Now You Tell Me, Pussy Cat

Several weeks back we discovered that the drain running from our kitchen sink was no longer living up to its name. After exhausting the normal homeowner remedies we called a plumber. He had no more luck with the drain than had we until he crawled underneath the house. He found the stoppage was the least of our problems. The cast iron pipe was also lying on the ground, completely rusted through and broken. Until it plugged, water from the sink and dishwasher had been leaking underneath the house “for many years” creating a small lake.

A few hundred dollars later (ouch) the drain was repaired and things are better now.

About that same time I noticed my car wanting to drift left while going down the road. "An alignment problem," I thought. With a trip this weekend to Blacksburg to hear Doc Watson at the Lyric, I wanted to get that fixed. While I was at it my car needed her regularly scheduled maintenance. As it had been a couple of years and many miles since she had seen a dealer's service rack, I scheduled a trip to Charlotte on Thursday. After I added a few other items that needed attention, the mechanic and service manager added a few others, a broken motor mount for example. What started out as a simple wheel alignment took two days of labor and about 2K$. Ouch!

Still, I have no complaints. Olympia has carried us safely almost 180,000 miles, with few unpleasant surprises. The service staff at the two dealers I have used have been very professional. And I mean that in a nice way. Driving back from Charlotte Olympia ran smoothly and straight down the highway. Things are better now.

A couple of days ago I noticed the smell of fuel oil inside our house when the furnace was running. As it seemed to be getting worse we called a heating and AC mechanic. Yesterday after crawling back from underneath the house his first words were, “ Do you have a backup source of heat?” After I told him we had none he suggested we would need something for a while because he had just disabled the furnace. It was not safe to operate, he said. Besides the flue being stopped up, “collapsed” was his description, the heat exchanger seemed to be leaking. These conditions would account for the smell – and probably carbon monoxide – inside the house. Given the age of the furnace – about 30 years old he estimated – and the location – sitting on the ground all that time – he suggested we probably would need a new furnace even after the flue is repaired. OUCH!

It is 59 degrees inside the house as I write this, and dropping. My fingers are cold. It will probably be a few weeks until we have resolved all the associated issues and we have a functioning heating system again. Things are not better now.

While driving back last night from a failed attempt to locate any space heaters at Lowe’s or Wal-Mart (?#@**^%!?!!!!), a black cat ran across the road in front of my car. I started to laugh. “Too late,” I snorted, “Too fucking late.”

Baghdad Burning

From the feminist press of the City University of New York, an announcement of a forthcoming book, and the source of my next recommendation:

In her riveting weblog, a remarkable young Iraqi woman gives a human face to war and occupation.

In August 2003, the world gained access to a remarkable new voice: a blog written by a 25-year-old Iraqi woman living in Baghdad, whose identity remained concealed for her own protection. Calling herself Riverbend, she offered searing eyewitness accounts of the everyday realities on the ground, punctuated by astute analysis on the politics behind these events.

Riverbend recounts stories of life in an occupied city - of neighbors whose home are raided by U.S. troops, whose relatives disappear into prisons, and whose children are kidnapped by money-hungry militias. The only Iraqi blogger writing from a woman's perspective, she also describes a once-secular city where women are now afraid to leave their homes without head covering and a male escort.

Interspersed with these vivid snapshots from daily life are Riverbend's analyses of everything from the elusive workings of the Iraqi Governing Council to the torture in Abu Gharib, from the coverage provided by American media and by Al-Jazeera to Bush's State of the Union Speech. Here again, she focuses especially on the fate of women, whose rights and freedoms have fallen victim to rising fundamentalisms in a chaotic post-war society.

With thousands of loyal readers worldwide, the Riverbend blog is recognized around the world as a crucial source of information not available through the mainstream media.

While her Baghdad Burning posts may be infrequent due to continuing power outages, and photos nonexistent, Riverbend reminds us again of the human costs of war and the power of a brave writer and her weblog.

There are other blogs from Iraq, with widely varying viewpoints and agendas reflecting the various religious, ethnic, and secular points of view. For example, try A Family in Baghdad, Kurdo's World, A Star from Mosul, or Raed in the Middle. Separating the heat from the light may be difficult sometimes. War does that to people. Voices from Iraq gives a good overview of sites. Or you can just google.

There are also a number of blogs by U.S. service personnel. They vary also. Some passionately focus on their struggle to bring democracy to the Iraqi people while others question their mission or share the hell-on-earth experiences of war. Like Stuart Hughes, some "real" reporters have personal sites, Christopher Allbritton's or Kevin Sites' for example.

Because of the highly political nature of the U.S. liberation/occupation of Iraq, you may wish to shop around until you find one that you are comfortable with. Or maybe you will find yourself returning again and again to one that challenges your assumptions. That is the beauty and the power of blogs.

These eyewitnesses, who are often in harm's way, are willing to share what they are seeing with us; the least we can do is pay some attention.

dooce

Remember when I posted on January 24th:

Many bloggers revealed quite personal details of their lives while protecting their identity. Others revealed little about themselves while posting about every subject I could think of, and a few beyond my imagination.

And now for something completely different. Allow me to introduce Heather B. Armstrong, a.k.a. dooce. A good southern girl raised in Tennessee, dooce not only does not follow most of the rules, she has made up her own. A web designer and early blogger, in 2002 she was fired from her job in in L.A. for her (she thought) harmless observations on her (she thought) anonymous blog. In doing so she added a word to the language of the internet: dooced "Losing your job for something you wrote in your online blog, journal, website, etc." She may have been the first, but she has not been the last.

Since then she has married, moved, and had a daughter, Leta. Her continued blogging, with its cautionary employment backstory, has evolved to include her pregnancy, severe postpartum depression and recovery, living as a no longer practicing Mormon in - of all places - Salt Lake City, and motherhood.

Her site is now very not anonymous, yet it contains personal information usually shared, if at all, with the closest of friends. She takes wonderful photographs from around the house and neighborhood, posting one each day. Not surprisingly her web site is a model of clear and effective design. She also writes well. It is a very unusual blog.

Her site has gained quite a following, making it and her rather famous. NPR interviewed her several weeks back and last Sunday she and her daughter were featured - among others - in a NY Times article (registration required), including a photo of Leta in mother's lap. About 40,000 people visit her site daily, about 39,992 more than mine. She is up for four (??) Bloggies this year.

There are those who are put off by the perceived self-absorption and self-importance of bloggers, and the subject matter and language used on many personal sites (dooce could make a sailor blanch before turning red-in-the-face). Dooce would be an easy target for those so inclined. And Heather may be a little tightly wound for some. But there is something refreshing about this blog that keeps me one of her 40,000. For better or worse, dooce is real. Heather, husband Jon, Leta, and dog Chuck are like that typical young couple down the street who are always up to something. I wonder if they would like to come over one evening, sit on the porch and have a beer?

Uncle Pickett

Last week I traveled to Virginia to visit with my mother and stepfather, do some research at the Library of Virginia, and spend some time with my aunt and uncle.

My uncle Pickett is 94, the last of my Edwards grandparent's four children. His wife Jean is 92 tomorrow. While she is still very active - driving, swimming at the Y, and shopping - Pickett is not. A variety of ailments keeps him at home most of the time. His vision is about gone and is deaf in one ear and can't hear out of the other. He needs oxygen frequently and has developed a spinal condition commonly known as a hunchback.

However his mind is clear, his memory intact and his mood inevitably cheerful. Even though the photo above was taken when he was only 91, I saw that same smile last week. While I am sure he is not entirely pleased with his current situation, he is dealing with it with dignity and grace. Besides being one of my few remaining windows into the world of my father's childhood and the lives of my grandparents, he is my hero. I hope I am still able to smile as he does when I'm 94.

Maybe you have an uncle Pickett in your family. If you do, take advantage of your good fortune. Visit with them. They may not know squat about the world wide web but there is still much you can learn from them. They might enjoy your company too.

Stuart Hughes

Stuart Hughes is a world news producer with BBC World Newsgathering. The young Welshman's blog begins in February 2003 while stationed in northern Iraq. Shortly thereafter he stepped on an anti-personnel landmine. Five days later his right leg was amputated below the knee. His colleague was killed in the incident.

Mr. Hughes is now back on assignment. His observations are timely, his photos wonderful, and he even posts mp3 audio feeds. He just returned to England from a vacation in Nepal, walking no small distances on slippery, rocky mountain paths.

Not surprisingly Mr. Hughes has a keen interest in anti-landmine campaigns. He also shares stories of how he and other amputees get on with their lives. But at the core, Stuart Hughes is a reporter, visiting places most of us will never go. And he is willing share his experiences with us. Thank you Stuart.

