The Panama Canal Cruise - Part 3 - The Transit

I rose even earlier than normal, the excitement of photographing the approach to the world-famous Panama Canal was just too much to sleep through. As I waited for an elevator to take me to the top deck, I was not alone. Many fellow passengers, most of them with cameras other than just their cell phones, had the same feelings I did. They were anxiously fiddling with their equipment or their clothes as we waited to arrive at the top. As we walked around the pool area headed for the staircases to the upper deck, we encounter the strangest decision I have ever seen by a cruise line in my seven previous cruises: the stairs to the observation area on the top deck, the sports deck, is chained off!

Here we are, on a not inexpensive, once in a lifetime cruise, taken specifically to see the Panama Canal, and the one viewing area that has been open the previous two days, this morning, with the city lights of Colon, Panama, shining brightly in the background, is inexplicably closed to passengers! The iconic Atlantic Bridge, the newest bridge over the canal, is tantalizingly illuminated in the distance, but we can see only portions of the view ahead from the lower decks. The growing, milling crowd begins to question the frustrating decision, but no one wants to test the omnipotent power of the cruise officers and no one crosses the chains. The canal draws closer to the entrance to the canal in the fading darkness, but the chains remain in place, then someone happens to notice someone leaning over the rail above us. “How did you get up there?” someone yells. The startled explorer yells back, “I don’t recall!” Through the Bar and Grill, because the doors exiting the restaurant to the sports deck are wide open! The sports deck is soon filled with passengers snapping unobstructed photos of the oddly purple sunrise with the gateway to the canal in front of them.

It is a marvelous time, waiting in the dim morning light to see something you have heard and read about your whole life, and yet I have a feeling of dissatisfaction or, more like a realization, that this is no big deal. There are many freighters and small ships of all sizes anchored at the mouth of the canal, all waiting for their clearances to enter. Some appear to have been waiting quite a while. A fleet of big, oval shaped ocean-going tugs race around the ship like over-sized water bugs as we slowly approach the Atlantic Bridge from Limón Bay, but none of them makes contact with our ship.

By the time we enter into the river-like waterway most of us have returned to our balcony cabins to watch the transit from well above the mechanical mules, the railroad like tractors that guide us through the locks. One look at the towering, iconic Gatun locks in front of us brings back the awe of the moment. A ship entering the locks from the other side is so high above us it doesn’t look like a ship at all.

We are moving so slowly it is hard to discern any movement. Only by looking down at the seawall can we see the perceptible, unbelievable closing between us and the walls of lock. We can’t be doing more than one or two miles an hour. I can easily walk faster than the ship is traveling as we enter the first lock. 

One reason we selected the Island Princess is she transverses the old, traditional locks at Gatun, Pedro Miguel, and Miraflores, the latter two located over on the other side of the isthmus, just before the canal empties into the Pacific Ocean. 

The new, wider and longer locks at Gatun are the Aqua Clara locks, out of sight to the left, farther east, as you enter from the Caribbean. They were only recently built to relieve the traffic through the 110 year old, 110 foot wide original Gatun locks. They both enter Gatun Lake and from there to the locks fifty miles away on the other side, and in a moment of unrestrained alliteration, ships share the same waterway. That is as close as I get to poetry.

By the time we get through the Gatun locks, we are tired of standing up and leaning on the railing. Time to take a break and stretch our legs as we enter Lake Gatun, the fresh water lake that supplies all the water to make this huge, ingenious system work. We were told that every ship's passage through the canal takes around 51 million gallons of water. Since water only flows out from the lake to the Atlantic and Pacific oceans on either side, no water flows between the two oceans. No water flows in from the sea. The lake is replenished by rivers and rainfall, and during droughts the canal authority restricts the number of ships that can use the canal as the water level in the lake begins to lower to seriously low levels. Salt water can't be pumped back into the lake as that would contaminate the country's drinking water supply.

In our struggle to take unobstructed photos and videos, we discover there are very few viewing areas on the Island Princess available. If what you want to see is on the same side as your cabin, you have no problem, but to see ahead or behind the ship leaves much to be desired. Up on top, the distorted, blue glass windscreen panels that surround all the public areas makes most photography futile. If you want to see something on the other side of the ship, there is little area that is suitable other than a small narrow section near the Bar and Grill. The stern isn’t much better so we return to our balcony cabin where we can at least have one unobstructed view of the transit.

Those problems fade away as we silently cruise past the hardwood jungle forest that comes right to the water's edge. We are captivated by the thick, lush foliage that reminds us of home. Not everyone sees it the way we do, of course, but we are still used to the last strands of mahogany hardwoods in the Florida keys and feel a strange tinge of longing for days gone by. There are few houses or buildings on the water, most tucked far away from the canal itself. Soon it is all forest as the lake begins to open up with small islands on the far shore. An occasional long, slender power boat passes us, but the canal is quiet. We have one other ship quite a ways behind us, but we don’t pass any other ships headed the other direction.

