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7月18日 The Sod of KansasWhen I first started kicking, I lived in a “soddy” —a sod house. I have a picture of my mother there, and I was with her, but they didn’t know at that time whether I was a boy or a girl. Then our new frame house was finished, and we moved into it. A few weeks after the move, I was born on October 3, 1902…Our home was on a farm three miles southeast of Quinter, in the high plains of western Kansas…
And so began the life of Ralph Waldo McBurney as related in his autobiography, My First 100 Years, published by Leathers Publishing in 2004, and re-published on audio CD by AudioBookMan in 2007—Waldo’s life story, in his own words, and in his own voice.
I won’t spoil the story by telling you about his life. He wrote and read a book that will tell you that, and besides, I couldn’t recount it nearly as well as the one who lived it. And I won’t tell you about his faith, philosophy, or accomplishments. His writings capture such facts and relate them adequately. What I will tell you about is the extraordinary man I was privileged to meet and who shared the most precious of commodities—his time.
I arrived in Quinter after two letters and one phone call. I offered a proposal, he asked a few intelligent questions, I answered them, and my offer was accepted. As promised, Waldo called to invite me to Quinter when he was ready. From those few exchanges, I knew I was dealing with an old-style businessman—the kind who is happy only if all parties are served well in a transaction.
His letters were in legible longhand, and his phone voice was strong. Words were carefully chosen, truthful, serious. If I had not known beforehand, I never would have believed that my correspondent was 104 years of age. At our first in-person meeting, we adopted a work schedule that I nearly objected to as overly ambitious, but there was work to be done, and Waldo had obligations other than entertaining this youngster for too long. I remember chuckling at the thought of negotiating for the sequel, My Second 100 Years, but I didn’t think I’d live long enough to publish it.
We worked closely for four and one-half days—long enough to note some similarities and grow fond of one another despite the half-century age difference. He treated me like family, and introduced me to his town as though I was a son come home to visit after a long voyage. Taking leave was difficult, and was only accomplished by the promise of an event to celebrate the release of our audio book collaboration a few months hence. To my delight, his family suggested a combination book release/birthday party near the beginning of October when Waldo would turn 105 years of age.
The party and the book were successes. When Waldo the businessman totaled up the sales for Waldo the author, he confided to me that he had worried about the potential of my idea, and then he paid me the highest compliment I could have received by saying that I had taught him something. But that was part of Waldo’s success—never stop learning.
I went numb when I read the words, “Sad to let you know of Waldo’s passing at 9:00 PM tonight, July 8, 2009.”
Waldo returns to the sod of the high plains of western Kansas. The sod he watered with his sweat and fertilized with his footsteps may hold his remains, but it cannot hold him. Today, Heaven’s band has a new harmonica player, and Waldo has a centuries worth of accumulated stories to tell. 7月16日 How To Mislead HistoryCartography was not my forte, so I doubt that I could find it again, but it tells my storied past and still holds what I held dear.
Confederate money, a fireman's badge earned, and wire cables—useless bundles on their way to be used again, providing sustenance through their journey.
Some future hiker, an anthropologist perhaps, or a fortune seeker with a metal detector, might pass by this mountainside resting place, dig beneath the black stone marker, and make assumptions that are not true.
They will reassemble a fiction about a firefighter from the 1860s, who, for the cause, breached the dividing line, pushed his way into northern Pennsylvania for wire to win their war.
They will craft a teary end wherein the hero buried his valuables lest they be stolen at his capture, and his war was lost for the want of wire, and he was never heard from again.
It was not my intent to mislead; I’m sure I hardly understood the concept.
Perhaps essential clues were missing—the bubble gum scent long gone from the play money, and the Maxwell House blue was rusted away.
It is the time capsule of an eight-year old.
My worldly treasures in a coffee can. 5月10日 The Power of a Smile and a Single WordMy Saturday morning list of errands usually takes me to Moon Valley Cleaners, where I trade this week's stains (and a bit of cash) for last week's wardrobe, which should now be stain-free. I found them years ago when I ran out of clean clothes, and got tired of hearing, "You're a smart guy. You can figure out how the washing machine works." HA! I was even smarter than that! Bill and Susie are happy to do my laundry--well, most of it.
And so it was that I presented myself at their counter this morning to make our weekly trade. Standing next to me was a woman set to make her own trade. Just seeing her there reaffirmed my choice. I'll bet she knows how to work a washing machine, yet she comes here to have it done. I knew this was a very smart woman.
