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Archive for the ‘Miscellaneous’ Category

The Pleasantries

When we met our old friend for the last time, we shook hands. We did not talk about his cancer, or about his stopping treatment. We talked instead about my father, who had visited him earlier in the day. My father, with his failing memory and pondering, almost dreamlike awareness, had returned from the visit and whispered to us secretively: He’s really aged! These two friends at the end of their lives worried mostly about each other.

For our own visit later in the afternoon, we stayed 15, maybe 20 minutes. We talked of other things, in part because there was too much to say, but mostly because what we really needed to say had already been expressed in a last, simple handshake.

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A lot of people display the trappings of frontier life in Montana’s Swan Valley. Bud Moore has the actual traps. When his daughter Vicki has a chance to talk about them, and about the winter she spent trapping with her father a few years back, her eyes light up.

But many people in the valley are suspicious of Vicki. She talks to them about managing their land to preserve the environment. She looks a little like a hippy. And most dangerous of all, she has lived most of her adult life in Paris. So when she asks the ranchers and the summer cabin owners to consider committing to a land management plan that will last for generations, naturally they are wary.

At her father’s mill last week, we came across a long wall of traps and got Vicki talking about how they worked. She could catch mink, beaver, even the reclusive wolverine. But of all the traps, the most fascinating was the one they had for coyotes.

“You see this big hook on the end of the chain,” she began. “You need it because you trap coyotes along the side of the road where they hunt for mice. If someone drives down the road and sees your coyote, they’ll just take if for themselves. So instead of staking the trap to the ground, you leave a loose hook. The coyote gets caught and then runs off to into the forest dragging the hook behind him until it snags on something. And then you really have him.”

Land owners in the Swan Valley have a lot to worry about these days. With dramatic mountain ranges on each side and plenty of mountain lakes for fishing and swimming and boating, it’s little wonder that the property around them is no longer affordable for the average resident. Add in the invading noxious weeds, the bad economy, and the uncertainties of life, and the wisdom of developing and committing to a land management plan becomes pretty clear.

But then there’s that hook.

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Charleston Cafe

I tried to eat here

I planned my first meal in the sophisticated and deliriously historic city of Charleston long before my plane ever touched down. Breakfast at the old Diana’s Cafe (now simply called Toast). I checked fried green tomatoes and grits off the list of required Southern cuisine. And everything was really nice. But maybe it was a little too nice. 

So later that day I asked some Charlestonians where I could go for something a little more, um, authentic. They sent me to the Fat Hen where I got collard greens checked off the list, and thought about getting my wife a souvenir shirt. Then I visualized offering her a shirt that said “Fat Hen” and decided to stay married instead. Now this was a great little restaurant, but it was still too nice for me. 

Next was Hominy Grill, a pretty fabulous cafe fashioned out of an old barber shop. Hominy gets it right not so much in the main course, but in the little things.  The boiled peanuts, the cucumbers, the potato salad that has never seen mustard or mayonnaise. But with so many New York Times accolades framed on the wall, you know this place is just too nice to be authentic. 

So I tried she-crab soup at Shem Creek. I saw the name of the soup and had to ask what it meant. In Washington, we catch leggy Dungeness crabs but are required to throw the females back into the sea. South Carolina is not so particular. I discovered that she-crab soup is more than just soup made from a female crab. You get both the mother and her unborn children. It’s delicious, yes, but most certainly it is not very nice. 

So I asked a new Charlestonian friend to point me to a really, really authentic experience. A place that locals would love but people from the New York Times would never find. I reached for just the right adjective to describe what I was looking for.  I grabbed the wrong one. 

Armed with a street address and my iPhone’s mapping technology, I set off for the ultimate Southern cuisine. And yet the cafe did not seem to exist. The phone number was disconnected. I couldn’t find a sign anywhere with the right name. And after circling around a few times, I came to the realization that everything was leading me to a strange, unseemly hulk of a building. There were no cars parked outside, or at least no functioning cars. The doors were caged in to fend off criminals. An Open sign glowed warmly over a locked door. I know it was locked because I tried to open it. I tried to eat there. Fortunately the door would not open. When I told someone the next day of where I was trying to eat, she said, “People don’t go there for the food. They go there for drugs.” 

So for my last meal in Charleston I found myself at Jestine’s. Unabashedly recognized by the New York Times. I got okra gumbo and sweet tea checked off my list. You can have fried pork, fried fish, fried oysters, and of course fried chicken. A note at the bottom of the menu reads almost sadly: “If you are a vegetarian, we do try to help.”  There is fried okra, after all.

I watched as a line of tourists grew outside. The locals in their Sunday best had managed to beat the crowd for tables inside and kept advising the newly arrived to go stand in the 94 degree heat and wait their turn. I sipped my sweet tea and was relieved to find myself in a place that was really nice. And that was perfect.