In days past this young man would have been described as disabled and among the less fortunate. We now rightly recognize him as very fortunate, and very abled.

Locust St.

I stumbled across this site hitting that NEXT BLOG>> button, a lucky accident.

Since last October Locust Street has provided attentive readers with music and images from post-WWII America. The site owner, about whom little can be discerned, started with 1945 and is now finishing up 1948. All types of music have been represented - jazz, blues, pop, country, bluegrass and classical - from the then wildly popular to the unjustly obscure. Links are provided to mp3s of these pieces, albeit only for a limited amount of time, so you can listen for yourself. Each post's short narratives, links and period graphics add context and significance. Links are also given to sites where the music can be purchased.

This music and these times are significant to me because I too started in 1945. Many of these songs were among my first musical memories, or influenced what I heard later. By 1954 I was listening intently to the radio as rhythm & blues gave birth to rock & roll. By that time I had already listened to the dying embers of the big band era, the early broadcasts of "race music", and the safe-as-milk pop music of the day. I was ready for something different.

But nothing emerges from a vacuum. As these posts illustrate, the music that defined my generation had its roots in America's rich musical heritage. The owner of Locust Street obviously loves this heritage as much as I do.

Like good home cookin', this site is a labor of love. You might enjoy it also.

The Diary of Samuel Pepys

For those of you who think Analog Man is the blog of an old, white dude, may I redirect your attention to the writings of a VERY, old white dude.

Strictly speaking, what we have here is not a blog. After all, Mr. Pepys died in 1703. However, he left behind a marvelous, now famous, secret diary for the years 1660-1670.

From Wikipedia:

Pepys recorded his daily life for almost ten years in breathtaking honesty; the women he pursued, his friends, his dealings are all laid out. His diary reveals his jealousies, insecurities, trivial concerns, and his fractious relationship with his wife. It is an important account of London in the 1660s. Included are his personal account of the restoration of the monarchy, the Great Plague of 1665, the Great Fire of London of 1666, and the arrival of the Dutch fleet, 1665-1667.

Phil Gyford in London, with the help of wonderful volunteers, are serving his dairy to us one day at a time, blog style. Annotations by readers provide insight and assist us in better understanding his life and times. The Diary of Samuel Pepys provides a wonderful entrée into a world very much different from our own, and so very much alike.

Beside the insight into life and times I also enjoy Pepys' use of the language. Stuck in the middle of a diary entry recently was a description of his wife's maid as "...a cross-grained wench" (Sunday 15 December 1661). I almost felt out of my chair. Maybe you had to have been there.

I dedicate this post to the memory of Mrs. Hilda Collins, my high school English teacher who first introduced me to Mr. Pepys. She was a marvelous eccentric who's love of the English language, and those who used it well, transcended her time and place. Like most of the knuckleheads in her classes, I should have paid more attention when she spoke.

"...and so to bed."

Blogs I Like

While I have been nosing about the World Wide Web for almost ten years now, this weblog thing sort of crept up on me. I knew what personal web sites were, and thought having one would be interesting. But I associated blogs with brave/foolish corporate and government insiders who published frequently and anonymously about what they knew best. Very much the outsider, I knew that was not me. What inside stuff did I know? As I had already begun to despair about the growing lack of honestly and competence found on many websites, I assumed that blogs mainly provided an easy outlet for people with more attitude than altitude. Or as they say in Texas, more hat than cattle. And as for reading blogs, I would always rather play than watch.

Then my .Mac account offered a "HomePage" feature. I used it several years ago to make available to one and all, among more tasteful images, a "carpenter's butt" photo of myself. With no public outcry for more - just groans - I finally deleted the page. But I sort of liked giving my friends a crack at seeing what I had been up to.

However this past year it became hard to turn around without seeing or hearing references to blogs and comments on blogging in general. Certainly the presidential election - the Dean campaign especially - focused much attention on bloggers. Doonesbury made blogging a story line. Finally my curiosity got the better of me and one day last fall I googled "blogs" and our story here began.

I soon learned there were websites devoted to hosting blogs. After looking around hosting sites I started visiting individual blogs. The NEXT BLOG>> button in the top right hand corner of most Blogger hosted sites led me to many types, created by all kinds of people for a variety of purposes. And there seemed to be millions of them. Further, many blogs have links to other blogs, creating sort of a web within the web. Bloglines, another popular bloghosting site, offers a constantly updated top 200 blog links, as does Technorati. This constant taking-of-the-temperature of the blog world was fascinating, especially just before an election.

Many bloggers revealed quite personal details of their lives while protecting their identity. Others revealed little about themselves while posting about every subject I could think of, and a few beyond my imagination. Some blogs had become quite popular, receiving more daily hits than most commercial or institutional websites. Indeed, there seemed to be developing a blurred line between blogs and other web sites. In short, here was a large and wild part of the web I had never visited, a new electronic continent to be explored.

By the end of the year bloggers almost became Time magazine's Person of the Year. This mock-up shows what someone thought Time's cover might have looked like.

ABC News did award bloggers "People of the Year." Both seemed to be focusing on the journalism aspect of blogging and potential and real political influence. However, Time did note the varied nature and some of the implications of this new medium. By then it had become just too juicy, I had decided to play as well as watch.

Since the essence of blogs is frequent postings, I created a Blogs folder in my bookmarks so I could easily revisit those that caught my interest. Eventually visiting some of these blogs became as routine as my morning cup of coffee. Over the next few weeks I will share some of these with you.

Jane & Fang

Lately Fang has taken to messin' with Jane. Sometimes he sneaks up behind her and swipes her tail. Other times he lies beside her and chews on what is handy.

Maybe they need to get a room.

A Modest Suggestion

From Wikipedia

The United States Department of War was the military department of the United States government's executive branch from 1789 until 1949, when it became part of the United States Department of Defense. It was headed by the United States Secretary of War. It was also known as the War Office.

In 1949 the War Office was renamed the United States Department of the Army and became a component of the Department of Defense.

(emphasis added)

As we built the most powerful military the world had ever seen we obviously wanted to assure our neighbors, and ourselves, that our numerous military incursions into other countries were not self-serving acts of war, but of honorable self-defense.

After listening to our President's second inaugural address - and with most of the world now not buying our defense justifications - I propose we take the next step and rename the Department Defense the Department of Freedom.

Let's see if anyone is in the market for death-by-platitude.

Readers may view photos here. Or you may wish not to.

The Finger

One of my first posts was Thoughts While Nursing a Bruised Finger. In it I made a none too subtle reference to the recent election. Just in case a reader may have thought I was making up a metaphorical story, here is a photo I took today showing the blackened nail.


Oh my, it seems to be Inauguration Day. Should I pose those fingers differently?

Nah, I’m subtle. But you may use your imagination.

Railroad Earth, Part Two

Those early to this blog may remember my posting about Railroad Earth. Well all their touring seems to be paying off.

Phil Lesh caught one of their shows several months back while they were in California. That led to Tim Carbone and John Skehan sitting in with Phil during his three night, Phil and Friends stand at the Warfield Theatre in mid-December. The Internet Archive, also the subject of a previous post, has free downloads of the first two shows. Tim's work on Sugaree is especially fine.


Tim & John @ the Warfield

And this February 12th Railroad Earth will be the "musical guests" at the Unbroken Chain Foundation's benefit to aid the tsunami victims which will be held prior to Phil's Mardi Gras Spectacular 2005. Phil will be making an appearance with the band.

I wonder if they will do a Grateful Dead song? Which one?

RRE are scheduled to be at MerleFest in late April, playing three times, and again at FloydFest at the end of July. I have a feeling they will also be hitting their usual venues in Raleigh and Charlotte as well.

It looks like a good year for Railroad Earth.

Dr. Julian Temple Edwards

My daughter took me to task yesterday for not having enough photographs in my posts. Her point was well taken. Most of the blogs I like are much more graphic than mine, in more ways than one. So here is a photo I treasure, of one of her great, great grandfathers, Dr. Julian Temple Edwards.

I believe the photo was taken when he was in his late teens or early 20's, about the time of the War of the Rebellion.

Dr. Julian was born in 1841 and died a few months before my father was born in 1917. As he is leaning on his right forearm, which caught a bullet in July 1863 ending his days as a private in the Confederate calvery, I think this photo was taken before the war. Surely the pose has a pre-war swagger.

However, the receeding hairline may indicate and older, post-war Julian.

He, and his father Dr. Lemuel Edwards, will figure prominantly in my history project.

