Welcome to Pet Loss

Last week, my beautiful cat, Karma Lynn, crossed the rainbow bridge. She’d been battling kidney disease for roughly a year and took a sharp turn for the worst in July. For five years, Karma had been my constant companion and cuddle bug. She was with me during the worst of COVID, my second layoff, taking care of one of my parents after a stroke, and when that same parent later passed away.

Karma had been my family’s cat for 17 and a half years. She came to stay with us for one weekend and never left. 

Karma’s start to life wasn’t the easiest. She’d been found by a construction worker in the neighborhood I grew up in, alone with a hurt paw. The construction worker took her to a nearby house which happened to belong to friends of ours. The friends called my mom, who helped take Karma to the vet. 

The vet said that Karma was about a month old and that she might lose the paw if she didn’t have constant care. They also said she was a short hair domestic tortoise shell cat (more on this later). Our friends, who were looking for a permanent home for Karma, had a trip coming up, so they left her at our house. 

My family, at the time, had a two year old boarder collie German shepherd mix. We weren’t sure how the dog would react to a cat, so Karma was placed in the first floor bathroom away from Gertrude (the dog). Karma had a nice little set up where her leg could heal and her cone of shame wouldn’t bother her. 

While I was out walking Gertrude - I had the night walks - my family took Karma out of her designated shelter and were cuddling her on the couch. I soon as I got back, I let Gertrude off the leash and closed the garage door. As I opened the door to go inside, Gert shot off like a rocket, jumped on the couch, and excitedly tried to lick Karma.

Badly startled, Karma also took off, racing over my sibling’s shoulder and falling down the back of the couch - only to be caught by her little cone before falling the whole way to the ground. My sibling got a small scar on their chest out of the commotion.

Gertrude loved Karma. They weren’t always buddy-buddy, but they occasionally curled up together. Gert loved mothering Karma while she was still tiny and, when Karma grew older, loved it when Karma would swipe chewable items off high places for her to gnaw on. My dad lost several very nice pens to Karma and Gertrude’s antics.

Sadly, Gertrude passed away in early 2019. She was about 12, nearly 13, years old. Karma was about 10, almost 11 at the time.

What ended up causing my family to keep Karma was one of my parents and my sibling begging to let her stay. My parent had put her on a little red velvet pillow and was carrying her around like the queen she knew she’d be. Every time she was lifted up, kitten Karma would let out an imperial meow as though addressing the rest of us as her loyal subjects. 

My other parent caved and I accepted the fact that we now had a cat.

It was only after deciding to keep her, did we finally decide a name for her. One of our family friend’s suggested we call her Karma since us taking her in would bring “good karma”. Coincidently, while on the way to the vet, the song “Karma Chameleon” came on the radio and quickly became the go to song to sing to Karma. I like to think I was the one to get the name Karma to stick, but we were all likely calling her Karma. 

There isn’t any story about how Lynn came about as a middle name and my one parent always insisted it was actually Kitty. 

My personal favorite memory of Karma was a year or so into my university years. Karma liked going into the basement and hunt for mice. Normally, we’d find the successful hunts lined up in the living room - nose to tail - waiting to be discovered. This particular night, Karma had had a successful hunts lined up and as she was bringing her catch up, I spotted her. I told her to drop the mouse; I thought it was dead. I wanted to get rid of said dead mouse now instead of waiting to find it later.

Karma ducked her cute little head as though to drop her prize, but didn’t. Instead, she gave me a look like: “are you sure you want me to drop it?” I said drop it a second time. And she dropped the mouse.

The mouse was not in fact dead.

It scampered through the kitchen, passing my sibling who jumped on the kitchen island screaming her head off, and found a hiding spot near the shoe box in the front hall. Needless to say, Karma gave me a “what did you except?” look, then shot off after the very much alive mouse. I grabbed the broom and dustpan and followed my miniature tiger to where she had cornered her quarry.

It took the better part of an hour, but eventually, I did get the still very much alive mouse away from Karma. I trapped it on the dustpan and released it outside. It was not a cute mouse. It was ugly, with a face like a snarling opossum mixed with a particularly feral wolverine. 

Karma was not happy with this development.

The vet said that Karma was a domestic short hair cat - which in the cat world means she was a mutt. However, she was not in fact short haired. Her hair grew long and fluffy. It got everywhere. I often brushed it for her in her later years. And when I did have to give her an infrequent bath, she looked like a sad Victorian child once the process was said and done. Her tortoise shell coat with black and orange meant that she looked like a Halloween decoration year round. She did have a white chest and socks (her paws were white), but that didn’t lessen the infamous tortitude tortoise shell cats are famous for. 

