SO and I don't exchange Christmas gifts anymore; we haven't for years. Let's be honest: More stuff tends to clutter life, not improve it.
But there was a time when we did exchange gifts. Gifts would typically be something of moderate value on Christmas Eve, with much smaller things (fruit, candy, small hobby supplies, etc.) in stockings on Christmas morning.
Somewhere between 15 and 20 years ago, one of the items I put in SO's stocking was a cooking spoon. It was hard plastic and slotted with a figure-8 in it. At some point a short time after that Christmas morning, I handed that spoon to SO while we were making dinner. She commented something like, "Not that one, I hate that spoon." I laughed and reminded her it was a Christmas present, and that has become a long running joke ever since.
"I need a spoon from the utensil drawer."
"Do you want the one you hate?"
I'm trying to remember what I did last year around the end of the year. I had a few extra days off after I finished deer hunting, and there are always the days off around Christmas and New Years. Cabin fever usually sets in towards the end of the year.
I keep a running list of all the books I read - it serves as a good reminder so I don't inadvertently get the same book at the library twice. It also helps when I'm trying to think of a particular book or author to recommend to someone, and the list sometimes helps me remember what I was doing at a certain time by correlating events with what I happened to be reading. Looking back at late 2016, I wasn't reading very much so that was not helpful. Although I seem to recall rereading several books around that time. The spreadsheet I use to keep track of my work vacation time didn't add any perspective either. Emails from around then are similarly unhelpful. Sometimes even what I've written here may spark a reminder. Looking back at the end of 2016 appears like looking into a foggy mirror.
It makes me worried that I wasted a lot of time at the end of last year.
I hate wasting time. Time is the one commodity that is absolutely fixed. Once a minute is gone, it is gone forever. But then again maybe not. Big mistakes seem to live on in perpetuity. That sounds too negative - many good events take on a life of their own as well. But not like the blunders do.
SO made toffee a short time ago on a day she had off of work. I also noticed three new wooden spoons in the utensil drawer. Wooden spoons have their place, but they can also absorb stuff while cooking. The last wooden spoon was thrown away when mice somehow found it and ate a large percentage of it. The mice in the old house would often make their presence known. If the new house has mice, I've never noticed any evidence of them except in the garage on rare occasions.
I asked SO about the wooden spoons, only because there were three of them. A wooden spoon might ber a useful utensil to have around. But three? "I melted one of the plastic spoons when I made toffee." This should not have been unexpected. "I should probably throw the toffee away, I think there is still some plastic in it."
"One of the cheap fat plastic spoons?" I asked.
"No."
"The one you hate?"
"Yes."
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Monday, December 18, 2017
Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance
I was able to walk into the library and get a copy of Hillbilly Elegy - meaning it no longer carries the crazy impossible-to-borrow best seller (or borrower?) status it did for so long. Still, I hadn't read it before so it was new to me.
Hillbilly Elegy was a book that was on my want-to-read list, then it was taken off. Then at some point it made it back on. Like many best sellers, I was a bit apprehensive. Some of the criticism in the reviews also steered me away.
But the author lived fairly nearby where I live for much of his life and there was lots of positive about the book. Since I could walk in and get a copy, I did.
I was glad I did as the book was overall quite good. The author being native to the area I now call home and looking at the events and dates in the book - it is very possible our paths may have crossed. Not that I have likely ever met him or talked to him, but he wrote about places and things that are very nearby. While his upwardly mobile path sent him to live in San Francisco, my more lateral path sent me to live in the same rust belt area he called home. Although from the small amount I've read about him since finishing the book, it appears he has since moved back to Ohio to start a nonprofit helping his former community. This is deserving of praise as he now has the background and probably finances to live just about anywhere.
The book doesn't start off that well. The first few chapters are somewhat disjointed and lurchy. He introduces many characters - some of which feature prominently in the book and some of which do not. I had a hard time following many of them and the similar colloquial names did not help.
After those first few chapters, it almost seemed like the author got a different editor as the flow of the writing smoothed out considerably. The narrative started to form as the story began to build.
The story itself is one of J.D. Vance's movement within a transplanted Kentucky hillbilly family - his transformation from a poor and degraded section of Middletown, Ohio to a Yale-educated lawyer.
Some of the complaints I saw about the book took on a racial tone or that he was speaking for only one brand of hillbilly. I think this is unfortunate as he was telling his own story - pointing out what worked for him and what he saw as unsuccessful. One could lob the same accusations at Lac Su for I Love Yous Are for White People as the tale is similar. I never got the impression from the book that he was stating as fact that other people will be able to copy his success directly. But what leads to failure is often much easier to predict and duplicate.
Sadly, many have read and interpreted the book with a political slant. Donald Trump's election to the White House was coincidental to the release of the book, but unless the author has clairvoyance that he doesn't share, the 2016 election was unknown when the book was written. Despite what The Huffington Post or Fox News would like us to believe, not everything is political. His story is an interesting personal narrative - I think it is better to leave it at that.
Outside of the dramatic story, what struck me most was his interaction with some of the more elite of society while at Yale. He describes going to a Cracker Barrel restaurant with some of his classmates who had presumably never been to one before - or any of its ilk of restaurants. To them, it is merely “a greasy public health crisis.” Cracker Barrel is not my favorite places, but on the list of eating establishments I would consider “a greasy public health crisis,” it would not be near the top of the list.
What I found terrifying in this section is the people who consider Cracker Barrel “a greasy public health crisis” are the same people who are, by in large, writing our laws, interpreting our laws and running major corporations in the country. I work with some people who come from privileged background, and I can't think of any of them who don't occasionally go to eat fast food or cheap Chinese take-out. Treating Cracker Barrel as little more than barnyard fodder demonstrates a segment of society that is grossly out of touch with not just the poor and lower-middle class, but even some who would be considered rich.
I can only hope that this is one of a few exaggerations in the book.
Which brings up my main criticism of the text - I think he misses a big point, or doesn't make it forcefully enough.
Everybody makes mistakes and just about everybody makes a few doozies while growing up. What separates the rich from everyone else (or possibly what separates the poor from everyone else) is the ability to recover from those mistakes. The rich have an impossibly large safety net. The poor may have to rely on an overburdened court system which constantly sees similar people continue to make mistakes well into adulthood.
I don't mean that killing a carload of friends while drinking and driving should not have consequences for either the rich or poor. But being able to safely fail is an incredibly important part of learning as anyone grows up.
Peak behind the curtain of the wealthy Yale Law School students and I'm convinced things aren't quite as clean as what the author paints it out to be. Shake those rich family trees hard enough and a few surprises are bound to fall out. But the ability to work through that, to recover from mistakes has a sliding scale from the rich, through the middle-class, to the poor.
Sadly, luck also plays a role. Being fortunate cannot be underestimated.
Because my copy of Hillbilly Elegy came from the library, it had been previously read by an unknown number of other people. One reader had underlined several passages and written a few notes in the margins. This is, of course, not the first time I've seen this in a library book, and I often find this maddening. I probably over-interpreted what was there, but in this instance it added just a bit to he book - knowing another person who lives in the same area of the state as J.D. Vance was highlighting sections he or she thought pertinent. It really is a small world.
"...that those of us lucky enough to live the American Dream, the demons we left behind continue to chase us."
There but for the grace of God go I.
Hillbilly Elegy was a book that was on my want-to-read list, then it was taken off. Then at some point it made it back on. Like many best sellers, I was a bit apprehensive. Some of the criticism in the reviews also steered me away.
But the author lived fairly nearby where I live for much of his life and there was lots of positive about the book. Since I could walk in and get a copy, I did.
I was glad I did as the book was overall quite good. The author being native to the area I now call home and looking at the events and dates in the book - it is very possible our paths may have crossed. Not that I have likely ever met him or talked to him, but he wrote about places and things that are very nearby. While his upwardly mobile path sent him to live in San Francisco, my more lateral path sent me to live in the same rust belt area he called home. Although from the small amount I've read about him since finishing the book, it appears he has since moved back to Ohio to start a nonprofit helping his former community. This is deserving of praise as he now has the background and probably finances to live just about anywhere.
The book doesn't start off that well. The first few chapters are somewhat disjointed and lurchy. He introduces many characters - some of which feature prominently in the book and some of which do not. I had a hard time following many of them and the similar colloquial names did not help.
After those first few chapters, it almost seemed like the author got a different editor as the flow of the writing smoothed out considerably. The narrative started to form as the story began to build.
The story itself is one of J.D. Vance's movement within a transplanted Kentucky hillbilly family - his transformation from a poor and degraded section of Middletown, Ohio to a Yale-educated lawyer.
Some of the complaints I saw about the book took on a racial tone or that he was speaking for only one brand of hillbilly. I think this is unfortunate as he was telling his own story - pointing out what worked for him and what he saw as unsuccessful. One could lob the same accusations at Lac Su for I Love Yous Are for White People as the tale is similar. I never got the impression from the book that he was stating as fact that other people will be able to copy his success directly. But what leads to failure is often much easier to predict and duplicate.
Sadly, many have read and interpreted the book with a political slant. Donald Trump's election to the White House was coincidental to the release of the book, but unless the author has clairvoyance that he doesn't share, the 2016 election was unknown when the book was written. Despite what The Huffington Post or Fox News would like us to believe, not everything is political. His story is an interesting personal narrative - I think it is better to leave it at that.
Outside of the dramatic story, what struck me most was his interaction with some of the more elite of society while at Yale. He describes going to a Cracker Barrel restaurant with some of his classmates who had presumably never been to one before - or any of its ilk of restaurants. To them, it is merely “a greasy public health crisis.” Cracker Barrel is not my favorite places, but on the list of eating establishments I would consider “a greasy public health crisis,” it would not be near the top of the list.
What I found terrifying in this section is the people who consider Cracker Barrel “a greasy public health crisis” are the same people who are, by in large, writing our laws, interpreting our laws and running major corporations in the country. I work with some people who come from privileged background, and I can't think of any of them who don't occasionally go to eat fast food or cheap Chinese take-out. Treating Cracker Barrel as little more than barnyard fodder demonstrates a segment of society that is grossly out of touch with not just the poor and lower-middle class, but even some who would be considered rich.
I can only hope that this is one of a few exaggerations in the book.
Which brings up my main criticism of the text - I think he misses a big point, or doesn't make it forcefully enough.
Everybody makes mistakes and just about everybody makes a few doozies while growing up. What separates the rich from everyone else (or possibly what separates the poor from everyone else) is the ability to recover from those mistakes. The rich have an impossibly large safety net. The poor may have to rely on an overburdened court system which constantly sees similar people continue to make mistakes well into adulthood.
I don't mean that killing a carload of friends while drinking and driving should not have consequences for either the rich or poor. But being able to safely fail is an incredibly important part of learning as anyone grows up.
Peak behind the curtain of the wealthy Yale Law School students and I'm convinced things aren't quite as clean as what the author paints it out to be. Shake those rich family trees hard enough and a few surprises are bound to fall out. But the ability to work through that, to recover from mistakes has a sliding scale from the rich, through the middle-class, to the poor.
Sadly, luck also plays a role. Being fortunate cannot be underestimated.
Because my copy of Hillbilly Elegy came from the library, it had been previously read by an unknown number of other people. One reader had underlined several passages and written a few notes in the margins. This is, of course, not the first time I've seen this in a library book, and I often find this maddening. I probably over-interpreted what was there, but in this instance it added just a bit to he book - knowing another person who lives in the same area of the state as J.D. Vance was highlighting sections he or she thought pertinent. It really is a small world.
"...that those of us lucky enough to live the American Dream, the demons we left behind continue to chase us."
There but for the grace of God go I.
Friday, December 15, 2017
The Politics of the Office Gift Exchange
Several years ago there was there was a Christmas white elephant gift exchange in the department I was working in at the time. I had a spare copy of Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs and thought about using that. I didn't but wish I would have.
"Tasteful, useable(sic) gifts please."
I've never worked anywhere that had a secret santa gift exchange, and I'm very glad about that. I would probably opt to not participate in that. The pitfalls associated with secret Santas are just too awful to contemplate.
But opting out of office social theatrics can be just as dangerous as participation. A dentist visit may be wiser. Or quitting.
Most places I've worked, outside of the ones that do thankfully nothing, have a white elephant gift exchange. These can be humorous as various rules during the actual exchange mean highly desirable gifts are exchanged and sought after. Sometimes what is sought after is inexplicable.
Where I currently work, the suggestion is for something between $5 and $10. Several political phenomena can be observed:
This year I gave Duke's Original Recipe Smoked Sausage. Smack dap in the middle of the price range at just over $7. As food, it isn't something that will have to stick around too long. My only hope was that the office vegan would somehow end up with it. The horror. The horror. Never get out of the boat.
"Never apologize. Never explain." - Hunter S Thompson
The most sought after items were a couple bottles of wine that must have been determined to be better than average. The Big Spender's large box of craft beers were also sought after with vigor.
I ended up with two utility lighters. These have some usefulness, but I already have two of them. I may now have a lifetime supply of them - although the igniters typically give out long before the butane is exhausted.
"Tasteful, useable(sic) gifts please."
I've never worked anywhere that had a secret santa gift exchange, and I'm very glad about that. I would probably opt to not participate in that. The pitfalls associated with secret Santas are just too awful to contemplate.
But opting out of office social theatrics can be just as dangerous as participation. A dentist visit may be wiser. Or quitting.
Most places I've worked, outside of the ones that do thankfully nothing, have a white elephant gift exchange. These can be humorous as various rules during the actual exchange mean highly desirable gifts are exchanged and sought after. Sometimes what is sought after is inexplicable.
