Hat Trick

64/365

I'm late posting this one—too busy writing for money.

I had my own personal hat trick yesterday. Three high school hockey games covered in 8 hours. A game in Lewiston at 2 p.m. (Story No. 1) and games in Portland at 5 p.m. (Story No. 2) and 8 p.m. (Story No. 3). It was the playoffs, which added some excitement, but no real games to write home about. The 5 p.m. game was my fourth playoff game of the season, and after it ended, teams I had been covering had been outscored by a combined 20-1. Fortunately, the 8 p.m. game featured two teams in my coverage area and a bit closer a contest.

I thoroughly enjoy high school hockey. I get to know a few teams each season and there is something about watching, up close, the dynamics of a team sport that intrigues me. I was a runner in high school. Sure, there is a team aspect—we even won a state title—but the success of one athlete never truly depends on his or her teammates, with relays being the one exception.

Team sports take a trust I was never able to find. As a runner, no one else can let you down. The problem is, you're always running.

Stars WIthout Stripes

63/365

Tattered threads where its stripes once connected, blown out straight in the wind, pulling strong on the ropes laced through the eyelets that keep it tied to its poll. The flag flew strong, still proud, out tight, snapping with the wind.

Forget any political statements, "USA, USA," and all that—stuff.

Worn out and broken down—scars show where you've been. Be proud of what's been overcome.  Pull tight at those cords, but stay connected. Stare down the clouds. Find the blue sky beyond.

I like what this little fraction of a flag represents without any Old Glory symbolism. It's been out in the weather, its stripes literally blown off, but there it was, the square that remained flying better than ever. 

I didn't even see the flag at first. A sewer, a manhole, right on the edge of Casco Bay(photo) is what I had walked down to photograph. I had been waiting for a day with post-work sunshine to go take a picture. I had noticed the scene driving by a few days before. I walked down into the mud, sea grass and snow and moved around for a few different angles of the rusty circle of steel. I saw the flag, on a tall pole at the end of a dock, but thought nothing of it. It looked checkered, or like a small nautical flag. 

I took a few more shots, the ice and snow running out into the low-tide mudflats (photo) and walked down towards the dock. Then I noticed something was missing from the flag. Definitely my photo of the day. 

The White Elephant

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The White Elephant, he sits by the  covered in-ground pool in a middle-class neighborhood, covered in snow, cracked. His white paint peeling off to reveal elephant gray.

I knew there was a significance to white elephants, but I didn't know exactly what. Que Google and Wikipedia. They're a symbol of a possession you can't get rid of, but the cost to keep it outweighs its value. But you probably knew that already. It is often used to describe fruitlessly expensive government projects that end up being pointless, like a billion dollar submarine project that is never used, or a highway to nowhere.

The term comes from Southeast Asian tradition where a White Elephant (a real one) is a sign that a monarch was just and his kingdom was peaceful and prosperous. It is said that before the birth of the Buddha, his mother dreamt of receiving lotus flowers, a symbol of wisdom and purity, from a white elephant. White Elephants were an honor to receive as a gift, but had costly upkeep and could not be to much practical use because of their sacred and protected status.

So in Eastern tradition, a white elephant is a priceless symbol and a honor to receive, albeit expensive to feed. A symbol for honorable rule and a peaceful, prosperous land. Western tradition uses a white elephant as a symbol for fruitless government projects that costs a ton and don't result in enough military kills to justify their costs.

Something was missed in translation, but in a way, it seems appropriate. Value isn't always about dollars.

IRS

61/365

I hadn't been home in a few days and almost got stuck in the combination of icebergs and slush pulling into my driveway yesterday afternoon. Thankfully, my neighbors had at least shoveled out my mailbox so I had still been getting my mail....

A letter from the IRS? It's close to tax time. That seems reasonable. It's pretty thick though— a bill for $38, 255. I don't think I can put into words the number of double, triple and quadruple takes I did. 

Come to find out, I forgot to report the $84,000 a local newspaper had paid me for freelance reporting. That makes sense. That would mean I wrote 2,100 stories, or just under six stories a day for the entire year, at my current rate of $40 per story. Either that or someone at the Revenue Service forgot to key in a decimal point on the $840.00 I actually made. 

Fast forward to this morning. The propane heater in my apartment wont turn on. The electronic lighter doesn't want to lighter. Eventually, I go downstairs to turn up the heat in the main house (Pete's area). It's set on 54 since he is in California, but I figure bumping it up a few degrees will get a little more heat into my place. 

Good thing I checked. His place was 40 degrees. Out of oil. 

Now what am I going to burn for heat?

Note: Yes Mom, I am taking care of the IRS bill. I didn't burn all of it...

Tied Up...

60/365

So the day is almost done and am just getting my daily blog posted. Whoops.

I covered a pair of lopsided hockey games last night, worked all day today and came home and wrote the stories tonight. You could say I was a bit tied up...

See that? I just tied it all into the picture. Tied? Get it? A picture of bridals, halters, hackamores and lead ropes. Oh, any by the way, I don't know what half of those things are.