Karma was a spicy kitty and she left everyone know it.

The reason Karma came to live with me isn’t the happiest, but she became my cat because of it. Her later years were spent at my apartment playing with her toys (the ghost was her favorite) and enjoying time on the balcony and in front of the fireplace (weather dependent). 

This past year was especially tough. I knew logically that she wouldn’t live forever and that at 12 (when I got her), her years were numbered. Her diagnosis last year was devastating. I used to say that Karma would live to 20 out of sheer spite - which was more of a prayer for her to actually do so. There were a lot of ups and downs, but my biggest goal was seeing her in my new house. Thankfully, she made it and lived in the house for four months.

Karma loved the big guest room and claimed it as hers. She especially loved the deck and would spend time out there even when it was 100F out - much to my concern. She would howl outside the basement door because I wouldn’t let her go downstairs without me. She was excited to greet every guest that stopped by and enjoyed her view from the front door of me working in the yard.

Over the last few weeks of her decline, every morning I’d wake up, tell her how much I loved her, and say how blessed I was to get an extra day with her. I had hoped she’d be here for the first holidays in the house, but it was her time.

She didn’t get to live in the house long, but she got to be here and her presence is very much missed.

Karma is not my first pet death, but it is the first time I’ve lost a pet that I was primarily responsible for. I cried ugly tears and had to have my friends come get me. I cried for two days straight and even now am getting a little teary eyed. I miss her and nothing can replace her. I’m glad I was able to give her a good home in her last years. She was my baby and it’s hard being without her.

My family has sent me some wonderful memories of her. I have a friend who is going to paint her portrait for me. Her ashes are going to my parent who has Gertrude’s ashes so Karma can be with her mama dog. 

It hurts a lot and I don’t know if I ever want to go through this kind fo pain again. I’m not sure how people are able to have multiple pets after losing one. 

But I have to keep living and hoping I’ll meet her again in the afterlife.

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off) please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope y’all like hearing from me.

Welcome to 50 Years of Jaws

 How many times this week did you hear that it was the 50th anniversary of Jaws?

Well, I’m here to mention it again. 

I’m a fan of the first Jaws movie. I haven’t seen any of the sequels except for Jaws 3D (though not in 3D) - and I actually kind of like that one. I have ridden “Jaws the Ride” at Universal Studios Osaka - this was a really cool experience ride that I only partially understood  since the “guide” only spoke Japanese. I think we rode it about three times. I also got a hat, which I still wear.

I did not like the Jurassic Park ride.

Jaws is not my favorite movie, but it is one that I can stream on a hot summer day and pretend I’m at the beach. Not that I want sharks to show up at my favorite beach, but one of the incidents Jaws is based on happened near my favorite beach town in New Jersey.

Side note: my favorite movie is a different Steven Spielberg movie that also features practical effect monsters.

Jaws changed the way people went to the movies. The term “blockbuster” (may the store rest in corporate afterlife) was coined because people liked up around the block to purchase tickets. Soon after, any “big” movie with a large audience was branded a blockbuster and advertised as such (gotta maximize those profits).

It also changed the way people viewed sharks.

Prior to the 1900s (the century not the decade), most people didn’t interact with sharks unless they were fishermen or caught in a shipwreck. 

However, in the late 1800s and early 1900s, seaside vacations became popular with the upper classes. Cape May became one of the first beach resort towns that New Yorkers flocked to. It was in 1916 when a series of shark attacks took place off the coast of Ocean City, New Jersey (this is explicitly referenced in the film). It caused a panic, like in the movie, but the casualties were spread out all along the south New Jersey coast.

More than half century later and there were far more people frolicking in the water. Peter Benchley came to regret his 1974 novel of the same name as the movie because of the increased fear of sharks. This fear may have led to more people killing sharks and causing their populations to decrease. Yes, shark attacks continue to increase, but that’s because humans are encroaching more and more into their territory, not because they like the taste of human. 

Consequently, Benchley became a shark conservationist and dedicated much of his later life to educating people about sharks. Apparently, there’s now even a shark named after him colloquially known as the ninja lanternshark (Etmopterus benchleyi), which was confirmed in 2015.

I consider Jaws to be an adventure horror movie - a very rare mashup in my opinion. Like many films by Spielberg, there’s a sense of wonderment and exploration that blankets the film through the horror of the shark attacks. Even John Williams score volleys between suspenseful and creepy (the shark’s theme) to whimsical and thrilling (Chief Brody’s ending theme while shooting at the shark). 

