2018 07 31 Ocean City Md. Trip with Brandywine Senior Center

On the last day of July, Lo and I took a trip to Ocean City, Maryland.There is a video compilation of the photos I took below. We traveled down to this site from the Brandywine Senior Center. We have come to a point in our lives, at least in mine, where this is my preferred way of taking long excursions. I just am not up to two and three hour's of car diving anymore. Not so sure I trust my 10 year old vehicle that much anymore either. I'd rather climb in the Center's bus and let someone else do the driving, specifically Kurt. Kurt is an older gentleman, too; but not so old as the rest of us. He's also a fun guy to have along on these adventures.

We left Claymont at 7:30, made a rest stop at a Wawa in Milford, Delaware and arrived in Ocean City just before 10:30 AM. I think the Senior Center bus might hold up to 17 people and is usually full for trips. You need to sign up near the time the month's excursions are posted or you miss out. That number probably counts Kurt and sometimes, as on this trip a young lady who accompanies us to see all goes well.

The weather forecasts were a big if'y, unsettled as the weather casters call it. It has been this way a couple weeks now and is predicted to continue so for at least a week more. About lower-slower Delaware, as we left Route 1 for 113, the sky was very cloudy and dark, and the rest of the way we drove through one shower after another. Strangely, once we made a right turn into Ocean City, things were very different. Blue sky and no rain over the Boardwalk, beach or ocean. Just had the sun, a very hot sun. We could have used some of the clouds. It was hot, hot, hot and it is a place with no real shade.




Look at the opening pictures and you will see a long stretch of desert. There may be benches along the way, but little escape from the recently heat. The amusement pier you see didn't open until 1:00, not that we planned to go on the roller coaster, or the bunchy ball drop or anything. I'm afraid such thing have receded into our youth. So we spent the remainder of the morning walking. Our risky amusements were dodging the many bicycles, roller skaters, and other faster moving contraptions whizzing by. I was almost taken down by a young lady police officer on a bike. These vehicles were allowed until 11:00, then it became safer.

We passed a fireman statue at a memorial to first responders. There was large banner along the way announcing Jesus at the Beach. I don't think that was the Lord himself putting it up. The is a music and ministry festival, probably similar to the Jammin' for Jesus in Rodney Square later this month.  As you know, I like to take snapshots of scenes about, like the two terns perched, one each, on a couple of poles, and the sand sculptures of Jesus Crucifixion, Last Supper and Resurrection.

After a while and me having a cheeseburger at a ridiculous $10 (didn't even come with fries), we bought all day passes to the tram ($12 for us both, really not a bad deal since you could get on and off and ride until 4:00). You didn't even have to put up with that annoying, "Watch the Tram Car Please" warning every other minute.  The woman ahead of us with the crocheted pick head band was with the group that came down with us.

I don't know why, but in the selfie I took of Lo and I on the tram, I have my right eye closed. I'm not winking at you. Maybe the sun was in my eye.

The gulls and terns were very busy. It was like the Hitchcock's "The Birds". They were along the roofs watching everything and sometimes shrieking loudly. If some dropped something they would swoop down. When I was eating my cheeseburger, a tern stood front of me and stared, trying to make me feel guilty. Sorry, I ate the whole thing.  A young woman in one picture was trying to entice a single tern over to take something from her hand, but soon there were three then four and then more. You'll see in another picture a young girl by the sand surrounded by these bird as she is feeding them something.  One woman came along and had a small piece of bread sh was giving to a small bird. I said, "You get a crowd". She said, Yes, they have been following us along, but I but this beneath these cans and only the little bird can get it."

We were sitting down by the Ferris Wheel and Lo was boiling. I was fearful she would suffer heat stroke. As I noted, no shade anywhere. I went off and found a stand selling bottle water and bought one. It was nice and cold, but cost $2.50. I buy a whole case here at home for around $3. Anyway, Lois liked rubbing the cold against her face, but I could not get the cap open.  I saw a couple coming down the boardwalk and he looked pretty muscular. I walked out to him and asked if he could open the bottle. He probably was thinking, "What's this white guy up to?", but he got the bottle open and his girlfriend or wife explained how to work it. See, very nice people all over the place if you trust them. I am often at the mercy of the kindness of strangers there days. Lots of people reached to help me on and off the tram.

Speaking of the tram, this proved embarrassing. Lo said," It might be cooler if he rode the tram." Yes, it had a roof that provided shade and when it was moving there was a fine little breeze. We had all day tickets, so we hopped back on and off it went. We figured to ride to the end of the line and then back to catch the Senior center Bus at 2:30. It was just after 1:30 when we climbed aboard.

