Don't Jump In The Lake

Burnet Woods Lake

Dear George,

Donna had an appendectomy last week, and she and Sophie stayed with us while she was recovering. We had a good time, and Donna’s doing much better now. One afternoon we watched an episode of “The Dog Whisperer”. Dog trainer Cesar Millan was dealing with a hyperactive Bouvier, and, as usual, he concentrated on changing the owners’ behaviors more than the dog’s, impressing upon them the need for exercise and discipline. After a single session with Cesar, the dog went from leaping onto its owners and dragging them around to a calm, well-behaved animal. Cesar said not to let the dog walk in front and pull because that’s dominance behavior, as was his jumping up on his owners. The humans should be fully in command. We were impressed by the almost magical changes, though my opinion was that Cesar is obsessed with control. I claimed that dogs were happiest when they have lots of freedom. It doesn’t bother me if they jerk on the leash or make the decisions when to stop and sniff interesting odors. For the dogs’ sake, I said, we should let them do their thing. Donna and Katja disagreed completely. They said dogs were happiest when there were clear rules that they could follow. Like Cesar, they felt that dogs should do the bidding of humans rather than vice versa. We’ve had this debate many times before, and it didn’t seem like anybody was about to change their mind.

Sweet Sophie with her pretty white paws and white head

The next morning I took Duffy, Mike, and Sophie out for a lengthy walk to the lake in Burnet Woods. It’s reached the mid-nineties all week long, but we set off early when it was closer to eighty. Donna’s always edgy about taking Sophie near the lake because she jumped in when she was a puppy. I try to convince her that that was eight years ago, but Donna takes no chances. Now on our own, the dogs and I walked along the narrow concrete sidewalk along the lake’s edge, and the dogs did just fine. Near the south end there’s a wooden observation platform that extends out over the water in a marshy section, and I left the dogs on their own there while I took some photos of the pond’s surface.

The observation platform at Burnet Woods Lake

My photo subject: Murky water in the pond

Just as I took my last photo, Sophie suddenly leaped off the platform into the swampy water below. “Sophie!” I screamed and ran over to grab her leash. The water wasn’t very deep, and Sophie, enjoying the coolness, looked up at me with a smile. I reached down, grabbed her under her front legs, and hoisted her 70-pound torso out of the water and back up on the platform. I broke into total laughter. The slimy water was jet black and so were Sophie’s face and legs. She was barely recognizable as a dog, much less an Old English Sheepdog. My shirt, Bermuda shorts, and the wooden platform were smeared with black yuck too. Sophie shook herself, but not much of her black coating seemed to come off.

Once pure white, Sophie had turned black.

A novel look for an Old English Sheepdog.

Sophie left her mark behind.

Are Duffy and Mike amused by their sister’s plight?

I kept Sophie on a short leash as we made our way back along the lake’s edge, fearful that she might jump into the much deeper water. We walked home down Ludlow Avenue, a funny-looking foursome. I wanted to tell somebody our tale, but we didn’t meet anybody I knew. I was nervous about Donna finding out, so I decided to clean Sophie off before taking her inside. Katja was downstairs, and she came out to take a picture of us. Then I started working on Sophie with the garden hose. It took a lot of hosing. At first the swamp muck seemed like glue, stuck to her legs and face. Then I gradually started seeing a few small patches of white. After about ten minutes I decided that was as good as I could do, and I brought Sophie back into the house.

Sophie and her rescuer on the porch (note stains on Bermuda shorts)

Katja had forewarned Donna about our adventure. Donna responded with a surprisingly good sense of humor. She reminded me that we’d been at the very spot where Sophie had jumped into the lake as a puppy. She couldn’t believe that I would just let the dogs go free. I couldn’t come up with a convincing explanation for our misfortune. I wound up admitting that she, Katja, and Cesar were right. While, in the abstract, it seems like a positive idea to give the dogs maximum freedom, you can’t just have them jumping into the lake. I vowed that I would never let that happen again. And, unlike many of my good intentions, that’s one vow I expect to keep.

