RunningBarb

Let me ask you a very important question that you may have been thinking about: Just how many hose nozzles do you need?

The nozzle on our hose recently disappeared. Carried off by mice, dropped into a pile of leaves, maybe put in a so-called “safe place” that no one can remember, who knows. But it’s gone. With spring coming up, there are a lot of home improvement projects we will be putting off until next year and beyond, so we definitely will want a working hose plus nozzle-roo for those.

I went on to the Home Depot site to take a look at my choices. I have 107 of them. Yes, there were 107 various types of hose nozzles I could peruse for my homeowner delight. There was the 4-Pattern 72 in. Thumb Control Wand Telescoping Five Position Pole Watering Tool, the Husky PRO Rear Trigger Multi-Pattern Nozzle, the Melnor Hi-Visibility Adjustable Nozzle, the Anvil 5 in. Brass Adjustable Nozzles with Adjustable Pressure from Fine Mist to Heavy Jet Stream, and my favorite, the Flip-It Nozzle in Pink. Bet you couldn’t find this selection in a Russian grocery store!

So where to begin? I usually just buy the thing I had before, but I want to be sure I am not missing out on any important features. How many psi (maximum pressure) do I need? I never even knew I needed a psi. One of these babies goes up to 25107. That sounds dangerous! What about material? Brass is classic, of course, but who needs a classic nozzle? Is polyketone any good? What the heck is a polyketone? And some of these tools are described in an extremely charming way. Does “Une buse tout simplement supérieure” grab you? I think I want that guy. But do I?

The reviews are no help:

Bought this because I needed a longer watering wand to get to my hanging baskets. It worked great for about a month. Now it leaks all over the place. I get more watered than my plants do! Why can’t they make one that doesn’t leak?!?! – by MainelyK

No leaks, good reach, nice selection of spray patterns. – By HomeDepotCustomer

Does it or doesn’t it leak? Can’t they, in fact, make one that doesn’t leak?

Then, as you are studying your options, various ads appear for items you need for your home and garden. Potting mix to remind you that all your flowers died last year and if you want any hope of a splash of color in your yard this time you better get with the program. Spring cleaning items to remind you that – well – your house could use some spring (or any kind of) cleaning. Giant rolls of paper towels to remind you that we live in a throw-away society and are completely trashing the planet. More information to send your mind reeling.

In the end it all became overwhelming. I closed the page and went back to looking at the eagles. (Pip watch!) 

For now I think I’ll go with the old fashioned method of squirting – thumb over opening. Splash. Water everywhere!

Let’s feel the word spa: the sybaritic “s,” soft and sensual, floating out of your mouth like a cirrus cloud, drifting by and dissipating. Next, the gentle pop of the “p,” with breath creating a pulse, the breeze of warm air passing the lips. And finally, “a,” but really “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.” This helps ready you for the experience. And what experience is that? Why, SpaWorld, of course, a place that provides many opportunities for you to get your inner Nirvana on: bade pool, sauna, hot tubs, cold tubs, hot and cold poultice rooms, massage, reflexology, body scrub, restaurant, juice bar.

At the admissions counter you receive a light orange two piece uniform kind of like the gym suits they used to make girls wear in the 1950s. You don’t have to worry about looking good, because you won’t!

You don’t have to put on the outfit right away if you don’t want to. In fact, you can take everything off and make your way into the bade pool. Or you can wear your bathing suit. In the past it was required that you be nekked, but it seems that they have lowered their standards. 

The bade pool is lined with hydrotherapy jets of different placements and strengths. So, you can ease on up to a jet that provides, say, a deep massage on your right calf. And another one for your left. A different one for your right hip. You get the idea. Then there are showers and waterfalls that deliver a water massage to your neck and back. And your head, if you want. You can spend all day being pummeled (in a good way) with H20. But then you’d miss . . . 

The hot tubs. There are baths of varying heat that you can immerse yourself into. And if it gets too hot, a cold tub for a healthy Wim Hof experience. 

If you prefer your water as vapor, have a seat in the hot sauna. Too damp? Make your way into the dry one. 

If water massage isn’t enough, get a real massage massage, with shiatsu, or a foot rub with aromatic oils. Or have the nice lady give you an exfoliating scrub. Who needs all that extra skin? 