Where I currently work, the suggestion is for something between $5 and $10. Several political phenomena can be observed:
- The bottle of wine - everybody wants it, if only to dull the pain. But nobody can look too much like they want it, lest they be labeled the office lush.
- The regift - I recall an amaryllis given one year where, on opening the box, the recipient pulled out a plant that had sprouted and grown in complete darkness. Living its whole life without light, it looked like a cave fish - giving away the fact that it was a year old.
- The big spender - the gift obviously over the suggested amount, where the giver doesn't want to be revealed but really does want to be known.
- The cheap spender - post-it notes and office pens. Is that theft?
- The last minuter - something ... anything from the gas station on the way into the office in the morning.
- The home made present - often thoughtful, but almost too personal for work. And the last thing most of us need is more stuff to sit on a shelf.
This year I gave Duke's Original Recipe Smoked Sausage. Smack dap in the middle of the price range at just over $7. As food, it isn't something that will have to stick around too long. My only hope was that the office vegan would somehow end up with it. The horror. The horror. Never get out of the boat.
The most sought after items were a couple bottles of wine that must have been determined to be better than average. The Big Spender's large box of craft beers were also sought after with vigor.
I ended up with two utility lighters. These have some usefulness, but I already have two of them. I may now have a lifetime supply of them - although the igniters typically give out long before the butane is exhausted.
As it turned out, the Big Spender opened the package of sausages. The face she made was not very pleasant. I didn't follow the movement to know if she ended up with it or not.
The highest level manager at the soiree announced his intention to leave his gift as "tip for the wait staff." I contemplated how that may be perceived by the person who brought that one in.
I suppose the politics follow the receiver as well as the giver.
The highest level manager at the soiree announced his intention to leave his gift as "tip for the wait staff." I contemplated how that may be perceived by the person who brought that one in.
I suppose the politics follow the receiver as well as the giver.
Friday, December 8, 2017
Ridgeline Nation
I'm not sure why, but I love going to the scrapyard. My introduction to it goes back about 25 years when the shop I was a mechanic at was moving. My boss had piles of classic car treasures - meaning troves of useless used parts from defunct scrapped cars containing enough valuable gems that everything was worth saving ... until the time came to move. He couldn't bear to part with them, so a few of us did near-daily runs to the scrap yard for a bit of extra cash. It was always fun to see what else was in the pile of metal at the scrapyard - everything from shards of tire shredding junk to nearly pristine automobile engines from an R&D facility a few miles away.
Ever since then, I've always tried to save metal for recycling, if for no other reason than an excuse to visit the metal scrapyard.
At times this leaves me feeling like a meth-head. I had a moderate amount of aluminum I was selling when the fuel pump on my F-150 went belly up. Standing in line with the people selling stolen water pipes and small bits of wire was an experience. It was not fun, after getting my cash, waiting for the tow truck to show up as it got darker and darker. They typically don't put scrap yards in the best neighborhoods.
When moving to my current house, I had piles of metal to be recycled, including the body of an MGB I had to cut up with a tiger saw. This was no meth-head operation, but quite the undertaking fitting all that steel in the bed of my Toyota Tacoma.
So when I heard about the book Junkard Planet by Adam Minter, I knew I had to read it. It is a fascinating look at the scrap and recycling industry, primarily the money and trade between the US and Western Europe to and from Asia. This is a must-read for anybody who has ever marveled at the piles of metal at the scrap yard, or the idealistic neighborhood recycler.
My 2017 Honda Ridgeline was made in Lincoln, Alabama. I have now had this truck for a year and about 13,000 miles. I bought it new, but at the risk of anthropomorphizing something inanimate, Junkyard Planet made me think about its former life. Exactly where did the metal, plastic, fabric, etc. of my Honda start out? How much of the materials that make up the Ridgeline are reclaimed vs. made out of new material extracted from the ground?
My original plan was to write either a 10,000 mile review of the Ridgeline, or a 1-year review. But 10,000 passed a while ago while driving through South Dakota. And yes, I do use the awful "Eco" button when on the interstate for long trips. It is OK on the interstate, but it makes the vehicle nearly intolerable to drive any other time.
When I reread my previous Original and Six-Month reviews, they still cover my experience with the Ridgeline extremely well. In the year and 13,000 miles that I've had the vehicle, I have really gotten to like this vehicle. There are a few quirks, but I've yet to see any vehicle that doesn't have them. Vehicle design must be an exercise in trade-offs. While initially I was somewhat neutral on the appearance of the truck, even that has grown on me.
There are, predictably, a lot of piddly complaints which can be read on sites like the Ridgeline Owners Club. Like most of the message boards I read, I'm a chronic lurker there. People love to complain online. But with few exceptions - it is just noise and this happens with just about every vehicle made ... ever. The two biggest complaints I've seen are a lack of radio knobs - but my trim level has radio knobs thank-you-very-much. However I rarely use them since controlling it from the steering wheel is easier. Having my dogs on the radio wallpaper is a great feature to have.
The other complaint is how far the back doors open. To be fair, I don't think any person has ever sat in the back seat in my truck. But the doors open wide enough to easily get a double rifle case in front of OR UNDER the back seat. That last option is great as it frees up so much more storage space for other things when I go on road trips.
And my Ridgeline has been on a few road trips. About 30% of the miles on my Ridgeline have been hunting road trips. The amount of stuff I can fit in it is vastly superior to my former Tacoma. In addition to interior room, the Ridgeline has a voluminous "trunk" under the bed that easily holds all the stuff I used to cram in the Tacoma's meager underseat storage (or in a cardboard box on the back seat in my former F-150).
The all wheel drive system on the truck has proven extremely effective - even while going through some nasty stuff while hunting.
Fuel economy has been adequate so far. It is about the same as my 4-cylinder Tacoma, but the V6 in the Ridgeline is a rocket compared to the grossly underpowered Taco. I still wish there was a smaller more fuel efficient truck available in the United States. I also mourn the slow death of the manual transmission. I have only a minuscule amount of hope that the someday Ford Ranger will fill that void.
The drop in fuel economy at the end of the graph below shows the very real dip that driving at a fairly high rate of speed en route to Wyoming will do - and both directions of the trip were fighting a significant headwind in cold temperatures. It is surprising how much of an impact that makes, even with a vehicle that is fairly aerodynamic (for a truck). The graph also shows actual calculated mileage; indicated is typically around 1MPG more optimistic.
The only maintenance the truck has needed so far has been a simple oil change. I suspect I'll be due for rear differential fluid and maybe even transmission fluid early in 2018 - but I'll let the Maintenance Minder advise what is needed. Thankfully, most of the routine maintenance looks brainlessly simple.
My RTS trim level is no longer offered by Honda which is sad as I really saw it as the sweet spot for what I wanted. I'm not terribly interested in a lot of extra doodads and much prefer cloth interior over leather. I do wonder how the seats will hold up over time as they seem to take stains a little more than I would have hoped.
In short, the Honda Ridgeline is a great vehicle for what it is and doesn't pretend to be anything it is not.
The other thing Junkyard Planet made me wonder was what has happened to all my previous vehicles. Likely my Tacoma is still trucking around. Given the troubles I had with 2003 F-150, I'm less sure about that one. Thinking back, I'm sure many of the vehicles I used to own have been reclaimed and turned into new things - maybe even my current Ridgeline! (highly unlikely)
If I have any criticism of Junkyard Planet, it was that it felt a little dated. It came out in 2013, which was just after the global economic meltdown was getting into full recovery. Additionally, China seems to be changing weekly. I couldn't help but think that things had changed since it was originally written.
I also wish there was more information on Africa. Adam Minter is a journalist based in Asia, so the focus makes sense. But I suspect some of the environmental issues he writes about are much worse in Africa. Although, as he points out, versus what alternative?
The sections on plastic recycling and electronic waste I found depressing. I've experienced this before. There are, frankly, no good solutions for many of us in the developed world. Recycling may be messy in the developing world, but it also looks more complete.
Finishing the book, I couldn't help but wonder how long until we start mining landfills for the metals and plastics as raw materials for the next generation of "stuff" to saturate our lives. More stuff doesn't improve life, it just clutters it.
While I don't know what my Honda Ridgeline was in a past life, I hope and expect its next life won't come for many years and many miles.
Ever since then, I've always tried to save metal for recycling, if for no other reason than an excuse to visit the metal scrapyard.
At times this leaves me feeling like a meth-head. I had a moderate amount of aluminum I was selling when the fuel pump on my F-150 went belly up. Standing in line with the people selling stolen water pipes and small bits of wire was an experience. It was not fun, after getting my cash, waiting for the tow truck to show up as it got darker and darker. They typically don't put scrap yards in the best neighborhoods.
When moving to my current house, I had piles of metal to be recycled, including the body of an MGB I had to cut up with a tiger saw. This was no meth-head operation, but quite the undertaking fitting all that steel in the bed of my Toyota Tacoma.
So when I heard about the book Junkard Planet by Adam Minter, I knew I had to read it. It is a fascinating look at the scrap and recycling industry, primarily the money and trade between the US and Western Europe to and from Asia. This is a must-read for anybody who has ever marveled at the piles of metal at the scrap yard, or the idealistic neighborhood recycler.
My original plan was to write either a 10,000 mile review of the Ridgeline, or a 1-year review. But 10,000 passed a while ago while driving through South Dakota. And yes, I do use the awful "Eco" button when on the interstate for long trips. It is OK on the interstate, but it makes the vehicle nearly intolerable to drive any other time.
When I reread my previous Original and Six-Month reviews, they still cover my experience with the Ridgeline extremely well. In the year and 13,000 miles that I've had the vehicle, I have really gotten to like this vehicle. There are a few quirks, but I've yet to see any vehicle that doesn't have them. Vehicle design must be an exercise in trade-offs. While initially I was somewhat neutral on the appearance of the truck, even that has grown on me.
There are, predictably, a lot of piddly complaints which can be read on sites like the Ridgeline Owners Club. Like most of the message boards I read, I'm a chronic lurker there. People love to complain online. But with few exceptions - it is just noise and this happens with just about every vehicle made ... ever. The two biggest complaints I've seen are a lack of radio knobs - but my trim level has radio knobs thank-you-very-much. However I rarely use them since controlling it from the steering wheel is easier. Having my dogs on the radio wallpaper is a great feature to have.
The other complaint is how far the back doors open. To be fair, I don't think any person has ever sat in the back seat in my truck. But the doors open wide enough to easily get a double rifle case in front of OR UNDER the back seat. That last option is great as it frees up so much more storage space for other things when I go on road trips.
And my Ridgeline has been on a few road trips. About 30% of the miles on my Ridgeline have been hunting road trips. The amount of stuff I can fit in it is vastly superior to my former Tacoma. In addition to interior room, the Ridgeline has a voluminous "trunk" under the bed that easily holds all the stuff I used to cram in the Tacoma's meager underseat storage (or in a cardboard box on the back seat in my former F-150).
The all wheel drive system on the truck has proven extremely effective - even while going through some nasty stuff while hunting.
Fuel economy has been adequate so far. It is about the same as my 4-cylinder Tacoma, but the V6 in the Ridgeline is a rocket compared to the grossly underpowered Taco. I still wish there was a smaller more fuel efficient truck available in the United States. I also mourn the slow death of the manual transmission. I have only a minuscule amount of hope that the someday Ford Ranger will fill that void.
The drop in fuel economy at the end of the graph below shows the very real dip that driving at a fairly high rate of speed en route to Wyoming will do - and both directions of the trip were fighting a significant headwind in cold temperatures. It is surprising how much of an impact that makes, even with a vehicle that is fairly aerodynamic (for a truck). The graph also shows actual calculated mileage; indicated is typically around 1MPG more optimistic.
The only maintenance the truck has needed so far has been a simple oil change. I suspect I'll be due for rear differential fluid and maybe even transmission fluid early in 2018 - but I'll let the Maintenance Minder advise what is needed. Thankfully, most of the routine maintenance looks brainlessly simple.
My RTS trim level is no longer offered by Honda which is sad as I really saw it as the sweet spot for what I wanted. I'm not terribly interested in a lot of extra doodads and much prefer cloth interior over leather. I do wonder how the seats will hold up over time as they seem to take stains a little more than I would have hoped.
In short, the Honda Ridgeline is a great vehicle for what it is and doesn't pretend to be anything it is not.
The other thing Junkyard Planet made me wonder was what has happened to all my previous vehicles. Likely my Tacoma is still trucking around. Given the troubles I had with 2003 F-150, I'm less sure about that one. Thinking back, I'm sure many of the vehicles I used to own have been reclaimed and turned into new things - maybe even my current Ridgeline! (highly unlikely)
If I have any criticism of Junkyard Planet, it was that it felt a little dated. It came out in 2013, which was just after the global economic meltdown was getting into full recovery. Additionally, China seems to be changing weekly. I couldn't help but think that things had changed since it was originally written.
I also wish there was more information on Africa. Adam Minter is a journalist based in Asia, so the focus makes sense. But I suspect some of the environmental issues he writes about are much worse in Africa. Although, as he points out, versus what alternative?
The sections on plastic recycling and electronic waste I found depressing. I've experienced this before. There are, frankly, no good solutions for many of us in the developed world. Recycling may be messy in the developing world, but it also looks more complete.
Finishing the book, I couldn't help but wonder how long until we start mining landfills for the metals and plastics as raw materials for the next generation of "stuff" to saturate our lives. More stuff doesn't improve life, it just clutters it.
While I don't know what my Honda Ridgeline was in a past life, I hope and expect its next life won't come for many years and many miles.
Friday, December 1, 2017
This Year Looks Like It Might End Weirder Than It Started
Last year, Jalopnik published a story titled: Remember that time Terry Gross from NPR’s Fresh Air got banned from drag racing?