Love,

Dave

G-Mail Comments

-Jennifer M (7-25): :-)

Me and Thor Are Battling Elli

Thor Wrestles Elli. Lorenz Frolich (1872).

Dear George,

So today is my birthday. I might be 47, but I also could be 74. When I first woke up I thought it was the former, but now I’ve decided it’s probably the latter. That’s weird. I can barely imagine turning 60, much less anything beyond that. To soften the blow, I went to my file cabinet and pulled out a print I ran across years ago of Thor wrestling with Elli. Thor, you’ll remember, is the hammer-wielding Norse god who is associated with thunder, lightning, and mammoth strength. In the book Gylfaginning Thor and his companions visit Utgard and are invited into the hall of the giant Loki, the king of the city, where their power and skills are tested through various challenges. After being humiliated in a drinking contest, Thor gets angry and wants to get even by wrestling. Loki says that, because Thor has proven so inadequate, it would be an embarrassment for any of his men to wrestle with him. So Loki calls for his grandmother, Elli, an ancient woman whose name in Norwegian means “old age”. Elli, the mythologists tell us, personifies Time, Old Age, and Death. Thor and the old woman begin to struggle, but “the harder Thor strove in gripping, the faster she stood; then the old woman essayed a hold, and then Thor became totty on his feet, and their tuggings were very hard. Yet it was not long before Thor fell to his knee, on one foot.” Loki stopped the fight at that point. Later he admitted to Thor that his opponent was far more powerful than she appeared and that Thor’s efforts were, in fact, astonishing – greater than anyone had ever been able to do. Loki said that no one “has ever been and none shall be, if he become so old as to abide ‘Old Age,’ that she shall not cause him to fall.”

Thor’s story has stuck in the back of my mind for some time. Even though the most powerful gods can’t defeat Old Age, Thor proves that we can fight back against her with all our might. This came back to me the other night when we were watching TV and the commentator made some remark about life stages. I asked Katja what life stage we’re in now. She said gloomily, “The end-stage.” That took me back, but then it seemed a little pessimistic. When you retire you sometimes think you’re just sitting around waiting patiently for your demise. But that’s not really the case. I did a little Googling around, and it turns out that gerontologists distinguish three stages of post-65 aging. “Young Old” (ages 65-75) refers to recently retired persons whose activities are governed by their interests and desires rather than health concerns. “Old” (75-85) are persons who are more influenced by health, safety, and frailty issues. And “Old Old” (85-95+) are persons who need assistance in order to live independently.

“Young Old” doesn’t sound as shocking as it once did, especially if you put more emphasis on the first word than the second. But I do notice that I’m getting near to the end of my Young Old Years. Instead I think I will adopt my sister-in-law Ami’s view that we no longer need to pay attention to chronological age at all, but should just be concerned with how we’re doing and how we feel. That’s definitely good advice. I think I’m doing pretty well and I’m feeling pretty well too. Blog-writing and Suduko keep my mind busy and my neurons firing. And hikes with sheepdogs and line dancing keep my muscles loose and limber. It is a time of life, though, to make the most out of each day. I’m making that my resolution for my upcoming Young Old Year.

Love,

Dave

G-Mail Comments

-Donna D (7-21): What a wonderful way to approach your bday... Referencing thor and elli. I think these days young old should be 70-80 and the others follow from there. You are definitely still more young than old!!

-Ami G (7-21): And a happy, happy birthday to you! Much love. Ami and Bruce

River World

Dave and Mike heading home (VAL photo, circa 1950)

Dear George,

Growing up on the banks of the Menominee River shaped our childhoods and who we were to become. Our family moved there in 1946 when Riverside Boulevard was an empty two-lane gravel road. There were no electricity or phone lines, and we had the only house within a half-mile in either direction. Several neighbors built houses within the next few years, so it became less isolated, but, nonetheless, we were living pretty much by ourselves in a forest and water world.