A Hell of a Last 400 Years

As some of you know I have been reading a large number of American history books over the past few years, collecting old photographs and studying census data. I have a project in mind that involves intertwining my family's history with the history of America, specifically that of an area in Tidewater Virginia formerly know as Pamunkey Neck.

The other day in conversation with my wife about my latest revelations about colonial America I shook my head and closed with, "It sure has been a hell of a last 400 years."

I think that remark means I am finally ready to start writing.

Sleep

For me falling asleep is not a problem. It was when I was much younger. I would often lie in bed unable to switch off. I never liked sleep. Even as a small child I knew I might be missing something. Wanting to rest due to fatigue was acceptable, sleeping as part of a routine was not. Even in kindergarden while others had nodded off at nap time I was often walking around, "helping" my teacher. My first real job, teaching in a junior high changed all that.

Now it is not the falling asleep, it is the staying asleep. Having to answer the call of nature in the middle of the night is a standing senior citizen moment. But since I am not quite there yet - work with me here - I would rather like to blame my blood pressure medicine, a diuretic. But what would account for my frequent inability to go back to sleep once nature is satisfied?

I have often heard that as we age our need for sleep decreases. I have also heard that there is no data to back that up. Whatever the reason I often return to bed fully awake with little inclination for further sleep. So it was last night about 4:00 AM.

After listening to the clash of a Canadian cold front and our recent stream of moist gulf air play itself out with wind and rain outside, I decided to get up. Sometimes I head for this computer, check out the news, read any email, and occasionally write something. Last night I just sat in the living room and listened to the sounds of the night: a passing train, Fang snacking, and those unidentifiable seemingly random household noises that used to scare me when I was a little boy with a big imagination. It was wonderful.

My mind often turns at times like last night to personal histories, memories of things done and not done. Profound commentaries on the issues of the day slide into what I didn't do yesterday, and what needs to be done once the sun comes up. If nature is kind I will drift to sleep, usually to awake surprised at the light outside the windows.

So it was early this morning around here.

John McPhee

Our news is usually dominated by the follies of humanity. The past few weeks have served to remind us that there are other dangers out there, only made more or less threatening by our actions.

After my post about Susan Sontag I would like to recognize another writer of our time, John McPhee. One of the finest examples of a writer of literary non-fiction, Mr. McPhee's book of a few years back, The Control of Nature, was the first thing I thought of after seeing pictures of the recent deadly mudslides in California.

By chance I read some of Mr. McPhee's first writings in the New Yorker magazine when I should have been studying in my high school government class. Those pieces were later turned into a 1965 book, A Sense of Where You Are: Bill Bradley at Princeton. Mr. McPhee joined the staff of the New Yorker that year and has continued to set the standard by which journalism and non-fiction writing may be judged. His 1999 Pulitzer Prize for his Annals of the Former World, a masterful exploration of North American geology and those who study it, attest to that.

A frequent theme of his writings is struggle and accommodations by humans facing forces larger than themselves. The Control of Nature is really a series of essays taking us from the Atchafalaya River to the volcanoes of Iceland and the unstable mountains of California. If you would like to learn more about what those southern Californians are up against, read John McPhee.

Susan Sontag

At first glance one would have a hard time finding many points of similarity between the late Susan Sontag and me. I confess I have never read any of her writing. I am sure we would have made awkward dinner partners. But quite by accident I ran across this quote from an appreciation in the most recent National Catholic Reporter,

"Whatever you do, don’t misuse what you believe so that it gets in the way of the truth. That’s so easy to do, especially when so much around us encourages us to.”

Patrick Giles, the interviewer, continued,

"She spoke that night as if seeing clearly and acting responsibly, whatever one’s context of belief, was for her the great act of faith."

Thank you Susan. Well said. We had more in common than I thought. Rest gently.

A Special Place in Hell, Part Three

During the recent Christmas shopping season I was walking through an enclosed mall parking garage, burdened with goodies for all my good little girls and boys. Thinking of little except getting out of the city before rush hour, a short blast from a horn brought me to full alert mode.

Almost losing my grip on the goodies, I wheeled toward the sound. Three feet from me was the grill of a large, black SUV, parked and newly secured. The driver was walking away, putting away her electronic lock do-hickey. Thankful to still be alive - have often thought I would meet my end in the wild-west traffic of a mall parking lot - and that I had found the men's room before leaving the mall, I continued toward my car. A passerby might have heard unpleasantries. This had not been the first time, nor, I fear, will it be the last.

Car horns were originally a safety device. It says so still in driving manuals. Teenagers quickly adapted them to signal one another, a primitive bonding or mating device. Fair enough. But this new use, to confirm to a driver that their vehicle is secure and fully alarmed, is, besides being quite annoying, dangerous. Instead of alerting those in the vicinity of the dangers of a large moving object, a blast from a horn may mean nothing of the sort. Or it might. And therein lies the danger, that we will one day guess wrong.

Did I mention that it is also just flat annoying? The world is already filled with too much man-made noise, much of it also unnecessary. This just adds to the din. Certainly coming home late at night and locking the car need not involve the neighbors within earshot. In short, this feature of modern automobiles needs further study, as my former Japanese coworkers would say when confronted with a half-baked idea.

The sad part is that with just a little more thought the same result, confirmation of security status, could have been accomplished without resorting to blowing the horn. A simple buzzer or vibrating device - like found in cell phones - in the do-hickey itself would accomplish the same result without involving aurally those in the vicinity.

We must make extra space in our Special Place in Hell this week because any idea this bad has to come from a committee, in fact, lots of committees.

Of course this would make sense unless the real reason of blowing the horn is to say, "Hey, look at me! I have a new vehicle with an alarm system." If that’s the real reason we would need to add much, much more additional space in our Special Place in Hell.

I feel better now.

Doggie Heaven

As dutiful as any 50's dad, when I was about six my father decided I should have a dog. After all, what could be more Norman Rockwell than a boy and his dog? A dog would provide companionship, instill responsibility, and provide tangible lessons about the natural world. A real pet might also curb my conversations with my three imaginary friends, budding relationships that may have been both annoying and disquieting to my father.

A business associate of dad's bred Cocker Spaniels, so a series Cocker Spaniels appeared. A series because, whatever the other fine qualities of the breed, Cockers fare poorly in traffic. Shortly after each was brought to the house they felt that highway call. Each found new ways to defeat the purpose of the fence around our house. They did not last long. After burying our third dad gave up on Cockers and secured a nondescript hound I named Music. No less interested in cars, Music chased them for over a dozen years, surviving all encounters save his last. Music and I did become a fine pair, just as dad planned. But this is not about Music.

To quiet this crying small child, with each Cocker Spaniel/Automobile incident I was counseled about Doggie Heaven. As an attentive and studious child in Sunday School I was rapidly developing an understand of things Christian, at least the Methodist variety. Doggie Heaven was a variation on an established theme and, in the short term at least, served its purpose. But, even to my young ears, along with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, Doggie Heaven sounded a bit too convenient, a bit contrived. Not wanting to press my parents about any of these but still curious, one Sunday I decided to ask my Sunday School teacher if there really was a Doggie Heaven. And - I liked two part questions even then - was it close enough to "real" heaven for me to play with my old pets when I got there.

Flustered, she left the room to seek counsel. As we waited uneasily - she never left us alone before - I started to wonder if I had done a bad thing by asking my question. The other students started to stare at me. We heard her go from classroom to classroom, calling a conference of her colleagues in the hall and talking in hushed but animated tones. Finally she returned to announce that there was no such thing as Doggie Heaven. Heaven was for creatures with souls. Dogs had no souls, therefore no Doggie Heaven. She seemed relieved to return to our planned lesson. I am sure we all were.

I think I took the official word better than some in our class. After all, in raising the question I was showing a willingness to hear the answer. Several of my classmates, probably with dogs of their own, were not. To the relief of all concerned, I think that was my last public direct theological question for the Methodists. I am sure I was watched a bit more carefully after that.

This memory floated into my consciousness the other day as I was thinking about what I actually learned in Sunday School. I would not describe myself today as a Christian, much less a Methodist. But in the credit-where-credit-is-due department, many values I hold today probably were first introduced and reinforced to me in that Sunday School.

My favorite was the story of the Good Samaritan. I really liked the part when Jesus threw the money changers out of the temple. Yes, the Old Testament had the best stories, but the New Testament had the best lessons. The Golden Rule, not first or exclusively Christian, remains as good a place to start as any when confronting life's interpersonal relations. And I am not sure those good southern white women of Sunday School appreciated how I was interpreting the song, "...red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight, Jesus loves the little children of the world." Brown v. Board of Education was handed down about this time and even this eight year old knew what it was about and which side Jesus would be on.