The original version as I remember it is gone, replaced with an abbreviated one - as too many people failed to notice it was Filed to:SATIRE.
This was hilarious on so many levels. First, the idea of Terry Gross being a hard-core drag racer. The pictures in the article. The language in the article. That it had to be changed because people read it as fact. That people can't separate fact from fiction anymore (I'm looking at you, John Stewart).
Remember that time Garrison Keillor was accused of sexual misconduct? File to:???
It is now December - a time when much outdoor life goes into a state of dormancy. At least this happens most of the time. It isn't the first year ever when a few trees have kept their leaves into December, but the amount of green left is staggering.
Honeysuckle is often the first thing to green up in the spring, and is late to lose its leaves. I'm quite sure if left on its own, honeysuckle would take over the whole world. But remaining green into December is unusual ... is weird.
As the green honeysuckle continues is fight against the normal order of things, the news airwaves have been filled with accusations and admissions of sexual misconduct, harassment, etc.
Much of this, I'm not surprised about.
A former Saturday Night Live star? -Al Franken. I'm not surprised.
A priveledged face for TV? -Al Franken (wait, I already used him). -Matt Lauer. I'm not surprised.
A power-grabbing politician? -Al Franken (wait, I already used him). -John Conyers. I'm not surprised.
A movie actor? -Al Franken (wait, I already used him). -Kevin Spacey. I'm not surprised.
A stand-up comic? -Al Franken (wait, I already used him). -Louis CK. I'm not surprised.
The list is long, and will get longer. My list above is a bit unfair to Al Franken, but anybody who sees this shocking is too wrapped up in Franken's cult of personality. Ever since moving from Stuart Smalley to a "real" politician, he's grown to be the darling of the media. Everybody (justifiably) throws rotten fruit at Harvey Weinstein, Steven Seagal and Donald Trump. Too many people - especially in the media - point to Al Franken and then say, "but..."
Sadly, most of these recent accusations are true. Sadly, some of these are not.
When I heard Garrison Keillor was accused of improper behavior, I first hoped it was filed to satire. Part of me still hopes it falls in the latter categorization. I've never been a real fan of Garrison Keillor. I would listen to A Prairie Home Companion mostly because it happened to be on when the radio was on and tuned to NPR. The movie A Prairie Home Companion was surprisingly good. Poetry seems a bit pointless, but I was aware of Writers Almanac. Lake Wobegon was sometimes amusing, but often not.
What little I know about Garrison Keillor describes him as a bit of a curmudgeon and a loaner. His personal life does appear to have been rather sticky at times though.
And therein lies the rub. How many of these recent accusations are an awkward situation taken beyond the context? A childish act, gone too far in a moment without thinking? It is impossible in the current atmosphere for anyone to question these situations once they become public. But I have seen a perfectly innocent conversation turn to offense - due solely to a poor choice of words. Do intentions matter?
Outright lies will probably eventually come out. But often too late for the accused. And the grey area of awkwardness, a tumbling of the rhythm of life, words escaping before time to realize they may be interpreted not-as-intended. I defy anybody to not think back and wince.
"Just as ancient insects that led full productive lives disappeared without a trace, and those that bumbled into amber and died are still around in tangible form, so our personal failures remain, sharp and clear, long after the day-to-day routine and minor victories fade into nothingness."
-Neil Steinberg
The court of public opinion is one mean-assed, uncontrolled, bastardly mirror with view that doesn't always match reality.
So the accusers should have their say. Garrison Keillor should be given his due. And while I'm much less surprised by the Al Franken accusations - he is owed the same.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
The honeysuckle will eventually lose all its leaves and go dormant. I'm less sure what will happen to the remainder of the rest of this weird year.
The original version as I remember it is gone, replaced with an abbreviated one - as too many people failed to notice it was Filed to:SATIRE.
This was hilarious on so many levels. First, the idea of Terry Gross being a hard-core drag racer. The pictures in the article. The language in the article. That it had to be changed because people read it as fact. That people can't separate fact from fiction anymore (I'm looking at you, John Stewart).
Remember that time Garrison Keillor was accused of sexual misconduct? File to:???
It is now December - a time when much outdoor life goes into a state of dormancy. At least this happens most of the time. It isn't the first year ever when a few trees have kept their leaves into December, but the amount of green left is staggering.
Honeysuckle is often the first thing to green up in the spring, and is late to lose its leaves. I'm quite sure if left on its own, honeysuckle would take over the whole world. But remaining green into December is unusual ... is weird.
As the green honeysuckle continues is fight against the normal order of things, the news airwaves have been filled with accusations and admissions of sexual misconduct, harassment, etc.
Much of this, I'm not surprised about.
A former Saturday Night Live star? -Al Franken. I'm not surprised.
A priveledged face for TV? -
A power-grabbing politician? -
A movie actor? -
A stand-up comic? -
The list is long, and will get longer. My list above is a bit unfair to Al Franken, but anybody who sees this shocking is too wrapped up in Franken's cult of personality. Ever since moving from Stuart Smalley to a "real" politician, he's grown to be the darling of the media. Everybody (justifiably) throws rotten fruit at Harvey Weinstein, Steven Seagal and Donald Trump. Too many people - especially in the media - point to Al Franken and then say, "but..."
Sadly, most of these recent accusations are true. Sadly, some of these are not.
When I heard Garrison Keillor was accused of improper behavior, I first hoped it was filed to satire. Part of me still hopes it falls in the latter categorization. I've never been a real fan of Garrison Keillor. I would listen to A Prairie Home Companion mostly because it happened to be on when the radio was on and tuned to NPR. The movie A Prairie Home Companion was surprisingly good. Poetry seems a bit pointless, but I was aware of Writers Almanac. Lake Wobegon was sometimes amusing, but often not.
What little I know about Garrison Keillor describes him as a bit of a curmudgeon and a loaner. His personal life does appear to have been rather sticky at times though.
And therein lies the rub. How many of these recent accusations are an awkward situation taken beyond the context? A childish act, gone too far in a moment without thinking? It is impossible in the current atmosphere for anyone to question these situations once they become public. But I have seen a perfectly innocent conversation turn to offense - due solely to a poor choice of words. Do intentions matter?
Outright lies will probably eventually come out. But often too late for the accused. And the grey area of awkwardness, a tumbling of the rhythm of life, words escaping before time to realize they may be interpreted not-as-intended. I defy anybody to not think back and wince.
"Just as ancient insects that led full productive lives disappeared without a trace, and those that bumbled into amber and died are still around in tangible form, so our personal failures remain, sharp and clear, long after the day-to-day routine and minor victories fade into nothingness."
-Neil Steinberg
The court of public opinion is one mean-assed, uncontrolled, bastardly mirror with view that doesn't always match reality.
So the accusers should have their say. Garrison Keillor should be given his due. And while I'm much less surprised by the Al Franken accusations - he is owed the same.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
The honeysuckle will eventually lose all its leaves and go dormant. I'm less sure what will happen to the remainder of the rest of this weird year.
Sunday, November 26, 2017
My Neighbor's Security
I know most of the people who live on my street - which is only somewhat true. I know most of the people's vehicles who live on my street.
The people who live about a quarter mile away on a back lot just sold their house and moved recently. I had never actually talked to them, but they drove a PT Cruiser. From what I could see as they drove by, usually while I was walking one of the dogs, they were older - meaning they may have been around my age or maybe older. They always smiled and waved. But even people who probably would not like me smile and wave as they go by.
I don't remember the last time I woke up after the sun had risen, or even as the sun was rising. I generally find that once I wake up, the best thing for me to do is just to get up - regardless of the time. As much as it may pain the 16-year-old-me who has long since gone extinct, I am a morning person.
The first thing I do after I get up is put the dogs out. My younger dog always hear me walking toward the dog room. My older dog, deaf for years now, usually needs to be woken up.
At one time, we were the new neighbors on this street. Now there are new neighbors at the house that just sold. And three doors down in the other direction, new constructions is building another house. It was early December when I moved into this house. Coming from an old Victorian house down in the holler that is Main Street of the township, SO and I were enamored with the sunrises and sunsets. A house out to the west - quite a ways away - has a floodlight of some kind. This looks like a yellow sodium vapor light that is old enough that it may be starting to dim. I can only see this light in the late fall through spring. The house sits low, near the horizon so trees (and probably hateful honeysuckle) blocks the light from view at other times.
I've grown accustomed to that yellow light, but on first moving in, I hated it. It spoiled otherwise stunning sunsets. Looking to the west after dark, that yellow light remains defiling the sun's canvas.
I'm really not sure how old my older dog is as she was a rescue dog. I was told that she was around 4 when I got her, but she was already starting to show some significant grey in the face. When I told the vet the assumed age, he hesitated, raised an eyebrow, "Um, maybe. Maybe five, or six."
She is the most aloof, yet affectionate dog I've ever had. She can no longer go on anything but the shortest walks. At times she can still jump on the furniture; other times she just puts her front paws up and looks at me. She tends to look annoyed when I lift her onto the couch. Aloof but affectionate. I suspect I'll have the same level of obstinateness when I can no longer metaphorically jump on the couch.
When I let the dogs out first thing in the morning, I often pause to look up in the sky on clear mornings. Living in a rural area, the stars shine brightly. Even though I still want to visit an area with very low light pollution - I've never been able to see the painted swath of the Milky Way. I have been lucky enough to have seen some fantastic meteors first thing in the morning.
The new people on the street have put up a shockingly bright security light that remains lit through the night. Unlike the house to the west, this is not a dimming sodium vapor light, but appears to be some new-fangled bright white LED. I have very quickly grown to detest that light. I'm fearful if I ever meet these new neighbors, I'll instantly say something like, "Ah, the sons-a-bitches with that bright-ass light?"
I'm curious about the intentions and level of fear that necessitated such a bright light to be lit all night. I suspect a similar reaction as to when someone new immigrant to this rural area complains about getting behind a trundling combine in the fall - what did you move to a rural area for? Shouldn't darkness be a virtue of a rural area, just like farm equipment or cow poop is celebrated? Or dogs barking? Or sassafras trees being destroyed by whitetail bucks overcome with aggression in the fall? Did these new neighbors come from a suburb, and bring with them the primordial fear of darkness that led primitive Homo Habilis to huddle by the safety of a fire at night?
I worry about my older dog. She has been diagnosed with cancer and is approaching borrowed time. Along with her hearing, her sense of smell is diminished to the point it is difficult at times to get her to eat. But it doesn't take much to keep her happy. Make sure she has water. Give her a few treats per day. Help her on the couch even if she groans about it. And let her out every few hours. The neighbor's lights don't seem to bother her at all.
The people who live about a quarter mile away on a back lot just sold their house and moved recently. I had never actually talked to them, but they drove a PT Cruiser. From what I could see as they drove by, usually while I was walking one of the dogs, they were older - meaning they may have been around my age or maybe older. They always smiled and waved. But even people who probably would not like me smile and wave as they go by.
I don't remember the last time I woke up after the sun had risen, or even as the sun was rising. I generally find that once I wake up, the best thing for me to do is just to get up - regardless of the time. As much as it may pain the 16-year-old-me who has long since gone extinct, I am a morning person.
The first thing I do after I get up is put the dogs out. My younger dog always hear me walking toward the dog room. My older dog, deaf for years now, usually needs to be woken up.
At one time, we were the new neighbors on this street. Now there are new neighbors at the house that just sold. And three doors down in the other direction, new constructions is building another house. It was early December when I moved into this house. Coming from an old Victorian house down in the holler that is Main Street of the township, SO and I were enamored with the sunrises and sunsets. A house out to the west - quite a ways away - has a floodlight of some kind. This looks like a yellow sodium vapor light that is old enough that it may be starting to dim. I can only see this light in the late fall through spring. The house sits low, near the horizon so trees (and probably hateful honeysuckle) blocks the light from view at other times.
I've grown accustomed to that yellow light, but on first moving in, I hated it. It spoiled otherwise stunning sunsets. Looking to the west after dark, that yellow light remains defiling the sun's canvas.
I'm really not sure how old my older dog is as she was a rescue dog. I was told that she was around 4 when I got her, but she was already starting to show some significant grey in the face. When I told the vet the assumed age, he hesitated, raised an eyebrow, "Um, maybe. Maybe five, or six."
She is the most aloof, yet affectionate dog I've ever had. She can no longer go on anything but the shortest walks. At times she can still jump on the furniture; other times she just puts her front paws up and looks at me. She tends to look annoyed when I lift her onto the couch. Aloof but affectionate. I suspect I'll have the same level of obstinateness when I can no longer metaphorically jump on the couch.
When I let the dogs out first thing in the morning, I often pause to look up in the sky on clear mornings. Living in a rural area, the stars shine brightly. Even though I still want to visit an area with very low light pollution - I've never been able to see the painted swath of the Milky Way. I have been lucky enough to have seen some fantastic meteors first thing in the morning.
The new people on the street have put up a shockingly bright security light that remains lit through the night. Unlike the house to the west, this is not a dimming sodium vapor light, but appears to be some new-fangled bright white LED. I have very quickly grown to detest that light. I'm fearful if I ever meet these new neighbors, I'll instantly say something like, "Ah, the sons-a-bitches with that bright-ass light?"
I'm curious about the intentions and level of fear that necessitated such a bright light to be lit all night. I suspect a similar reaction as to when someone new immigrant to this rural area complains about getting behind a trundling combine in the fall - what did you move to a rural area for? Shouldn't darkness be a virtue of a rural area, just like farm equipment or cow poop is celebrated? Or dogs barking? Or sassafras trees being destroyed by whitetail bucks overcome with aggression in the fall? Did these new neighbors come from a suburb, and bring with them the primordial fear of darkness that led primitive Homo Habilis to huddle by the safety of a fire at night?