Our house was upstream about three miles from the river’s mouth in downtown Menominee at Green Bay. The river was at its widest point where we lived, about two-tenths of a mile across, nearly identical to the Ohio River at Cincinnati. It offered scenic beauty in summer and winter and was the location of daily family activity, especially for us children. We all learned to swim like fish, and when we became eight or nine we’d challenge ourselves by doing the Australian crawl across the river to Pig Island, accompanied by my dad in a rowboat carrying life preservers. As teens we built log rafts which became more and more sophisticated over time, and our house became a major gathering place for our groups of friends. Propelled by a tiny 1.5 horsepower motor, we’d have endless adventures in our rowboat, crossing the river to Pig Island, heading east to the dam, or west to Indian Island and Mason Park.

Here’s a Google map which identifies some of the major spots on our section of the river. I’ll say a little bit about each of these.

1. Our house. My grandfather Guy Cramer built our house in 1941 as a summer cottage, picking what was probably the most scenic spot on the river in Menominee County. The house was made of Norway pine and featured a great fireplace built from stones collected in nearby fields. Steven, Peter, Vicki, and I grew up there and my parents lived in the house until the 1960’s. We all shed tears when they decided to sell it. Years later somebody cut the house in half and moved it to the Green Bay shore where we’ve stopped by occasionally to reminisce.

2. Our neighbors. A retired couple named the Orths lived on the property next door to us, and the Meads lived next door to the Orths, right on the lagoon. Dr. Mead was our family dentist, and Mrs. Mead was a grandmotherly lady who always had a cookie or a piece of pie available for kids who stopped at her door. She grew carrots in her garden, and I’d sneak over and pull one up, wipe the dirt off, and eat it straight out of the ground.

3. Mr. Shaver. Our neighbor to the west was Mr. Shaver, a middle-aged bachelor who wasn’t keen on children coming onto his property. He had an outhouse whose walls were papered with movie star photos, and, when my brother Steven locked me inside it, I climbed up the walls to exit through an open space near the ceiling, but ripped up many of the photos in the process. One night my parents heard loud sounds coming from Mr. Shaver’s, and, thinking burglars were breaking into the house, my parents called the sheriff. Mr. Shaver became pretty angry when the deputies surrounded the house since he’d been outside chopping firewood on a romantic rendevouz with his date.

Swimming at our house (VAL photo, circa 1953)

4. The Reeds. Lou Reed and his wife lived about three-quarters of a mile up the road. He was like a surrogate father to me. He gave me my first lessons in driving at age 14 and hired me to weed his strawberry garden, be his caddy at the golf course, and take care of their plants while they were out of town. On one such visit I locked myself into an attic storage space while exploring the house and had to break the door down to get out. The Reeds owned a wonderful Irish setter named Mike who ran away so many times to come to our house and play with the children that Lou Reed simply gave the dog to our family. Next door to the Reeds was an old, abandoned silo which contained many items of interest, e.g., tin cans, old bottles, horseshoes, chicken bones.

5. Indian Island. There was a small island up river from the Reeds that my father named Indian Island. We’d hook up the motor on our rowboat, my mother would pack a lunch, and our family would go on an outing there to have a picnic. Our Irish setter Mike would follow us the whole way, swimming for half a mile behind the boat. Fishermen kept their ice fishing shanties on Indian Island. The island had a steep sand bank on one side, and Steven and I would pretend that we were pirates burying our plunder.

6. Little River. Little River was a narrow waterway that ran off the Menominee and meandered up to Mason Park. It was very picturesque, lined with birch trees, and we liked to make boating sidetrips along its length.

7. Mason Park. Mason Park was a county park that offered primitive campsites, though nobody every monitored it and I rarely saw any other visitors there. By the time I reached my early teens Steve and I would camp there, often accompanied by other friends, e.g., Frankie S., Sammy W. We’d tie wagons to the backs of our bikes in order to pull our camping gear up Riverside Boulevard. At the far end of the park there was a swimming hole where somebody had strung up a tire on a rope which allowed us to swing out and do cannonballs into the water.

