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 |   Tales from real life |
| Well, if they're not true, they oughta be! |
I love words. Anagrams, crosswords, Scrabble, anything to do with words makes me happy. It took decades for me to see myself as a writer, but I fell in love with reading at my first sight of 'see spot run'. Dick and Jane are no longer considered appropriate in modern-day woke America. They didn't even reflect my own life at the time on a small cattle ranch in rural Montana. But the subject matter wasn't really important. Those books opened my eyes to the idea that words and pictures could stand in for the real world. By the third grade, I was devouring the two-bookshelf 'library' at our tiny country schoolhouse. After gobbling up all of the Hardy boys, I continued with Nancy Drew. She might have been intended for girls, but at least it was something to read. That almost-library also introduced me to science fiction with Mr. Bass's Planetoid by Eleanor Cameron. I soon moved on to the 'big' library in town and Isaac Asimov's Lucky Starr series. It already seemed outdated by the time of Star Trek and the moon landings, but the wonderful idea of space travel stuck with me for the rest of my life. In sixth grade, I outgrew the children's section of the library in Ronan. I worked out a deal with the librarian to check out titles from the main collection with the condition that she could veto my selections if they were too 'adult'. Our family only went to town on Saturday, so I also had to talk her into allowing me five books at a time. The usual limit of three wouldn't last me a full week. Perhaps the best part of high school was access to yet another library. That's where I stumbled across The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien and added fantasy to my sci-fi addiction. The high school library didn't last me very long, however, and I soon began to explore the secondhand stores that stocked used paperbacks. That became a lifelong hobby that still continues at our local Half Price Books, and I always have boxes of unread books around. In my later years I've returned to the genre that I first encountered in third grade. But now I enjoy what I call the 'cultural mystery' genre. Stories set in other places and cultures that educate as well as entertain. One of my favorites is the Leaphorn and Chee series by Tony Hillerman that features Navajo policemen solving crime on the reservation. I also enjoy the Norwegian Harry Höle series by Jo Nesbo, the medieval era Brother Cadfael books by Edith Pargeter, and the Icelandic Detective Erlendur series by Arnaldur Indridason. Now the libraries are on-line, and the shelves are electronic. This has opened up far more selection than I can possibly wade through. Much of it is dross, of course, not even worth a paltry 99 cents. But every classic ever written is also available. Many of the great books are out of copyright and can be downloaded for free. I have literally hundreds of books loaded on my e-reader. The upside is that they don’t require physical shelf space. The downside is that I’ll likely never finish them all, yet I continue to download more. And I'm reading less these days because I'm enjoying the creation of my own stories and poems. |
Earworm I caught a little earworm, the tune is quite well known. It wriggled 'round my ear canals until the drums were blown. I thought I might displace it with another melody, but now I have a BIG earworm that's taken hold of me. I can't escape the loopy tune, it's gnawing at my brain. I fear I'll hear it everywhere until I'm quite insane! My wife and I saw Les Misérables at the 5th Ave Theater in Seattle way back in the 1990's. It was a great show and Deb insisted on buying the soundtrack CD. I didn't even object to the price. Master of the House became an insidious earworm for months. Do You Hear the People Sing? was almost as bad. (or good?) There was a 'small world' coincidence at intermission. We ran into a large group from our Church. Their outing had been organized as a thank-you for volunteers. We were involved to a small degree at the time but hadn't made the cut for theater tickets. The funny part was that they felt guilty about it and were embarrassed to see us there. A more interesting coincidence took place at a Jimmy Buffet concert in the Seattle Center Arena. I'd gotten two seats way up in the nosebleed section where we could barely see the stage. I sat on Deb's left, there was another woman on Deb's right, and the next person in line was the guy who sat at the desk next to mine at work! I couldn't resist leaning over the two women to tap on Matt's leg and wave hello. His wife just about freaked out until she realized what was going on. |
