Usually, after the Catonsville Parade is over with, Jen and I spend the evening recovering from heat prostration in the comfort of air conditioning, with eight or nine beers each. It’s usually at this time that we make solemn promises to each other that we will NEVER do the parade party again, because of the ever increasing preparation time it takes and the triple-digit heat that always accompanies Independence Day. (Jen wryly pointed out that our prep time increases with the addition of completed rooms in the house. By my calculations, when the whole house is finished, it will take us 364 days to get the place ready for the parade, and then the whole mess will start over again the following day.)

Somewhere around Thanksgiving we start talking about it again, and by Christmas we’ve forgotten our promises and begun making lists. Then, somewhere around the middle of June, she pokes me and asks if I’ve remembered that it’s bearing down on us like a crazed rhinoceros. I give her a look of dazed panic, she gives me the oh-for-the-love-of-GOD-you’re-daft look, and we start preparing.

This year’s celebration was a departure from years past on several fronts. The first crucial difference was that we decided not to make so much food: we bought burgers, dogs, and buns, and made a gallon or two of guacamole. And that was it. In years past, we’ve been cutting and mixing and baking up until the sirens start up outside, which usually means we’re hosed.

The second difference was that it was a balmy 85° which made human life tolerable. In years past, after having busted ass for the week leading up to the party, by the time the floats have disappeared and the crowds have dispersed, most of our guests are arranging transport to local hospitals for treatment of heat exhaustion. This year we had a thunderstorm which punctuated the end of the parade, cooled everyone down, and washed away plans for the local fireworks display. That was kind of a drag—we’d been hoping we could convince some friends to check it out with us.

Taking full advantage of the weather and the rain date, last night we packed a bag with water, a blanket, camera gear, and bug spray, and set up a spot on the grounds of the Children’s Home of Catonsville to view the spectacle. The field was covered with families, children, dogs, and hooligans lighting off bargain fireworks, so we figured we were in good shape. However, as the official display began, we realized our vantage spot was behind too many trees (they weren’t shooting them very high, either) and we hiked down the street to camp out in front of someone’s house, where the view was much better. I’m proud to say I didn’t spend the entire time behind the lens of my camera, even though I snapped about fifty shots; somewhere in the last 3/4 of the show I leaned over and gave my wife a kiss as the colors lit her face full of wonder and beauty.

In 2003, I asked Jen to be my wife in a quiet, misty square in Georgia, and I was lucky enough to marry her a year later. We’ve had a hell of a trip since then, watching many things come to a close and enjoying many new beginnings together.

On Saturday we went to Sotto Sopra to celebrate our Savannahversary and enjoyed a wonderful dinner, then spent Sunday in the yard together planting our garden, cleaning out the beds, and trimming the hedges out front. While this doesn’t seem like a very anniversary-ish way to spend a weekend, we were looking forward to the time together, away from the office, planting vegetables in our little plot of earth.

I have learned so many wonderful and amazing things from my wife, it would be impossible to list them all here. In many ways, when I met her, I was like those seedlings: full of promise, and ready to grow. We have carefully tended to our garden and made it stronger, taller, and hardy. For all the mistakes we may have made, we’ve learned how to make things better and help each other bloom. I still feel like I have miles to go, but the person I am today is a long way away from who I was four years ago, and I thank her for all the guidance and support she’s given me.

Thank you, baby, for marrying me, and for the three great years we’ve had together.

(Of course, the Sky Pilot is laughing at us, because yesterday was a balmy 70° while our wedding day felt like the surface of the sun. With locusts.)

This is quick note about a conversation Jen and I had with our neighbors yesterday evening, which was still on my mind as I fell asleep last night. We live next to an ex-serviceman/retired public official and his wife, who are both intensely religious and outwardly Republican. (There are multiple anti-abortion bumper stickers on their vehicles, and they display various religious themed signs on their front lawn year-round.) Despite our differences of opinion, we get along with them very well. During our visit, the subject of Iraq came up, and their comments stopped me in my tracks: They called the war a terrible thing, compared it to Vietnam, and plainly stated that they thought our troops should come home. I felt as if someone was shuffling the tectonic plates underneath my feet as we spoke.

