Little did I know we would be doing all the cooking, and Simon’s wife would be doing most of the flirting with Lisa.

Lisa was our server, and from the start we all liked her. While educating us about the fondue experience, she flashed a sweet but sincere smile and said that the cook pot is very hot and we needed to be careful.

“If something happens, don’t worry, I’m also a nurse,” she said.

“When do you do that?” I said.

“Days. I left my shift and came straight here.”

(click pic to enlarge)

“So you’re on your feet all day and now you stay on your feet all night?” I said.

“Yep, but I have these great butt-toning shoes.”

“How are they working out for you?” Amy said.

We all craned our necks to look around behind Lisa.

She laughed. “Well, why don’t you watch as I walk away, and then tell me what you think when I come back?”

We watched, but the dim lighting and her black pants made it impossible for me to discern any gluteal details. I didn’t have the heart to mention that I had just read an article debunking shoe manufacturers’ butt-toning claims.

When she returned, she said, “So, what did you think?”

“I think the shoes are working for you,” Amy said.

“Thanks!” Lisa said through a wide, toothy grin.

After placing our raw food in front of us, Lisa explained how we should cook it. “If it walks on land, cook it for 2 minutes. If it swims in the sea, cook it for one and a half minutes. And veggies swim in the sea.”

For $23 I got several large shrimp, cubes of chicken breast, and cubes of lean beef steak. I won’t say I barely shoved it all in, but with our eating pace considerably slowed by the cooking process, I felt full before I finished.

By the time we left, Amy had told Lisa she was going to add her to her Facebook friends and create a fan page for her. I admit she was a skilled server, and very friendly, but I wonder whether waiting tables was the thing for which she wanted to be known.

“If you’re as good at nursing as you are at this, then you have very lucky patients,” I said.

“Oh, I’m a great nurse,” Lisa said.

I didn’t need to go all the way to Canada to experience three hours of fondue dinner wonderment. In fact, the very same restaurant chain – The Melting Pot – has a location just a few miles down the road from us.

The difference was that I had my Internet buddies there with me. Yes, I said it out loud. Again. I met these guys (and the one wife present) on the Internet. Lisa’s great attitude made it a standout night, too.

I sit near a fire fueled by random bits of kindling and firewood, slowly turning my marshmallow dangerously close to the flames. It’s 10 p.m., but it isn’t dark yet. To my left sits Moksha, and to my right are Amy and Simon, our Canadian hosts.

It’s June and it’s cool enough that any part of me not facing the fire is cold. Smoke rises into a sky still dimly lit by a sun I barely recognize.

In a great and unexpected finish to our first day, we’re in their suburban back yard, huddled around a fire pit that would make any state park camping spot proud.

The trio has begun the last leg of the trifecta. Three “Generation X” men — husbands as well as fathers of small children — became acquainted on the internet a few years ago after discovering one another in an online serial novelist’s comments area. Starting in 2008, we have held annual meetings for fun and camaraderie, using a different household as the headquarters each time.

I sit recalling details of their son’s soccer game, our delicious dinner, and the leisurely stroll home. Oops, my marshmallow’s on fire. Time to concentrate.

(click any pic below to enlarge)

(Next in the series: Capacious in Canada)

I sit in one of the largest, busiest airports in the world, located in a metro area relatively unaffected by the economic downturn that has ravaged so many other cities and countries. Big oil has held a presence here for decades, but more recently several major technology companies — Cisco, Microsoft, McAfee, etc. — have located large campuses here.

Despite all of that, I may not be able to post this before boarding my plane because there is no free wi-fi in the Dallas Fort-Worth International Airport. Is it a right to have Internet access? No. But, one would think that with all the tech-savvy people in this area the airport could get a competitive rate on implementation and management of an airport-wide wi-fi system. Other airports with far less volume (literally and figuratively) have done it.

Is that the problem? The sheer number of people who move through here each day? I wish I could find someone with the answer.

I suspect it is the same as it is in most cases — somebody can make a buck, so somebody is going to make a buck. T-mobile’s internet access points pop up as available no matter where I go in the building. They’ll gladly allow you to access the Internet — for a fee.

Sure, I could join the ranks of those who pay for wireless internet access. There are a few travellers sitting in this Samsung Mobile Travel Lounge happily browsing the web, checking work e-mail, and the like.