It’s also rated PG instead of PG13 (mostly because PG13 wouldn’t come around until Spielberg’s Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in 1984). 

Jurassic Park (also directed by Spielberg) has a similar adventure horror mix as Jaws, as does The Mummy (1999) and The Mummy Returns (though those two aren’t Spielberg’s). The scary parts are still there, but I feel like I’m on an adventure when I watch them.

And 50 years later, Jaws still holds up. The practical effects are great, the characters believable and relatable, and the shark is still scary. 

Fun fact: the shark’s name became Bruce on set after Spielberg’s lawyer. 

There were multiple versions of the shark, none of which worked quite right nor looked very good, which is why you don’t see much of the shark. This caused creative use of the camera and shots taken, adding to the film aging well. I saw a version of Bruce at Universal Japan as a kid (that same trip mentioned above). 

I’m also not afraid of sharks and never really was. My biggest fear in the ocean as a kid was seaweed. My grandfather told me seaweed was mermaid hair and that really freaked me out. I didn’t go in the water for three years. Drove my parents nuts.

I recently won a copy of “Robert Shaw: An Actor’s Life on the Set of Jaws and Beyond” from GoodReads. I haven’t read it yet, but I’m looking forward to cracking it open on a sunny day at the Jersey Shore. Maybe I’ll even pick up a copy of the original “Jaws” book too.

Happy 50th birthday Jaws. May Jurassic Park age as well as you. 

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off), please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope y’all like hearing from me.

Welcome to Women in the 1970s

What does it mean to be a “traditional” woman?

I have no idea because the definition for “traditional” women that certain people keep espousing has never existed. Women have always worked (out of the home), women have always had opinions, and women have wanted to be in the driver’s seat of their own lives. 

I recently read two books about women in the 1970s. The first was The Movement: How Women’s Liberation Transformed America, 1963-1973 by Clara Bingham. The second was The Stepford Wives by Ira Levin. You are likely somewhat familiar with the second book. Not only does The Stepford Wives have two movie adaptations (the 1975 version is way better than 2004 version), it’s also become part of the American lexicon to mean the perfect, if creepily robotic woman whose only interest is keeping house and pleasing her husband. Trad wife is a close synonym (in my not to humble opinion).

Reading The Movement before The Stepford Wives helped me to better understand the references and mindset of the latter. The Movement is “a comprehensive and engaging oral history of thedecade that defined the feminist movement” that incorporates intersectional view points that aren’t just from middle aged white suburban women. Bingham makes sure to include view points from more conservative feminists (well the moderates), radicals, LGBTQIA+ people, Black women, Latinas, and their allies. 

Technically, The Movement covers more of the 1960s than the 1970s. The 1960s is when the ball started rolling for the second wave feminists. The National Organization for Women (NOW) was started in the 1960s, Project Jane (abortion access in Chicago) was being set up, and Shirley Chisholm was the first Black woman elected to the US Congress in 1968.

The 1970s part of the book shows the accomplishes made after a decade of fighting for Women’s Rights and what fell through the cracks. The 1970s feminist movement stemmed out of the 1960s sexual revolution and adapted techniques used by the Civil Rights Movement to promote equality of the sexes. NOW was literally supposed to be the women’s version of the NAACP. It’s in the text of The Movement.

The book is all interviews. There are three parts that divide up the decade. Each part has 19 to 21 chapters. Bingham conducted interviews, reviewed archived interview transcripts, and pulled quotes from primary sources to piece together the many moving parts that defined the Women’s Movement of the 1970s. 

It was fascinating and showed the importance of balancing the moderate and the radical in any movement anxious for change. It warned about the problems that happen when progress isn’t followed through with (think the Equal Rights Amendment) and how one person can ruin everything for political clout (like Universal Childcare that was a bipartisan bill vetoed by Nixon). 

It’s not a map or guide for how to create change. The book shows how the US got to where it is today, how hard people fought for the good things we have now, and how those things are threatened today.

Which brings me to my next book.

I first saw the movie, “The Stepford Wives” (1975) in my late 20s. The scene that always stands out to me is when Joanna goes to confront her “changed” friend Bobbie hysterically asking her if she bleeds. Joanna is desperate, she knows she’s going to “change” next, and she realizes how much her husband and the other men in the community have betrayed her and their wives.