They brought my pressed shirts and pants and hung them on the rack so that they were between me and my smart fellow customer. I gave over the money, and the attendant disappeared to make change. While he was gone, I casually looked over the shirt hanging on the outside of the bundle to make sure the stains were gone. It had been a spaghetti day when I wore it last. The smart woman looked at the shirt, too, and then turned to me, flashed the largest smile I'd seen all week and said, "Snappy!"
The world seemed to move in slow motion, and I was transported back to high school and the day a girl I didn't know stopped me in the hall to tell me I had beautiful eyes. I remember my reply as if it was yesterday. As I was picking up my dropped books I said, "Herfel snork baraaak gleep!" I never saw that girl again. This time it would be different. I'm not a pimply-faced teenager, I'm a seasoned, well-spoken gentleman, and I am capable of saying something profound. I was horrified to hear the words that tumbled out of my face. "This ole thing?"
Her smile was still there, and I saw in it the smile of a dear friend, now departed, and whom I miss terribly. The likeness was uncanny, and "Snappy" is a word she would have used comfortably. I realized I had been given a great gift, and my spirit has soared all day because of a smile and a single word.
My transaction was complete, and I grabbed my bundle of clothes, stuffed my change in my pocket, smiled and said, "See ya."
"See ya," she said.
I hope I do. 3月25日 Introducing Professor StanI'm pleased to announce the publication of Easy Times: A Beginning Multiplication Tutorial.
It's an interactive, self-study audio CD designed to teach the times tables (ones through twelves) to elementary students, and was produced for homeschooled children, or any child who needs extra help learning them. Easy Times is also a great gift for grandchildren.
In a comfortable, easy style, Professor Stan leads the memorization exercises as he covers multiplying by zero, the commutative property of multiplication, and the concept of a dozen. Professor Stan is already hard at work on Summing Up, an addition tutorial.
No one is more connected to local homeschool networks than a homeschooling parent. If you are one, and would like to distribute Easy Times to your circle of friends, please send me a note by clicking HERE.  1月28日 More From the E-Mail BagHello Terry,
Dear David, Sincerely, 1月20日 Notable Passings
One you might have missed.
And, closer to home
1月10日 From The E-mail BagDear Mr. Lessig,
My name is Roland Temme, owner of TMCO in Lincoln, NE, a manufacturing company that started in business because of Wendell Tallakson. Now, I'm watching TV and there is some advice given to "google" in your name to see what might be said about you. Well, for whatever reason, I'm not sure, but I decided to "google" Magnefax. To my surprise, I find the blogs written by you about "Beating the Expansive".
"WOW!" as Dennis would remark, this is incredible, amazing, and to read this on the first day of the New Year,--You made my year already. What an interesting, well written story, and most importantly a tribute to a very special person. It brought back to life for me the history of our company. By the time I finished reading, I must tell you all of the wonderful memories came back to life. To pay tribute to someone 13 years later--"WOW"!
Well, today our company has over 150 employees, and on the 1st Monday of the New Year, I promised to give a presentation to all our managers about "Relationships". Your blogs tell the story! Expansive Bob vs. Humble Dennis! He would be delighted to think you thought he was the delivery man. I can hear him laughing.
Wendell asked me if there was any way to drop all the pinch rollers at once. I went to work and came up with the lever and cam system. Dennis often told me how impressive and well this worked. Dennis told lots of people about us and we got business from New York to Los Angeles and Canada to Texas. That's the way Dennis was,--he was always wanting to be of help above and beyond expectation. Dennis gave me a Purchase Order of such volume that allowed me to buy the first really big expense CNC machine tool.
We did business (thanks to Dennis or Wendell) with Capitol Records who produced the real expensive type of recording equipment you described. We made the capstan rollers for 1/2" and 1" wide tape. Dennis brought in a "loop bin" and we developed it for the cassette machine. If you still have an old cassette machine and want to sell it, I would be interested to put one in our company museum. I made a donation to Back to the Bible and have an early 1/4" reel machine.
Well, the next time you are traveling through Lincoln, be sure to stop in. I would love to meet you. Thanks again for writing the blogs that touched my heart about Dennis and Magnefax. Happy New Year too!
Best Regards, Roland Temme
Roland Temme
TMCO Inc.