Memo to Mesrrs. Bush, Rove, and Cheney: Your key demographic smells the bullshit.

On my way home from the bookstore this evening, I decided to pull into the driveway backwards so that the Jeep would be facing outward, something I do whenever I get the chance. This evening I spied something unusual in my headlights, low to the ground and skulking, running across Frederick Road: a red fox, plain as day, watching me warily over its shoulder as it padded over to the opposite side of the street. Due to the arc of my turn, I put the Jeep in reverse and followed it easily with my headlights as it ran across lawns to the lawn of the church, then did a circuit of the pine tree there before disappearing into its foliage.

We’ve known we have a fox for a neighbor for some time now—we saw one repeatedly last year out the kitchen window and assumed it was living under our neighbor’s porch. We’ve also seen tracks that are too big for a cat and too small for a dog in fresh morning snow through the backyard, so it’s no surprise this one is around. Something told me, though, that this was something I was meant to see, so I did a little research. This site has a lot of good information on foxes, including the observation that they’re great for hunting varmints, something our yard has in abundance. This is also prime birthing season, which means I may have seen a parent out hunting for dinner (sorry, the garbage cans are empty, pal, but I’d be happy to introduce you to the chipmunks digging condos under the maple in the backyard.)

The idea of totems is relatively new to me, and something I don’t usually consider much. The last couple of weeks have me looking for some higher meanings, though—a recent influx of work has me considering my karma, and a current project is testing my patience, professionalism, and good judgement. A cursory search in Google brings up lots of crunchy new-age babblings about spirits and raibows and faeries; yeah, OK, whatever.

The general consensus seems to be that it’s a powerful totem and one that is clever and crafty. If I could get some clever and crafty to rub off on me right now, that would be great, because I’m not feeling so sharp lately. I’ve had a few things happen this week that are making me question my own intelligence, but I’ve been able to recover without bringing shame upon my dojo. So maybe this is a sign that I’ve got to tap a little more of my clever and crafty for the future. The Internets also say the fox teaches one how to slip out of unpleasant situations quietly. This talent would normally be be fine, but I’m having some problems with accountability right now, so I figure it’s telling me not to fade out, but step up to the plate more consistently. Which means I have a dreaded phone call to make tomorrow morning.

Cleverness, discretion, cunning, quick wit, camouflage: I could have used some of these things for a 1½ phone conversation this afternoon…where were you then, my little friend? Oh, that’s right, I was looking out the window, waiting for someone to make a 10-minute point, and I saw a woodpecker. Woodpecker? Sensitivity, protection, devotion…How does that help me with this stuff? Mother Earth, what the hell are you trying to tell me?

I’ve got some kind of stomach bug, something I’ve had since Superbowl Sunday, which means the only people writing anything here have been comment spammers. I have an appointment to see the doctor tomorrow, which is the only thing I like less than being sick. Hopefully the burbling in my gut can be treated with something mild and cherry-flavored.

Jen’s been away for the past three days, helping her father out (the Word is: he’s fine; everything went smoothly) so I’ve been bachelorizing it here at the Lockardugan Estates. Without her moderating influence, I’ve been staying up and getting up later, working longer, eating whatever’s easy to make and generally not taking care of myself. Today I decided to get out of here for lunch, and ventured out to the Forest Diner for a burger.

The Forest Diner sits across from what used to be the Enchanted Forest, a family owned amusement park that closed years ago. In its place somebody put a Safeway, and at some point the local Diner Conglomerate dropped one of its ugly concrete boxes next to the railcar-original Forest in an attempt to take over the turf. The plucky little diner has held on, however, and they continue to make decent food in a clean, retro atmosphere. The menu may not be as huge, the available seating not as spacious, but the Forest is my favorite place to get a quiet cup of coffee and read the paper.