Fun fact, the guy who wrote The Stepford Wives, Ira Levin, also wrote The Boys From Brazil and Rosemary’s Baby. How this man is able to tap in the very real paranoia and anxiety women feel and authentically bring it to the page is amazing. I knew the ending of The Stepford Wives going into it. That didn’t stop me from hoping Joanna would do the selfish, yet self preservation choice of leaving her kids, not confronting her husband, and just driving far away. The kids weren’t even in any danger. She could have gotten them back later.

It’s a slow burn thriller that knows how to use gaslighting to the max. It’s also only 120 pages - a weekend read.

I have some many questions following up on The Stepford Wives. Do the kids, especially the girls worry that their fathers will “change” them, too? How do the “changed” women age? Why don’t the pets react negatively to the “changed” women? Do their families outside the area not question ANY of this?

Though I don’t feel capable of writing it, I would like to a follow up to The Stepford Wives following Joanna’s daughter Kim’s point of view. She would have been in the early years of elementary school and would have had memories of her mom before she “changed”. She could compare notes with her childhood friends and older brother, slowly peeling away the horror that her father put her mother through. 

Someone who is not me, please write this.

If you want to make a better future for the next generation, it’s good to know the history of the foundation you’re building a movement on. It’s important to know how hard the people who came before fought to get we are now, how easy it is to backslide, and why these things are important. I’m an independent person who doesn’t want to answer to anyone (especially after reading The Stepford Wives). I don’t want to take for granted the rights I have.

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off), please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope y’all like hearing from me.

Welcome to Missing One Parent's Pride

I first want to thank everyone for the positive thoughts and kind comments on my last post. They were all very appreciated and I'm sure you will hear a lot more about my new home.

A few of you mentioned how proud you are of where I've gotten to in life. My parent that is alive has also expressed how proud she is of me. I feel so grateful for all the help I've had along the way. No one gets anywhere without the help given by their support system - and I have a great support system of family and friends.

But that doesn't mean I'm not missing one person's statement of pride.

Growing up, my parents never forgot to say how proud they were of me. Whether prompted by my accomplishments, an award or two, getting a job, or even just mowing the lawn, my parents always made sure to tell me how proud they were. They weren't referring to my actions with this pride, but to my character. They were proud of who I am rather than what I did.

This has always been made clear to me.

Sadly, one of my parents passed away a year and a half ago. Their passing is how I was even able to have the down payment for a house. It sucks that out of that tragedy, I've been able to accomplish something that a lot of people my age are struggling to do. My surviving parent likes to say that it's the other's final gift to me and my sibling.

Still, I miss hearing that: "Kid, I'm proud of you."

That parent always called me "kid" when conveying their sincerity. 

Last weekend (mother's day to be precise), I took some time away from unpacking to do some yard work. It was the first time in about 15 years that I'd mowed the lawn - it was also my first time using a weed whacker and boy did I cackle like an evil sidekick with that tool. I started mowing the lawn when I was about eight or nine years old. My parent, the one was responsible for the outdoor chores, had me walk with them pushing the gas guzzling lawn mover in the easy to do front yard. By the time I was ten, I was mowing the front and side yard by myself without help. Said parent who taught me was proud of my progress, but exasperated by the fact that I couldn't maintain an aesthetically pleasing straight line.

That skill took roughly another five years to master.

I don't have a power mower. My aunts gifted me a very nice push-mower (along with the all powerful weed whacker) since my lawn isn't very big. The mechanics are mostly the same, except I have nothing propelling the mower forward but my sheer stubborn pride (which I have in spades). It was a bit like a blast from the past. I felt incredibly accomplished after doing the lawn work.

I also might have worried one of my neighbors with the week whacker. They were kind enough to offer me the use of their mower until I assured them I had one.

Unfortunately, the parent who taught me to mow the lawn is the same one who passed away.

I know they'd be proud of me, but I miss hearing them say it.

Recently, I read a spinoff manga that takes place after the canonical ending of Naruto. For those of you unfamiliar with the series (and its sequel series Borutou - which should be pronounced like "bolt"), Naruto is a story about a kid growing up to be a ninja. The main character, Naruto, starts out as a twelve year old and ends when he's about eighteen. Like many series aimed at tweens and teen in the 90s and 2000s, he was an orphan who built a found family around him. There are 74 volumes of the original manga series. 

The spinoff I read is called Naruto: Konoha's Story. Naruto plays a very small role in the two volume story as it primarily centers on three side characters - two of which, Kakashi and Gai, are fan favorites from the original series. The main character is really Mirai Sarutobi (or Sarutobi Mirai in Japanese). Her mother, father, cousin, and grandfather were prominent side characters in the original story. However, her father, Asuma Sarutobi, died before Mirai was even born.