Stripped bare, my comments could be made to look like those of one looking for a handout. I normally don’t expect something for nothing, but with all the time to kill in this new era of arriving an hour or two before departure, this basic thing seems like a small request.

I would argue that this would benefit folks across the socio-economic spectrum, but I suppose that’s ridiculous when I’m sitting next to a Starbuck’s in a lovely air-conditioned space, iPod pumping music to my ears while I wait to fly to Canada. For fun. The most difficult task I have between here and my destination thousands of miles away is finding the cheapest place to eat in Denver’s airport.

But I bet it will have free wi-fi.
——-
I didn’t have time to test the free wi-fi hypothesis in Denver. I got off the plane at about 11:00 a.m. and had to eat before catching my next flight at 11:38.

Now I sit aboard the final stretch to Canada, the snow-capped Rocky Mountains out the window to the left, flat plains to the right.

“So, will we know when we cross the border?” I ask the flight attendant as the can of bloody Mary mix chuffs open and she hands it to the man across the narrow aisle.

She leans down next to me and points out the window, “You mean you don’t think you’ll see the big line down there?”

A few minutes later she hands me a Declaration Card. On it I divulge whether or not I am bringing to Canada any firearms, excessive amounts of alcohol or tobacco, meat, dairy products, etc., and whether or not I am not a farmer headed toward a farm. I felt rather boring when I checked “No” on all of the above. A friendly passenger informed me that I must give this to a Customs officer shortly after debarking.

So far it’s been a pleasant, uneventful welcome to the United States’ northern neighbor.

(Next in the series: Fireside Chat)

My six year-old son brings a roll of toilet paper to me and it’s damp. All the way through.

My mind immediately traces that toilet paper back to its origin — under the guest bath sink. Fortunate to be seated on the world’s most renowned thinking chair, I Sherlock Holmes the case for about five seconds and realize that there must be a leak.

All because I just had to Tim Allen it and change out the faucet and drain plug assembly all by myself.

I lay a lot of the blame at my wife’s feet, of course, because she’s the one who proudly presented three brand new faucets to me. I have installed two of them, and now our double vanity is mismatched quite badly. Her side features the stock, chrome-colored plastic fixtures, while mine boldly states its presence with sophisticated metal that purports to be not black but looks a lot like it to me and the wife.

But back to the leak.

I pull everything from under the guest bath sink and find the source. It is a slow leak that eventually fixes itself because of the way the pipe from the basin extends down into a larger pipe. Water sits like a tiny moat around the top of that second pipe and overflows if it doesn’t have time to seep down slowly. Sadly, it also sits like a shallow puddle inside the cabinet.

I dash to my sink to see if it suffers the same problem. It does, but I find no sign of wetness below the drain. I deduce that because the guest bath sink doubles as our son’s and is in the restroom nearest our living room, it gets a lot more use than mine.

I believe either it’s a design flaw or the instructions assumed I knew a lot more than I did. Or that (gasp!) a plumber would be doing the job.

Oddly, the laminate directly under both drains shows wrinkles and bubbles, as if it’s been taking on a few drips here and there ever since we became the house’s first residents back in the summer of 2005. I’m leaning toward design flaw, or flawed original installation that I was doomed to repeat after my reverse engineering.

The good news is that the point of attachment between the new faucets and the water lines have no problems, so water only leaks after it goes down the sink.

Simple solution: look at the pretty fixtures, but don’t use them. Form over function.

I do not want to take apart the whole drain assembly again, but I know that is in my future. Along with a big roll of plumber’s tape. Maybe I’ll let the back of my pants ride down past the danger line this time.

Holding the light for Dad, just like I used to do it. (Click pic to enlarge)

Our son spent Saturday night with my local in-laws while my wife and I had a date, and snow began falling. It piled up to 9 inches by the time I woke at 7:30 a.m. — and still was coming down hard.

I wandered around alone a while with my camera, then picked up Benjamin, who wanted to go “back to the forest where you went this morning, Daddy.”

(video clip after the jump)

The water was rushing over the top of the Allen Train Dam when we got there, but unlike the previous weekend, there was no heroic kid-carrying while crossing submerged stones. Back off — it was 32 degrees with a 20-degree windchill. Benjamin liked the snowy scene, but he lost interest once it was obvious we couldn’t get across the stream to hike in the woods.

As we started home we noticed several people standing at the top of an onramp’s earthen embankment, holding various innertube-shaped, brightly-colored swim toys. At the bottom of the hill was an open field next to a hotel.