The next several hours are spent relaxing and watching the lake slowly turn into a river. We casually watch as hills in the distance grow larger and come closer to the water's edge. The visible scars on the landscape become more and more obvious as we head further south. Oddly, even though we are headed toward the Pacific Ocean, we are headed southeast approaching the ridge of mountains that runs the length of Panama. The exit from the canal into the Pacific at Panama City is further east than Colon, where we entered from the Caribbean. 

The thought that over 22,000 men died digging this canal is somberly personified by the terraced, rocky pass through the stone mountain just this side of the second bridge. For three years, all the dynamite manufactured in the United States, over 60 million pounds, was used to blast though the mountains to make this canal, and we blithely cruise through it looking at our cell phones.

We pass under the second bridge, the Centennial Bridge, opened in only 2004, and the locks at Pedro Miguel come into view. Again, I stand on our balcony for the entire passage even though the temperature outside in the blazing sunshine is now in the high 90's. 

We approach the Pedro Miguel locks slightly off center as wind slowly pushes us to the east in the canal. We all but stop as we lie off from the entrance to the last lock, obviously out of position, and watch in awe as two men climb down a ladder on the side of the lock and climb into a row boat. One man rows slowly toward our bow while the other handles a rope being strung out behind them. They disappear for a few moments beneath our overhang and reappear shortly, rowing almost nonchalantly back to the lock. A team on the lock attaches the line to a mule and within a few minutes of winding and pulling, we slowly, correctly, enter the lock. I'm absolutely astonished that in this day and age of marvelous, ingenious gadgets and mechanical tools, that this simple, inexpensive method that has been used now for over 110 years, still works just fine.

Schrödinger's Cats at Pedro Miguel

The last locks at Miraflores are not far from the exit of Pedro Miguel, but I'm startled when I watch the LPG tanker with its huge oversize on-deck storage tanks that has been behind us since we entered Lake Gatun, sail past above us to our right, still at the level before the Pedro Miguel lock. She is far wider than the Island Princess and is taking the route through the new locks. The new Miraflores West lock take the place of both the original Miraflores and the Pedro Miguel locks, but being 70 feet wider and 18 feet deeper, it requires far more water for a single-ship transit than the old locks. The old locks will be in use for many, many years to come.

We pass a staff member who steps out of his office onto the office balcony just as we glide by. Greetings are shouted back and forth from different parts of the boat, some in Spanish, all greeted with laughter and waves. 

We soon pass under the third and last Bridge, the old original Bridge of the Americas, and can see the skyscrapers of Panama City, home to two million people off to the east. 

The new fourth bridge over the canal is under way not far from the original, but the new massive integrated road and rail undertaking is still years from completion. From what we got to see on this trip, it should be a piece of cake.

It has taken just over eight hours to go from the Atlantic to the Pacific ocean. We stood for much of the trip, but we had lunch, walked several decks searching for good vantage points, at least ones not so crowded we could get to, and were quite sunburned by the time we went to dinner. A marvelous cruise, maybe we'll do it again some time. Maybe next time we'll start in L.A. 

Next: Puntarenas, Costa Rica - https://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2024/11/the-panama-canal-cruise-part-4.html

A 27 minute HD video of this blog is at: https://youtu.be/-ouMXldv7zY

Previous - Cartagena, Colombia - https://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2024/11/the-panama-canal-cruise-part-2-cartegena.html

The Panama Canal Cruise - Part - 1 - The Love Boat

 

Our return to cruising back in December of 2021 was a marvelous experience, not just because of the ship, the Celebrity Millennium, or our itinerary in the eastern Leeward Islands of the Caribbean, but also because we had the classic, spotless ship practically to ourselves. COVID restrictions were being slowly lifted and cruising had just resumed following the industry-wide shutdown caused by the COVID-19 epidemic. We happened to pick the second cruise of the Millennium’s return to full service. There were only several hundred passengers on a fully staffed ship designed to carry over two thousand. There were as many crew as there were passengers, and needless to say, the service was outstanding.

We concluded the ten day cruise following the mask and cleanliness requirements, especially when in the many ports of call and did not suffer any illness of any kind. There were several passengers confined to their staterooms who apparently had tested positive for the infection and we found later one deck had been assigned as a restricted area for those who fell ill to COVID, but the affect of the precautions on the cruise was unnoticed by most of us. 

