So on Friday, we watched the flyover of the B2 bombers that honored….well, we have the planes, why shouldn’t we get to see them once in a while?
To be honest, it looked like a hawk.
Well, that is a hawk. We went outside about 6:18 to watch for the 6:22 flyover, and a little before the plane appeared, this hawk dove at something in the front yard of Nogglestead. It must have not liked what it saw or missed, as it flew south of Nogglestead looking for something else.
As the hawks often hunt and circle in pairs, my beautiful wife thought the B2 was the second hawk when it appeared and told the boys, no, it was a hawk.
It was the plane, the plane:
It flew east to west and banked wide to the west and south; given how high it was, it might have gone over Mount Vernon and Marshfield or Aurora as it banked.
It then flew south to north on its way home to base, probably over Springfield, Bolivar, Clinton, and maybe Sedalia.
You know, some would say that it’s a twee bit of money wastery to have military planes fly over as a salute to, what, health care providers? First responders? Grocery store stockers who haven’t had a day off in months?
But there’s little uniting in this country even amid an overhyped national emergency (see how I said “overhyped”? Clearly I am on one side). One of the few things might be, for many people yet, the sight of our military materiel and the perhaps-dormant patriotism they stir.
The last couple of weeks, I’ve been getting a lot of traffic from Korea. The Good Korea:
I don’t know what to make of it; it looks like the IP address from Kakao is actually owned by Kakao and hasn’t been reassigned to something like Google with an old entry showing up in my stats.
I assume this means that I’ve suddenly been indexed by a South Korean search engine or that somehow elevated in its rankings.
But, of course, I don’t wonder if it’s not something more sinister like some kind of hacking attempt or probe.
Still, welcome to the blog, Mr., Mrs., and/or Miss Park.
Is that racist, to use a popular Korean surname, one held by 8.4% of the population, in that statement? No more than saying “Keeping up with the Joneses” is somehow classist, denigrating social climbers who don’t know their place in society (or yours, peasant, so don’t try to spend your way to success and fulfillment). However, I am pretty sure saying Park is a common Korean last name is racist if you want to call someone who uses it racist.
The blog received a visitor from someone in Katy, Texas, the other day:
Which led me to a little reminiscience. The spellchecker assures me reminiscience is not how you spell it, but I feel the narcissistic review of one’s life in “What If?” models is at least as scientifically valid as most social “sciences” taught in the universities and, seemingly, more scientifically valid than a lot of computer models designed to guide public policy and citizen compulsion.
At any rate, back in the early 1980s, my sainted mother was newly separated and soon-to-be newly divorced and was seemingly in retrospect eager to vacate Milwaukee. She had numerous friends there, mostly neighbors or friends of my father’s or ex-wives of my father’s friends that my mother got custody of in the divorce. But her family was mainly in the St. Louis area, where we eventually ended up (eventually being a couple summers after the separation). But my mother briefly, it seemed, considered moving to Katy, Texas, where her youngest sister lived with her then-husband as his work took him there.
As my third grade year ended, I had just finished up my beginning music class learning the saxette (a little whistle later replaced by the new-fangled technology or better marketing program of the recorder which replaced it as the beginning musical instrument). I wanted to sign up for the public-school-offered piano class in fourth grade, but my mother wouldn’t let me sign up for one of the limited spots because she thought we wouldn’t be there for the beginning of the year–we would be in Texas, right down the road from Mickey Gilley’s place (research indicates that “right down the road” means on the other side of Houston in Pasadena but not any more–Gilley moved to Branson at some point, so by my mother’s logic, I live just down the road from it now).
However, that did not actually come to pass. We did another two years at Carleton before moving to St. Charles.
Still, the visit from Katy brought fourth some speculation (a couple minutes’ worth, anyway). How would I be different today had I started the fourth grade outside of Houston, Texas, and graduated from high school down there? Would I have developed an affection for my adopted home state which I really haven’t for Missouri? My aunt shortly decamped for Missouri after a couple of years in Katy; would we also have moved back, or would my mother have gotten a job that compelled her to stay in Houston? Would I have a Texas accent and wear a cowboy hat instead of a fedora? Would I have read Westerns instead of mysteries? Would I actually like bro country in the 21st century?
It’s fun to briefly speculate. Except for the last bit, which is horrifying.