All of this stress relief and relaxation will probably make you hungry, so dry off, don your attractive threads, and head straight to the restaurant, where you can pick from a large selection of rice and noodle dishes. 

Then it’s off to the poultice rooms. Despite the funny name, they more like meditation rooms, each one looking like a stand-alone temple, with colorful gems and stones adorning the walls. The diverse rooms have contrasting degrees of temperature, from the very hot to the very cold. From the Sahara to the Himalayas. A real world journey. In Centerville, Virginia!

Finally, there is a gym. But why would you want to waste your time working out when you could be working towards ecstasy?  

So, that about sums up Spa World. But no, not really. You have to take your head and body there to truly know what it’s like. Walk in, leave your troubles, glide out, and keep the stillness within until next time. 

Lately I have been bringing peace into my heart by viewing two bald eagles care for their newly-laid eggs. Parents-to-be Jackie and Shadow live in the treetops of Big Bear Valley, California. Have you ever seen an eagle’s nest? Or an aerie, if you want to use the high falutin’ term. The aerie can be as big as 10 feet wide and 10 feet high. That’s about the size of my first apartment in DC! The aerie is built of large sticks, with grass-like material in the center for the eggs. Normally they lay two eggs per nesting season, and on rare occasions, three.  

Our pals Jackie and Shadow are tending three, which is one of the things that makes them so special. 

It looks right cold up there. The wind shakes the trees, ice covers the nearby lake, and snow buries the ground. The environment appears sunny, cold and crisp. You get jarred awake just by looking at it – even if you are sitting in your office in Maryland staring at your computer, with your space heater blasting. Through the gift of imagination you can be transported to this untainted setting. 

A few days ago there was a snowstorm, and the mom did not leave the nest for 62 hours, at times covered completely in snow. Tough gal.

Jackie and Shadow take turns caring for the eaglet-wannabes. One goes out searching for food and brings back, say, a fish, a bird, what have you, and then they chow it down in a few gulpy gulps. 

The area around the aerie is closed to the public during nesting season so that they are not disturbed. 

Soon, “pip watch” begins. That is when the young ‘un starts scratching at the egg from the inside. The scratching weakens the shell, and ultimately an eaglet pops out. Hello World!

Newborns do everything you would expect a brand-newbie to do: do away with their sibling (yes, they might kill their bro), grow feathers, begin wing flapping, and later, stand upright, grasp objects with their talons, and take short flights. They even play, playing tug-of-war, chasing each other around, and generally act very silly.

Young eaglets stay with their parents for around 17-23 weeks, then they are sufficiently mature to leave the nesting territory. And off they go!

Watching the eagles watch their eggs can teach us about patience, staying on task, and focusing attention. You don’t see them checking their iPhones or getting mad at the guy in front of them on the highway driving too slow. They don’t even know they are in a great big selfie video. They are just there.

I will keep gazing at these birds of beauty and see if I can learn how to keep my head straight. They bring me to a place of serenity in world filled with bad news. They show me stillness. I will try to follow their path as they nurture the future. 

Do you love your local library? Do you go to your local library? Do you have a library card? If you answered “no” to any of these questions I suggest you click on over to the Instagram posts of Mychal Threets. Watching his social media you will wonder how you ever could have fallen away from this valuable resource we were introduced to as a child. 

The first known library dates back to around 2000 BCE, to a royal library in Ur (now southern Iraq). In the United States, private libraries were founded during early Colonial times. Ol’ buddy Ben Franklin owned a library of over 4000 books, and you could borrow them if you became a member of the library by buying stock in it.

Moving on from there, the first free public library, the Boston Public Library, opened in 1854.  But the guy who really set public libraries in motion was steel magnate and one of the richest men ever, Andrew Carnegie. He grew up poor, but during his childhood frequently was invited by a wealthy Pittsburgh man to spend time in his private library. That experience made him a devotee of libraries. He decided that if he ever became wealthy, he would use his bounty to establish free libraries. 

And so he did, funding a whopping 2,509 “Carnegie Libraries” worldwide. Of this number, 1,795 were built in the United States. Others were established in Europe, South Africa, Barbados, Australia, and New Zealand. 

And from then on libraries became an integral part of our communities. 