With so much of Christianity just not making sense as I grew older, it has been easy over the years for me not to appreciate what I continue to value from those hours spend in that Methodist Sunday School. Most long dead now, my teachers were good people trying to help raise me right. I hope I have not disappointed them too much.

They may even have taught me to ask questions.

Voice

My wife's professional life centers around improving the practice of English composition, writing to the rest of us. She frequently reminds her students of the need to determine who will read a particular piece of writing, why they will be reading it, and the desired result. Once these questions are answered then the writer must choose and then assume a Voice, a writing persona. While this may not seem like a revelation to you and me, at some point we all had to learn this if we were to become decent writers. From the struggles of some of her students over the years, this probably was not as easy for us as we now might like to remember.

While it may seem obvious that one's Voice might be different when writing, let's say, a love letter as opposed to composing a letter to a college admissions officer, what happens to your Voice when it is expressed in a new mode of written communication? Should anything change? If so, what? I am referring here, of course, to blogging. Just as many discovered to their horror the unintended consequences of emails, blogs present some interesting Voice choices I hadn't considered two months ago when I first decided to become the Analog Guy.

But then I had some decisions to make about my Profile. For starters, just who was I? In a reversal of the now classic New Yorker Cartoon "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog" I could have become a dog.



Hell, I could have become anybody, living anywhere. Anonymous blogs are very common and often contain extraordinary wit and wisdom the posters would be reluctant to share if they were held to account. As frequently they are just a self-indulgent mess. Many bloggers choose semi-anonymity, enough personal information to create an identity, but not enough to invite a loss of privacy. That was my initial choice. I was Bibb in North Carolina, no photo. After a few weeks it finally dawned on me with a first name like Bibb even Mayberry's Barney Fife could track me down in about 30 seconds. Hiding out in the digital wilderness would require a deeper cover.

It did not take me long to decide to just be myself. Having to adopt a different persona or a nom de plume just seemed like more work than I cared to do. It is hard enough just keeping myself straight, much less an alter ego. So with only a little work anyone can track me down. I even posted a photo of the view from by front porch. I am comfortable with who I am and take responsibility for what I post. No electronic smoke and mirrors here. So be it.

Then I had to consider who would be my audience. Initially it was my friends and family. I even sent out emails with my new URL. While they remain who I am thinking of when I write, I know that anyone with an internet connection has the 24/7 ability to be reading this. Oddly, for me this possibility makes it more important that I get things right. Friends and family generally have been kind enough to overlook my shortcomings; but that is a lot to ask of strangers. So when I first started posting I was reminded of that moment years ago beginning my first class as a student teacher. I started talking about the Great War, what became, unfortunately, only the first World War. The students dutifully began to write down what I was saying. I remember being momentarily horrified. "Jesus H. Christ," I thought, "I had better be getting this right." So that is what I am trying to do here also, get things right.

That brings up the next choice I initially confronted. Many bloggers seem to really enjoy not deleting their expletives. I have decided, for the most part, to express myself using a minimum of "offensive" language. This is not because of any tender sensibilities on my part. You who know me know better. I also realize that if one wants to be offended by what I write, they will find a way. That is their problem. Free country. Fuck'm. Now, maybe I'm a real blogger.

No, I will refrain - mostly - because after a short while these words tend to lose their effectiveness. So I am storing up this special vocabulary for when the time comes. And the times will come.

Further, I am reminded of a quote attributed to Eugene McCarthy, US Senator, Poet, Anti-war Presidential Candidate in 1968. He once admonished us to always talk as if a child is listening. It captures a similar notion as the bumper sticker on my wife's truck that asks us to "Be the Person Your Dog Thinks You Are." Well, in my case Senator, my child is listening, as she always has. I guess this blog is for her.

P.S. I want to thank the New Yorker magazine in advance for not being upset that I am using a cartoon of theirs without permission. The New Yorker continues to be the source of the finest writing week-in, week-out in the English language. That they would notice this blog, take offense, and divert valuable staff time asking me to remove the cartoon - which of course I would do without having to resort to legal billable moments - would be unfortunate. Of course if in the process they find anything I write worthy of publication in their magazine I would be happy to discuss contractual niceties.

Fang, Redux

For those of you who remember, we last left White Fang curled up in the bathroom trashcan. After a few days he would flee to a variety of darker corners, disappearing entirely for long stretches of time. Eventually the trashcan was returned to its full upright position.

For about a week my wife and I exchanged kitten sightings and worried that our new cat had spent too much time in the wild to become acclimated to domestic affairs. Our most consistent contacts were the scratching sounds from the litter box, to which, thankfully, he quickly adapted. Then, if we were still, Fang would appear from underneath some piece of furniture to check us out. If we moved he would scamper back to the shadows. The sounds of food being placed in his food bowl also caused him to reappear, as it does most of us. Underneath the living room couch became his favorite hangout, centrally located where he could observe unseen most of the household activity around him.

Soon he was playfully swiping at feet walking by the couch. Finally he began to approach us and would accept gentle touching. More comfortable around my wife - probably remembering our little encounter on my mother's back porch - Fang was then in her lap, purring away. Finally, last week he jumped in mine. Yesterday as I watched TV from the couch Fang crawled up beside me and went to sleep.

Fang's relationship with our dog Jane remains cordial. Both seem to think the other was procured to be their playmate. That Jane is about 25 times larger seems not to be an issue. Night before last they were both underneath our bed discussing the events of the day.

I think Fang would consider the training of his new servants going extremely well. He is even working on our vocabulary, responding to his name in several languages, including Latin. He was greeted this morning as Fanglius. My favorite is Fang Blanc. We also have versions in Polish, Russian, Welch, and Japanese.

Here Fang-san!

On Vacation

Holiday travel and associated fatigue, a slight cold, and a mental numbness caused by the images from the Indian Ocean have conspired to delay postings on this blog. Words, especially written words, often fail when confronted with events. Silence and pre-language thoughts from the older parts of our brains sometimes better capture the moment and bring us closer to the truth. What finally triggers feeble attempts to express ourselves using language is often small, trifling to the moment. Such a moment for me occurred last night listening to David Brooks on PBS's NewsHour with Jim Lehrer.

Mr. Brooks, who writes editorials for the New York Times, reassured us that the reason our President took so long to make an appropriate public response to the disaster in countries affected by the tsunami was that that he, and his staff, was on vacation. He was on vacation.

If the event itself were not so utterly awful, the pain and suffering so deep and wide, it might be appropriate to string together some semi-humorous comments along familiar lines about our President's character, work habits, or his official representation of our country to the rest of the world. Or it might be time to call out those who make excuses for him. But there is nothing clever to say. This time it is so not funny.

I was appalled from the first moment I heard of our initial aid response. My heart sunk as I realized that even after four years in office the man still does not understand what it takes to be the leader of the world's only superpower. Now that he - and we - have been shamed into taking a substantial public role in the aid to the victims of the largest international natural disaster in recent memory both the White House and their apologists in the media have started the process of spinning events, rewriting history.

It may be petty on my part to focus only on one individual. There are so many characters in this tragedy, so many interesting threads to follow. But last night David Brooks seemed to me to represent how far we have fallen as a people. Here was a man with a first-rate brain publicly putting it to a third-rate purpose. It was almost as painful for me to watch as the reports from the Indian Ocean.

If Mr. Brooks actually worked for the White House his comments would be understandable, if still not honorable. But he works for a newspaper, arguably our greatest newspaper. He has a long successful career in journalism. But somewhere along the way he must have decided that events can (or should) only be reported to the rest of us from within the framework of an ideology. And events that do not later reflect well on that ideology, or those who give it form, must be retold in different light.

Our country's slow and initially inadequate response to this terrible tragedy was clear from the start, to the rest of the world and even to unnamed others at the New York Times. It was a mistake of judgment by our President and his advisors that I am certain they now regret. Not to acknowledge that fact is the first step toward making the same mistake again. Given our President's well-document inability to remember his mistakes it is up to the rest of us to remind him. Unfortunately Mr. Brooks invited us last night to give the President a pass. After all, he was on vacation.

Flickr

Salon ran a piece today about Flickr, the web site that is serving graphics to this blog. For you visual types there seems to be more to this site than just graphics hosting.

Christmas Card '04

Yesterday I sent iCards to many friends and family who have an electronic mailbox. This has been a difficult year for us, a year of transition in both pleasant and unpleasant ways. My wife found the year too difficult to recount in a usual Christmas letter. However the lack of a letter and the use of this new electronic medium with its bulk-mail aspects does not take away from the desire of both of us to share our best wishes during this season of reflection and promise.