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Sir, if you would be so kind...

Nearly 30 years ago I stood outside the public library in Olympia, Washington with a sheet of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other. I stepped nervously toward anyone who came near me. “Excuse me, I have a few questions about the Falklands War and…” the last few words spoken to their backs as they walked away. I was an introverted kid with an extroverted school assignment. I needed 40 people to take my survey, but after 45 minutes I had only 3. So in the end, I sat down on the sidewalk as the sun dropped behind the Black Hills and made up 37 people. Some of these imaginary people had strong opinions about the Falklands War. Others were not sure. Conveniently for my research, their responses spanned the complete range of available choices.

I did not tell this story to my 14-year-old as he went off this weekend first to Costco, and then to Trader Joe’s. He needed 100 people to take his survey and he was willing to talk to complete strangers to get it done. He also talked to neighbors and called everyone on his mother’s cell phone list. But after all this, he was still only halfway done. So in the end, he sat down at the computer and created an online survey.

Before long, thanks to Facebook and Twitter, he had more than enough responses to finish the assignment. Conveniently for his research, these responses spanned the complete range of available choices. And these were real responses from real people across the United States and Canada. For the latter, he added metric equivalents to the questions about mileage (now if only I knew the metric equivalent for the word mileage).

The online results confirmed things we already know about social media: That the average Tweeter is 25-50 years old; that social media brings people together from across geographical and political boundaries; and that people are, by nature, actually very helpful. 

Best of all, sharing an online survey is faster and easier than making people up. So maybe I should go back and find out what people really think about the Falklands War.

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Dirty Face

I met a man who will not wash his face. He has given it up the way other people give up cigarettes. We met at a friend’s wedding reception in Arizona, sitting under the stars by a small fire. He explained that in Latin America people don’t wash their faces much and they do okay. I can’t remember his reason. Maybe he realized that soaps are made with fat, and he didn’t want to rub fat around his vegetarian mouth. Or maybe, at first, he was just lazy. In the old days, when he used to wash his face, he had pimples. Now, he told me, his skin is always clear and healthy. He has not washed his face in years.

I often think about the man who will not wash his face. His daring rebellion against hygiene. And I often wish, standing in front of the mirror with a bit of soap in one hand, that I had met him earlier. When it was light.

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Twister Solo

It’s embarrassing to admit, but the other day I threw out my back painting a miniature barn for baby chickens.

Twister, not the tornado version with actual dangerOne moment I’m leaning over slathering paint, and the next I realize that I cannot move. I dropped the paintbrush to the floor and hovered for a minute, trying not to draw attention to myself. Fourteen-year-old William was painting the other side of the barn, and as ridiculous as a chicken barn may be, getting injured while painting it is even more ridiculous. No matter how excrutiating the pain, you must keep your composure.

Unable to move left or right, up or down, I focused on a sheet of plywood nearby and grabbed it as quietly as I could. 

Gasp. Pause. Pause. Gasp.

William continued to paint the far side of the chicken barn, unaware that his crippled father was tilting only a yard away, no longer painting and joking around. Eventually he realized that something was not quite right. Anytime you are doing all the work and your partner is huffing at his post, something is not quite right.

The first day after my chicken barn injury was painful, but fascinating. It took 45 minutes to get out of bed. Twelve-year-old Nick made coffee in the morning and set a steaming mug next to me in bed. I was Tantalus, writhing. I could not roll onto my side. Could not prop myself up on either arm. By the time I could get to the coffee, it was not even warm.

As excruciating as the pain was during my first two days, the situations were amusing. It was like playing Twister by myself, trying to unravel elaborate puzzles to complete the most mundane tasks.

One puzzle was getting out of bed.  Another was pulling on socks. Another was peeing. Another was getting in and out of the car. Day 1 was tough. Day 2 was better, and I was able to maneuver myself out of bed at 2 a.m. to pee. If you’re counting, that would be two puzzles. 30 minutes.

The new chicks, I hope, appreciate their barn with its green roof and bright red sides.

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Chumpy Mii watches Netflix via Wii

Chumpy gets Netflix through the Wii

You can almost hear the plunk of the last nail being driven into Blockbuster’s coffin. But the sound is as quiet as the whir of a Netflix disc in a child’s Nintendo Wii console.

After decades of resisting expansive cable tv options and expensive pay-per-view technology, frugal families across the United States can finally throw their VCRs in the trash and enjoy the same streaming entertainment so many people now take for granted, and at a fraction of the price.

This week the last of the streaming television holdouts–families like mine–began receiving free discs from Netflix that enable streaming media through their unassuming Wii consoles. Point the fat-fingered Wii cursor at your movie or HBO series of choice, and join the new millennium.