8. Pig Island. Pig Island was right across the river from our house and hence the site for hiking, camping, and all kinds of adventures. Named after the farmer’s pigs that my parents saw when we first moved to the river, it’s a sizeable island, about four-tenths by six-tenths of a mile. A family friend bought Pig Island in the late 1950’s and built a bridge, roadway, and A-frame house, but it was all unadulterated forest in our childhood and early adolescence.

9. The Channel. The Channel ran between Pig Island and the neighboring island, whose name I now forget. It was the most mysterious place on the river, hidden away, silent, home to water-lilies, dragonflies, blue heron, and water-logged stumps.

10. Brewery Park. Brewery Park, on the other side of the lagoon from the Mead’s house, was owned and “operated” for its employees by the M&M Brewery, home of Silver Cream beer. There was nothing there except a dirt road and a bare patch of land providing access to a swimming spot on the river. When I got to a certain age, I decided that I could climb one of the high trees in Brewery Park and watch female Brewery employees strip and change into their swimming suits behind their cars. I tried out my plan one Saturday afternoon, but, after hours in a tree in with nobody even arriving, I gave up on the idea.

Boating at dusk (VAL photo, circa 1949)

11. Logging Island. Menominee and Marinette were the biggest lumbering center in the world around the turn of the twentieth century, and some remnants still remained on the river. Most notably the loggers had built an artificial island with a log house in the center of the river as a base for their work. Every now and then we would boat over there with our parents and get out and explore. There were no artifacts left, but it still was like going back in history. When we were at home for Xmas vacation in the early 1960’s, vandals set the structure on fire, and we watched it burn with a sense of great loss.

12. The Dam. When we boated to the logging island, we always had fears of being caught up in the current, swept over the nearby dam, and dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Years later my brother Peter recalled that he and his friends used to go swimming at the dam, sliding over its edge and down its surface into the white water at the bottom. It appeared that our fears of death were exaggerated.

13. Riverside Cemetery. We could see Riverside Cemetery in the distance downriver from our house, and Steven and I used to ride our bikes through the cemetery on our way home from school. For years archeologists have explored the site for artifacts from the Menominee Indians who lived on the river’s shore. Vicki told me this summer that a team of archeologists had contacted her, asking permission to check our family property for Indian relics.

What strikes me, in retrospect, is how much we children got to explore our natural surroundings on our own. It was a safe, familiar world. Once we reached the age of eleven or twelve, we were free to explore the forest and the river, with minimal monitoring by parents. It was good training in independence and lots of fun too. Like Robin Hood’s Sherwood Forest, the river and its surroundings offered many opportunities for adventure.

Love,

Dave

G-Mail Comments

-Gayle C-L (7-17): Very nice. And Happy Birthday. ;)))). And many more. Lots of love. ;))))

Cincinnati's Gay Pride Parade

Dear George,

Cincinnati has a reputation, often deserved, for being stodgy and behind the times. Consequently, the annual Gay Pride weekend is like a breath of fresh air. The Pride parade is the centerpiece of events, and it’s been going on for a decade or more. Till recently it originated in Clifton’s Burnet Woods and wound its way west on Ludlow Avenue, winding up in Hoffner Park in nearby Northside. Our house is right at the midpoint of the route. Thus we’ve always gotten our lawn chairs out and enjoyed the one big event of the year that comes to our quiet corner. Last year, however, the parade was relocated to downtown Cincinnati, and lots of people grumbled. The rationale was that the events had outgrown its local Northside neighborhood, and downtown would attract a lot more people. And it did turn out to be a great success, drawing an estimated 26,000 people to three days of festivities, including a ball, a street festival, pub crawls, and the parade itself. This year some family friends were going down to Fountain Square for the parade and invited me along. Even I’d have to admit that this was a much more impressive happening than our Ludlow Ave. version. The crowd was mellow and happy, and there were so many people it was sometimes difficult to move around on the Square. Here are a few photos which give some of the flavor.