507 J Street
Lincoln NE 68508
Phone 402-476-0013
Fax 402-742-2234 1月1日 Happy New YearI couldn't watch ABC's coverage of the New Year festivities from Times Square last night. It was too painful. Even today, the brief few minutes I did see prompts the same questions. Why would someone with the industry stature of Dick Clark place himself in the limelight? Why isn't there anyone close enough to him to tell him he looks bad? Why won't he allow an adoring public to remember him as he was at his zenith?
Dick wasn't always with ABC. In the 70s and 80s, most of his productions aired on NBC, and the association was so strong that Dick Clark Productions was located on Olive Avenue in Burbank very near the NBC Studios. Today, it is still there, but under different ownership, which only invites more questions why he would still emcee the New Years Eve ceremonies.
For a number of years, I was involved in the NBC affiliate promo tours. These were quarterly events that the network hosted in various regions of the country, and they invited local affiliated stations to send someone to interview the actors and/or producers who had shows on the network. Each affilate had thirty minutes with the star(s) of each show. Many stations represented were from small towns, and the host or hostess of the local comunity affairs show would be sent to do the interviews. Some of these folks were completely out of their element, and overwhelmed by the star-power they were expected to interview. A frequent person to show up for interviews was Dick Clark. He had such command of the television art that he sensed their apprehension, and put them completely at ease. He had a way of conducting the entire interview himself, yet making the inexperienced interviewer look good, too. It was an uncanny and delightful thing to see. At the end of the single-camera interview, it was time to shoot the reversals, which are reaction shots of the interviewer to aid the editor in covering jump cuts, and to add visual interest. All the actors would disappear after their part was taped, but Dick Clark would stay behind after his segments, and direct and coach the novice interviewer, reminding them of certain things that they talked about, and prompting just the perfect reactions to his comments.
For this, I dubbed Dick Clark "The Nicest Guy in Television," and that's the man I prefer to remember. It is unfortunate that he suffered a debilitating stroke a few years ago, and only a person with the passion and love of TV that Dick Clark has could place himself back in service after such a life-changing event. While my hat is off to him, and I still retain my monumental respect for him, I cannot watch. I have a picture in my mind of Dick Clark down on one knee beside a TV camera, coaching a nervous young lady through her reversals. "No, no! It wasn't that funny. Just smile and chuckle." That's the Dick Clark I wish to remember. 11月25日 How To Have a Healthier RetirementI once knew a news reporter who had worked hard at his craft for forty years and was set to retire. At his retirement party, someone asked him what he planned to do. He said, “For the first year I am going to sit in a rocking chair. After that, I might begin to rock.” We laughed, but he was serious, and three months later, we gathered again at his funeral.
Contrast him with Waldo McBurney of Quinter, Kansas who, at 65 years of age, became even more active. Not only did McBurney refuse to retire from his work, he added another physical activity that he continued into his nineties—track and field competition in which he won numerous gold medals and set records, some that have not yet been broken.
Clearly, activity creates a sense of purpose in the mind, and at the same time, keeps the body in good physical condition.
Today, at 105 years of age, he still tends bee colonies and processes hundreds of pounds of honey. He drives or walks—depending on the weather—from his home to the post office and then to his business office six days a week.
If you want to be able to enjoy longevity and productivity like he does, study him! And studying Waldo McBurney just became easier because he has written and recorded his life story in our new audio book, “My First 100 Years!” According to the Audio Publishers Association, McBurney holds another record—the oldest person to narrate their audio autobiography.
With wit and wisdom, he chronicles his childhood and early life, college years at Kansas State University where he earned a degree in horticulture in 1927, his working life as an entrepreneur, manager, and laborer, and the role that faith, family, exercise, and nutrition play in his positive attitude toward life. In fact, he covers 21 areas of life that need balance and attention if longevity is to be yours. But at the same time, Waldo is quick to point out that while it has worked for him, your mileage may vary. “Lifestyle is more important than genetics,” he says. “We don’t get to choose our parents, but we can choose how we live and what we eat.”
So if you’ve been wondering what to give a recent retiree, or need a gift for anyone in that age group, Waldo McBurney’s book could help add years to their lives. Free shipping from AudioBookMan. 11月22日 The Silence of the TurkeysTurkey goes Gobble-Gobble.
We go gobble, gobble.
Turkey is quiet.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
11月18日 Gram's ThanksgivingThanksgiving time always makes me think of Gram. It was her favorite holiday, and she did it well. Perhaps there's a correlation--we all tend to enjoy those things we can do well, but on the flip side, Gram had seventy Thanksgivings under her apron by the time I arrived--that's plenty of practice.