The cruise was so enjoyable we visited the future cruise office on board the Millennium after the mid-point of the sailing and booked our dream cruise, a full transit of the Panama Canal. The Millennium was being repositioned from Ft. Lauderdale to Los Angeles early next year and the timing was perfect for us. We excitedly made our cruise deposit and began planning even before our cruise was over. We disembarked in Ft Lauderdale full of enthusiasm, thrilled that our return to cruising had reaffirmed our memories of our past cruises. We began planning about visiting friends in California as we incorporated the upcoming Panama Canal cruise into an extended adventure. We were back! Cruising was great again.

Unfortunately, after months of planning and anticipation of our “bucket-list” cruise, Celebrity Cruise line abruptly informed us of a major change in plans and within days, the highly anticipated cruise faded into the mist of disillusionment. We were offered a similar cruise on a different ship, and at a different time, but no option for a refund. The new schedule was impossible for us to accommodate, so we had to settle for “ship’s credit” for some future cruise. Ship’s credit has become the new refund in the industry, and we grudgingly accepted that resolution, feeling as if we would really be surprised to ever recover our down payment. And then life got in the way, or more specifically, Hurricane Ian, and we began to wonder if we would ever get back to sea.

We did. After a two year hiatus – mainly spent spending three months cleaning up after Hurricane Ian and then pulling up our Florida roots and moving to Athens, Georgia – we decided to try again, and this time we pulled yet another rabbit out of the hat – the Love Boat.

After settling in our new home in Athens, Georgia, and facing the prospect of our first “cold” winter, we decided to find a cruise that included a full transit of the iconic Panama Canal. We needed a respite from our moving and resettling chores and the foreboding winter weather as well. Princess Cruises, which we have sailed with twice before, offered the Island Princess with 2200 passengers and a crew of 900, a perfect size cruise ship for us. It was scheduled to depart from Ft. Lauderdale just after New Years and arrive in Los Angeles fifteen days later. We booked the cruise and started packing. We resumed our plans for an extended vacation in California as well.

We were thrilled to book a cruise on the ship, which we were told, is the namesake of one of the two ships used in the television series of long ago. Technically, it is the “other” Love Boat, the Island Princess, not the Pacific Princess, and it’s not the original ship used in the series either, but rather it’s namesake, a specifically designed Panamax for Panama Canal passage, launched in 2003. The original Love Boat has already met its ignominious end on the beaches at Alang, India, as did the marvelous SS Norway, both cut up for scrap after setting the standards for cruising that evolved past them. We were fortunate to sail on the SS Norway years ago, and this was a unique opportunity to sail yet on another iconic ship. We would soon find out the Island Princess, as pristine as it is, like the Millennium of our last cruise, is also approaching the end of its service life in mainstream cruising.

Step 1 - Get to the port! 

For the first time in our cruising experience, we can not simply drive to the port of embarkation. Not trusting airline delays, we book a flight a day early so as to minimize the possibility of missing the boat. That’s not an idiom, we really didn’t want to miss the boat. We fly from busy Atlanta, the busiest in the world, to Ft Lauderdale – a modest, under two hour flight – and stay in one of the several well-known chain hotels not far from Port Everglades. The cruise port, less than three miles from the International airport, has become a thriving, modern passenger cruise terminal, complete with parking garage for those who drive to the port. It now rivals its nearby neighbor, Dodge Island, the Port of Miami less than thirty miles away. Arriving a day early also gave us the opportunity to have dinner that evening with great friends, Bob and Patricia, who drove up from Miami. We enjoyed a great Cuban dinner, something we dearly miss up in Georgia, and reminisced about old times. The dinner set the tone for the entire cruise.

Port Everglades

The hotel, while spotlessly clean, showed it’s primary business is the constant flow of one night guests departing the next day on cruise ships and appears to have no interest in investing in maintenance or upkeep as that would be apparently an unnecessary expense. They had shuttle bus service to the cruise port, for an additional fee of course, that ran multiple trips beginning fairly early the next morning and each was filled with excited, shuffling passengers, all with various carry-ons strapped over shoulders and every possible color and size of four wheeled luggage made on planet earth.

Step 2 - Boarding - A short wait

One feature of Princess cruising I really like is their medallion. It was mailed to us at home a week or so before the cruise and even though I now know how my dog feels when the vet scans him for an implanted chip, I really found it to be a time saver. The medallion is a small disc with an RF chip containing your pertinent information. Lost your wife? Just ask the closest staff member to locate her. Piece of cake. After presenting our passports and scanning our medallions, we were soon on board and since we didn’t have to wait on checked in luggage, dropped our backpacks and carry-ons in our stateroom and headed for the food on the upper deck. 

We made the mandatory stop by our assigned lifeboat station, scanned our medallions yet again, and reminisced about the pushing and shoving of the old days. It isn’t really nostalgia because I don’t miss the old Parade of New Shoes, also formerly known as the mandatory life boat drill. It now takes a few seconds to complete the safety requirements and you are free to do whatever you want.

