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July 27, 2003
Don Quixote
During a debate in my online literature class I was arguing that Don Quixote would seem much more heroic if the story were told from his point of view. To that end, I rewrote the famous "tilting at windmills scene" from his point of view. I though it was quite fun.
So there I was along with my trusty squire Sancho about to do battle with the thirty magical lawless giants who were terrorizing the land. One of them cast a spell on my squire, making him believe them to be something other than what they were, but my knightly senses showed me the truth. I took my lance in hand and charged he leader of the group, knowing that dispatching the leader would probably rouse the rest of the rabble. Upon seeing my gallant charge the fearful giant magically transformed himself into a huge whirling windmill, a brilliant defense I must admit, and unseated me from my faithful Rocinante. Managing to temporarily free himself from the giant's curse, Sancho, in the grand tradition of a knight-errant's squire assisted me to my feet that I might battle honorably. Alas, I'd scared the giants so thoroughly that they were literally petrified. I would have to meet them for battle another day...
Posted by james at 10:32 PM | Comments (0)
July 20, 2003
Mt Lincoln
/P>
Today I climbed Mt. Lincoln, the 267th highest peak in the world and 11th highest in the continental US. 14,286 feet (4354 m). Exactly three hours to the summit and 1:15 back to the car. It was good. Of course, we stumbled upon the hardest possible route and my legs feel like jello, but what the hell, that's what stories are made of.
On the way down I noticed a turn off that was familiar in Idaho Springs. I raked my memory to try to remember why. I almost wished I hadn't. I used that particular turnoff when I was hired by my late uncle Frank to gather large stones for "erosion control." Not much longer after that we passed the turnoff for St. Mary's Glacier. That's where Frank used to take me shooting as a kid when my "real" relatives couldn't or didn't.
As my good friend Jarrad pointed out, despite his last minute selfishness, Frank took better care of me in my youth than any blood relative and that is what I should remember him for. Slowly but surely, I am.
I heard more of what happened while I was visiting his family on Thursday. Some parts of the story don't jive and it's pretty clear that I'm not hearing the whole story (those damned critical thinking skills again) but I'm not sure that I want to. Whatever happened, it's over, and the details are, both legally and reasonably, none of my business.
The funeral is tomorrow, 1:00. I'm sure it'll be a hoot.
Posted by james at 07:02 PM | Comments (0)
July 17, 2003
Frank
I woke up grumpy today—annoyed at my job. I battered off to work anyway and after some harassment from a workmate realized I was complaining much more than usual. Were the complaints warranted? Not really, just griping.
After lunch I’d managed to get my shit together and was enjoying the fact that there was some actual work to do. The hundred-plus heat doesn’t feel so bad when you’re distracted. At the end of the day my cell phone started vibrating.
“Hello.”
“Hey James, this is Jarrad.”
I had been sick the night before and Adrian had called to check on me but that wasn’t Jarrad’s M.O. I thought maybe he had my leftovers because I’d left the restaurant early. “What’s up, man?”
“You need to call your uncle Rick, something happened to Frank.”
“What do you mean, ‘something’?”
“I don’t know. Just call him. Call me if you need to talk.”
That last part is Jarrad-speak for “you’re about to get really bad news.” “Ok.”
I got a hold of Rick. His first words were “Are you sitting down?” Oh, shit.
By this time I’d already figured out that Frank, an adopted uncle of mine who’d been a friend of the family since before I was around, was seriously hurt or, more likely, dead. I thought he’d been in a motorcycle crash, or maybe had an accident at the airport where he works. Not so.
The cops had found his body decomposing at his barn in Straussbourg. He’d been dead for about five days, they said, baking in the heat. I pity whoever found him. His wife had filed for divorce and he couldn’t handle the idea so he shot himself—“blew his brains out” in the words of his widow. He had two kids. There is no excuse for that kind of selfishness. What a prick.
I’m going to visit his wife and daughter in a few minutes. What a prick.
Posted by james at 04:46 PM | Comments (0)