Love,

Dave

G-Mail Comments

-Phyllis S-S (7-13): Dave, What fun. I want to go next year if we're in town. Your note inspired me. Phyllis

Why They Call It a Stress Test*

Dear George,

Years ago the University’s contracted with the world’s largest fast food chain to install one of its burger restaurants in the student union, the first such franchise ever to be located on a college campus. Some of the health-conscious faculty protested against poisoning the student body, but I was impressed that our institution was such a progressive world leader. Soon I started buying a Double Super-Duper cheeseburger and large fries every day for lunch. After one year on my daily burger diet I left a faculty meeting and felt a momentary twinge in my chest. I thought it was due to my colleagues’ irrational behavior, but I checked with my family doctor just in case. He too didn’t think it was anything, but he proceeded cautiously and referred me to a cardiologist named Dr. Zink. Dr. Zink did an angiogram on me at a local hospital. Much to everyone’s surprise, one of my arteries was clogged with what I later interpreted to be quarts of cheeseburger grease. Dr. Zink did an angioplasty to clean it out, crushing down the fatty goop with a high-pressure inflated balloon.

I’ve gone to Dr. Zink’s office every few years since for a follow-up treadmill stress test. Since I’ve cut Super-Duper burgers by 90% or more, the results have always turned out fine. In fact, getting my stress test has become one of the more rewarding events in my life. It’s because the technician always tells me how amazingly I’ve done and what good shape I’m in, saying reassuring things like, “Many men your age can’t even walk on a treadmill.” I noticed on my calendar last year that I was overdue for another stress test. I made an appointment, but then I got a letter from the doctor’s office saying they’d changed their billing practices, that stress tests were now considered hospital outpatient tests, and that I should check with my insurance company about payment. My insurance company, of course, said that the charges would be applied to my deductible, and they wouldn’t be paying anything. The doctor’s office was a little imprecise, but it was clear that it would cost me something like three or four thousand dollars. Since I was feeling fine, I cancelled my stress test. The billing person got agitated, implying that I would probably die within weeks if I didn’t get their test, and offering to work out a plan for payment over time. I didn’t do it.

When Katja retired in June, we switched over to Medicare and a new gap insurance policy. Surely, I thought, Medicare would want me to live for a while and wouldn’t defraud its clients. I called Dr. Zink’s office, and a man who sounded like a temporary employee said yes, that Medicare covers nuclear stress tests. So I scheduled a new appointment for 9:30 on a recent Tuesday morning. When I arrived, the receptionist claimed she couldn’t find any record of my appointment. She retrieved my file, then said in a crabby voice that I hadn’t seen Dr. Zink for a long time. She asked who had authorized my test. “Dr. Zink,” I responded, “he told me to have another test in three years.” The receptionist got crabbier. “You’re supposed to see him every year for a checkup. You can’t just walk in here like this.” I probably looked a little dumbfounded. Since I’ve had no symptoms, I never think of going to the doctor. The receptionist got up and left for a few minutes. When she came back she said that Dr. Zink had, in fact, authorized my test. She repeated that my behavior was very irregular. Then she said that they hadn’t pre-certified my test with the insurance company, and, since it was likely that the insurance company would refuse to pay, I’d have to pay the entire bill out of pocket. “Please call them,” I begged. It turned out that the insurance company would cover a nuclear stress test, though I’d need to pay $500 toward the deductible. I gulped and said I’d like to go ahead.

The receptionist put me in a waiting room and gave me a glass of water to drink. She said first they’d take pictures of my chest, then put me on a treadmill, then take more pictures with my heart under stress. Then a tall, dark-haired woman with angular features named Roxie came in and took me to a lab room. She hooked me up with an IV and injected radioactive fluid into my veins. She was pretty untalkative and surly, explaining that everybody in the office was upset with me because I hadn’t followed the rules. I didn’t say anything, but I started thinking that my stress test was going very poorly so far. Roxie lay me down on a platform in a big rotating machine like a CatScan and took pictures of the interior of my chest for fifteen minutes or so. At the end she pushed the platform I was lying out out from under the machine and banged it against its end-frame. She apologized for the sharp jolt, though I suspected this was how Roxie gets back at patients who she’s irritated at.

