Sixty-six years into this life and I'm still trying to figure it out. What makes a day good, what makes a day bad? I think I may have a clue, at least for my own journey down this road.
I need hurdles to leap. Not real hurdles, for heaven's sake. That would spell "emergency room" shortly after the starting gun. I'm talking about self-imposed challenges, tasks that are at least daunting but preferably impossible. Give me a high hurdle of some kind and if I clear it, the day's bound to be a great one.
Today's hurdle, self imposed, was to personalize one of my little turned special stuff boxes for a friend who has invited us to her Christmas Eve smorgasbord for approximately the last thirty-six years. I've made boxes for our granddaughters, with their initials inlaid into the tops in slivers of pewter. I could have done the same thing with Tracy's special stuff box, but no, I decided that the box lid needed to be special.
Our friend Tracy is an artist, and we're fortunate to have several of her paintings on our walls. She signs her works with her initials, and I decided that the initials, in her own script, needed to be on the lid of her special stuff box.
Hmmm. How to put her signature on the box lid? Simple. Take a close-up photo of the initials on one of her works, upload it to my PC, blow it up, print it, paste the print on the engraving machine, cut the grooves on the box lid, fit teeny strips of pewter into the grooves, sand the lid flat and finish the whole thing with lacquer.
Yes, I blew a few hours jumping this hurdle but when it was done I felt like the day was a definite winner. A high hurdle cleared and a fitting gift for a good friend. I shall sleep well tonight.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Click here
You know what I worry about whenever there's nothing better to do? I worry about all those times that I have clicked the little box that says "I accept" when I'm downloading stuff off the net. Once or twice I've looked quickly at the pages of close-spaced legalize mumbo-jumbo and idly wondered what it all meant, but I'm way too busy to actually read what I'm digitally signing. Who does?
So at certain quiet times I start to imagine what might happen if some of those "accepts" come home to roost. What if the software peddlers put a clause in there that says something like "by accepting this contract user agrees to come over to my house and sweep the garage every other Monday"? Or "Upon giving your digital signature you have added Wimblewalk.com to your will as primary beneficiary". Or maybe even "Checking OK gives us the right to use your name, picture, SSN, and backyard barbecue whenever and however we wish, forever".
This could cause problems. I am very fond of my backyard barbecue. I even have a special name for it. I'll tell you the name if you promise not to laugh. If you agree not to laugh, click here [ ] and scroll down.
"The Grill Of My Dreams"
And be here next Monday to sweep the garage. You agreed.
So at certain quiet times I start to imagine what might happen if some of those "accepts" come home to roost. What if the software peddlers put a clause in there that says something like "by accepting this contract user agrees to come over to my house and sweep the garage every other Monday"? Or "Upon giving your digital signature you have added Wimblewalk.com to your will as primary beneficiary". Or maybe even "Checking OK gives us the right to use your name, picture, SSN, and backyard barbecue whenever and however we wish, forever".
This could cause problems. I am very fond of my backyard barbecue. I even have a special name for it. I'll tell you the name if you promise not to laugh. If you agree not to laugh, click here [ ] and scroll down.
"The Grill Of My Dreams"
And be here next Monday to sweep the garage. You agreed.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Complexities
The simple life has disappeared, slipped out the side door when nobody was watching. There is now absolutely nothing that we can accomplish in fewer than fourteen steps. A case in point: our stereo system is tied to our wifi and plays music stored on several computers. One of the speakers is in the back yard, under the windmill, next to the helipad. (Okay, it's not actually a helipad, it's just a round patio that looks like a helipad.) The stereo is controlled by one of the pcs or by the I-pod. The problem: the helipad, and the tree house, are at the edge of our wifi coverage. That means we must go all the way to the house to change a playlist! Unacceptable, totally.
Research on the web told me that there was a simple (hah) solution to the problem. All I needed to do was re-purpose (wonderful term!) an old router and use it to extend the range of our household network. I happened to have an old router (who doesn't?), so I decided to give it a whirl.
In only four hours I managed to find the password for the old router, reconfigure it, hook it into the system, and introduce it to our backyard laptop and my I-pod. As I completed step sixteen of the process, the webpage I was following disappeared into cyberspace; it was kind of like sliding into home plate in the sixteenth inning to win the game.