Still, what might have been? This seems appropriate:
Sweet Christmas, that song itself came out, what, ten years after the events I’m talking about, which is to say twenty-five years ago.
I asked my aunt about this to verify whether she was indeed in Katy, or if it was Tyler, Texas–about that time, a Texan girl came to Carleton and said she was the great(x)-granddaughter of John Tyler, so perhaps I was conflating the memories. I say great(x) because in the almost forty years since, I don’t recall how many greats were lined up. Four? Five? At any rate, over almost forty years, I am not sure how many of these memories of mine to trust, and I told my aunt that there aren’t many people left you could set me straight.
My aunt set me straight: she was surprised to hear that my mother considered moving to Texas to be near her. She thought we were already in the St. Louis area when she moved to Texas. In my mind, though, it was more serious than that, but perhaps it was from a child’s perspective, as I at the time wondered how desert-like that part of Texas was, and I worried about facing Gila monsters in the yard. So whatever my mother might have said, even in passing, I took it seriously in my even-then neurotic way, enumerating an unlikely bundle of worries. And a likely one: saying goodbye to friends.
Well, maybe we were in St. Louis before my aunt moved to Texas; perhaps my sainted mother talked about it when living in my other aunt’s basement and when she was separating onion rings on an assembly line aside immigrants and was considering anything an improvement. Maybe I’m mixing the timeline up because we moved several times in those years, from Milwaukee to the basement a modest house in a well-to-do suburb to the trailer park to the gravel road. Perhaps my mother only dreamed of this in Wisconsin, perhaps she talked about it with her mother or my aunts in St. Louis, all of whom have passed away. Who knows? I’ve reached out to my brother to see if he remembers any of it or if I am just making up fancies in my mind about my youth.
Next up: I shall speculate what would have become of my had I learned to play piano in the fourth grade. Certainly, it would have prevented me from the current mental and neurotic roadblocks I have to learning a musical instrument in my forties (the guitar experiment ended shortly after this rather sanguine update a year and a half ago). Would I have been in band? My beautiful wife ensures me that is an unalloyed good in high school and hopes our oldest does it should he go to public school next year, even though he’s not that enthusiastic about it. My youngest, though, started piano lessons in third grade and really swings on the trumpet already. Would I have been like that?
I look forward to the full resumption of normal activities so I can fill my days with normal busyness and not this nonsense.
I don’t normally buy the smaller bottles of HE Tide at the Sam’s Club, but our normal larger bottles of Tide were out of stock, and in the current unpleasantness, one must hoard what is available, not what one wants.
But wait a minute: This Tide leaves clothes smelling like Clean Linen:
By implication and inference, then, should we assume that all other Tides leave clothes smelling dirty?
Well, no. As you might know, gentle reader, Clean Linen with capital letters is a patented scent and is like Grape Soda. It’s not exactly what clean linen dried on a clothesline smells like, but it’s an attempt to artificially replicate it, and it’s consistent across all olfactory delivery platforms (like plug-in scented oils, which I guess are really Glade® PlugIns® Scented Oils from my experience testing S.C. Johnson online programs) and various sprays.
We will keep this between us, gentle reader, as my beautiful wife does not like this Patented Scent (as we’ve learned from other platforms), and I didn’t see it when I bought the soap. Hopefully she won’t notice that she cannot stand the smell of her clothes. Although if this causes her to take her clothes off, well, I’ll count that as a win.
This was about 1.3 miles as the Freightliner flies from my house in Old Trees. However, it sounds like it was on the Interstate itself, so it’s not like I could say that I pushed my baby past that very spot, although we did go through the very ornate underpass many times thirteen years ago.
At a mile away right beside the highway, we wouldn’t even have heard it if we were on the front porch swing. Which we had, by the way, and we used it despite the highway.
So I’ve had a FitBit for a couple years, and I was dismayed when Google bought it last year.
The time has come for Google to upgrade its product, which is apparently me.
Previously, the FitBit would track my routes on bike rides and runs when I set it to track my location only when using the FitBit to, you know, track my route.
However, a new update has changed that as well as bollixing the historical data (the route on the run above is actually two miles running out of Sequiota Park).
