Weather-guessers got the forecast all wrong again

at times it was not clear whether it will simply rain, or we should await something worse

The weather-guessers kept changing their forecast for the next weekend -- from eighties during the day and forties at night, they moved to seventies and thirties, respectively. Hence on Friday I packed ALL our sleeping bags, hoping to distribute them more or less evenly among us all. We drove out on Saturday morning, (my) plan was to speed to erect our tent in time to fit a hike into the rest of the afternoon. In the end we sped mostly because we kept on hoping that low clouds and rain showers would only affect the Central Valley and Western Sierra. We anxiously gazed in the direction of Sonora Pass and forecasted sunshine in the east.

A disappointment awaited us. Temperatures hovered around sixty and Twin Lakes Canyon looked from a distance like in a snowstorm. And so we wondered whether camping at Buckeye made sense, but eventually we bit the bullet. Thinking, if the weather turns worse, we'd go in a motel. We left Tom's toy trucks and our camping chairs in front of the tent -- perhaps if Kubackis find it (they left at about the same time towards this place and were supposed to meet us), they'd recognize them and join us.

Given the dubious weather we resolved to go for a walk near Twin Lakes. We might have underestimated the local horror of a campground -- it took us quite an effort to disentangle from a maze of campers and tents to something resembling a "wilderness", and even then it was filled with drifting campgrounded tourists. My Hippo rumbled on account of being hungry (for several days to come, I was to listen to many a complaint about not wanting to stop for lunch), the kids rumbled on general principle, and the weather did nothing to improve our spirits.

Saturday walk at Robinson Creek Meadow

We headed for dinner to Walker, where we were theoretically supposed to meet with Kubackis. They did not show up -- and we would stay out of each other's range for the rest of the weekend. We did not mind much, as they did plan Mono and Bodie that they had not seen before. We wanted to avoid tourist attractions and hike some mountain trails instead.

At the restaurant we exchanged a few friendly words with the owners about the weather and our having missed the duck race. Michelle said that this year had completely skipped fall leaves -- they froze and wind blew them off, and so instead of beautifully golden trees there were only gray trunks and branches left, with an occasional muddy brown leaf. We had noticed during our afternoon walk that the woods were by far not as pretty as we would have expected, but we still hoped that we'd wander into some more photo-worthy areas on Sunday.

We survived the night at ease, although it was below freezing.

Juniors don't settle for hiking, they must climb onto something as well.

Still at the restaurant we changed our kids into their pajamas. It started dawning on us that the weather-guessers got even the thirties at night wrong. It was the right move. During our thirty miles long drive from Walker to Buckeye at eight o'clock PM, temperatures drifted between thirty (at Sonora Pass turnoff) to forty eight, which caused various changes of our mood -- from Sid paranoid and catastrophic "we shall freeze to death" to my threats of "we shall cook to death". In the end it was about forty five when we went to bed. Children got two sleeping bags each and I used a fleece insert and my cocoon sleeping bag. This realized my prediction -- I almost perished from the heat; later at night I left the cocoon and switched to my regular blanket bag.

I did not feel like leaving the sleeping bag in the morning, especially after my Hippo had opened the door and chilly air blew in my face. And I mean really icy cold -- while an optimistic sun shone on the pine needles, our bus had measured exactly thirty two degrees. Our juniors did not mind that at all -- they were issued warm underwear and padded trousers, fleeces and windbreakers -- and spent the morning by very intense digging in the dirt.

Meanwhile we packed everything and by about ten thirty headed for "the restaurant with the little bears" as Tom wished. As usual, we had to wait for a free table for a while -- apparently we were not alone in tripping to Eastern Sierra Nevada on this weekend. Accidentally, a friendly old man, who also waited in the line, told us that the original owner's nickname was Bear. Tommy's little bears are a lot more practical -- he remembers the little containers for honey and maple syrup.

The highpoint of the trip -- a log across the creek.

Parker Lake - our offspring digging in the dirt (for a change).

The Kubackis were not there either (and later comparison of our schedules made apparent that we had missed each other by some ten minutes). We ate thoroughly (it was rather a lunch-level meal for my Hippo) and we left for Parker Lake. Tom had declared right at the trailhead parking that this was the trail where Lisa fell asleep in her carrier -- it's interesting that he had remembered something more than a year later. Last year we did not reach the actual lake as Tom had been too tired and Lisa too obnoxious. We aimed to fix that now.

Juniors marched with courage and entertained themselves with natural wonders. They kept climbing rocks, tossing stones and pinecones into the creek, trotted on remnans of this year's first snow and attempted to form snowballs -- and eventually discovered a large tree fallen across the creek, which allowed to cross it back and forth.