Lucky for me that I had a whole morning free with nothing else to do but fiddle with passwords and wires. Lucky for me that most mornings are free. I got through the re-purposing without actually smashing anything and now, I am happy to report, I'm sitting up in the treehouse writing this post. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, a little voice is whispering, "Four hours?".
Research on the web told me that there was a simple (hah) solution to the problem. All I needed to do was re-purpose (wonderful term!) an old router and use it to extend the range of our household network. I happened to have an old router (who doesn't?), so I decided to give it a whirl.
In only four hours I managed to find the password for the old router, reconfigure it, hook it into the system, and introduce it to our backyard laptop and my I-pod. As I completed step sixteen of the process, the webpage I was following disappeared into cyberspace; it was kind of like sliding into home plate in the sixteenth inning to win the game.
Lucky for me that I had a whole morning free with nothing else to do but fiddle with passwords and wires. Lucky for me that most mornings are free. I got through the re-purposing without actually smashing anything and now, I am happy to report, I'm sitting up in the treehouse writing this post. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, a little voice is whispering, "Four hours?".
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Road age
Oh yes, there was a time when I would not easily forgive the fellow who cut me off or tailed my gate. It never led to fisticuffs but words exchanged were heated. The wife and kids would make themselves as small as possible, waiting for the storm to subside, while I used my horn, my lights, my loudest voice and my longest finger to explain to that poor fellow exactly what he'd gone and done wrong.
The over-reaction was one more trait I can trace right back to my old man; he drove mad, worked mad, watched TV mad, and often got very mad at being so mad. Some of that rubbed off on me. But then, somewhere along the way, I began to question the sense of getting angry at every stupid driver. Several things helped me change my ways. I realized that if I had gotten my behavior from my father, I was possibly passing it on to my kids. Duh. Then there was that incident right here in town where someone had expressed his displeasure with another driver's style and the other driver replied with "bang, bang, bang". And finally, somewhere between middle age and here, I admitted to myself that I was -- infrequently and totally accidentally -- a stupid driver!
I put away the loud voice and the longest finger and took on a new identity, replacing rage with age, and the wisdom that accompanies it. I looked back another generation to find a gentler role model, and found a good one: my father's father. He'd been feisty in his youth but turned the corner when his hair turned gray and became wise and patient and peaceful. Why not, I thought, be like him.
So now I drive the same routes but in a different way. I give people all the space they need to cut corners in front of me, I slow down responsibly when the guy behind comes dangerously close to my back bumper, I wait quietly for the guy ahead of me to realize that the light's turned green, and whenever somebody does something truly stupid I strain my brain and remember that time when I did exactly the same stupid thing.
Wish I'd wised up sooner.
The over-reaction was one more trait I can trace right back to my old man; he drove mad, worked mad, watched TV mad, and often got very mad at being so mad. Some of that rubbed off on me. But then, somewhere along the way, I began to question the sense of getting angry at every stupid driver. Several things helped me change my ways. I realized that if I had gotten my behavior from my father, I was possibly passing it on to my kids. Duh. Then there was that incident right here in town where someone had expressed his displeasure with another driver's style and the other driver replied with "bang, bang, bang". And finally, somewhere between middle age and here, I admitted to myself that I was -- infrequently and totally accidentally -- a stupid driver!
I put away the loud voice and the longest finger and took on a new identity, replacing rage with age, and the wisdom that accompanies it. I looked back another generation to find a gentler role model, and found a good one: my father's father. He'd been feisty in his youth but turned the corner when his hair turned gray and became wise and patient and peaceful. Why not, I thought, be like him.
So now I drive the same routes but in a different way. I give people all the space they need to cut corners in front of me, I slow down responsibly when the guy behind comes dangerously close to my back bumper, I wait quietly for the guy ahead of me to realize that the light's turned green, and whenever somebody does something truly stupid I strain my brain and remember that time when I did exactly the same stupid thing.
Wish I'd wised up sooner.