Okay, the Ocean City boardwalk is 2.5 miles long. We got on and road out to the end, at 27th Avenue where there is a station and it turns around. It became two o'clock at about 20th. Lo was getting nervous, but it only had 7 more avenues. We stayed on.

We are in the station, but now it is after 2:00 and it is just sitting there, waiting for people to board and for a break. A man with a cane, not me, got off to go to the restroom, and so we waited. It is getting near 2:15 and no movement. Lo thinks we should get out and walk. We do. We hadn't walked too far ( and neither of us walk very well theses days) when the tram caught up to us, thank goodness. We jumped back on board. I knew there was no way we could have walked 2 or 2.5 miles in 15 minutes.  A couple years back I averaged 15 minutes a mile, but that was pre-ALS. I could even run some then, but there would have been no way I could have made 2.5 miles in a quarter hour. We could only sweat it out.

"Our only hope is not many people want to get on," I said.

We got our hope. Somewhere near 2;30 we were coming up on the amusements. I signed to get off. I clambered down, but Lois was staying on. "No, no, get off," and I tugged her from the car. The tram was about to go up a amp and circle the amusement pier. What Lo didn't understand was the tram did not stop anywhere on the ramp, up or down. I got her off and canned ahead as fast I could through a tunnel on the pier labeled Jolly Roger and waved red-faced to Kurt and the bus. Everyone one was aboard but us. I told Kurt, "She's coming."

We took a bit of razzing, but we didn't get left in Maryland. We may have been 10 minutes behind schedule. I hate to be late for anything. Usually I am early, so this was especially upsetting to me.

But despite this and despite the terrible heat, we still enjoyed the trip.

Mystery of the Elusive Waterfall: A Frank March Adventure

Frank March awoke once again determined to find the elusive waterfall, if it indeed did exist. So far it had the makings of a myth, although it made no sense that the trail map would entice people with a nonexistent marking, let alone a picture of a cataract right in the middle of the thing. Look at that representation with those rippling waters and golden fall colors; why wouldn't you want to find it?

And there on the right, just over that red line that shows the boundary between Delaware and Pennsylvania, is the word "waterfall".

Yet after several days searching, Frank had failed to find it. He had wandered up the long hill in the hot rays of this summer's sun (if there was any brownish hues around the elusive waterfall this time of year they would be the cooked and dry leaves wilting in the heat wave).

At least at the top, pausing to regain his breath, he could look out across the valley and see the stone tower that had once been a mystery to him  and further along, the great castle on the hill. (The tower is visible on the upper left corner and the castle just right of the upper center.) But he had solved The Mystery of the Stone Tower, so these were no longer of interest. No, now it was the waterfall he sought.

He had tried many of the trails up atop this hill and seen the wondrous sights of the Woodlawn fields, the horses and the corn, but not the cascade. On his last attempt he had wandered along the upper rim of the mount through the woods, teetering on the edge of a gorge along a narrow path and discovered another mystery, which will probably remain unsolved, The memorial to Bud's Billy Goat.

Here deep in the woods sat the broken remains of a tree, some stones piled at its base and upon a notch near its top. Carved and painted into the base the words, "Bud's Billy Goat".  At the top of the object was this, a bicyclist and dates. Is this a grave of some fellow's beloved pet goat? If so, this goat lived almost as long as this Old Goat, for it would have died at 67.

Or did Bud crash his mountain bike on this site, a vehicle he called, Billy Goat? But that would have been an ancient bike. Did they even have mountain bikes in 1943?

At any rate, this did not lead Frank to any waterfall on that day.

He had asked a few he met upon the trails during his searches if they knew where the waterfall might be. No one he asked even knew there was a waterfall. Was there a waterfall? It was on the trail map. There was also the story told by a friend, about pausing from a bike ride by a waterfall and quite pond on a hot day, of being temped by the water and finally giving in to the lure and engaging in some skinny-dipping. In this he was suddenly approached by a teacher and young children on a field trip and kept submerged until they finally left and he could slip out and back into his clothes.

On top of that Frank stumbled on an actual picture of the alleged waterfall on some strangers Blog.

So it was Frank studied the trail map and tried hard to coordinate it with the satellite Google image of the area. He determined it was down a path he had eschewed on his very first hike up these hills thinking this trail simply went down into someone's backyard. Now he was convinced otherwise. Thus this morning he set off to find his goal.