The open buffet is extensive and well replenished, and while we were sitting, looking over the other ships and boats around the port, my wife got a cellphone call from our overnight hotel. The maid found a tablet under her pillow when she made the bed. Normally, my wife, who always reads at night, would have put it on the top shelf of the headboard as the sandman slipped in, but not having a headboard, she had simply slipped her Kindle electronic reader beneath her pillow. Out of sight, out of mind, and we simply forgot it was there.

The next four hours, right up to casting off, were intense, with phone calls to the hotel, the shuttle company staff, drivers, and of course, on board customer service. I used my phone to deactivate her Kindle in case it couldn’t be recovered, and when we finally got a photo from the driver who delivered the forgotten tablet to the port showing who he had handed it to - it was of the back of an unidentifiable woman, dressed in a blue suit, taken as she walked away.

We shoved off almost immediately after, and once again pleaded our case to the sympathetic staff at customer service, but alas, there was no word or information about the lost Kindle. They checked again with the boarding crew, to no avail, and said simply they would do their best to find it. While they were helping us, they copied my DD214 to prove my military service. Most cruise lines offer a small discount to veterans, but I hadn’t submitted the required form ahead of time so I brought a copy with me. A few keystrokes and the document was on its way to corporate headquarters. My approval was received early the next day.

Leaving Port Everglades

The first night dinner is always informal as many suitcases have yet to be delivered to the staterooms and cabins, but we passed on the dining room and ended up in the Horizon Court, a great open food service area forward on deck 14 offering something for everyone. 

It was a gray, overcast sky by the time Ft Lauderdale was but a bright spot on the distant evening horizon. When we finally retired to the cabin, tired but excited, Ilse began to realize how much she missed her Kindle.

An old fashioned Kindle. 

Next:  Cartagena - https://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2024/11/the-panama-canal-cruise-part-2-cartegena.html

Video:  A 26 minute video of this blog, including Cartagena, is at  https://youtu.be/MeKFr8bPaFs

Sedentary

We moved to Athens, Georgia, a year ago and we are still ambivalent about the wisdom of ripping up our roots and moving out of state at our age. I was eighty when we made the decision to get out of Hurricane Alley and seek refuge in a safer haven, but the move has taken well over a year and our transition is far from complete. We are perturbed with our inability to feel at home in our newly adopted state.

My wife and I spent the last forty-five years or so participating in the annual Florida six-month long Hurricane watch party, the weather alerts that start at the beginning of the hurricane season, just about the time school ends and wraps up just after Thanksgiving. The intense peak is always around Labor Day Weekend when everyone sits in front of the television watching the Weather Channel worrying where the current storm is going to make landfall. Hurricane David planted the first serious fear in us during Labor Day weekend in 1979. After doing what meager preparations we could to our townhouse, we went to bed expecting to be hit directly sometime during the night. The dangerous storm capriciously spared us and we woke up to singing birds and gentle breezes. There were multiple scares before Hurricane Andrew hit Miami in 1992 and our two-car, hurricane reinforced garage door blew in and wrapped around the car parked inside. Our daughter fared far worse: her condominium only fifteen miles away was destroyed completely. Not just damaged, but red-tag destroyed. She relocated to Georgia, not too far from Atlanta, to finish her final year of college. Her move gave us an excuse to travel up north to visit every chance we got.

We thought we would be just spectators to the annual ritual after moving to Port Charlotte on Florida’s west coast after I retired, but we were wrong. We helplessly watched Hurricane Charley barrel toward us in 2003 before it too decided to follow a slightly different path at the last possible minute. While we missed a devastating direct hit by the storm’s eye-wall by about ten miles, we were clobbered directly by Ian in 2022. The big, heavy twenty five foot tall palmetto laying exactly twenty-eight inches from our bedroom in the aftermath was the very big straw that broke the camel’s back. Time to leave the watch party. So, where to go? Out of harm’s way, of course, but someplace where the weather is mild, if not warm in the winter. No snow or ice storms, no life threatening environmental issues. The best part of the move would be living closer to our daughter and her family. While Georgia seemed to check all the boxes, we had a foreboding about the massive disruption to our lives. We wondered why Florida friends Ingrid and Richard moved from Port Charlotte to Asheville, North Carolina, only to move back to Florida after only two years. Another friend, Clyde, a muscular, urbane friend who moved to Charlotte, North Carolina, a few years ago, only made it a year before he also moved back to Florida. Why didn’t they make it “up north”?