Mychal Threets started posting a few years ago and has gained more than 640,00 followers on Instagram and nearly 680,000 on TikTok. He has been featured in HuffPost, San Francisco Chronicle, The New York Times, and many other publications. 

Mychal posts short vignettes of his interactions with people who come into the library – people who might be a little nervous because they think they owe money for overdue books (many libraries no longer charge fines), or maybe they are not great readers, or feel uncomfortable being there for some other reason. He welcomes everyone with excitement and glee. He is kind, enthusiastic, open-hearted, and authentic. The real deal. In Mychal’s library – and world – all are valued and welcome. Kind of the way it should be everywhere. 

He isn’t there just to help you find books, although he definitely does that, and he showcases a number of them. He is also there to help you find “library joy.” Honestly, I think he is there to help you find joy, period. And that is what I love about him. Watching his videos makes me feel happy. Maybe it will do the same for you, too. 

So mosey on over to Instagram or TikTok, and get a blast of delight in your day from the most famous librarian in the world. It might just make you smile. Library fun, yes!

What’s with the “Be Patient: New Driver” bumper stickers you see everywhere? Rookie driver, student driver, what have you, seems like everybody and their brother is a newbie. The Division of Motor Vehicles in every state must have been swamped over the past few months issuing permits.

When you see a sign like that on a car you expect to see a pimply faced adolescent in braces in the driver’s seat, with a death grip on the steering wheel and a look of sheer terror on his face. He’s afraid to merge into traffic, nervous about changing lanes, even uneasy making a right turn. Who isn’t, the first time on the road?

But whom do you really see? Grandpa hunched over the wheel, pushing the pedal to the metal, tailgating the lollygagger ahead of him, totally ready to slam his 3000 pounds of gas-guzzling steel into that guy’s plastic bumper if he even thinks about tapping the brake. Glamor Babe applying mascara. Hippie mama hanging out on the left lane while going 10 miles under the speed limit, wailing “Take a Little Piece of My Heart.” Text-y man, keeping in close (technological) touch with his pals, even as he’s about to get a little too physically close to his highway buddies. Tap tap. 

The Darlings learned to drive in the DC area. Running Barb Mom always told them that if they could drive here, they could drive anywhere. And what experience you get around here!

There’s Motorcycle Wheelie Man, barreling down 95 on the back tire only. Wallie Weaver, threading his way among cars across four lanes of speeding vehicles. And Friendly Frank, leaning on his horn and giving a one fingered wave to friends and foes alike. Actually, to Frank we’re all foes. Dealing with all of this tests your ability to remain calm and focused. A real life growth opportunity. 

So what’s with the faux warnings? I say the joke is on us. They are hoping that we are kind enough to actually stand by quietly while they cut us off, turn without signaling, and merge into the two feet of unoccupied space in front of my car.

I say let’s turn it on its head. Let’s just be nice to everyone on the road. Pull in front of me and slam on your brakes? I’m cool. Hang out in the middle lane and swerve in front of me in the right lane to exit at the last millisecond? It’s okay. Tailgate me? No worries. I don’t own the road, and you don’t own the road. In fact the federal government owns the road, and they should be charging us an arm and a leg to drive on it and building up a better public transportation system for all of us! But that’s a story for another blog. 

In the meantime you’ll see me cruising up and down the road in complete chill. I’m in no rush. And maybe I can take a second to read some of the other bumper stickers around. Some of them really can make you think. Like, who the heck is Bertha?

Where were you in 1923? Okay, maybe you weren’t “there” there, but what do you know about it? Warren G. Harding was president, then after he died, Calvin Coolidge stepped up. Remember him? It was the year Rowan University, my alma mater opened. Okay, you probably wouldn’t recall that. Another entertaining fact: 1923 it was pretty much in the middle of the Roaring Twenties. A fun time, for sure. 

How about 1973? Getting closer, huh? You had to wait in line for gas, the style of the day was hippy, and (sorry to have to break it to you) lite beer had just become a thing. That wasn’t so long ago, was it?

And here we are, closing the door on 2023. Probably the most important events that happened this year were Beyonce’, Taylor Swift, and Barbie.   

It’s hard to believe that as much time has passed between 1923 and 1973 as between 1973 and 2023. Seems simple when you do the math, but when you read about the events you really start to feel the time. 