Even though we both made some wonderful friends while in Wisconsin, 2004 will be best remembered by us as the year were both were home together again, closer to family and our long-standing (or is that suffering?) friends.

The card illustration was scanned from a drawing I made in 1974 and used for handmade Winter Solstice cards. Thus began and ended my watercolorist career.

Season's Greetings.

Apple

Yesterday my daughter and I met in Charlotte for some last minute Christmas shopping. Afterwards we had dinner with her college roommate. The weather was great, the shops were full of friendly merchants and customers, and a good time was had by all. Really. And once again I was reminded why my computer platform and the company behind it are simply the best at what they do.

My daughter's iPod had developed a mechanical malfunction making it inoperable. She has had a lifetime being somewhat hard on electrical devices. For example, by her own admission she has been Lady Death on TV remote controls. But even though it was thoroughly scratched, what was ailing this iPod did not seem to be her fault, this time. She took it to the local Apple Store to see if there was anything that could be done short of buying a new one.

She went to the Genius Bar, handed the iPod to the young man, and told him her story. After a quick examination he asked when it had been purchased. They then determined the warranty had long since expired. She said she really missed listening to it, especially in the car on her way to work. She told him if it was a goner she was prepared to buy a new one. Volunteering this information I thought was not a smooth move. We were, after all, in a mall - a Temple of Commerce. But the man smiled and said he thought he could help her. He asked if replacing was OK.

I have always enjoyed that expression on my daughter's face. This she was so not expecting. She started smiling and asked him if he was kidding. He replied that he needed to do some paperwork, get her signature, and he would bring her a replacement in a few minutes. No longer sad at the fate of her iPod she walked about the store - spending a while at the iPod protective case display - while I chatted up the "genius."

While he was entering data and generating hardcopies he mentioned that an iPod he owned had the same problem, loyal Mac users should be supported - not ripped off, and that he was happy he could make things right.

A few minutes later we left the store, the day off to a great start. Any doubts as to the continued brand loyalty of my daughter or me? I wonder how many people she will tell.

No, Apple is not perfect. But yesterday they were close enough.

FireFox, Part Two

For those of you who are interested in FireFox here is another press article (NYTimes). This is certainly the PC software story of 2004.

December the 7th

A few years ago I worked in a manufacturing facility owned by a large Japanese company, the name you would recognize. It was staffed primarily by North Carolinians with an ever-changing handful of Japanese executives, engineers, and technicians. During the six years I was there we worked hard, made a world-class product, and were successful in the marketplace. I enjoyed the experience, especially the opportunity to work with, learn from, and get to know my Japanese coworkers.

For a time our company president was a Japanese manufacturing engineer. Let's call him Sam. He was about my age, very smart, and came to the job with a reputation on both sides of the Pacific as a hard-ass. He did not suffer fools gladly and was respected more out of fear than love by Japanese and American staff alike. As I occupied a white-collar position about as low on the org chart as I could get, Sam and I had very few opportunities to work together. It took a while before I came to know and admire him. So I was surprised the day he called me into his office and then asked me to shut the door.

Modern Japanese offices are open. In our facility only the company president had a door and it was seldom closed. So when I was asked to pull the door to I did not think it a good sign.

After he asked me a couple of rather insignificant questions about the work I had been doing he asked if I knew what day it was.

"Yes," I replied, "December 7th." I did not repeat Roosevelt's words that so often follow, "a date that will live in infamy." He now had my complete attention.

He then asked if the date was still important to Americans.

I replied that it was, especially to older Americans who were alive then.

He said we were both much too young to remember it personally. We both smiled. Now I knew why he had invited me into his office; he wanted to talk about Pearl Harbor.

It then occurred to me that the Japanese must remember December 7th very differently. For them it was not the beginning of the war, but the beginning of the end. It was a tactical military victory but also a strategic blunder that led to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, total surrender, and the complete reordering of Japanese society. For us it was the sneak attack we paid back with interest. Where was this conversation headed?

"We are not sneaky," he said. He had a pained look on his face. "We are honorable people," he continued earnestly.

I could tell he was struggling. Like many Japanese his ability to speak English was far less developed than his other English language skills. I started nodding my head up and down to let him know that I understood. I was also thinking that the less said by me the better.

He further said that the U.S. government should have anticipated the attack, that our nations were at war in all-but-fact. He then said that Japanese citizens were surprised too and that the decision to attack Pearl Harbor was made by a small group of men in secret. He repeated that the Japanese were honorable people, not sneaky. Then he said - almost as an aside - that maybe it is impossible to be honorable in wartime.

I began to gather that - rationalizations aside - December 7th and Pearl Harbor were as painful for him as for most Americans, except in a very different way. To him it was a stain on the honorable character of his people. I could tell he personally hated the stereotype of the sneaky Japanese. He then asked if I knew anything about the war between Japan and China.

I must have stopped breathing. Of course. I grew up with the stories and photographs of the Japanese invasion of China and the brutal aftermath of atrocities on civilians. The German SS troops were Boy Scouts by comparison. These images were part what Americans used to justify their post WW2 moral superiority over just about everybody. I just nodded a bit more deeply.

He continued that what the Japanese soldiers did in China was not honorable and that even today the Japanese history books did not tell the truth to young people. He was beginning to look grief stricken. Suddenly this was not my boss, the Japanese hard-ass I thought I knew, but a guy my age taking very personally the shortcomings of his people's history.

Then it hit me. Sam spend many years in Malaysia at our sister factory. Malaysia also felt the brutal hand of Japanese occupiers. He had married a Malaysian woman of Chinese descent. This was very personal indeed.

He paused. It was my turn. He clearly expected my reaction.

I told Sam that dishonorable behavior was in all of our hearts. I reminded him of concentration camps and gulags, apartheid, slavery in the United States, the recent African tribal wars, Muslim/Hindu atrocities in India, and the destruction of Native Americans and their culture. I told him dishonor to our ideals is a human trait, not reserved for any one country or people.

With that he seemed to relax. He returned the conversation to work, and then escorted me to the door. Before he was posted back to Japan every December 7th thereafter he found a reason to call me into his office. Gradually we talked less of WW2 and more of current events. He thought the Clinton/Whitewater "scandal" very amusing. He told me if you want to see a real scandal, go to Japan. Now when December 7th comes around I always think of Sam.

Since our recent invasion of Iraq this memory has returned even more frequently.

I Think I Should Go Back To Bed

I noticed this morning on a blog I frequent that I am older than the U.S. Department of Defense, the National Security Council and the CIA. For that matter, the United Nations and I were conceived about the same time.

In my early morning fog I am still trying to wrap my head around this revelation without resorting to short strings of bad words; children may be reading this.

Enter Fang

I spent most of last week with my mother and stepfather in Virginia. As they are having increasing difficulty managing their household, my wife and I decided to adopt the new kitten – by now almost a young male cat – that had adopted them several months ago. Their two resident cats had not taken kindly to this young, hungry, wanderling and taking responsibility for one more cat seemed a bit much. Since we lost Katrina to old age a couple of months ago it seemed a win-win for all concerned.

The new kitten, white with caramel markings around the ears and tail and large blue eyes, seemed to have spent his childhood more or less on his own. Getting little love from people or the older cats, he was very skiddish. He seemed to prefer his own company, preferably in protected darkened locations. One might call him wild.

Since just getting close to the kitten was difficult I started tossing small bits of ham in his direction on the back porch. After a few days he would tolerate my presence, sometimes taking food from my hand. But even a small unexpected movement on my part could send him running. Sensing trouble getting him into the cat carrier, I bought some leather work gloves.

The morning I was to leave with the new kitten we did not put out the usual cat food. That way he might be very interested in my ham offerings and less interested in my new gloves and the cat carrier with the open door. According to plan the kitten was soon eating before me as I knelt on the porch. However the leather gloves made handling the ham difficult, so I removed the glove from my left hand. This seemed a one-hand operation anyway. That was the first mistake.

The second was not accounting for one of the other cats also being very hungry. I soon had a large cat between me and the kitten, smacking the little one and eating his food. Torn between hunger and cat abuse, the kitten looked like he wanted to bolt. On my knees I twisted and started feeding the large cat behind me, then turning and trying to reassure the kitten all was well. But all was not well and the kitten seemed spooked. The large cat proved not that easily satisfied and returned to eat ham out the bowl at my knees. I would soon be out of ham.