Now, I can only track my route if I authorize Google to track my movement every minute of the day:
If I run around the perimeter of Nogglestead, which is a third of a mile with at least intermittent connection to my wireless network, I get information about the run including heart rates and pace as well as a handy map that shows me exactly what part of my yard’s perimeter is in wireless range:
If I have not opted to share my location at all times with Google, I get stuff calculated from the stride length and not much more:
No map, no heart rate graph, no pace information.
This could be a bug of some sort.
But I think it’s more likely a reason to get an Apple Watch or a Garmin. Or go back to wearing my old Timex.
Unfortunately, this looks to be the limit on the elk hunting licenses that Missouri will give out this year with a side story that the Department of Conservation has found evidence of a mountain lion taking an elk without a license at all.
But I would watch five men with a gun stalking an elk whilst a mountain lion stalks all of them.
Well, no, because that might be gory and bad for one or more of the men involved.
Friends, last week I place my last order from ABC Books as part of the current unpleasantness. I trolled through the religion and pets sections with the pretext of ordering some books for a friend in Wisconsin who has lately not had satisfactory, that is, any, answer when I ask him what he’s reading.
It did not arrive here until this morning, but yesterday marked the easing of restrictions in Missouri and particularly Springfield and Greene County, so I went to ABC Books. With the pretext of picking up gift cards for teacher appreciation week, but also to pick up a couple books by an author I read about in an ancient (2016) Garden & Gun magazine.
I only got seven books for myself:
They include:
Lay Down My Sword, Cimarron Rose, and Jolie Blon’s Bounce by James Lee Burke, the author I read about in Garden and Gun magazine. I’d looked for the first in his acclaimed Dave Robicheaux series, Neon Rain, but ABC Books didn’t have it. I took their complete inventory, though, including two first editions. Unfortunately, they’re from three different series. At least I will get a broad sampling of the author’s work. Eventually.
History of the North American YMCA by Richard C. Morse. The history through 1922, anyway, which is a lot less history than it has now. Fun fact: I was once asked if I wanted to be on the board of the local Y because apparently I travel in the circles of people who do that sort of thing these days. But I would need two things at the very least before I agreed: 1) to read up on the history of the organization, and 2) to volunteer at the local Y for a period of time to get the inside view. I’ll be able to do one soon, and after I complete the second part, I’ll learn that the current board member was talking to my beautiful wife at the time.
Eat the Cookie, Buy the Shoes by Joyce Meyer. Another book by a popular evangelist. Ms. Meyer is based in the St. Louis area, and apparently her sprawling organization hires a lot of technical people, but I never worked there.
Bad Dog! A Memoir of Love, Beauty, and Dark Places by Lin Jensen. I got cat books for my friend, but this dog book for myself. It helps that I have been catching up on my ancient Garden & Gun magazines which features a column about a Good Dog by varied authors every month. I’m primed.
The Interpreter’s One-Volume Commentary on the Bible edited by Charles M. Laymon (rimshot!), a 1300+ page bonzer that does not include the text of the Bible, but instead offers commentary on the books and verses of the Bible as well as some Apocrypha. Includes a large number of essays on the history of the Bible as well as the region and the early church. Looks like a good thing to read alongside a reading of the Bible, kind of like I did with Asimov’s Guide to the Bible back in 2015. Has it been that long? What can I say? The history of Judea after Solomon bogs me down every time.
That should be the extent of my book buying for the spring and maybe summer aside from a garage sale here or there. But if my friend doesn’t like the surprise books arriving on his doorstep, I’ll ask him to send them my way.
But there’s not going to be a Friends of the Library book sale, either in Christian County or in Springfield, until the fall. So I should be safe from myself unless I run into a really good church garage sale someday, when such things are allowed again.
I’m glad I saw this before going to the grocery store later. It will give me the opportunity to buy meat. Of course, I’ve been buying, cooking, and freezing extra meat during the current unpleasantness anyway. So if I buy four today, four tomorrow, and four the next day, I’ll make out all right.
Just kidding. I don’t tend to shop at Hy-Vee that often. So I’ll be able to clean out my local grocery for an extra day or two until they follow suit.
UPDATE 2: My local grocery has also implemented a limit of 5 meat items; however, that is the fresh meat section, where the meat is purportedly cut in the store. The processed lunch meat, sausage, and bacon section has no limit. So, yeah, I bought some extra.