And as we come to the end of the year many of us are thinking about just that. The time we spent this year, the time that will come (we hope) in the coming one. Of course, January 1 is a completely arbitrary date. Why do we make so much of it? Time does not begin or end on a certain day. It keeps coming and. . . . then it’s gone. 

Many years ago Mr. K and I travelled in a whole bunch of countries living out of a backpack for more than a year. One of our stops was in Paris. While in Paris, we visited the catacombs. You know the catacombs, the former quarry labyrinth which holds the bones of six million people. These bones were moved here from cemeteries, starting in the late 1700s. There are bajillions of them. As you walk through the tunnels you study them, arranged in elaborate designs, with skulls and femurs serving as decorative details. Bones, bones, and bones.

When you go to a regular, above-the-ground cemetery you see (mostly) well-tended plots with flowers and trees. Headstones include the name of the deceased, dates of birth and death, and maybe a pithy phrase “all my love,” “rest in peace,” “missed by all.” This environment is meant to evoke a feeling of serenity as you contemplate the life of your loved one, and maybe your own. Underground is quite the opposite. It is dark and cold. The bones’ owners are anonymous. Bones are piled up on each other: ribs on jumbled on radii, sacrums over sternums, patellas atop pelvises. They do not send any message of peace or harmony. In fact, signs abound with advice you are meant to take to heart: 

When you wake up in the morning you don’t know whether you will go to sleep at night. When you go to sleep at night you don’t know if you will wake up in the morning.

So all things pass upon the earth
Spirit, beauty, grace, talent
Ephemeral as a flower
Tossed by the slightest breeze.

They were as we are
Dust, the wind’s plaything
Fragile as men
Feeble as the void.

You may not think that the beginning of 2024 is a great time to contemplate your mortality. But then, when is? Thinking about death is something we typically want to put off, but that doesn’t make it go away. There’s no avoiding it, we have to face the facts. Nonetheless, thinking about how to make the most of our time here on earth doesn’t have to be scary. 

A good way to look at it is just one day – or minute – at a time. Pause. What is happening now? How do I feel? What am I grateful for? Whom do I love? 

Can I just be and absorb the life around me? What does that look like? How can I make myself more aware?

Can I add to the beauty and splendor of the world? Even little ‘ol me?

I can’t control everything, but there are a lot of decisions I can make. I can choose to be kind. Do for others. Be curious. Get enough sleep. 

We all know how it ends. Let’s appreciate the present.

Denver is a very famous city somewhere near the Rocky Mountains of the United States. There are many songs about Denver, such as “Get Out of Denver, “Denver,” and “40 Miles from Denver.” There is even a guy who named himself after Denver. Guess Denver was easier to remember than Deutschendorf.

If you want to live in Denver you must:

Have a dog. Preferably a big one. Or a coupla big ones. You have to outfit the dog in the latest dog-kerchief-wear and attach a fold up water bowl to your Patagonia pack. Your dog goes everywhere with you – food stores, yoga studios, hotels, airports, you name it. Dogs are more beloved than children. They are children. But four-legged. And more demanding.

Love the sun. It doesn’t matter which way you are facing – north, south, east, or west – or what time of day – morning, afternoon, night – the sun will glare into your eyes. It will also suck every ounce (or milliliter, if you are from Europe) of moisture out of your skin, chapping your lips, turning your hands to sandpaper, and making your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth. Coloradans don’t mind this because “it’s better than the humidity in the East.”

Get comfy with weed. Even when you don’t smoke it you are inhaling it. Somebody always has a big bogie going on, you can be sure of that. Colorado legalized pot for recreational use in 2012, one of the first states to do so. And it has paid off.  In 2022 Colorado raked in $325,103,684 in marijuana tax revenue. That’s some serious mind alteration! 

Ski. I know, it sounds crazy, paying a fortune to get into a fancy resort to stand in line for hours to rent your little booties, stand in line again to get to the top of the hill, freeze your butt off, then whisk off down to the bottom of the hill only to go back in line and start the whole thing all over again. But people seem to like it. 

Drive the appropriate vehicle. Four wheel drive, something you can sleep in, a rig that looks like it could plow through the Yukon River, maybe a tent on top, something homemade perhaps, but whatever, it has got to look rugged. You don’t want to drive in Colorado without the right mechanical mover. Your neighbors will laugh at you.