He had a sudden influx of working hours and this would be his only free day this week, so despite a threat of rain he headed off, but this was an advantage. After weeks of extreme heat, he would be able to go up the long, steep hill without the beat of the sun. It was cooler today as well. He traipsed with a plan, up that hill, through the woods, down around and by the horse pastures that would bring him to the path he had never walked. Now he did, down its rutted stony way, just to the right of the house below and came to the road.

It was the spot he had noted, where Beaver Valley Road made an odd almost-U-turn off to the right into Pennsylvania while what one would think was its continuation more or less straight ahead became Beaver Dam Road. That name sounded promising, Beaver Dam, for often dams create waterfalls, unless this was an actually Beaver dam made of gnawed down saplings.

Frank crossed the road and on the other side found a trail going up another hill. He went up and up and up, on a wide track edging the woods. Once further up he spied a narrow trail to his right, which entered the forest in what seemed a promising direction.

Suddenly there was a thrashing of brush nearby and a deer ran across the path startling him. It trotted between the trees and then stood stock still between two trunks. It was amazing how an animal of its size could almost become invisible simply by standing quiet. If Frank had not seen where it had run he would not have noticed it at all. It appears in this photo as only a light patch of brown between some trees near the center.

As a boy one of Frank's favorite things in the children's magazines he got, "Jack 'n' Jill" or "Highlights" or whatever it was, were these little photos with a caption: "There are 15 animals hiding in this woods, can you find them all?" This deer was playing that game with Frank today.

There had been a light rain when he started on his trek, now he could tell it was picking up. He could hear the drops increase. The leaf cover was affording him some protection, but he knew much of his way back to his car would be open ground and he would get wet. He hurried on his way.

Now the path curved downward and entered a groove of semi-mud, more a dry wash than a trail. He had to straddle it, walk with one foot on the right bank and the other on the left bank. As he shuffled along there was a loud creaking to his right, then a sustained and violent crash as a large tree gave up the ghost and tumbled over in a dead faint to the forest floor. You see many a tumbled trees about these grounds, but this was a new addition to the corpses arriving a bit too close and fresh for comfort.

Frank continued down the rut, twisting this way and that and then he was at the bank of a stream and across it was a road. He had no intension of backtracking up that woodland trail, but how to get across to the road was the next question. The path came to the water's edge at a rapids. There was no other access across and this one was tenuous, wide spaced wet rocks in bubbling water.  Well, nothing to do but risk it.

Frank made it across without so much as a wet shoe, but now what. There was no sign of any waterfall anywhere and he didn't know exactly where he was. He decided to go to his right down this road, following the flow of the stream, hoping it would take him to the Brandywine.

He walked a ways. On the other side of the road, where a hill of forest rose above him, he saw a trail, but not certain where he was he decided not to chance getting lost in a strange woods for some length of time. He continued along the road.

Then, there it was, behind some large rocks, the elusive waterfall. He had stumbled upon it quite by accident. As he stood admiring the dancing waters, he realized all he would had to have done was walk along this road where he had initially crossed and he would have come to this. The hike up the mount and through the dark wood and down the rut was unnecessary. But then where would have been the adventure in walking down a road? He would have missed the deer and not heard the falling tree missing him. Ah, much more fun this way.

He rather doubted this was the waterfall his friend had swum by, though. There was some still water above you could call a pond he supposed, and certainly it was deep enough to swim in, but would one dare skinny-dip so near a public road?

It also brought his mind back to the rain or now lack of it. If it had rained hard, he wondered, how long would his white running shorts have remained  opaque. Hmm, that was a consideration to spur him to move on and see if he could find his way back to his car.

He walked further on and finally came to the little park by the Brandywine. Now he knew exactly where he was and it was still a bit to where he had parked, but that was fine. He ambled beside the lovely creek enjoying the briskness of the morn and happy he had found his waterfall at last, when...

What was that white thing across the water? Could it be the Heron he had seen before?

Wouldn't you know it. He had forsaken wearing his glasses today because of the light rain. The drops would have simply clouded his vision, he reasoned. Besides, he has fairly good vision without the specs; however, not quite good enough to focus well on whatever was sticking up over there.

If only it would move, but it did not. Ah, well, another mystery.

(Turn off my music before watching this short film.)

Flutter by, Butterfly

Always rambling, always exploring, I am and I am not a creature of habit. If I do not work, and I have not worked much lately, I go for a long, early morning walk. That is the habitual part.

But walking the same trail, the same route each day, no, I like a constant variety and thankfully the good souls who have preserved our nature hereabouts have provided it.