Monday, March 21, 2011
PPE
Schools of Engineering, may I have a word with you? I have worked diligently, for these last sixty years or so, as an unpaid and largely unappreciated consumer product tester. I've seen, closely and personally, the work that your graduates have done. And I have reached a conclusion that I need to share with you. The bottom third of each and every one of your classes should have diplomas that read "PPE", for Pretty Poor Engineer. They are the ones who end up designing can openers, vacuum cleaners, clock radios and cardboard boxes, while the top two-thirds of the class goes on to engineer jet planes and Corvettes. And those bottom thirders are the ones responsible for all the stuff that almost works.
My father had a unique method of dealing with consumer products that did not, for one reason or another, meet his professional standards. A brook ran alongside and below our house. When some gadget drew his ire, he'd walk outside and throw it into the brook, accompanied by some strong but fitting language. Problem solved. Us kids found the darnedest collection of stuff in that brook, from flashlights to can openers. I inherited my high standards from the king of high standards and I carry on the cause, even though I currently lack a brook.
So let me tell you why this particular gripe is on my mind today. I am, as you might suspect from the photo above, a rower. Rowing becomes difficult here in the winter since the lake freezes over, so I move my workout to my man cave in the basement, where I keep my rowing machine. It's a generally good machine and I've put quite a few miles on it; resistance is provided by a tank of actual water with a rotating paddle wheel inside. I queue up a Netflix streaming moving and put in a hard half-hour on the rig every other day through the winter.
A few days ago, while simultaneously engaged in viewing a shoot-em-up movie and in a quest to beat my best ever record for imaginary miles rowed in thirty minutes, I suddenly found myself doing a back flip off the seat of the rowing machine and onto the basement floor. Umph. As I struggled to my feet I noticed that I was still holding the handlebars that simulate oar handles -- but they where no longer fastened to the strap that makes the paddle wheel go round. The strap had looped through a slot in the handlebars -- a slot cut in steel and left sharp on its edges. Sharp steel slot, meet nylon strap -- no contest.
This had to be the work of a PPE! A rowing machine that cost the better part of a grand falling apart and putting my very valuable head in grave danger because some "engineer" missed the class where they taught that rock breaks scissors and steel cuts nylon! Boy, if I had a brook...
Friday, February 25, 2011
East meets West
It's been a long time since I've made a trip "back home"; probably twenty years or more. I've lived in Colorado for the better part of fifty years, long enough to qualify as a real westerner even though I don't have a horse. (I do have a large dog.)
My parents moved out here after they retired, realizing wisely that a day would come when they would need my help. It was fun watching them adjust to life in the shadows of the Rockies. My mother took issue with the guys who dared wear their hats into public restaurants, and she often let them know it; one advantage, I suppose, to being a little old lady is that you can say what you think. My dad stopped into the post office in the small town where they settled and was absolutely stunned when the postmaster called him Fred instead of Mr. Wilson. The nerve! They adjusted, slowly and slightly, but New Jersey always lingered in their blood; you don't change much when you're over sixty.
Jersey's all but gone in me. Being immersed in the culture and ways of the west, with most of my friends and relatives nearby, has made me forget my roots. Helping to organize a high school reunion has been an eye-opener. I guess I noticed that I was out of touch with east coast culture when I called one of the girls -- yes, I know, the girls are all sixty-something now but they'll always be girls to me -- and mentioned that I had served as mayor of our city. Her reaction; "Get oudda hea!" I hadn't heard those words said in that way outside of a theater in many moons (that's western for "a long time"). It made me a little homesick, no fooling!
I started to think about the cultural divide between civilization and fly-over county and realized that the way I act, and the way I talk, is foreign to the girls and guys I grew up with. There are a handful of us from HHS who have ended up out here west of the Mississippi, but the map with classmate's locations shows that most have stayed within a day's drive of the shore and, therefore, well within the zone of civilization. We pioneers have learned a way of life that is different. We're all on a first name basis, even across generations and with people we just met. We call our Governor "Hick", for Pete's sake, right to his face! We wear hats into restaurants and drive jeeps without doors and leave the ski racks on all year. We own guns and shoot them. We left our refinement and our good silverware somewhere along the Oregon Trail and we only take baths on Saturday night.
That all adds up to this: I may be less polished and more brash than my old friends back east, and some may consider that rude and unbecoming, but sometimes it takes that kind of person to set the wheels in motion and get something done. So if I've stepped on some toes without noticing, chalk it up to the length of my boots.