I worry about my older dog. She has been diagnosed with cancer and is approaching borrowed time. Along with her hearing, her sense of smell is diminished to the point it is difficult at times to get her to eat. But it doesn't take much to keep her happy. Make sure she has water. Give her a few treats per day. Help her on the couch even if she groans about it. And let her out every few hours. The neighbor's lights don't seem to bother her at all.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
The Fall Scramble
Fall, and more specifically October, is usually a busy time. I own too many things with internal combustion engines and many of them are not used in the winter - so all of them get maintenance and get cleaned up before putting to bed. This takes time and the timing is dependent on their last use.
The lawn always needs a final mow.
Outside and inside cleaning must be done.
The house often needs a bit of attention before Brother North Wind begins to blow.
And I need to get ready for hunting.
My recent trip west made all this winter preparation seem even more of a scramble this year. I needed to finish most of it before leaving, then complete the rest after returning.
But the local deer season started less than two weeks after I got home.
Deer hunting around home has a lot of variability. I've had years where the deer seem to constantly saunter around me, and years where they seem to know exactly where I am. During the latter, they plan travels to keep miles away from me. It was only a few years ago when I had a 2-year dry spell with no venison in the freezer - the dry spell broken with a doe taken late on a Thanksgiving afternoon.
This year, the weather on opening day was not conducive to deer hunting. There were high winds all day with a threat for heavy rain. The weather ended up being only bad, not terrible. Still, I probably heard less shooting on opening day than I had in years; the only year that I can recall that produced less gunfire was 2008, when there was an all-day constant cold rain. I always hunt opening day, but I much prefer the quiet of later in the season - even if there is less deer movement.
I shot a buck on opening morning, around the time I started to get concerned about the predicted rain. The real work of hunting starts after the shot - not before it.
The buck I shot was a pretty nice eight-point. In most other years, I would have been ecstatic. For the area I hunt, he was probably better than average. But my 2016 deer was an absolute monster. And a recent trip out West also resulted in a phenomenal bucket-list deer. With time for reflection, it is sad how our expectations can get reset, even if only temporarily. I fully realize that within a year or so, expectations will be returned back to normal - and I'll be thrilled with a doe and probably much later in the season.
Something else ended with the shot on that eight-point buck. The fall scramble ended. After a day spent processing the deer - gosh I am slow at that - I realized my time horizon has opened up considerably. I had scheduled lots of vacation time for hunting, and I have too much vacation to burn before the end of the year. But the fall scramble is over. The fall scramble ended abruptly with the report of a .243 Winchester. Cabin fever may be next.
It is Thanksgiving. I took my dog for a long walk at first light. Temperatures were significantly below freezing. The wind was putting just a small bite in the air. I heard gunfire off to the west - almost a certainty it was someone deer hunting. It was the kind of morning that begs for hunting, if one has the right gear for it. For now, the freezer is full of venison. I am very thankful. I am very fortunate.
Sunday, November 12, 2017
The Billionaire's Vinegar (and the thousandaire's giclee)
"And you drove there?" my manager asked me. My manager couldn't seem to fathom that I drove to Wyoming.
While definitely not the same as going cross country on my motorcycle, I actually enjoy the expeditions in my four-wheeled vehicle. The trip out allows me some time to mentally prepare by shedding thoughts about work and home. It allows me an opportunity to mentally prepare for what I'm traveling for. The trip home gives me time to reflect - to replay events in my mind and begin to see what will stick in my memory, and what I'll be glad I've written down as I'll be sure to forget it otherwise.
These trips also allow me to read/listen to audiobooks. I often ponder if reading a physical book is the same as listening to it. I've decided it isn't; it is only a close facsimile. I won't claim to be able to explain this, but I see reading a book on a Kindle or Nook to be more similar to audiobooks than the physical book. Paper books have a tactile, almost sensualness to them that any form of digital media just doesn't have - the difference between the plastic house plant and the real one. Both can look good, but they are not equivalent.
One of the books I listened to on my westward direction was The Billionaire's Vinegar by Benjamin Wallace. I don't remember where I originally heard about this book, but I found it utterly fascinating. It recounts the tale of a 1787 Lafite bordeaux supposedly owned by Thomas Jefferson, and delves into the cosmos of ultra-rare wine collecting. Like any niche-world, this is not an arena to enter into without knowing what one is getting into; it would appear to be a world where trivial differences can be the split between something outrageously valuable and something of no value except as decoration or a conversation piece. Fraud can be rampant, with profits to be made if one is discreet (google Rudy Kurniawan...). Arguably, many of these rare, old wines taste good only because they are rare and old.
The Billionaire's Vinegar was so good, I started to listen to it on the return trip, but got home before the second read was done.
Ultra rare wine collecting sounds like a sister to fine art collecting. I've never really understood art - where the value of something is so dependent, not on the thing itself, but on the person who created it. A dusty painting from hundreds of years ago may be worth nothing, even if it appears to be a really good painting, if the artist is an unknown. A painting of similar aesthetic value from Matisse or Steen could be priceless.
I enjoy watching Antiques Roadshow, and it isn't unusual for a participant to bring in a work of art they see as "ugly" only to say something to the effect of, "I'm starting to really like this now!" when the appraiser tells them it is worth thousands of dollars. (Just how often are Antiques Roadshow appraisals grossly wrong?) It seems if a painting has aesthetic value, it should be worth something. And if it is ugly, it shouldn't? Perhaps I am just a philistine when it comes to these things. I am...
A relative gave me a "painting" of a leopard a few years ago. Except it isn't a painting at all, but a "giclee" - which is an expensive way of saying an ink-jet printing on canvas, possibly touched in a few places by a brush and maybe even a penned signature. It came with a Certificate of Authenticity and an "appraisal" which put its value at hundreds of dollars. I can find other giclees - or seriolithographs - of this image online for even more, approaching several thousands of dollars from "fine art" websites. Or I can find it on Ebay for a few few tens of dollars. How much is the used car worth? My former boss used to tell customers that it is worth what someone will pay for it.
A web search of the art seller, who also happens to be the appraiser, quickly shows the value of their certificate and what their valued opinion is worth.
While definitely not the same as going cross country on my motorcycle, I actually enjoy the expeditions in my four-wheeled vehicle. The trip out allows me some time to mentally prepare by shedding thoughts about work and home. It allows me an opportunity to mentally prepare for what I'm traveling for. The trip home gives me time to reflect - to replay events in my mind and begin to see what will stick in my memory, and what I'll be glad I've written down as I'll be sure to forget it otherwise.
These trips also allow me to read/listen to audiobooks. I often ponder if reading a physical book is the same as listening to it. I've decided it isn't; it is only a close facsimile. I won't claim to be able to explain this, but I see reading a book on a Kindle or Nook to be more similar to audiobooks than the physical book. Paper books have a tactile, almost sensualness to them that any form of digital media just doesn't have - the difference between the plastic house plant and the real one. Both can look good, but they are not equivalent.
One of the books I listened to on my westward direction was The Billionaire's Vinegar by Benjamin Wallace. I don't remember where I originally heard about this book, but I found it utterly fascinating. It recounts the tale of a 1787 Lafite bordeaux supposedly owned by Thomas Jefferson, and delves into the cosmos of ultra-rare wine collecting. Like any niche-world, this is not an arena to enter into without knowing what one is getting into; it would appear to be a world where trivial differences can be the split between something outrageously valuable and something of no value except as decoration or a conversation piece. Fraud can be rampant, with profits to be made if one is discreet (google Rudy Kurniawan...). Arguably, many of these rare, old wines taste good only because they are rare and old.
The Billionaire's Vinegar was so good, I started to listen to it on the return trip, but got home before the second read was done.
Ultra rare wine collecting sounds like a sister to fine art collecting. I've never really understood art - where the value of something is so dependent, not on the thing itself, but on the person who created it. A dusty painting from hundreds of years ago may be worth nothing, even if it appears to be a really good painting, if the artist is an unknown. A painting of similar aesthetic value from Matisse or Steen could be priceless.
I enjoy watching Antiques Roadshow, and it isn't unusual for a participant to bring in a work of art they see as "ugly" only to say something to the effect of, "I'm starting to really like this now!" when the appraiser tells them it is worth thousands of dollars. (Just how often are Antiques Roadshow appraisals grossly wrong?) It seems if a painting has aesthetic value, it should be worth something. And if it is ugly, it shouldn't? Perhaps I am just a philistine when it comes to these things. I am...
A relative gave me a "painting" of a leopard a few years ago. Except it isn't a painting at all, but a "giclee" - which is an expensive way of saying an ink-jet printing on canvas, possibly touched in a few places by a brush and maybe even a penned signature. It came with a Certificate of Authenticity and an "appraisal" which put its value at hundreds of dollars. I can find other giclees - or seriolithographs - of this image online for even more, approaching several thousands of dollars from "fine art" websites. Or I can find it on Ebay for a few few tens of dollars. How much is the used car worth? My former boss used to tell customers that it is worth what someone will pay for it.
A web search of the art seller, who also happens to be the appraiser, quickly shows the value of their certificate and what their valued opinion is worth.
- "... as well as a giclée of leopards by Andrew Bone to a man wearing a Yankees T-shirt for $1,025. (When I spoke to the Yankees fan later, he referred to the purchase as a “painting on canvas,” and I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.)"
I originally felt somewhat obligated to hang the leopard giclee up in the house, but even if it has some aesthetic value, it just doesn't look right anywhere in the house. An African leopard in a house filled with North American taxidermy looks more than a little out of place. Many would question my choice for decoration and I understand that. But I'm also very aware that any offense aside, my art choice has value to me and me alone - an aesthetic reminder of my experiences rather than intrinsic worth.
The leopard print is relegated to the basement, and if the market for seriolithographs ever takes off and I end up on Antiques Roadshow, I'm not sure I'll be able to say I like it more.
Friday, October 13, 2017
Rules
Draco says:
- All push pins will be clear, white or blue. No push pins of other colors may be used.
- Meat will consist of one chicken or one duck per person per week. Venison may be substituted between October and December only.
- All vehicles will be rear wheel drive. For persons of sufficient means, all wheel drive may be substituted.
- Lawn mowing will conclude each year by November 10. Mowing the lawn after November 10 will result is immediate property loss.
- No alcohol of any kind will be tolerated.
- Teeth will be brushed both morning and evening, one tooth brush per individual. Tooth brushes must never be shared.
- Dolphins found in the Great Lakes must not be harmed.
- All signatures will be done in blue or black ink. Signatures in pencil or ink of any other color are invalid.
- Only barbless hooks may be used in the taking of fish. Nets maybe used in the landing of fish, but not as the primary means of fishing.
- Management will write one memo detailing the previous three weeks of work every other week. The memo will be one single-spaced page - no more, no less.
- The thermostat will be set at 76 or above during times where cooling is needed, and at 65 or below when heating is needed.
- The day's work may begin at any time. However, lights must remain dimmed until after 6:00AM. No office work is to be done on Saturday or Sunday.
- Bread must contain whole wheat as the primary ingredient.
- The combination of any citrus fruit or any part of any citrus fruit with any meat or fish is considered unfit for human consumption.
- Dogs must not be allowed to sleep outside at night. If a house has a dog, that house must have a minimum of two dogs.
- All domiciles will be cleaned on every weekend. The only exception is when a house is not occupied for the entirity of both Saturday and Sunday. Cleaning procedures will be detailed separately.
- File reconciliation will occur in January of each year. Non-critical documents created prior to the previous year will be purged and shredded or burned.
- Anytime Friday falls on the 13th of the month, it will be considered a paid holiday.
Saturday, October 7, 2017
The Art of Demotivation - In Practice
Everyone has done it. Parents to children. Coworkers to colleagues. Friends to eachother.
Everyone has occasionally called someone by the wrong name or briefly failed to recall the name of the person they are looking at. I'll admit to being terrible with names of people I've newly met.
But it felt more nefarious when a manager at work called me by another name recently.
This will be the second consecutive post which relates to work - and I don't write about work.
I'm in a position which is both enviable and worthy of sympathy. My management at work doesn't really care about my role. They've made that abundantly clear by ignoring an increasing percentage of stuff related to what I'm working on in the nearly two years since I moved into my current job. There are still some check-the-box HR exercises and I still talk with them, but my job is largely a bottomless void. Bottomless void also implies that something rolls downhill - and it does.
This is enviable since it means they largely leave me alone. This is worthy of sympathy since it means I'm quite sure I'm superfluous. Or perhaps more realistically, I'm doing work which needs to get done - and the best possible outcome from a management perspective is nobody hears about it. I may be a hairs breath away from being ignored right out of a paycheck.
I sometimes wonder if I may be slipping into the nothingness described in Harlan Ellison's short story "Are You Listening?" It describes a man so mundane and average that he loses his existance - until he meets another man of the same fate. Maybe there are other people at work who nobody has seen for years, but continue to dutifully show up every day.
David Bolchover writes about this in his book The Living Dead: Switched Off, Zoned Out. Mr. Bolchover was employed for years, where he freely admits he was doing almost nothing. He relates that he was largely forgotten about. There is another distinct possibility in that his management may have thought it was easier to give Mr. Bolchover unlimited freedom and a paycheck, rather than deal with his situation. One thing I've learned over the years is that management really are human, and with the same limited energy to deal with difficult situations as everyone else. If something isn't an immediate problem, ignoring it until it either becomes one or goes away may be a viable strategy - even if a feeble one. A third possibility is that Mr. Bolchover could be a painful person to work with. I've never met him and know nothing about him. But I've seen difficult people be sidelined with roles that basically separate them from the normal population. The corporate equivalent to solitary confinement.
Regardless, his point is a real one. How much of the work going on is critically important? It is too easy for the tasks to expand to fill the time, rather than the time being well used at the work that needs to be done.