When we’re playing one on one or me on two here, I don’t hold back–which unfortunately means I sometimes run over the younger of my boys yet.
But I know that one day soon they will eclipse me in athletic prowess permanently, so I have to pad my winning percentage whilst I can.
I mean, that very same youngest whom I sometimes run over in basketball runs away from me in 5Ks. He ran a 26 minute 5K when he was ten, for crying out loud, only four or five years after I last carried him over the finish line in one. They’ve already completed a modified virtual triathlon of a sprint distance (subbing in five minutes of cardio for a swim, followed by a 10 mile bike ride and then a 5K) last weekend.
So, yeah, no mercy. And hopefully they’ll show the same lack competitiveness with their old man once they’re beating me regularly, assuming that I don’t give up playing with them once they do.
Which I might soon. Because one does not make it into the Dad Hall of Fame with a losing record.
What if the world government overreaction to the current unpleasantness is designed not so much to flatten the current ICU-utilization curve but is instead designed to acclimate people to living in confined spaces and communicating on video screens because They know an asteroid is going to strike Earth in 2024, and They want people prepared to live life on the generation-ship Teslarks that will carry most of humanity to the stars before the asteroid strike?
You read too much science fiction, Brian J. you might say.
But I really don’t read all that much science fiction at all! But when I do, it’s from before the modern era, where the themes are more about current goodthink shibboleths rather than the fate of Humanity, which contains a lot of badthinkers.
You know, I actually saw this film once, probably on videocassette when it was fresh and Hugh Grant was a leading man and I was dating a girl who liked these sorts of films. And perhaps thought I was something like Hugh Grant. But all I remember, really, was whose funeral it was, and that Hugh Grant was wooing Andie MacDowell.
So I’m not really going to go into the plot much here but to contrast this screenplay with the plays I generally read. The screenwrighter says it took him a long time to write it, and I believe it, but contrasted with a play for stage, it’s just a bunch of scenes, camera directions, and very, very terse dialog. We get scenes with a single line or a single word (generally fuck) and then we’re elsewhere. It’s the nature of film making versus staging a play, and I get it. I had a screenwriting class, surely, and I’m pretty sure I read Mamet’s book. Somebody’s book.
But I tend to think in terms of drama, and Heaven knows I read more of it than screenplays. So I favor the other over this style, especially for reading. It works better for films qua films, I know.
At any rate, the book also contains some appendices that give some insight into professional screenwriting, including deleted scenes, marketing concepts and brainstorms, and the need to adjust the language to fit an American television cut.
So worth more for these insights rather than a good read. And it’s probably better as a film than a text to enjoy on its own.
I know, I know. Most of the time I do a “quiz” to humblebrag about how much great literature I read or how much of contemporary popular culture I do not consume.
However, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch has published a list of 36 restaurants that have closed, so I thought I’d list the ones I’ve been to. Before they closed. Which is unlike the Coral Courts Motel, which a woman took me to after it had closed.
At any rate, I’ve been to the ones in bold and think I might have been to the ones in italics:
Big Boy’s in Wright City
Arcelia’s in St. Louis
Beffa’s in St. Louis
Busch’s Grove in Ladue
Casa Gallardo chain
Copia in St. Louis (I worked downtown for a while, and I knew this was nearby, so I might have been)
Dandy Inn in Fairview Heights
The Diamonds Restaurant
Dohack’s in south St. Louis County, Festus
Dooley’s Ltd.
Duff’s in Central West End
Fatted Calf in Clayton
Fischer’s in Belleville
Flaming Pit
Floating McDonald’s
Forum Cafeteria, St. Louis
Garavelli’s in south St. Louis
Gian Peppe’s on The Hill
The Green Parrot Inn
Halls Ferry Inn in Florissant
Jacks or Better, multiple locations (it seems to me there was one on Lemay Ferry Road that I might have gone to with family before I actually lived in Lemay for a while)
Kemoll’s in downtown St. Louis
King Louie’s in St. Louis
Kopperman’s Deli
Lemmons in south St. Louis
Lettuce Leaf in Clayton
The Libertine in Clayton
Miss Hullings in St. Louis
Noah’s Ark in St. Charles (at the very least, I attended a Pachyderms meeting there one evening–which is itself an interesting story)
Ponticello’s in Spanish Lake
The Parkmoor in Clayton
Pelican’s in south St. Louis
Pope’s Cafeteria, multiple locations
Rossino’s in Central West End
Romine’s in St. Louis
Wainwrights in Belleville
You know, that’s not bad considering that some of them were not open for long, were not open when I was in that young adulthood where I went out to eat a lot, or were open outside the twentyish years I lived in the St. Louis area.