“Daddy, we could do what they’re doing,” Benjamin said. “I have one of those at Grammy’s house. We can go back and get it.”

“You want to do some sledding?” I said. He never had.

“Yes, Daddy.”

I turned us around at the next exit and we went back.

There was no donut-shaped flotation device, but my mother in-law had a lightbulb moment. “Hey, would this work?” she asked as she pointed to a large collapsible dog cage.

I tried to figure out what she meant, and then I saw it — a black plastic tray lining the bottom of the cage. It looked like an oversized cookie sheet. A few minutes later we had that tray and one from a smaller dog cage and were out the door.

Besides occasionally plowing the snow when we careened off the packed surface, the cage liners worked great. I tried using an old windshield shade from my trunk as a toboggan, but it only shredded as I slid down the hill. After grabbing a few pictures and video clips, I put the camera back in the car so Benjamin and I could have fun without worrying about anything.

We attained exciting but not Clark Griswald speeds. I loaned the smaller tray to a grampa and his granddaughter so she could have more fun.

Slide, laugh, hike back up. Repeat.

I only wished that Shannon could have been along to see it if not take part. I hadn’t known when I left the house that I would go ahead and get Benjamin without going home first. That’s just how it goes with impromptu activities.

I dare say it ranked up there with the most fun we’ve ever had together. I’ll never forget it, and I doubt he will, either. If you don’t believe it, watch the video below (with sound).

The player will show in this paragraph

When someone recommends a restaurant so highly that they give you $40 cash to get you started, you tend to make it a priority.

Shannon and I dropped by my local in-laws’ place to leave our dog with them prior to our spontaneous overnight excursion. Her stepfather, away at the golf course, had left money and directions for a restaurant that he, Shannon’s mother, and other family happened upon accidentally on a recent road trip.

After a couple hours scoping out Dinosaur Valley State Park, we were hungry enough for some brontosaurus-sized meat (is that even a dinosaur anymore?). Judging by the quaint downtowns we had passed through earlier in the day, we expected the restaurant to be a tiny hole-in-the-wall place with lots of charm and lots of dust on the picture frames.

Instead, the 30-mile scenic drive to Stephenville led us to the convergence of two rural highways, and in the large median stood a sprawling one-story building with a wood and metal exterior. It resembled a very new, very clean barn — or what I imagined one might look like.

Large letters on the side spelled out, “Hard Eight Pit Bar B. Q.”

We started in the meat line, which terminated at a massive grill laden with smoked turkey, chicken, sausage, ribs, brisket, pots of corn on the cob, and kabobs of chicken and shrimp. There were pork chops on there bigger and thicker than the laptop I’m using to type this.

The dining room was a testament to taxidermy. Stuffed heads of pronghorn, deer, Elk, and an exotic goat stared down at us as we picked our sides and paid our tab. The beer for Shannon was free, but I had to pay for my tea and Benjamin’s Sprite.

I took one bite of my chopped brisket sandwich without adding more sauce, because I always like to give the meat a chance to stand on its own. It was very good, and there was a flavor that I couldn’t quite place. Extra sauce didn’t increase it, so I can only guess that it came from the meat.

A couple bites in, Shannon and I agreed that it was great barbecue. In fact, I was glad to hear her say that, although it is not a chain, there is a location 40 minutes from our home instead of more than two hours. The included beans were good, but I prefer baked beans to plain pinto with black pepper.

Benjamin discovered an outdoor eating area, so we had dessert there. The banana pudding was outstanding, but a little too crowded by the Nilla wafers lining the cup. While eating I snapped a few pictures of Shannon and Benjamin having fun.

Did I mention that after feeding all of us meat, a side, a drink, and dessert, that we had more than $10 left of the original $40? Not bad for a very tasty meal.

He set his tiny feet on the first rock and wobbled against the water rushing over his knees. I stepped onto the downstream side of the same rock and braced against the cold and the current. Standing firm but paralyzed, he turned his head and looked up at me, but his words weren’t needed.

After our first day at Dinosaur Valley State Park, when I could no longer resist my somnolence in the face of the awful Battlefield Earth, I lifted the sleeping boy from next to his mother and tucked him into the pallet we had made on the floor, then climbed into the hotel bed.

Despite the time change overnight, Benjamin woke me in his usual 6-7 a.m. range asking, “Daddy, will you play with me?”