This year we made it to Parker Lake. While the adults took pictures and admired the lake, the children stereotypically tossed stones and dug in the dirt. Lisa whined a bit on the way back, but we all managed to complete the whole trail on our own feet. Our time for return has come. Stopping at a grocery store in Bridgeport we contemplated letting them pack a few sandwiches for our dinner, but then we opted for a served dinner at 50's Roadhouse near Knights Ferry. This has later proven a serious mistake, for we reached the Roadhouse five minutes after closing time, while the kids fell asleep in the car, decimated by tiredness and starved. We continued on without food; half asleep, Tom complained on arrival about lack of dinner (and kept returning to the topic for several day onward, which strongly reminds me of his father), but he declined to eat due to being too tired.

A view to Mono Lake from our trail to Parker Lake

Tom's birthday was rapidly approaching and our calendar became uncomfortably full. We had known for several months that in the eve of the birthday, a Czech folk singer Jarek Nohavica would perform in our Sunnyvale. We had even purchased tickets, although it was not clear for a long time what we'd do with our kids. Our friend Jana had eventually decided not to see the show, and consented to babysit our ramblers. On the day before she asked me if I had already began gently breaking the news of our planned absence to our children. I answered that I had not, for I intended to reveal to our kids on the day of the concert that if they were to REALLY BEHAVE for the whole day, Jana would stay with them in the evening, as a reward. I don't think she believed me much -- but when she really arrived, a pack of children jumped on her (sometimes just the two of them flick by so fast that I begin to wonder how many they actually are). I think that she had finally understood how unbelievably BORING mother I must be if our children welcome any change with happy cheers (they actually know and love Jana, so it really was a "reward" for them).

Instead of the usual yellow and orange beauty, birches welcomed us this year with brown and black, frost-burnt sadness.

There's no shortage of wild fowl in the vicinity of Mono Lake -- they fly in here all the way from South America.

I naturally drove twice past the Avalon Club where the concert was taking place. When I had finally found my bearing, my nervous Hippo was running up and down the parking lot, for he had come right off work and I held both tickets. Actually -- I did not really "have" them, but I had the receipt. Meanwhile Sid had talked the organizers into agreeing to let him in on his name alone. Which seems a sign of pretty good organization. They had not mailed any tickets, but instead kept a list of customers and used it to let people in. Hence, even in the event of a sudden change of plans (kids going down with a fever or a brick hitting my head), my Hippo would not have been deprived of his cultural experience.

Soon we found ourselves inside. Avalon is a night club, and the audience ordinary sits around tables. Nohavica had wished to form a proper concert arrangement and so they lined up several additional rows of chairs in front of the stage. We could not decide for a while between a table and the auditorium, then picked the latter. It was a good choice -- we could see and hear well; furthermore we were less bothered by chatters at the bar (I don't understand why somebody buys tickets to a concert and then yaps into a beer mug -- why don't they go realize themselves alcoholically elsewhere).

The show started about ten minutes late. Nohavica promised us 100 minutes of nonstop music, but it eventually became almost two and half hours. Without a break. I don't know how he can manage to do it all by himself -- simply incredible. Besides his old songs that almost turned into folklore, we heard Ladovská zima (poking fun at Czechs always complaining about snow in winter), two children's tunes from his Three Piggies album, some truly national folklore songs, and covers of a Russian folk singer named Vysockij. He also played us his unfinished piece about Las Vegas (which he's been working on during the tour), a quite popular pop-song by Olympic, and a sample of Figaro's Wedding (which he's been translating from Italian into Czech). It was really a colorful evening. I kept awaiting a bittersweet nostalgia to take hold of my soul -- but it did not come. Perhaps thanks to the lightning speed with which songs about love alternated with complete slapstick. Or is it that one can feel bittersweet and nostalgic only while having uncertain, unfulfilled desires and yearnings? Or perhaps I've become a sufficiently old monkey and stick to the American saying, "count your blessings"? I certainly realize how much I have over the years put my roots down here and how comfortable they are. Apparently I'm not alone -- when Nohavica asked one man, who kept taking picture, where he was from, he received a completely spontaneous answer, Campbell (while the expected answer was in this case, Neratovice).
Well, regardless of how it is about the nostalgia, this show left us with a wonderful and very positive feeling.

Tom had celebrated his fifth birthday with his friends...

... and his family.

The following morning brought us confusion -- preschool had a trip to a pumpkin patch; I wanted to take Lisa and help out with Tom's class, to boost the number of adult supervisors. It also gave me a chance to take both our kids to get pumpkins. Since Tom has been attending school every day, it's rather difficult to organize something during the week, and I don't care for the weekend crowds.

Someone at our pre-school has discovered -- to my great joy -- where the company that used to run our favorite farm in Mountain View (their original lot had been turned into housing parcels). In the new location, children received a short lecture on pumpkins' life cycle, they visited the pumpkin field to watch them grow, and moved on to the miniature train. I could not separate Tom from it. He insisted on standing next to the crossing and supplanted a missing gate arm with his own little one, made clinking noises etc. This however made the train driver somewhat nervous, as he had the impression that our juniors initiative would drive him under the engine's wheels. Eventually the children were each issued a pumpkin, and we were ready to go home.