I have stuff to do. I'm competent at most of it, good at some of it. But the overall management sentiment seems to be one of ambivelance.
I don't read many work/management books, but in addition to Bolchover's The Living Dead and Fisman and Sullivan's The Org (a highly recommended book which helps explains why large organizations devolve into the same painful, gelatinous mass), I read E.L. Kersten's The Art of Demotivation with great interest.
I'm really not sure how to classify The Art of Demotivation. The book explains how to get more out of employees by demotivating them to a level somewhere just above the ground snail. I'd like to believe Kersten's The Art of Demotivation is a completely satirical look at the pop culture of management books, celebrity business people, and self-help about how to "do more with less" as a manager. But I can't. I have seen far too many of Mr. Kersten's techniques practiced at work and far too often. Sadly, I suspect many of the proletariat in a global corporation could say this. So while it may not be a serious how-to book for up-and-coming managers, it may be a third person how-I-got-here for too many managers.
One of the strategies Mr. Kersten suggests in a couple of different places in the book is to "forget" the names of subordinates - and to do this frequently. Employing this strategy, he even demonstrates this gem in the Acknowlegements:
"I also need to give credit to my research assistants Robert (or Roger?) from Massachusetts and the redhead with the eyebrow piercing. They tracked down numerous references, checked the accuracy of quotations, and were a constant source of inspiration. Naturally, any errors and omissions in the final manuscript are their fault."
So given the current ambivalent demotivation at work, when my manager called me the wrong name, in writing, I raised an eyebrow. He has known me for well over five years. We've worked close enough in the past that we've nearly come to fisticuffs (slight exageration). Making it worse, he called me by the name of a colleague who is leaving the organization. And his subsequent follow through was nearly delayed enough to be irrelevant with silence since.
But I won't complain. In a training earlier this year, the speaker, who is both interesting to listen to and the rare individual who is actually motivating, said that he wanted, "...the most important project that is not on management's radar." I'm definitely not there, but I can still revel in being left alone.
Everyone has occasionally called someone by the wrong name or briefly failed to recall the name of the person they are looking at. I'll admit to being terrible with names of people I've newly met.
But it felt more nefarious when a manager at work called me by another name recently.
This will be the second consecutive post which relates to work - and I don't write about work.
I'm in a position which is both enviable and worthy of sympathy. My management at work doesn't really care about my role. They've made that abundantly clear by ignoring an increasing percentage of stuff related to what I'm working on in the nearly two years since I moved into my current job. There are still some check-the-box HR exercises and I still talk with them, but my job is largely a bottomless void. Bottomless void also implies that something rolls downhill - and it does.
This is enviable since it means they largely leave me alone. This is worthy of sympathy since it means I'm quite sure I'm superfluous. Or perhaps more realistically, I'm doing work which needs to get done - and the best possible outcome from a management perspective is nobody hears about it. I may be a hairs breath away from being ignored right out of a paycheck.
I sometimes wonder if I may be slipping into the nothingness described in Harlan Ellison's short story "Are You Listening?" It describes a man so mundane and average that he loses his existance - until he meets another man of the same fate. Maybe there are other people at work who nobody has seen for years, but continue to dutifully show up every day.
David Bolchover writes about this in his book The Living Dead: Switched Off, Zoned Out. Mr. Bolchover was employed for years, where he freely admits he was doing almost nothing. He relates that he was largely forgotten about. There is another distinct possibility in that his management may have thought it was easier to give Mr. Bolchover unlimited freedom and a paycheck, rather than deal with his situation. One thing I've learned over the years is that management really are human, and with the same limited energy to deal with difficult situations as everyone else. If something isn't an immediate problem, ignoring it until it either becomes one or goes away may be a viable strategy - even if a feeble one. A third possibility is that Mr. Bolchover could be a painful person to work with. I've never met him and know nothing about him. But I've seen difficult people be sidelined with roles that basically separate them from the normal population. The corporate equivalent to solitary confinement.
Regardless, his point is a real one. How much of the work going on is critically important? It is too easy for the tasks to expand to fill the time, rather than the time being well used at the work that needs to be done.
I have stuff to do. I'm competent at most of it, good at some of it. But the overall management sentiment seems to be one of ambivelance.
I don't read many work/management books, but in addition to Bolchover's The Living Dead and Fisman and Sullivan's The Org (a highly recommended book which helps explains why large organizations devolve into the same painful, gelatinous mass), I read E.L. Kersten's The Art of Demotivation with great interest.
I'm really not sure how to classify The Art of Demotivation. The book explains how to get more out of employees by demotivating them to a level somewhere just above the ground snail. I'd like to believe Kersten's The Art of Demotivation is a completely satirical look at the pop culture of management books, celebrity business people, and self-help about how to "do more with less" as a manager. But I can't. I have seen far too many of Mr. Kersten's techniques practiced at work and far too often. Sadly, I suspect many of the proletariat in a global corporation could say this. So while it may not be a serious how-to book for up-and-coming managers, it may be a third person how-I-got-here for too many managers.
One of the strategies Mr. Kersten suggests in a couple of different places in the book is to "forget" the names of subordinates - and to do this frequently. Employing this strategy, he even demonstrates this gem in the Acknowlegements:
"I also need to give credit to my research assistants Robert (or Roger?) from Massachusetts and the redhead with the eyebrow piercing. They tracked down numerous references, checked the accuracy of quotations, and were a constant source of inspiration. Naturally, any errors and omissions in the final manuscript are their fault."
So given the current ambivalent demotivation at work, when my manager called me the wrong name, in writing, I raised an eyebrow. He has known me for well over five years. We've worked close enough in the past that we've nearly come to fisticuffs (slight exageration). Making it worse, he called me by the name of a colleague who is leaving the organization. And his subsequent follow through was nearly delayed enough to be irrelevant with silence since.
But I won't complain. In a training earlier this year, the speaker, who is both interesting to listen to and the rare individual who is actually motivating, said that he wanted, "...the most important project that is not on management's radar." I'm definitely not there, but I can still revel in being left alone.
Saturday, September 30, 2017
Work Social Functions
My work had a half day social function at a local brew-pub where everyone was "strongly encouraged" to go. I did not go.
I seem to be infected with some idiopathic melancholy torpor recently. I guess that is a very verbose way of saying that I haven't been in the best of moods and for no reason. I will chalk this up to nothing more than the ebb and flow of Midlife Malaise; likely just a local minima that will be gotten over quickly, or certainly no later than vacation which isn't too far off.
I'm not sure that hindsight brings clarity, or if it just brings a new wrong perspective, but I tried to think back on which years were overall good and which were overall bad. That kind of binary categorization is impossible, so I created an arbitrary scale to do this.
I started it in high school - as the floor for how bad things could be. There are many situations that could be worse than high school, but it still represents some kind of sub-basement for mental well-being.
There is a lot of noise in any given year, with some highs and some lows, but college was definitely a high point - potentially even artificially so. Constantly on the steep side of the learning curve. Always busy - trying to work and go to school full-time. A lot of interesting friendships, even if some of them were short-lived and/or alcohol fueled. No public shaming due to wearing the wrong shoes. Even college-poverty wasn't too bad since there was a group catharsis in not having any money.
Graduation brought a somewhat painful job search, and eventual employment in a vocation relevant to my degree. While this should have been even better than college, I was hired into a really, really bad situation. "Oh, what have I gotten myself into."
I wasn't sure full employment could have gotten worse while still drawing a paycheck, but it did. At this point, the fish started to finally see the water he was swimming in...
A change to a new job brought renewed hope that college wasn't wasted and was almost certainly worth the time, energy and money that went into it.
Things progressed along until the onset of Midlife Malaise. Is this really it? Thankfully, this drop in mental well-being isn't continuously permanant.
But this exercise does bring up an interesting point. When talking about the midlife crisis, experts usually show a "U-Curve" with a minimum for life satisfaction somewhere around the late 40's to early 50's. This may be right in aggregate, but for any one individual, there is a lot of noise - with life positives along with the negatives. I suppose some of these can even happen simultaneously. The low in the "U" may actually represent the depth and frequency of the low points in the noise.
More malaise can bring things down when it lasts beyond a certain amount of time. The new house has overall been an improvement but was somewhat offset by the painful selling of the old house. I sometimes wonder if I'm destined to live next to noisy people, or if everywhere just has noisy people?
I'm not sure if I'll still think this when I look back in a few years, but the last couple years have been fine. Not great, but not bad either.
Still, adult life can get pretty monotonous.
While I would like to believe that life's dizzying highs and crushing lows appear to be smoothing out as I get older, it is probably dangerous to think that. Involuntarily losing my job or being put in prison would probably be a new crushing low. A financial windfall or falling ass-backwards into a perfect job could be a new dizzying high. Outside of something like that, it does appear that life's highs and lows are smoothing out as I get older - and maybe that is where the midlife malaise begins to taper off. Maybe.
Instead of going to the work social outing at the brew-pub, I sat forlornly at my desk and kept busy. It isn't that my workload is so heinous that I couldn't afford the time to go, I just didn't want to, and I'm approaching a place in my life where that sometimes takes precedence. Far too often, I have ended up trapped at these types of work functions talking with someone I really did not want to talk to or talking about a subject I really don't have any interest in talking about - sometimes both. The conversations that I may want to have are nearly impossible with the threat of management around every corner; standing around without anything relevant to say is a near certainty.
The situation can also be very similar to the grocery store where I run into a casual acquaintance. After the requisite banal pleasantries, we both return to picking out onions and mangos, inspecting them intently to avoid eye contact again - only to run into this same person in the potato chip aisle. And the frozen food aisle... When it happens the third time, I almost want to confront the situation and scream, "Look, one of us is going to have to finish grocery shopping another day because this continued interaction is just getting terrible for both of us." Throw in enough brew-pub alcohol to be annoying, without enough for sufficient social lubrication and these things can just get painful.
While my life has no shortage of awkward interactions, I just don't see the need to purposefully put myself in those situations. Yes, I'd rather just stay at work.
I seem to be infected with some idiopathic melancholy torpor recently. I guess that is a very verbose way of saying that I haven't been in the best of moods and for no reason. I will chalk this up to nothing more than the ebb and flow of Midlife Malaise; likely just a local minima that will be gotten over quickly, or certainly no later than vacation which isn't too far off.
I'm not sure that hindsight brings clarity, or if it just brings a new wrong perspective, but I tried to think back on which years were overall good and which were overall bad. That kind of binary categorization is impossible, so I created an arbitrary scale to do this.
I started it in high school - as the floor for how bad things could be. There are many situations that could be worse than high school, but it still represents some kind of sub-basement for mental well-being.
There is a lot of noise in any given year, with some highs and some lows, but college was definitely a high point - potentially even artificially so. Constantly on the steep side of the learning curve. Always busy - trying to work and go to school full-time. A lot of interesting friendships, even if some of them were short-lived and/or alcohol fueled. No public shaming due to wearing the wrong shoes. Even college-poverty wasn't too bad since there was a group catharsis in not having any money.
Graduation brought a somewhat painful job search, and eventual employment in a vocation relevant to my degree. While this should have been even better than college, I was hired into a really, really bad situation. "Oh, what have I gotten myself into."
I wasn't sure full employment could have gotten worse while still drawing a paycheck, but it did. At this point, the fish started to finally see the water he was swimming in...
A change to a new job brought renewed hope that college wasn't wasted and was almost certainly worth the time, energy and money that went into it.
Things progressed along until the onset of Midlife Malaise. Is this really it? Thankfully, this drop in mental well-being isn't continuously permanant.
But this exercise does bring up an interesting point. When talking about the midlife crisis, experts usually show a "U-Curve" with a minimum for life satisfaction somewhere around the late 40's to early 50's. This may be right in aggregate, but for any one individual, there is a lot of noise - with life positives along with the negatives. I suppose some of these can even happen simultaneously. The low in the "U" may actually represent the depth and frequency of the low points in the noise.
More malaise can bring things down when it lasts beyond a certain amount of time. The new house has overall been an improvement but was somewhat offset by the painful selling of the old house. I sometimes wonder if I'm destined to live next to noisy people, or if everywhere just has noisy people?
I'm not sure if I'll still think this when I look back in a few years, but the last couple years have been fine. Not great, but not bad either.
Still, adult life can get pretty monotonous.
While I would like to believe that life's dizzying highs and crushing lows appear to be smoothing out as I get older, it is probably dangerous to think that. Involuntarily losing my job or being put in prison would probably be a new crushing low. A financial windfall or falling ass-backwards into a perfect job could be a new dizzying high. Outside of something like that, it does appear that life's highs and lows are smoothing out as I get older - and maybe that is where the midlife malaise begins to taper off. Maybe.
Instead of going to the work social outing at the brew-pub, I sat forlornly at my desk and kept busy. It isn't that my workload is so heinous that I couldn't afford the time to go, I just didn't want to, and I'm approaching a place in my life where that sometimes takes precedence. Far too often, I have ended up trapped at these types of work functions talking with someone I really did not want to talk to or talking about a subject I really don't have any interest in talking about - sometimes both. The conversations that I may want to have are nearly impossible with the threat of management around every corner; standing around without anything relevant to say is a near certainty.
The situation can also be very similar to the grocery store where I run into a casual acquaintance. After the requisite banal pleasantries, we both return to picking out onions and mangos, inspecting them intently to avoid eye contact again - only to run into this same person in the potato chip aisle. And the frozen food aisle... When it happens the third time, I almost want to confront the situation and scream, "Look, one of us is going to have to finish grocery shopping another day because this continued interaction is just getting terrible for both of us." Throw in enough brew-pub alcohol to be annoying, without enough for sufficient social lubrication and these things can just get painful.