Besides the several fine and handsome parks surrounding my neck of the woods, these parks are festooned with many trails. Not only do I take a different path each day, I look for ones I've missed before and go exploring. Sometimes they prove short or dead end and I can only turn around and go back as I came, but most present new scenery and often surprises. Sometimes the surprise is I don't know my way back to where I started and am lost for a bit. I don't mind, it is interesting being lost as long as you know ways of eventually de-losing yourself.

At any rate, I turned off on to a road less traveled yesterday. It was a totally random choice this time. I was searching for something. (I will probably make this search a Frank March Adventure if I ever find the object of my desire.)  I am looking for an elusive waterfall. I had a conversation with a bicyclist I met after I had climbed hills and forded streams and had returned to a main trail unsuccessful. I asked if he knew where the waterfall was. He didn't. He didn't know there was a waterfall and thought with our dry weather it might not exist at the moment. His assumption was this mysterious waterfall only appeared after heavy rains or only at some magical time like Brigadoon.

Perhaps, but I think not. There is on the Internet at the Woodlawn website a trail map, and it indicates a waterfall up in one corner of this acreage, right over the state border I suspect. I just don't think I've walked down the right route yet or far enough.

Once a month I get together with a group of poets and we share our poetry. The latest meeting was this past Thursday and a story that was told became my catalyst to once again search for the waterfall on Friday morning. My friend and fellow poet, Dallas (pictured left), had a motorcycle accident this past week. It left him with a broken hand and broken rib. He can't work (he drives a bus) and he can't do his daily bike ride or his martial arts exercises either. This forced inability led to a story mentioning the waterfall, although it was peripheral to the tale.

The story: Dallas had gone on his regular bike ride up into the Woodlawn forest, when he came to a waterfall. Here was a nice open space beside a pond. He parked his bike and spend some time doing his martial arts exercises. It was a very hot day and that pond looked more and more inviting as he finished up his forms. Yes, it looked very enticing and there was no one around, he had been quite alone all day, he striped off to skin and dove into the water. It was very refreshing and he splashed there enjoying this cooling bath when he heard voices. A group of children suddenly appeared marching toward the spot, so he sunk himself down into the pond up to his chin. Some waved, some spoke to him and he said "hi" back. As this group settled upon the bank their teacher came from behind and began pointing and explaining things surrounding (presumably this did not include the head bobbing in the pond). Finally, the lecture finished, they waved goodbye and were gone. He, with relief and wrinkled skin, climbed ashore, quickly dressed and got out of there.

So I thought, there is definitely a waterfall somewhere out there and the next morning I set off again to find it.

I also thought isn't this always the way. When you think you are alone and safe along comes someone to embarrass you. It was just like my telling about removing my shirt in this heat while on what was to me a very unused trail. I almost never met anyone on in that place, but this time along comes a lady and her dogs. At least I had only removed my shirt.

Thus it was I wandered in a whole lot of new territory yesterday morning without finding my waterfall. I came to a choice far up on a mount after walking long. Perhaps the path going to my right would have led me to my goal, but I had been hiking long and the day was heating up, so I went left.

This took me up a narrow path I had also never been on before. It ran along the very top of the ridge and there was a fence along one side, probably electrified, for it only had three well-spaced strands of thick cable on white plastic knobs.  There was a cornfield along where I first came, then later I could see a road across a meadow. Meanwhile, the path grew very narrow and all around were high brush, especially cockleburs.

This is where I saw them, a flutter of yellow here and there. There were butterflies in packs flitting from plant to plant and then around my head. It was a marvelous place to be. Cicada were singing in the nearby woods and these beautiful, colorful creatures leading me along. It was an enchanting moment of beauty and peace.

I pulled out my camera and began filming, following their flight, and at times they seemed to pose for their close-up.

Not just the yellow ones, but these darker flies of black and blue and silver.

I do not know butterfly types. When you encounter large yellow ones with black trim you always think Monarch, but I am not sure the markings were right and there are yellow butterflies that mimic the Monarch. The dark one on the left seems to be some kind of swallowtail. There was one that when sitting still spread its wings forming almost a star that looked metallic. You can see that one near the end of my little two minute film below.

By the way, did you know they tag butterflies out of the nature center in Brandywine Creek State Park. Imagine catching and tagging these delicate looking creatures. You do it gently, a tiny sticker on the wing that doesn't harm or hinder the butterfly. They catch them, take them to the center, feed them, tag them and led them loose. This way they can trace the migrations of the insect.