My parents moved out here after they retired, realizing wisely that a day would come when they would need my help. It was fun watching them adjust to life in the shadows of the Rockies. My mother took issue with the guys who dared wear their hats into public restaurants, and she often let them know it; one advantage, I suppose, to being a little old lady is that you can say what you think. My dad stopped into the post office in the small town where they settled and was absolutely stunned when the postmaster called him Fred instead of Mr. Wilson. The nerve! They adjusted, slowly and slightly, but New Jersey always lingered in their blood; you don't change much when you're over sixty.
Jersey's all but gone in me. Being immersed in the culture and ways of the west, with most of my friends and relatives nearby, has made me forget my roots. Helping to organize a high school reunion has been an eye-opener. I guess I noticed that I was out of touch with east coast culture when I called one of the girls -- yes, I know, the girls are all sixty-something now but they'll always be girls to me -- and mentioned that I had served as mayor of our city. Her reaction; "Get oudda hea!" I hadn't heard those words said in that way outside of a theater in many moons (that's western for "a long time"). It made me a little homesick, no fooling!
I started to think about the cultural divide between civilization and fly-over county and realized that the way I act, and the way I talk, is foreign to the girls and guys I grew up with. There are a handful of us from HHS who have ended up out here west of the Mississippi, but the map with classmate's locations shows that most have stayed within a day's drive of the shore and, therefore, well within the zone of civilization. We pioneers have learned a way of life that is different. We're all on a first name basis, even across generations and with people we just met. We call our Governor "Hick", for Pete's sake, right to his face! We wear hats into restaurants and drive jeeps without doors and leave the ski racks on all year. We own guns and shoot them. We left our refinement and our good silverware somewhere along the Oregon Trail and we only take baths on Saturday night.
That all adds up to this: I may be less polished and more brash than my old friends back east, and some may consider that rude and unbecoming, but sometimes it takes that kind of person to set the wheels in motion and get something done. So if I've stepped on some toes without noticing, chalk it up to the length of my boots.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Reuniting the class of 1962
The effort to find a hundred and a half scattered souls continues, seasoned with high points and low. Some twenty-one classmates are gone forever, another sixteen are lost somewhere or hiding, but we've got addresses for the other one-hundred and eighteen and forty-six have already signed onto the Hawthorne62.com website. With ten months to go before we enter 2012, chances are good that we'll fill the roster and be able to pass news along to practically everyone. The experience we've had with ClassCreators, the people who designed and support the class website, has been mostly trouble-free and I recommend them to anyone who may be considering a reunion effort. A complete and accurate mailing list is essential to organizing an inclusive reunion, and the ability to communicate and share experiences is certainly worth the modest charge - about $100/year. If you're thinking "reunion", go to http://www.classcreator.com and see what they have to offer.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Jobs jobs jobs
The popular refrain, from our leaders, is that we must focus on creating jobs. As soon as everyone--coast to coast and border to border-- has a good job, the sky will clear, birds will sing, and all will be right with the world. I have my doubts.
Here's my theory, typically off-kilter: there is no longer enough work to go around. We're still thinking in early twentieth century terms while the world has quietly slipped into a whole new dimension. Technology has taken over every facet of life, at least in this country. Anything worth doing is worth automating because (1) robots do it faster (2) and better (3) and don't belong to unions.
Many of us have missed the quiet take-over of our daily work by the millions of unobtrusive little mechanical people, simply because the damn things don't look anything like people! We all expected robots to be like the tin man in the Wizard of Oz: two arms, two legs, and a funnel for a hat. That hasn't happened, and I doubt it ever will. Patterning a robot after a human being is a losing proposition because, while humans are good at many things they are usually not great at one single thing. Our robots are the opposite; designed and taught (or, more accurately, programmed) to perform a single task over and over, never faltering nor complaining about the boredom. Mere mortals can't do that without extensive surgical remodeling of their brains, which is illegal in all but two states.
I visited Japan, about twenty years ago, as part of a Sister City boondoggle. We were given a tour of the Panasonic factory, where various electronic products were assembled. Our guide pointed out the metal grounding plates on the floor where technicians sat and worked. About half of those people had been replaced with quietly humming robots of assorted sizes and shapes. The stated goal was to get rid of the rest of the humans as quickly as possible. I realized that I was seeing the handwriting on the wall, in big red capital letters. Doing the same thing over and over again is the road to burnout for humans but it's duck soup for Robbie, the tin man.