What is particularly interesting about this new development is not its potential impact on TiVo or ShowTime or satellite television. People used to paying a lot more money for a little more selection are not going to give up their slick technology to see Dexter in Luigi’s Mansion.  What is interesting is how the new technology holdouts (read cheapskates) have just leapfrogged their more tech-savvy friends. No extra fees, no new wiring to an extra box. Just a little disc to displace Wii Sports for an evening.

And a death knell for the brick-and-mortar video store, which long ago lost its advantage of in-house expertise and comprehensive selection. Blockbuster recently abandoned a detente in its war on customers by re-instituting heavy late fees, even on discs of crusty old movies that were not worth five dollars in the theater. The extensive library of classic movies and beloved B flicks has been replaced with a strange collection of impulse items, from Top 10 novels (wait for the movie) to microwave popcorn and giant bottles of Diet Pepsi.

A few months ago I bumped into a woman in the Horror section of our local Blockbuster. I had a copy of Nosferatu in my hand and she took that as a sign of hope that her quest for something like The Golem or The 39 Steps would not be in vain. We looked together for a bit, but then a jovial young Blockbuster employee insisted on helping. He listened to the woman explain that she was interested in a classy, subtle, clever drama. When he brightened and said, “May I suggest a movie for you?” she waited an uncomfortably long time before acquiescing, chin down, “Sure.” He grabbed a video from the shelf and held it up triumphantly. “Might I suggest The Grudge?”

No offense, jolly man, but you don’t know Mii. And you don’t know the woman looking for a movie that is not insulting. And you probably don’t get why she and I no longer come into your store and listen to your cross-sell opportunity of a box of Jolly Ranchers and a poster of Keanu Reeves. We are, both of us, sitting contentedly at home with Link and Mario and Tony Soprano.

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Insidious Checkout Commercial Machine

Heading to the checkout line? Bring your ear plugs.

This post first appeared on Technorati.com.

This afternoon a banged up white truck drove slowly up our street spewing disheveled twentysomethings. “They’re coming,” I said to myself. And because I was out in the front yard working at the time, and had surely been seen, I knew it was too late to hide myself. So I hid the tools instead, closed up the garage, and waited. 

The only endearing quality of these door-to-door hawkers is that they are consistently, tragically amusing.

Last year a man who had moved here from Africa came to our door selling a nameless window cleaner in bulk. When he realized that we were trying to get rid of him, he became desperate. “It’s safe!” he cried, squirting the window cleaner into his eyes until my wife shouted, “Stop! Stop! You must never do that again!”

Today it was the so-called student painters. I watched as one of them attacked houses along the south side of our street, failing to gain entry each time. Perhaps the owners were hiding inside, I thought, shushing each other. I got so lost in this fantasy that I failed to notice one of them as he emerged from around the hedge and startled me with a robotic Hello. “Don’t worry,” he began, “my boss won’t make you buy nuthin’ you don’t want.” I hope at least that the student painters can paint, because they do not seem to be very good students.

I can do without this kind of amusement. At every turn now, we are confronted with obnoxious sales pitches. Pump gas at one station in Marysville, Washington, and you’ll be forced to watch a video about the casino next door. Head down the road to Albertson’s, and if you can make it past the cute girl peddling cookies by the entrance and get your groceries, you’ll be forced to watch a video while waiting in the checkout line. 

The first time I saw this Insidious Checkout Commercial Machine, I figured that it was at least worth tweeting about, so I tried to learn a little of the history. I started to ask the cashier how long it had been there, but apparently this was a touchy subject because she hissed back in a crescendo of disgust: “It drives me CRAZY!”

That pretty much sums up how we all feel about unwanted solicitations. Oh yes, and your cute little girl harassing me with her cookies outside the grocery store? I’ll buy her cookies when she is dedicated enough to squirt window cleaner in her eyes.

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The Reaper came to Gladys in the form of a joyful, bouncing Irish terrier. The same terrier who this fall killed Wilbur and left her as a gray, plump, feathered heap in the front yard, while the remaining chickens cowered fearfully under the farthest recesses of the front porch. 

Gladys with Tail

Gladys with her proud tail intact

Yet these chickens who watched Wilbur die forgot their trauma, and were flying out of the safety of the backyard to raid the neighborhood bird feeders within a week. If elephants really never forget, chickens surely never remember. 

Our next door neighbor accused the terrier’s owner of harboring a chicken killer (sort of the opposite of being a son-of-a-bitch). The owner was not amused, and began to glower at us instead of waving as she walked her chicken killer past our house every overcast Northwest afternoon. Certainly we could not blame her. Yes her dog came into our yard seeking game, but we let our chickens into the front yard. Or rather, they let themselves into the front yard by flying over an inadequate gate. 