Hike. Getting into the outdoors is relaxing and invigorating. And when you share the trails with 5,877,610 other Coloradans, it can get mighty friendly! Make sure to get your appropriate vehicle (see above) to the trailhead before the sleepyheads even begin to grind their espresso beans. Wear a handy headlamp so you can peak out before the sun comes up (see above, above). And remember your trail etiquette – hikers coming uphill have the right of way! 

So there you have it, a user’s guide to living in Colorado! Hope you can get out there soon! Don’t forget your sun screen! 

The Denver airport is made of some interesting architecture. There are these white, peaked structures jutting into the sky. The airport also has in internal train, and the musical chimes it plays sound like something you would hear under a big top. Because of this combination I always thought the theme of the airport was “circus.” Which kind of makes sense, right? When you go through an airport you feel like you are in a circus, or a zoo, or a savannah plain. It was only recently that I learned that those white whojiwhatsits are supposed to evoke the snowy Rocky Mountains as well as the teepees of Native people.  

Eventually we walked down the aisle to the front of the plane, off, and into the terminal. A circus train ride and long walk later we were burped out.

When you fly and have a few glitches you think “Oh no, we’re ten minutes late! This is taking forever!” Then you remember what it was like to go by wagon train. (Or, remember reading about it, I should say.) You had to get to the airport on your own. Only there was no airport. No Pizza Hut or Cinnabon. You had to hunt for your pepperoni and sweet buns. It was terrible!

When you were on the wagon train you were far from help. Broken wheel? No AAA, guys, you gotta fix it yourself. Leaky roof? Throw on another buffalo hide. Not sure of the direction? That’s what the stars are for. Yessirree, it really was a time of self-sufficiency and manning up. Now we complain if there is a crying baby on board. Have a heart, people!

The Denver airport is also home to the famous Blue Mustang, or Blucifer. “Colored bright blue, with illuminated glowing red eyes, it is notable both for its striking appearance and for having killed its sculptor, Luis Jimenez, when a section of it fell on him at his studio.” (Wikipedia) 

Not only that, conspiracy theories about the airport abound. Secret societies? Aliens? The apocalypse? Folks, it sure is the wild west out there. 

After leaving the airport you get to hop in a pretty little red train, the RTD, then on into the city. When you get off the train, because it is Colorado, you are pummeled with the thing that Colorado is famous for: snow. Thick flakes in your eyes, crunching under your feet, sliding down your neck. Rocky Mountain High, all right!

Well, when was the last time I had stepped on an airplane? Spring of 2022 maybe? Now we were headed to Denver to see The Darlings. We could have driven the van and camped, but even Running Barb has second thoughts about sleeping outside in January. 

We left for the airport around 150 hours before the flight. With Metro, you just never know. We arrive at Metro’s Red Line. There’s a train there. Good sign. Get on the train. In a few minutes the train starts to move. Things are looking good. The train pulls into each station and stops to let off and let on passengers. Wow. It’s really working! We switched lines at Gallery Place, and the Yellow Line, too, was running in a predictable and orderly fashion. Always grateful for happy surprises.

We got to the airport about a year before departure time. We see that yes, people are flying again, as evidenced by the long, snaky line at security. Long. Snaky. Now – some people swear by TSA PreCheck. Others think it is a big scam by The Man to squeeze greenbacks out of everyday people who have more important things to do with their cash. 

“Use TSA PreCheck! You won’t have to take off your belt!” “Use TSA PreCheck! You won’t have to take your computer out of its sleeve!” “Use TSA PreCheck! You won’t have to take your three-ounce bottles out of your toiletry bag!” “Use TSA PreCheck! You will have to give us 78 dollars!”

Does that sound convincing to you? 

We stripped down to our undies and filled twenty-three bins apiece with shampoo bottles, electronic devices, shoes, jackets, an assortment of pocket change, an old tissue, and a belt. We watched as our goodies rode the conveyer under the watchful eye of a dedicated TSA agent. Another one stood by barking out instructions. “Take off your shoes! You don’t have to take off your socks! If you are over 75 you don’t have to take off your shoes! But you might have to take off your socks!” And the like. 