While my life has no shortage of awkward interactions, I just don't see the need to purposefully put myself in those situations. Yes, I'd rather just stay at work.
Saturday, September 23, 2017
It's Good To Have Farmer Friends
Fall started this past week, but it sure doesn't feel like it. Temperatures have been in a summer-like range of near 90F. This is matched with a July humidity, bringing late afternoon pop-up rain and thunderstorms. I think the air conditioner has run more in September than in August. A heat wave is defined by dictionary.com as: a prolonged period of abnormally hot weather - which seems to qualify. The World Meteorological Organization has specified that a true heat wave must be at least five consecutive days where the maximum temperature exceeds the average by nine degrees. So a finger-wagging meteorologist may point out that it isn't really a heat wave yet, but it has been steamy. Al Gore says this is inconvenient as he continues to live a delightful 1% lifestyle.
It was seven years ago right now when the agreements were signed to buy my current house. That day was hot as well, but it was a more typical late summer dry heat. Among the things I didn't think too much about when I bought my house was the wadi running through the property. Buying a house is fraught with unseen pitfalls. Nothing will prepare someone for the reality of moving into a new place. Real estate disclosures will be cloaked in words to minimize negatives while following the letter of the law. Home inspectors make money on home sales - realtors will never recommend inspectors who honestly show all flaws resulting in more difficult home sales. The home-selling industry is designed around making unlikely sales go through. The buyer and seller are just along for the ride at some point. But I have no complaints about my current house; nothing beyond a minor annoyance has reared its ugly head and after seven years, any issues at this point are mine and mine alone.
Over the last seven years, the wadi behind the house has slowly filled it. My back yard is in a local low spot so it sees a fair amount of water. When I moved in, the ditch was fairly deep and held quite a bit of water. Over that time, it has slowly filled in with silt and dirt. This has been exasperated by drain tile that has failed. From what I understand, there was a county project years ago which ran two drain tiles on either side of the wadi along its whole length (including far beyond my property line). This drain tile has had multiple failures. Two years ago, the result was a nearly year-round swamp.
"You don't know how lucky you are to live by a swamp." Vic (Dan Aykroyd from the movie Neighbors)
I ended up digging a small trench from the fail drain tile to what remained of the wadi which deswampified the back yard, but created new minor issues as the wadi was largely flat.
In theory, I lease out the back part of my property for farming by a local farmer. In practice, he has successfully traded capital improvements every year instead of actually paying me. The actual dollar amount wouldn't be much so I'm OK with it, but the last two years he had issues doing what he said he would do. This occasionally rankled me. I asked him to dig out the wadi, not knowing if he was going to, but a few days ago he showed up with his backhoe, digging out a nice smooth trench. I was thrilled. This also gave me piles of dirt to fill in some low spots in my yard, especially where the dogs have dug to get at some critter.
I have been surprised how much water has infiltrated the wadi already given the lack of any real rain. No doubt this is due to the failed drain tile. It will be interesting to see what happens to this in the spring.
A secondary benefit of the return of the wadi is that I was able to bush-mow the property right up tot he edge of the ditch. This will make it look better all winter and will help keep both weeds and vermin down.
A lot of the rural roads in the area are being repaired (and I use the term loosely) by chip seal. I first encountered chip seal on my motorcycle road trip to Alaska and learned to live with it in the barely unfrozen North. Locally though, they use a phenomenal amount of gravel compared to the scarcity mentality I saw in the Yukon. There were piles and ridges of gravel several inches deep in some places. I was almost home riding through the stuff with serious pucker-factor when a nearby neighbor started tail-gating me. I'm not sure if she knew it was me or not, but it didn't help the situation much. On a heavy motorcycle, recently layed chip seal might as well be a loose gravel road. It might as well be a greased road.
Once swept up and hardened, chip seal isn't too bad, but I'll probably be going out of my way to avoid some of the worst roads, especially the ones that are lightly travelled where it may be weeks before excess gravel is swept up.
I guess even with the hot weather, the chip seal is a sign of the changing seasons. Leaves are starting to fall. Bean fields are becoming yellow. Corn is dying. Maybe fall is here?
It was seven years ago right now when the agreements were signed to buy my current house. That day was hot as well, but it was a more typical late summer dry heat. Among the things I didn't think too much about when I bought my house was the wadi running through the property. Buying a house is fraught with unseen pitfalls. Nothing will prepare someone for the reality of moving into a new place. Real estate disclosures will be cloaked in words to minimize negatives while following the letter of the law. Home inspectors make money on home sales - realtors will never recommend inspectors who honestly show all flaws resulting in more difficult home sales. The home-selling industry is designed around making unlikely sales go through. The buyer and seller are just along for the ride at some point. But I have no complaints about my current house; nothing beyond a minor annoyance has reared its ugly head and after seven years, any issues at this point are mine and mine alone.
Over the last seven years, the wadi behind the house has slowly filled it. My back yard is in a local low spot so it sees a fair amount of water. When I moved in, the ditch was fairly deep and held quite a bit of water. Over that time, it has slowly filled in with silt and dirt. This has been exasperated by drain tile that has failed. From what I understand, there was a county project years ago which ran two drain tiles on either side of the wadi along its whole length (including far beyond my property line). This drain tile has had multiple failures. Two years ago, the result was a nearly year-round swamp.
"You don't know how lucky you are to live by a swamp." Vic (Dan Aykroyd from the movie Neighbors)
I ended up digging a small trench from the fail drain tile to what remained of the wadi which deswampified the back yard, but created new minor issues as the wadi was largely flat.
In theory, I lease out the back part of my property for farming by a local farmer. In practice, he has successfully traded capital improvements every year instead of actually paying me. The actual dollar amount wouldn't be much so I'm OK with it, but the last two years he had issues doing what he said he would do. This occasionally rankled me. I asked him to dig out the wadi, not knowing if he was going to, but a few days ago he showed up with his backhoe, digging out a nice smooth trench. I was thrilled. This also gave me piles of dirt to fill in some low spots in my yard, especially where the dogs have dug to get at some critter.
I have been surprised how much water has infiltrated the wadi already given the lack of any real rain. No doubt this is due to the failed drain tile. It will be interesting to see what happens to this in the spring.
A secondary benefit of the return of the wadi is that I was able to bush-mow the property right up tot he edge of the ditch. This will make it look better all winter and will help keep both weeds and vermin down.
A lot of the rural roads in the area are being repaired (and I use the term loosely) by chip seal. I first encountered chip seal on my motorcycle road trip to Alaska and learned to live with it in the barely unfrozen North. Locally though, they use a phenomenal amount of gravel compared to the scarcity mentality I saw in the Yukon. There were piles and ridges of gravel several inches deep in some places. I was almost home riding through the stuff with serious pucker-factor when a nearby neighbor started tail-gating me. I'm not sure if she knew it was me or not, but it didn't help the situation much. On a heavy motorcycle, recently layed chip seal might as well be a loose gravel road. It might as well be a greased road.
Once swept up and hardened, chip seal isn't too bad, but I'll probably be going out of my way to avoid some of the worst roads, especially the ones that are lightly travelled where it may be weeks before excess gravel is swept up.
I guess even with the hot weather, the chip seal is a sign of the changing seasons. Leaves are starting to fall. Bean fields are becoming yellow. Corn is dying. Maybe fall is here?
Sunday, September 17, 2017
Other People's Dirt
This past week was consumed by a funeral for a member of SO's family. He had some health problems, but it was sudden. This was the second death in the family this year. While I heard it many times, I managed to go through the whole event without saying something like, "Nice to see you, wish it wasn't under these circumstances." This is the funeral corollary to, "It is a good thing we have weather since most people couldn't start a conversation without it" - often attributed to Mark Twain.
There were many pictures at the visitation and funeral. And for the first time in a quite some time, I saw what I always presumed was the high school senior picture of the deceased. I clearly remembering seeing this picture on one of my first visits to SO's home town and parent's house. My impression at that time was that he looked impossibly old in that picture. Only a few years removed from high school myself at that time, I thought my senior picture looked like an immature child in comparison. I also barely saw the resemblance to him.
The dogs accompanied us on the trip to the funeral. They add a lot of aggravation, but I hate kenneling them when they don't need to be and they offer a nice diversion. I was mostly a piece of furniture at the visitation - sitting there taking up space as throngs of people that I did not know passed by. A few glanced and nodded at me, as they would look at a couch and wonder about the utility of such an uncomfortable object.
"I am going to run back to let the dogs out for a few minutes."
We stayed at a friend of the family's house. It was a nice house on a rural road. It reminded me a lot of my own house. Comfortable. Imperfect. It was extremely generous that the dogs were embraced there. It was extremely generous that I was embraced there, but the chance of me peeing on the carpet was considerably lower. Considering the beagles' happy, boring routine, having a place to risk taking two dogs was extremely hospitable in addition to just being able to stay there.
The dogs behaved wonderfully - not only at the house but through the entire few chaotic days.
Looking at the few houses I was in around the time of the funeral, I was struck how immune we can get to our own hovels. I couldn't take my eyes off a few cracks in the walls; we all have some cracks in our walls. Maybe because they were so noticeable, but maybe because my own house has very similar cracks. I'm comfortable with a little bit of grubbiness. There is definitely a line that doesn't want to be crossed, but being in a pristine house with almost nothing out of place and little evidence of anyone being alive is suffocating. Sitting in a place like that is like sitting at a funeral visitation while knowing almost no one.
I ran out of topics for the few people I did know soon. I am, quite frankly, not very interesting. Funerals make for the most painful small talk.
I'm socially awkward, not socially inept. There were a few social blunders that I'm quite sure I'll be perseverating on for a while.
At the other end of the scale from immaculate house is the dwelling that hasn't been touched outside of the bare minimum for decades. I try not to judge. Not everything has the same value to everyone.
I think we could sort of measure what’s important to us by what we bother to keep stored.
But staring at that high school picture of the deceased, I saw something different. Maybe my original impression was different at that time since black and white photographs bring with them an aura of sentimentality. Maybe it was due to my self impressions at the time - and now. I'm now over twice the age of that snapshot in time.
The funeral further convinced me what I already knew - we all have a dangerously flawed self-perception.
Or maybe it is due to the realization that everyone is faking it almost every single day. I looked around at some of the family members I barely know - so many of them look like they have it all together. A black suit will do that to a person. I know that many of them don't have it all together; some of them likely barely have the pieces sewn together behind the smile, nice car and perfect hair.
One elderly grandmother family member said the bit of grey hair I had made me look distinguished. I wonder if that was supposed to be a compliment? At her age, I'm not sure intentions are quite so deliberate.
Life goes on. Despite my bad choice of words, SO's aunt agreed with me.
There were many pictures at the visitation and funeral. And for the first time in a quite some time, I saw what I always presumed was the high school senior picture of the deceased. I clearly remembering seeing this picture on one of my first visits to SO's home town and parent's house. My impression at that time was that he looked impossibly old in that picture. Only a few years removed from high school myself at that time, I thought my senior picture looked like an immature child in comparison. I also barely saw the resemblance to him.
The dogs accompanied us on the trip to the funeral. They add a lot of aggravation, but I hate kenneling them when they don't need to be and they offer a nice diversion. I was mostly a piece of furniture at the visitation - sitting there taking up space as throngs of people that I did not know passed by. A few glanced and nodded at me, as they would look at a couch and wonder about the utility of such an uncomfortable object.
"I am going to run back to let the dogs out for a few minutes."
We stayed at a friend of the family's house. It was a nice house on a rural road. It reminded me a lot of my own house. Comfortable. Imperfect. It was extremely generous that the dogs were embraced there. It was extremely generous that I was embraced there, but the chance of me peeing on the carpet was considerably lower. Considering the beagles' happy, boring routine, having a place to risk taking two dogs was extremely hospitable in addition to just being able to stay there.
The dogs behaved wonderfully - not only at the house but through the entire few chaotic days.
Looking at the few houses I was in around the time of the funeral, I was struck how immune we can get to our own hovels. I couldn't take my eyes off a few cracks in the walls; we all have some cracks in our walls. Maybe because they were so noticeable, but maybe because my own house has very similar cracks. I'm comfortable with a little bit of grubbiness. There is definitely a line that doesn't want to be crossed, but being in a pristine house with almost nothing out of place and little evidence of anyone being alive is suffocating. Sitting in a place like that is like sitting at a funeral visitation while knowing almost no one.
I ran out of topics for the few people I did know soon. I am, quite frankly, not very interesting. Funerals make for the most painful small talk.
I'm socially awkward, not socially inept. There were a few social blunders that I'm quite sure I'll be perseverating on for a while.
At the other end of the scale from immaculate house is the dwelling that hasn't been touched outside of the bare minimum for decades. I try not to judge. Not everything has the same value to everyone.
I think we could sort of measure what’s important to us by what we bother to keep stored.
But staring at that high school picture of the deceased, I saw something different. Maybe my original impression was different at that time since black and white photographs bring with them an aura of sentimentality. Maybe it was due to my self impressions at the time - and now. I'm now over twice the age of that snapshot in time.
The funeral further convinced me what I already knew - we all have a dangerously flawed self-perception.
Or maybe it is due to the realization that everyone is faking it almost every single day. I looked around at some of the family members I barely know - so many of them look like they have it all together. A black suit will do that to a person. I know that many of them don't have it all together; some of them likely barely have the pieces sewn together behind the smile, nice car and perfect hair.
One elderly grandmother family member said the bit of grey hair I had made me look distinguished. I wonder if that was supposed to be a compliment? At her age, I'm not sure intentions are quite so deliberate.
Life goes on. Despite my bad choice of words, SO's aunt agreed with me.