Mirai's mission is to escort Kakashi and Gai - both retired and one disabled from their days as ninja - on a diplomatic survey along her country's boarder. Mirai grew up hearing about how awesome Kakashi and Gai were since they are friends of her mother and were close with her father. Mirai takes the mission very serious and worries about thieves and potential assassins around every corner (Kakashi and Gai have a lot of enemies from their ninja days). However, she can't help noticing how the mission feels more like a vacation for her two companions.

Mirai is a bit annoyed by this, until she's tempted into going somewhere that might allow her to speak to the dead. 

Why is Mirai tempted? Because she desperately wishes to speak with her father. It's been made clear up to this point in the story that Mirai feels disconnected from her dad. She's heard stories about him, but never got to speak to him. She knows her teachers are proud of her, but her confidence has been shaken while on the escort mission. She wants to hear that her father is proud of her accomplishments as a ninja like he was.

(Some spoilers may follow for Naruto: Konoha's Story.)

There's a great panel where Mirai imagines walking up to her father. Asuma's back is to Mirai in the image. Her hand is stretched out, as if to tap him on the shoulder. Asuma looks like he might be about to turn around to greet her or have a meaningful conversation.

The reader turns the page and Mirai is back in the real world where a cult tries to sacrifice her. During the fight, Mirai uses her father's signature weapons to defeat her enemies. These same enemies being members of the same cult that had a hand in killing her father.

Mirai doesn't get to raise the dead and speak to Asuma like she fantasizes. Instead she gets spiritual closure by channeling her father's spirit while fighting. Kakashi at one point even seems to feel Asuma's presence behind Mirai as she's fighting.

(End of spoilers.)

If you want to know how the story ends, then I suggest picking up the manga for yourselves. However, if you're unfamiliar with Naruto, it's probably going to confuse you.

And what does me mowing the lawn have to do with this somewhat niche story?

Unlike Mirai, I got to spend roughly three decades with my deceased parent, but I understand her desire to have a conversation with that lost parent. I might not be a ninja like Mirai and Asuma, but I do lawn work like my parent. It's a lost connection to a loved one that I miss - even if it is a repetitive chore that I was connecting to them.

Thank you everyone who left me messages and the pride you feel. It won't stop me from missing the phrase: "Kid, I'm proud of you," but it reminds me of a time when I heard it frequently. 

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off) please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope you guys like hearing from me.

Welcome to a New House

 Just to be that Millennial, but “I did a think!”

To solidify my latest “adult” milestone and movement into early middle life, I bought a house. And again, like any good Millennial, the only reason I could remotely do this is due to personal tragedy.

It’s not quite as cute as this, but close.

About a year and a half ago, I lost one of my parents. It’s been a long journey and a lot of emotions since they passed. It also maybe why I haven’t been writing my blog as much (this should change in the coming week, months, and years).

Buying a house is a lot.

There are so many things to consider: price, age of the house, size, price, neighborhood, HOA fees (they are inescapable in Virginia), distance from friends and favorite hiking spots, price, and when the last time to roof had been replaced. 

And when you find the “perfect” house, you put a bid on it, get into a bidding war, and lose - multiple times.

It was my sibling who picked out the house I eventually won the bidding war on. It didn’t have everything I wanted, but it had enough that I knew I would be happy. And more importantly, my cat loves it.

It also needs some work. For a house built in the 80s, the structure is still good and the roof last replaced within ten years (this is important for insurance reasons), but there are some little things that I need to update. The windows are original to the house and very difficult to open, the washer needs to be cleaned all the time, and I can’t stand the door going from the bathroom into the big room. Who thought it was a good idea to put a door there?

And little things I need to get rid of…like ants. They’re all over my kitchen. I’ve had ant issues before, but this is the first time it’s actually my problem (and money) to solve. Pray for my sanity.

Additionally, I did have an inspection (it was a quick turn around part of the negotiations - probably because it was two days before Christmas) and the things noted were fixed (except for the washer, but that’s a later problem). Yet I still needed to go out and buy a new dishwasher as soon as I tried using the one currently residing in my kitchen. 

So many soap subs.

The deck needs to be looked at, though it’s safe enough to go out on. I want new windows sooner rather than later. At least I think the washing machine can wait a bit.

I had family over this weekend to help me unpack. For the most part the first floor of the house is box free and organized. The second floor at least is in a state of organized chaos. The basement, though, is still meters deep in boxes.

