Welcome news from Moscow

It was in the midst of whipping together a pot of chili Sunday evening that I happened to glance out the window and see this:


I’ve seen my share of freaky-looking skies, but never anything quite this well endowed. These are mammatus clouds, which form on the underside of thunderstorm clouds where pockets of cool air are sagging into the warm air beneath. “Mammatus” translates roughly as “breast-cloud” in Latin. The sky was the aftermath of another glorious summer storm front moving through, which rained hail the diameter of tennis balls near St. Cloud and caused all sorts wind and flooding havoc around the metro area. As usual, Maple Grove’s Copper Marsh neighborhood was spared of all but a few good downpours. These were more than just the air-cleansing rainstorm; it rained torrents, as though Water had declared war on Oxygen and Nitrogen and was determined to blast every atmospheric molecule back to the random atoms from which they came.

(The weather gods have not always treated our neighborhood with mercy; the window screens on the north side of my house are dimpled, no doubt the enduring calling card of some long-ago hail lashing.)

The air conditioner fix-it man arrived on schedule Friday morning. He dragged all sorts of mysterious looking equipment out of his truck, and the hefty box that contained my new condenser. Soon the old beater was dragged from its languid plastic pad, rattling and groaning and leaking oil like a wounded beast. A clean, level, freshly scrubbed concrete pad replaced it—an altar for my shrine to R-22 Freon—and on the pad, the sparkling, gleaming, spectacular York air conditioner. The old Concept A/C (when they stop at the concept stage and turn it into a brand name, you ought to know you're in trouble) looked like some poor neglected piece of flotsam, dumped behind the house and left to bake in the sun for the last 10 years.

But the new York? Ah, it carries the appearance of a magnificent piece of equipment. Sleek and shiny, with a three-bladed fan. This is a machine…my bride’s ticket to a comfortable, livable home for her parakeets.

Incidentally, when Carlos from Standard Heating & Air Conditioning ripped the coil—the real indoor guts of the system—out from its housing above the furnace, it was covered with corrosion and rust. This, it seemed, was the likely place of the leak. Is this sort of wear normal? I asked. “I’ve seen much worse,” he replied with a chuckle. Hmm. Well, anyway, it is done.

This marvelous installation occurred just in time for the weekend’s blast-furnace heat: 98 degrees on Saturday! And 103 in and around the car at a church parking lot; I ventured out for a wedding—another friend from high school is hitched. Now I’m the next “another friend from high school.” Saturday’s wedding was a major reality check, for Sunday was the official two-months-to-go mark. With Jenni away, I celebrated in the best fashion possible under the circumstances: a major water change in the fish tank; clipping coupons; and taking an online defensive driving test (“Now available in Spanish!”) to get a lower rate on my car insurance (Did you know, for instance, that if you decide to pass a car going 50 mph in a 55-mph zone on a two-lane road, you will be in the oncoming lane of traffic for two miles? What’s that, you say? Why would it take that long, and why on earth would anyone drive in the oncoming lane for two miles? That’s crazy! Well, you’d be right…but our friends at the National Safety Council certainly do not want you to break the law by speeding. Thus the two-mile-long passing maneuver, because you can only legally go 55 mph. But I also learned some useful facts: between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. on weekend nights, and average of one in every five drivers on the road is intoxicated. Think about that next time you’re cruising down 35W or I-94 late on a Saturday night. Shudder.).

And then mid-morning Monday, the Greatest Thing All Week took place: An E-Mail From Jenni! This showed up spontaneously around 10 a.m.—or 7 p.m. Russia time. The subject: “I’m Alive!” Yes, she arrived alive and with no problems. And she’s fine. Having a good time, working with the kids, seeing some sights, and feeling safe. Apparently, she went into Moscow to see St. Basil’s with her counselor counterpart, a guy named Branndon, who is “very nice” and has “traveled a lot” and “knows what he is doing.” So, no worries! My fiancée is seeing the wonderful sights of Europe with a guy she just met who is well traveled and very nice.

Well. Three cheers for that. But it is better that he is well-traveled than not, I suppose.

Of course I know that everything will be fine. I appreciate your intention of telling me so, but I know that. It’s just my job to worry—as both the left behind fiancé, and because Jenni rarely ever worries about anything. I feel a bit obligated to pick up her slack.

Truly, though, I am relieved that she is OK doing well. Regrettably, she added that it took her 45 minutes to log on to the Internet and write a short e-mail, so she would not be doing so again and we will have to hear from her again until she arrives at MSP next Wednesday evening.

RIP, Concept 10.