Lilith of House Martell   reminded us that The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne was first published on March 16, 1850."Note: Today in literary history... This morning Al..." Her note reminded me that I found a possible, almost, sort-of connection to Hawthorne's story while researching genealogy. One of the branches of my family tree reaches back 14 generations to the Reverend Steven Bachiler. He is, by far, the most interesting character in our family history. Steven Bachiler was a controversial English clergyman who was dismissed from his church in Hampshire, England, for having puritan sympathies. Born about 1560, he outlived three wives in England and married again in America after founding the community of Hampton, New Hampshire in 1638. Bachiler also feuded with Puritan church authorities, being both excommunicated and reinstated in 1641. He was almost 80 when he married his fourth wife, Mary Beedle. She was a much younger widow who was soon convicted of adultery. The Wikipedia article on Steven Bachiler notes that Mary may have been the inspiration for Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter. I am a descendant of Bachiler's daughter, Ann Bachiler Sanborn, through my great-great-grandmother, Judith Sanborne Kennedy. Judith's daughter, Emily Kennedy Truscott, traveled all around America in the 1940's to trace the family history. She found the link to Stephen Bachiler through the Sanborn lineage. Judith's granddaughter, Anna Kennedy Fisher, is my grandmother. I confirmed the details of Emily's research on the WikiTree web site. Other notable descendants of Stephen Bachiler include Winston Churchill, James Dean, Christopher Lloyd, Herman Mudgett, and Meghan Markle. |
| Here's a poem based on the Fibonacci sequence (1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55 . . .) Fibonacci Spring 1 May 1 Day 2 Springtime 3 Buds burst forth 5 Yearning for sunlight 8 I turn rapt gaze toward God’s warmth 13 Pale eyelids tightly squeezed in humble recognition 21 Of my blessed insignificance in the vast immensity of the universe I thought that I might be able to define this form, but it was described by Gregory K. Pincus in 2006 (see also Fibonacci  ). It requires that the number of syllables in each line of the poem conform to the Fibonacci series. Mr. Pincus limited his poems to six lines, so I’ve at least outdone him in that respect. Feel free to go as far as you dare with your lines, but the tenth line probably won’t fit on your page (not even in landscape orientation).You may wonder why I've been struck by this sudden inspiration. I’m currently reading a best-seller from twenty years ago (first five to email me the correct title get 1000 GPs), and one character uses the Fibonacci series to create a coded message. Named after the Italian mathematician who described it in 1202, this series is most significant because it converges on the golden mean, 1.618. And the golden mean is found throughout nature. It’s a pleasing ratio of dimensions that’s been used by artists and architects from Da Vinci to the present day. Some have even called it the Divine Proportion. All kinds of things conform to the golden mean, like the spiral pattern of seashells, the layout of sunflower seeds, honeybee genealogy, or your own bones. Go ahead, grab a tape measure and check the length of your arm from shoulder joint to fingertips. Then divide that number by the length of your forearm from elbow to fingertips. The result will be close to 1.618. This golden ratio also applies to leg bones and the arrangement of facial features. It doesn’t work exactly for everyone, but studies show that the faces and figures judged most attractive conform closely to the golden mean. Amazing? I think so. The Fibonacci series starts with 1, 1. Then the first two terms are added together to make the third term (2), the next two terms are added to make the fourth term (3), and so on. The golden mean can be calculated by dividing any term in the Fibonacci sequence by its previous term. The sequence of quotients alternates between less than 1.618 and more than 1.618 as the series proceeds, but it quickly converges to that almost magical number. Here’s how it all works out for the first 12 terms: 1 1 (0 + 1) 1 / 1 = 1.0000 2 (1 + 1) 2 / 1 = 2.0000 3 (1 + 2) 3 / 2 = 1.5000 5 (2 + 3) 5 / 3 = 1.6667 8 (3 + 5) 8 / 5 = 1.6000 13 (5 + 8) 13 / 8 = 1.6250 21 (8 + 13) 21 / 13 = 1.6152 34 (13 + 21) 34 / 21 = 1.6190 55 (21 + 34) 55 / 34 = 1.6176 89 (34 + 55) 89 / 55 = 1.6182 144 (55 + 89) 144 / 89 = 1.6180 |