My nuclear treadmill test came next. I’d been working out at the fitness center for a couple of weeks to boost my treadmill speed and endurance, hoping that I could set a new patient record at Dr. Zink’s. A technician named Meg administered the test. She didn’t smile at all. I told her I do treadmills all the time and I’d have no difficulty. Apparently having been already informed that I was a problem patient, Meg was unresponsive. She rapidly increased the speed and incline of the treadmill. After nine minutes I’d reached a heart rate goal of 130. I said I’d be glad to do more, still thinking to myself that I would like to try for the office record, but Meg slowed the treadmill down and shut it off. No praise, no rewards, no exclamations of joy -- just silence. Then Roxie came back, injected some more radioactive fluid in my veins, and put me back in the Catscan machine, taking pictures of my racing heart for a second time. Once again she banged my platform against its frame when she was done. I got up, and Roxie cursorily said they’d call me in a few days. No so-longs or best wishes. Roxie did call a few days later and left a sixteen-word voice mail message saying, “This is Roxie. He reviewed your test last night and it came out normal. Take care. (Click.)” She didn’t invite me to call back with questions, come in next year, etc. It didn’t seem like very much information for an ultra-expensive test, probably around $250 per word. However, I didn’t complain. Instead I went to the fitness center the next day and started working out on the treadmill so I could force them to give me some praise the next time around.

Love,

Dave

*Pseudonyms used in this story.

G-Mail Comments

-Phyllis SS (7-15): Dave, Well, I'm glad you are OK. Give people a little power and..... You told this so well - I laughed out loud because we've all encountered these people. Phyllis

-Vicki L (7-9): Hi Dvd, I'll congratulate you, and heartily! You've looked healthier than any of your siblings for at least 10 years, despite your 'elder' status…

Loved your blog. Vicki

-Donna D (7-9): oh david, that's so sad. why do you need praise from these people? its all about doing the best you can do and that's what you're doing. give yourself a lot of praise!

Orgasmic Camping

The lake at Miami Whitewater Forest

Dear George,

With all the rain we’ve been having, it’s been a long time since I’ve gone camping with the sheepdogs. We finally got a good forecast last week, so I took Mike and Duffy to Miami Whitewater Forest for an overnight outing. I was worried about crowding because of the upcoming Fourth of July Weekend, but it was only about 15% full on Thursday, and I got one of my top picks in campsites. I always look for a secluded spot where there will be maximal peace and quiet. In this instance there were only two other occupied sites as far as I could see. There was a thirtysomething couple next door to me, about 75 feet away, with a fancy blue and white umbrella tent. The guy waved and yelled “Hi” as I was setting up my tent, and I yelled “Hey” in return. There was also an RV across the road from me with a dad and two boys, around 3 and 5. The kids came over to say hello to the sheepdogs. They seemed like typical kids. There was nobody else in the vicinity. It was sort of like being alone in the forest.

I put up the dogs’ playpen enclosure first, then pitched my tent and got the rest of my gear organized. By the time I was finishing up, the children across the street had begun running through the trees like wild Indians, screaming at the top of their voices. It’s amazing how piercing and intense a sound can come out of small children. It probably has evolutionary significance by virtue of generating intense emotional responses from adults. Not being their parent, I found it created painful vibrations in my central nervous system, and I hoped their vocal cords would get exhausted soon.

Our campsite (#113)

I made some lunch, then sat down next to the dogs’ enclosure and started reading some New Yorker essays by James Thurber. They were very amusing, but after two or three I started nodding off in my chair. I’d read a four-page story, then take a brief nap, read another story, nap some more, etc. Suddenly I woke up to a loud noise that sounded something like “Per-choog-a, Per-choog-a, Perchoog-a, etc.” I looked up, and it was the friendly guy next door pumping up his air mattress with a manual pump. He was doing it very vigorously, and the sound of the pump resonated throughout the campground. It seemed like an odd time to do your air mattress, but I just went back to reading Thurber, then fell asleep again. The next time I woke up, it was to human moans and groans, punctuated by oohs and aahs and occasional shrieks, coming from the blue and white tent next door. I won’t go into the lurid details, but it took about one second to figure out what that was about. While the children’s screams had been annoying, the adults’ moans were embarrassing and uncomfortable. I stuck my fingers in my ears to drown out the sound. When I finally took them out, the campground was entirely quiet, except for one chirping bird.