No fireworks this Fourth

Thirty minutes to fireworks. Another Fourth of July...er, Independence Day...is about to culminate with colorful, thundering explosions spreading across the night sky. And my fiancee is a thousand miles away.

As I write, Jenni is sitting inside a Boeing 767, hurtling through night at 600 miles an hour 34,000 feet above the North Atlantic. She's on her way to Russia, where she'll be spending two weeks at a camp, leading activities for Russian children to help them learn English and a little teamwork, too. It's quite an adventure for her, while those of us left behind are worrying about bribes, kidnapping, corruption, stolen passports, and all of the other wonderful things Russia is known for. If all goes according to plan, Jenni's plane will touch down at Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport about 2:30 a.m. Minnesota time. Then she's off to the Mr. English camp. Yes, that's the name of the organization that runs this camp. Apparently it's a large, well-known English school over there. Not exactly the sort of name that instills confidence.

My Fourth began at the dew-soaked hour of 5:45 a.m. Jenni woke me up so we could chow breakfast, say au revoir to her parents, and head off to the airport. Between stupid "express" check-in kiosks that didn't work, questions about frequent flyer miles, and attaching luggage tags, it took us nearly an hour to get squared away at ticketing. We steered away from the huge heard of sheep in the security screening line by the Delta counters and headed over to Northwest ticketing territory. Then it was a teary goodbye, and off Jenni went. Into the line...through the screening gate...belt off, back through again...beyond to collect her things, then one more wave goodbye before she disappeared into the terminal.

I stood there for a minute, thinking about her adventure ahead. It's never fun to be left behind. But that's life...and so it was back to the car to grab the camera. As a dutiful husband-to-be, I wasn't about to leave without watching Jenni's plane climb into the haze. So I wandered around until I found the elevators up to the top of the parking ramp. Level 7. Hot up there, under the already burning sun. Lots of long-term cars, but no people. Strangely deserted, even though nearly every spot was full. I found a great vantage point where I could see the plane at the gate and fired off a few shots. Watched it push back, heard the howl of the engines firing up, and watched it taxi. I've never see the airport so quiet. The Delta MD-88 had a wide-open taxiway and was first in line for departure. Ten minutes after it started to push back from the gate, it was rolling down Runway 30R (that's pronounced "three-zero-right"). I watched the jet, trailing smoky exhaust, until it disappeared into the haze. Jenni was off to Atlanta, where she'd connect through to Moscow.


Back to the car again, and a quick exit from the airport after forking over my $7 tariff for the goodbye and the departure spotting. Here was a holiday, a day off, and so far I'd kissed my fiancee goodbye to the clutches of the Soviets and paid seven bucks to do it.

So why not spend more money? I did just what Jenni recommended: Went to PetCo and bought another fish. A guppy, with a leopard-print tail and beautiful iridescent coloring. This brings the total number of fish in the tank to 15, after adding a rosy barb, dwarf gourami, and some little algae-eater, whose scientific name I can't remember, last Friday. Then went to Cub to buy ice cream at a BOGO-with-a-coupon sale.

Back at the homestead, the guppy was released into the tank. The zebra danio, self-appointed welcoming committee, chased the hell out of the guppy, who made a hasty retreat to the protection of the fake plants. He's been there all day.

Later, I went to St. Cloud for a family gathering and delicious food. Saw two bald eagles soar down the river valley at eye level - very appropriate for today. Back home this evening, checked the progress of Jenni's flight on Flight Aware several times, and eventually dragged myself out for a quick jog at nine o'clock.

The neighborhood was typical Fourth in suburbia. Clouds of smoke hung over backyards; I caught whiffs of tangy sulfur as I ran. Through the park, the path bore the scars of pyromania: white-gray burn marks and blown-up bits of cardboard. Further along, a backyard family gathering was in full swing. Some bright-witted adult gave all the kiddies - some who were clearly not older than kindergarten-age - sparklers. They pranced and squealed while sparks flew. Injury seemed inevitable.

Later on, I saw more "fireworks"...the legal (boring) kind that spout vibrant glowing embers onto the driveway. When will Minnesota's legislature stop saving us from ourselves? I say, legalize all of the fun fireworks (bottle rockets, roman candles, low-grade explosives, you name it), give us the annual lecture about being careful, and turn us loose to let natural selection take its course. We swim at our own risk...why can't it be the same when it comes to blowing things up?

It's after 10 now. Full-swing firework time. Time to click on the news. Meanwhile, Jenni's plane is well off the Newfoundland coast, six hours out of Atlanta, with another four to go.

Think I'll have some ice cream.