There are many active retirement communities being developed across the state of Georgia, and we visited many of them in the twenty years we’ve been looking for a desirable alternative to Florida. From Hochston to Gainesville, from Peachtree to Greensboro, from Hiawasee to Tifton, we have pretty much covered Georgia. Many of these purposely designed communities are from companies such as Del Webb, Cresswind, and Lennar, specializing in “55+ Active Adult Communities.” They aren’t the only ones of course, but they are some of the predominate or most prolific developers. We were interested in the possibilities offered by most of these communities, and for many people they are the perfect answer. But we found they are not for us.

The unimaginative sideboard houses, all uniformly painted in a bland color palette, aligned precisely to maximize the profit of the smallest footprint possible, resemble a dreary and unappealing Army base. They are jammed together as selling the precious, squeezed, footprint of land is of foremost importance. The only thing missing are the big, white building numbers painted on the street side corner of each one. We found few one story or “ranch” style homes that were small enough for us that had any quality. It was not uncommon to find rows of visible nails that completely missed their support beams and studs, living room rugs our young granddaughter could pull up with her fingers, and gaps in the finish I could put my thumbs into. Small, more often than not, translates to cheap rather than affordable, garish rather than tasteful, and worst of all, crowded and exploited.

We read plans and covenants, by-laws and home owner association rules at every community and found the inescapable and often inexplicable petty rules and regulations seemed to be at the whim of an insulated higher power. Appearance and community standards are not only expected, but desired as well, but so is common sense. While most developments tend to specialize in club house activities closer aligned to our old style of Florida living, once you drive out the gates – which I would do on a regular basis – you would be back in reality. Florida, especially around the coastal areas, tends to be modern and accessible. We find much of America is simply stuck in the past of reluctance and denial, or at best, the fanciful anticipation of a distant future that has eluded the complacent.

Even in the highly successful Villages, a huge – it encompasses six zip codes – preplanned adult community in Florida, appropriately not far from Disney World, diversity reigns. Not in the residents, they are all predominately white from up north, but in the overall concept of the community. From styles and colors, neighborhood layouts and building design and construction, landscaping that would make even Frederick Law Olmsted envious, to blending what prospective residents assume is native Florida with civilization, they have succeeded in presenting a retirement image that has simply escaped the developers up north. Unfortunately, here again, once you drive out of the Villages, you meet apparent destitution and the mishmash that contrasts sharply with the meticulous, carefully developed residential island the newcomers live in. Very few of the newcomers to the area live outside the boundaries of the Villages.

We were fortunate to find a relatively inexpensive home in a rather unique area near Athens, Georgia. Our new home is a one-story, twenty-five year old brick townhouse with a two car garage with the privacy of woods facing the back of our house. Each home, although they all follow the same architectural guidelines, is distinctly different. The streets all end in a cul-de-sac so there is no through traffic, and yet we are only minutes from shopping and restaurants. There are restrictions against political signs, or any kind of yard signs, and an inexpensive home owners association that even offers a pool. We were fortunate to find the house just as it came on the market. We know we will be hard pressed to find a more desirable area or location, and we would not be able to replace our home for anywhere near what we paid for it.

Our biggest single disappointment with our new home is something we have to learn to master on our own: Winter. The sporadic sessions of summer terror have been replaced with the numbing dullness of perpetual inactivity in the winter. We do not like being enclosed inside for five months of the year. We do not like being cold. We do not like brown, lifeless landscape that is made worse by the depressing overcast and dreariness of the weather. We do not like being uncomfortable as a way of life.

Therein lies our dilemma. Stay or move back? What do we want out of our lives? Can we seriously face the prospect of enduring, or even surviving another Hurricane? We know the cost of homeowners insurance in Florida is fast becoming unobtainable. To top it off, our lifestyle and our bodies are no longer as flexible as in our youth. We know should our daughter and her family relocate somewhere else due to work or school, our attachment here will diminish greatly. Florida? Who knows, being snow birds certainly has its appeal. While summer in Florida is nerve wracking and often terrifying, winter here is boring and sedentary. The answer might be a balance between the two, living six months here and six months there. The best of both worlds, but then again, can I handle moving every six months?

Maybe we just need to go on a world cruise for a year. If we’re going to be sedentary, then let’s do it in style!

George

Bluebirds of Happiness

 

Little Jimmy Dickens never met our bluebirds or he would have changed the lyrics to his 1965 novelty hit song from “Bird of Paradise” to “Bluebird of Georgia.” Have you ever heard Johnny Carson’s comedic curse, uttered at his audience for laughing when his side-kick, Ed McMahon, announced the end of any Carnac episode? The insults ranged from elephants stepping on your feet to the famous “May the bird of paradise fly up your nose.” Little Jimmy Dickens took the resulting ditty, written by Neal Merrit, to 18 weeks on the Billboard pop chart. Personally, I think he could have used our pretty little bluebirds instead.

