(This spellbinding account was sent out previously to some via email, but I feel it is worthy of a wider audience, especially at this time of uncertainty and distress in the world, when the overwhelming impulse for most of us is to hunker down in place or to venture out under only the most controlled and limited circumstances. If one is halfway careful and living in a safe and secure environment, the threat of an armed madman, or worse an entire army bent on destruction, can blessedly be avoided by most of us. This is something for which we should all be thankful. The fact is, living is a dangerous business where there is danger in crossing the street or stepping out of the bathtub, and we all try to live our lives with enough care and attention to avoid mishap and with a bit of luck we get by successfully, and congrats to you if such is the case. That said, we are about to venture forth on our own Polar journey, a nature-adventure to northern Finland and Arctic Norway, one forestalled for two years by the virus-that-shall-not-be-named. When the rescheduling of this trip was announced, we jumped at the chance to “get on” with our lives, virus be damned, but as we all know, that wily bit of RNA or DNA or whatever it is remains very much with us, and as we get ready to leave, it appears that if one chooses, one can continue to be stressed out by biology and biology will feed whatever fears to which one chooses to yield, including the very real possibility that biology could complicate our plans; so be it. One might also worry about Finland’s 800-mile border with Russia which might lead one to reflect on the slippery slope of runaway fears which is mighty slippery indeed. Of course the bigger picture is that biology kills you in the end anyway, so get over it . I would be lying to claim that there have been no thoughts about canceling plans – shouldn’t a trip be totally “carefree”? But in one way or another life always involves risk, and the original appeal of traveling to a special and exotic place to celebrate the glories of the natural world, not to mention an exotic culture and place totally new to us, has outweighed our fears. The fact is most fears are imagined and nothing more, and if you’re going to live your life, one can choose to test them out or yield and never know what you might’ve missed, for better or worse. Perhaps Mark Twain said it best: “I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened”. So much to worry about, so little time! It sounds a bit trite but life is, in the end, an adventure. Godzillito, in his passionate report here, says this better than my humble efforts ever could, so I urge you to read on!)
It is with the greatest humility and obsequiousness, piety and apology (if it is warranted), devotion and whatever else has been left out here, that I submit this report to the powers-that-be and any other interested party which might include yourself, but only if you’ve the time to kill: it was early March and Lord Gumby was restless, as can happen with anyone driven by a spirit of adventure and a constant need for stimulation – rumination and simply being with his thoughts are not his thing. He’d only been a member of the nobility since his self-appointment a few weeks before (none of us had had any idea one could just DO that, but Gumby – Lord Gumby – tends to have his own way with things, one reason we love him but are also wary in his presence, no fools are we).
Our King (he’d also appointed himself to that high post) is devoted to This Day In History, a daily news post, and it was on March 7 that he strode into our living quarters (basically a window shelf) to boldly report the 109th anniversary of Amundsen’s proclamation to the world of his reaching the South Pole three months before, in December of 1911. We all read the newspapers and knew this already, but for his Highness (I hope he tires of all this prideful nonsense soon) it was a call to action: “It’s way past time for our Polar Adventure!” which was truly a fact, for outside in the yard of 39 Iffley Road lay what might be the last of any snow or “polar wastes” as the King chose to describe it, for March in Boston is a time when winter is on the way out (or so everybody around here hopes). The forecast was calling for a big warmup by the end of the week so we had to act fast.
So it was with high spirits and anticipation for the Unknown (the yard is fraught with Unknowns, as those who’ve read previous reports well know) that Pokey and myself stuffed ourselves into our gorgeous Citroen TA along with The Big Kahuna Also Known as The Dude (this was getting out of hand and hereafter he shall simply be called “Gumby” I don’t care if he reads this) and set off. Front-wheel drive was revolutionary in the 30s when the “traction avant” was introduced, and it still works fine in snow, at least when you’re not going that far as the yard is pretty small. What Unknowns were waiting to meet us? The compact cabin of the tiny French die-cast model was abuzz with our excitement.
It didn’t take long until there it was: a wooden reindeer with a bell around its neck, and a “tiny” one, at that, like it came straight out of the famous poem! Gumby presented his classic “Hi!”, Pokey his subtle and inscrutable smile, and I jumped to my expected place on the ungulate’s back (ungulates tend to be docile and never mind such boldness, at least so far), which was clearly some type of pine or other softwood. We all remarked about the creature’s curvaceous beauty and what school of aesthetic it represented, but fell into bickering about this, as we are all huge art history buffs. It refused to ring its bell when we requested this, saying something about how doing this so close to the Ides of March is asking for trouble. This exacerbated our already agitated state, and we wisely chose to “walk away”, which is what therapists always recommend as effective anger management. It works for us.
No such issues arose with the next spectacular Unknown, as the aggressive-looking biker in full tuck (no bell), clearly a sprinter, beheld a powerful Art Deco aspect, curvy and sinewy and the essence of “speed”, a truly peculiar and ironic figure trying to gain traction in the snowy yard, the unlikeliest of race venues. It was utterly thrilling to set myself aback this symbol of total movement, such a far cry from what “movement” means to a tiny rubber reptile like myself. I had brief thoughts about obtaining my own two-wheeler, but with four rather short limbs this seems unworkable. I attempted idle conversation with the rider, using my limited knowledge of bicycle track racing, asking about whether they specialized in the sprint but also participated in other events, such as pursuit and the time trial and team events, but was met with silence. Perhaps I was interfering with their clearly intense focus, which the sprint demands (even though in reality they weren’t moving, at all).
Our next encounter was a much more familiar experience, a fellow reptile, in fact, though one supposedly long extinct and certainly not associated with snowy polar regions. Of course, it is possible that a million years ago Iffley Road lay in a jungle region, and that this Stegosaurus was right at home; how the creature turned up on this day in this place (had it been waiting all that time for us to show up?) shall remain a mystery. Gumby floated the idea of bringing it back with us (he’s always trying to drag stuff from these adventures into the house, which is a small apartment quite full of “stuff” already), but the ancient one would have none of this, thank goodness, and we moved on.
What next? Something much less unexpected, is what, for what makes more sense than finding in the snow, or “Polar wastes” as Gumby kept insisting, than a penguin? And a smiling, cartoony one at that, which fits right in with our hardy band’s essential aspect.
Gumby, in fact, presented a strong appeal to the spheniscidae to join us for further adventures, which may yet happen, though the deal has broken down at the contract level, no surprise as Gumby talks a good line but comes on a bit strong, which tends to raise suspicions for good reason. It remains possible that Pat (their name, or so they said) may join us in the future as a freelancer, which would be exciting, or at least add a new wrinkle to these stories, something they may sorely need. I must say that being atop Pat was a totally pleasant experience, as penguins are slow mellow creatures as everybody knows, though it was also a bit slippery up there, like standing on a greased soccer ball; it turns out penguins are as slippery as they look.