Seeing the kitten momentarily distracted by a large piece of ham I brushed aside the cat and grabbed the kitten. But before I could get him into he carrier he slipped out of my grasp and started to run. He was quick, but I was quicker. I grabbed him again and leaned towards the carrier. This was one seriously unhappy kitten. Again the kitten seemed to spin around within its skin and slipped away. This time I only was able to grab hind legs as he jumped from the porch. I did not know I could move so fast. As I swung it around towards the carrier the kitten twisted towards the back of my exposed left hand – which was now getting into the act – and buried his two upper front teeth. After I managed to get him into the carrier and secured the door I noticed blood all over my left hand.

After cold running water, hydrogen peroxide, and a compression bandage we left aside kitchen talk of blood poisoning and tetanus shots and had an uneventful four-hour drive to our kitten’s new home. I had the carrier in the front passenger floorboard. The entire time I was unable to catch the kitten not staring at me unblinking through the air holes. If looks could kill we would not have arrived.

My wife had prepared the bathroom as the kitten’s Ellis Island. I handed the carrier to her and they disappeared behind the door. As I started back to the car for my luggage sounds of all manner of commotion came from the bathroom. But when I shortly returned all was quiet, too quiet. After hearing nothing for a few minutes while I unpacked I called out, “You OK?”

Speaking softly my wife told me that everything was fine. Unconvinced, I opened the door. “Where is he?” I asked.

“In the trash can,” was the reply. My first fleeting thought was of a terrible fight, the body of the loser now in the trash. But then she pointed to the corner behind the toilet, the trash can on its side, and a white fur ball inside.

As recounted, the kitten immediately began running about, knocking over the trashcan. He jumped on the toilet, to the toilet tank, and then began climbing the window blinds almost to the top before becoming entangled and rescued. Freed from the blinds he climbed the shower curtain and walked along the curtain rod until he fell – on his feet – into the tub. Recovering, he ran into the corner and, finding the trashcan, climbed inside.

For the past couple of days the trashcan has been his home. He has developed a fondness for tuna fish, has started purring, and will allow my wife to pick him up for short periods of time. I have not tried to pick him up, and may not for a while.

Because of his gender and eye color we had started calling him “Blue Eyes” or “Frank” after Mr. Sinatra. But I started calling him White Fang on the trip here. Fang might stick.

Sitting on My Front Porch

Not many houses have a real front porch these days. Fewer are located facing a park.

See what they are missing?

R.I.P. the IBM PC

After my post about Firefox this caught my eye yesterday.

IBM said to be eyeing a sale of its PC business
Published: December 3, 2004, 8:03 AM PST
By John G. Spooner and Martin LaMonica
Staff Writer, CNET News.com

IBM, which gave legitimacy to the personal computer business in the 1980s, is said to be negotiating the sale of its PC unit in a move that could reshape the industry.

The company is negotiating with Chinese manufacturer Lenovo Group, formerly known as Legend, and at least one other buyer to sell its PC business unit, according to a report in Friday's New York Times. The unit could fetch as much as $2 billion, the report said.

IBM spokesman Clint Roswell on Friday said the company's policy is not to comment on rumor or speculation. Representatives at Lenovo were unavailable for comment.

In morning trading, IBM's stock was up 1.28 percent to almost $97.

IBM selling its PC business to Lenovo, which would most likely result in a joint venture of some sort, would make sense for both companies, analysts said. Such a deal would free IBM--which has been moving away from commodity products--from managing a difficult and often money-losing venture, while still giving it access to desktops and notebooks to provide to its customers.

"The PC business is a sort of also-ran, me-too sort of business (for IBM). There are a lot better businesses, including global services and some of the larger computers, that IBM participates in," said Roger Kay, an analyst with IDC. An agreement would "get IBM out of what they think of as a nonstrategic, non-yielding business."

As one of the first IBM PC users in 1982 I can attest that first PC's were also "also-ran" and "me-too." It was only the power of IBM's reputation and the corporate world's toddy behavior that made the PC Time Magazine's "Man of the Year." One could also argue that by giving up - until it was too late - control over their PC's operating system IBM both sowed the seeds of their own PC's demise and let the wolf into the hen house.

The PC did, however, set off an interesting war of sorts between IT departments and PC users that has been fun to watch, although not much fun to be a part of. As one IT Manager told me a few years ago, "Bibb, it is all about control. We almost let it get away with those damn PC's. But now that we are networking, things are getting back to normal."

The desktop IBM PC had become irrelevant years ago, although there are those who have loved their laptops.

R.I.P the IBM PC.

Firefox

Today Microsoft announced MSN Spaces, a blog service. If the past is any guide in a couple of weeks they will probably claim to have invented blogging. And some - bless their hearts - will believe them.

This may be as good a time as any to direct your attention to the Firefox button at the bottom of the sidebar. Clicking on it will take you where you can learn about and perhaps download and use Firefox, a new, free, open source browser. It is superior to MS Internet Explorer in many ways and seems to have caused the Redmond boys to finally pay some attention to their product.

I have been using Firefox for about a month now and the results have been excellent. It is also very Blogger friendly. So unless you are at the mercy of some IT department, you have the chance to support innovation, not the MS slogan but the real thing.

Reminds me of the early personal computer days, a couple of decades back, when a good idea and hard work was not immediately stolen by the “suits” or their lackeys.

Go Mozilla, Blake, Ben, and the rest of the team.

A Special Place in Hell, Part 2

If there is retail in Hell I predict it will look a lot like a Wal-Mart.

I have never been a Wal-Mart basher. While the world’s largest retailer has committed their share of blunders and accumulated a long list of adversaries I concluded they simply had become a lightening rod attracting the wrath of those appalled at the dark underside of modern commerce. They have been very successful at what they have set out to do, whether we - or they - fully appreciate the consequences. And I took a measure of satisfaction that a small outfit from middle-of-nowhere Arkansas could take over the retail world, one small town at a time.

Attracting detractors is also just a cost of doing business these days. Wal-Mart is, for all the attention it is getting, simply the logical result of a commercial endeavor successfully carried out with the age-old internal logic of commerce. Sam Walton’s business model would have been well understood by merchants 200 or 2,000 years ago.

My view began to be challenged after moving back to North Carolina. There is a Super Wal-Mart at the edge of town. (Does anyone hear Springsteen besides me?) Because it is convenient, well stocked and cheap I started shopping there. That was when I started noticing the little things, not quite sulphur burning, but close.

First, I have always found it annoying when sales persons choose to chat among themselves rather than interact with customers. My all-time favorite is when your conversation with an “associate” is interrupted by another “associate” wanting to discuss the break schedule. It is the closest to becoming instantly invisible I have ever managed. While I had experienced this at other stores, my new Wal-Mart quickly established itself as world class. I also would often observe clumps of “associates” in the aisles chatting among themselves with great enthusiasm about topics unrelated to where they were and what they are getting paid to do. Maybe they were on “break” making “associates” out of themselves.

Then I began to notice that while the store had a couple of dozen checkout lanes only two or three ever seemed to be operating at any one time. With dozens of “associates” within view, only a few were interested in taking my money. Many visits found me spending more time waiting in line than it took me to shop. I began to have the urge to page a “Member of Management” myself.

Last April I was moved to send the following email to Wal-Mart’s corporate headquarters.

Today, along with my “Low Prices" I was treated to the national anthem playing in the background as I shopped in one of your stores. While our national anthem was playing an announcer was providing me with shopping information.

For our nation’s anthem to be reduced to a shopping soundtrack is, in my mind, poor taste. One might also easily find it disrespectful to our county, although I doubt that is what was intended. I suggest that this is someone's bad idea that should be discontinued.

I found it ironic that while checking out I could not help but be confronted with the headlines in one of the "newspapers" you offer for sale that our US troops had shot down an angel by mistake in Iraq. With that revelation and the sounds of our national anthem again playing in the background I left the store and headed for your web site.

Is it possible for your company to offer low prices, convenient shopping, employment opportunities AND a moderate amount of good taste and respect for our country at the same time?

Regards, Bibb

I did not hear the anthem again when I returned. But the “newspapers” still provide entertainment during those long, long waits in the checkout line.

Finally, a couple weeks back while I was carrying a 40-pound bag of dog food from the store on my shoulder I saw a young “associate” walking towards the parking lot to collect shopping carts. I had the bag on my shoulder, not in a cart, because returning a cart to a corral from where I usually parked had become inconvenient. It was inconvenient because there were no cart corrals near by. All were near the front of the store, the closest usually 30 to 40 yards from my vehicle.

Seizing the moment I approached the young man and asked if I could make a suggestion. When he said “Sure” I mentioned the need for additional cart corrals further from the store. He paused while we both looked at the numerous abandoned carts scattered at the edge of the parking lot. He readily agreed and then said that there used to be corrals out there but the first shift crew had moved them closer to the store so they would not have to walk so far to return carts to the store.