Understanding and protecting the pretty blue and orange songbirds that crash into our front window for hours on end, startling us every single time they hit the glass panes, has us in a predicament. It is always hard to assimilate the idealistic image of perfection and happiness with the aggravation and distaste of reality. The guilt one feels toward disliking the pretty birds is distressing, but the pretty, fluttery images of happiness and love are really hard to live with. Really, wipe off your shoes and come on in.

They arrive back in middle Georgia in late spring, just in time for the nesting season. Actually, it is their first of three nesting seasons they’ll have once they’re back in our neighborhood. Luckily for us, they tend to abandon their first nest and move on to deface someone else’s front porch once the first brood leaves the nest. Where do they love to nest? Under our roof of course, right over our front door. They love the tiny ledge where the soffit meets the fascia, preferably in a corner. If you don’t know where the soffit or the fascia is you are probably a renter.

The piles of mud that inexplicably appear on your front porch are the first indicator the universal symbols of peace and friendship have decided to honor your home with their presence. You instinctively look up only to find the underside of your soffit stained with streaks of mud as the little birds prove they are capable of carrying far more than they weigh. Quick! Get the hose and blast it off there! Don’t let them get a nest started. If you do, you’ll be like us when we first moved in to our house.

The nest wasn’t there when we did our final walk-through before closing on the house, but by the time we moved in they had not only built a nest, but filled it with three eggs as well. I had to use a stepladder and my cellphone as a camera to see inside the nest, but once I found it had eggs, it was off-limits, untouchable until the fledglings flew the nest. I decided, after cleaning the stoop for a month, the only way to prevent it from happening again was to build a decorative barrier or trim that left them no space to build their mud and straw refuge in the future. But life gets in the way, and once they left and I removed the empty nest, I completely forgot about the pretty little birds that pooped regularly in front of my door. Until two weeks ago, and I found I again needed the garden hose to clean my porch. They were back.

The battle has been in full swing. They are tenacious creatures. No sooner do I wash down the soffit than one of them flutters in and smears the pristine white paint trim with more dirty red clay. My homeowners association would definitely not approve red or any other mud on the front of the house and I don’t care much for it, either. I searched my garage for something I could fit on the ledge that would prevent them from getting any kind of foothold, but after spending an afternoon mounting diagonal pieces of Styrofoam to block the ledge, I found they weren’t deterred. The smearing and droppings continued, they just spread it further around the porch! I said they were persistent.

My neighbor suggested I paint the ceiling sky blue to fool them into thinking they were out in the open, but I don’t want a blue ceiling. That would almost be as distasteful as the dripping mud. Besides, I don’t think it would fool the messy transients for even a minute. Yesterday I mounted full size panels around the inside of the alcove ceiling so there is no flat space left for the little stinkers, er, symbols of peace and happiness, to form a foothold. They have flown in, hovered, and flown out several times now. I’ll check daily for the next several weeks, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see a nest sticking out from the wall on stilts.

You think I’m being unfair? You think I’m not Eco-friendly? We, who had alligators in our backyard, opossums in our pump house, and bobcats under our mailbox, not co-existants with nature? [I just made up the word coexistant to describe a participant of coexistence as there is currently no word in English for that particular noun. I don’t want to use coexistent as that is a state or condition, not a member or participant. Really, Google “one who coexists” and let me know what you come up with. I’ll happily credit you with my edification.]

My 15 year old granddaughter suggested coexister, which is far more accurate than Google’s Co-pilot, their AI program, which came back with this jewel:

Copilot

Certainly! A person who coexists with others can be described in various ways, depending on the context. Here are some terms you might find relevant:

1. Conciliator: A conciliator is someone who helps different parties or groups find common ground and peacefully coexist by resolving conflicts or disputes.

2. Harmonizer: A harmonizer promotes unity and balance, allowing diverse elements to coexist in a harmonious way.

3. Peacemaker: A peacemaker actively works to maintain peace and understanding among individuals or groups, ensuring they can coexist without conflict.

4. Tolerant Individual: Someone who practices tolerance and acceptance, allowing others to live alongside them despite differences.

Remember that these terms emphasize different aspects of coexistence, but they all reflect the idea of living together harmoniously. 🌟🤝

If you need more synonyms or have any other questions, feel free to ask!😊

Well, may the bird of paradise fly up your nose! No, wait, wait, how about, may the bluebirds of Georgia fly up your nose! There. That’s perfect.

May The Bird Of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose – Written 1965 by Neal Merritt

Sung by Little Jimmy Dickens

George

Concept

 

My muse loves to tease me. Here I am, busy looking for nonsense I can contradict on Facebook and immediately I can tell it’s bored because I have the urge to type something even though I have no idea about what. My muse can be as dull and mechanical as it is romantic and spontaneous, so I won’t define my muse by gender, that simply wouldn’t be fair. It can be boring at times, but it is never to be ignored. Let’s see what pops out this time. Aaah! It has to do with concepts! What is the best possible definition of concept I can think of? According to Google’s dictionary, Oxford languages, a concept is “an abstract idea; a general notion.” Ask a religious person where heaven is, my muse whispers.