They also kept reminding me to get rid of stuff. It’s a little tough to do. Some of this stuff was inherited from my parent. I got rid of a ton of stuff last year cleaning out their place and now I have to really decide what stays and what goes. It’s emotionally exhausting.

So, that’s where I’ve been. 

I bought a house. It’s not very big, but it’s mine.

Now to get rid of those ants.

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off) please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my reads and I hope you guys like hearing from me.

Welcome to Not Enough Lifeboats

A few weeks ago, I was reading up on people’s reactions to the current chaos plaguing the Federal Government (of the United States). One person noted that they felt like they were in the scene in the movie Titanic when the musicians start playing the song “Nearer My God to Thee”. This triggered my goblin brain to start watching scenes from the 1997 movie, a few documentaries, and interviews from survivors.

Which led me to the movie A Night to Remember (1958).

A Night to Remember is probably the most accurate movie about the maritime disaster ever made (sorry Cameron fans). It was based on a book with the same name by Walter Lord, who had been obsessed (much like Cameron) with the tragedy. Lord interviewed 63 survivors of the sinking, creating cohesive timeline of events.

I have not yet had the chance to read the book, but I have watched the movie. And I liked it better than the 1997 one.

A Night to Remember primarily focuses on the sinking of the Titanic. The narrative follows several characters - some fictional, but most based on real people - and how they either survive or parish. My personal favorite is the survival of the baker. In the movie (his story varies by retelling), he gives up his seat in a lifeboat for another person, knowing he’d likely die. He then gets blind stinking drunk, starts throwing deck chairs overboard for people to use for flotation, climbs to the back part of the ship, and rides his way down before gently entering the water. He then treads water for about two hours in near freezing temperatures before he is pulled into a lifeboat. He doesn’t give in to hypothermia, he doesn’t drown, and he doesn’t panic. 

Normally, that amount of alcohol that the baker (may have) consumed would have actually been a detriment to surviving the cold. But because of the alcohol, the baker didn’t panic. Nor did he go into shock - which is likely why so many people died of hypothermia. 

He stayed calm and survived. His name was Charles Joughin.

Joughin was an outlier. His odds of survival were almost nil when gave up his seat.The vast majority of Titanic’s staff died with the ship along with a disproportionate number of third class passengers and men. The laws of the sea (in those days) dictated that women and children were to be given priority for lifeboats…at least the upper and middle class ones. Poor women and children were still given priority, but not as much as their first and second class counterparts.

Classism at its finest.

And though women and children were first asked to enter the lifeboats, some of them refused to. At first it was because the women felt safer staying on the Titanic. After all, they’d been told the Titanic was unsinkable, so why would they get in a much smaller “less safe” wooden lifeboat? Then they began to realize their actual danger, and the women wanted to stay with their husbands. Such was a woman’s duty in those days. They knew they would likely die or maybe they were still in denial about the danger they were in. It’s not fully clear.

Still, sexism at its finest.

Of the children on board, only every second class child escaped the ship. Only one first class child died - a two year old whose parents lost track of her baby brother and refused to be separated until he was found. The girl’s baby brother had already been placed in a lifeboat by the boy’s nurse. The family never knew he had already escaped. 52 children (a little over half) from third class died. More first class men survived than third class children.

The Titanic did not have enough lifeboats for every passenger on the ship, but it had enough for regulations. Those regulations had never imagined a ship Titanic’s size, so had never been updated. It was also assumed that ships in the area (because there were so many in the Atlantic at that time) would get to a wreck site in time for people to be picked up from the first round of lifeboats, then go back to the sinking ship, and pick up more distressed passengers.

On the night Titanic sank, the California was the closest ship. However, after a nasty interaction it’s Titanic’s wire operator, the California’s operator signed off and went to bed. There wasn’t another operator on the ship to take his place. The Titanic set off multiple rockets which the California saw. However, again, it was assumed that such a large ship was unsinkable and that the rockets were some kind of weird celebration in the middle of the night. 

Should the California have checked out what was going on?

The California was significantly smaller than the Titanic. I think that even if they had responded and tried to help, it wouldn’t have made huge difference. People would have still ended up in the water and quickly died of hypothermia. However, the losses wouldn’t have been as terrible. We’ll never know though.

So, the partially filled lifeboats had nowhere to drop off the first round of evacuees. Why didn’t they go back to the pull people out of the water?

To be blunt, the people in the water would have likely swarmed the lifeboats and caused capsizing. More people would have likely died.