I lost it. “Tell those lazy first shift sons-of-bitches to get up off their arses and put them back,” I said as I walked off. I suppose he wondered why that nice older gentleman carrying that bag of dog food said such a thing in the parking lot. I know I did. Maybe I should have just thanked him for his honesty.

I was back at the Wal-Mart at the Edge of Town yesterday. The cart corrals were as far from my vehicle as ever, carts scattered about as usual. Maybe I’ll send another email to Bentonville.

I feel better now.

Stuff

Yesterday I finally cleaned out the mini-storage unit we had been renting since my move here last Christmas. I remember laughing the first time I saw one of those commercial blights on the landscape. “People shouldn’t buy more than they know what to do with,” I probably thought. I was not into possessions then. I also used to say, “You don’t own stuff; it owns you.” I sounded a bit like Otto Mann, bus driver on the Simpsons. Well consider my arse well-owned.

Since my wife moved here first most of what was stored was mine. And we moved into a much smaller house. To further subtract space, we neither have the full basement nor attic of our previous residence. The garage is smaller too. It also leaked. Renting extra space seemed a good idea at the time.

This naturally prompted a discussion about the difference between valuable keepsakes, precious mementos, useful items, and junk. Most of my stuff seemed to fall into that latter category, at least according to her. She further reminded me that I had moved much of that “junk” many times already. I was not sure where she was going with that line of reasoning so I stopped listening.

OK. Sure. I have moved - multiple times - books I bought in the 70’s that I still have not read. They are books for God’s sake. I bought them for a reason. And why throw away perfectly good pants that are only 4 inches too small in the waist? I might get back to 32. The old sailboat mast, sail and rigging are still good. All we need is a boat. All that old hi-fi equipment might be useful again, one day. My LP’s are still good, at least if we can find my turntable and had a place to hook it up. Those three old Mac computers still work; they might be valuable someday. I am sure there is some good paint in those old cans. And my collection of nuts and bolts that goes back to 1970? Don’t even think about it. Why the other day I used one of those bolts to repair...something. I don’t remember. My videotapes? Too valuable. Have you seen what they are asking these days for the complete Upstairs, Downstairs or I, Claudius? That’s PBS we’re talking about here.

Maybe if I just consolidate some of these boxes we won’t need so much space. There must be some extra space in one of these boxes, somewhere.

eBay! That’s right. I’ll sell the stuff I really don’t need on eBay. I am sure there are plenty of people out there who would just jump at the chance to………….

Why are you laughing?

OK, maybe I need to throw away some stuff. Maybe if I think like an accountant and adopt an amortization schedule I can throw things away and not feel so bad.

Would anyone like some old National Geographic’s?

What I Learned @ the VHS

Last week I finally got a chance to spend a day at the Virginia Historical Society. My sister and I are doing research on our family and associated Virginia history for a project we have been working on for years. She joined me there. We looked through many books, documents and rolls of microfilm, uncovered some interesting stuff.

But that was not what made the day so memorable. By chance Rhys Isaac was speaking at the VHS at noon that day. I had read his Pulitzer Prize winning book, The Transformation of Virginia, 1740 –1790, years ago. Although a native South African currently living in Australia, Professor Isaac is considered one of the most eminent historians of early Virginia. So I slipped downstairs to listen.

After I had taken a seat a woman walked by and asked if the seat next to me was taken. As it was not, I invited her to join me. We chatted a bit and then Prof. Isaac was introduced. His topic was “Colonial Dissenters and the Evolution of Freedom of Religion.” He also plugged his new Landon Carter book. He was very thoughtful, entertaining, and the subject matter most topical because of our recent election. The lady beside me and I traded whispered comments about what he was saying from time to time. After he retired to the museum shop to sign books the lady and I chatted further.

I commented that he managed not to mention any women in his entire talk. She thought a bit, agreed, but looked at me somewhat puzzled. I further stated that having grown up in small town Virginia I had learned early on that not much happened in our churches not approved in advance by the churchwomen. They were the power behind the pulpit. This would have been especially likely in early “dissenter” churches, I opined. I further expounded that this was just another example of the written record historians work from often under representing the role of women. I very self-consciously mentioned this because of the influence of Linda Sturtz, my friend and history professor at Beloit College, where my wife recently worked. Linda’s book, Within Her Power: Propertied Women in Colonial Virginia, actually takes Professor Isaac somewhat to task in this regard.

I thought it appropriate to mention my southern roots and go into some detail about southern churches because I noticed she had a British accent and probably did not have the good fortune to be born a Virginian. But she nonetheless did seem to have more than a passing knowledge of Virginia history. Since I had mentioned I was doing research upstairs and that Prof. Isaac speaking this day was a happy coincidence she asked about the nature of my research. I then told her a bit about Pamunkey Neck, what became King William County, and my family.

As we walked together toward the museum shop I gestured toward the shortening line of patrons getting their books signed and said that I probably should hurry to buy the Landon Carter book before Prof. Isaac left. She said that she was sure he would like that. Getting an odd feeling - about an hour too late - I asked if she had read the book. She said yes, and it was quite good. In closing I introduced myself and she did the same. Of course I had been talking with Mrs. Isaac.

Recovering a bit I told her that "Transformation" was one of the first books I had read when I started research of my family's history and that her husband was one of my heroes. I also mentioned that I had visited South Africa once and hoped to see Australia one day. We parted. I bought the book and joined the line. Prof. Isaac and I chatted pleasantly and very briefly as he signed my copy; I had no intention of getting in any further over my head.

So what I learned last Thursday had less to do with family or history than common sense. Introductions should be managed at the beginning of a conversation, not at the end.

Thoughts While Nursing a Bruised Finger

The other day while doing some carpentry work on the garage I hit my index finger on my left hand with the hammer. It puffed up a bit and turned red. The self-imposed injury was completely unnecessary, just a lack of clear thinking on my part. I got what I deserved.

Sort of reminded me of the election...

The Internet Archive

While listening one afternoon last spring in my car to my local NPR station I heard of a website named The Internet Archive. As explained very briefly on their home page,

"The Internet Archive is building a digital library of Internet sites and other cultural artifacts in digital form. Like a paper library, we provide free access to researchers, historians, scholars, and the general public."

The person interviewed said that the site collected books, films, music and web pages. While all this sounded interesting what really caught my ear was the offhand statement that the site held hundreds of Grateful Dead concerts.

Being one of the original Dead Heads I wasted no time when I got back home going to the site. And yes, there were almost two thousand GD shows in various formats, including mp3. I quickly started downloading shows I had attended over the years. Over the next few months hundreds of recordings were added; currently there are 2,594. Anyway, I now can now listen again to every show I ever attended, including my first at the Fillmore East, NYC, January 2, 1971. Life is Good.

But wait, as they say on the TV ads, there is more. The archive also has plenty of current music by "trade friendly" bands. For example just a few days after attending Floyd Fest - see my November 4th post - I downloaded two performances I heard there by Donna The Buffalo and Railroad Earth. Both were excellent quality and quite legal.

No, you won't find downloads for most of your "major" performers. And the recordings are of live performances, with all the difficulties you might expect. But you might be amazed at the wonderful music being made today by people not backed by big record company money, MTV or Clear Channel, bands that sell their CD's after the concert in the back of the room, musicians who don't travel by private jet. And with the today's digital recording equipment in the hands of a motivated music geek, the sound quality usually rivals commercial releases. Life, as I said before, is Good.

And, as you will see when you travel to their website, music is far from the only thing they do. I recommend the Internet Archive.

A Special Place in Hell, Part 1

Blogs seem incomplete without a rant or two. Many are nothing but. While ranting is not Virginian, we are occasionally mildly annoyed. Thus begins, in the interest of completeness, what will undoubtedly become a series of posts that will explore particularly annoying behavior in other people. I will call these “A Special Place in Hell, Part #.” Here goes.

There should be a “Special Place in Hell” for those who insist on adding layers upon layers of paint inside door jams or on the inside edges of doors. Sooner than later these doors will stick and finally not close at all. Then someone - like me - must choose between acceptance or taking the doors down, removing the multiple layers of paint, adding one new layer of paint, and rehanging the door. In a house where many doors have been so defiled, that can be a hell of a lot of work - much more than mindlessly slathering paint where it does not belong.

So, for all of you out there with that paint brush in your hand and the notion in your little head of doing a “little touch up" before putting your house on the market, slowly step away from that door!

It should be noted that adjacent to these residents will be housed - for all eternity - those who paint windows shut. They have a lot to talk about.

I feel better now.