I got dressed and took him downstairs to scope out the coffee situation. The breakfast buffet, a $10.95 “convenience” easily skipped, did not distract me from the free coffee (despite its inferiority to the fresh-ground I brew at home).

When we returned Shannon was up and getting ready for the day. I mentioned in the previous post that she’s awesome, right?

Back at Dinosaur Valley State Park, we reported directly to Track Site 2, which promised the fossilized footprints of some of the largest beasts ever to trod Earth. The river was wider here and the hillside had been shaped into what looked like stadium bleachers.

Across the water, on dry limestone, several pre-teen girls huddled around a miniature short-bed truck. Shovels and industrial brooms in hand, they listened intently to a woman wearing Texas State Park garb.

The map showed that we would have to get our feet wet. Labeled as a “rock bridge,” several large stones lying under about six inches of swiftly moving water provided our only path. Shannon, still not feeling well, bowed out, but Benjamin and I removed our shoes and inched our way to the shore.

“Just hold my hands and let me stand downstream from you,” I said. I pointed to the first rock that loomed under the water just a few inches from the bank. “Now, go ahead and take a step.”

Benjamin quickly found his footing, but was unsure enough to ask for an assist. I scooped him up and my feet throbbed with the cold by the time I padded from the second rock to the third. Over the next several stones the pain began to give way to numbness, but I still avoided slippery spots.

Safely on the other side, we saw a fallen sign that read “Tracks.” The girls we had seen before were now in a section of the riverbed that someone had walled off temporarily with rocks, about two steps below where we stood.

They busily pushed large brooms to clear muddy water from the smooth limestone. Each time one of them swept, I briefly made out another dinosaur footprint before it refilled. Water leaking from the imperfect dam kept the girls busy.

The State Park Lady invited Benjamin to step down and set his foot inside the tracks. “Go ahead, son, that’s fine,” I said. He happily ducked under the makeshift tape fence and jumped to the sloppy scene below. Along with the other children, he had a hard time being patient while everybody took their turn.

   

Next: Someone falls on the way back. Is it me? Benjamin? Both?

Opportunity. She knocks, yet too many don’t bother looking through the peephole, and spontaneity isn’t even given a chance.

And to think, they could have walked in the footsteps of dinosaurs.

At 8:30 on Saturday morning, Benjamin and I had spent about an hour and a half building with Wedgits, eating breakfast, and just hanging out.

“Would you like to go hike a trail?” I said. It began innocently enough.

“Yes.”

“Please go tell your mommy it’s 8:30.”

He did, and then complied with the same action at 8:40.

Then I got an idea, and showed Benjamin the introductory video on Dinosaur Valley State Park’s website. “Cool, Daddy,” he said.

Shannon, only partially recovered from a nasty cold, listened patiently to my plan at 9 a.m. We would drive to the park and spend some time there, then stay at a hotel using the HHonors points I had earned on business travel, and go back for more of the park on Sunday.

She didn’t even blink before agreeing. What a cool wife.

Yes, camping would have been more memorable, but our spontaneity has its limits. Even without that additional complexity, we didn’t set any efficiency records preparing to leave town.

We showered, ate, packed, and dropped our dog off with Shannon’s encouraging mother. On top of everything else, she’s a fun-loving lady. Departure time: 1 p.m.

The park’s entrance featured two large dinosaur replicas commissioned by the Sinclair Oil company back in the 1960’s — an Apatasaurus and a Tyrannasaurus Rex. As we climbed out of the van, Benjamin informed us that he was bringing his first aid kit, contained by a metal Spiderman lunchbox.

“In case somebody gets hurt,” he said.

We walked to the next parking area, where from the cliff’s edge we saw a small river. Benjamin led the way down a steep hillside of boulders and scree — and a set of stairs made of railroad ties — but not before handing off his first aid kit to his mommy.

About a dozen people stood on and near large rocks lining the shore; one of them waded in the shallow water. By the time we reached the water’s edge, we saw our first set of tracks through water clouded only by the wading.

We saw three more sets of tracks before tacking back up the hill by a different path, and finished with a climb up a small cliff. With a small taste of the park’s offerings and an idea of what we still wanted to do the next day, we left to find our dinner destination.

Next: Benjamin and I cross the numbing water and see how his foot measures up to that of Acrocanthosaurus.