Friday, September 8, 2017
Honor Flight (and some thoughts on volunteering)
I originally heard about Honor Flight from the PBS TV Show Our Ohio. I used to watch this show somewhat regularly. Our Ohio is still on TV, but it does not appear that any new episodes have been made in a long time. Or at least every time I see it when flipping past, it is one I easily recognize as something I've previously seen.
I signed up to be a volunteer guardian for Honor Flight several years ago. I knew there was a backlog and so I wasn't surprised when I didn't hear much for a long time. Then there were a few contacts about needing guardians for upcoming flights, but they were for times when it wouldn't work out for me. This was followed by a prolonged period of time when I assumed I must have been dropped from the list. As it turned out, flights had nearly stopped due to a lack of funds. It shouldn't be too surprising that programs like Honor Flight are in greater need of money than volunteers.
A few weeks ago another call went out for guardians and as the time would work well enough for me, I agreed to participate. Training was to be held right after vacation and was listed as "optional," but I just could not see doing this without as much information as possible. The training was on a rainy Monday, and it was more of an orientation than a training, but it did come with enough relevant information to be worth it. I also learned that the vast majority of guardians were going with a close family member or friend. Guardians such as myself who were helping a stranger were by far the minority. The tentative schedule had me as a guardian for a WWII veteran. There was some apprehension in the whole endeavor, having a significant responsibility for anyone, let alone someone why may need a lot of help, is a significant responsibility.
On the morning of the Honor Flight, and after going to bed as early as I could the previous evening, I got up a little before 1:30AM and got ready. Heading toward the airport and the chartered flight to DC, I found it surreal that the bars were still open and hootin' and hollerin' from the previous evening. It was raining very hard which made the early, dark drive slower than it should have been.
After parking and making my way to the airport, I entered a somewhat chaotic scene with a semblance of order under the surface. After some uncomfortable searching, I met Mr. W, a WWII vet. He was mostly wheelchair bound but mentally quite alert; quiet but friendly. After some chatting with him and his daughter, she left as the swirl of activity ebbed and flowed around us. Soon enough, the call went out to board the flight. We breezed through TSA which was a good thing as I couldn't imagine fully screening every passenger, especially with some of the limited mobility of many of them.
Mr. W sat right up front in first class, and I took one of the first guardian-appropriate seats near the back. It happened to be an exit row, and the extra foot room was nice. It takes a lot of time and coordination to board the plane, and this continued through the day every time the plane or bus was boarded or unboarded. This meant a lot of waiting around, but it was never painful to do so.
The flight took off and headed east. As the plane flew, a gorgeous sunrise took shape over the rain clouds below.
Once at Reagan Airport, we boarded three buses to bring everyone to the memorials. Mr. W's bag was grabbed by someone else which caused me some angst. I felt like I had already made a mistake (even though it wasn't anything I did or didn't do) and it was raining pretty good with a fairly miserable forecast so Mr. W's rain coat would probably be needed. As it turned out, Mr. W's rain gear was not in his bag, but I didn't realize that until much later in the day. His bag was located quickly enough, but was never used throughout the day. I ended up carrying everything and gave Mr. W the rain coat I had brought.
Not many of the other guardians seemed as enthralled with this as I was, but having a police escort through the day has to be one of the unexpectedly coolest aspects of the day. Not only did that allow us to get to our stops extremely quickly - and this was important given the schedule combined with typical Washington DC traffic - but rolling through stop signs and red lights with police sirens was just plain a hoot. It has ruined me forever; I'll never be able to look at big city traffic the same. Those police exhibited very little humor for drivers who did not yield to us.
Our first stop was Arlington National Cemetery. This was one of the few places I didn't get to see when I was in DC in 2003. The rows and rows of white grave stones was sobering. The buses stopped near the Tomb of the Unknown, and everyone got out of the bus to heavy rain. I was wearing a disposable poncho, and Mr. W had my rain coat; neither of these were adequate for the heavy, cold rain. Seeing the soldier, without identified rank, guarding the tomb in heavy rain was even more impactful than it would have been on a bright sunny day - it somehow seemed fitting. The rain did not make it very comfortable for any of the viewers of the changing of the guard, but all the veterans and guardians were stoic about the rainy weather, as they were through the entire day.
The next stop was the FDR memorial. Most of the program seems correctly directed towards WWII veterans, and FDR is both a large memorial and has a component directed toward WWII.
The third stop was to the Air Force Memorial which is probably one of the most impressive ones in the city. Like the Washington Memorial, it can be seen from a great distance away. It was also our lunch stop, but the continued terrible weather meant almost everyone ate on the bus. The constant rain was getting to be painful.
The fourth stop was to the Vietnam Memorial, Lincoln Memorial and Korean Memorial. This was right near the National Mall and other monuments in the area, but they were not viewed directly. It was probably the longest stop and the Vietnam Memorial is terrible for wheel chairs. The walk to the actual Wall is partially on a section with very small pavers separated by significant spaces - it was far too easy to get "stuck" on this walkway with a wheel chair. When rolling, the uneven surface was like a rickety Conestoga wagon.
One really neat thing was the presence of an attache from the Korean Embassy at the Korean War Memorial. Korean veterans in our group were given medals and thanks as they walked through.
Throughout the day, many of the stops had military or civilian groups present to greet and salute the veterans. This was really neat to see - this was a trip all about the veterans and at one point I commented to Mr. W that he had had more hand shakes on that day than I probably had in the previous 10 years. Washington DC has a lot of active military about and at just about every stop, they took time to thank the visiting veterans.
The rain was once again very heavy at this fourth stop, and many of the veterans cut their viewing short to get out of the continued awful conditions. Making things worse, it was an atypically cold day as well. I'm not sure how the weather affected the overall impact of the day.
The final stop of the day was at the WWII memorial. This was under construction during my 2003 visit so I was glad to be able to see it completed. It really is a nicely thought out and pretty memorial. Mr. W seemed to really like it and thankfully, the rain stopped, and it even warmed up a bit. We were able to spend quite a bit of time walking through the memorial and taking some pictures.
After the WWII memorial, we were off to a volunteer dinner at a local fraternal organization hall.
One of the things I really liked about the Honor Flight was the constant activity. There was some waiting when boarding and unboarding buses, but everyone was always doing something. Flying volunteers takes up precious space for veterans, so everyone was needed. This contrasts with many previous volunteer efforts I've been a part of.
In most of my previous volunteer events, there are 24 people with enough work for 14 - meaning busy work for too many people or, more likely, standing around feeling like tits on a bull. Some of this is hard to avoid as experienced volunteers can do stuff faster than training volunteers that may not be around very long. One-time volunteers end up being superfluous. It is at the point where I would rather typically donate money over volunteer. As evidenced by the time it took me to become a guardian on an Honor Flight, it seems that funding is in shorter supply than volunteers even for programs that use volunteers effectively.
This phenomenon was on display at the dinner. I'm not denigrating the dinner, as it was generous, tasty and a good time, but there were clearly more volunteers than were needed. Do not set down the fork, for a volunteer is likely to scoop it up instantly along with the plate!
To be fair though, volunteering often is partially for the volunteer as well as the voluntee (if that can be used as a word). This makes sense when helping to instill ethics and life lessons to young people, but it can appear a little more desperate with adults.
Once dinner was over, we made our way back to the buses and headed, now without our police escort, to the airport. Once again through TSA, we boarded the plane only to find out the plane had been overfueled. Previously unknown to me, planes can not land with too much fuel due to weight concerns. Everyone on the plane was tired and even though we had mostly dried out, the rain hadn't helped the mood much. But everyone kept good spirits as we waited to have some fuel pumped out of the plane's fuel tanks.
Soon enough, we were in the air en route to home.
The welcome home was overwhelming. There had to be at least 1000 people there giving a military-esque welcome to the veterans. Bands were playing, military members were there, "pin-up" girls were there - although in some kind of a tribute to, rather than facsimile of WWII pin-ups. I don't recall seeing that many tattoos on pin-ups from WWII. Watching the reaction of the veterans was interesting. A few were visibly moved by the huge welcoming, some showed frustration at the end of the long day.
I found Mr. W's family and we talked for a while. Things at the end of the day were a little chaotic, so I wasn't sure if I had any final responsibilities and eventually made my way to my vehicle.
On my way home, I noticed the same bars were still open. I found this a little sad.
Once at home, I quickly went to bed. The next day was almost one of recovery after being awake more than 24 hours sandwiched between two nights with little sleep.
With a few days past to reflect, I was really impressed with the Honor Flight Program. Most of the participants, both veterans and guardians, were uninitiated so there was the potential for anarchy and/or lots of grousing. Thankfully, there was little of that and just about everyone I interacted with maintained a positive attitude. It really was a privilege to be part of the flight and helping a WWII Vet see the memorials.
I've gone back and forth as to whether I would be a guardian again. It was a great experience, but I can't help but wonder how much better it is for the veterans to do this with a family member or a close friend. To be clear, guardians pay their own way so it isn't a great way to experience DC unless what one is looking for is to grossly overpay for a flight to Washington and then see only what others want to see. But again, the program is for the veterans, not the guardians. There probably are some veterans who do not have the support needed to see this with someone close - and for them it appears there is a significant back-log of waiting volunteers. I'd almost see it as more valuable to help a veteran participate with a friend of or family member who may not have the means to be a guardian, but I'm at the same time not sure how to square that with using that same money to help more veterans see the memorials. These things are never easy...
I don't know that my day as part of the Honor Flight could be considered fun. What I can conclude is that my day with Honor flight was a brutally long day, ferociously wet, and very rewarding. I can only hope it was for all the veterans, especially Mr. W, as well.
I signed up to be a volunteer guardian for Honor Flight several years ago. I knew there was a backlog and so I wasn't surprised when I didn't hear much for a long time. Then there were a few contacts about needing guardians for upcoming flights, but they were for times when it wouldn't work out for me. This was followed by a prolonged period of time when I assumed I must have been dropped from the list. As it turned out, flights had nearly stopped due to a lack of funds. It shouldn't be too surprising that programs like Honor Flight are in greater need of money than volunteers.
A few weeks ago another call went out for guardians and as the time would work well enough for me, I agreed to participate. Training was to be held right after vacation and was listed as "optional," but I just could not see doing this without as much information as possible. The training was on a rainy Monday, and it was more of an orientation than a training, but it did come with enough relevant information to be worth it. I also learned that the vast majority of guardians were going with a close family member or friend. Guardians such as myself who were helping a stranger were by far the minority. The tentative schedule had me as a guardian for a WWII veteran. There was some apprehension in the whole endeavor, having a significant responsibility for anyone, let alone someone why may need a lot of help, is a significant responsibility.
On the morning of the Honor Flight, and after going to bed as early as I could the previous evening, I got up a little before 1:30AM and got ready. Heading toward the airport and the chartered flight to DC, I found it surreal that the bars were still open and hootin' and hollerin' from the previous evening. It was raining very hard which made the early, dark drive slower than it should have been.
After parking and making my way to the airport, I entered a somewhat chaotic scene with a semblance of order under the surface. After some uncomfortable searching, I met Mr. W, a WWII vet. He was mostly wheelchair bound but mentally quite alert; quiet but friendly. After some chatting with him and his daughter, she left as the swirl of activity ebbed and flowed around us. Soon enough, the call went out to board the flight. We breezed through TSA which was a good thing as I couldn't imagine fully screening every passenger, especially with some of the limited mobility of many of them.
Mr. W sat right up front in first class, and I took one of the first guardian-appropriate seats near the back. It happened to be an exit row, and the extra foot room was nice. It takes a lot of time and coordination to board the plane, and this continued through the day every time the plane or bus was boarded or unboarded. This meant a lot of waiting around, but it was never painful to do so.
The flight took off and headed east. As the plane flew, a gorgeous sunrise took shape over the rain clouds below.
Once at Reagan Airport, we boarded three buses to bring everyone to the memorials. Mr. W's bag was grabbed by someone else which caused me some angst. I felt like I had already made a mistake (even though it wasn't anything I did or didn't do) and it was raining pretty good with a fairly miserable forecast so Mr. W's rain coat would probably be needed. As it turned out, Mr. W's rain gear was not in his bag, but I didn't realize that until much later in the day. His bag was located quickly enough, but was never used throughout the day. I ended up carrying everything and gave Mr. W the rain coat I had brought.
Not many of the other guardians seemed as enthralled with this as I was, but having a police escort through the day has to be one of the unexpectedly coolest aspects of the day. Not only did that allow us to get to our stops extremely quickly - and this was important given the schedule combined with typical Washington DC traffic - but rolling through stop signs and red lights with police sirens was just plain a hoot. It has ruined me forever; I'll never be able to look at big city traffic the same. Those police exhibited very little humor for drivers who did not yield to us.
Our first stop was Arlington National Cemetery. This was one of the few places I didn't get to see when I was in DC in 2003. The rows and rows of white grave stones was sobering. The buses stopped near the Tomb of the Unknown, and everyone got out of the bus to heavy rain. I was wearing a disposable poncho, and Mr. W had my rain coat; neither of these were adequate for the heavy, cold rain. Seeing the soldier, without identified rank, guarding the tomb in heavy rain was even more impactful than it would have been on a bright sunny day - it somehow seemed fitting. The rain did not make it very comfortable for any of the viewers of the changing of the guard, but all the veterans and guardians were stoic about the rainy weather, as they were through the entire day.
The next stop was the FDR memorial. Most of the program seems correctly directed towards WWII veterans, and FDR is both a large memorial and has a component directed toward WWII.
The third stop was to the Air Force Memorial which is probably one of the most impressive ones in the city. Like the Washington Memorial, it can be seen from a great distance away. It was also our lunch stop, but the continued terrible weather meant almost everyone ate on the bus. The constant rain was getting to be painful.