In strange irony, when we dismantled our rotting deck and its protective gate a month ago, the chickens lost interest in the front yard and the neighborhood beyond. For the first time since Wilbur’s death, they were free to roam, but instead they mostly kept to the space around their henhouse. And I became complacent. 

Immediate trauma

Then on Saturday it happened. I was in the woodshed when I heard the commotion. Swans are supposed to release a beautiful song at the point of death, but chickens are no swans. They just squawk bloody murder. 

I leapt from the shed with a caulking gun in one hand, which I threw desperately in the direction of the commotion. But this was too many seconds after the attack to make a difference. I was coming from too far away. 

The terrier had run around to the back of the house, found Gladys and seized her, was killing her in her own water trough. The miracle of her survival came from the survival instincts, as it turned out, of the previous homeowner. He had created a sort of bomb shelter to store up emergency food and water, and our kids had turned this into their own fort. As luck would have it, the fort was located next to the chicken coop, and there were two kids inside when the attack came. So right as the terrier had the chicken submerged in the water trough, an 11-year-old boy burst onto the scene and pulled Gladys from the jaws of death. 

Gladys without her tail

Gladys without her proud tail

I came as fast as I could, passing the misused caulking gun and entering the scene of screaming children and traumatized chickens. In the middle of it all stood a young, beautiful terrier. A chicken killer interrupted in the middle of the most natural of jobs. 

So I scratched him behind the ears when the kids were not looking and opened the nearest gate to send him home. Then I set about repurposing pieces of the old rotten deck to erect a hideous but sturdy gate which would keep the chickens in and the dogs out. Would keep the chickens away from the neighbors’ gardens, and keep their dogs away from our chicken coop. Wilbur in Heaven is clucking in disapproval at the slowness of my actions.  And Gladys is running about the yard without her once proud tail. But she is already looking for a way over the fence to the unprotected front yard and the neighborhood beyond. And she is strutting again. Because chickens, after all, never remember.

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O CanadaThis post first appeared on Technorati.com

When a 9th grader asked me to teach him the Canadian national anthem earlier this week, I thought it was a pretty straightforward request, and a quick search online would fill in the blanks. But I was mistaken. Canada has no national anthem.

Most Canadians would dispute this. They made it through a record 14 gold medal ceremonies in the 2010 Winter Olympics, after all, singing the refrain, “O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.”

But what about French Canadians? The English and French lyrics are not aligned. French Canadians don’t stand on guard to protect Canada. Instead, they count on Canada to stand on guard for them–to protect their homes and their rights.  Both sentiments are worthy of a national anthem, but at some point, you have to agree as a nation what it is you stand for. That’s why it is called a national anthem, and not a this-is-what-it-means-to-me improvisation.

French Canadians have remained consistent, singing the same words to the same tune for 130 years. But English-speaking Canadians can’t leave well enough alone. First, they translated the French lyrics but kept the sentiment. Then, they borrowed the tune but gave it completely different lyrics. Then they added extra stanzas. Then removed them. Finally, in 1980, the English lyrics were officially settled, based on an early 20th Century version that focused on the sacrifice of Canada’s sons to protect its borders. Not surprisingly, this version gained popularity during World War I.

Trouble is, these lyrics have nothing to do with the French-language version. And as it turns out, the English version is still controversial. From 1990 up to the present day, both liberal and conservative Canadians have objected to a line in the current English version: “True patriot love in all thy sons command.” Most recently, the ruling conservative party asked the Canadian Parliament to consider reverting the current English line about “sons” to an earlier, pre-WWI version that expressed the same sentiment but in gender-neutral terms. Interestingly, both versions were from the same author, Stanley Weir. No matter, the current opposition party felt that the suggestion was a political maneuver, and not worthy of consideration.

It is time to decide. By 2031, according to Canada’s Globe and Mail,  one in four Canadians will be foreign-born. The need for a unified vision of purpose has surely never been greater, and no single expression of this purpose will be more visible than Canada’s national anthem. If it can pick one.

In the United States, we have struggled with the same pressures from immigration; have been lured by bigotry and protectionism. But from the very beginning, we told a beautiful lie about ourselves and waited for it to come true. We waited more than 200 years and argued incessantly about the best route, but the goal has remained the same.

If it’s a truly national anthem, there can only be one version. It doesn’t need bombs bursting in air, although concrete language definitely helps. The original French Canadian anthem is clear and concrete, and if I were Canadian I would sing the French version. I would sing it badly and mispronounce the words, but I would get the sentiment right, and I would sing it proudly. After all, the composer, Calixa Lavallée, was a Canadian who fought in the American Civil War and died in Boston. We share a vision of unity through diversity, of strength through independence. And we are willing to share our anthem with our northern neighbors if it helps. Especially since we only won nine gold medals, and could stand to hear our anthem a few more times.

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