I ran and grabbed my camera and took a few shots through the boy’s bedroom windows. My subject moved a few houses down the road. “Hey, Benjamin, I need to go outside for a better look. You want to come with me?”

“Yes.”

“You need to put on some shoes.”

“Well, I’ll just watch you from here in my room.”

I dashed outside, but before I got to the right house, I heard a familiar voice from behind me. “Daddy,” Benjamin whispered. I signaled for him to come along, but quietly.

I didn’t risk getting very close, but it gave me the only shot that showed the bird’s red accent (cropped for your viewing pleasure).

“Daddy,” Benjamin said softly as he pointed across the street. “Look over there.”

I did, and in a few seconds I was across the street. My son’s presence and participation filling me with newfound boldness, I crept closer until finally I was almost directly under my subject. Benjamin crossed and stood very quiet and still beside me as I worked.

One tree was full of cedar waxwings, while a solitary soul perched on the one next to it. I snapped a few group shots and then focused on the loner. Before that day that particular bird had remained unchecked on my sighting list.

I had caught glimpses of what I suspected were cedar waxwings while driving, but never when I had time to stop and look. A hunch at 60 mph doesn’t count.

The landscaping in the yard next to ours features a few holly bushes still offering bright red berries. We personally don’t eat them, but the cedar waxwings can’t get enough. The two bald cypress trees in our front yard (the only ones on our whole street) provide a great roost as they wait between dive-bombings into the holly.

I happened to notice them while playing with my son on a Saturday morning. We saw them again the following weekend, and I already shared a shot from that day. See it and compare the color of the sky and the arrangement of the branches.

Details:
Nikon D50
Nikon 200mm f/4 manual
f/4
Various shutter speeds, mostly at 1/1600 second
Manual Exposure

Until three weeks ago, I had never been to a hockey game. In fact, besides back in 1980 when the USA defeated the Soviets, I had never watched one at all.

Always anxious for an excuse to take pictures, I snatched up two free tickets to the Allen Americans, a fairly new Dallas Stars farm team. The wife quickly cleared a guys’ night out and I frantically dialed up a couple of local friends. One of them is an avid hockey fan and even has his own skates and stick. Both of them are fellow shutterbugs.

(click any pic to enlarge)

Sadly, nobody’s schedule allowed a night out on such short notice.

Between calls, I e-mailed my Canadian buddy and bigtime hockey fan (G’Oilers!) Simon to give me a few tips for a first-timer. He did that and more, and I was all set.

Only after I had wandered into the arena alone did I think to give away my other ticket. Oops.

I sat six rows up from the ice, near the corner — in football terms, about the 20-yard line. Maybe the 10.

Surprisingly warm, I shed my coat and took in the newness of it all. Besides the actual game, there was nothing new. The coupon-dropping miniature blimps I had seen at the National Junior College Basketball Tournament, and the supersized screen showing random surprised fans could be seen anywhere.

The game play was fast, and I had a very hard time keeping up with the puck for my pictures. By the time I aimed my camera at players slamming into the Plexiglass wall right in front of me, they were somewhere else on the ice. Usually when I’m not having luck with action shots at a sports event, I turn my lens to the spectators.

At the first intermission, the Zambonis came out. The marvelous machines drove over scuffed and scraped ice and left behind what looked like smooth, wet glass. I fixated on it despite having seen it just a few months prior at a birthday party for a friend of Benjamin.

For something completely different, there was a guy ramming a screwdriver into one of the holes used to secure the net to the ice. Occasionally he sprayed something into the icehole, and then drew the liquid out with a syringe and squirted it into a bucket.

That, I had never seen anywhere.

The second intermission offered another first. Without warning, red foam pucks started flying from the crowd down to the ice. I had no guess as to what was happening until a tiny dot of light appeared on the ice.

The fans who got their pucks the closest to the lighted dot won prizes. And there I sat, alone and puckless.

A minute or so into the third period, it was 9:20. I wanted to spend at least a little time with my wife, but figured that if there was another 18-minute intermission and another period after that, there was no way.

I’m sure some of you are adding all that up and thinking, “Wait a minute…” And you would be right. Not knowing, however, that there were only three periods in a hockey game, I grabbed my coat and left for home.

Although I picked up a few things by eavesdropping on a dad explaining the action to his son, and subsequently informed him when he had dropped his bag of peanuts, the solitary nature of my attendance left me feeling empty.

If free tickets come along again, I will go. This time, I will plan to take my son.