I never did make it to the floating McDonald’s, though; trips to downtown St. Louis were very rare when I was young.
A couple of ads have hit my feeds lately with books in the background:
Get out of the way; I don’t care what you’re selling. I want to see the books.
Do you remember when visiting someone’s home for the first time, going to the bookshelves to see what kinds of books they owned? Yeah, that’s been a while. Partly because of the stay-at-home orders, partly because I don’t get invited to many peoples’ homes these days, and partly because not many people read any more.
Still, if you come to Nogglestead and try to do that, you won’t really glean many insights into my personality based on what’s on my bookshelves or beside the various sitting surfaces other than Man, this guy buys books profligately and pretty indiscriminately.
As I predicted when I got this book, I jumped on it quickly as an interlude between books in the Agatha Christie omnibus I’m reading. Also, as predicted, it’s a school book order kind of book, geared to youths in the late 1970s and early 1980s in elementary school who wanted to read about monsters and science fiction. Nerds, we were called in those days. The text looks to have been original in 1980 with an update in 1986, so I would have been a couple years too old to have ordered it from Tab, Arrow, or Scholastic. Now, of course, I’m very old indeed.
At any rate, the book groups monsters, mostly from cinema, into different groups: Alien invaders, aliens in space, robots/androids, horror monsters, and invisible monsters. It then touches on some of them from movies, as I said, from the 1940s to Return of the Jedi (an update to the original 1980 text, natch). It’s kind of a high level enumeration rather than any in-depth exploration, but it’s a kid’s thing, for crying out loud.
And although it touches upon giant insect movies from the 1950s and a couple of giant octopus/dinosaur movies, it does not really go into the Godzillaverse at all, which is odd, since those films were in heavy rotation on Saturday afternoons in the 1970s. Maybe that was only Milwaukee. But no name-checks of Rodan, Gamera, Mothra, or Mechazilla. So a clear oversight.
And the best thing is the very last section:
What is the most frightening of all the monsters of science fiction? I suppose everybody has his or her own favorite. And I have mine. Like the other creatures discussed in this chapter, my favorite does not have a solid body. It appears only as a color.
The thing–it has no name-is in a story called The Colour Out Of Space. The story was written in 1927 by H.P. Lovecraft.
* * * *
The Colour Out Of Space is a truly frightening story. Someday you may wish to read it yourself. Let me give you one piece of advice. Don’t read it just before going to sleep.
A 2020 update of this book would probably mention that the film version of this story came out this year. And it might not mention the story at all or only in passing instead of the three page treatment it gets in the book–the longest non-movie or television treatment of text.
At any rate, I didn’t get much out of it except a reminder of some of the films I haven’t seen yet and probably won’t as they’re old and don’t appear on streaming services or in my local video store anymore. I did get an entry in my list of annual books read, though.
This book identifies and documents a number of lighthouses that are (or were) at risk of falling down and need preservation and restoration. The book looks at a variety of lighthouses in different regions, including the northeast, the south, and the Great Lakes (and on on Lake Tahoe, but it’s not really a lighthouse in the lighthouse sense of the word).
It gives, in dribs and drabs, some history of the Lighthouse Service, which handled lighthouses before the Coast Guard took them over, as well as information about some of the players responsible for designing multiple lighthouses and patenting lens systems. Also, some of the lighthouses were staffed and not automated until my life time.
Many were not considerered worth preservation immediately after they were decommissioned, and even now, some are nothing more than brick towers standing on some bit of private land. Although lighthouses in the popular imagination are picturesque, in many cases they were much more utilitarian structures, and one can understand why the government and locals might not have thought them worthy of preservation. Contrast them with something like water towers to get an adeqaute sense of the relationship.