Gram was my great-grandmother (on the distaff side) and she was responsible for raising me in my formative years. I like to eat, and learned how to use the toilet because of her. Her Christian name was Harriet Lucina Snyder. Some called her "mom" and some called her "Aunt Hattie," but most called her by her real name--Gram.
I had precious few Thanksgivings with her. Seven, to be exact, but the earliest ones escape me. Most likely, I was shielded from the extensive preparation lest I ruin something. What I do remember is the ritual of the days leading up to the holiday. The pies constructed, baked, and cooled, and the trays of bread drying throughout the kitchen and spilling into the little-used front room because it was undisturbed until guests arrived, and by then, had been crumbled into small cubes and tossed with melted butter, chopped onions, and a full aroma of herbs set aside for use this one day a year. The pre-baked sweet potatoes were peeled, sliced, and drizzled with a brown sugar glaze, and the eggs were be-deviled. We had deviled eggs with everything. I always blamed the chickens for forcing them on us; our chickens were mean like that.
Gram measured everything by sight, by the pinch, or by smell, taste or consistency, then she cooked it all up on a wood stove. I know people who measure everything precisely, including the temperature of the oven, and still produce mediocre food. Gram's was perfect everytime. She knew the fire because she had made it, too.
Most of her children, and a good number of grandchildren would come to Gram's for Thanksgiving. If there's a standard house-to-turkey ratio, we skewed the statistics badly. The house was small, but the turkey was as large as would fit in the oven. I was astonished at her ability to wrestle and stuff that large bird, then carry it to the stove. Gram's hands were gnarly with rheumatoid arthritis, and she was a slight, wiry woman, but she was tough and strong. Losing your husband in a powder works explosion when you are thirty, and raising the four children alone will toughen up anyone.
The day before, people would start arriving, and some stayed at the house with us. Gram only drank green tea, so waking up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee for the others wafting to the upstairs bedrooms was a real treat to me. By the time I got downstairs, the smell of roasting turkey, percolated coffee, and bacon frying was overwhelming.
I can see why Thanksgiving was her favorite of holidays. Christmas had it's gifts, and the tree making the house smell of pine, but rarely did her children come and stay. They had their own families, their own traditions, and their own celebrations, and our house didn't smell of percolated coffee that morning. By the time I was able to understand and anticipate the way Gram made Thanksgiving special, our traditions were finished. Gram celebrated her last one in 1960, and by Christmas she was gone.
Thanksgiving time always makes me think of Gram. 10月31日 Examinations - Guest BloggerSo Dad has to go to the dentist yesterday. You shoulda heard him moan about it. He hates going there, but he chipped a front tooth, so it was either get it fixed, or take up playing the banjo out on the front porch. We don't have a front porch, or a banjo, so the choice was easy.
The tooth still isn't fixed. They poked around on it, took an x-ray, and told him to come back in two weeks. I think the guy didn't know what to do with it and wants to read over his notes from ACME School of Teeth Fixin'. But, nobody asked me. Now, Dad says his lip hurts and he don't feel like writing. Man, he has it really rough.
Personally, I don't feel a bit bad for him. He made his own appointment, drove himself there, and was able to tell them exactly what the problem was. Once a year, Dad throws my ass in a prison box and hauls me over to see Dr. Krista. This happens totally without warning, and I can't do a thing about it. First, the humiliation begins with making me sit on something called a scale, then she says I hafta keep eating that OM stuff. grrrrr. But she's just getting started. She pokes around on me, shines lights in my eyes and ears, and sticks cold things in where stuff is only supposed to come out! With all her diplomas and crap on the wall, you'd think she'd know that is a one-way steet! I'm gonna look at them more closely next time I'm there. Bet one of 'em says ACME School of Cat Repair. I can't be too hard on her, though. She did save my life about ten years ago when I had something called Chylothorax. It's rare, and she was the only one to figure it out and get it fixed, so she's pretty cool.
Can't be too hard on ol' Dad, either. He did put a picture of me on here the other day. That's my disgusted look, which is kinda permanent. I learned it in the ACME School of Cat-itude.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN, everybody! If I trick-or-treat at your house, throw in a can of tuna 'cause I can't have chocolate. And don't give me that cheap kind. I prefer albacore. I can't reach high enough to soap your windows, but I can do something rude on your screen door, so you've been warned.