About twenty minutes later, the Park Ranger pulled up in his pickup truck and stopped in front of my neighbors’ campsite. The friendly camping guy, now bare-chested, walked over to meet him. They had a discussion that seemed civil enough from a distance, and the ranger nodded, got back in his truck, and drove off. I started reading my book again. Before I knew what was happening, the man and woman had taken down their blue and white tent, loaded all their gear in their SUV, and driven away. That was unusual. I speculated that the man with the kids had called in a complaint. I wondered exactly what the park ranger had said to them. The sheepdogs and I walked past their empty campsite, and it looked like they’d left in a hurry. Several bags of garbage were still sitting there, a bath towel and a pair of socks lay on the ground, and they’d even left their manual air pump leaning against a tree.

Our neighbors’ garbage

After supper I checked the posted rules on the bulletin board at the campground entrance. It said that the park ranger could terminate campers’ occupancy at any time if they don’t abide by the rules. There were quite a few rules – no firearms, no alcohol, keep your dogs on a leash, don’t gather wood from the forest, don’t pick flowers, etc. However, I didn’t see a single rule about erotic noises in the afternoon. It did say that quiet hours begin at 10 p.m., and people shouldn’t make noises that can be heard on adjoining campsites. I decided that must mean that whatever it is that people do in their tents after 10 p.m. they should do it very quietly. Apparently this rule extends to mid-afternoon as well. So the people got kicked out for breaking rules that aren’t spelled very clearly. I guess you’re just supposed to know these things.

There were a couple other noisy episodes during our stay, though these all came from Mother Nature. At dusk we heard the bullfrogs doing their chorus of mating calls at the pond. And some unknown water insects were going “Clackety-clack, clackety-clack,” almost like castinets. After dark at our campfire some creature in the forest started saying “Shu-ba-la, Shu-ba-la” in a high-pitched voice. I didn’t think it was a bird because the noise was so loud, but it was unlike any animal I’ve ever heard. Maybe a bearcat or a laughing hyena. The sound seemed to be getting closer to us, so the dogs and I got into our tent and zipped up the door. Actually Mike and Duffy turned out to be the best campers in the whole place since they didn’t make a single noise the entire time we were there. Here are a few more photos of our stay.

Love,

Dave

The forest from our campsite.

The dogs like to be in their playpen.

Hiking on the Oak Leaf Trail.

The ceiling above our tent.

I actually cooked this supper myself.

We got scared by strange noises at the campfire.

The dogs’ favorite time was getting in the car to go home.

As usual, we wound up with a treat at the Dairy Corner.

G-Mail Comments

-Phyllis SS (7-15): Dave, Do the dogs eat ice-cream too? Or do you order it for them and eat theirs? Maybe the couple couldn't afford a hot sheets motel. Phyllis

-DCL to Phyllis (7-16): I thought of that too. The campground is cheaper than a motel, but not as private.

-JML (7-5): Typical conservative Ohio Republican run campground. Down here in New Orleans, you get expelled from the campground if you don't make orgasmic sounds.

10 BEST MOVIES WE'VE SEEN IN 2011 (SO FAR)

Dear George,

Really good movies are few and far between these days. Maybe it’s the aftermath of the writer’s strike of a couple of years ago, or perhaps Hollywood is tailoring its products mostly for its huge youth and foreign audiences. We go to the movies every week, usually to Cincinnati’s art theaters, the Esquire and the Mariemont. We also take in selected mainstream Hollywood movies at the Rave. Here are my picks in rank order for the best so far in 2011. Since we try to go to the best movies in town, our sample is necessarily biased. Plus this is a pretty subjective ranking.

Love,

Dave

1. Bill Cunningham New York. An intimate, inspiring documentary about the 80+ year old New York Times photographer who, for years, has been riding his bike around Manhattan and recording fashion trends on the street by day and at New York’s social functions at night for his weekly columns in the Times. Rotten Tomatoes: 97%; Blog: A.