And my fingers start as if by remote control. My muse takes over!

First, understand that all religions believe in some sort of life after death. Whether it be reincarnation, resurrection, or rebirth of some kind, there must be a holding tank, so to speak, and in Christianity, that area is “heaven,” where all deceased Christian’s souls are held, waiting for the Resurrection upon which they will be returned to earth in physical bodies as their former selves. While there is no scientific evidence of an afterlife, the concept has been handed down generation to generation for well over over two thousand years – long before mankind had ever seen a penguin – creating a strange, surrealistic dogma that is in conflict with not just human logic, but proven facts as well.

The generally accepted concept of heaven is loosely based on angels flying around with harps and a set of big, pearly gates that everyone has to pass through to gain access to everlasting life. How pearly gates got into the act is beyond me or my muse, so, for guidance, I went to Wikipedia:

“In some Christian denominations, the Pearly Gates are an informal name for the gateway to Heaven. The name is inspired by Revelation 21:21, which describes the New Jerusalem as ‘twelve gates, each gate being made for each tribe of Israel.’ In popular culture, the gates are depicted as large gold, white, or wrought-iron gates in the clouds, guarded by Saint Peter, the keeper of the ‘keys to the kingdom.’"

I still don’t know how the gates became pearly, but that is the best explanation AI can currently come up with.

If someone points up at the sky and says, “heaven is in the sky above,” they are ignoring the fact the earth is round. Sky is relative only to where you may be at the moment. If everyone on earth all pointed up at the sky at the same time, they would be pointing to every point of the universe. Some would pointing toward the sun or the moon or Andromeda or wherever the earth happened to be in its daily rotation. Some would be in daylight, some in darkness. No one would be pointing in the same direction. This leads to two distinct possibilities: One, there is no heaven, or two, heaven is not where everybody thinks it is.

We know life, as we know it, anyway, does not exist outside of our atmosphere and that atmosphere does not extend very far up into the not-so-magical sky. Can heaven be located in a non-life supporting environment? Could it be on Mars? How about over in another galaxy? What is life, by the way. Simply put, life is a condition that naturally converts matter from one form to another using energy. Yep! That’s it! Any physical entity that uses matter to convert to energy that is used to create matter in a different form for its own sustenance is alive. Taking a leaf of lettuce and converting that form into bone cells or skin or feathers or driving an organ that rationalizes and compares is is a great example of life. The kicker we humans don’t understand is where in the chain did lettuce learn to convert dirt, light, and water into glycosylated flavonoids, phenolic acids, carotenoids, vitamin B groups, ascorbic acid, tocopherols, and sesquiterpene lactones that other life forms learned to consume in the first place?

But how about a dimension that mortal humans simply can not imagine? One where life as we know it is not sustained, but in a different form from our limited knowledge it might flourish. Is heaven perhaps a dimension, an undiscovered astral plane that spans time and distance and space that mortal humans can not conceive? How far does it extend? Is it limited to our own solar system? Does heaven span the gap between galaxies? If heaven is indeed an ethereal storage area for our un-powered souls, we know it can not be like the cloud where we store our photos on the Internet which requires physical computers and lots and lots of electrical energy. It has to be a reality that exists in a natural, universal state that we can not access. A natural state that, so far, eludes detection by our science.

But everyone knows where heaven is. Everyone points up. And that is a concept. My muse is really enjoying this. I think my muse knows there are penguins we haven’t discovered yet.

George

Complex

I’m embarrassed by the number of articles I haven’t written. I forget the inspiration I want to capture by the time I find a keyboard or scratch paper to scribble down quick notes. I find myself repeating phrases to myself until they just fade away, displaced by the wonder of marvelous items I discover while rummaging around looking for blank paper.

At first I made light of it, trying to fluff off my occasional distractions as normal aging amid a faster, more complex environment that doesn’t allow us time to absorb the constant, unavoidable changes in our daily lives. Changes none of us can escape. Like turning off my daughter's downstairs floor lamp.

In our rush toward an effortless existence, we have siphoned off technological breakthroughs such as sending disciplined energy through space in coherent methods to allow us to communicate with our fearless explorers as far away as the moon. We now use our vastly increasing knowledge to control a lamp I simply don’t want to walk down the stairs to turn off. From the comfort of an overstuffed sofa sitting in front of a colorful wide screen, sharply focused, showing me what happened today in Gaza that shouldn’t have, I ask Alexa to do it for me. I simply have to remember the name of the lamp. Easy. Peasy.

For you, maybe.