Kiwi out.  10月25日 BygonesOne year ago today, I was released from the intensive care unit after suffering a near-death incident. Two years ago today, I made a trip to my boyhood home, a place I had not seen for 38 years. The two subjects are only related because they share the same anniversary and the same victim.
Upslope fog steamed from the rain-dampened, colorful mountains as I wound my way along roads I had traversed so many times as a child, roads my grandfather had groomed and maintained. They seemed narrow compared to my memory of them, and the distances compressed. Perhaps my eyes were wider as a child having not yet seen cities the size of my small rural county. It had been half a lifetime; had things changed this much, or had I? I chose October precisely because it embodied change. The sweetness of Summer gives evidence of its yield to the end of another cycle; nothing lasts forever.
Reality sunk in and my head began to swim. The moment I had only dreamt was now at hand; I was close to my beginnings, and the beginnings and endings of my forebears. Heady feelings for one who openly boasted of his return in time to resume school in the Fall of 1967, but if any were distressed that my prediction was false, no one said. I forced such thoughts away as I approached the intersection of PA 555 and Route 120. One right turn and five more miles would see me home. I expected some things would be different. I'd heard Fulton's store had burned, and the bridge had been repositioned a few feet from where it stood prior to the ice floe that carried it downstream intact. It was still hard to see the empty spaces where good things had been. My four-room elementary school was now a museum, and next to it was another empty space, this one a surprise. Bobby and Susie's house was missing. I always thought they were lucky because I had to walk nearly a mile to school and they could just cross the road. The next day I found the graves of their entire family near those of my grandparents. I've not sought the answers. The town looked tired. I supposed it might have thought the same of me, so I tendered my forgiveness and headed for the homestead. Years of neglect had taken its toll, but the hand-tooled woodwork of my great, great grandfather was still intact, still as beautiful as when he crafted it in 1887. Research at the county courthouse revealed recorded documents detailing how great, great grandfather cobbled his acreage together by acquiring adjacent land in three separate transactions when it became available. Tracing the ownership further back revealed one piece had once been part of a farm owned by Donald J. McDonald. E-I-E-I-O. I laughed when I realized I actually own a piece of Old McDonald's Farm. For the next three days I visited ghosts of the wonderful people who had occupied my youth. I walked the paths where I had run, stood on places where I had played, and heard echoes of the stories and laughter of old men, and the sweet chatter of their women. Mature trees I had climbed were now toppled, and saplings incapable of support had grown straight and strong. Another reminder of life's cycles. I thought visiting it would be enough, that I could forever put it behind me and never look back, but like many things of our past, it still haunts. I know few people there, yet I know more of it than the ones who now call it home. I know why it exists, who built it, and where they rest. I know its timbered mountains, its trout-filled streams, its love for a boy who disappeared like the fog. But more important I know that nothing lasts forever. October reminds me of that. Leaves budded, grew, and performed their function only to fall away and take their permanent place in the fabric of all things. It was ever thus. 10月12日 Gore Wins: World Ceases to SpinIn 1867, Swedish chemist and industrialist Alfred Nobel invented dynamite. Its popularity exploded, and made Nobel a very wealthy man. He wisely invested his money, and with its interest, established annual monetary prizes in key areas, one of them being Peace.
More recently, after he invented the internet, Al Gore invented the carbon credit (not a real product, but as seen on TV). Its popularity exploded, and made Gore a very wealthy man. He spends his money supplying vast quantites of energy to his Tennessee mansion, financing films based on pseudo-science, and traveling around the globe in private jets trying to get us to use different light bulbs and reduce our carbon footprint, a difficult thing for a carbon-based life form. For this, he has won the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize, joining the likes of Yassir Arafat who won it in 1994. Now, there was a peaceful fellow!
You would think that a prize so named for peace would go to someone who unites people, but Gore is one of the biggest dividers to ever exhale carbon dioxide. So was Arafat, leading me to distrust the veracity, and merit of the award. If the world ceases to spin, you can blame it on the gyroscopic effect of Alfred spinning in his grave. 10月2日 Notes From a Road TripI spent the weekend in Quinter, Kansas attending a combination birthday/book release party for one of my authors who turned 105-years old. The main event went very well; many friends bought many books, and there were some surprises in the form of two great-granddaughters who brought big smiles to all our faces. This, however, is about the small things I observed as I drove, worked, and went about life.