Robots, of course, have been around for many years, things like steam shovels and elevators, but they have generally relied on a human brain to make them operate. The big change came when intellect was added to the machines, in the form of computer control. There is a computer, and operating software, embedded in everything from your clock radio to your car keys. Those computers are little lumps of silicon -- the software makes them work. And software evolves, builds upon itself, learns, changes and improves, with a little help from human beings of course. Our robots are growing up and taking over, much like our kids. Only they won't be moving back home someday.
It's all good.
Here's my theory, typically off-kilter: there is no longer enough work to go around. We're still thinking in early twentieth century terms while the world has quietly slipped into a whole new dimension. Technology has taken over every facet of life, at least in this country. Anything worth doing is worth automating because (1) robots do it faster (2) and better (3) and don't belong to unions.
Many of us have missed the quiet take-over of our daily work by the millions of unobtrusive little mechanical people, simply because the damn things don't look anything like people! We all expected robots to be like the tin man in the Wizard of Oz: two arms, two legs, and a funnel for a hat. That hasn't happened, and I doubt it ever will. Patterning a robot after a human being is a losing proposition because, while humans are good at many things they are usually not great at one single thing. Our robots are the opposite; designed and taught (or, more accurately, programmed) to perform a single task over and over, never faltering nor complaining about the boredom. Mere mortals can't do that without extensive surgical remodeling of their brains, which is illegal in all but two states.
I visited Japan, about twenty years ago, as part of a Sister City boondoggle. We were given a tour of the Panasonic factory, where various electronic products were assembled. Our guide pointed out the metal grounding plates on the floor where technicians sat and worked. About half of those people had been replaced with quietly humming robots of assorted sizes and shapes. The stated goal was to get rid of the rest of the humans as quickly as possible. I realized that I was seeing the handwriting on the wall, in big red capital letters. Doing the same thing over and over again is the road to burnout for humans but it's duck soup for Robbie, the tin man.
Robots, of course, have been around for many years, things like steam shovels and elevators, but they have generally relied on a human brain to make them operate. The big change came when intellect was added to the machines, in the form of computer control. There is a computer, and operating software, embedded in everything from your clock radio to your car keys. Those computers are little lumps of silicon -- the software makes them work. And software evolves, builds upon itself, learns, changes and improves, with a little help from human beings of course. Our robots are growing up and taking over, much like our kids. Only they won't be moving back home someday.
It's all good.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Reunion
Faced with the prospect of enduring another long cold Colorado winter, I decided to start something that would ease my cabin fever: a search for the whereabouts and status of 155 members of the Hawthorne High NJ Class of 1962. With so much information floating free across the world-wide-web I figured it was possible to locate a fair share of the class by simply pounding on my keyboard. Turned out I was right. Out of 155, I found -- with some help from my friends -- information on all but nineteen. Isn't loss of all privacy fun?
With names, addresses and emails, I was able to touch base with people I had not seen or spoken with in nearly fifty years. Interesting, to say the least. The funny thing is, nobody has changed. The way they were is the way they are, me included. We knew in '62 that David would be a doctor, Joan would be an artist, Judi would be a librarian, Arlene would be a teacher and Bob would be a Marine. And so it was. Email conversations took up where we left off 49 years ago, and the tone was so familiar it was scary.
If a reunion does come together -- and that's somebody else's task, not mine -- it will be interesting indeed to hear the same old voices from faces that must have changed at least a little bit in the last half-century.
With names, addresses and emails, I was able to touch base with people I had not seen or spoken with in nearly fifty years. Interesting, to say the least. The funny thing is, nobody has changed. The way they were is the way they are, me included. We knew in '62 that David would be a doctor, Joan would be an artist, Judi would be a librarian, Arlene would be a teacher and Bob would be a Marine. And so it was. Email conversations took up where we left off 49 years ago, and the tone was so familiar it was scary.
If a reunion does come together -- and that's somebody else's task, not mine -- it will be interesting indeed to hear the same old voices from faces that must have changed at least a little bit in the last half-century.
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