Thus, the survivors in the lifeboats got front row tickets to the horror of listening to people die. They heard the screams and they could do nothing to help without risking more people dying. Eventually, a boat was able to go back and a few people were pulled from the water. It was too little too late for the majority.

At the end of A Night to Remember, the following text is shown: “despite the tragedy, the sacrifice of those lost on the Titanic was not in vain, as new maritime safety measures like sufficient lifeboats, constant radio monitoring, and the International Ice Patrol were implemented to prevent similar disasters in the future.”

But why weren’t these things implemented before the tragedy. Why did it take the deaths of over 1,500 people - over two thirds of the passengers on the Titanic - for these changes to be made? Why did the Titanic crew ignore the ice warnings? They did the radio and wire operators prioritize sending passenger messages over ensuring they could still communicate with the ship closest to them?

Tragedy begets change. Disaster begets action.

We aren’t at the part of the Titanic sinking where the orchestra plays “Nearer My God to Thee”. We are at the part where the lifeboats are just starting to be filled. The first class is boarding first, but not all of them know or even think the ship is sinking yet. 

The next little while is going to be painful and chaotic. The people who are going to be the most impacted will not be offered seats on those lifeboats.

Walter Lord provides a hard critique on Edwardian culture and class. He points out the classism and the final dregs of Gilded Age hyper capitalism that caused the disaster. He calls out the hubris of man over nature.

I wonder what history will say about this era of American history.

Until next week.

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Welcome to the Overwhelming Desire to Run to the Wilderness

 Has anyone else felt like these last few weeks have felt more like years?

Well at least the Eagles made it to the Superbowl. I grew up rooting for the Eagles. Dad had a love/hate relationship with McNabb back in the 2000s until he was traded to DC. Sadly, he's not here to watch the game with me, but I do like to think that he's providing a little "divine intervention" for this game.

That being said, seeing the Eagles at the Superbowl is probably the only thing he'd be excited about. 

My dad was a civil servant and even worked on The Hill (that's Congress for people outside of the Washington DC area) for a long time before moving into Non-Governmental Organizational work. If he hated the administration between 2016-2020, he'd be absolutely livid over this one.

I'm personally very frustrated. My own work is taking things one day at a time, even though we aren't a government agent. My personal life isn't all sunshine and roses - mainly because my cat was diagnosed with kidney disease last fall. We had to make an emergency trip to the vet this morning. I miss my dad.

If I didn't know that I would not do well, I'd run off and become a mysteriously cranky old hermit in the wilderness.

But I've read Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild. I know that the reality of living off the grid is far from the fictional romanizations that I've read in books and seen in movies.

You might recall that last year, I was on a Mount Everest kick. Specifically, I was hyper focused on the 1996 tragedy. I watched a ton of YouTube videos and read three books on the events that led to a group of climbers dying after reaching the top of the mountain. One of those books was Krakauer's Into Thin Air. It's his version of the disaster. He had been on one of the two expeditions that chose to climb. He'd been hired to write an article about the changing industry around tour groups climbing Everest. It was only a coincidence that disaster struck.

Prior to publishing Into Thin Air, Krakauer had famously written an article for "Outside" magazine and then the full length novel Into the Wild on one young man's ambition to leave civilization and live in the wilderness. 

On paper, I have a few similarities to Chris McCandless - the man who would become the focal point of Into the Wild. We both grew up in the Virginia suburbs right outside of Washington DC. Our dad's worked for the government. We both had/have a passion for the great outdoors. I honestly saw a bit of myself in McCandless. 

Except, I didn't leave after college to become a wanderer of the United States. I never loss touch with my parents or my sibling and I never spent much time off the East Coast.

But I wanted to. 

There was a time where I wasn't sure what I was going to do after college. Sure I was getting a good degree from a really good school, but I didn't have much in the way of grades and I was honestly a bit burnt out from academia.

Directionless, I applied to job about job after job until I managed to find one in a category I'd thought I'd like: market research. It would take almost another decade before I changed careers completely and started to find a passion. 

However, there was a part of me that just wanted to take off and see where I ended up. 

Unfortunately, I need a bit more stability than the wandering lifestyle allows. I like plans and routines. I budget and stick to it (when my life isn't out of balance). I research and crowd source (almost to my own determent) before making a decision. I don't like uncertainty.

McCandless knew what he wanted to do and he didn't mind not knowing what the future held. He enjoyed moving from one place to the next. He did do research (at least he bought books to use as references) and the chances he took were calculated. 

