A magnificent breakfast...

Shiloh got me up at the usual unconscionable time (5 am) and we went for her constitutional - or what I thought was her constitutional, because shortly after returning home, she started to "sign" that she needed to go out again, and sure enough: she did. Finally, though, we got through that part of the day, and despite attempts to fall back asleep (listening to a Rolling Stones tune on your iPod is probably not the way to go), it became clear that - for now, at least - I am officially up.

I decided to make breakfast the meal of the day, so I put a hamburger, the rest of the shrimp, and one egg in a frying pan on top of some coconut oil (which, as it turns out, lends no "off" taste to the food, in my opinion), and made some coffee while the vittles were heating up.

My experience last night with the DiskInternals program were pretty good, but not good enough. I recovered a bunch of images (and learned that, apparently, the Nikon creates and stores thumbnails along with the "normal" images), but none that I took yesterday afternoon. I went out a few minutes ago and found some more specimens had popped up overnight, and took pictures of those, but also noted that my observation about discoloration needs some revision (as in: I cracked one cap in half and noted that, aside from some mild discoloration of the pores, there was nothing along the lines of what happens when one scratches the pores of some other boletes). Photos to follow, but not now.

I probably have about 30 minutes in which to put a dent in the sub-2000 words left in the document. If I can get through the table I'm in, there'll be 1250 words left, at which point I can quit with a good conscience.

Cheers...

UPDATE: At 8:45 am there are 845 words left. This is a meaningless coincidence, of course, but I'll take anything I can get at the moment. Now, for a quick shower and off to church!

Opportunity knocks...

In the rarefied atmosphere of Long Island's yuppified North Shore, I guess seeing this kind of business is about par for the course. The rate starts at $10.00 per week (which raises an curious issue; I mean, how high can it go? and for what?).

The business has the kind of motto you'd expect (partially hidden behind a utility pole): "We take a lot of crap from our customers."

Hoo-ee!

It takes all kinds, I guess.

(I wonder if the concept is transplantable to, say, Texas?)

Cheers...

You couldn't have planned it this way!

So there's this part of me that says it'd be a lowdown thing to show up to church late, especially to a Russian Orthodox service, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

My parents have never been very sociable people, but the friends they made were solid. So it was with the case of Mr. and Mrs. G, who live in Port Washington. I really don't know much about the family, except that he is a retired schoolteacher (who, by the looks of it, is still teaching despite the steady deterioration of his physical condition associated with aging, as evidenced by his "Hey, hang on a second, I've got to get something out of the car for one of the kids I'm tutoring" remark today) and she, it is said, comes from a line of European nobility. Back in the day, the two of them (and their kids) moonlighted at night cleaning office buildings.

They attend a Russian Orthodox church in Glen Cove, and after the service, they generally stop by to visit the old man to see how he's doing. When I called them yesterday to tell them he'd been transferred to rehab, the return call came with an invitation to attend the service.

To an outsider, Russian Orthodox services are a mystery. They are conducted in a language called Old Church Slavonic, which sorta-kinda resembles Russian, but is different. I would only underscore my ignorance by trying to characterize the service past the obvious points, but one unmistakable observation the outsider will come away with is that there are (officially) no pews in the church, and hence, no places for people to sit for the duration of the service, which today lasted about 2 hours.

By "officially," I mean to say that there were chairs strategically placed to allow some of the older attendees to sit at today's service, though as far as I could see, everyone made it to their feet at certain appointed times in the service (I can make out the Slavonic version of the Lord's Prayer, which is one of those times). In the end, the message conveyed was a solid one. The service, apparently, had something to do with the start of the school year, and in his remarks after the liturgy, the priest made a point of stressing how important it was for parents, grandparents, and the church community to guide and contribute to the education of its youth in parallel to what the secular world provided.

When I arrived a the church at 9:30 am, there were perhaps 10 people there, and I was, if not the youngest, then very nearly the youngest in the crowd, if memory serves. (That in itself is unusual enough, these days.) When the priest made his appearance, I most certainly lost that distinction. Folks kept arriving as the service progressed, and by the end of the service, there were perhaps 40 people in the church, some with children and infants. Overall, the service wasn't what one might expect in a Methodist church, but the people - even if they tended toward the geriatric side - most definitely fit the pattern.

After the service, I took off for the Glen Cove Hospital to visit the old man. Since I didn't know what room he was in, I stopped at the vistor's desk and gave my dad's name.

"Sorry," said the security guard, "there's nobody here by that name."

Whoa!

"I'm sorry, perhaps I didn't make myself clear. Let me spell the name for you," I said, and did so, phonetically.

"Nope," came the reply, "there's no such person here."

A few moments later, I'm talking to the nurse who called me yesterday to tell me my dad was going back to the hospital.

"Your dad was transferred to the Manhasset Hospital this morning," she said.

This general state of affairs is beginning to annoy me. Aside from yesterday's call (whose intended recipient was my late mother, BTW), I'm getting the full mushroom treatment (kept in the dark, etc.). Why do I have to root around to find stuff like this out?

In any event, the G's had not yet arrived at Glen Cove Hospital, so I scrawled a note, left it with the visitor's desk, and set off for the North Shore University Hospital in Manhasset, via the church (to update the G's, assuming the G's hadn't left the church yet).

They hadn't. I explained the situation, and then took off for Manhasset. Along the way, I learned there was a Whole Foods market near the Benihana restaurant on Northern Boulevard where Galina, the kids and I celebrated a wedding anniversary (15th?) way back when.

The North Shore Hospital is housed at a huge campus, and after parking in the wrong area (the garage was closed for repairs), I elected to use "valet" parking near the main entrance so I could pop in and visit the old man. He is very happy to have been transferred here, as the joint has an excellent reputation. I don't know what, if anything, will be done prior to Tuesday, but I figure if he's happy, I'm happy.

Since coming home, I've taken a nap and spoken with both Galina and Natalie.

There are still 845 words left in the current job, and it's nearly 12 hours later. Overall, that's no big deal, as I ought to be able to handle the rest of the current job tonight and manage the other job between tomorrow and Tuesday.

Onward!

Cheers...

Any ideas?

The translation is complete.

* * *Here are the shots of the mushrooms at my parents' house on Long Island. It would appear these are definitely boletes, but which?





I had been under the impression that the pore mass stained when disturbed, but cracking the cap in half showed no discoloration, except locally.

Cheers...