The fourth stop was to the Vietnam Memorial, Lincoln Memorial and Korean Memorial. This was right near the National Mall and other monuments in the area, but they were not viewed directly. It was probably the longest stop and the Vietnam Memorial is terrible for wheel chairs. The walk to the actual Wall is partially on a section with very small pavers separated by significant spaces - it was far too easy to get "stuck" on this walkway with a wheel chair. When rolling, the uneven surface was like a rickety Conestoga wagon.
One really neat thing was the presence of an attache from the Korean Embassy at the Korean War Memorial. Korean veterans in our group were given medals and thanks as they walked through.
Throughout the day, many of the stops had military or civilian groups present to greet and salute the veterans. This was really neat to see - this was a trip all about the veterans and at one point I commented to Mr. W that he had had more hand shakes on that day than I probably had in the previous 10 years. Washington DC has a lot of active military about and at just about every stop, they took time to thank the visiting veterans.
The rain was once again very heavy at this fourth stop, and many of the veterans cut their viewing short to get out of the continued awful conditions. Making things worse, it was an atypically cold day as well. I'm not sure how the weather affected the overall impact of the day.
The final stop of the day was at the WWII memorial. This was under construction during my 2003 visit so I was glad to be able to see it completed. It really is a nicely thought out and pretty memorial. Mr. W seemed to really like it and thankfully, the rain stopped, and it even warmed up a bit. We were able to spend quite a bit of time walking through the memorial and taking some pictures.
After the WWII memorial, we were off to a volunteer dinner at a local fraternal organization hall.
One of the things I really liked about the Honor Flight was the constant activity. There was some waiting when boarding and unboarding buses, but everyone was always doing something. Flying volunteers takes up precious space for veterans, so everyone was needed. This contrasts with many previous volunteer efforts I've been a part of.
In most of my previous volunteer events, there are 24 people with enough work for 14 - meaning busy work for too many people or, more likely, standing around feeling like tits on a bull. Some of this is hard to avoid as experienced volunteers can do stuff faster than training volunteers that may not be around very long. One-time volunteers end up being superfluous. It is at the point where I would rather typically donate money over volunteer. As evidenced by the time it took me to become a guardian on an Honor Flight, it seems that funding is in shorter supply than volunteers even for programs that use volunteers effectively.
This phenomenon was on display at the dinner. I'm not denigrating the dinner, as it was generous, tasty and a good time, but there were clearly more volunteers than were needed. Do not set down the fork, for a volunteer is likely to scoop it up instantly along with the plate!
To be fair though, volunteering often is partially for the volunteer as well as the voluntee (if that can be used as a word). This makes sense when helping to instill ethics and life lessons to young people, but it can appear a little more desperate with adults.
Once dinner was over, we made our way back to the buses and headed, now without our police escort, to the airport. Once again through TSA, we boarded the plane only to find out the plane had been overfueled. Previously unknown to me, planes can not land with too much fuel due to weight concerns. Everyone on the plane was tired and even though we had mostly dried out, the rain hadn't helped the mood much. But everyone kept good spirits as we waited to have some fuel pumped out of the plane's fuel tanks.
Soon enough, we were in the air en route to home.
The welcome home was overwhelming. There had to be at least 1000 people there giving a military-esque welcome to the veterans. Bands were playing, military members were there, "pin-up" girls were there - although in some kind of a tribute to, rather than facsimile of WWII pin-ups. I don't recall seeing that many tattoos on pin-ups from WWII. Watching the reaction of the veterans was interesting. A few were visibly moved by the huge welcoming, some showed frustration at the end of the long day.
I found Mr. W's family and we talked for a while. Things at the end of the day were a little chaotic, so I wasn't sure if I had any final responsibilities and eventually made my way to my vehicle.
On my way home, I noticed the same bars were still open. I found this a little sad.
Once at home, I quickly went to bed. The next day was almost one of recovery after being awake more than 24 hours sandwiched between two nights with little sleep.
With a few days past to reflect, I was really impressed with the Honor Flight Program. Most of the participants, both veterans and guardians, were uninitiated so there was the potential for anarchy and/or lots of grousing. Thankfully, there was little of that and just about everyone I interacted with maintained a positive attitude. It really was a privilege to be part of the flight and helping a WWII Vet see the memorials.
I've gone back and forth as to whether I would be a guardian again. It was a great experience, but I can't help but wonder how much better it is for the veterans to do this with a family member or a close friend. To be clear, guardians pay their own way so it isn't a great way to experience DC unless what one is looking for is to grossly overpay for a flight to Washington and then see only what others want to see. But again, the program is for the veterans, not the guardians. There probably are some veterans who do not have the support needed to see this with someone close - and for them it appears there is a significant back-log of waiting volunteers. I'd almost see it as more valuable to help a veteran participate with a friend of or family member who may not have the means to be a guardian, but I'm at the same time not sure how to square that with using that same money to help more veterans see the memorials. These things are never easy...
I don't know that my day as part of the Honor Flight could be considered fun. What I can conclude is that my day with Honor flight was a brutally long day, ferociously wet, and very rewarding. I can only hope it was for all the veterans, especially Mr. W, as well.
Friday, September 1, 2017
Thoughts on the Total Solar Eclipse
I can never predict what moment will persevere in my memory. On my way to Alaska nearly ten years ago I rode my motorcycle across the Teslin Bridge into the town of Teslin, Yukon Territory. I vividly remember the long grated surface of the bridge, the gravel on the road after it, the gas station in the town of Teslin and the conversation with the man pulling a large trailer. Why this sticks with me all these years later, and I can't clearly recall more recent and more momentous events is a mystery.
I think these small moments live on due to the perception of the entirety of the occurrence. In addition to the physicality of the Teslin Bridge and the gravel, I also recall feeling almost in awe of the surroundings - how remote Teslin felt compared to anywhere else, how far I had come, how far I still had to go.
Closing in on two weeks after experiencing the total solar eclipse of 2017, the entire brief period of totality seems almost a blur. But what I can still clearly see is that first instant after taking off my solar glasses and seeing the blocked out sun, seeing the solar corona. On any normal day, I could use the thumb on my outstretched hand to dim the brightness of the sun or block the view of the moon, but during the eclipse, it seemed impossible to do this. And yet, I was struck by how small the actual eclipse looked in the darkened sky. All the pictures I had seen leading up to the eclipse were close-ups showing the amazement of the corona. My own pictures also show little else. What is missing is how small it looks. I still question how something so small can simultaneously be so grand.
After staring at the eclipse for a few moments, I looked over at my camera which was already pointed at the sun since I was taking pictures through the partial eclipse. I quickly grabbed a few photos and saw nothing in the images. For all my preparations, I had forgotten to remove my solar filter.
Removing the solar filter, I successfully bracketed a few images. I looked back at the eclipse, not wanting to spend too much time looking at it through an LCD camera screen. I looked around at the foreign horizon. Using practiced motion, I grabbed a few more images without looking at the camera - I could do this by touch since I knew exactly where the buttons were by that point.
It seemed irrational at the time, but I remember thinking that it was odd that something so visually divergent could happen without any noise. The sun was so stunningly different, but the abrupt change happened without any noise at all. It might have made more sense if it had come with a roar or a howl.
I glanced around again for a few moments, looking at the odd light and its effect on the objects immediately around me. Turning back to the eclipsed sun, it was over. The brightest, whitest sunlight I have ever seen instantly hurt my eyes. They call it the diamond ring, but it should really be called eclipse pain. In the shortest few minutes of my life, the eclipse was over.
The build-up to the eclipse was a big part of the event for me. When I went to bed the night before, I had come to peace with the fact that cloud conditions would likely prevent any viewing of it. I had rationalized that this was OK. But it wasn't. At least a year of planning had gone into this. I'm sure there would have been group catharsis, but I wanted nothing other than to see the total solar eclipse. I had to stretch out of my comfort zone a bit to make watching the eclipse under a perfectly cloudless sky surrounded by almost nothing a reality. And maybe that helps to create memories that persevere - allowing them to occur outside of the easy.
I desperately want to again ride my motorcycle to Alaska, but part of me is also terrified to do so. I don't want those brief vivid memories to be polluted by new ones that are less. I can recall stopping in Kremling, Colorado for the night on my first time in the Rockies. That also remains a very vivid memory. I went through Kremling a few years later and saw it only as another in a series of picturesque Western towns. I couldn't really see anything special about it on that second time through. I can't begin to describe how depressing that is.
When I ride the Alaska Highway again some day, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of crossing the Teslin Bridge again. The bridge might be the same, but the gravel will not be, and there is unlikely to be a conversation with a man pulling a large trailer. It is exceedingly unlikely that he has any idea of how that conversation played a role in my memory of Teslin and of the Alaska Highway. I sometimes wonder if I've ever been a part of other's snippets of memories. Almost certainly. We continue to pass unseen through small moments in other's lives.
In April of 2024, another total solar eclipse will cross the United states. A lot can happen in seven years, but barring anything catastrophically momentous, I anticipate doing what I can to see it as well. April is a less opportune time for an eclipse; nothing can be done about the weather. I guess I can start to rationalize now that not seeing it won't be the end of the world - and it won't.
I am not likely to become an eclipse chaser, spending considerable time and money to view them whenever and wherever they occur. But I understand now a little more why people pursue total solar eclipses with such vigor.
I'm not sure what will happen to my memories of the recent eclipse over time. The strongest memory I have now, almost immediately after it is how short it seemed. If it weren't for the time stamps on my images, I'm not sure I'd believe how long it actually lasted in the spot that I was standing.
And that first mental image of seeing the brilliant white solar eclipse against the deep, black sky is impossible to forget. At least I hope it is.
I think these small moments live on due to the perception of the entirety of the occurrence. In addition to the physicality of the Teslin Bridge and the gravel, I also recall feeling almost in awe of the surroundings - how remote Teslin felt compared to anywhere else, how far I had come, how far I still had to go.
Closing in on two weeks after experiencing the total solar eclipse of 2017, the entire brief period of totality seems almost a blur. But what I can still clearly see is that first instant after taking off my solar glasses and seeing the blocked out sun, seeing the solar corona. On any normal day, I could use the thumb on my outstretched hand to dim the brightness of the sun or block the view of the moon, but during the eclipse, it seemed impossible to do this. And yet, I was struck by how small the actual eclipse looked in the darkened sky. All the pictures I had seen leading up to the eclipse were close-ups showing the amazement of the corona. My own pictures also show little else. What is missing is how small it looks. I still question how something so small can simultaneously be so grand.
After staring at the eclipse for a few moments, I looked over at my camera which was already pointed at the sun since I was taking pictures through the partial eclipse. I quickly grabbed a few photos and saw nothing in the images. For all my preparations, I had forgotten to remove my solar filter.
Removing the solar filter, I successfully bracketed a few images. I looked back at the eclipse, not wanting to spend too much time looking at it through an LCD camera screen. I looked around at the foreign horizon. Using practiced motion, I grabbed a few more images without looking at the camera - I could do this by touch since I knew exactly where the buttons were by that point.
It seemed irrational at the time, but I remember thinking that it was odd that something so visually divergent could happen without any noise. The sun was so stunningly different, but the abrupt change happened without any noise at all. It might have made more sense if it had come with a roar or a howl.
I glanced around again for a few moments, looking at the odd light and its effect on the objects immediately around me. Turning back to the eclipsed sun, it was over. The brightest, whitest sunlight I have ever seen instantly hurt my eyes. They call it the diamond ring, but it should really be called eclipse pain. In the shortest few minutes of my life, the eclipse was over.
The build-up to the eclipse was a big part of the event for me. When I went to bed the night before, I had come to peace with the fact that cloud conditions would likely prevent any viewing of it. I had rationalized that this was OK. But it wasn't. At least a year of planning had gone into this. I'm sure there would have been group catharsis, but I wanted nothing other than to see the total solar eclipse. I had to stretch out of my comfort zone a bit to make watching the eclipse under a perfectly cloudless sky surrounded by almost nothing a reality. And maybe that helps to create memories that persevere - allowing them to occur outside of the easy.
I desperately want to again ride my motorcycle to Alaska, but part of me is also terrified to do so. I don't want those brief vivid memories to be polluted by new ones that are less. I can recall stopping in Kremling, Colorado for the night on my first time in the Rockies. That also remains a very vivid memory. I went through Kremling a few years later and saw it only as another in a series of picturesque Western towns. I couldn't really see anything special about it on that second time through. I can't begin to describe how depressing that is.
When I ride the Alaska Highway again some day, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of crossing the Teslin Bridge again. The bridge might be the same, but the gravel will not be, and there is unlikely to be a conversation with a man pulling a large trailer. It is exceedingly unlikely that he has any idea of how that conversation played a role in my memory of Teslin and of the Alaska Highway. I sometimes wonder if I've ever been a part of other's snippets of memories. Almost certainly. We continue to pass unseen through small moments in other's lives.
In April of 2024, another total solar eclipse will cross the United states. A lot can happen in seven years, but barring anything catastrophically momentous, I anticipate doing what I can to see it as well. April is a less opportune time for an eclipse; nothing can be done about the weather. I guess I can start to rationalize now that not seeing it won't be the end of the world - and it won't.
I am not likely to become an eclipse chaser, spending considerable time and money to view them whenever and wherever they occur. But I understand now a little more why people pursue total solar eclipses with such vigor.
I'm not sure what will happen to my memories of the recent eclipse over time. The strongest memory I have now, almost immediately after it is how short it seemed. If it weren't for the time stamps on my images, I'm not sure I'd believe how long it actually lasted in the spot that I was standing.
And that first mental image of seeing the brilliant white solar eclipse against the deep, black sky is impossible to forget. At least I hope it is.
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