His downfall came from underestimating how river flows can change and bad information (though no one would know that until over a decade after he passed away). 

McCandless did well wandering up and down the West Coast. Some of Krakauer's research includes notes on his experiences in the Pacific Northwest that reminded me of my time spent on a road trip with my cousins, camping deep in Mt. Olympic National Forest. I could also easily picture his time in the Southwest after spending time in Arizona with my aunts - hiking Tucson, exploring Flagstaff, and seeing the Grand Canyon. 

His trip to Mexico in a canoe was my favorite part of the book. I've never tried to sneak into another country before (and I don't plan on doing so), but McCandless made it sound both dangerous and exciting. His tenacity in trying to canoe to the Pacific Ocean from the Colorado river basin was amazing.

I don't recommend anyone trying to recreate it in 2025.

It's no wonder McCandless though he could also conquer Alaska. He'd done well in the lower 48 and managed to travel a little around Mexico under the radar (again, I don't condone this action). He managed to hitchhike his way from the Dakotas to Alaska. It's unclear how he got into Canada without a passport or ID - he'd given himself a new name and there wasn't anyway for his parents to track him (they'd hired a private investigator). All of this in about two years.

Alaska should never be underestimated. The closest I have ever spent time somewhere like Alaska would be my trip to Iceland and I never left Reykjavík. I can't imagine trying to live out in the wilds of Iceland - they don't even have large animals that could kill you.

Around this point, Krakauer pauses his retelling of McCandless's adventures and recounts one of his own that nearly ended in disaster. In his early 20s, Krakauer attempted to climb one of the more famous mountains in Alaska solo. He wanted to try a more difficult route and planned to be away from civilization for a few weeks. Krakauer nearly died in his attempt (falling and bad weather), but he made it back to the small isolated town in the shadow of the mountain before he ran out of supplies. During much of his expedition, Krakauer could see the lights of the town, but they couldn't see him. Rescue would have been unthinkable. 

Similar circumstances surround McCandless's misadventure. He actually wasn't that far from civilization. The only reason not many people were around was because at that time of year, the melted glaciers cause the rivers to swell to the point where they are very difficult to cross. If he had opted to take a map - instead of explore at his leisure - he might have been able to find a safe crossing point. 

McCandless did actually try to leave his camp. He got a point in early summer where he felt he had accomplished his mission and wanted to return home - where ever he might have defined that. Except the river had swelled. There weren't any flight paths where he was, so no planes or helicopters overhead. He could have set a noticeable bushfire, but (as his family noted) he would have never wanted to light up the beautiful wilderness, even to save himself.

What likely happened to McCandless was that he started eating a plant (wild potatoes) that he thought was safe, but may have been moldy. The mold would have caused him to slowly become paralyzed and unable to digest any food properly. This is what led him to starve to death in an old bus that was used as a camp shelter.

McCandless died a few weeks before help would arrive. He was found in the bus he'd used as a shelter wrapped in his sleeping bag. The bus had been a shelter for hunters and overnight hikers. It remained in it's original location until 2020. Too many people were taking too many unnecessarily risks to get to it.

McCandless was a smart, kind, and unique person that seemed to be able to make friends where ever he went. He probably could have survived in Alaska and made it home with a little more preparation and humility when speaking with the locals. Who knows what he might have accomplished. 

Roughly two decades separates me and McCandless in age. While he was wandering around the lower 48, I was learning to walk and talk not too far from where he grew up. But his yearning to leave civilization and dive headfirst into the wild is a familiar one.

I feel bad for McCandless's family and a sense of loss of what might have become of his life. Krakauer includes other stories of people who left civilization to wander into the wilderness, but were never heard from again. It's likely that McCandless would have remained an unknown if his tragic death hadn't drawn so much media attention.

It's tempting to want to run away into the wild to get away from the overwhelming oppression that is our current state of affairs. It doesn't solve anything though. And it's still being romanticized. During the pandemic, cottage core (where people dressed up and pretended to live in a small cottage) and homesteading were popular escapes. There are YouTubers showing how they were able to make it living off the grid in tiny houses with vegetable patches and chickens. There are plenty of pictures on social media of women in cotton dresses happily tending to their flower patches and young men living out of their vans with a dog.

I think everyone has a small itch to escape the modernity of our modern society, especially when it feels so chaotic. But I have responsibilities and other interests to keep me occupied. As overwhelming as it all is, I know I'm needed where I currently am.

And lets be real, I would totally die trying to pet something that I shouldn't try to pet.

Until next week. 

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off) please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope y'all like hearing from me.