away from us for longer periods of time, whether the weather be clement or not. There may be repeats, but without the panic.
BTW, the humidity was in single digits this afternoon. This means that unless you drink your water quickly you are behind a couple of ounces by the time you finish the glass. Walking a few hundred feet searching for a cat meant not being able to formulate words clearly after only a few minutes, the inside of the mouth being roughly the same texture as an old pair of dried-up leather work gloves.
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Early Thursday morning there were a handful of lightning flashes and thunder blasts here in Paradise. No rain, just the fireworks. But up at the Black Canyon National Park there was much more going on. Some of those lightning strikes started fires, one on the north side of the canyon and one on the south. Our valley became filled with a smoky haze, enough that the horizons were obscured.
Access to the park entry road is barricaded off, to keep idiot looky-loos like myself from wandering about the area, bothering the firefighters and becoming problems when those brave people have to stop more important work to hose us down.
Wildfires are always a possibility here in Paradise, a dry country in a good year. But this is the closest one in the eleven years we’ve lived out here. The Black Canyon is one of our favorite places … to walk … to drive through … or just to grab a rock, sit on it, and think about stuff. It will certainly be changed the next time we see it.
(Addendum: As of Saturday afternoon the fire had burned 3000 acres and was zero per cent contained. The park only contains 30,000 acres.)
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This is the view of the Black Canyon Fire from the end of our street. It’s about nine miles away.
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Little Home In The Valley 
Uff da!
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Yah, sure, you betcha!
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