Some of the relics are in parks or public locations where the locals have not allotted budget for restoration, and the book refers to a couple that are on private property (one is being restored for an AirBNB before that was a thing). Man, how cool would it be to have a lighthouse on your land? Of course, I think it would be cool because I would have the urge and perhaps someday the budget to restore it. Note that I had this exact same idea when I read A History of the Rural Schools in Greene County, Mo ten years ago.
I also got to thinking of a recent film set at a lighthouse with Williem Defoe, a Wisconsin native, and that guy from those vampire movies. I wracked my brain trying to remember the name of it, and that was especially hard because it was the obvious The Lighthouse. And now that I’ve read the plot summary, yep, that’s a movie I’m not going to watch just because I read a book about lighthouses.
At any rate, an interesting browse. Too wordy for a football game browse, but who knows when that will again be an issue.
The other day, I was flipping through a paperback collection of poems called Immortal Poems of the English Language, a gift from my high school National Honor Society Secret Pal (a year-long Secret Santa type deal) at the end of the 1989 school year, when I came across “To Lucasta, Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace:
Tell me not (Sweet) I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee (Dear) so much,
Lov’d I not Honour more.
I had forgotten I remember that poem.
I memorized it and performed it once or twice in my coffee house open mic days (whose memories I have shared). But I’d forgotten I’d memorized it. I mean, it’s not like the Edna St. Vincent Millay sonnet that I liked to open with at a new venue, and it’s not as noteworthy as memorizing “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” en toto. So I’d forgotten I know it.
But after we wrote the poem and after my youngest boy read it, I showed them how I could recite it from memory (mostly), and pointed out that when you really liked a poem, you could memorize it and recite it and thus make the poem yours. They did not seem excited at the prospect, although they acknowledged that they’ve memorized song lyrics. So they know what it means. Whether they will ever choose to memorize a poem of their own accord remains to be seen. But I’m hopeful.
Everyone is entitled to his own opinion, but not his own facts.
Thanks to the myriad studies, models, and tests conducted during this current unpleasantness (the COVID-19 pandemic, he says to himself reading this in 2030 when it might not be immediately in mind and assuming he survives the current unpleasantness), and how each is breathlessly reported by a 23-year-old journalist whose only brush with “science” was a freshman class in climate change, we can each have our own facts to clout people who wear masks/people who don’t wear masks/people with whom we disagree politically.
One of my pastors posted this on Facebook:
As governors are trying to figure out how to ease back in to a new normal, please remember:
🛑 Some people don’t agree with the state opening…. that’s okay. Be kind.
🏡 Some people are still planning to stay home…. that’s okay. Be kind.
🦠 Some are still scared of getting the virus and a second wave happening….that’s okay. Be kind.
💰 Some are sighing with relief to go back to work knowing they may not lose their business or their homes….that’s okay. Be kind.
👩🏾⚕️Some are thankful they can finally have a surgery they have put off….that’s okay. Be kind.
📝 Some will be able to attend interviews after weeks without a job….that’s okay. Be kind.
😷 Some will wear masks for weeks….that’s okay. Be kind.
💅🏻 Some people will rush out to get the hair or nails done…. that’s okay. Be kind.
❤️ The point is, everyone has different viewpoints/feelings and that’s okay. Be kind.
We each have a different story. If you need to stay home, stay home. But be kind .
If you need to go out, just respect others when in public and be kind!
Don’t judge fellow humans because you’re not in their story. We all are in different mental states than we were months ago. So remember, be kind.
COPY AND PASTED….
Please SHARE this reminder for kindness. ❤
I suspect that ship has already sailed and sunk just off the coast.
Regardless, I’m still going to smile and say “Good morning” or “Good afternoon” to people even if they’re dressed and are treating me like they’re Wuhanfa.
You know, I actually saw this film once, probably on videocassette when it was fresh and Hugh Grant was a leading man and I was dating a girl who liked these sorts of films. And perhaps thought I was something like Hugh Grant. But all I remember, really, was whose funeral it was, and that Hugh Grant was wooing Andie MacDowell.
As 
This book identifies and documents a number of lighthouses that are (or were) at risk of falling down and need preservation and restoration. The book looks at a variety of lighthouses in different regions, including the northeast, the south, and the Great Lakes (and on on Lake Tahoe, but it’s not really a lighthouse in the lighthouse sense of the word).