Wednesday, September 26th
First day on the road. The worst part of any trip for me is the drive between Phoenix and Flagstaff. The road is mountainous, and packed with 18-wheelers and 5th wheels. I've never understood why an accountant from Minnesota, who never drove anything larger than a Buick, thinks that at 65 it's a good idea to pilot something larger than his house, towing a Sportage or a RAV 4. I can't wait until my reflexes are waning and its my turn to be the terror of Interstate 17. I successfully dodge the Bounders and Fleetwoods to finally transition to I-40 for a straighter, easier leg. At dusk, the full moon rises over Tucumcari, New Mexico - my stop for the night. It's a beautiful sight hanging over the flattened mesas - golden light over purple haze.
Thursday, September 27th
Leaving Tucumcari on SR54 reminds me of many trips to Nebraska nearly 20 years ago. The road has been widened to a divided four-lane, but it still passes through the small towns and cities in the Texas and Oklahoma panhandles. The scenery is the same as I remember - rolling hills and cattle feeding lots. Near Dalhart, Texas, one feed lot is so big there are cows as far as I can see, and I'm reminded that I want a steak for dinner. Arriving at Liberal, Kansas, I swing north on SR 83. Another popular truck route, but the 5th wheels don't care to come to Kansas, apparently. Flat fields forever. A friend driving half a continent away calls to check on me. I remember days when you had to go through an operator to make a long distance call, and your black Western Electric telephone was hard-wired to the wall with a six foot cord. I marvel at the technological progress that we can talk while both of us drive, and there aren't even any long distance charges. A smooth transition to I-70, and 31 miles later, I am at my destination. I check in, change clothes and freshen up, and I'm on the road to the next town for that steak dinner. Early to bed - tomorrow is a work day.
Friday, September 28th
Set up recording equipment in the library for an afternoon radio interview. It's the first chance I have to check email since leaving home. Then, it's off to lunch with the McBurney family at the senior center. People there are happy to see me, and thank me for writing nice things about their town in the local paper. I'm slightly embarrassed by all the attention because at home, I'm a nobody, and I get all the respect due someone of that stature. After lunch, we record an interview for a syndicated radio program, and as we finish, the high school homecoming parade begins down Main Street. I stand and watch, and any fears that this town is fading are decimated. There is a healthy crop of proud kids to inherit this place; all will be well. I help decorate the community room at the library for tomorrow. Supper at the McBurney house. I barely get back to my room before a torrential rain hits. It's a beautiful storm. I check in at home, and the day ends beautifully.
Saturday, September 29th
Up early; the party is today! It went as I expected. A big family lunch afterward at The Q Restaurant. There are a handful of reasons to go to Kansas, and I must experience them all this trip because it's unclear whether circumstances will ever see me there again. Bierocks for lunch allows me to check off another thing I wanted. After lunch, we all went back to the library to un-decorate and do some accounting. The day was an overwhelming success for my author and for me. Misty good-byes, and it was over. As I sat alone in the car in front of the library, the familiar let-down of a major task completed set in. I have to remind myself that the future is rich with new horizons. I hear a train at the east end of town, so I drive over and park to watch some switching activity swapping out tank cars on the siding. A caring friend calls to see how the party went, and we talk while I watch the train work. Back to the motel to pack for the trip home. It's a very windy day. It's time to check off the last items to make my Kansas trip complete. Pizza from The Pizza Station. Owner Grant Tuttle thanks me for the mention in my article in the paper. There are McBurney relatives from Denver also staying at the motel. The only possible enhancement to Grant's pizza could be eating it with people you cherish. We sat outside to eat, and it turned into one of those evenings you never want to end, but we have morning obligations. So far, all my days in Kansas end beautifully.
Sunday, September 30th
I like it here, so I drag my feet leaving. It's windy, and cloudy when I finally tear myself away and head west. I meet a hard rain that stays with me into Colorado. Other than seeing a pick-up truck driving the wrong way up the shoulder of I-25 through New Mexico, it was uneventful. I do not get lost in Colorado Srings, the answer to prayers I know were said. I arrive in Albuquerque with lots of daylight, but no energy left, so I call it a day.
Monday, October 1st
Less eventful than any day so far. By Noon, I'm in Flagstaff, ready to do battle with 5th wheels from Minnesota, Colorado, Illinois, and Missouri. My state attracts snowbirds who once drove small Buicks to the office, but now that their reflexes have slowed, pilot behemoths towing small SUVs and make mountainous roads even more hazardous. Alas, I am home, but part of me remains in Quinter.