The Old Folks @ Home

I am back from a road trip to my family home. Mother’s birthday was last Friday and I wanted to spend it with her. She turned 86. My stepfather is a year younger. Neither is fully independent anymore. They have wonderful helpers - preparing meals, cleaning house, running errands, and making sure meds are taken on time. But even when they are having “good” days visits back home are increasingly stressful for me.

It is hard to accept what is now passing for normal around the house. I so wish mother’s hearing would improve, her balance was steady and that she would feel comfortable again in any room with an air temperature less than 80 degrees. My stepfather has memory problems, takes two hours to eat a simple meal, and is long past being able to dress himself. Both have become uncharacteristically short tempered. Even the home where I grew up has changed. Instead of being familiar and benign it now seems cluttered with things to trip over, fire hazards, and dangerous stairs coming and going. It is hard to look forward to visiting, even knowing how much it means to them. They have lived long and well. But it is not hard to see the direction things are drifting.

I did not grow up in a household with old folks. Seeing my grandparents and great aunts and uncles always took a road trip and was a pleasant event, soon over. Then they disappeared, one by one. I know they must have gone through similar processes I am seeing now. But I was not there to watch it. Maybe previous generations had an advantage by growing up in households with both the very young and very old. But what they may have learned about life and how to deal with and accept the natural course of things is not normal for me. I don’t want the folks back home fading away. I want things back to how they were. I want to fix stuff, make things better, and turn back that damn calendar. I want to save the day just like when I was eight playing in the backyard.

Then I return to my senses. Plans must be drawn, accommodations agreed upon, and decisions made. It may be a long bumpy ride. I need to get some pillows.

HTLM

I chose Blogger because it was free, owned by Google, and easy to use. Blogger templates also seemed to encourage clean and readable pages, unlike many blogs I have seen. And I was reasonably happy with my canned page layout until early this morning when I decided it needed a Links section. So I did a bit of research using the Blogger Help section, looked at the HTML on pages with Links, and proceeded to add some code to my template. That was easy, and it worked! Except...

The more I looked at what I had done the more I wanted a divider line between the Links and the Blogger button. An hour later I was still trying to made a divider appear in the right place. Several times I asked myself whether I should just be happy with what I had done and go do something else. But, for those of you who have worked with me, that's not Bibb. So I dug in. I had almost decided that I might have to actually learn basic HTML when, zap, I figured it out and a divider appeared exactly where I wanted it.

I am not writing this to illustrate my coding skills or persistence in the face of reality. Both are problematic. No. I want to share with you that at the instant I saw that divider appear I had a reaction, a blissful physical sensation that would probably be banned in our Red states. I did not have that reaction when the Links first appeared. That had been too easy. It was only after I decided to go for perfection, felt the frustration that usually accompanies that choice, and entertained doubts that I had made a good choice was that moment physically rewarded from somewhere deep inside me.

I wonder if there is a lesson in all that. Or was it the coffee...

Railroad Earth

Last August with some friends and family I attended the 3rd annual Floyd Fest, an outdoor musical weekend just off the Blue Ridge Parkway in southern Floyd County Virginia. It is a gathering of the tribe. Having driven some distance and expended some energy setting up camp I was already a bit tired when the music started Friday night. And it had turned cold enough so I quickly wished I had brought long pants and heavier shirts. Anita and I called it a night about ten, returned to the tent, and I quickly fell asleep. Sometime after midnight I awoke. As I tried to fall back asleep I could hear music coming from one of the stages. While it was at least a quarter mile away, behind a grove of trees, I could hear a band just cookin’. Even though the high frequencies and vocals were very faint I could hear some interesting chord changes, drum rhythms, and bass lines. I wondered just who were those guys, listened for a while, and drifted back asleep.

The next morning, even before my constitutional or coffee, I looked in the program for who has been playing. Railroad Earth; never heard of them. Sitting around the breakfast table I mentioned that I had heard an interesting band from my tent in the early morning hours. My niece-in-law Virginia volunteered that she had been at the stage and, yes, they were good, very good. She had not heard of them before either. Looking again at the program I found that they would be playing again that evening in the Dance tent. Plans were made.

That evening as the band set up I noticed that these guys looked like veterans, grownups who had come to play. And play they did! After about the fourth song I ducked out of the tent and bought two RRE CD’s. I didn’t want to chance not taking any of this music home with me. I returned to the dance tent and smiled, swayed, and bounced around until the end of the set.

After returning home Sunday night, tired but very pleased with the weekend, I googled the band, found their web site and learned more. A couple of the band member’s names sounded vaguely familiar. I then remembered a band my wife has never stopped talking about for twenty years. Blue Sparks From Hell played in Blacksburg frequently in the 80’s and Anita must have attached herself to the band in a big way. A few more web searches and I found references to the now disbanded Sparks. Sure enough two members were the same, Tim and Andy. So I walked into the next room and told her that she should have told me she knew two members of RRE. She looked at me like I was crazy. “Blue Sparks, Tim and Andy” I said. After a short pause Anita came as close to levitation as I care to see. “No!” she said. A trip to the computer screen and she was convinced. We had been standing to the side and slightly behind the band. She did not get a good look at them. And it had been almost twenty years.

We saw them again a few weeks later in Charlotte in a small theatre. Anita had a chance to talk briefly with Tim and the show was even better than before. We are now RRE fans and will see them again whenever we can. The Blue Sparks reunite from time-to-time in New Jersey. I expect we will catch them before too long.

So, you ask, what kind of music do they play? Well, the best sort of music, where labels fail. My guess is that they could play just about anything you would like to hear. They are often called a bluegrass jam band. Maybe that is because they feature a mandolin, violin, upright bass, acoustic guitar and frequently a banjo or dobro. But that is not what I hear. I hear an American band. I hear the best of all our musical traditions. And you can dance all you want. I have been listening to music seriously for fifty years now. Believe me, these guys are good enough to transcend labels. They are Railroad Earth.

Red State Blues

I do not pretend to be at my best today. Lack of sleep and the realization that we are probably worse off as a nation today than 24 hours ago will do that to a person.

This morning brought back memories of 1972 and what seemed at the time as missing that last exit on the highway to hell. But G. W. Bush is no R. M. Nixon. Tricky Dick seems like Lincoln to me now. There have always been those like our once and future President. Except the electorate had the good sense not to intrust the most important job on the planet to them.

I would love to find a silver lining in the events of yesterday. Maybe the only significant one is that we have nowhere to go from here but up. It just may take longer than I had hoped. But I have survived Nixon, Reagan, and Bush One. I will survive Bush Two.

The next elections are only two years away...

Election 2004

Today the world turns its attention towards our country and ponders the implications of our election results. I hope we give them reason to be proud of us, for a change.

I have already voted. North Carolina has started providing for early voting, no absentee excuses needed. This has proved very popular and may make today’s polling results less prone to question. I also used electronic touch-screen machines for the first time. It was fast and easy. If the security concerns can be addressed this method may see quick adoption.

I have been interested in politics ever since my father explained to me why he was an anti-Byrd Machine Democrat. My interest, and undergraduate degree in Political Science, coincided with the Viet-Nam War. I remember well the slow-to-dissipate bitterness, anger, and divisiveness of those days. Flag decals v. peace signs. But I also remember the idealism, hope and faith in our nation that ran through my generation. The civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights and environmental movements were proof to us that our system was open, that the benefits of living in a free society could be available to all. Wise decisions could be made if we just engaged in civil dialogue. After a pause and a counterattack from the Right, the bitterness, anger and divisiveness are back. But we seem to have lost that hope that our political system can provide the mechanism to curb our society's most unpleasant tendencies. Instead of civil dialogue we have “Crossfire.”

There is something almost medieval in the air, something pre-enlightenment. We seem not to have put to rest old demons. We are not living in the future many of us worked for, thought inevitable. This is my generation’s watch, and I am appalled. Maybe the children must lead us, again.

Three-Legged Dragon

Harry Yeatts and Catherine Wingfield-Yeatts are two of my oldest friends. They were undergraduates with me at Virginia Tech in the late 60's. They then had the good sense to stick around Blacksburg. Both worked at Tech, Harry in Publications, Cathy at Newman Library. Together they raised Tabatha who provided my benchmark for what the offspring of my generation should be. Now retired these good friends are now my good friends, The Artists. Harry expresses himself through photography while Catherine is a painter. She also works in mixed-media. I really like what they do. You can view - and if you like purchase - some of their recent work at http://www.threeleggeddragon.com.

They are having a collaberative exhibition running through December 31st at the Fine Arts Center of the New River Valley, 21 West Main Street, Pulaski, Virginia. Here are two of their featured works:


Red Sky


Tatoo Love