There I put our household a bit in order in case of a raid by our birthday visitors -- should the weather change drastically, or some other circumstance would push us from our front yard indoor. I had invited several of Tom's friends from the neighborhood and his school, to have a party. They surprised me by showing up in great numbers; altogether thirteen kids. Weather played in our favor, and I took an old sandbox (long since emptied of all sand) and filled it with water, added some water toys, laid out chalks, bubble blowers, tricycles, ride-ons, and toy trucks; I purchased dollar-a-piece wooden conveyances (cars, aeroplanes) that the kids can color. The happening proceeded orderly, despite all expectations. Sure, the boys ran around and hollered -- but we had no bigger fights, and the young gentlemen even communicated and cooperated rationally.

Our neighbor Danae had promised to come up with something "in place of a cake" and had a perfect idea. Common ice cream cones filled with marshmallows. The kids were ecstatic, and so was I -- no plates, forks, knives, cutting, smudging -- and subsequent throwing away of the unfinished cake. Absolutely ideal for an informal party.

At last we got around to congratulating Tom on Saturday morning. Thanks to logistic complications, we, too, omitted a cake -- we had a birthday ice cream instead, which can be bought day ahead of time and held in the freezer. Tom had not objected and I think he quite enjoyed his birthday.

ZOOB block set and the longest car.

Lizzy got her own present - a book from granny.

An annual checkup had found Tom 3ft 10in tall a weighing 44 pounds, with flawless sight and hearing. I was especially relieved by the finding about his eyes. After all, my Hippo has had enough diopters since early childhood, and it's great that Tom had (so far) missed this part of our legacy. Our tragically minded Tommy kept wailing through the whole thing, fearful of pin pricking (inoculation), while I don't recall him having received any throughout the last two years. His memory must be like elephant's. I promised him to let him know when they were going to prick him (he jumped at any nurse's benign movement) and that he may choose a train if he won't squeal too much.

Sure thing, he had squealed, but due to the train promise he was able to suppress his common hypochondria to a bearable level. To my surprise he snubbed a Thomas (which he had lost and cried over) and opted for a much more realistic (and cheaper!) engine without a face. Lisa begged of course for a small present as well. I had already mentally resigned to yet another horrible pastel-colored pony (My Little Pony^®), but in the end the colorful horror went back into the rack and she chose realistically sculpted horses by Schleich.

Naturally, a few days before Halloween it got suddenly colder and on the night before is started to rain. Our kids fortunately insisted for some time now that whey would be cats, which had simplified our planning of costumes. It must bite -- frost-bite, in fact -- to be a princess in an airy nylon dress. In our case I just put both kids into black sweat shirts and sweat pants, we (all) donned cats' ears, clipped on our tails (I had to attach Lisa's tail somewhere between her shoulder blades to prevent it from trawling in the mud), painted our whiskers on and we were ready to go. Tom requested to know, what he was supposed to say. I tried to teach him "trick or treat", but it was obvious he did not understand it, for he just repeated it mechanically. Eventually I taught the kids to say "happy Halloween", which met with success -- on one hand the juniors understood what they were saying, and on the other I think people tend to appreciate a nice greeting better than being asked for something sweet.

Tom asked to be a ginger cat - but all Halloween costumes are black.

I had only managed to take a picture of our Lizzy Kitty well after Halloween, and so she was making faces...

A historic detour: "trick or treat?" is supposed to be a question - theoretically, its recipient has got a choice to either treat his/her tormentors (with some small token) or risk being tricked (targeted by some practical joke). I don't find it necessarily a good idea, teaching kids that one is free to punish anyone not willing to be generous -- especially at an age when they take everything literally. It's interesting how truly American children, too, find "trick or treat" problematic -- they simply don't understand the phrase.

A half block down, we met with a gang of neighbors with their children. Tom rejoices for his friend, a five-year-old Tyler, was among the her of generally smaller infants. Both boys then kept running ahead, making sure that not a single house would be left out during our quest. The whole happening ended quite humanely at the house of our neighbor Karen. Kids immersed into play with toys and besides a single lollipop, did not seriously raid their baskets with collected bounty. I was issued a beer, we chatted for a while, admired two fresh babies on the block, our Hippo came to pick us up with our bus at nine p.m., and we drove like gentry the few hundred feet back home -- for it was raining again.

The kids went to bed one hour later than usual -- and got up at eight in the morning instead of their typical seven o'clock. Tom rumbled that getting up this late, when it's already light outside, makes him miss the lights on his new wooden railroad gate, but the rest of us enjoyed it -- this way, we dealt with the time shift one day ahead of schedule and painlessly. Children, however, demanded in the morning to be little cats again, and so they had spent the first of November wearing cat's ears.