9月25日 Checkmate From the Fringe I am a chess nut. I've played the game as long as I can remember--so long that I don't know exactly when I learned the basics, or from whom. My only memory is of my thirst for new partners who might have an unfamiliar gambit against which I could better my skill. Similar to normal sports-loving folk, we nerds also have our idols and heroes. Joe Namath notwithstanding, when Garry Kasparov played his game, I was riveted.
There are parallels between football and chess; both have a goal of capturing things from their opponent (territory, or pieces of an army); both are played on a grid-iron where opposing teams face each other; both have huge mental components and require foresight along with a good measure of skill in planning, organization, execution, and deception. Scores are kept, stats compiled, and Garry's chess career can be seen here.
Garry is playing a different game these days. He sees his homeland losing the democratic gains she had made under Gorbechev and Yeltsin, and reverting back to the old ways of the cold war, so he has entered the political fray to help preserve and possibly expand those freedoms he witnessed in other countries where he played chess. The ruling elite marginalize him there, and relegate him to the fringe, the most they can do to this national hero at this time. Both sides know that arrest would have a profound negative impact; the ultimate chess game has begun.
Kasparov must win, and I believe he will. As always, he's playing for his country, but this time the phrase has a very different and profound meaning. He'll win in small pieces; he'll use all the gifts he exhibited in chess to accomplish his win: patience, perseverence, and foresight, the latter honed keener than his current opponents could ever hope to know by his chess play. Garry may have lost to Deep Blue, but will eventually emerge victorious over Big Red, not to be confused here with the Nebraska Cornhuskers. 9月15日 Equal Opportunity OffenderA few days ago, hundreds of rabid defenders predicted the demise of Southwest Airlines; Kyla would own it all, or so they said.
How then do they explain her settling for a few flight coupons and an apology as the end-all to her self-proclaimed humiliation? There are only a few logical conclusions one can believe. Either her case was as non-existent as I thought, too weak to pursue, or the fifteen minutes of fame scored her the photo spread she was openly seeking via her (now cached) blog.
The airline has turned the tables cashing in on the publicity by having a "mini-skirt" sale, and have circulated a clever-but-juvenile press release to that effect. She used them, and now they are using her. Both uses are sickening, and I surmise those that expressed support for the flight attendant's decision are now recoiling, somewhat.
Things change when a brattish upstart metamorphs into an industry behemoth. We are surprised by the changes only because it happens so rarely. Southwest might think they are still the fun ship they once were, but they have to work alot harder to convince those of us who were present at the outset.
9月12日 Flying ExposedIf you know me, you know I love Southwest Airlines. More than 400 times a day, they leave my hometown bound for places I need to be, wish to be, or should be, and they do it professionally and on-time. The company is so successful that MBA programs study their business model, and companies go out of their way to emulate them.
On a recent flight from San Diego to Tucson, a female passenger was asked to change into more appropriate clothing to travel. Apparently, she was skimpily clad, and put on a show too racy for G-rated audiences in an airplane. According to some reports, her privates were in direct contact with the seat, creating a possible health risk to its future occupants. Having no other clothing with her, she was given a blanket for cover, and allowed to fly.
Two months later, she, her mother and their attorney appeared on The Today Show making a big deal out of how she had been humiliated, and bandied about their threat of a lawsuit. The girl is not pretty, neither is she bright. In an attempt to win sympathy, she wore the same outfit, and when she sat down, NBC had to blur her crotch area for the G-rated TV audience.
Perhaps she's brighter than I give her credit for. At this writing there are nearly 800 posts about the incident on Southwest's blog. You can go read them by following this link.
Most of the posts are rants against the airline, claims of stock-dumping, boycotts, and wishes for their demise by litigation. A significant number of the comments are based on erroneous assumptions, and many people hope to be on the jury. It would be laughable if it weren't so scary. These are our neighbors, willing to accept hearsay evidence and rail against a perceived injustice without having any facts whatsoever. They believe freedom has no limitations, there are no rules, and of course, this is all George Bush's fault. There are posts from people who identify themselves as doctors and lawyers, yet cannot construct a coherent sentence. Many are nearly illiterate yet claim they control tens of thousands of travel dollars per month, which will now be spent elsewhere. I surmise that many have never flown the airline, and certain themes that emerged were picked up and repeated because creativity isn't a strong suit among those with a herd mentality.
Where does this outrage come from? How does one vehemently defend someone they don't know without first-hand knowledge of the situation? Shouldn't such anger be brought to bear only when we have been personally aggrieved, or are witness to a gross injustice? The situation was compared to the holocaust, the airline is the taliban, and the flight attendant who made the girl cover up is a puritanical moron. It's widepread, so it's either in the water, or it's public school that teaches them to act on feelings rather than reasoned thought.