 

Hot and Hazy: Man Boobs and other Rambles, The Series Continues

At this time in my life I do not appear in public shirtless, for basically the same reason that Arnold (pictured left) should consider the same policy. There was a time I hated to remove my top for another reason, but we'll get to that next post.

Even so, it has been a blast furnace out there for several days, and since the "out there" I have been in the most is backwoods, I made a couple concessions to the hot and broke my rule. Doing so was not without reluctance, but a week ago I was on a trail where over the many moments I have walked it, I have almost never met another hiker and it had been months since that last "almost never" occurred. It seemed safe to throw caution, and my shirt, to the wind and I must say the shade of the forest did feel good on my bare skin.

I was indeed enjoying this freedom when what to my wandering eyes should appear, but a lady and two tiny reind...I mean, two dogs, neither really tiny, coming up the path toward me.

Oh well, nothing to do but step aside, blush, and let the lady and her pooches pass. We spoke briefly as polite people do and went our separate ways.

And yesterday I was on the same trail and made the same reluctant decision, and wouldn't you know, here comes the same woman and the same dogs and we exchanges the same pleasantries and went our same separate ways. And still I met the same woman once again before I had finished the trail. This lady has now seen my bare chest more times in recent years than anyone except my wife. My doctor hasn't even seen my bare chest three times in the last two years.

Okay, why are we talking about bare chests today anyway. It is because in a recent Post on his Blog, "Retired in Delaware", my life-long friend Ron complained he was getting "man boobs" (sometimes called "moobs"). On the right is the photo he posted as proof of his getting this condition plus a paunch. But before we deal with how if he thinks this he has a very vivid imagination, we probably should take a look at the word "boob" and gain some insight into it and this thing called "man boobs".

The word was once considered somewhat vulgar, but it has grown to such common overuse you barely go a day without hearing or seeing it, especially on the boob tube. For some of a newer generation who may think boob tube is some sort of pornographic peep show on the Internet, the term came into being about fifty years ago to describe television. Therefore, we see the word was in the common vocabulary decades ago. It is a stupid sounding word — boob — and that was its meaning during the years of my youth. If you did something stupid, you were a "boob". Crazy people were put in a "booby hatch", because they had to be restrained from doing stupid things. These terms had a different origin and had nothing to do with chests.

Boob, meaning fool, is a corruption of the Spanish for stupid, "bobo". It actually traces to the Latin word "balbus". Balbus didn't mean stupid, it meant stammering, but since the Romans thought anyone who stammered was stupid, it is virtually the same thing. Anybody ever read I, Claudius or see the PBS series based on it? Claudius had a bad stammer so everyone thought he was a moron until he became emperor.

Boob, meaning breast, has a different etymology, not Spanish nor Latin. Actually, there are some varied opinions. Some think it came from the buboes, the swelling of lymph glads, during the bubonic plague. Others place the blame on a 1762 novel by Henry Fielding, where a woman named Lady Booby tried to seduce the hero by exposing her breasts.  Since the word boob or booby didn't really come into popular usage until the mid-1900s I rather discount this theory. Somehow I don't think a lot of people were reading,  Fielding s' The History of Joseph Andrews in the 1930s and '40s.

The word "bubby" came about in the 1930s and over the next couple decades turned into "booby" and "boob". "Bubby" came from the German word "Bubbi", and remember Germany was a country much watched in the 'thirties. "Bubbi" means "teat" and "teat" means basically a nipple or the part of a mammal where it's young can drink milk. Teat was a fairly common term in farm country when I was a boy.

Fine, students, history lesson is over, let's get to the heart of his matter of "man boobs".

This term probably became popular in our lexicon after a particular Seinfeld episode concerning a problem of George's father and the invention of the Manssiere or Bro. It is a condition many of we males experience with age as years of gravity, decline of exercise and possible overeating have their way with our bodies. (Remember when Arnold had six-pack abs instead of looking like there were too many six-packs inside the abs.) Yes, sad but true, for many of us our once defined hard pecs become round and soft and resemble women's breasts. It generally does go as a set with a growing paunch. Look at my friend's photo again and you'll see he has pretty much failed the test of true man boobs and paunch. But he is young yet, only 69, he still has time to grow that belly and droop that chest.

In truth, this condition my friend is concerned about isn't really man boobs. It is just some flab and weakening muscle tone. There is a medical condition of man boobs called "Gynecomastia" caused by possible hormonal imbalances or other health issues and sometimes by medications. Men suffering from Gynecomastia can develop quite impressive breasts.