"If you're not abusing power, then you don't really have any." - Winston Churchill "A secret is something only one person knows." - Confucius Everybody loves to quote famous people. It automatically lends an air of authority to whatever point we'd like to make: "See, this important person agrees with me." But a curious thing I've found while doing research to get a famous phrase 'exactly right' is that many famous quotes are misattributed. And many cannot be found in the written works or public records of the supposed source. One explanation for this could be that people sometimes 'hear' with their hearts instead of with their ears. I have a paperweight with a supposed quote from Ghandi: "You must be the change you want to see in the world." This is very much in line with his views, yet there is disagreement over whether he actually said it. Apparently, that exact phrase cannot be found among his many writings and published speeches. Another explanation could be a desire to add weight to our own thoughts by attributing them to someone more impressive. Perhaps this shouldn't come as a surprise. A phrase that sounds profound from Confucius or witty from Winston Churchill just seems obvious or pretentious when it comes from a nobody like me. The quotes at the top of this piece, for example. Did you already guess that I made them up? At least I think I did. I haven't found anything exactly like those lines on the google. Here are a few more sayings that I've made up. Feel free to quote me! Anger is the first resort of a man embarrassed by being wrong. There are none so lost as those who follow a lie. Those who do not learn from the history of tyrants are doomed to serve those who do. A moral vacuum abhors nature. You don't have to be a genius to lie about your IQ. Iamb, therefore I rhyme. A poet merely pens a mirror, the reader brings the reflection. There are two kinds of people in the world: those who wash after wiping and those who eat crap with their fingers. |
I’ll make a little omeletto in a pan, scrambled eggs, scrambled eggs, slice a piece of juicy mango. Toast with jam and coffee whipped with cream so frothy, yum! (Yummy yummy) hungry tummy, ( Yummy yummy) hungry tummy, in my tummy it must go, I love it so! Anyone can make scrambled eggs, even me. I mean, the recipe is right there in the name, like hot dogs or grilled cheese sandwich. If you can say it, then you already know what to do. In my case, I sauté some peppers and onion in olive oil for a few minutes and then stir in the eggs with a dash of garlic powder and some salt. When they're no longer runny, I remove the heat and sprinkle shredded mexican cheese mix on top. I make toast while it's resting, and then serve it to my wife on a warm plate. This comes up because last night I offered to make breakfast and then sort of overslept. Deb was waiting grimly at the kitchen table. She wasn't going to let me weasel out on my promise. The kitchen TV was tuned to an old Jacques Pépin cooking show, and I couldn't help but wonder if that was supposed to be an inspiration or a comment on my lack of culinary skill. For once, it went well and I am happy to report that the state of the union is domestic bliss. |
| My first 'real' job out of college was for a small company that sold digital controls for machine tools. They had just introduced the first machine tool controller based on a microprocessor (the same 6502 chip that was used in the Apple I personal computer). Our specialty was converting manually operated milling machines that required skilled machinists into automated tools that anyone could program to cut complex shapes in metal (even me). The controller and motor drive retrofit package was quite successful, undercutting the competition by thousands of dollars. My title was Applications Engineer, and the job consisted of helping customers to adapt our products to their specific machine tools. Part of the job was to design the electrical and mechanical interfaces, part of it was teaching programming, and part of it was troubleshooting. Business was so good that I soon got a technician named Sam to work with me. Sam was a very laid-back guy who rarely spoke up or pushed his own opinions. He was content to do as he was told and do it well. Sam was a few years older but didn't seem to mind having a younger boss. Sam may not have had a lot of ambition, but he was reliable and worked hard. We got along well, and I was happy to have someone to share the workload. When Sam's 60-day evaluation paperwork arrived, I was surprised to see that his first name was actually Sanford. "Sanford, huh? I didn't catch that when we were introduced. I guess everyone calls you Sam for short?" "Nope, just you." "You mean I've been calling you by the wrong name for two months!? Why didn't you say something?" "Well, you're a good guy and I don't mind Sam. I've been called worse." |