Momentarily, I had hope that the flights might be less crowded since so many vowed to choose a different carrier, but my hope was short-lived. Their stock was up a quarter yesterday. 9月4日 Back To School The Tuesday after Labor Day was the traditional beginning of the school year when I was a youngster. Now, some districts begin nearly a month earlier so they can take extra breaks that we did not get. I always began the school year with excitement and a promise to self that I would do better than the previous year, but old habits persisted, and I put forth my usual meager effort.
I lived just more than a mile from the elementary school in my small town. Except in inclement weather, I walked each way. To define inclement weather, driving rain qualified, but -10 degrees and snow did not. Sam Delp kept the snowplow at his house and could clear the streets and side roads in less than a half-hour, so there was no excuse.
September was my favorite month to walk. It was usually dry, trees were still leafy, and after school, the low sun was still warm, its golden light beginning to cast shadows angled toward winter. Some of my route was industrial, and some scenic. All was interesting to a boy beset with curiosity.
It was a time and place where boys had chores, and one of mine was to collect our mail on my way home from school. The post office was on Back Street, and the way home from there led me past the fire station and the railroad siding where they were always forklifting pallets of flagstone onto rail cars. Timber and stone were our chief exports, if you don't count curious boys, but only the stone went by rail. Timber was hauled out of the mountains by truck, and boys, by force.
The picturesque part of my journey was along a section of roadway that ran above and parallel to the wide shallow river that split our town. To my right lay the finest homes, and to my left was the river below, a stand of trees alternately hiding and exposing the sunlight glinting off the water. And if I timed it just right, The Pennsylvania Flyer, its consist an F-7 Diesel Locomotive, a mail car, and three passenger cars, all Pennsy red, would zoom by my crossing just as I approached. You could set your watch to 4:07PM because it was due in Renovo, 20 miles away, at 4:30.
It's the Tuesday after Labor Day. I find myself still making promises to do better, and I'm desperately in need of that walk even though The Flyer cannot meet me at the crossing. Sometime after I left, she stopped coming around. 9月2日 Atlas Shrugged-REVIEWwritten by Ayn Rand, performed by Christopher Hurt. From Blackstone Audio (2007) Click here to order this title at a discounted price. Unabridged on 42 Compact Discs
If you are familiar with Atlas Shrugged, undoubtedly Ayn Rand’s best known work, you know why this review appears today. If you are not, now is a superb time to ingest it. I re-listen every four years during the peak political season to remind me once again of the impossibility to legislate fairness and equality, regardless of the rhetoric of the candidates.
It’s a story of heavy ideas set against a backdrop of heavy industry. One man systematically convinces the country’s best producers to quit, to walk away in protest of excessive government intervention and its manipulation of private enterprise, leaving those who produce nothing with the fruits of their non-labor.
Rand’s self-styled heroine, Dagney Taggart, is unbelievable at times, such as when she hops into the cockpit of a new airplane and pilots it with ease without any prior reference to her ability as an aviator. She runs a railroad, and up to this point had always traveled by train. Still, one has to root for her as she battles against the tide of impending fascism.
While one might embrace Rand’s themes of radical self-reliance, disgust for excessive government intrusion, and resistance to shifting wealth from its creators to non-producers, I think the message has difficulty cutting through the heavy industrial backdrop that was her time. Anyone who wasn’t around in the era of railroads, big steel, and low technology might find little to hold their interest unless they can push that canvas out of their minds and concentrate on the numerous small paintings that are Rand’s ideas.
The industry of the 1950s aside, the theme is highly relevant, and a similar story could be written today. Rand has become the de-facto poster child for Capitalism, and her work celebrates the individual whose ideas are developed to benefit self first, then society. She eschews the idea that the productivity of others be confiscated by governmental force for distribution to the non-producers, and regards such as an immoral taking.
Rand may not have foreseen the technical innovations of the future accurately, but she did know human nature, and its insatiable desire to get something for nothing. Politicians still pander with their promises of unearned largesse, and Atlas Shrugged shows what might happen if those promises are fulfilled.
Atlas Shrugged is a daunting book, so if its size has intimidated you sufficiently that you have not read it, audio is an excellent way to find out just who the fictional John Galt really is, and why I’d live in Galt’s Gulch if I could.
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