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.
Friday, February 25, 2011
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.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Want to have some fun? Finish your basement! That's what we've been doing these past few months and, oh, it's been fun. Step one was to empty the space: cabinets, saws, joiners, planers, drill presses, band saws, lathes -- up and out the window and into the garage. Of course, that meant relocating the stuff in the garage -- mostly boats -- to temporary storage along the fence in the backyard.
Step two was to bring in the contractor; the easy part. Our next door neighbor was the best -- and only -- bid on the project and he's done a great job. In one month's time he has transformed a big open space with concrete floors and mice-chewed insulated walls into three rooms, a hallway, and a bath. Walls, doors, windows, lights, those little gadgets that keep the doorknob from punching holes in the walls -- it's all done and it's good.
We wait now for the electricians to connect the lights and the carpet guys to cover the floors. Next week we'll get the keys to a whole new bunch of rooms to enjoy, to heat, and to cool. It's a wonderful thing.
One room will be my wood shop; smaller than the old one but finished, with actual walls, actual lights, and actual outlets every four feet all the way around the room. Room two is my "office", where I'll wrestle with my many responsibilities, like writing this blog and flying imaginary airplanes and futilely attempting to move the entire house with my rowing machine.
The other room will be the Bijou, a theater just for us. We suspect that in the years to come our abilities to climb every mountain and ford every stream will, to some extent, lessen. We decided to prepare in advance for a time when time takes its toll. We're building a spot where virtual reality replaces actual reality, where we can ride the Amazon to the ocean and walk the Andes from end to end while comfortably reclining and sipping a scotch. We've even arranged to have biting insects released to make the experience all the more rewarding. The first movie to debut on the big screen will be African Queen, since MA and I actually met, many years ago, in the Congo on a river. We're going back to our roots, and we'll turn the sound up loud!
Step two was to bring in the contractor; the easy part. Our next door neighbor was the best -- and only -- bid on the project and he's done a great job. In one month's time he has transformed a big open space with concrete floors and mice-chewed insulated walls into three rooms, a hallway, and a bath. Walls, doors, windows, lights, those little gadgets that keep the doorknob from punching holes in the walls -- it's all done and it's good.
We wait now for the electricians to connect the lights and the carpet guys to cover the floors. Next week we'll get the keys to a whole new bunch of rooms to enjoy, to heat, and to cool. It's a wonderful thing.
One room will be my wood shop; smaller than the old one but finished, with actual walls, actual lights, and actual outlets every four feet all the way around the room. Room two is my "office", where I'll wrestle with my many responsibilities, like writing this blog and flying imaginary airplanes and futilely attempting to move the entire house with my rowing machine.
The other room will be the Bijou, a theater just for us. We suspect that in the years to come our abilities to climb every mountain and ford every stream will, to some extent, lessen. We decided to prepare in advance for a time when time takes its toll. We're building a spot where virtual reality replaces actual reality, where we can ride the Amazon to the ocean and walk the Andes from end to end while comfortably reclining and sipping a scotch. We've even arranged to have biting insects released to make the experience all the more rewarding. The first movie to debut on the big screen will be African Queen, since MA and I actually met, many years ago, in the Congo on a river. We're going back to our roots, and we'll turn the sound up loud!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Reverse perspective
There is a tendency in me, and possibly widespread in the general population, to view life's hurdles as higher than they actually are; the job from afar looks tall as a tree, only to diminish in size as I draw closer. That isn't in keeping with physics as we know it (or is it "them") but such so often seems to be the way it is.
Take writing as an example. From my performance thus far at this blogging thing it seems obvious that sitting down at the keyboard and jotting down some random thoughts is terribly difficult. That might have been true in the days when one needed to sharpen a quill and mix up a fresh pot of ink but now, with ---[okay, this is unbelievable; as I typed that last sentence the batteries in my wireless keyboard decided to run out of juice and my typing made nothing but noise! ]--- a computer and a keyboard, writing is a cinch. I even remember where the letters lie so I can type without looking so that writing should be no more difficult than talking. And I talk all the time without thinking.
Part of my problem in getting started on any project relates to the old adage: the perfect is the enemy of the good. I look at a problem or a project and try to invent the most elegant solution, unwilling to accept compromise of any sort. That's bound to magnify the challenge, to distort the perspective to frightening proportions. I admire those who don't create hurdles for themselves by falling into the trap of over-analyzing every single thing, who jump feet-first into everything. I'm the one who has to get through the long list of all the stuff that might possibly go wrong before I can touch a toe to the water.
But there's hope. I've identified the problem and I'm aware of the solution. Don't let the reverse perspective slow or stop progress. Don't spend time and energy looking for the absolute best way to move forward, just move forward.
Easy to say. Hey, easy to write!
Take writing as an example. From my performance thus far at this blogging thing it seems obvious that sitting down at the keyboard and jotting down some random thoughts is terribly difficult. That might have been true in the days when one needed to sharpen a quill and mix up a fresh pot of ink but now, with ---[okay, this is unbelievable; as I typed that last sentence the batteries in my wireless keyboard decided to run out of juice and my typing made nothing but noise! ]--- a computer and a keyboard, writing is a cinch. I even remember where the letters lie so I can type without looking so that writing should be no more difficult than talking. And I talk all the time without thinking.
Part of my problem in getting started on any project relates to the old adage: the perfect is the enemy of the good. I look at a problem or a project and try to invent the most elegant solution, unwilling to accept compromise of any sort. That's bound to magnify the challenge, to distort the perspective to frightening proportions. I admire those who don't create hurdles for themselves by falling into the trap of over-analyzing every single thing, who jump feet-first into everything. I'm the one who has to get through the long list of all the stuff that might possibly go wrong before I can touch a toe to the water.
But there's hope. I've identified the problem and I'm aware of the solution. Don't let the reverse perspective slow or stop progress. Don't spend time and energy looking for the absolute best way to move forward, just move forward.
Easy to say. Hey, easy to write!
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Back to the Blog
Somehow two full years have gone somewhere, never to be seen again. I began this blog with good intentions and high hopes, then let it fade and die, like that plant on the back porch. There's no promise that this attempt at resurrection will succeed since it's the same ten fingers on the keyboard and the same mind -- two years older -- running the show.
I still consider myself upper middle aged and I'm still moving forward, looking backwards in my rowboat three mornings a week. We were engulfed by the smoke from the fires in California on Monday and I happened to have a camera with me at the lake and got the shot above.
Since my last entry on this page several things have changed. MaryAnn retired in August of '08 and I'm fond of saying that I now have adult supervision. The house is big enough for both of us to rattle around without colliding too often. My mother passed away about a year ago, following a blessedly short illness; she had the opportunity to see all four of her great-grandchildren before she left. I hope I'll be that lucky. I took care of her, and my dad, for many years so there's a bit of a vacuum now that they're both gone. I think of all sorts of things I meant to ask them and never got around to. That's a good reason to put my knowledge of the family and its history down in ink -- remember ink? -- so that when my kids and grandkids get curious someday they'll have a place to start.
The trick, I think, to keeping a blog is to resist the urge to make every entry weighty, wise and lyrical. I'm not playing to an audience of millions and I don't need to impress anyone with my wit and intellect, which seem to be in ever shorter supply. If I manage to hit a stride that's comfortable and visit the keyboard a few times a week, perhaps I'll make a dent in the gigabyte of space that Google provides me.
This is a start. Stay tuned.
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