“Alexa, turn off the downstairs lamp!”

The light doesn’t flicker, Alexa has not relayed my command. Perhaps she hasn’t heard me.

“ALEXA, TURN OFF THE DOWNSTAIRS LAMP!” Nothing. Darkness is still banished from the downstairs staircase.

I slowly disentangle from the couch and go to the kitchen counter where my granddaughter thoughtfully left a list of Alexa and Echo controllers and their respective subordinates. Yes, they have so many voice activated appliances they have to break them up into families. There are two desk-top lights, but each is assigned to a different controller or else they both come on at the same time. I read the list twice, but the downstairs lamp isn’t on it. The hard part here is I used the lamp last year when we stayed downstairs in the guest room. I used the lamp, by name, for several days, but my memory is as silent as an alligator waiting for a raccoon to wash it’s food at the water’s edge. The raccoon senses danger and backs away, but not me.

“Alexa, turn off the floor lamp!” Nothing. As frustrated as I am, I am determined not to walk down the stairs.

“Alexa, name the lamps downstairs!” The silence is embarrassing.

“Alexa…”

“Here,” my wife says as she hands me a note. “Try this one.”

“Alexa, turn off Bunny Rabbit!” I said. The light emitting from the stair well faded away.

“Where did you find the name?” I asked.

I texted them in Orlando, I needed to hear the television instead of you.”

I read the note again. I swear I’ve never heard the name Bunny Rabbit before. Well, maybe not since last year, anyway.

- George

Modern Cruise Ship - 2023

The Second Greatest Scam

 

Everyone has their own idea of the greatest scam ever pulled on mankind, but only a few acknowledge the current popular myth that may be the most pervasive in modern history. Need a hint? Let’s start with the manufactured foundation the big lie is based on: the entertainment media’s obsession with obscure, unlikely mortals, who through inhuman sacrifice and orgasmic, hyper-devotion, become pedestal-mounted demigods who command the respect of world leaders and the social elite of every nation. I’m writing about the perpetuated image of the arduous hard work, personal sacrifice, superhuman skills, and the absolutely blind devotion that creates the incredibly talented, elite superheros known as Chefs de Cuisine.

According to the media, neurosurgeons, theoretical mathematicians, and space shuttle crews undergo far less stress and nowhere near the intensive training the average executive chef apparently receives. Obviously, poor misguided commoners reap far less fame and fortune than the culinary idols known world-wide for creating a world-class, single leaf salad. Why are the entertainment elitists, especially Hollywood, absolutely enamored with mythical, gastronomical decadence and the infrastructure that supports it?

Movie after movie depicts the trials and tribulations of becoming a world class chef, winning the hearts and wallets of all mere mortals while making food, that, personally, I just don’t like very much. Except desserts. I do like French desserts. And that revelation, I confess, was an epiphany triggered by my daughter when she said she liked French desserts, but not their food. She pried the lid off my subconscious grievance about the fanatical global fanfare of “creating” outlandish food only the absurdly rich actually eats. It has been simmering in the subconscious regions of my mind ever since a pretentious server at a local French restaurant scoffed when I inquired about sausage gravy over biscuits for breakfast. “We don’t serve ANY gravies for breakfast,” she sniffed. My bad. Being deep in the heart of Georgia had inadvertently set the “local” cuisine latch in my taste-buds. She didn't even mention biscuits.

According to Wikipedia, “A cuisine is a characteristic style of cooking practices and traditions, often associated with a specific region, country or culture.” Let me see if I can help demist the fog here. Americans will eat anything with sugar on it. If that doesn’t work, just add salt. It’s always one or the other. I have said for years if Americans were handed a plate of sugar, they would put syrup over it. We have friends we avoid eating with because they put so much sugar on their spaghetti sauce I’m afraid I’ll contract diabetes before morning. We produce American cuisine in factories and prepackage it so even my dog can be trained to hit the microwave start button. We fill bags with air and toss in a few ounces of chemically produced crunchy product, flavored to increase your ghrelin hormone levels while diminishing your leptin levels, add a good dose of sodium chloride and sell it by the truck load, especially during football season.

Wikipedia’s definition of Gastronomy doesn’t help much, either. “Gastronomy is the study of the relationship between food and culture, the art of preparing and serving rich or delicate and appetizing food, the cooking styles of particular regions, and the science of good eating.” As mere mortals who eat primarily for sustenance know, it’s what you do with what you got that determines a region’s choice of foods. It is not much of a choice for many countries on earth. You’ll notice words like “starvation” and “malnutrition” are not factored into the overall concept of international cuisine. Neither is the word, “profit.”

Not convinced yet? Count the French restaurants in your neighborhood, and then count the Italian and Mexican restaurants as well. Now, which one comes in third place?

I rest my case.

George