If Ron is concerned, he need only compare himself to Arnold. He has a long way to go to boast of a paunch of such worthwhile note.

Oh, and what of myself? I've already confessed I never take my shirt off in public. I don't even walk about my house shirtless. So this is very difficult for me, but here I be shirtless on that trail yesterday. Ron can take more comfort now. I am three inches shorter than he and probably weight thirty pounds more right now.

I've always felt I had a body build by a government committee. More about that next time.


TO BE CONTINUED -- NEXT: I Sing the Body Elastic.

Hot and Hazy: Thoughts on The Sizzle, Ramar Quicksand, Nightmares, Words Writers Write and Bloggers Blab, Great Blue Herons, Man Boobs and other Rambles, The Series

Seems like forever and two weeks before creation since I sat in this cat-scratched chair and keyed out a post. Do the young-in's, who grew up in front of a keyboard, call it keying? Anyone not among we ancients still talk about typing? My kids, who range from 33 to almost 29, once waxed ecstatic over my old typewriter as if it was an exotic fossil, which I suppose it is. Do newspapers even use type anymore? I once worked for a Printing Company and it was all computerized.

Speaking of the dark ages, we had a power outage day before last, right in the heart of the heat. That sizzle that has been cooking the Midwest, and knocked Doc Halliday out of the Phillies game the other day, is burning it's way into the East. It was up around 94, 95 degrees when poof, everything went off to the shout of our collective , "Oh no," followed by the sounds of silence. Then three beats later it popped back on to relieved cheers, only to sputter right back off for the rest of the awful afternoon.

What do you do on a 95 degree afternoon with no air conditioning, no fans, no nothing electronic?

You sit there sagging in sweat, possibly swearing at the power company. Speaking of which, we called Delmarva and reported it. Those things are all automated these days. You are asked questions by some autotron voice and press buttons. He, It, The Voice gave out three pieces of information. "Crews were on their way. We have no idea what caused the outage. Estimated time of restoration is 4:00."

Pretty glib there, fellows, if you don't know what caused it, how do you have any idea when it will be fixed? They used to give these estimates in precise increments. "The estimated time of restoration is 2:43." It's a wonder the exact second wasn't predicted. It never came back when said either. I guess not knowing the cause made them more cautious so they threw out a general time instead of 3:59.

Four o'clock was still more than two hours away. The house was going to stay cooler than outside for a while, a short period, but it'd eventually even out. You weren't better off outside now either. There wasn't even a whisper of a breeze; if fact, it was sucking air in and would suck the breath right out of your lungs if you ventured foolishly forth seeking fresh air.

So we stayed put for about a half hour, when with a rush of roar and air, the power came back on...for the count of one fan blade turn...two fan blade turns...and nothing. Now I called Delmarva again, home of the Smart Meters and the automated reporting system. "Crews are working on the problem: Estimated time of restoration is 4:00"  Okay, 4:00 was their story and they were sticking with it. Meanwhile, we were beginning to stick to the furniture. The house was equalizing somewhere around the temperature of the equator. It was time for action and action isn't easy to muster when you're in the oppressive regime of the heat monster.

"Well, at least we know they're working on it," said The little Woman when they Fans spun.

When the fans sputter out again I figured the problem was bigger than they knew. "I don't think they're going to make it by four," I declared.

So The Little Woman and I hopped into the air conditioned car and fled into the cool of the countryside. We saw the outage was fairly extension because stoplights were out on the crossroads as well. My first thought was for the gallon of chocolate milk I had just bought that morning, would it survive. My second was on the gas gauge. Oh, we had more than a half tank left, but this was certainly not preserving fuel. More about that when we get to the nightmare part of this series, though. We drove about the lovely woods and meadows and cornfields of our county for an hour, then back to the house to see if Delmarva hit their mark.

We came back a different way and the stoplights were working on that road just before out development. When we finally stepped from our car, The Little Woman said, "Maybe the power's back."

"I don't think so. Too quiet. If it were back you'd hear a buzz of compressors."

It wasn't. Four o'clock came and went without it. We had already decided to go out to eat again, hopefully in a chilled-down restaurant. We were just about to leave early for dinner, just past 4:30, when it happened, "Power on, Scotty." We went out to dinner anyway, grateful we would not have to try and sleep under a hot, hazy and humid blanket of summer.

We were not near as grateful as our cats who had been laying in varied position of limp torpor.


TO BE CONTINUED - NEXT: Ramarian Nightmares of Quicksand and Unknown Roads