On the other side we gathered everything into a big pile, and threw it back into the suitcase. I sat on it to zip it shut. 

Was that so terrible?

Next to the gate for the “Won’t-Check-My-Bag” challenge. From the minute we got there the gate agents made threatening noises about how passengers would have to check bags if they (the bags) wouldn’t fit into the overhead bin. They made us do the math. “We have eleven-forty-eight passengers and only room for sixty-two bags. Something’s gotta give, people!” They encouraged you to volunteer to check your bag, or else they might run out of space and force you to check it just before you boarded. They even would allow you to board immediately if you volunteered to check your bag. Dude, who cares about boarding right away? My seat is reserved. My luggage space is not. What I want is to not have to wait for my stuff for even one second (!) at the spinning carousel when I get off.

All of these warnings resulting in passengers hunching as close to the line up space as possible so that when our boarding zone was called we would be the first in that zone. Everyone was seemingly polite and courteous, but we all knew the stakes were high, so when the agent called “Zone three,” ninety-nine luggage toting desperadoes shoved into place. The countdown continued. “Folks, we only have room for three bags, a lunchbox, and a child’s purse. Your luggage probably is not going to fit in the overhead. You can volunteer to check it now.” 

Every passenger clutched and re-clutched our respective suitcase handles. You’re gonna have to pry it from my cold dead fingers, buddy.

Finally we boarded the plane with our bag and headed toward our seats. Most of the bins were closed, but I sensed a possibility toward the back. The aircraft was almost the size of Maryland, so it took a while, but there it was, the reward we had all been hoping for, a bin with space enough for the Sahara Desert. We neatly tossed our bag up there, not taking up any more room than we deserved, so that some other sucker wouldn’t be left holding a bag. We took our seats and smugly clicked in. 

Moral of the story: When it comes to your baggage, never let it go.

With all the turmoil and upset going down in our nation’s capital, we must remind ourselves of the importance of voting.  

Choosing a winner is not something you should take lightly. Votes have consequences. You need to pick the best representative for the job. You should not be discouraged by voter suppression, gerrymandering, or any other nasty or nefarious scheme. You should have full confidence that your vote will make a difference. You – yes you! – can influence the choice of who will be the next fat fellow in charge.

I write, of course, about the Fat Bear Week competition of Katmai National Park and Preserve, Alaska, where normal people like yourself get to choose who comes out on top.

Every year in the summer and fall bears meander over to the rivers and streams of Katmai (and elsewhere) for a meal. Actually, many meals. Throughout this period millions of salmon swim upstream, back to the place where they were born. Their roots, you could say, if fish had roots. Tasting opportunity (aren’t they smart), bears hang out around the water and scoop up the fish that come along, munching and crunching them with their four-inch long, razor sharp teeth. Our bear buddies have to build up their fat reserve in order to make it through winter hibernation. According to the National Park Service, “For bears, fat equals survival. Each winter, bears enter the den where they will not eat or drink until they emerge in spring. During this time, they may lose up to one-third of their body weight as they rely solely on their fat reserves. Survival depends on eating a year’s worth of food in six months.” 

You might feel like that’s what you do pigging out on a pizza on a Friday night, but honey, you don’t even come close. A single salmon provides about 4,000 calories, and the biggest bears can eat up to 40 salmon a day, taking in a up to 160,000 calories. That’s a lotta Papa Johns. Why, I can’t even bear the thought of eating that much! These giants also go for the choicest parts – skin, brain, and eggs – the ones highest in fat. Yum!

After gorging themselves they hunker down into their den. During this time they may give birth to a cute little bear brood. Then, when they come out in the spring they are hungry again! It’s like having a high school football player around. Without the unbearable driving.

During the spring they feast on plants and berries. Then comes summer and the whole shebang starts all over again.

Watching and learning about the bears shows once again how interesting and amazing nature is and how it sparks so many deep questions, like “How close can I get to this bad boy, anyway?  

Can’t make it to Katmai to see the competitors in person? No worries, hitch a ride with our pal Sam! If that doesn’t work, there’s always the bearcam. That’s as close as most of us will ever get. 

Fat Bear Week voting is open October 4-10. Cast your ballot now. May the most qualified critter win!