Love Is: (a work in progress) Love is strong, it perseveres, a patient plodding ox. Love is whispered nothings, a promise in a box. Love is private sacrifice, unnoticed, quiet, small. Love is unredacted, a blaring trumpet call. Love is an obsession, an urgent, driving need. Love is abnegation, exchanging you for me. Love looks up to heaven, a vision pure and true. Love keeps us firmly grounded, pushing on and getting through. Love is instant karma, a lightning bolt sublime. Love is carved in granite words, enduring throughout time |
With poesy, prose, and fiction and essays into humor, nostalgia tugs the heartstrings of the wistful baby boomer. In tone or form or function, there’s neither rhyme nor reason, but words keep whirling ‘round, so it’s always writing season. Author's note: ▼ |
Winter weather always brings up stories of extreme conditions. Remember the Hanukkah Eve storm of 2006 when all the trees came down in Seattle? The entire western side of Washington was without power for a week and crews came from half a dozen states and even Canada to help clean up the mess. The story for 2021 is more of an anti-climax. Six inches of snow fell the day after Christmas and tangled traffic for a few days. But the power stayed on, and most people were on vacation anyway. We didn't have to go out, so we waited a couple of days before testing the four-wheel drive capability of our new SUV. It was the first new car we'd bought in more than ten years and the first one with all-wheel drive. The street that goes past our house turns into a cul-de-sac. It starts off with a steep one-block climb, and the neighborhood kids gather in front of our driveway to sled down the snow-packed slope. In past years, we've had to park down below and slog up the hill because a two-wheel drive just couldn't make it up the steep, icy street. This year, we cautiously made our way out to the plowed and sanded arterial roads to go for groceries. No problem, but the trip home would be the real test. I wasn't quite sure what to do as we turned onto the unplowed sledding course that led up to our house. I'd always tried to 'goose it' with our two-wheel drive cars, trying to get up a little speed in hope of getting all the way up the hill before spinning out. This time I simply drove up at a sedate pace that offered no excitement at all. I felt a mixture of satisfaction and . . . disappointment? I had to laugh at myself. The four-wheel drive worked flawlessly, but there wouldn't be any more heart-pounding stories of sliding off the pavement, or woeful tales of trudging home with snow in my shoes. Am I really going to miss that? People (me for example) sure are crazy. The whole thing reminded me of my Uncle Roy and his 1971 Dodge Power-Wagon. It was his first four-wheel drive pickup, and he was eager to show it off. My parents weren't home when Roy showed up at our place, so he insisted on taking me for a ride in the hayfield. I opened the gate while Uncle Roy twisted the front axle hub-locks into four-wheelin' mode. We climbed back into the cab and Roy hit the gas, aiming the pickup at the deepest snow in sight. Montana winters often feature blowing snow and there were a few bare spots interspersed with three-foot drifts. Those drifts would melt just a little during the day and refreeze overnight. Sometimes the crust was hard enough for a small kid to walk on. It was solid enough that day to support a Dodge Power-Wagon. Uncle Roy's tough new truck had high centered on a snow drift in less than five minutes. He gunned the engine for a full minute, shifting between first and reverse in an effort to get loose. The wheels just spun uselessly in the air. Finally, we walked back to the house, found a couple of shovels, and spent half an hour digging out enough snow for the truck to get some traction. It wasn't the way I'd hoped to spend the afternoon, but I had sense enough to keep my thoughts to myself! |
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