2. Midnight in Paris. Owen Wilson, Rachel McAdams. A warm, loving fantasy written and directed by Woody Allen about a man who is a tourist in Paris with his unpleasant fiancé and her parents and is magically transported at nighttime to the 1920’s world of Hemingway, Picasso, and Gertrude Stein. Yahoo critics: B+; Blog: A-.

3. Another Year. Jim Broadbent, Lesley Manville. Tom and Gerri, a happy couple in their sixties with a grown son, deal with the emotional upheaval of their friends and relatives over the four seasons of a year; makes you laugh and cry. Yahoo critics: A-; Blog: A-.

4. Water for Elephants. Robert Pattinson, Reese Witherspoon, Christoph Waltz. An old-fashioned romance set in the thirties in which vet school student Jacob loses his parents, jumps a train and joins the circus, then falls in love with equestrian star Marlena, eliciting the wrath of her husband, ringmaster August. Yahoo critics: B-; Blog: A-.

5. Waste Land. Vik Muniz. Documentary of artist Vik Muniz’s collaboration with the pickers of Jardim Gramacho, the world’s largest landfill outside Rio de Janeiro, as he recreates photographic images of them out of recyclable garbage and reveals their dignity and despair. Rotten Tomatoes: 96%; Blog: A-.

6. The Fighter. Christian Bale, Mark Wahlberg. A gritty, distressing, documentary-like picture of the early years in Lowell, Mass., of boxer “Irish” Micky Ward and his brother Dick Eklund who helped train him before he went pro in the mid-80s. Yahoo critics: B; Blog: B+.

7. Hanna. Saoirse Ronan, Eric Bana. In a film involving nonstop action, suspense, and a teenage super-heroine, Ex-CIA man Erik raises his daughter Hannah in the wilds of North Finland to become the perfect assassin, then recognizes that she needs to go out in the world for the first time to deal with her family’s unfinished business. Yahoo Critics: B; Blog: B+.

8. Incendies. Lubna Azabal, Melissa Desormeaux-Poulin. When Nawal Marwan dies, her twin son and daughter receive from her will a pair of letters to deliver to a father they thought was dead and a brother they didn't know existed, leading to an incredible, suspenseful journey through their family history in the war-torn Middle East and their discovery of the tragic fate and remarkable courage of their mother. Rotten Tomatoes: 91%; Blog: B+.

9. Bridesmaids. Kristen Wiig, Maya Rudolph. A funny comedy on the surface and a serious drama at its core, maid of honor Annie tries to bluff her way through the expensive and bizarre marriage rituals with an oddball group of bridesmaids, but creates one disaster after the next. Yahoo Critics: B+; Blog: B+.

10. Super 8. Kyle Chandler, Ellen Fanning. With Jaws-like themes and suspense inspired by producer Steven Spielberg, a group of teens are filming a Super-8 movie when a pickup truck derails a speeding train, setting in motion a reign of terror by a creature from outer space in their small southwestern Ohio town. Yahoo critics: B; Blog: B+.

ALSO RANS: Buck (B+); Cave of Forgotten Dreams (B+); The Conspirator (B+); Biutiful (B+); Rabbit Hole (B+); X-Men: First Class (B); Jane Eyre (B); The Tree of Life (B).

NOT SO HOT: The Lincoln Lawyer (B-); Source Code (B-); Everything Must Go (B-); Unknown (C+); True Grit (C+); Blue Valentine (C); The Adjust Bureau (C); Thor (C-).

YOU COULD SAY AWFUL: 127 Hours (D+).

G-Mail Comments

-Phyllis SS (7-1): Dave, I'm so impressed that you see so many movies. I think I'd seen four of your total. I know Bill Cunningham's work very well. He's got at least one book out. I hope Blockbuster gets the movie; it sounds great. P

-Vicki L (7-2): Hi Davey, Thanks for the thumbs up and down. I'm so out of the loop I need all the help I can get! Do you subscribe to Netflix or only to what's current on the big screen. Love the movies. Sis