She does not take her Mason jar to kiosks

Right after I finished processing the final photo for Uiñiq and making it into CMYK, Lisa showed up. So we went and got coffee - I in my mug, she in this regular cup, because kiosks don't like to fill Mason jars, she says, and her normal cup is a Mason jar. Metro Cafe is closed on Sundays, so on Sundays I have been going to The Awakening, a new place in an old caboose-shaped kiosk kitty-corner across the street from the post office.

Only two bullet dings– no holes at all

If you look closely, you will see two – just two - bullet dings in this sign. Not so long ago, there was a much larger sign on the posts above it, completely riddled with bullet holes and dings. Small caliber ones, large caliber. It's on my blog somewhere. I wonder if the borough is attempting to completely redo and repair or I should say, replace, these signs? If they do, it won't be that long until they are completely shot up again. This is Wasilla, after all. I am at the bridge right now, having ridden my bicycle down here. Taking a long morning bike ride worked out so good for me yesterday, increased my productivity by so much, that I thought I would try it again – but not quite as long a ride today.

Lynxton and the lens mug

To my not terribly great surprise, Lynxton and the other boys showed up tonight. Their parents took them to Hatcher Pass, but it got rainy, windy and cold up there so they came down here. They didn't stay long but Lynxston did get hold of my lens mug and he knew right away what to do with it. I'm afraid I had better keep him away from my real 70 to 200. It is now 1:13 AM and I have had a great day – a very productive day. More productive than any other day this week. I think it was that morning bike ride and my little stop at the grotto.

I pedal to Grotto Iona – the place of prayer

I am in the Grotto, built by the late Paul Mahoney as a place to honor and pray for his deceased wife Iona, buried far away. This is the grave of his granddaughter, Rebekah Louise, whose ashes were buried here by her dad Tim Mahoney on Father's Day, June 15, 2012, in a memorial ceremony I was privileged to witness and document. Shortly after I ate breakfast this morning, I climbed onto my bicycle and pedaled down here, the first leg of what by the time I return home will be close to a 15 mile ride. Usually in summer, I take a morning walk and then try to work in a bike ride in the early night. Afterward, I attempt to settle down to get at least two or three hours work in before I go to bed - usually about 1:00 AM, sometimes 2:00, sometimes midnight, sometimes not till three or four in the morning, if even by then. But tonight, I can't afford to break away from my work. I just have to sit at my computer with Jim and stick to it. This will take the weekend and Monday too. I love the work I do, but sometimes I feel crushed by it; crushed also by the relentless torments and sorrows of life. Paul also built this Grotto as a place of prayer where anyone who feels like it can stop and lay his burden down. I am not a religious man. I do not know what waits beyond his grave, but I think I will post this and then turn off my phone, sit quietly in the peace of this grotto for a few minutes, let my mind retreat as deep into itself as it can go and then I will pedal home and do what I must do. And I will enjoy it.

Lynxton at the top of the hill just before going home

Part two of two: In the two weeks since I started using iPhone-Instagram as a tool for blogging, my three grandsons have been my Number One stars. Now the grandpa Instagram/blog is over for a while. I pushed Lynxton in his stroller to the top of the Ward Street hill and got some good exercise doing it. I came home drenched in sweat, wishing I had been using the stroller the whole time he had been here. Then his grandmother took him to Anchorage and came back home alone. So there are no more grandsons here for me to photograph and to write exceptionally brief stories about and there might not be for a while, because very early Tuesday morning I leave for the village of Nuiqsut on the bank of the Kuukpik River, not far from where it empties into the Beaufort Sea of the Arctic Ocean. In the meantime, even if their parents should surprise me and bring one or more of my grandsons out sometime this weekend, I've got so much to do I won't be able to pay much attention to them. So, this picture of Lynxton at the top of the hill is it for the grandpa blog for a while.